Choral Society

by Prue Leith

  One of them turned to Joanna. ‘Could you have a look around the house, in a bedroom or bathroom, and see if you can find the pill bottle or package?’

  Joanna darted upstairs and checked all the bedrooms and bathrooms while Doris checked the downstairs rooms. Nothing.

  Doris agreed to search Caroline’s house while Joanna went in the ambulance with Caroline. She was touched that Caroline held onto her hand in the ambulance, until the paramedic gently told Joanna that she must sit opposite, strapped in her seat.

  In Accident and Emergency, they acted fast, wheeling Caroline away to pump out her stomach or whatever they had to do. Joanna sat on the hard plastic chair in reception and dialled Stewart. He did not answer and she had to leave him a message.

  Stewart, I don’t know where you are, but Caroline needs you.

  She’s in no danger now but she’s having her stomach pumped

  for a suspected overdose. She’s in A & E in the Pinderfields

  General Hospital. She told Doris she’d swallowed a bottle of

  pills, but would not say what. I’m so sorry, darling. Ring me.

  Stewart did not ring back, or turn up, and Joanna began to worry. Mark had moved to London when he left Greenfarms, and she didn’t know any of Caroline’s friends.

  And then a young doctor appeared and told her that they had pumped out what was left of the contents of Caroline’s stomach which wasn’t much since she seemed to have vomited very thoroughly, so they saw no real danger. They had not analysed anything yet and Caroline refused to say what she had taken, so as yet they had no idea. Did she?

  No, she didn’t. She only knew that Caroline had said she’d swallowed a bottle of pills – but they’d found no suspect bottle in either house.

  They would keep her in overnight, the doctor said, and if all was well she could collect her daughter in the morning.

  Joanna was too tired to put him right, so just nodded and said fine, but could he get someone to note that Joanna’s father was called Stewart Muirhead and that he would probably be in to see her tonight or tomorrow.

  Joanna went home and again tried Stewart. ‘This telephone is not in use.’ She rang the Howard Hotel in London and, relief, he was staying there, but was not in his suite. Trying to keep the frustration and worry out of her voice she left a similar message to the one she’d already left on his mobile.

  She had a cup of tea and a bowl of cornflakes and, too tired to even turn on the TV, went to bed and was asleep at once. But anxiety woke her constantly and she slept badly until dawn, when exhaustion prevailed, and she overslept.

  At eight a.m. Joanna struggled up and rang the Howard. Stewart had left. She checked her mobile. One missed call from him, but no message. Now she was angry. Why could he not at least tell her if he was coming home to take over the rescue of his daughter?

  She rang the hospital. Caroline was asleep. She was doing well. The doctor would see her later.

  Good, if Caroline was asleep there was no point in visiting her. And they’d not let her out till the doc had seen her – and by then surely Stewart would have been.

  So Joanna went to the office as planned and she and the team carried out the various briefings to the staff about Caroline’s resignation. Ironically, the news of her being in Pinderfields had somehow leaked, but seemed to confirm the general belief that she was overstretched and in need of rest, rather than that she’d been sacked and was taking revenge on her father by trying to kill herself.

  At ten her mobile rang in her pocket and she excused herself to take it in the corridor. It was the hospital to say that Caroline could go home. The result of the stomach content analysis had revealed nothing but too much alcohol – no overdose of anything.

  As soon as the last meeting with the staff, and her final meeting with Alasdair who would now be acting chief executive, were over, Joanna hurried to the hospital.

  She found Caroline lying, neat and tidy, against her pillows, her newly washed hair like a thick halo around her pale face. She looked very young and vulnerable, but not ill.

  Joanna sat down. She spoke without preamble, but kindly,

  ‘Do you want to talk about it? Can I help? Or am I still the problem?’

  Caroline’s eyes lacked their usual glint of enthusiasm or fury. ‘Where’s Dad?’ she said dully.

  ‘I don’t know. I’m worried about him.’

  Caroline frowned, and Joanna had the feeling that the idea of worrying about her father had never crossed her mind. He was there to worry about her.

  ‘Why? Why are you worried about him? He doesn’t need worrying about!’

  ‘Maybe not. But if you love someone, you worry about them. End of story.’

  Caroline did not answer, but Joanna watched her expression go from puzzlement, to truculence, to concern.

  ‘Do you want to talk about it?’

  Caroline just shook her head, her eyes full of tears.

  ‘Look, Caroline, I know that you did not take an overdose of anything. But I also know you would not have pretended you had if you did not need help. I presume what triggered this was either your dismissal or your dad’s relationship with me.’

  Again, a shake of the head.

  Joanna sat for a minute or two, then decided she should say something of what she’d been thinking about all night.

  ‘I don’t think Stewart or I have been fair to you. You are a brilliant young woman in many ways but neither of us has treated you as a grown-up. We have pussyfooted around you, and not told you the truth, either about us, or about you. Do you want me to be honest now? Or to just go away?’

  Joanna watched as Caroline tussled with the temptation to take the latter offer.

  ‘No, say what you want to say.’

  So Joanna did. She told him that she loved Stewart, and that was the only reason she had agreed to Caroline remaining as CEO when she knew it was the wrong job for her.

  ‘That was my fault. I should never have agreed. You are a brilliant visionary, a great start-up entrepreneur, but not the sort of safe pair of hands for a business. You need to forget Greenfarms and do something else.’ She held up a hand to prevent Caroline interrupting. ‘OK, I know you don’t believe that now, but one day you will. And you don’t know how badly Stewart wanted to believe you could do the job. He fought like a tiger to convince himself. And when he gave in, you’d think I’d delivered a death sentence, not a business decision.’

  Something of the old Caroline fire kindled as she snapped, ‘So it’s as I thought. It’s all your doing. Why? Why do you hate me so much?’

  Joanna suddenly felt too tired to go on explaining. ‘Caroline, you know that isn’t true. How about just believing what I’m telling you? I admire and like you, and your father loves you …’

  ‘How can he if he sacks me? He hates me too!’

  Joanna shook her head in irritation. ‘Don’t be childish, Caroline. He loves you more than life itself. I know it would be convenient for you to cast me as the villainess, and him as the cruel father, but it won’t wash. We want what’s best for you. And the business.’

  Caroline closed her eyes, her face set in hostility, but tears were leaking out under her lashes. Joanna felt a wave of sympathy for her.

  ‘Listen, Caroline, Stewart’s love for you and Mark was the one thing that kept him going after Elaine’s death, and your hostility to me is what prevents him really loving me—’

  Caroline’s eyes snapped opened and she interrupted. ‘That’s rubbish. He’s always tucked up in the Wakefield hotel with you, or down in London, or even in Mum’s bed, for God’s sake. He’s mad about you.’

  Joanna tried to ignore the bitterness in Caroline’s tone. ‘I think he loves me, yes. But he’s never said so, and now he probably never will. It came down to a simple choice between you and me, and he’s chosen you. He has not spoken one word to me since I insisted you had to go. I love your father, Caroline, and if he ever changes his mind, I’ll be there. But he will never do that if it means h
e loses you.’

  Tears were now streaming freely down Caroline’s pale face. ‘Well, where is he then? If he loves me, why isn’t he here?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Joanna passed Caroline a handful of tissues and took one for herself. She blew her nose.

  ‘The funny thing is I sort of understand it. When you love someone that much, you’ll do anything not to jeopardise it. Maybe reject other people you could love.’

  ‘But where is he?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Joanna said again. ‘What happened when he told you about leaving the company? You must have been upset. Why didn’t he stay with you?’

  Caroline wiped her eyes with the tissues and between sobs said, ‘It was horrible. I said a lot of stuff. That I hated him, that he was a control freak. That he’d always made Mum unhappy, that Mark couldn’t stand him. That he could bugger off and live with you. Oh, God, what have I done? Where is he?’

  Joanna put a tentative hand on Caroline’s arm, and tried to look into her face, but Caroline would not look up.

  ‘Stewart will know that none of that is true,’ Joanna said. ‘And he’s probably on his way. I left a message at his London hotel last night – his mobile seems to be out of action. He’ll be here, I’m sure.’

  Caroline’s weeping was now reduced to sniffles. Joanna found herself saying, ‘I love my father too. Spent my childhood trying to get his attention, mostly without success. My mother seemed to just absorb all his interest. To sort of use him up. I’d have given anything for him to love me as Stewart loves you.’

  Joanna smoothed the sheet unnecessarily. ‘You two have something you both need to hang on to.’

  They were silent for a moment and then Caroline said, ‘Mark used to say it wasn’t fair. That Dad loved me best. Maybe he did, but he tried to treat us the same. I got a bike, Mark got a bike. Stuff like that.’

  ‘You know,’ said Joanna, ‘I’m not out to steal Stewart.’ She could hear the twinge of bitterness in her own voice as she said, ‘I’m in the familiar position of trying to get a look-in.’

  Caroline did not reply but gave a fractional nod and buried her face in her bunch of sodden tissues.

  Joanna went to the pantry and managed to get a tray of tea out of the catering staff. She carried it back to the ward, wondering where to take Caroline. She could not be alone, and she would not want to be looked after by Joanna. That fleeting dependency in the ambulance, when she’d reached for Joanna’s hand, had vanished.

  Joanna pushed the door open with her bottom and entered Caroline’s room backwards, tray in hand. She turned towards the bed, and stopped dead. Stewart was there, his arms around his daughter. Joanna could see her small hands clutching her father’s back.

  She put the tray down on the trolley-shelf across the bed, and slipped out.

  That evening, back in London, Joanna had an email from Stewart.

  Thank you for rescuing Caroline. We are at my house. She’s fine.

  Apologies for the radio silence. I stupidly left my mobile in a taxi. Going to St Moritz tomorrow and taking C. Fresh air might help.

  Please don’t abandon Greenfarms. Stewart

  Joanna looked up from her computer, feeling wretched – part misery, part anger. How dare he write her a cool little email as if she was the district nurse to whom he’d been a bit rude? The bastard.

  But she knew she’d do as instructed. She could not abandon Greenfarms now.

  Chapter Thirty

  Lucy knew it was time she talked to Joanna. She had been hatching her scheme for weeks, and the excitement of it was building in her daily. It was late September and she had been back from Cornwall ten days now, but she thought of Pencarrick all the time.

  Lucy’s grand plan was to sell up and move to Cornwall. And she hoped to buy Pencarrick, preferably with Joanna. She’d found she could write there, and was much happier than in the Cotswolds. She liked the coming and going of the summer guests and lecturers, and she felt no resentment at seeing so little of her daughter and grandchildren. When at home in the house she and David had shared for thirty years, it was becoming harder to pretend she was happy. She still felt David’s absence – she hated arriving at night to a dark empty house – and every weekend she longed for Grace and Archie to bring her grandchildren down. Of course she never asked them directly for fear they’d sense her loneliness.

  They seldom came. They had good reasons of course: Clare had classes or parties to go to; Archie was working; Grace had theatre tickets.

  At first Lucy had worried that it was Joshua who made die difference, rather than Pencarrick, but now she knew it was not so. True, he was an important part of her dream for the future, a comfortable, companionable part, but he wasn’t the reason for it. After that evening when they had made a half-hearted attempt at intimacy, they had settled down to a close friendship which frequently included a night together. The sex was pleasant and affectionate but what Lucy liked was the talk. Joshua was well-read, clever and perceptive. He was interested in just about everything; current affairs, archaeology, birds, gardening, art. And food of course. He was so peaceable. He was content not to see her at all for days on end if she was working, yet happy to have her sit on a stool and chat while he cooked. He was, she thought, the perfect buttress against depression, and her passport into Cornish life. He knew everyone, and liked almost all of them.

  She felt lighter, more fun, more gregarious with him. And he understood her. One afternoon on a breezy autumn day they were walking along the cliff path.

  ‘You look good in the wind, Lucy.’

  She’d laughed and said, ‘Oh yeah? And with an ancient sweater and baggy jeans, I suppose?’

  ‘Well, yes. To tell the truth, when you arrived you were a bit too grand for me. So smart, with your London haircut and fashionable clothes.’

  ‘If you only knew! All that was because Rebecca took me in hand and gave me a makeover. It was good for me, shook me out of a slump after David died. But I confess to backsliding. Becca is deeply disappointed in me!’

  Joshua took her arm and gave her a brief hug. ‘Maybe that’s because you are happier, and can afford to be yourself.’

  ‘Maybe.’ He was, thought Lucy, the true friend that everyone needs. Perhaps she’d found that someone to do things with, and more important, to do nothing with.

  But to buy Pencarrick, and to run it, Lucy needed Joanna. She rang her mobile.

  ‘Jo, are you going anywhere after singing tonight? Can we have supper?’

  ‘Sure. I’m free as air.’

  Lucy knew at once that something was wrong. Joanna’s voice was too light, too controlled.

  ‘Jo, has something happened? Where’s Stewart? You don’t sound right.’

  ‘He’s not here. I’ll tell you later. After the class. I’ll book a table at the Notting Hill Brasserie. We can hear ourselves speak there.’

  Lucy had not come up from Pencarrick very often during the summer and had forgotten that the Messiah was to be sung by four choirs. So when she arrived at the rehearsal hall, she was dismayed to find Nelson getting thirty-odd people, at least half of them men she’d never clapped eyes on, to collect chairs and arrange them theatre-style. She liked their usual group of perhaps fifteen to twenty singers, and felt invaded by strangers.

  She called to Joanna, ‘Jo, do you know what’s going on?’

  Joanna shoved a chair into place and came over.

  ‘We’re joining up with the Maida Vale Male Voice Choir.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘Because on the big night, the chorus will consist of four singing groups. Together we might do justice to the Tabernacle space – it’s vast.’

  ‘Oh God, yes,’ she said, ‘But where are the other two choirs? And who are they?’

  ‘I think Nelson said they’re the Marylebone Choral Society and the Kensington Singers or something like that. And apparently they are rehearsing together tonight too, but not with us.’

  Nelson loped over then and kissed both wom
en.

  ‘Where’s Rebecca?’ he asked. ‘She said she’d be back at the end of August, but she didn’t show last week. Is she coming?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Lucy. ‘I haven’t seen her since I put her on the Truro train.’

  Joanna shook her head. ‘She’s not here. I looked.’

  Nelson’s face registered disapproval. ‘Aren’t you worried about her?’ He took out his mobile. ‘I’ll give her a ring.’ Within seconds he was talking to Rebecca, in that joky West Indian patois he affected sometimes.

  ‘Greetins, honey-chile. Dis ‘ere yo singing teacher, wants to know what going down? Bot’ yo’ lady friends is here, and we got nudder choir joinin’ in. Going to be a blast, baby.’

  Lucy studied his face as Rebecca answered. She could not hear what she said, but the deepening frown on Nelson’s face told it all. He clipped his phone shut and put it in his pocket, then looked from Lucy to Joanna. Dropping the patois, he said, ‘She’s not coming. She says you two wouldn’t want to see her. And she’s not too keen to see you either.’

  Lucy felt a wash of shame. Why had she not contacted Rebecca? Rebecca who had been so good to her when she was depressed. Rebecca who took her shopping and overhauled her wardrobe. Rebecca who would buy champagne at the drop of a hat.

  Nelson was still speaking. ‘Good Lord, women, you got to be friends with Rebecca. You not young enough to make a whole heap new friends now.’ He looked earnestly at them and then suddenly grinned. ‘Besides, she has a nice soprano voice and we need her.’

  Lucy didn’t answer, but she knew Nelson was right.

  She opened her mouth to say something, but Nelson was walking to the front of the rows of chairs, clapping his hands for silence. Next to him was a small man with round specs and unruly hair, wearing a mustard waistcoat over a check shirt. Nelson introduced him.

  ‘Ladies and gentleman, this is Bryn Jones, and he’ll be our conductor on the big night. He’s taking the rehearsal today. He’s the leader of the Maida Vale Male Voice Choir, and these handsome fellas belong to that choir. Gentlemen, you are all very welcome.’