by Roger Curtis
It was some while before he told Brian of their new accomplice: it had taken time to check her out through his police contacts. By then the fundraising committee had been established. When Brian came to address the inaugural meeting Sarah-Jane was amused at his astonishment at finding sixty or so like stalwarts packed into the local community hall.
Outwardly the dutiful wife in public, Sarah-Jane began to dust off her abandoned medical credentials and take an active interest. For a while the two women worked amicably enough together.
Even Mrs Adams was at a loss to explain the torrent of donations. There were cheques, each for many thousands of pounds, from the most fashionable addresses in the capital. She confided that, partly out of curiosity, she had tried to call on the donors but had not once managed to get past security. They are private people, Sarah-Jane told her, repeating Brian, and best left that way if you want their help.
The new wing was completed in March and opened in April, with a ceremony at the hospital to be followed by a lavish reception at Hightower.
It was then – just over a year before the assault on her face – that Sarah-Jane’s difficulties really began.
Bunting in stabbing triangles of white and liver – Sarah-Jane’s suggestion, her only one, as lip service to the surgical theme – fluttered between pennants at either end of the concrete and glass mass appended to the western wing of the hospital. The lintel of the central portico bore the words Khasoni Centre for Surgical Endeavour. Beneath it, ushers in beige jackets and black bow ties herded in the remaining stragglers from the terrace, then closed the doors behind them. Unlike them – though she didn’t realise it then – Sarah-Jane was still only dimly aware of who Khasoni was. But she was sure he had visited the house. Or at least she had, one dark evening, seen a Rolls with the registration number KHA1 parked discreetly between the trees, the plate momentarily visible when the chauffeur, standing guard, happened to light a cigarette. And she, by less chance, was walking back from the stables.
She was shown to a seat in the front row bearing her name. Besides Mark and Brian, sitting together, she recognised none of the half-dozen dark-suited, expressionless figures sharing the podium. Somehow their sobriety was at odds with the extravagance of the floral displays. It seemed that the act of taking her seat was the cue for Mark to rise. She became the uneasy focus for his delivery.
‘My dear colleagues and friends,’ he began. ‘Today is one of those rare occasions in the development of medical science when we are able to put our names to something new and exciting to set against the contraction, compromise and defeat that has characterised medicine in London for the past decade. When Brian Davison first came to me with plans for what has now been realised, I have to say I was sceptical. No, worse, dismissive. Then one day he said to me, Mark, if you don’t have faith in the scheme, at least let me show you…’
Shuffling in the row behind Sarah to admit a late-comer ended in the harsh scraping of chair-legs on the teak floor. A frown of recognition crossed Brian’s otherwise inscrutable face, but there was no corresponding blip in Mark’s delivery, which was curious. His eyes were still fixed on her.
‘And so,’ he continued, ‘I met some of his patients in the clinics before and after treatment, and some, even, during their procedures. Financial questions remained, certainly, but the goal was no longer in doubt. Looking about me now I see faces glowing with satisfaction because you, too, made that same right judgement. I can tell you that there are people here…’
‘Bullshit!’
The quiet expletive came from just behind Sarah-Jane’s left ear. She rounded on the offender, ready to mete out brimstone in defence of her husband. But she could not.
Alan Murphy was looking straight at her with an expression that was no expression at all. Write on my face what you want to see, it said, and I will take it from there. But be careful, get it right, because it’s important. For you I mean.
Brian was on his feet now. Sarah-Jane turned to the front, seeking refuge in what he was saying. She felt her face burn. Try as she might, she couldn’t turn her head again. She imagined the thoughts that impelled themselves towards the back of her head. They hurt her, because their origin was in a hurt. But she would not, could not, look back. Try. No. Try. No!
Brian was talking in that clipped precise way of his, targeting faces in the audience, one by one, impaling them with logic and reason and the justification for his vision. Then he looked at her. She felt as if her head were being squeezed in a vice, from back and front. Are you ill, she asked herself, that you can be so weak? Pull yourself together, take control.
Mrs Adams was on the platform now, amid an orgy of mutual congratulation. One by one the dark figures slipped away. Glasses were raised. Sarah-Jane found one had been thrust into her hand and joined the toast, thankful for the distraction. Then the audience dispersed, groups hiving off to look at the surrounding sleek displays of equipment and microscopes, and posters red with carnal expositions of surgical practice. When finally she mustered the courage to look for him, Alan was no longer there.
Mrs Adams materialised from out of the departing crowd. ‘Why did you not join us on the platform? We were calling for you.’
‘I think I must have felt a little faint. It’s very hot in here.’
‘Yes, yes it is, and some fresh air you shall have.’ She led Sarah-Jane through the door to the wide stone terrace overlooking the descending expanse of bare earth that would soon become lawn.
Sarah-Jane could see Alan Murphy talking to Jack Adams, who was idly pushing Clare’s wheelchair back and forth in front of him. The child’s presence there was unclear, but no matter, she and the child were good friends. Clare’s head was to one side with the palsy, as it always was. Alan bent down beside her and inclined his own head at a similar angle. Without hearing a word it was obvious to Sarah-Jane he was offering to push the chair. Jack, laughing, let go of the handles with a thrust of his wrists and Alan took control.
A voice came from behind, deeply authoritative and resonant: ‘Hello Sarah.’
‘Edwin? I didn’t know you were coming.’
‘Why ever not? Your husband and Brian are still colleagues, in a manner of speaking. That was one thing at least that was not destroyed.’ His voice seemed to carry no bitterness, and was at odds with his words.
Sarah-Jane had felt no regret when he lost his position at the hospital and the press had picked over his remains. Perhaps he had accepted it with grace, as he had once accepted the loss of his wife and daughter. When the story broke she had already left the hospital, although marriage to Mark was still to come. She had not seen Edwin, nor thought much about him, since. She had even forgotten that he had once been her husband’s business partner. It came as a surprise to think that he still might be.
‘Edwin, you brought it upon yourself. I had no hand in it.’
‘My dear child, you misunderstand me. I was speaking of our relationship. It had such potential, though you could never see it.’
‘Let’s make the most of today, shall we? I’ve severed my links with that part of my life.’
‘Have you, Sarah? Have you really? It’s such a pity if you have. Besides, I would have thought it not to be the case.’
Sarah-Jane became aware of Mrs Adams at her elbow. The alignments of her square face seemed less rigid. Sarah-Jane felt relief. Here might be a friend, after all; but exploring that was for later.
‘Come on you two! It’s no good reminiscing about old times. It’s the future we must look to.’ She turned to Sarah-Jane. ‘Shouldn’t we be getting these people back to your place? It will be just marvellous in the garden if the weather holds.’
‘You’re right. I’d better go on ahead to check on things.’ To Edwin, sweetly, she said. ‘I’m sure someone will show you the way, if you’ve forgotten.’
‘Don’t worry your pretty head abou
t it. I still have some influence, I’m pleased to say.’
Along the terrace Alan Murphy was making little charges with the wheelchair. The wheels rumbled on the flagstones. With each thrust the child screamed, though whether in terror or delight was difficult to tell. Nobody took much notice, except Edwin, who was looking on thoughtfully from a distance.
Sarah-Jane made her way down the steep flight of steps and along the road to where her car was parked behind a dense cluster of trees. She went slowly, recalling Edwin’s remark of long before about skeletons from the past. Yet was it so remarkable to see him here with Alan? She realised how isolated from her former life she had become, and from the responsibilities it had bestowed. She had taken the route of leisure and idleness as if of right, and it had not until now occurred to her to question whether it should have been earned. Certainly there was little on the slate to mark her early promise, although that had always been the opinion of others, not her own. Did she really need three horses growing fat in their stables because she rarely rode them, or two gardeners to tend land on which neither she nor Mark set foot, or Marguerite… She had often told the image in the mirror that she was content, but could never bring herself to use the word happy. Possibly it was not so and her present skirmish with medicine was really a beckoning finger. Let’s see where it leads. But no pressure, no urgency. After all, there was that little bit of modelling she did; that could still grow into something.
A faint dizziness as she reached the tarmac of the car park made her wonder about the punch. Otherwise she felt relaxed and confident. She had met those two relics from the past and weathered the experience. Perhaps they’d been with her all the time, deep in her subconscious, like rough garments unnoticed until the moment of taking them off.
Her Porsche was where she had left it, straddling the white line of the parking bay. A note on the windscreen suggested she should be more considerate in future. She tore it up, not bothering to read the signature. The car started with a roar. She pressed the accelerator with the clutch down, once, twice. The throaty sound of the engine gladdened her. She would be ahead of them all on the open road. She might even go via the lanes where she could work up a passable turn of speed.
She was glad she had persuaded Marguerite not to come to the opening, in spite of Mark’s protests. At least everything would be ready. Later there would be a small band, with dancing on the terrace if it stayed fine. The attention would be more than she had experienced for a long time – well, of that collective kind anyway. Perhaps she would dance with Edwin, certainly with Brian. She would even allow Mark a little more rein, so that Marguerite might enjoy some competition for once.
It was not to be.
With hindsight it was a pity for her that those on the terrace had heard the revving of her engine. It left in some an impression of irresponsibility that would prove difficult to shift, in spite of other evidence in her favour.
As the car emerged from the trees the wheelchair was already gaining momentum down the flight of steps leading from the terrace. The contraption lurched from side to side, scraping the stonework. The child it carried resembled a rag doll with its head swinging wildly. A second figure just behind tumbled over itself in a desperate attempt to stop the flying chair.
The first sound, other than the squeal of brakes, was of the metallic crushing of the chair under the nearside front wheel. The second was of Alan Murphy’s body slamming against the rear door. The brakes slewed the car round so that it was pointing at the two figures sprawled on the tarmac like abandoned, spilled luggage. It seemed to Sarah-Jane that some malevolent force had manhandled the car just so she should see the destruction she had caused. An extrusion of frantic activity at the bottom of the steps formed itself into a ring around the stricken figures. The worst of it for Sarah-Jane was that they ignored her, even when she got out of the car.
That was not to last.
‘It was an accident.’
‘It was no bloody accident. She could have stopped if she’d wanted.’
‘Blame that idiot medic, if you have to blame anyone.’
‘At least he’s sorry. Look at him, poor sod. But there’s nothing he can do for her.’
‘She was going too damned fast.’
‘Doesn’t everybody?’
Sarah-Jane looked around desperately for Mark. She must have called his name.
‘He’ll be coming, Sarah. Just keep calm.’
Brian appeared. She flinched as he put his arm around her shoulders. ‘It wasn’t your fault and there’s nothing you can do.’
‘She was so helpless, Brian.’
‘But you’re not, so pull yourself together. We’ll stand by you.’
It seemed to her that an accusing finger had never been pointed more directly.
Her dry lips stuck to the white tube she had to breathe into. When the colour changed Mark looked grim. ‘That’s a great help, but never mind.’
‘I tried to say I was sorry,’ Sarah-Jane said. ‘I tried. He wouldn’t listen.’ With her handkerchief she dabbed at the muddy brown rivulets coursing down her cheeks.
‘Did you expect anything else?’ Mark said.
‘Jack loved that child.’
‘Yes he did,’ Brian said. ‘It gave point to their lives, to the whole family. And to the fundraisers. She was a cult figure, that girl.’
Mark said quietly, ‘That’s enough, Brian. Let’s get some coffee and organise a clear-up at home, before it rains.’
The evening Jack Adams called Sarah-Jane was alone in the darkened drawing room, curled up in her now characteristic position on the sofa. The world was marking time around her, waiting for the result of the inquest in two days’ time. Until that was over she could settle to nothing and had no appetite for anything except profound reflection. In her mind images of her past life were becoming increasingly vivid and intrusive.
Mark was not expected back until ten. ‘We’re draining the lagoon,’ he’d said. ‘I need to be there to stop them flooding the building.’ Marguerite had the evening off and could be there or anywhere. That didn’t matter now.
She led Jack into the dark room. He asked if the light could be switched on. She obliged with a little shrug of the shoulders, resentful of being told what to do in her own home, though the request was reasonable enough.
With him standing precisely where his mother had once stood it was impossible not to compare them. Here was none of Marjorie Adams’ authority that achieved its ends by marshalling the efforts of others. In its place she saw an aggressive sullenness that she was unable, then, to dissect into its components of tiredness and grief. There was weakness where his mother had strength; and for Sarah-Jane that perceived defect became the focus for the inner poisons that sought escape. The best course was to take command. ‘You may sit if you want to. Can I offer you anything? Some tea?’
He looked bewildered, expecting from her compassion and sympathy. ‘Sarah-Jane, I need to talk to you.’
‘I don’t see what there is to talk about. I told you at the time I was not to blame and that hasn’t changed.’
‘Sarah…’
‘Look, I know you’re upset and you’re entitled to be. Clare meant something to me too, you know, in spite of what people have been saying. Actually I’m finding the whole blame thing difficult to take.’
Jack had been holding his cap to his side, but now clamped it between his knees. ‘Not from me!’
‘That’s what I’ve heard.’
‘Not from me. But from the way you’re behaving, Sarah-Jane, I can understand it if people doubt your word.’
‘What? What do you say?’
‘A normal person would feel remorse and a wish to put things straight. You seem to want neither.’
‘What is there to put straight? Your daughter was propelled under my car because of an infantile pra
nk by someone who had hardly more sense than…’
Jack looked incredulous. ‘What are you saying, Sarah-Jane, what are you saying?’
She had stepped into a morass from which it would be difficult to extricate herself. The options were now extreme contrition or a more violent thrust still that would carry her through and to hell with the consequences.
‘You’ve gone too far, Sarah-Jane. What you are saying hurts me beyond endurance. I came here so there would be no rancour at the inquest to spoil Clare’s memory. Instead her death has spawned… I don’t know… some demon within you. Where it’s come from and what you’re to do about it… that’s your problem. I want nothing more to do with it.’
Sarah-Jane said nothing.
‘But I’ll tell you something,’ he continued. ‘When I hear the revving of that engine, every night, in my head, and see the car lurching from those trees…’ He lowered his face into his hands.
Impelled by feelings over which she had no control Sarah-Jane crossed the carpet to stand above him, not knowing what she should do. But as he looked up her anger was forced from her. Something of the pain in his eyes jarred her body. She thought of her dead sister. An ethereal hand seemed to grasp her wrist, guiding her own to Jack’s shoulder, where it rested limply, impossible to withdraw. ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered. Nothing else would come into her head. She stood motionless, tears springing to her eyes. Jack rose slowly, gently removed her hand with a flicker of a smile, and left the room.
The dining table was set for five. Whether to include Marguerite had occupied Sarah-Jane’s thoughts for much of the morning. To her surprise the decision, once made, had brought a measure of relief, if not pleasure. Precisely laid cutlery gleamed blue-grey under high tapering candles. In the centre low vases were bursting with cornflowers that the two women had picked and arranged together. She was still experimenting with the background lighting when the Davisons arrived. Marguerite, in simple white skirt and blouse chosen from her mistress’s wardrobe, went to let them in. Sarah-Jane caught Mark’s glance towards the departing figure, wondering what part he had played in that choice. Was the intention a considerate contrast with her own embroidered one-piece, or to emphasise the girl’s dark complexion? Or was she just being paranoid?