The Best Of Times

by Penny Vincenzi

  His phone rang again. “Police,” said the voice. “We’re probably about half a mile from you. From your description, it sounds like the truck driver’ll need cutting free. Would you confirm that, sir?”

  “Absolutely, yes,” said Jonathan.

  “Thanks. We’ll be there as soon as we can.”

  ***

  Abi had reappeared.

  “Where the fuck have you been?”

  “I needed to pee,” she said. “And don’t talk to me like that. None of this is my fault.”

  “I hope you’re not implying it’s mine.”

  “Well, you were on the phone,” she said. “Police might not like that. If they knew.”

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake!” he said. But he suddenly felt extremely sick.

  ***

  Mary bit her lip with the pain and saw Colin turning round, his face white, but apparently perfectly all right; and then she looked out of the window and saw a scene of unimaginable chaos, right across to the other side of the motorway: cars shunted into one another, people walking and even running about, and huge white objects all over the road. As she turned round with huge and painful difficulty, she saw a large red car, half-embedded in the back of them.

  Colin opened the door and climbed out and walked round to it; she heard him say, “Jesus,” and then, “Jesus Christ,” and then, “You all right, mate?” and then saw him come to the front of the car and lean onto the bonnet, shaking his head, his eyes closed.

  ***

  Emma turned back to the group. “Apparently the road on the westward side is completely blocked. Some moron on the hard shoulder has broken down way ahead, and the police cars can’t get through at all at the moment. Going to be tough. And our doctor says the lorry driver is in a bad way, that it’s a neuro job. He’s impaled on the steering column, pulse fairly steady, but really slow, about forty. Injuries mainly internal, no visible haemorrhage, severe bruising on the left temple, almost certainly concussed.”

  “Poor bastard’ll need fluids, morphine,” said Alex, “and it’s going to take so bloody long. We should get HEMS on the case.”

  HEMS-the Helicopter Emergency Service-was called out far more than Emma would have expected: not just to bad traffic accidents, but to people stranded climbing, sailing. She had a secret yearning to be able to join them one day.

  The phone rang again and Alex answered it.

  “The doctor says there’s a young girl in a GTI dead, plus one other woman-and so is the driver of the minibus. Apparently there’s a load of kids on board.”

  “Any of them dead?”

  “Nope.”

  Emma fought down an absurd rush of sorrow for the girl in the GTI.

  ***

  William Grainger had returned to the vantage point at the top of his field, having called the police. He couldn’t do anything else, really, couldn’t ignore what was going on down there, couldn’t get on with any of the things that had seemed so important an hour ago. There might be something he could do when the police and ambulances arrived-although at the moment there seemed little chance of that. On the great curve of road stretching away from him backwards towards London, the traffic was solid, all three lanes motionless; and cars that had tried to escape via the hard shoulder were at a complete standstill as well. And serves them right, William thought. What kind of a selfish idiot would block that, the route so essential to the emergency services? Even as he watched, a procession came in sight, breakdown trucks preceded by police cars and followed by ambulances, coming towards him; they had obviously closed the road altogether from the next junction, reversed the normal flow of traffic.

  His phone rang. “Mr. Grainger? Police here. Where are you now? As related to the accident.”

  “Where I was when it happened.”

  “How’s it looking from where you are?”

  “Pretty… pretty bad…”

  “Many people walking about?”

  “Yeah, quite a lot now.”

  “How would you feel about a helicopter landing in that field? An air ambulance?”

  “Well, the cows wouldn’t like it. I’d have to get them moved. Otherwise, fine, of course. Just let me know.”

  “OK. Could we ask you to move them anyway, as a precaution? Straightaway, if you’d be so kind. Might make a bit of a mess.”

  “That’s perfectly all right,” said William. He switched off his phone, looked down at the chaos below him, increasing now, farther back in the road, perhaps two, three hundred metres or so away, as more and more people left their cars, some on mobiles, shouting into them, some with dogs on leads, barking furiously, others with small children, many of them crying, carrying them to the grass verge, all talking to one another.

  Better get the cows shifted fast.

  CHAPTER 11

  “No, he’s alive.”

  Barney had never heard anything as wonderful as those words spoken by this really great bloke who’d put his head in the window as Barney sat there, helplessly still holding Toby’s wrist, said he was a doctor, and could he help?

  “But he’s in a lot of trouble from that leg, I’d say, possibly his pelvis as well, and he’s probably concussed. But-”

  “Shit,” Toby said suddenly. “Fuck. Holy shit.”

  “There you are. Very much alive. He should be OK. I’ve certainly seen worse.”

  “You OK, Tobes?” said Barney

  “It hurts,” Toby said. “My leg hurts. You all right?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “What happened?”

  “Lorry went out of control. We hit another car.”

  “Oh, I see.” His eyes had closed again, at what clearly was to him an acceptable explanation; he seemed to have drifted away again.

  “What should we do?” Barney was trying not to panic, but it was difficult. “Would it be better if we got him out? He might be cooler.”

  “No, the best thing is to get him into the hospital. And we shouldn’t move him, and it certainly isn’t cooler outside, unfortunately.”

  “So… I can’t help?”

  “We can try to stop that leg bleeding. Tie something round it, make a tourniquet. Got anything we can use?”

  “My shirt?” said Barney, tearing off his wedding waistcoat, ripping off the shirt.

  “Good man. Now if we can just rip it into strips-that’s the way-and then I can… Yes, pass it to me… There-sorry, old chap,” he said as Toby yelled in pain. “Now what you can do is keep an eye on his pulse. Not difficult. If it starts to drop dramatically, just come and find me. I won’t be far away. Try to keep him awake, distract him if you can from the pain, just keep talking to him, tell him medical help’s on its way.”

  “But how do we get the medical help?” asked Barney, his voice desperate. “The traffic’s totally solid-”

  “Emergency vehicles are on their way, and the ambulances are being diverted down this wrong side of the motorway. Should be here quite soon. From a large and very good new hospital near Swindon.”

  “So… so could you make sure they deal with Toby first?”

  “It’s not my decision. But I will point out to them that he has serious injuries and probably needs blood urgently.”

  “Why do you think the air bag didn’t work? Neither of them did.”

  “No idea. Maybe because of the angle the car was struck.” He smiled almost cheerfully at Barney. “Jonathan Gilliatt. Nice to have met you. Albeit under rather unhappy circumstances.” He paused. “From the look of you, I’d say you were on the way to a wedding.”

  “Yeah,” said Barney.

  “Jesus! Look, I’ll come back and check on you a bit later.” His phone rang. “Hello. Oh, good. Great. Look, we have a seriously injured man in a car over on the eastbound side, up against the safety barrier, just short of the truck. Car embedded in another. Silver BMW. Pulse not bad, but probably concussed, and a very nasty leg injury. I’ve put a tourniquet on, but he’ll need blood urgently, so if you can get that message through to someone…
Thanks.

  “I’m going farther down the line now,” Gilliatt said. “See if there’s anything else I can do.” He put the mobile back in his pocket, smiled at Barney. “They should be here pretty soon. You heard what I said to them. Just let me know if they don’t find you, OK? Give me your phone; I’ll put my number in it for you-”

  ***

  Jonathan was just setting off back through the chaos when a wild-eyed man grabbed his shoulder from behind.

  “I believe you’re a doctor. It’s my wife. Could you have a look at her? Please? She’s in the car, just here.”

  It was a Volvo, the car the wedding boys had struck from the rear.

  “She’s… well, she’s pregnant. She’s having stomach pains, and I’m terrified she’s going into labour.”

  “How pregnant?”

  “Seven and a half months.”

  “OK. Let’s have a look at her.”

  The girl was doubled up over her stomach in the front seat, her face contorted with pain. Jonathan waited, saw the pain clearly pass, saw her relax.

  “Hello,” he said. “I’m a doctor. An obstetrician, actually. So you’ve come to the right place.”

  She tried to smile.

  “How long have you been having the contractions?”

  “Oh… about… I don’t know. Fifteen, twenty minutes.”

  “But they’re quite strong?”

  “Yes.”

  “And how often?”

  “Every few minutes, it feels like.”

  “Can I feel your tummy? Just put the seat back; that’s right. Lean back; try to relax. Now, then-”

  As he felt her tummy, it tautened; the girl gasped, bit her lip, threw her head back. No doubt about it.

  “Look,” he said gently, picking up her wrist, taking her pulse, “I do think that, yes, you are in labour. Brought on by the shock, I expect.”

  “And the blow from behind, surely,” said the man.

  “I’m sure. Your necks are OK, are they? No whiplash?”

  “No, thank God.”

  “Well, look. There’s not a lot I can do. The contractions are frequent, but they’re quite short. I don’t think she’s going to give birth imminently. But-”

  “Oh, God.” The girl started to cry. “This is so scary. It hurts so much, and it’s much too early!”

  Jonathan sat in the driver’s seat; then he took the girl’s hand and started talking to her very gently.

  “Now, look, the first thing is to try to relax. I know it’s easy for me to say, but it really will help. Have you been to antenatal classes, done any breathing techniques?”

  “Yes. But-”

  “Well, do them. For all you’re worth. It will help you and help your baby. Now, let’s get you more comfortable. That seat go any lower?”

  “Yes,” said the man.

  “Good. The next thing is, seven and a half months isn’t so terribly premature. Providing we can get you to the hospital, the baby will have an extremely good chance. Promise. Now, ambulances are coming, and I’ll ring ahead and tell them about you. They can have an obstetric team ready. Oh-here comes another one,” he said, seeing the girl tense, her eyes widen with fear. “Do your breathing! Go on. That’s it. Nice and slow. Better?”

  She nodded feebly.

  “Good girl. Now, you just keep that up. And I’ll come back in a little while, check on you. I’ll give my number to your husband. Here.” He reached for the man’s phone. “Now, you just concentrate on what I’ve told you, and it’s my opinion you’ll have that baby in a nice delivery room at the hospital. OK?”

  “OK,” said the girl. She looked much calmer.

  “Good girl.” Jonathan smiled at her, got out of the car. “Try not to worry too much. Tough little things, babies. I should know.”

  ***

  The helicopter was approaching; William could hear it, although he couldn’t see it. He looked at his watch: five fifteen. That poor bloke in the cab, probably dead by now, if he hadn’t been when he’d crashed. And the minibus behind, half buried in it. No one could have survived that, surely.

  He could see the helicopter approaching now, see the trees bending in its path. William waved both arms furiously; the helicopter began to circle its way down towards him, then dropped dramatically onto the top of the field. The blades slowed; a man got out, waved at William, followed by another. William ran over to them.

  “Hi!” he said.

  “Hi. Thanks for this. Couldn’t have managed without you. The fire brigade should be here soon; they’re being sent down the carriageway from the other direction as soon as the road’s sufficiently clear. We’re almost certainly going to need them. Now, we’ll get down there, see what’s what. Thanks again for your help.”

  “Can I go down? With some water, maybe? People are going to be terribly thirsty, I thought. This heat.”

  “Good idea. But stay on the verge; don’t get in the way of the emergency vehicles.”

  “Of course I won’t,” said William. What did they think he was? Some kind of an idiot?

  People did seem to have a very low opinion of farmers’ intelligence. It was one of the many distressing things about being one.

  ***

  “What do you mean, he’s not coming? Of course he’s coming; he can’t not come; it’s… well, it’s… Of course he’ll come. Just got… got held up. That’s all.”

  “Tamara,” said her father, “he’s not coming. He’s got caught up in some ghastly crash on the M4. Barney just phoned.”

  “Barney! Well, Barney’s an idiot. Let me have your phone, Daddy; let me call him back. There must be some way he could come, cut across country or something-we can keep the church for a couple of hours, just do everything later; yes, that’ll be all right; that’s what we should do-”

  “No, my darling, it won’t be all right. I’m terribly, terribly sorry, but Toby’s… well, Toby’s been hurt-quite badly hurt, I’m afraid.

  He’s concussed, and one of his legs is injured, and there’s a possibility he’s got some internal injuries as well. Apparently the car hit a load of freezers or something-Barney wasn’t making a lot of sense.”

  “Freezers! Oh, now I know it’s a joke. How could a car hit a freezer? Here, give me your phone-”

  “Tamara, it’s not a joke,” said her mother, “or an excuse. Toby’s badly hurt, and they’re waiting for an ambulance now to take him to the hospital.”

  “No,” said Tamara, pushing back her veil and biting her fist. Tears were rising in her huge eyes. “No, that’s impossible; he was fine this morning, fine early this afternoon, even. Barney must have made a mistake; he’s-Oh, God!”

  And she sat down on the front pew in the little church all bedecked with white roses, buried her head in her hands, and began to sob. And the vicar, standing quietly at the altar, asking for God’s help both to comfort her and to save the life of her young fiancé, who was clearly in grave danger of losing it, looked at this beautiful girl, her veiled head drooped in despair, her bouquet flung onto the church floor, cheated of the greatest day in her life, and thought it was a very long time since he had seen anything quite so poignantly sad.

  ***

  “Excuse me. Someone said you were a doctor?”

  “Yes,” said Jonathan shortly, “I am.”

  “My girlfriend’s just… well, she keeps being terribly sick. She’s in a bad way. I wonder if you could-”

  ***

  “I understand you’re a doctor.”

  “Yes, that’s correct. But-”

  “A lady here… we’re rather afraid she’s having a heart attack. She has angina; I wonder if you could-”

  ***

  Jesus, Jonathan thought, exhausted now, desperate for some reprieve-what would they all have done if he hadn’t been there…?

  ***

  “Miss. Miss, can you help me, miss?”

  Abi felt terribly sick; she would have given anything for a drink of water, but felt that if anyone should be thirsty, anyone
should suffer, she should.

  She tried to smile at the little boy.

  “What’s the matter?”

  His eyes were big and scared as he looked at her.

  “I think I’m going to have an asthma attack, miss, and I haven’t got no inhaler with me. It was in me”-he paused, clearly breathless-“in me rucksack, miss.

  “Oh, Oh, I see.”

  “And I’m ever so thirsty, miss.”

  “Me too, miss,” said the boy next to him, and then another and another.

  “Well, look, I haven’t got any water, I’m afraid. But I can go and ask in some of the other cars. Now, you, Master Asthma…”

  The little boy managed to smile at her.

  “Yes, miss?”

  “I can’t do anything about your inhaler yet. I’m sorry. But when Jon-the doctor-comes back next time-he’s the man who got you out of the bus-I’ll see if he might have one.”

  “All right, miss. But me chest feels well tight. I get it really bad, sometimes have to go to the hospital.” And he burst into tears.

  “Oh, don’t be scared,” Abi said, and she sat down beside him, put her arms round him. “Very soon now the ambulances will be here and they’ll have inhalers, I’m sure. So you’ve just got to hang on a bit longer. What’s your name?”

  “Shaun, miss.”

  “Right, Shaun. Well, do you know when I was your age, I had asthma. If I got an attack and I didn’t have my inhaler, I used to do breathing exercises. Shall we try? Not too deep, just nice, even, slow breaths. That’s right. I’ll do it with you. While I’m counting. Ready-”

  Shaun fixed his large blue eyes trustingly on her and, after about ten breaths, said, sounding more breathless still, “It’s not helping, miss. I’m that wheezy.” And he started to cry again.