Night Visit (7 page)

I
responded in kind and, to my credit, without rancour. ‘Hello.’ I hoped he couldn’t hear the struggle in my greeting. As I settled warily across the table from him I wondered. Did his eyes have to be such a bright, hurtful blue?

He
dropped back into the chair, stretching out his long legs. He began politely enough with thanks for the birthday card before he said, ‘You’re looking rough.’

‘
I wish I could return the insult.’

He
brushed my spiky compliment aside. ‘I mean it, Harry. Is something wrong?’ That he could ask such a question.

‘
Nothing apart from my marriage breaking up and my daughter missing her father.’

His
eyes flickered. ‘I’ve been busy.’

It
was a pathetic excuse. ‘At weekends?’

‘
How about a drink?’ he said quickly.

‘
Fine.’ It was wonderful how he thought he could distract me from my purpose but I could play games too. ‘White wine, please.’

I
was gratified to see Robin’s eyes widen. ‘You aren’t turning to drink, are you? You never drink in the day. It gives you a headache.’

I
leaned forward. ‘I would like a drink and I don’t seem to get headaches these days.’

‘
Touché,’ he said and ambled towards the bar.

He
was served quickly and came straight back again, flipping a menu across the table.

‘
So Happy Birthday,’ I said, raising my glass. ‘And is it happy?’

‘
So… so... Obviously I worry about you and Rosie.’

Even
from my psychopathic husband it was an obvious lie. However, I should have worked the whole thing out before I came. Robin was playing another part, concerned ex-husband, absent father.

He
grinned and ran his fingers through his hair. It flopped straight back over his eyebrows as it had been cut to do. ‘So when I got your birthday card, well, it seemed an ideal opportunity to...’

‘
Renew old friendships?’

His
confidence was only marginally displaced. ‘We’re a bit more than an old friendship, Harriet.’

‘
The birthday card was pure habit,’ I said. ‘It’s hard to let May the eighteenth go by without marking it somehow. And I really am fine, in spite of the way I look.’

Robin
was watching me with a faintly pitying look. ‘Don’t be proud, Harry,’ he said. ‘We were married for ten years—remember?’

‘
And now we’re getting divorced.’

He
gave a heartfelt sigh of regret. ‘You seem a bit on edge,’ he said.

I
began telling him then about the missing child, Vera Carnforth, and Reuben’s burial site. ‘I can’t believe that he didn’t tell me,’ I said. ‘Such a huge life event, his own granddaughter’s abduction and he didn’t confide in me. He said nothing. He never even mentioned it. Apart from the last plea.’

Robin
was, for once, unusually perceptive. ‘But you didn’t confide in him, did you?’

‘
What do you mean?’

‘
I’m sure I remember you telling me,’ he said, ‘round about Christmas time, that his wife was insisting he wasn’t told he had cancer.’

‘
That’s right,’ I said, ‘but I’m surprised you remembered.’

‘
Mmm.’ He smiled. ‘Maybe sometimes you misjudge me.’

I
said nothing.

‘
Perhaps,’ he said, ‘if you’d been straighter with him he might have felt able to unload his problem.’

For
my husband this was a searingly perceptive remark.

The
food arrived then and for minutes our mouths were too busy even to argue. I had known he would go for the fillet steak. Red blooded, carnivorous male—what else? I finished my meal first, pushed my plate back and moved my head, catching a faint tang of orange scented perfume.

He
spoke first. ‘So tell me more about this missing child.’

‘
Her name was Melanie,’ I said sharply. ‘She vanished very early one summer’s morning, ten years ago, and was never seen again. She was ten years old, Robin, just a little older than our daughter.’

6

Memories of Melanie Carnforth stayed with me over the next month. I could never quite erase her from my mind. At night I would close my eyes and see her, as a red and white toadstool with a laughing face, peeping from behind trees, a child wandering across the field on a sunny morning. My dreams were filled with visions of her walking towards the dark edge of the Carnforths’ field. And the more I tried to warn her the worse it was. I could not speak. My mouth was too dry, my tongue too firmly glued to the roof of my mouth.

The
dream always ended in exactly the same way. The child reached the fence. And there was Reuben’s mound of red-brown earth. She stopped and stroked it before climbing the rotting tree stump. For some reason I could always see a massive bracket fungus sticking out of the side. And yet I did not recall having noticed one there. Maybe it was the natural link between the toadstool colours of the child’s dress and another fungus. I must check next time I wandered to the edge of the field.

The
child climbed the tree stump, stood for a while and jumped... and before my eyes she vanished. But I could still hear her laughing when I woke in a cold sweat.

I
sat up. In my anxiety to protect Rosie I was transferring the threat to her.

Once
or twice I even padded into her room to check her. The second time she woke.

‘
Mum?’

‘
It’s OK.’ I felt a fool. ‘Really, Rosie, it’s OK.’

There
was another aspect to the dreams: the child’s face as she touched the mound where her grandfather lay. There was a bleakness about it that I was tempted to interpret as acceptance. When Vera had first told me about the police insinuations I had rejected them. Now I was not so confident. Like Vera I wished the case had been solved ten years ago and someone charged, found guilty and sentenced. Then there would be no clouds of suspicion. Reuben would have lain in the haven of the churchyard with a headstone that paid some tribute to a brave life and maybe, just maybe, Vera and her son could then have been reconciled. The whole thing was so incomplete scars were still forming ten years later.

*

It seemed that Anthony Pritchard had decided he should attend the surgery once a month. Always to see me, always to have his blood pressure checked. And each time I knew he was inching closer to me, trying to break down the doctor/patient barrier. He considered me his friend, his dear friend.

‘
Harriet,’ he said on his June visit. ‘I have to say I think you’re a wonderful doctor.’

‘
Just doing my job,
Mr
Pritchard.’

‘
Oh come on,’ he said, ‘do start calling me Anthony. We know each other well now.’

I
’d had enough. ‘Mr Pritchard,’ I said. ‘It doesn’t do for doctors and patients to call each other by their Christian names. The relationship is a formal one.’ I wanted to wound him. ‘I get paid an annual retainer for looking after you. This isn’t really a friendship.’

‘
Are you telling me,
Harriet
, that you never treat your friends?’

I
thought of Ruth, undoubtedly my own patient. But the friendship had come first. She had transferred to my list after disagreeing with her previous doctor.

‘
I try not to treat my friends, Mr Pritchard,’ I said. ‘As I said, the doctor/patient relationship works better if it is kept on a formal footing.’

‘
You are my doctor. I like you being my doctor. It gives me a warm feeling.’ He gave something which I imagined was meant to be a conspiratorial smile. ‘It’s only that I think of you as my friend too.’

‘
Mr Pritchard.’ I tried again. ‘You don’t need to see a doctor on a monthly basis. We have a very good nurse who is perfectly capable of monitoring your blood pressure without you even needing to see me.’

‘
I know,’ he said, smiling, ‘but I like to come. To tell you the truth I enjoy visiting you.’ His voice was soft, with a Northern accent, full of insinuation. He leaned forward, pushed his glasses up his nose with a fat forefinger. ‘I would miss our monthly chats, Harriet,’ he said, ‘so much that I am reluctant to discontinue them. I think there’s something somewhere about guaranteed access to a medical opinion. I must say I rest easier in my bed having that assurance.’

And
I knew as he left that he had got the upper hand.

The
room was stuffy. I badly needed to breathe untainted air. I scrambled out of my chair, shot out of the door, straight into Neil Anderson’s arms.

‘
Good gracious, Harriet,’ he said. ‘What on earth’s the matter?’

Out
of the corner of my eye I saw Danny Small follow Pritchard out through the surgery door.

‘
That man,’ I said and breathed in the scent of soap gratefully. There was something clean, fragrant, wholesome about Neil.

He
followed my glance. ‘Who?’

‘
Pritchard.’ My heart rate was beginning to slow down. ‘He keeps coming in for a monthly blood pressure check.’

Neil
laughed. ‘I’ve got loads of people who think they’ll die without it, Harry. Just get him to come in and see Miriam. She’s good at handling awkward customers.’

I
was stung. ‘And I’m not?’

Neil
touched my shoulder. ‘Obviously not, Harriet,’ he said gravely. ‘Not if he can rattle you as badly as all that.’

‘
I keep telling him to come in and see the nurse. Unfortunately he doesn’t take a blind bit of notice.’

‘
Well it’s just a quick BP check,’ he said. ‘Doesn’t take up much of your time.’

‘
It isn’t the time,’ I said. ‘It’s the insinuations.’

Neil
’s grip on my shoulder tightened. ‘What, that middle-aged man, making suggestions? Surely you can deal with that?’

I
was sliding down in his estimation. ‘They aren’t exactly suggestions,’ I said.

‘
So what are they?’ Neil was running out of patience.

‘
He just gets too close,’ I said. ‘Let’s just put it like that.’

Neil
smiled and moved away. ‘Well, they aren’t a troublesome family,’ he said. ‘I’ve never done a visit to their place and neither have you although I’ve been here for fifteen years. Harriet,’ he said, ‘these are the patients we want to keep.’ Neil’s eyes wandered back towards the door. Danny Small was lighting up in the path of any patient who wanted to enter the surgery. ‘That’s the sort we need to get rid of, Harriet, buggers like that,’ he said viciously. ‘Now if you’ll excuse me I’ve got visits to do.’

We
had a practice agreement that no patient was to be crossed off our list without good reason and the consent of all three partners. I did not dare bring up the subject again. After all, one appointment, in the safety of the surgery, lasting ten minutes, once a month. Surely I could cope with that?

*

Six months after Robin had left I decided the time was ripe to clear out every last vestige of his existence. I knew that it was all over between us and there was no going back. But Rosie hadn’t accepted it and I still found her getting Robin’s favourite breakfast cereal out occasionally in the mornings as though she was willing him to turn up for it.

It
was hot. I had the windows open, the radio tuned to loud pop music, an iced tea in my hand. I showered, pulled on some shorts and an old, navy T-shirt and armed myself with black plastic bin liners before starting in the kitchen, fumbling right to the back of the food cupboard, searching for signs of Robin.

Then
I went upstairs and winkled out a couple of pairs of worn boxer shorts, socks with holes, shirts with missing buttons, a red silk cummerbund and some dreadfully smelly aftershave. I stuffed the lot in another black plastic bin liner and left it all for the dustbin men to find when they came on Monday. Lastly I came to his miniature chest of drawers, the mahogany reproduction that stood at what I still thought of as his side of the bed.

We
all have our secrets.

Right
at the bottom I found a little faded green shoe box which I had never seen before. He must have kept it well hidden for years. It was not big enough to contain Robin’s size tens. I handled it curiously. This box was only big enough to have contained children’s shoes. Surely he hadn’t kept an old box of Rosie’s shoes? He had been the least sentimental of fathers. But the side of the box did pronounce size fourteens, children’s Startrite sandals. So who else’s could they be? I put my hand on the lid with the feeling I was about to discover something significant about Robin. Perhaps, after all, he had had some deep, sentimental regard for his daughter. Maybe I had misjudged him. I lifted the lid and rested it on the bed only to feel the habitual disappointment. It had nothing to do with Rosie. This was Robin’s secret hoard of Robin, a magpie collection of childhood treasures, a couple of vintage matchbox toys, a London taxi, a small red bus, a couple of Thunderbird models. Of course. I had used the wrong yardstick. To Robin only Robin was important—not his daughter.

And
yet. I picked up the London bus with its Marmite sign on the side. The boyish toys gave me another side to Robin, a side that right now I did not want to dwell on, the small, plump, vulnerable boy I had seen in faded photographs proudly displayed by a mother whose husband, I had always suspected, had abandoned her when he had realised her obsession with her son would be exclusive and all absorbing. Such mothers bred such sons.

I
was about to replace the lid when I noticed a black-bordered envelope, right at the bottom. It surprised me. It was so out of character, sombre and old-fashioned, yellowed, dog-eared and depressing. Surely not a death notice? Robin would not keep such things. He had a horror of illness and mortality, avoiding people’s funerals as though he could catch death itself. He never visited anyone when they were sick. He had only come to see me in hospital after Rosie’s birth under duress from his mother. And when I had lost my second baby he had not visited me at all, making one limp excuse after another. And I had understood. His perception of me had subtly altered. He had seen me as imperfect, unhealthy. I suppose under the circumstances it was strange that he had married a doctor. I made my living out of sickness, disease, ill health. I sat back on my heels, my mouth dropping open at this strange thought. Why had Robin married me?

I
did not need to peer in the mirror to know it had not been for my looks. I suppose it was then that I worked it out, like some complicated physics formula. He had regarded me as a talisman against disease. Again Robin had not let me down. Robin had married me because Robin was concerned about Robin. So he had married a doctor. As I was superstitious enough to buy candles throughout the summer to ward off winter power cuts so Robin had been superstitious enough to marry me. It was a stunning realisation. And this had masqueraded as love. As I fingered the stiff envelope I wondered how this fitted into the concept. Why had he kept this? An invitation to a funeral. It was this which made no sense. Not our impending divorce. That had been inevitable from the beginning. I slipped the card out. The date, 1965, the month, November, the name, Lorna Garbett, aged seventy-five years. I puzzled over it and remembered that Garbett had been his mother’s maiden name. I could remember her telling me quite proudly that she had intended giving Robin the surname Garbett-Lamont. But his father had blocked the idea. I had often thought that I would have liked Robin’s father a lot more than his mother. Unfortunately I had never met him.

So
Lorna Garbett would have been Robin’s maternal grandmother. I studied the black-bordered card for a while, trying to glean information from it and wondering what sort of woman she had been for Robin to have kept this macabre reminder of her death. I could never remember seeing a photograph of her. Not here nor in his mother’s house. So why keep this? In 1965 Robin would have been a little boy of just four years old with, surely, a horror of death. I slipped the card back in the envelope and replaced the lid of the box, shutting out memories and questions, but I did not throw it away. I stuck the box on top of the wardrobe, out of sight, and sat still for a while, my mind drifting along possibilities. Perhaps this was part of the explanation of Robin’s fear of death. Had the old woman held such influence over him? At such a tender age? Or had it been love? I found myself fascinated by the puzzle. Why had he kept the funeral card?

I
don’t know how long I sat there. Probably I would have stayed a lot longer but I gradually became aware of the telephone ringing. I know I felt glad of the diversion, even gladder that it was Ruth, suggesting we meet for lunch. I had hardly seen her since the New Year’s Eve party. True—we were both professional women, busy, with little time to spare, but her silence had hurt and secretly I had agonised over the idea that she and Arthur had kept up the friendship with Robin at the expense of our own relationship.

*

We arranged to meet on the following Wednesday, at a small wine bar in the centre of town on the hottest day yet of that year. There was an added spring in people’s step as they sweltered around the streets, enjoying the sunshine, licking ice creams and downing drinks. Unwilling to make a fruitless search for a space I parked in one of the emptier, out of town car parks, which meant a stiff climb up a narrow, cobbled street towards the bistro.