She remembered it like it was yesterday. The quiet stillness of the burns unit with all the staff dressed in head-to-foot blue. Her mother-in-law reaching the end of her bed, pulling up one of the regimented plastic chairs before she’d even realised who she was. It was only when she placed her son’s wedding band, linked with her own on some chain or other that the news finally sank in. They hadn’t told her anything, not that she needed to be told. The steep ravine was too steep, too treacherous to hold any surprises but miracles did happen. Some people were lucky. In the movies, he’d have fallen onto a ledge with perhaps a cut to his forehead and a broken leg. But she wasn’t in the middle of any movie. This was a nightmare, a nightmare she’d never wake up from.
With a sharp tug, she pulled the chain in two and, layering the necklace in her palm like a coiling snake, slid both it and the rings, their rings, onto the bed table.
There, it was done. Finished. Over.
But now what? What was there to do? Where was there to go, her eyes flitting around the room like a fly trying to escape? She could always go home, but she couldn’t do that. Northtonly Manor hadn’t been home for years and, anyway, now wasn't the time for such earth shattering decisions, not with the memory of his touch still lingering. She’d concentrate on the present and see where that took her. She’d have a bath and then get Sylvie on reception to phone around for a hairdresser to tidy up her mop, her hand reaching up with a smile. Yes, it really was a mop, a mop she still wasn’t prepared to chop off just yet. She’d arranged to take the girls for the afternoon so that Mavis and Maggie, although the hats was a much better term, could go shopping but she still had the morning in front of her and she didn’t intend to waste a moment, her eyes now on her hand, her disfigured hand, as she reached out towards the phone.
The De La Mare Burns Unit, just off Shepherds Bush was a last minute decision. She’d been meaning to go back to visit for months now but hadn’t. After that last surgery over a year ago where they’d performed the latest in a series of skin grafts, she’d finally had enough of hospitals and had ignored any and all letters with the little purple and green cross in the corner, the symbol of the exclusive unit Aaron’s parents had arranged following her transfer back from Mallorca.
Hand on the door ready to push it open, she remembered she was long overdue a check-up. The signs were there in both the increased pain and muscle tightening. The exercises she performed religiously every morning and evening were no longer enough to prevent her left hand from turning into a claw. It was just unfortunate that Matti had decided to follow her.
She’d just come out of the hairdresser only to be hailed by him. He’d been loitering with intent to accost for a while, if the look of his crushed newspaper was anything to go by.
‘What are you doing here, and where’s your daughter? I thought you were taking her back to the States on the next available flight?’
‘Yes, well.’ His look sheepish, although there was still a little wolf lingering at the edges the way his eyes were focussed on her lips. ‘I decided to take your advice and not be too hard on her. She meant well in that… Let’s just say she’s sorry for any upset and has promised not to put a step out of line until she’s thirty five and some other poor bloke’s responsibility.’
She joined him in a brief laugh, moving away from the plain white entrance to allow a posh woman bedecked in toe to thigh black leather, including 6 inch heels, to skim past with a brief thanks. ‘That doesn’t explain why you’re here? It’s not as if it’s a coincidence, London is a bit large for coincidences.’ Her eyebrows rose.
‘I thought I’d buy you a coffee as down payment for the helicopter ride,’ he said, hooking her good hand through his arm before hailing a passing black cab and bundling her inside.
‘Really,’ she huffed. ‘You’ve just assumed I’d be happy to spend the morning with you!’
‘Aren’t you?’ He gave her a wink, his eyes crinkling up with amusement as he leant forward to speak to the driver. ‘Fortnum and Mason’s please.’
‘Look, you don’t have to buy me anything…’ Her resistance wavering at the sound of those hallowed words. How long had it been since she’d had afternoon tea or even morning coffee in Fortnum and Mason’s? The last time was probably with Sarah when they’d celebrated both securing places at The Sorbonne. She’d never taken Aaron. It had always been one of those places they’d instinctively been saving for that special occasion.
‘But I want to,’ he said simply. ‘And I also want you to tell me how much I owe you.’ He added, waving a hand towards the piles of grey slush mounting the sides of the pavement as a reminder of their helicopter ride.
‘Fine,’ she replied, even though it wasn’t. But fine was one of those useful little words that didn’t mean anything. Fine was in the same category as nice in her vocabulary. The weather was nice. The fact it was cold enough to freeze the stars from the sky was another matter. It wasn't raining and, more importantly, it wasn’t snowing, so it was a variation of fine. But the nicest thing about the word fine was the way she used it now. She used it to end the conversation and it worked a peach. It worked so well he didn’t utter another word until they’d pulled outside the familiar cool green entrance, all of which was perfectly fine by her!
Sitting at the circular table he smoothed a hand over the crisp white linen with a smile. ‘Is 10.30 too early for afternoon tea, do you think?’
‘By about four hours,’ she laughed. ‘What about Eggs Florentine? I didn’t have any breakfast in the end.’
‘No, I didn’t think you’d had,’ he said, turning to catch the eye of the waistcoat-wearing waitress and therefore missing her sharp look.
She watched him fiddle with his cutlery before resting his chin in his hands and staring across at her.
‘They did a good job with your hair, it looks nice.’
‘Only nice?’ She said, trying not to giggle at his choice of word.
‘Yeah, nice.’ He frowned, his eyes roaming over her head. ‘What’s wrong with nice, I like nice. Nice is comfortable and,’ he paused, turning his attention back to his fork before raising his eyes again. ‘And if I said beautiful, you’d probably berate me for being overfamiliar.’
‘Er, well if you’re talking about overfamiliar I seem to remember something about you in a dressing gown...’
‘At least I was wearing something,’ his gaze back on his place setting.
‘I wouldn’t have put you Yanks down as being prudish?’
‘And I would never have put you English down as being so abandoned,’ he rallied, shifting his fork out of the way as a plate of eggs was placed in front of him.
‘I’m not abandoned, as you put it,’ she hissed, picking up her fork and breaking into her muffin with the edge.
‘Yes, you are,’ he countered. ‘Can you manage that?’ His voice soft, changing the subject.
‘Yes, I can manage and even if I couldn’t, I wouldn’t expect you to be helping someone so, so wanton.’
‘I didn’t call you wanton, just lacking in the embarrassment gene,’ he added, placing his cutlery down briefly to pour them both a cup of tea from the green china pot. ‘I could have been anyone. I could have done anything and, with your hand the way it is, there was nothing you could have done to stop me.’
It was her turn to lay her fork down and push her plate away. ‘It’s not my fault my hand is…is...’ Her eyes now lingering on her palm as she twisted her wrist backwards and forwards.
That was a lie. If ever she’d told a lie that was the biggest whopper of all. Of course it was her bloody fault. Who else’s fault was it but hers; hers and hers alone. She’d refused that last operation, choosing instead to go back to France to stay with Sarah and Pascal in their cutesy Versailles love-nest. She’d only heard about the job in New York by accident from the quarterly newsletter that The Sorbonne sent out to all their alumni. In the old days, it was the kind of job for someone who’d flunked their exams; for someone that didn’t have the n
erve to go all the way. But last year, she’d grabbed it with… with the only usable hand she had and had got the next plane out with the blessing of Sarah and the keys to the Gramercy apartment in her pocket.
Her eyes returned to his face, her right hand covering her left, hiding it from his ever seeking gaze. ‘And I think it’s beastly of you to mention it.’ Pushing her chair back she stooped down to pick up her bag before rooting around and leaving a pile of notes in the centre. ‘I don’t need to sit here to be insulted by someone like you.’
‘Please don’t leave.’ He stumbled to his feet and, adding some notes to the pile without counting them, thrust the lot into the hand of the surprised waitress before grabbing his coat and rushing after her.
She felt the door shift out of her grasp and, turning her head, found herself looking at him.
‘You followed me. How dare you!’ her words coming out in a rush.
He must have jumped into the next taxi like some American cops and robbers show and said ‘follow that cab.’ What must he have thought when she’d finally asked the driver to drop her off at the Burns Unit? That his words had made a difference? Had they made a difference? Perhaps; perhaps not. One of the reasons she was keen to come to London, one of the reasons she’d offered the use of Aaron’s hotel was because she knew in her heart it was getting worse. It wasn't by much. It was hardly noticeable but there it was; where before she’d used both hands to tie her shoelaces and bows now she wore slip-ons and left her ribbons in the blue velvet box Aaron had bought her on their last Christmas. Where before she’d been able to touch the tip of her thumb to her index finger now the distance made holding anything in her left hand impossible. So, no, he wasn't the reason for her visiting the unit just on the off chance Professor Chimes was free, but she was glad he’d followed her all the same. What if the news was bad? What would she do then?
‘If you think I was going to let you race off like that, you’ve got another thing coming.’ He held the door open, allowing her through first before following her up to the desk, manned by an attractive blond in a plain red dress with coordinating smile. ‘What are we doing here anyway?’ he whispered, looking around at the gleaming white reception.
‘I have no idea what you’re doing here but I’m about to see my doctor, if he’s available that is,’ gesturing with her hand she directed him to the chairs set in a circle in front of a coffee dispenser and a pile of glossy magazines. ‘As you’re here, you might as well be useful and get me a hot chocolate. I wouldn’t recommend the tea and the coffee is strong enough to skin fish.’
‘It sounds like you’ve been here before,’ he said, turning towards the machine.
‘You could say that.’
She’d lived here for six months; six months while she’d undergone more skin grafts than she’d ever thought possible. She hadn’t even known what a graft was before coming here. She’d always thought it was something horticulturists did for fun in their spare time. Not something that involved an instrument of torture that looked like a cheese slicer. And now, looking about the cool sterile environment, she was back but not to stay. Whatever the outcome, she couldn’t stay here, she couldn’t hack the sadness that still remained in the walls, the furniture, the faces of the nurses who’d seen her at her lowest. She’d moved on from that but, whatever happened, she wouldn’t be admitting herself to this unit.
He’d made room for her, shifting his calendar like doctors do. It didn’t matter his round would be late; his patients weren’t going anywhere were they, a smile breaking his serious face in two.
She’d never gotten used to the gallows humour she’d come across in the unit. Six months of associating with health care professionals in the day to day tragedy of a Burns Unit where successes were prized like gold dust and heartbreak was two a penny. After the first couple of operations, she’d realised she was the best guest, for want of a better word, staying with them. As long as her hand was covered with a waterproof dressing, she was allowed some flexibility around the department and when, yet again, she found herself unable to sleep in the small hours, the nurses allowed her into their staff room and into their lives.
‘So, what can I do for you today, Cara?’ He had his head bent over her notes, flicking through the pages at a speed which left her dizzy. ‘I see you were meant to have a check-up, let me see, ah yes, last September,’ his eyes finally joining hers.
‘I’ve been away; I’m living in New York now. I felt I needed a new start after...’
‘Yes, of course. Perfectly understandable.’ He’d moved to perch on the edge of the desk, his long toothpick legs revealing bright red socks visible between the end of his trousers and the start of his highly polished loafers. ‘And what’s brought you all the way from sunny New York?’
That made her laugh. ‘The only difference between New York and London is the quality and size of their donuts and the fact it’s not snowing, yet. But with the way my luck’s running, the snowstorm we’ve just had will be heading left at the Gower Peninsula just in time for my return in three days.’
He smiled, waiting for her to continue, a trick she’d noticed all the staff used. They must have been on a communication course, or should that be lack of communication? Whatever the course, the outcome was always the same: they sat with gently raised eyebrows while she poured her heart out.
‘My hand, it’s clawing up again.’
‘Here, let me see,’ he said, and she let him turn her hand palm upwards before asking her to perform some simple exercises.
Staring at the top of his head, she noticed a little more grey and a lot more scalp. How could he bear it day in, day out looking at disfigurement? She’d read of his successes. The children whose lives he’d saved with his radical techniques all performed with a gentle smile and quiet wit. He never lost his temper even if it was too much; the physiotherapy, the occupational therapists, the dressing changes. He never did or said anything he’d regret even if she spent half the time swearing at him and the other half huddled in a ball crying her heart out. He was expensive; thousands, but worth every penny.
‘I see what you mean,’ he said, standing up and pulling his diary towards him. ‘I’m afraid it’s more surgery, Cara or you’ll end up losing complete function. It was something we’d discussed, another operation but I think we’re nearly there,’ he added, withdrawing his silver Parker from his breast pocket and starting to draw on his blotting pad. ‘Just a couple of incisions here and here, and we’ll have you nearly as good as new.’
‘Nearly, what about…?’ She was suddenly breathless at the thought of being able to play again.
‘When I say nearly, Cara, I mean nearly for a normal person.’ He patted her good hand briefly. ‘We’ve had this talk before, my dear. If I could wave a magic wand, believe me, I would but it’s not within my means.’ Sitting back on the edge of the desk, his hands folded on his lap, he continued. ‘There are plenty of other jobs in and around music other than teaching. I know concert pianist was what you’d set your heart on but there’s no reason, in a few months after this last operation, you can’t at least play with some degree of expertise. Your right hand is just about as good as new. With a little tweaking of your exercise regime, we can get the muscle strength back up to its previous level.’
There was no such thing as a one-handed pianist like her but she didn’t tell him that. Instead, she grabbed her bag onto her lap and looked him in the eye.
‘I’ll think about it.’
‘Good God woman, there’s no time to think about it. If you don’t have the operation in the next couple of weeks, I won’t be able to fix it for you. You should know better than that after all you’ve been through.’ He eyed her keenly as if he was trying to read her mind and come up with an argument to overcome her objection. ‘Is it work, this job in America, because I’m sure your boss would understand?’
‘I don’t want to come back here. I can’t come back here. I’m sorry; it’s not you or anything. It’s just this pla
ce...’
She didn’t make a fuss. She didn’t rant and rave. She sat there as the silence wrapped itself around them both like an unbreakable force field no argument could ever breach. She sat there with tears sparkling on the tips of her eyelashes before wandering down her cheeks as she continued speaking.
‘It’s not you or indeed any of the staff. It’s me and the memories this place holds, it’s…’
‘It’s not uncommon, my dear, after such a grief as yours, you know. In fact, I’d be more surprised if you hadn’t objected, especially given your particular circumstances. That’s why I’m very happy to refer you to a friend of mine in New York,’ his gaze again on his desk diary that he’d twisted around to face her. ‘You did say New York, didn’t you?’
‘Yes, but.’
‘But?’
‘Nothing,’ she ended, her lips pulling into the semblance of a smile. He’d ram-raided through her defences and she could think of no further objections to the months of pain that lay ahead but at least she’d be back in New York, back in Gramercy, although not alone, as the smidgeon of an idea sprouted up from a little seed of sudden thought.
‘Good. I’ll phone Mark later, Professor Mark Knightly-Morton. He was a student of mine. He’s not quite as good as me yet but with another fifty years or so in the business,’ his twinkling eyes belying his words. ‘And, of course, he has more hair. Do you need me to write something for your head teacher at the school?’ he added, recapping the top on his pen and returning it to his jacket before picking up his stethoscope from where it lay curled up on the desk. He headed for the door, holding it open for her. ‘I really must be getting on with my rounds or Matron with go apoplectic yet again!’
Lying back against the Egyptian cotton sheets, she recalled the remainder of her day which, like all days where children were involved, flew by. Okay, so the girls weren’t really children, more ladies in waiting but their behaviour was far from ladylike and oftentimes very childish indeed. She’d joined the party at McDonald’s for lunch, closely followed by Matti who’d tried and failed so many times to get answers to his questions that he’d finally given up. She had no reason to withhold the information about her pending surgery from him, excepting perhaps sheer bloody-mindedness. But she wanted to think, to plan and with him wittering away in her ear like an excitable puppy, she couldn’t string even two thoughts together.
The Englishwoman Trilogy: Box set of: Englishwoman in Paris, Englishwoman in Scotland, Englishwoman in Manhattan Page 47