The Best Of Times

by Penny Vincenzi

  For the dawning of the day had made him realise that he was in a fairly appalling mess. To start with, he was going to have to explain to Laura why he had been on the M4 at all, rather than the M40, and moreover with a woman, a young and attractive woman-although maybe Laura would not have to know that-for whose presence he would have to provide an acceptable explanation.

  There was also the uncomfortable fact that at the time of the crash he had been on the phone, and the police might well take the view that that made him at the very least not entirely blameless, and that they should investigate his version of events rather more closely than they might have done. Of course, it had not been dangerous, and the moment he had realised the trouble they were in, he had quite literally dropped the phone-but then again, they might not accept his word for that. And maybe-just maybe-it had meant his reactions were not as sharp as they should have been; maybe he’d swerved in his turn into the lorry…

  Forcing himself to relive the whole thing in painstaking detail, over and over again, he had decided that, at least, was not even remotely possible; but the police might well not agree. And there would be a lot of close questioning: and of Abi as well. He was, in fact, in what was known as a terrible bind.

  ***

  William was having a difficult day. The cowman, returned from his day off, had pointed out a couple of cows looking off-colour: “Could be bluetongue; let’s hope not.”

  William agreed they should hope; it was not in the language of farming, with its day-after-day routine of problems, some huge-like foot-and-mouth or TB-some smaller-like mastitis, or the delivery of a sickly calf-to express emotion verbally. But if the cows had blue-tongue, it would be pretty disastrous. They would survive because they had to, and because there was, actually, no alternative. All their money, all their assets, their entire future was invested in these acres of Gloucestershire; they might own the land, two thousand acres of it, they might be rich on paper, but it was of doubtful value if farming as an industry failed.

  Right at the moment, though, farming was having one of its rare ups rather than downs; the price of milk had risen, along with everything else; there were reports of a coming food crisis, of a world shortage of wheat and rice, a higher demand for dairy products-which was improving the outrageous, profit-leeching price of milk-and food prices too were higher than they had been for years. But costs were still very high, the price of fuel was eye-watering, and the farm overdraft was still way over the agreed limit.

  And they were under siege from the Greens, constantly and rigorously inspected by people who seemed to know almost nothing about the realities of farming, but who would ruthlessly cut subsidies if a new and entirely necessary building entailed cutting down trees or cropping hedges. The government urged them all to diversify, which William was absolutely in favour of, except that diversification inevitably led to more people, more construction, more waste products. Which led to more complaints from the Greens.

  And then his parents were very opposed to change. His proposal to jack up the commercial shoot business had fallen on very stony ground; his father loathed seeing what he called the city boys tramping over his land, in charge of guns many of them were scarcely qualified to use. It was a miracle, he said, none had been injured.

  And then just before lunch today, hours before he’d been expecting them, his parents had arrived back from their holiday, and his father had been heavily critical about the state of the yard and the fact that the cows had not been moved to the other field, despite his instructions; and his mother was full of complaints about the state of the house.

  William explained about the crash and the helicopter in the field, and said he’d move the cows that afternoon, and even managed to apologise to his mother for the mess she had returned to. Which he did have to admit was rather bad; but he’d been out on the farm from six every day, grabbed some increasingly stale bread and cheese at lunchtime, and come in at dusk to feed himself from some tins from the store cupboard.

  “I don’t know what you’re going to do when I retire,” his father said, as he had at least fifty-two times a year for the past five years; William longed to tell him that his life would be a great deal easier if he could run the farm on his own, using his methods, streamlining costs as he saw fit, instead of its being one huge, unworkable compromise. But as far as he could see, his father would never retire; he was sixty-two now, and the farm was still his life.

  He knew he should have a serious confrontation with his father on the subject of modernisation, but he shrank from pointing out the unpleasant fact that he was growing old and out of touch. Time, he told himself, would solve the problem, along with the related one of his living at the age of thirty-four in his parents’ house, his domestic life entirely in the care of his mother. It had its bright side, obviously: there was always a meal on the table, and his washing was done. But on the other hand, he found still being told to hang up his coat and take his boots off and clean up the bathroom after himself quite trying. He should be married by now, he knew, but somehow he’d never found anyone who both knew about farming and whom he fancied-and who would put up with living in a house where time had stood more or less still since the 1950s.

  And besides, he really didn’t have the time to find her…

  And all through this long, predictably difficult day, he kept returning to the one before, so literally nightmarish in recollection, hardly credible at this point. He kept seeing it all, again and again, almost detachedly now-like something on television or in a film, or even in a radio play, for the noises had been as vivid and horrifying as the sights. He remembered feeling the same way about the events of 9/11: he had sat watching the screen, fascinated as much as appalled, and actually thinking what a fantastic film it was, how brilliant a notion. But it had been real, of course; and yesterday had been real-the deaths and the pain and the grief and the moment-by-moment awareness of seeing lives wrecked and ruined. He had seen so much and yet so little of the actual crash; from his grandstand view he had focussed, in appalled fascination, on the lorry, but that had been all. With a gun to his head he could have told no more details, no possible further causes; the police would be requiring a statement, he knew-he was a key witness, given his viewpoint-but he feared he would be a disappointment to them. He felt increasingly distressed by some memories, all still so vivid: the girl in the Golf lifted tenderly out, as if that was important; the hideous sight inside the minibus, the young father weeping over his dead wife; and he was comforted by others, by his ability to provide a safe landing for the helicopter, by the astonishing gratitude of people when he gave them water, by the easing of the misery of the small boys as they formed an attachment to that girl, that tough, brave girl, so gentle with the little boys…

  He was just washing his hands in the kitchen before sitting down to the meal his mother had organised when he saw her mobile lying on the windowsill by the sink; he had left it there the night before, intending to do something about it, but then had gone to sleep in front of the TV and forgotten all about it. Probably the best thing was to trawl through the numbers, see if he could find one he could ring. Most of the names obviously meant nothing to him; he had looked for “Mum” and “Dad” and even “work” and “office” and found nothing. And then he saw “Jonathan” and remembered that was the name of the chap she’d been with; it was a start, anyway.

  He walked over to the back door and stood looking at the yard, thinking about Abi as he called the number: her amazing legs and her huge dark eyes with all those eyelashes-bit like the cows’ eyelashes, he thought, that long and curly-and her dark hair hanging down her back. She’d been nice, really nice, and very, very sexy; not the sort of girl who’d find him interesting, though, and hardly likely to fit into his life.

  A woman’s voice answered the phone: a pretty, light voice.

  “Hello?”

  “Oh, good afternoon,” William said. “I’m very sorry to bother you, but I think you might know someone called Abi…” />
  CHAPTER 16

  Luke was waiting for Emma in the Butler ’s Wharf Chop House, just below Tower Bridge; she was late. Unlike her, that-very unlike her. He’d tried her mobile, but it seemed to be dead; he hoped she was OK.

  She’d been a bit funny when he’d told her about Milan. He’d been surprised; he’d thought she’d see it as an opportunity. Lots of girls would, having a boyfriend working in Milan, with all-expense-paid trips over there whenever she fancied them. Milan was one of the shopping capitals of the world, for God’s sake.

  Of course, she’d miss him; and he’d miss her. But… it was such a brilliant opportunity for him. Anyway, he was planning to make her feel really good later, with what he’d bought her. There was no way she wouldn’t be pleased with that…

  He ordered another Americano, went over and got a paper from the rack by the door. The front-page news was a bit boring: Afghanistan. He turned to the inside page and saw a bird’s-eye view picture of a pileup on the motorway. He was about to give that a miss too when he read, “almost all the casualties were taken to St. Marks, the new state-of-the-art hospital in Swindon, where medical staff worked tirelessly all afternoon and through the night.”

  “Blimey,” said Luke, and folded the paper, starting to read it intently.

  “Hi, Luke.”

  It was Emma, smiling, but pale and tired-looking. She was wearing jeans and a T-shirt and had no makeup on; she usually made more effort. Still…

  “Hi, babe.” He kissed her. “Come and sit down.”

  “Thanks. I’ll have one of those, please.” She indicated the coffee.

  “I’ve just been reading about the crash. So that’s why you didn’t ring me last night. It was obviously a big one. Says here it was the worst this summer. God, Emma…”

  He sat looking at her in silence; she smiled.

  “You look rather… impressed.”

  “I feel it. Definitely. Yeah. My little Emma, involved in a thing like that. Were you actually… you know… doing things? Operating and so on?”

  “Of course I was! What did you think I was doing, reading a magazine?”

  “No,” he said, “no, of course not. It just sounds… so bad.”

  “It was so bad. It was awful. Lots of casualties, loads of injuries, people’s lives wrecked forever. Anyway-sorry not to have rung you.”

  “That’s all right, babe; I can see why now. You look tired.”

  “Thanks,” she said. “That’s exactly what I need to hear.”

  “Well, you do. You can’t help it. I’m sorry for you.”

  “Well, good.”

  She looked at him, and the great blue eyes filled with tears; she dashed them away, smiled determinedly at him.

  “Sorry. Got to me a bit. You know, I might like a drink.”

  “Course. What d’you fancy?”

  “Oh… glass of white wine. I’ll just… just go to the toilet. See you in a bit.”

  Luke looked after her thoughtfully; she seemed in a very odd state.

  “Tell you what,” he said when she came back, “why don’t you go back to the flat, have a kip before tonight? I’ve got us a table at Alain Ducasse at the Dorchester; you want to be able to enjoy that, and I’ve got something to do this afternoon-thought we could do it together, but I can manage…”

  Emma stared at him. Such thoughtfulness was not quite his style. Then she leaned forward and kissed him.

  “Oh, Luke,” she said, “you’re so sweet. And you’re right: I am very tired. That’d be lovely. I’d really appreciate it. Thank you.”

  ***

  Talking to Abi had become a priority-before the police started taking statements. They had to get their story straight: why they’d been together, and on the M4, what they’d seen, how they thought it might have happened. And Laura was going to have to know; important the story was watertight for her too. He’d been working on it: Abi was just a colleague, from the conference; he’d never met her before, just giving her a lift to… where? Maybe not London, maybe just Reading, somewhere like that.

  He’d tried to raise her the night before, had walked down the road away from the house, praying Laura wouldn’t see him. There had been no reply, her phone clearly switched off. He didn’t leave a message: too risky. And again this morning, while he’d been out on his bike; still no reply. It was now six p.m. and he was beginning to feel frantic. Maybe he should e-mail her; she had a laptop in that little flat of hers, supplied by the office, as there was so much weekend work; but her housemate, Sylvie, might see it. He’d met her once, hadn’t liked her at all. He wouldn’t trust her an inch. Just the same, he had to talk to Abi soon…

  ***

  Patrick always said afterwards that the worst thing, in a way, was not knowing what he could and couldn’t remember. Going through the barrier, certainly; calling on God to keep the trailer from jackknifing-He’d failed him there, all right-and then a long, long confusion, a swirling mass of pain and fear, and a complete inability to move. He seemed to be in some kind of a vice, and every time he struggled to get out of it, the pain got worse. It was unimaginably dreadful, that pain, like a great beast tearing at him; after a while it seemed better to stay in the vice without struggling And then after a long time, there seemed to be people with him, one trying to get at his hand, saying, “This’ll help you, mate; just hold on,” and he wondered how his hand could be of any use when his whole body had been rendered useless. And then he had swum off somewhere, where the pain was removed from him, although he could still feel it in some strange way; and then there was a long blank when nothing seemed to happen at all. He remembered some angel smiling down at him, holding his hand, an angel with long blond hair and huge blue eyes. She’d said he was just going into the theatre, and he’d wondered why on earth anyone should think he was up to watching a play in the state he was in; after that he couldn’t remember anything much at all, and he certainly couldn’t have told you how much time had passed, but he seemed to be surfacing somehow into something very uncomfortable-and then as he opened his eyes to see what it looked like, there was Maeve, smiling at him.

  “Sweet Jesus,” she said, and, “No, no, darling,” he said, “not Jesus, no, it’s me, Patrick.”

  And then he felt completely exhausted and went back to sleep for quite a long time.

  ***

  Russell sat in the departure lounge at Heathrow waiting for his flight to be called. He could hardly believe this was happening, instead of his being in London with Mary, as they had planned, revisiting old, half-remembered places, lunching with Mary, then driving out to Bray for dinner at the Waterside Inn with Mary-God, he must cancel the table. He felt wounded as well as angry, and he wanted the reassurance of home. The more he thought about Mary and what might or might not have happened to her, the more he felt convinced that she had just not tried hard enough to contact him-and that hurt.

  He stayed at the Dorchester until lunchtime, still hoping she would contact him, had called her home several times, but there had been no reply. He left a couple of messages, giving his mobile number, but his phone remained stubbornly silent.

  They had brought him the Times with his breakfast, but after he had read the front and the city pages, he phoned down and demanded the Wall Street Journal. It was the only paper he ever read. The young man who brought it asked him if he would like him to switch the television on, but Russell told him sharply that if he wanted to watch it, he was quite capable of switching it on himself.

  Russell was an enthusiastic user of technology: of his laptop and his iPhone. However, he was not a television watcher; he hated its banality, its obsession with trivia. He preferred the radio, and most of all he loved the BBC World Service. He and Mary had discovered that they both listened to it when they couldn’t sleep, and although their nights only partly overlapped, he still liked to think of her lying there, listening to the same voices, the same news reports. It brought her closer…

  Well, he had obviously been keener on that closeness
than she had…

  The car journey, once they were on the M4 extension, had been swift. “Bit different from yesterday, sir,” the driver said. “Traffic held up for hours, it was. I gave up, just went home-there was no way you could get through.”

  “Really?” said Russell, getting his iPhone out of his attaché case and rather ostentatiously fitting the earbuds into his ears. He would listen to music. He had no intention of getting involved in a conversation about traffic, for God’s sake…

  ***

  He checked in, went to duty-free and bought himself a couple more books, and then moved up to the first-class lounge. He walked through the seating area, passing the TV screens on his way. He glanced at them: an earnest girl was saying something about Prince William and Harry and some concert they had just put on and how marvellous it had been. He moved off. As he did so, he half heard something about an accident the day before and that someone or other was still in intensive care. Not guaranteed to take his mind off his troubles; he moved into the computer area and called up his e-mails. There were three: two from his secretary, one from a colleague. He’d tried very hard to persuade Mary to have e-mail, but she’d resisted. “I like getting letters,” she said, “and if it’s urgent you can telephone me.”

  It might have helped… he wasn’t sure how, but it might… Dear God, this was painful.

  An hour passed while he wrote e-mails and looked at the online edition of the Journal; then he decided to get a whisky. That might ease the pain.

  He walked out to the bar; they had only one whisky, and that was a blend.