“No, no others.”
“Good. Then let’s go on.”
Weston’s evidence was without further dramatic input.
***
Fraser, his best man, he who had clearly been so distressed earlier, was called; he appeared shocked, strained; his answers were often faltering; then suddenly he spoke of his remorse that he had escaped “literally without a scratch, while everyone around us, it seemed, was horribly hurt. To this day, I feel bad. One of the doctors at the hospital was great; she told me how common that was, helped me to come to terms with it, this survivor-guilt thing.”
“I’m glad to hear it, Mr. Fraser. May I say, this kind of remorse is very common. It doesn’t mean you should feel you bear any of the blame. And we now know,” he added, looking directly at Toby, “that you were keen to do the right thing and check your tyres. I think you will find that gradually you will lose your sense of guilt. I hope so.”
More evidence followed: from a rather sleazy-looking chap, the white van driver, whose nail-studded planks had slithered out onto the road; Andrews rather enjoyed questioning him very closely as to how this had happened. It was not for him to apportion blame; it was still possible to make plain where blame lay.
And finally, an old lady gave evidence, a very anxious old lady, who said that she felt responsible in a small way, because she’d made Mr. Weston wait while she paid for her own petrol.
“I feel absolutely awful,” she said. “I kept thinking how wrong of me it had been; he asked to go first, he said he was in a terrible hurry, and for some reason, I told him he had to take his turn. Who knows, had I not done that, those young men might not have been caught in the accident, but arrived at the church in time, and… Well, I’d like to apologise to them.” She looked across at them both rather nervously.
“I really don’t think, Mrs. Mackenzie, you should feel too bad,” said Michael Andrews gently. “It would have made so little difference to the time and-”
“Yes, yes, but that little difference might have been crucial, don’t you think? I’m sure you know the old parable about the horseshoe nail?”
“I’m… not sure,” said Andrews.
“Oh, yes…” And as he waited, clearly expectant, she went on. “Well, it goes like this. ‘For the want of a nail a horseshoe was lost; for the want of a shoe the horse was lost; for the want of a horse the rider was lost; for the want of a rider the battle was lost; for the want of a battle, the kingdom was lost. And all for the lack of a horseshoe nail. Who knows? I might have been that nail. If you follow me.”
“I… think so, yes. But I think even the rather more tangible nail would not alone have kept them from the wedding, you know. Still it’s a very interesting thought. Thank you, Mrs. Mackenzie. You may step down now.”
***
It was five o’clock when Andrews rose to do his summing up. He was surprised by how positive an experience this inquest had been. Long, gruelling, and very sad at times-but uplifting in its own way: the courage displayed by the victims’ families, and indeed by some of the witnesses, the general clarity of the evidence. It had also been very satisfying to conduct; there had been no serious confusion, no conflicting evidence, no self-justification… except for that ghastly van driver chap.
It had been one of those rare things, this: an accident, pure and simple; nevertheless, for the families of the victims this was little comfort.
He began by speaking to them, saying how sad it was when lives were cut short… “any lives, not only young lives; one cannot compare or quantify losses or tragedies. Mr. Barnes had much to look forward to in his retirement; Sarah Tomkins had her whole life ahead of her; and for the Marks family a wife and a mother have both been lost. I am sure I speak for the whole court today when I say our hearts go out to you. Accidents are terrible things: one moment everything is under our control; the next we lose that control, fate takes over, and the world changes. No one can anticipate accidents, and they are in many cases virtually unavoidable. We have heard how the road on the afternoon in question was dangerous because of the recent spell of hot, dry weather and the heavy hailstorm; we have heard that no one was driving in any way dangerously. We have heard that the nut came off the wheel of Mr. Bryant’s E-Type not through lack of care, but if anything too much. We have heard that Mr. Connell was driving meticulously and that nothing could have prevented his lorry jack-knifing and his load spilling on the road. We have heard of much courageous and unselfish behaviour, and I would like to pay tribute in particular to Mr. Gilliatt, and of course to the emergency services and the staff at St. Marks Hospital, Swindon. And I would like to thank certain witnesses for their courage in coming forward when they were clearly nervous as to the outcome.
“There is much talk these days of the perfect storm-a confluence of weather patterns that separately would not be fatal or even dangerous, but which combine to be both; I would make an analogy between those perfect storms and this accident-everything conspiring to make it happen as and when it did. Rather as in the old nursery rhyme, as Mrs. Mackenzie reminded us. It is so easy to say if; and yes, if Mr. Weston had left the petrol station a few minutes earlier, if there had not been the queue for petrol, if the thunderstorm had not taken place… One can go on ad infinitum: the fact remains that it was not because these things happened in isolation; it was because they happened in a sequence that was tragically fatal. I therefore return the only verdict I can, that of misadventure.”
CHAPTER 52
Abi stalked out of the building. She felt absurdly near to tears. She looked behind her; there was no sign of William. Shit. She’d really upset him; he must have felt utterly betrayed. Dragging it all up again, more or less spelling out that she’d been chasing Jonathan Gilliatt, when she’d always sworn he’d done the chasing.
But… she knew that she had done the right thing. Her evidence had been, in a strange, subliminal way, a public apology to Laura. Not for having the affair with Jonathan, although she was pretty fucking sorry about that on her own account, but for what she’d done that night, at the party. Testifying had been hard, and it had certainly taken her by surprise; she’d never meant to say any of it, but she’d done it. Without telling a word of a lie either. Not technically, anyway, and certainly not in a way that would pervert the course of justice.
As she had returned to her seat, she’d been aware of two things. One was that William turned his back on her, as far as he was able. And then Laura turned round, and her eyes, meeting Abi’s, were very steady, no longer hostile. She didn’t smile at her, but there was no hostility in that look. It was almost gratitude. She knew what that meant. She’d got the message. An affirmation that at least Jonathan had had finished the affair that day, the day of the crash. She need feel humiliated no longer.
Abi had made her amends to Laura at last. She could close the book.
***
“Abi!” It was William. His face was dark with anger. She hadn’t seen him look like that before. He was always so even tempered, so level altogether.
“Yes, William.”
“What the fuck was that about?”
He never swore usually either. Not real swearing.
“I can’t talk about it here.”
“You’re going to bloody well have to talk about it somewhere.”
“Why?”
“Why? Because I want some answers.”
“To what?”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake.”
“I don’t think heaven has much to do with it. William, please leave me alone. You must have something to milk, or scan or something.”
He turned then, walked away, over to his mother; she watched them getting into the Land Rover, saw it drive off, saw his bleak, set face. She struggled not to cry.
And then suddenly she knew, with a certainty that took her by surprise, that she had to talk to William, to try to explain and tell him that even while it was clearly hopeless, she did love him. She had to tell him that, in order to be able to wipe the s
late clean. She couldn’t leave it unsaid. She’d humiliated herself over one man today, in front of a crowded courtroom; she could certainly do it over another in private…
***
Barney thought he would never forget leaving that courtroom: alone. He thought he had never felt more alone in his life. He looked at Toby, getting into a car with someone who looked like a driver; still avoiding his eyes, he had positively scuttled out of the courtroom, bloody coward he was, as well as a total arsehole. He felt sick just thinking about him. And humiliated and totally stupid. OK, Toby had done the decent thing, in the end, but he had still been prepared to see Barney go to the wall to save his own skin. His best friend. His lifelong best friend. Barney could still hardly believe it.
He saw the Abi girl getting into her car. How extraordinary, saying all that in court. Humiliating herself, in a way. Pretty brave. Dead sexy she looked. Gilliatt must be a pretty cool customer to turn his back on her. The pretty blond wife-bit preppy, bit of an Amanda-must be very good at her job as well. Her job as a wife, that was. As Amanda would have been too. She-
“Hi. Nice to see you. Barney, isn’t it? How’s it going?”
It was Mark Collins, the surgeon who’d operated on Toby that day. In another time, another life altogether. When he’d had a lot. Instead of nothing.
“Yes. Hello.” He didn’t really want to talk to him. He didn’t want to talk to anybody. Ever again. But he managed to smile, took Collins’s outstretched hand.
“And your friend. Toby. I see he’s walking pretty well.”
“Pretty well, yes,” said Barney shortly.
“Has the wedding taken place yet? I was thinking about it the other day, wondering if you’d be here.”
“No,” said Barney, “no, it hasn’t. The wedding’s off. Cancelled. Actually.”
“I see.” He could see Collins was taken aback. “Oh… I’m sorry. What about yours? Weren’t you getting married too?”
“I was, yes. That’s off as well.”
“I see.” Now he was really embarrassed. Poor sod. Thought he was going to have a quick cheerful chat, and he’d got lumbered with an episode from some kind of a soap opera.
“Er… how’s Emma?” he said. He was astonished to hear himself asking, so terrified was he of the answer.
“Oh… she’s fine, yes. Off to pastures new when she can organise it.”
“Really? What, you mean to… to Milan?”
“What? Oh, no, no, that’s history, I think. No, she’s applying for new jobs. She’s very excited about something up in Scotland; not sure how that’s going.”
“Great. I mean, well, I hope she gets it. Give her… that is, remember me to her, please.”
“I will, Barney. Look… I’d better go. Dr. Pritchard’s waiting. Nice to see you, anyway.”
“Yes, sure. And… do give my regards to Emma.”
“I will. Cheers.”
And he was gone.
***
So… what had that meant? About Milan being history? That the boyfriend was history? Or just… no longer in Milan? Maybe he should call her. But… supposing she was with Luke again? It would be painful for her. Well… he’d made it pretty clear he hadn’t… forgotten her. Forgotten her. If only. If only you could do that to order, just neatly get rid of something, remove it, throw it away.
Throw away something that had become an intrinsic part of you, grown into you; entwined itself into your memories, tangled into your feelings, changed forever the way you were.
If only.
He got into his car and headed for the M4. The M4, where so much of his life had been changed forever. He would never hear the words again without a sense of absolute despair.
***
“Good day, dear?” Susan Andrews had been making marmalade; the house was warm and tangy and welcoming. Michael Andrews felt as he so often did after a day spent hearing sad stories of cutoff lives: that he was inordinately blessed.
“Yes. Yes, pretty good, I think.”
“Difficult?”
“No, not really difficult. It’s perfectly clear what happened. But… surprising in some ways. Extraordinary things, human beings. I’m always saying that, aren’t I?”
“Yes, dear, you are.”
“Brave and cowardly, foolish and wise, reckless and careful. All at one and the same time. Unbelievable, really.”
Susan Andrews looked at her husband. He was looking very drawn, in spite of his positive words.
“Come into the kitchen and have a cup of tea,” she said, “and tell me about it.”
***
Emma had been trying not to think about the inquest all day; but first Alex and then Mark had come in to tell her about it. About the various people they’d been involved with who were there, most notably Patrick Connell and, of course, Toby. “Funny chap, that,” Mark had said. “Some confusion over his evidence; he got very aerated. Oh, and your boyfriend was there, of course.”
“My… boyfriend? What do you mean?” she said.
“You know, the good-looking one, best man, you brought him up to the theatre that day when I operated on Weston’s leg.”
“Oh,” she’d said, “him. Yes, well, I supposed he would have been.”
“Nice chap,” said Mark, and then proceeded to tell her that not only was Toby’s wedding off, but so was Barney’s engagement. Adding that Barney had asked to be remembered to her. That had hurt her so much she could hardly bear it; she’d had to say she was in the middle of something and run to the loo, where she cried for a long time.
Barney had finished with Amanda, but he hadn’t got in touch with her. As rejections went, that was pretty final. How could it have happened? Where had it gone, that lovely, singing happiness they had found together, that instant closeness, that absolute certainty that they were right for each other? OK, their relationship hadn’t lasted long; it hadn’t needed to. It had been like a fireworks show: starting from nowhere and suddenly everywhere, explosive, amazing, impossible to ignore. And now… what? A poor, damp squib had landed, leaving nothing behind it, a bleak, sorry memento of the blazing display.
She knew now, absolutely certainly, that he didn’t want her. If he had, he would have called her; there was no reason on earth left not to. Probably, after all, it had just been a fling for him, fun, good indeed, but no more. The commitment had been fake, the love phony; he was probably even now pursuing some other well-bred, preppy creature more suited to his background, less of a discord in his life.
She would have been outraged had she not been so totally miserable; and maybe that would come. She hoped so. Meanwhile she felt like one of the girls she most despised: feebly clinging to what might have been, unable to break totally away. He’s gone, Emma; get over it.
But she hadn’t; and she couldn’t…
***
Abi drove into the farmyard just after six. The lights were on, and she could see Mrs. Grainger in the kitchen, bending over the kitchen table, making some no doubt wonderful dish or other. William often described what they’d had for lunch or supper; he was very keen on his food. She was clearly the most wonderful cook. Well, fine. William was never going to have to live with her cooking, her spag bol (usually burnt), her lamb chops (always burnt), her pasta salad (not burnt, but pretty tasteless, really). After today, he wasn’t going to have to have anything to do with her; he’d probably pull out of the festival, even; they’d have to find a new venue; Georgia would go mental; they’d-
“Yes?”
“Oh. Hello, Mrs. Grainger.”
She’d been so absorbed in her thoughts of William, she’d hardly realised she’d got out of the car and banged on the farmhouse door.
“Miss Scott!”
“Yes. It’s me. Sorry.”
“That’s perfectly all right. But if you want to see William I’m afraid you’re out of luck. He’s out on the farm.”
“Oh, right. What, in the dark?”
“Well… he’s in one of the buildings. He went off w
ith his father.”
“Yes, I see. What, the milking parlour? Or the grain store, somewhere like that?”
“I imagine so.”
“But you don’t know which?”
“No, I couldn’t possibly say.”
“How long might they be?”
“I have no idea. As even you must realise”-God, she was an offensive woman-“farming is not a nine-to-five occupation. I think the best thing you can do is go home, and I’ll tell William you called. Then he can contact you in his own good time.”
“Mrs. Grainger, I really want to see him.”
“Well, no doubt you will.”
She began to close the door; Abi put her foot in the doorway.
“Please tell me where he is. I really won’t keep him long.”
“Miss Scott, I don’t know where he is…”
At this point, the old farm truck swung into the yard; Mr. Grainger got out of it.
Abi knew it was Mr. Grainger, not because she had ever been introduced to him, but because he looked exactly like William, or rather exactly as William might look in thirty-odd years. He looked at her rather uncertainly as she walked towards him.
“Hi. Mr. Grainger?”
“Good evening.”
“I’m looking for William. I’m a friend of his. Abi Scott. William might have mentioned me.”
“Ah, yes. The young lady involved in the concert. How’s it coming along?”
“Oh… pretty well. We’re so, so pleased to be able to have it here. Um… I wonder if you could tell me where William is?”
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