5
She woke early next morning and lay for a few moments disoriented, trying to think where she was. For one mad moment she thought she was still in her bedroom at her mother’s house in Buffalo. How many years was it since she had slept there, for pity’s sake? Then she thought she was in Gus’s flat in Docklands and sat up sharply to look round for him, and at last knew that she was in her own Bermondsey bedroom.
She peered at her clock and swore: only a half after six. Much too early to get up, and not safe to try to get to sleep again (even if she could, which was doubtful; she felt very wide awake) because she’d be sure to oversleep and be late at the hospital. So she bunched her pillows up behind her head, stretched out and stared at the window where the net curtains flapped lazily in the most minor of morning breezes.
It was not surprising she had thought herself at home in Buffalo. She had dreamed, she now recalled, that she was in America again, doing the shopping for her mother the way she had used to. She had been going home with a big brown bag of groceries under each arm to unload them on the kitchen table and argue with Vanny who complained she’d brought all the wrong things. And when she looked at the things they were all rotten and damaged and stinking like that dead leg …
She made a little face at the flapping curtains. How Freudian could you get? Vanny, her mother, needing her to help her, and she saying she would and doing it all wrong. Giving her decomposed flesh in place of food. She closed her eyes against the growing light of the morning and tried to think of something else, but it was impossible. She had talked to Bridget for too long last night, had worried too much to be able to empty her mind of it all now.
The afternoon had been irritating anyway because the case on which she was to be an expert witness started late, so she had to kick her heels at the court when she had much more useful things she could have been doing back at Old East; and when the case had come into court the defence had managed to obtain an adjournment on some technicality even before she had been called; so she had gone back to the hospital having wasted several hours to no purpose at all, and with another date in her diary for the trial.
All of which had meant she couldn’t leave her department till after eight, by which time she was hot and more tired than she would have expected even after being called out of bed so early in the morning, and certainly past eating any dinner. Now, lying in bed, she became aware of the hunger that was tightening her belly and promised herself a proper breakfast when she got up. Eggs, even.
But now she went on remembering. Last night. The phone ringing while she was in the shower trying to wash away her irritability and fatigue and she as usual being totally unable to let it just ring – for she had forgotten to set her answerphone – and then standing there by the phone in the living room, dripping wet and wearing just a skimpy towel because she’d grabbed for the small one instead of a large one, and hearing the faint ting that meant it was a transatlantic call. And that meant she wouldn’t be able to tell whoever it was to hold on while she dried herself and put on a wrap, for that would be expensive for them.
She felt the lurch of fear that such calls always caused in her. Her elderly mother, back home in Buffalo, living with her old friend Bridget Connors, was a constant anxiety deep in her mind. Was she ailing even more? Dead even? She caught her breath as she heard Bridget’s voice, but slowly the fear subsided. There were problems, yes, but nothing dramatic had happened.
‘She’s not been at all well, George,’ Bridget had said fretfully. ‘It’s a real pain sometimes to listen to her. She goes all over the place and when I go after her, I find her in the craziest places, looking for you and your father. It’d break your heart to see it, truly it would. She cries because she’s so glad to see me, and when I tell her her husband’s dead and you’re in England, she says she knows. But then a few minutes later and she’s forgotten it all and asks for him again. And for you –’
‘Oh, my God,’ George said. ‘Should I come?’
‘What for?’ Bridget said. ‘What on earth for? She doesn’t know you’re not there, not really. And if you were, she’d forget within a minute of you going away again that you’d been there. You’re better off where you are –’
George hadn’t been able to help it. ‘Christ, Bridget!’ she’d cried. ‘Why do you call to tell me all this if you don’t want me to come to her? Just to make me feel bad? I –’
‘Just so you know,’ Bridget had cut in. There had been a little silence. ‘Just so you know.’
‘I – Thanks Bridget. Sorry. I didn’t mean to bawl you out. It’s just that sitting here I feel so –’
‘Sitting here I feel the same,’ Bridget had said dryly. ‘And so would you. Only it’d be worse for you if you were here because sooner or later you’d have to go back to England and that’d be terrible. How is he, that gorgeous guy of yours?’
George had caught her breath and wanted to cry. The old lady was trying so hard. There had been times she had found her mother’s best friend as irritating as a woman could be, but now her gratitude towards her for her unswerving devotion to Vanny overflowed.
‘He’s fine,’ she said. ‘Just fine. Says you and Ma gave him the best Christmas ever when you were here. He sent you his love.’
‘Ah, bullshit, George! He doesn’t know I’m talking to you now, and he sure as hell doesn’t think about me when I’m not.’
George had grinned into the phone. ‘OK, you old bat! So he would if he was here. I’m acting as his go-between.’
Bridget had laughed fatly then, sounding happier. ‘That’s better. No need to go all stiff on me. Hey, George, I guess I shouldn’t have called you, at that. But–’
‘No, no,’ George said quickly. ‘I shouldn’t have said what I did. It was great. It’s good of you to. I don’t know what I’d do if you weren’t there and –’
‘Like I said, I shouldn’t have bothered you.’ Bridget went on as though George hadn’t spoken. ‘But I guess it was for me more’n for Vanny. When I think of how much longer either of us has and it’s no time at all, I just get so mad. Inside I’m as young as a spring chicken and twice as sprightly and here’s time playing these lousy tricks on us. My only comfort is that Vanny isn’t here to see what’s happened to her.’
There had been a little silence and then she had laughed again, a soft chuckle. ‘Hey, did you ever hear anything so crazy as that? What a thing to say! Look, George, thanks for listening.’
‘What?’
‘I said thanks. I don’t want you here and neither does Vanny. It’d upset her a hell of a lot, one way or another, if you were. She wouldn’t understand why she wasn’t in her own home. And why screw up your life for no reason? Vanny’d hate that. The real Vanny, I mean, not this crazy one we’re stuck with now. But it helps me a lot to be able to bend your ear, you know? I feel great now. In fact, I’ll go get a coupla packs of chop suey and egg rolls and Vanny and I’ll eat lunch in the garden together. She likes Chinese food and she’s as nippy with a pair of chopsticks as she ever was. So long, honey. Take care of yourself.’
‘And you take care of yourself, Bridget,’ George had said, and then did what she used to when she was a small child and her aunts and uncles had called from distant places like Boston. She blew a loud smacking kiss down the phone and Bridget, three thousand miles away, laughed softly and said, ‘That was nice. I really felt that. Goodbye, hon.’
George had sat there for a long time, wearing only her skimpy towel as her skin slowly lost its gooseflesh, staring at the blankness of her dead fireplace trying to imagine Vanny, her dear, maddening, plain-speaking, difficult but always beloved old Ma, in the state Bridget had described; and when at last the image fixed itself in her mind she began to cry. She wept silently and bitterly for a few minutes; then, feeling better, not happy about the situation but resigned, she had gone to get into the shower again and finish her preparations for bed.
Now, she sat up sharply and looked again at the clock. A quarter to seven. Now
she would get up; another shower, for the night had been a restless one and she was aware of the clamminess of sweat on her skin as the weather settled to another day of blazing sunshine and some humidity, and then scrambled eggs and toast and work. Everything’d be fine once she got to the hospital. There’d be too much to do to worry about Vanny. Or to miss Gus. Because she had to admit that some of her low feelings were due to that. Maybe, after she was at the hospital and had got the day properly started, she’d be able to track him down on the phone. A comfortable gossip with Gus would cheer her up wonderfully.
And she swung her legs out of bed and headed for the bathroom.
It wasn’t till late afternoon that she got her phone call. The morning was busy in its usual way and in the afternoon she had a PM to do on a man who’d died in the A&E department from a massive myocardial infarction and whose family wanted the coroner’s inquest over as soon as possible, because they were Jewish and didn’t want the funeral delayed beyond the next day if it could be avoided. She had done her best to oblige them, hurrying to finish quickly enough for Harold Constant to process the paperwork and send them on their way to Golders Green crematorium in good time. But the rushing had unsettled Danny and made him bad tempered and therefore obstructive, so she had to spend some minutes mollifying him. One way and another she was thoroughly stirred up when at last she had a chance to get to her phone.
Which didn’t help. She used his mobile number and the first time she got through he barked, ‘Oh, hell. I was just about to make a call. Give me a few minutes, George, will you? I’ll talk to you later.’ She waited, dialled again and again and not until half an hour had gone by managed to get a ringing tone. This time he did talk to her, but he was clearly not thinking of her while he did so.
‘What?’ he said when she asked him why he hadn’t called. ‘Listen, ducks, you should see what’s going on here! There’s more to do than sweep Brighton Beach. I’m up to my arse and over my hocks –’
‘Yeah, well, me too, but a minute to phone, for Chrissakes!’ she snapped back, and then simmered down. ‘Sorry, Gus. It’s just that I miss you.’
That had been his cue. If he’d just said, ’Me too,’ and then hung up she’d have been comforted. As it was, he said nothing and she said sharply, ‘Gus?’
‘Mmm?’
‘Did you hear me?’
‘What? Oh, yes. You missed me. Sorry, ducks, I was thinking about something – Listen, I’ll try to call you tonight, OK? Depends on how this all works out. I’ve got a pile of paperwork that has to be done – without it we’ll never get the case to stick and even with it I’m not sure. I’ve got a long way to go yet to crack this bugger. I’m sorry if I’m not much fun at the moment.’
‘That’s better,’ she said, managing a grin, important even if he couldn’t see it. ‘Sorry I was such a pest. I should know better. Look, hon, what about supper? I could bring it to the nick tonight. Just call me when you’re ready and I’ll be over.’
There was a little silence and then he said quickly, ‘Supper? I like it. Yeah, sure. I’ll call you at the flat, hmm? Or on your mobile.’
‘Either.’
‘Well, I’ll call and see you at the nick. But God knows what time. So long, ducks.’
‘So long,’ she said. But he’d already broken the connection.
Ellen Archer put her head round George’s door ten minutes later, as she sat there glowering at her pile of paperwork and feeling hard done by.
‘Can you spare a moment?’ she asked.
‘Of course,’ George said with false heartiness. She reached over to the extra chair and removed the pile of notes on it while Ellen came in and sat down.
‘Problems?’ George quirked her head at her.
‘Just look at the effect I have on people!’ Ellen said in mock misery. ‘And here am I just trying to be everyone’s friend.’
‘Well, you’re not the most likely candidate to bring friendly messages,’ George said frankly. ‘Usually when you turn up it means I have to make more budget cuts and I’m already counting the paper clips.’
‘Well, I don’t have much choice in the matter either,’ Ellen said. ‘But believe me, I’m on your side. That’s why I’m here, in fact.’
‘Oh.’ George looked at her a little more closely. Ellen was always neat in a classic sort of way: cream silk blouse that never looked creased or stained with make-up round the collar; crisp blue skirts and jackets to match in the winter; but she had an agreeable expression that wilted the starch a little.
‘It may seem like bad news, but with each other’s help we can, I think, make sure it isn’t.’ Ellen became businesslike. ‘As you know, since we took Trust status there’s been a hell of a cost-cutting exercise going on.’
‘What, really? And me never noticed!’ George said, open-eyed and innocent.
‘Well, all right, I know, I know! But it’s more than that. We’re in competition with other hospitals and we’ve been lucky to escape Tomlinson. I was afraid they might close us down altogether, like Bart’s.’
George’s eyes widened. ‘Could they? They couldn’t!’
‘It’s all right, now. We’re safe enough. Not too close to the Royal London, nor to Guy’s either – and they’re on the way out, of course. But we do have to rationalize. They’re talking of putting some of the hospital’s services out to tender. It could save a lot of money, they say.’
George frowned. ‘You mean catering and cleaning and so forth?’
‘That’s already been done,’ Ellen said sardonically. ‘Haven’t you noticed how much longer it takes to get the corridors swept these days? And the food …’
George shuddered. ‘Well, yes. All right, then, things out to tender. But what has that–’
‘Got to do with you? A lot. They’ve been considering doing the same with pathology services.’
George stared and then shook her head. ‘They couldn’t!’
‘You keep saying that, but I’m afraid they could. Someone on the Board – one of the non-executive directors – has heard of a place in Leeds or somewhere where they’ve saved around a quarter of a million on the path. services costs by doing so. I wanted to warn you that this sort of thing is happening all over the country. If it’s cheaper to rationalize a service on one site, getting nearby Units to subscribe to it, they’ll do it. That’s why so many accident and emergency departments have been downgraded into minor-injury treatment units. It’s cheaper to concentrate expensive gear and personnel in one place. If it works for A&E it can work for path. services, is the thinking. They can get specimens from here to another site in a matter of minutes, and with good computer back-up, they say they won’t need a path. lab here, except at a very basic level.’
George was sitting up very straight now and her jaw was tight. ‘They can’t,’ she said. ‘I won’t let them.’
‘That’s what I’d hoped you’d say. I don’t want us to lose our own path. services any more than you do. What worries me is not so much the suggestion we get a private sector service – it’s the alternative that another of the non-execs came up with. He reckons we should share with St Dymphna’s.’
‘St Dymphna’s? But they’re a specialist psychiatric hospital! How can they deal with our path. work?’
‘They’re so close getting stuff over to them would be easy, and they’ve got the space. They’re offering a chance to use their accommodation in exchange for a share of the income. It’s a complicated scheme. They’d tender for GP work, too, of course –’
‘It’s a crazy scheme,’ George said firmly. ‘We can’t let them do it!’
‘I agree with you. That’s why I’m here. There’s a Board meeting on Monday. Can you come with me to talk to them?’
‘Try and stop me,’ George said. ‘Of course I will! I can’t let them close this unit down. How would the hospital manage?’
‘Oh, it would manage well enough,’ Ellen said, getting to her feet. ‘That’s the trouble. But I just don’t think it’s on. It sm
ells wrong to me, and I need your help to make sure Old East doesn’t lose out. One way or another, we’ll sort it out, you and I together, hmm?’
‘Count on me,’ George said, her forehead creased and tight, and watched her go.
6
The streets smelled oily and sour and brassy as though they had been doubling as a steel foundry all afternoon, and the heat hung overhead almost as palpable as a blanket; but as the evening progressed and the sky deepened in colour, the air became a little fresher and it wasn’t as difficult to walk quickly as it had been earlier. George didn’t sweat so heavily, for a start, and that was a comfort. She’d actually put on a little make-up before leaving the flat; not a lot because that wasn’t her style and as far as she knew Gus didn’t particularly like it (not that they ever actually discussed it – she just knew), but she had felt the need to make an effort. She had pulled on one of her newest outfits too, one she’d bought on a rushed visit to the West End last month when she’d had the time to go all female and shop. A long blue and white striped heavy linen skirt, split to the knee, with a matching top tied at the waist, it made her look even taller and longer legged than she was, showing a regular flash of brown thigh as she went loping through Watney Street Market on the way to the nick.
The stalls were already almost all gone, for it was now well past seven-thirty, but she stopped at one of the few that were left to buy a mango from a cheerful West Indian in an orange and black shirt, exceedingly skimpy and shiny black shorts, which had a group of watching girls giggling almost hysterically every time he moved, and luxuriant dreadlocks. The mango was large and scented the air even in the middle of the stink of the market, with its overtones of rotting fish from the whelk stall at the far end, and she turned the lovely coloured thing in her hands and wondered what it would be like to sit on a Caribbean beach with Gus and eat mangoes all day.
‘Only fifty pence to you, doctor!’ the man said, grinning at her, his teeth absurdly brilliant in his cheerful face, and she shook her head at him as she dug out her money.
Third Degree Page 5