She sauntered down the corridor, stopping to scrutinize a notice-board on which were listed details of conferences, committees, study-groups and ward-rounds – countless meetings and engagements for all the various medical staff. Dr Edwards would have stood in this same spot, reading items more or less identical. He had probably touched the board, left his fingerprints behind. She put her carrier bags down to run her hands across it, hoover up all vestiges, then wandered on, surprised that there was nobody around. She hadn’t seen a single nurse or doctor; no cleaner coming off a shift, no tired and harassed houseman clocking up his hundredth hour that week. The hospital seemed abandoned, as if it had lost all heart since Dr Edwards’ departure, closed its wards, dismissed the other staff.
She was flagging, too; exhausted by her walk, and feeling rather faint. She retraced her steps to the nearest seat: a red upholstered bench in an attractive waiting-area, which was like a sort of crossroads – one passage leading back to the main entrance and the street; another signposted ‘WARDS’. If she positioned herself here, then she couldn’t miss anyone coming either way; might even meet a medic who remembered Dr Edwards, or had worked with him, or taught him. She piled her bags beside her on the bench, massaging her hand where one broken plastic handle had cut into her palm. Her ring was hurting, too, and had left a red weal on her finger – it was obviously too tight. She was still not used to wearing it, though Michael Chalmers had presented it to her as far back as Easter Sunday. After days of guilt and agonizing, she had decided not to return it, but keep it as her wedding ring. She couldn’t afford another one, and in any case, it would have been cruel to give it back. It had meant so much to Michael that she wore it every day, and he’d chosen an eternity ring, as a token of his undying love – a narrow silver band, set with tiny glittering stones.
She touched the stones, secretly rejoicing in the small red mark emblazoned on the third finger of her left hand. In medieval times they believed a vein ran directly from that finger to the heart, which was why it had been earmarked as the wedding finger. She found the notion appealing, since it implied her heart was still linked to Michael Chalmers, and that was very apt when he was the one who’d made her marriage possible, helped her trace Michael Edwards’ son.
Yet it also fuelled her guilt, especially when she thought back to their last sad day together – not sad for him, of course, as he’d no idea that they’d never meet again, but unbearable for her. He’d been his usual loving self; cooking for her, spoiling her, hanging on her every word. She’d kept wanting to apologize, aware how he would suffer when he discovered she had vanished; how deeply she’d be hurting him, maybe destroying his whole life. But once it got to midnight, she had merely said a brief goodbye, as if she’d see him the next evening, resume their conversation and their kiss. The kisses were still wrong – the sex wrong, and the presents wrong – but that didn’t make the parting any easier. She had felt so weighted down with grief, with shame at her own cruelty, she could scarcely hold back her tears. But it had been dark by then, as they lingered outside her house in the ill-lit murky street, so he couldn’t see her face, and before driving off he’d simply whispered fervently, ‘See you tomorrow at six.’
She glanced up at the stately tall-case clock. It was twenty past six – in the morning – and Michael would be sleepless, probably beside himself with worry. She sagged back in her seat, recalling all the other cruel goodbyes – the farewell to her home, where she’d lived nearly her whole life; the last meal with Frank and Eric, who’d been baiting her as usual, bickering and teasing, just like any other evening; her last long walk with Jasper, who had tried to lick her tears away when she’d pressed her streaming eyes against his coat.
She was almost crying now, yet furious with herself for such self-pity. That life was over, finished, and she was about to start a new one; had no business to be wasting time mooning over shadows when she’d come to the Infirmary in search of Dr Edwards so that she could put the past behind her – his past as well as hers. Today, she’d meet his son: the new young Michael Edwards, who had been named after his father, and his grandfather before him – every eldest Edwards son christened with the family name of Michael. That name had such a charge, she could hear it always resounding in her head; knew it was etched into her skin like a tattoo.
She gathered up her bags, marched along the corridor and out into the street, banishing all thoughts of home; returning to her quest. She must investigate the new wing of the hospital, where there were bound to be more signs of life, more data for her Dr Edwards thesis. She wondered how he’d found his way about in such an amorphous, sprawling place. New structures seemed to have been built on quite haphazardly, with no apparent regard for the overall effect, and resulting in a hotchpotch of conflicting styles and vistas – concrete glowering at red brick; stark and brutish tower-blocks dwarfing eighteenth-century harmony. But perhaps he’d been too busy even to notice his surroundings; had spent his time, like Michael at the Radcliffe, dashing from one crisis to the next. It was easier for her. She could proceed at a more leisurely pace; stop and look if something caught her eye – like that stone sculpture she was passing now, mounted on the wall in Infirmary Close. The work was really powerful: two huge healing hands cradled a sick woman, who lay slumped and pale across them; her eyes half-shut, her body swathed in a hooded cloak. Tessa moved a little closer, struck by the resemblance between the woman and the morning – both listless invalids. The light was still anaemic, the sky wishy-washy, sallow, with no gleam of colour or glint of sun; the rain reduced to an apathetic dribble.
She shivered in her lightweight suit, wished she’d brought a mac or a thick coat. But she would soon be in the warm again; was only a few yards away from the main entrance of the modern wing. Its stained and dingy concrete was made still more unsightly by a hideous sort of canopy erected in the front, with garish steel excrescences sprouting underneath it. But the building didn’t matter – the important thing was that Dr Edwards had swept through this same door, gone striding down that corridor, left his footprints on the two-tone vinyl floor. She followed in his tracks. Again she found the place deserted: no one at the reception desk; the shop and florist closed; the tea-bar shuttered; chairs and tables empty and forlorn. Where were all the nurses, and Dr Edwards’ successors in their white coats or green gowns, and why was there no sound at all – no porter with his trolley clanging round the corner, no shrilling phone, or clack of busy heels?
She drifted back to the tea-bar, attracted by the tariff tacked up on the wall: cheese and chutney sandwiches, ham rolls, buttered scones. Only now did she realize how ravenous she was; nothing in her stomach save excitement and six Polos. That must be the reason she felt so tired and dizzy; had to keep on stopping, to rest or put her bags down. She subsided on a chair again, checked each bag in turn, relieved to see that the rain had done no damage to her bridal wreath or veil. The veil was tatty anyway – discovered in a junk shop after weeks of patient searching. The wreath she’d made herself from artificial flowers – second-hand like all the rest, and amassed from various market stalls. She’d also bought a packet of rice and a large box of confetti, both symbols of fertility, which would ensure she had her child. She would conceive tonight, her wedding night – produce another baby in nine months, another fateful Michael.
She was tempted to open the rice and guzzle it straight from the packet – hard, uncooked and dry – or pretend the confetti was a box of scented cachous, and let the pastel-coloured shapes melt slowly in her mouth. She took out two paper horseshoes, placed them on her tongue, could almost taste their peach and lilac sweetness. She was about to eat a paper heart when she heard footsteps in the corridor – perhaps a nurse or doctor, at last, restoring the Infirmary to life.
No. Two Asian women were coming into view, their features so alike they must be mother and daughter, though their style of dress was so utterly at variance they might have sprung from different cultures and completely different centuries. The mother wo
re a gold and purple sari, with her hair in a long braid, while the daughter sported skin-tight denim jeans and a mask of tarty make-up, her bleached and tousled hair tumbling loose around her shoulders. Yet the two were laughing and joking together, obviously good friends. They sat down at a table, unconcerned apparently that the cafeteria was closed. They’d brought their own provisions, and appeared to be using the place as their private breakfast bar – swigging from a thermos flask and sharing three samosas. Tessa licked her fingers, as if scooping up the greasy crumbs, her own hunger swelling like fresh yeast in a bread-mix as she smelt hot spicy pastry. Perhaps the mother worked here and was snatching a quick bite before signing on for duty, or maybe the daughter had an appointment with a doctor. She considered going up to them, to ask what time the staff came on, but they probably wouldn’t welcome an intrusion. They were speaking their own language, whose very strangeness made her feel excluded. She was cut off from them twice over: first by race and tongue, but also – far more painful – because that precious mother-daughter bond was now lost to her entirely. Once, she and April had been every bit as close – shopping together, giggling in the mirror as they tried on silly hats, or relaxing over a coffee in the Wimpy Bar, ordering one portion of cheesecake and two forks.
She poured a shower of confetti on the table, trying to distract herself by spelling out Michael’s name in coloured paper shapes. It was sheer torment to remember how she’d taken leave of her mother – sloping out of the house with five carrier bags of cast-offs, pretending she was delivering them to the scout-hut for a jumble sale.
‘But why the dickens are you going at this unearthly hour?’ April had objected. ‘They’ll have shut up shop by now. Can’t you leave it till the morning?’
‘No. Mrs Brown’s expecting me. I won’t be very long.’ She’d been almost at the door when she suddenly dashed back, hugged her mother so hard that April yelped with pain and pushed her off.
‘Careful, Tessa! That’s my dicky arm.’
‘Mum, I … I love you.’
‘Well, it’s a funny way to show it. I’ve had no end of trouble with that flipping arm today, and now you’ve gone and made it ten times worse.’
‘I’m sorry,’ she’d exclaimed, and had continued saying sorry, over and over again, as a futile reparation for the suffering she would cause her mother in the coming weeks and months – the loneliness and bafflement, the feeling of betrayal.
She shifted her chair a fraction, so that she could observe the Asian pair again without being noticed herself. The woman was pushing back her daughter’s hair with that exasperated resignation all mothers seemed to show, obviously complaining how untidy it looked. Instinctively, her hand moved to her own hair, as she imagined April’s voice asking if she’d lost her comb, or been sleeping in a hedge. How extraordinary to miss her mother’s nagging; actually ache to hear her sounding off about messy clothes or chores undone. But no, she mustn’t weaken. Things were best left as they were. And she really had done all she could to ensure that April wouldn’t be left alone. Pat Hughes had finally promised to help out, and they’d arranged that she should call round there last night; stay all night, if necessary, if April got too frantic or distressed. Pat wouldn’t – couldn’t – betray her, since she didn’t know the truth; believed her friend had gone to Plymouth, not to Leicester. If the odd word did leak out, then April would go chasing off to the West Country instead of the East Midlands.
Tessa kicked her chair back, collected up her things. It was time to ditch her fears, stifle all remorse about her mother. Once she’d recovered from the initial shock, April would be better off without her; without the constant worry and expense; without an ungrateful daughter who no longer belonged at home.
The Asian couple were also getting up – the daughter making for the lifts, while the mother scurried back towards the exit. Tessa followed at a distance, feeling a strange affinity with this small figure in her sari. Both of them were aliens who’d come to a foreign land, and would have to adapt and turn it into home; both would need to learn a different language, struggle to communicate in a new, frustrating way. She caught the woman up outside the door, and was about to murmur a greeting when she was suddenly transfixed by a notice she had missed before – ‘ACCIDENT & EMERGENCY’ – in large imposing letters, white on red.
She plunged towards it, the Asian woman instantly forgotten, her whole mind somersaulting with memories and flashbacks. Michael worked there, didn’t he? – in what he called A and E – saving lives, patching up the victims of crashes and disasters. He had written to her about it, way back in the summer of last year, though it seemed another lifetime, so dim it was and shadowy. And yet she’d kept his postcards (had them in her bag), knew every line by heart – brief and blotchy scribbles dashed off in a hurry because he was busy, pressured, committed to his patients. All she had to do was step through the glass doors, and she would lay eyes on those patients – injured bleeding wrecks – lucky to be injured, because soon they’d feel the blessing of his hands; could look into his blazing eyes, as she so longed to do.
Even now, she wasn’t sure exactly how she’d reached him, except she’d travelled north – a fair distance, she remembered – rattling up the same motorway he always used himself. Long ago – aeons ago – he had invited her to join him, and she’d spent blissful evenings poring over the map, counting miles, counting days, wishing she had wings, to soar above the traffic jams, overtake the fastest of the cars. She was flying in one sense already – so excited and so overwrought, she had taken off, taken wing; her dazed and shaken body somehow left behind, and jumbling all its functions, so that she was breathing with her liver, digesting via her lungs. She had better rest a while, until she could control her legs; calm her racing heartbeat, return to earth from the dizzy stratosphere.
Her steps were still uncertain when she finally ventured into casualty, stood keyed-up at the door. Yes, there were all his patients, slumped passive in their chairs, waiting for his touch to revive them, resurrect them. One man sat with his arm in a sling; another had a blood-soaked rag swathed around his wrist; a mother with three fractious kids was glaring at a punk lad, who looked drunk, or drugged, or both. And here were all the other staff – a plump blonde nurse emerging from an office; two ambulance-men conferring with the receptionist; a policewoman supporting a young girl.
Michael powered this hospital – she could see that clearly now. He alone had transformed it from an empty hulk to a dynamic humming Healing Centre. Everything was functioning as it should, even incidentals like telephones and drinks-machines – a woman with a bandaged eye ringing for a cab; a gawky boy inserting coins to get a can of Pepsi. And above the stir and hubbub, the huge wall-mounted television pumped out its own bright life – a romantic glowing film; the lovers locked in a celluloid embrace. She slipped into a seat right at the back, hoping nobody had noticed her come in. She wanted to sit there anonymously and study all the patients, acquaint herself with the injuries which Michael would be treating, so she could admire his expertise.
She focused on the old man on her left, imagining the dramatic change as Michael stood above him: the huddled body beginning to relax; that drink-flushed face, with its bloodshot eyes, sobering in a smile. And how about the woman sitting next to him? Her leg was badly swollen, her expression sour and crabby, but when Michael laid his hands on her, she’d …
A cry ripped through the room – the furious full-throated yell of a newborn baby, startled by the world. Tessa stumbled to her feet, jolted in her turn. She was looking at her own baby – her and Michael’s child – a dark-eyed, dark-haired infant, being cradled by a nurse. They must have brought him to be fed, so she could cuddle him and hold him, show him to his father. She blundered towards the nurse, calling out his name; desperate not to lose him again. But her voice was just a fading sigh, and her legs had lost their bones. She clutched at the wall, her fingers grasping air; the solid, four-square, brightly-lit room contracting to one dark and spinning p
inpoint. She tried to shout for help, but the shout stayed trapped inside her throat; the whole of her imprisoned now in a coldly private world. That world was switching off, losing power, running down, dwindling into silence. She staggered, lost her balance, started falling in slow motion; sinking deeper, deeper, into black and hungry nothingness.
She opened her eyes, saw Michael bending over her as she lay shaken in the road. It was a wet and grey May Morning, and she’d tripped on a champagne bottle; been very nearly killed by a breakneck driver hurtling round the corner of a narrow Oxford lane. Instead of trying to help, he’d sworn at her and shouted, but now Michael had appeared, left all his other patients to attend to her. He was lifting her to her feet, his powerful arm supporting her, his voice supremely comforting. She knew she was too weak to walk, but he was lending her his strength, leading her to safety; had somehow steered her to a small quiet room and laid her on a couch.
He spread a blanket over her, then took her hand, felt her pulse. She gazed at the dark eyes, the wayward hair and unruly brows she’d thought she would never see again – Michael’s lustrous Latin eyes, Michael’s ardent face. She could hardly believe that they were actually in contact – physically, emotionally. He was asking her intimate questions, clearly anxious to catch up with her news, insisting that she told him her address. His hand was on her forehead now, his warm breath on her face; the familiar prick of stubble shadowing his chin. She remembered how those bristles had aroused her and excited her; left her sore but worshipping. She yearned to run her hand across them, feel their rasp and strop; aware that she was burning not with fever, but desire.
‘Don’t talk,’ she longed to say. ‘Use your lips to kiss me; your tongue to suck my breasts.’ They had no need of words, and she couldn’t concentrate her thoughts with him so close, attentive. It was wonderful to hear his voice, to have him show such interest in the details of her life, but all the same, his questions were distracting.
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