Sheer Abandon (11 page)

“Oh God,” she said. “Oh God, poor Jane.”

“Jeremy, shut up! It’s only one night. I can join you on Saturday morning. I’ll get a cheap flight; I hardly think they’re going to be hard to come by. I can’t believe we’re having this conversation. Suppose it was your brother? If you have that much imagination, which it rather seems you don’t.”

As always, when confronted by her rare anger, he pulled back. “Sorry. Yes. Of course you’re right. We’ll both go on Saturday. I’m sorry. Of course you must do it.”

Jane Harding’s brother had been killed. Or they assumed he had been killed. Later, everyone recognised that as the worst thing, not knowing. Just because he hadn’t managed to phone, because they hadn’t got through to him on his mobile or at his apartment, it didn’t actually mean he was dead. He might be buried in the rubble. They were getting people out alive all the time. Or he might have been rescued and be in hospital somewhere, unconscious, not able to contact his family. Or horribly injured and—it went on and on.

They had shared out the weekend between them; Mark was doing Saturday, and Graham Keir, the senior partner, Sunday.

“But we can’t find anyone to do Friday,” said Mark. “Sorry, Clio.”

“Mark, don’t say sorry. Of course I’ll do it. Don’t even think about it. Jeremy won’t mind.”

It had shocked her how much he had minded—until she tore into him.

The whole country was in shock. It was all anyone talked about. The pictures, the famous pictures, of the towers being hit, exploding, collapsing; the people phoning their loved ones from the towers to say goodbye, people standing for days at the site, waiting, praying for news, for the recovery of more bodies. There was terror in those first days; everyone afraid, asking where next? Flights were cancelled by the thousand; Clio was grateful that Jeremy wanted to postpone their trip, and told Mark she would do Saturday as well.

“Jeremy’s doing some private patients on Saturday now. I might as well.”

There were very few people in surgery, few call-outs. It was as if people didn’t like to complain about trifling illnesses when there was so much grief in the world.

Jeremy called to say he wouldn’t be back until teatime: at midday Clio found herself with nothing to do. Nothing to do and no husband. It was a dizzy prospect; she had already shopped, cooked ahead for a lunch party on Sunday, and done the flowers; she would take some time for herself and have a look round the Guildford shops. And then she remembered Jilly Bradford’s phone call.

Now that would be fun.

She arrived at the shop about two; it was very quiet, like the rest of the town. Nobody was in a shopping mood; Clio felt suddenly guilty.

Jilly smiled at her and said how delighted she was to see her. “Such a dreadful business, this. I nearly didn’t open today, and then I thought that was letting them win. The terrorists, I mean. Now, I’ve got your jackets here, and some tops I thought you might like. Shall I put you in one of the changing rooms and you can play around? And would you like a coffee?”

“That would be lovely, yes. Thank you.”

What a charming woman she was; no wonder the shop did so well. And such an advertisement for her own good taste, dressed today in a simple black shift, with black tights and black low-heeled pumps; and she was so slim. Clio promptly felt plump and messy.

The jackets were both extremely nice; after a very brief struggle, she said she would take them both. “And that black top is lovely too, the plain one.”

“Right. Well, look, I’ve got your number, and in future I’ll call you whenever I get anything in I think would be you. If that’s all right, of course.”

“Yes, fine,” said Clio. “I usually never think about clothes until I need them.” And then glancing at herself in the mirror, back in her own things—sensible tweed skirt, striped shirt, and sleeveless puffa jacket—thought that it showed.

“Well, that’s what we’re here for,” said Jilly, smiling at her, “to think of them for you. We are much more than just a shop, you know.”

“Yes, I can see that. Here’s my card and—”

The door opened and a girl burst in: a rather beautiful young girl, with a mass of wild fair hair, large dark eyes, and extraordinarily long legs in what were clearly carefully torn and faded jeans.

“Hi, Granny. Sorry I’m early. I couldn’t stand Dad going on about terrorists any longer. He seems to think some are about to strike our street. Oh, sorry!” she said, seeing Clio standing by the till.

“It’s all right, darling. I’m not terribly busy. Dr. Scott, this is my granddaughter, Kate Tarrant. Kate, this is Dr. Scott.”

“Hi!” said the girl. She looked at Clio, smiled briefly, then disappeared into the back of the shop.

“Kate comes to spend the weekend with me sometimes,” said Jilly, giving Clio her credit card back. “We get on rather well.”

“I can see that. Does she live in Guildford?”

“No, my daughter and her husband live in Ealing.”

Something struck Clio as awkward, just slightly awry, about that statement; she couldn’t think what it was.

“Well, thank you again,” she said, “and I hope I won’t see you in the surgery. If you see what I mean.”

“Of course. I don’t think you will—I’m a tough old bird.”

“Gran…” The girl had appeared again; she flashed another brief, brilliant smile at Clio. “I think I’ll go and get some sandwiches. I’m starving. And you haven’t got any Coke in the fridge.”

“Sorry, darling. Yes, you go and get me some as well. Sandwiches, not Coke. Here’s some money.”

“Thanks.” She was gone.

“What a pretty girl,” said Clio. “She looks like you.”

“How charming of you to say so,” said Jilly. “But as a matter of fact—”

The door pinged: another customer. Clio smiled and picked up her bags. “I’ll leave you in peace. Thank you again.”

Outside in the street she stood for a moment, looking up and down the street for the girl. There had been something about her. Something slightly—well, slightly familiar. She couldn’t imagine what.

People often asked Martha if there had been one single thing that had done it, had persuaded her to change her entire life, risk everything she had worked so hard for, and yes, she would say, there had: it had been walking into the mixed-sex ward of St. Philip’s Hospital where Lina lay, dying quietly and uncomplainingly of inoperable cancer of the liver, deeply distressed because she had wet her bed (having requested a bedpan hours earlier), and slowly just fading away, against a background of what could only be described as squalor.

Martha had done her best, of course. She had found a nurse and demanded that the bed be changed, and when the nurse had said she had no time, had walked into the small room marked
SUPPLIES
and found some clean sheets, helped Lina into a chair and started changing the bed herself. A nurse told her she couldn’t do that and Martha had said she
was
doing it, clearly nobody else was going to, and that was all there was to it. The staff nurse had then been summoned and she said what did Martha think she was doing? Martha told her and added, perfectly politely, that she would have thought they would be grateful for some help, adding (with truth) that she was prepared to clean the lavatory as well, that it was truly disgusting and must be spreading infection.

At which point the woman had sighed and said she knew that, and that she had been trying to find the time all day to do it.

“Surely,” Martha said, “the cleaners should be doing it, not you?”

“Oh they’re not allowed by their union to touch soiled dressings or human waste. There are special people to do that, but they haven’t come today yet. I—” Then someone called from across the ward to say that a patient’s drip had come out, and the nurse had to leave. Martha sat stroking Lina’s hand gently and looking over it at the old man sitting on the next bed, his penis hanging out of his pyjamas, while a young couple, presumably relatives of some kind, sat in chairs on either side of his bed, eating burgers and arguing about what film they were going to see when they left. The picture had stayed with Martha; nothing could erase it.

She was only thankful that her own mother’s surgery (a fusion in her lumbar spine) had already been accomplished privately. But that didn’t help Lina—or all the other Linas.

That had been June; in August, Lina’s friend told her, mopping her streaming eyes, wiping them on the duster she was using on Martha’s desk, that Lina had died.

“They said it was the cancer, Miss Hartley,” she said, “but I think it was that her heart just broke. She felt her family had been failed, and she couldn’t bear it.”

And Martha, crying too, remembering Lina’s sweet, gentle face, her heroic struggle to care for her family, wondered if there was anything, anything at all, she could do to make things better, not for Lina, it was too late for that now, but for all the other people who were being failed by a country that seemed to have entirely lost its way.

She was upset all day, performing badly in meetings; later that afternoon, when her friend Richard Ashcombe called her to cancel a visit to the cinema, even that seemed a major blow. “I’m sorry, Martha, I’d completely forgotten I’m supposed to be having supper with my cousin. I can’t let him down.”

“Of course you can’t.” Absurdly, she could hear her own voice shaky, tearful once again at this latest blow.

“Martha, are you all right?”

“Yes. Yes, of course, I’m fine. Honestly. Bit of a bad day, that’s all.”

“I’m sorry. But I really do have to go. Of course…” he said slowly and she could hear him thinking. “Of course you could come too, if you liked. We don’t have all that much in common. In fact conversation’s sometimes quite sticky. I know he’d like you and he’s a politician, so you can share all your thoughts with him.”

“What thoughts?”

“Oh you know, country going to the dogs, everybody being let down.”

“Do I go on about it that much?”

“Well, quite a lot. But he won’t have heard it, will he? And I can just get drunk and not listen. Go on, Martha, you’d be doing me a favour.”

“We-ell.” It was an intriguing thought. “It might be fun. If you really don’t think he’d mind?”

“Of course he wouldn’t mind. He’d love it. I’m meeting him at the House of Commons. We’re having a drink there. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“I’d love it. Thank you, Richard. But call him first and ask him, won’t you? What’s your cousin’s name?”

“Marcus Denning.”

“What—the arts minister?” said Martha.

“Shadow
junior
arts minister…I’ll call you when I’m leaving.”

She was very familiar with Denning’s name; she loved opera, and was a Friend of both the Royal Opera House and the English National Opera. Denning had attended several galas in his official capacity and was famous for having a genuine desire to popularise opera. It would be interesting to meet him.

They were late arriving at the House of Commons; the traffic was so bad they paid the taxi off and walked the last quarter mile. As they put their coats and briefcases on the security conveyor belt she spotted Denning, clearly impatient, looking at his watch. Martha stepped through the security arch and the alarm promptly went off (as always); she subjected herself to a search (as always her jewellery was to blame), and then, extremely embarrassed, reached Denning before Richard, who had been asked to unpack the entire contents of his briefcase.

“I’m so sorry to do this to you,” she said, “first crashing your evening and then being late. Richard did warn you, didn’t he?” she added, seeing his slightly bewildered expression. “That he was going to bring me along?”

“He didn’t, no. But what a pleasant surprise.” He held out his hand. “And you are?”

“Martha Hartley. Richard and I work together.”

“Ah. Another lawyer?”

“Yes, there are a lot of us, I’m afraid.”

“Well, I’m sure we need you.” He looked younger close up; she would have put him at only midforties, less daunting when not surrounded by the dignitaries of the Opera House, and dressed in a shabby suit rather than a dinner jacket. “Ah, Richard, good to see you. They’re not carting you off to the Tower then? No lethal weapons in your briefcase?”

He grinned at Richard and Martha liked him.

“Not this time. Sorry to keep you waiting.”

“That’s perfectly all right. Shall we go through? I thought we’d go to the Pugin Room. The Strangers’ Bar is packed. Lot of excitement over the Lords Reform.”

“I’ve never really been here before,” said Martha, “only very briefly anyway. I was rushed in and out in about five minutes.”

“Oh really? We can do a little tour if it would amuse you.”

“Oh, please, no,” said Richard, “not the tour. I’m starving.”

“Well, just a mini one. You know what this is.” He waved his arm above his head. “Central Lobby. Chamber’s through there. Lovely, isn’t it, this place?”

“It’s glorious,” said Martha, gazing up at the great domed roof, the stained-glass windows, the huge heraldic beasts carved in stone high above her head, aware of the rich, echoing quality of the sound. You could hear history in that sound, she thought.

They set off on their tour; expecting solemnity, Martha was charmed by its acutely sociable nature.