by Aimée
“All right – I accept your offer, as long as it includes coffee.”
“It does – I could do with a large cup myself. Come on, then – I can’t leave the building since I’m still the only member of staff present, but the dining hall is this way.”
Angela started towards the end of the corridor when Greyson interrupted her, sounding hesitant: “Would it seem terribly weird if I asked you for just a few minutes alone? If you have an empty room somewhere…”
“Of course – no worries. Actually, we have this one here – it isn’t used much, and it’s a bit cold, but… If you don’t mind that kind of thing, of course.”
Greyson looked at her interrogatively and Angela opened a door to her left, switching on the light. The room had been arranged as a small chapel, with folding chairs and an old stained-glass window. A discreet wooden cross stood on the left wall and a lectern faced the chairs. Greyson smiled: “I don’t mind at all – thank you! I’ll join you in a few minutes.”
“All right – when you’ve finished, the dining hall is straight on and to your right at the end of the corridor.”
“Thank you”
Greyson sat on one of the chairs and waited until Angela had closed the door behind her to lower herself to her knees. Prayer didn’t come easily to her. She liked nothing more than days when she didn’t have the time to pray – days when she could get away with a quick one before bedtime, which sometimes disappeared altogether in the busyness of the day because she fell asleep on the words. To quiet her mind in order to pray was proving to be a rather tall order. She could talk to Him in a casual way – like she would with a friend. She could confide in Him, ask Him for advice, thank him for His help. But the ritualistic mandatory experience of prayer was something she had to work on. She had never liked rules, not when she was a child, nor in the army, but she had submitted to them. Having rules to talk with God seemed superfluous, but she tried hard to adhere to them. If this really was her calling, she had to. The head would probably think she was a lunatic, but she was in need of guidance and peace, and with these few minutes alone, she could at least try to ask for them.
After about ten minutes, she slowly rose to her feet and left the chapel to join the head. When she arrived in the dining hall, she smiled appreciatively. Although the building itself probably dated back to the early 20th century, it had been modelled on the old Oxford colleges, and the dining hall had a very Hogwarts-like aspect, with oak panelling, long benches, and portraits of gowned academics on the walls. The smell of freshly brewed coffee was of course a bonus. She zeroed in on the head, noting that her hair was almost as red as some of the academic scarves in the paintings. Greyson took a deep breath and strode towards her.
Angela had been waiting for the doctor, staring at the cup of coffee in her hands. She wondered what was taking the blonde so long. Of course, her goddaughter had been caught in a less than ideal position, but the doctor didn’t look like someone who would fall apart for something like that. She probably wouldn’t dare ask, though. Even if the older woman had seemed in a slightly mellower mood than when she’d arrived, the closed-off look on her face said she probably wouldn’t spill her soul to a stranger. When Angela heard the footsteps on the tiles she lifted her head and poured another coffee. Greyson slid on the bench in front of her and grabbed the cup thankfully, almost burning herself with the first sip.
“Thank you – I needed that!”
Angela pointed to a basket containing bread and muffins. “There’s a toaster just behind you. Also jam, butter and honey – the kitchen staff hasn’t finished laying out the breakfast buffet but I managed to cadge a few things.”
“Thanks”
Greyson didn’t bother with the toaster and busied herself with spreading a muffin with honey. Then she took a bite and chewed slowly, awaiting the questions that would inevitably come. Angela bit into a slice of buttered toast while she pondered about how to formulate her inquiries. Finally, she opted for what she thought was an innocuous enough question: “So – how did you meet Julie’s parents, Doctor – or should I say Colonel?”
To her surprise, the woman blushed: “You could just call me Grey – after all, I’m your school doc – we might have more opportunities to meet – although I hope not.” Then, realising what she’d just said, Greyson became even redder: “Sorry – that came out all wrong – what I meant was – I hope no one else is going to be ill or play Russian roulette with her health. I hope I won’t have to come again – I mean – I hope for you…” Greyson suddenly stopped talking, feeling Angela’s amused eyes on her.”
“Yes, I know what you mean, Doc – I don’t usually make much sense after sleepless nights either. And I’ll call you Grey if you call me Angela.”
Greyson grinned and nodded: “Will do. As for your question…” She was still trying to answer with as few details as possible. People had strange reactions to the army – and especially female officers. In her experience, they either strongly disapproved or went all gushy, thanking you for your service and treating you like a kind of super-heroine. This was why she tended not to mention it. However, it was too late – Julie had let the cat out of the bag.
“You’ve probably guessed I used to be in the Forces. Julie’s parents are too, and we served together. I – I was there when she was born.”
To Greyson’s immense relief, Angela didn’t gush or scowl. She just smiled knowingly: “And Julie spilt the beans… Colonel – that’s impressive.”
“Actually, it’s Lieutenant-Colonel. And it’s not that impressive…”
Angela sensed the woman in front of her was uncomfortable and she tried to hide her admiration: “Right – okay – if you say so. I’m sure your goddaughter is very proud of you, though.”
Greyson bit her lips: “Maybe – she has a strange way of showing it, though. About that – what are you going to do with her? I mean – in my days, the head would have expelled us on the spot.”
Angela grinned, thinking of her own school days: “You’re probably right about that. And we do, of course, have a no drugs policy here. But Julie is a month from taking her A-Levels. If I expelled her now …Well, where would she go? Would you like to have her live with you?”
Seeing Greyson’s horrified face, Angela giggled: “I didn’t think so. No, I’m going to read her the riot act, and think of some kind of community service. That should do the trick.” Then she became serious again: “But if she ever uses again on campus, I’ll have no choice – You understand that, right?”
Greyson nodded: “Of course. Thank you for your understanding. I’m not sure I’d be as lenient if I were in your shoes, to be honest. I could wring her neck right now!” She paused and went on thoughtfully: “I never signed up to be a parent, you know. Not my thing.”
“Come on, Colonel – I don’t believe you’re afraid of responsibility. Isn’t it what the army teaches you? To be reliable and responsible? And as a GP – well, that’s another layer of responsibility.”
“It’s not the same thing. You’re right, of course, but – it’s a different kind of responsibility – a collective one, not an individual one. And even though Julie has two living parents – thankfully – there’re not here and I am. In loco parentis. And somehow I feel like I’m to blame. I did try to see her when I came back from deployment but maybe I should have tried harder. Maybe…”
“Bullshit! You’re not responsible for Julie experimenting, Greyson! You couldn’t have guessed… Parents are always the last to know about…”
Angela bit her lips – she was afraid she would burst into tears if she went on. Her face clouded as she said the last words and Greyson remembered the family group at the service. She didn’t want Angela to know that she’d been there for her daughter’s funeral, but she thought the least she could do was listen if the redhead wanted to talk. Seeing Angela wasn’t going to finish her sentence, Greyson went on: “Maybe – but I’ve no idea what to do. I mean…” She blushed again. “I didn’t exactly re
act the way I should have. And I’ve no idea what to do next.”
“I wish I could tell you. And I’d probably have reacted exactly like you have. Please don’t blame yourself. Only – I guess you could apologise? And maybe – maybe talk to her? Her voice broke and she whispered: “At least you can still make it better.” Seeing Greyson’s interrogative glance on her, she gulped and went on: “I have – I had a daughter. Sybil. She died – recently. And – I realised I didn’t know her at all. She was away at school – she wanted to be a dancer – I’d never have sent her away otherwise, but she insisted. And … She seemed happy – I mean – when she came back for the hols. And then – well, I don’t know. I don’t know what happened – one minute she was telling me her ballet teacher was complimenting her, and the next … She died.”
Angela buried her face in her hands. When she looked back at Greyson, she expected to see the usual grimace and horrified expression when she told people about Sybil’s death. She found only concern. Of course, the woman was a doctor, so she must have learnt how to deal with that kind of news.
“I’m so sorry, Angela. There’s no… I’m sorry.”
Greyson should have become used to death – and to dealing with grieving relatives. Other people would have reached out to Angela, embraced her, but she couldn’t. And after many years as a doctor and an officer, she still hadn’t found the right words to comfort the bereaved. She did think that it helped them to talk about their loss, and she decided she could at least offer an ear to listen, if not a shoulder to cry on: “Do you – do you want to talk about her? How old was she?”
“Sybil had just had her twelfth birthday. I thought – I thought she was strong. Independent. She wanted to go to that school. I’d told her it wouldn’t be like in the books – that it wouldn’t be all Mallory Towers midnight feasts and Chalet School excursions. She said she knew that. She told me that if she wanted to become a professional dancer she had to go to a residential school. So – I let her go… I should never have let her – if I hadn’t, she would still be alive.”
“Angela”, said Greyson gently. “Accidents happen. Even if she had been living with you, she could have – died. You’re not responsible for her death. You’re not, trust me.”
Angela took a deep breath and turned a suddenly ravaged face towards Greyson: “You don’t understand. It wasn’t an accident. She – she killed herself. She was a child, and she killed herself. How am I not responsible?”
Angela’s voice had risen and when she realised that, she quickly apologised: “I’m sorry – I don’t usually unload on a complete stranger.”
“Don’t worry. It’s fine. I don’t mind. And no – even if she – took her own life, you are not responsible.”
“I am – I should have known something was wrong. It all came out afterwards, you know – she was bullied – and I should have known. I should have noticed. But I didn’t – it’s only when they gave me back her stuff – and I found her journal – that…”
Greyson laid her hand on the other woman’s arm who was obviously fighting her tears: “Please don’t blame yourself.”
The redhead shot her a scornful look and Greyson bit her lips as she tried to think of something to say: “What about her father? Does – does your husband help you with…?”
“Sybil’s father lives in France – with his new family. We’ve remained friends, but – he’s not really in the picture.”
As she listened to Angela, Greyson rearranged in her mind the family picture from the funeral- nothing was ever quite what it seemed. Looking at Angela, she realised she must have zoned out for a minute because the other woman was watching her expectantly.
“I’m so sorry, Angela. I hope you have support.”
Angela didn’t answer. She had no wish to go to counselling, and she didn’t want to bother her friends. Her support network hovered between flimsy and inexistent, but she didn’t want the doctor to pity her. The woman intrigued her – she sensed that under her very military reserve the lieutenant-colonel hid a complex and rather appealing personality. She had also managed to make her smile for the first time in ages – not a small feat these days.
After a last cup of coffee, Greyson decided it was time to take her leave. She considered going back to see Julie and apologising for the slap, but she wasn’t really feeling sorry yet. Part of her new career path involved getting more attuned to her emotions and feeling and doing her best to remain true to them. She would need to pray more about what had happened and to try and find a way to reach her goddaughter. Meanwhile, she had a full day at the surgery to get through.
When she came home that night, Greyson almost shook with tiredness. Two patients into her day, she had already been running late. Ten minutes were just about enough for routine appointments, but of course, routine never happened. Her first patient had come for an “infection” and it had turned out she required a vaginal examination – the ten minutes had extended to twenty. The second one had come only for a repeat prescription, but she had got interrupted by the nurse with an urgent phone call from an elderly man’s family… She had an essay for her MA to give back three days later, but she didn’t feel able to have one coherent thought. Instead, she settled on the sofa in front of a series she couldn’t make heads or tails of and fell asleep with the television still on.
Chapter 9
Everything that is in the heavens, on earth, and under the earth is penetrated with connectedness, penetrated with relatedness. ~ Hildegard of Bingen
Several times during the week, Angela thought about the blonde doctor. She was possibly the first person she would have talked to willingly about Sybil. Because she seemed like the kind of person who would just listen silently and not offer unwanted advice. She had had more than enough of well-meaning people telling her what she ought to do, or even what she ought to feel. Her friends had tried, each in their own way, to help her through her grief, but she just wanted others to behave normally with her, and that neither, Fran nor Liz had managed to do. Fran had brought her books on bereavement and homemade healthy dishes for her freezer – she did not want to read about how others dealt with the loss of a relative, and all she had appetite for these days was nursery food – pasta, mash, bread – easy, bland and sweetish. Certainly not coconut red curry with chickpeas or spinach tofu casserole. Fran had also tried to get her to “talk”, telling her she would feel better if she “shared her pain”. The one thing she certainly did not want to do was share that horrible, agonising feeling. If she shared it, it would not diminish hers – just spread to others. Liz had dragged her out of the house to go to the pub and attempted to help her drown her grief in noise and beer. An unsuccessful attempt, since it had left her with a headache, a hangover, and the realisation that she had become a maudlin drunk. Even the bloody vicar had phoned her to ask if she “wanted a little chat”. She had nothing against the old dear, but how she had got the idea she was in any way interested in religious comfort was beyond her. She had only gone with a C of E funeral because Sybil’s father wanted one – he had apparently found religion with his second marriage – and she had been too numb to organise anything else. But the idea of praying for solace – that was bullshit! If God existed, if He was really this all-benevolent supreme being – why hadn’t He interfered? What hadn’t He prevented her daughter from getting the pills she had killed herself with? Why hadn’t He ensured someone found her in time to get her to the hospital? Why hadn’t He stopped the bullying, the causes for her decision? Because He just didn’t exist! If others wanted to alleviate their torments with prayer to some kind of Father Christmas/tooth fairy figure, they were welcome to Him. She didn’t want Reverend Jones to offer that kind of help – she didn’t want to participate in the church group for bereaved parents, and she certainly didn’t want a personal visit from the elderly woman whom she would have to treat civilly because she had been taught to respect her elders. She wouldn’t dare slam the door in her face and tell her that her faith was hot air and po
ppycock… Much better abort the initiative at the beginning. Instead, she had plenty of mind-rotting nonsense to watch on TV… Aaah – an umpteenth re-run of Come dine with me … People back-stabbing their hosts in the bathroom… So fascinating!
The week fled by so fast Greyson didn’t have time to go and check on her goddaughter or to apologise. She realised she wouldn’t have minded seeing the headteacher again – something in her had tugged at her heart strings… Strings that had not been tugged at for a long time. She did take time to phone the school nurse, who told her that Julie seemed fine. Greyson hoped the teenager had learnt from her bad experience – she couldn’t help thinking her own parents would have skinned her alive if she had done something like that at her age, but then, she hadn’t even thought of it. Her rebellious streak had come much later than adolescence – actually, the wildest thing she had done was joining the army. And divorcing, of course – her parents had blamed her for a long time. Actually, her mother, in her Alzheimer-induced amnesia, still asked her why she didn’t bring George with her when she visited. At first she had tried to remind her that she and George had divorced nearly twenty years previously, but now she didn’t try anymore – “he’s busy working” worked much better for her mother’s addled brain. She was still occasionally in contact with him, though – they exchanged birthdays and new years’ wishes, and when she had been in England on leave, she had met with George and his partner a few times for drinks. They had been together for nearly fifteen years now, and they worked at the same hospital, George as a psychiatrist and Dennis as a physiotherapist.