She felt as if he had hit her.
“I mean, look at us, eating this—this fucking neat and tidy meal, with the telly turned off because you don’t like eating when it’s on, even though I do, and you picking at it like some kind of dainty vulture. It’s all so fucking ordered. I tell you, Martha, if you’d started stuffing your face and talking with your mouth full, I just might still be sitting and debating your future. I do have a life, you know,” he said. “I do have my own problems.”
“Like what?” she said. She felt quite shocked; she had never seen him like this.
“Oh, doesn’t matter.”
“No, tell me.”
“Look, Martha,” he said, “I might have wanted to talk about it earlier. I don’t now. I’m not in the mood. OK? Now for God’s sake eat something. And actually, I think I’d better go. I’ve got work to do tomorrow. You’re not the only one with extra hours to put in.”
He stood, picked up his jacket from the sofa, bent and kissed her briefly. “Cheers. See you in a bit.”
The door slammed. He was gone. And Martha was left staring out the window, not sure how she felt, just slowly and very carefully, rather as if she had still been eating her Thai meal, picking over what he had said, painstakingly putting it into neat rows and piles and trying to digest it.
“Right. Here we are…” Jilly pulled up in front of her house; it was raining. “Now you bring the food, darling, and I’ll go ahead and open the door. Only be careful, because the path gets very slippery.”
Kate watched her walking up the path in her high heels. She had heard that accidents seemed to put things in slow motion and had never believed it; but she watched her grandmother turn to check she was following safely, then very, very slowly and gracefully, turn almost in a pirouette and skid sideways, her skirt floating up and then down again, settling round her in a sort of blanket as she fell, equally slowly, onto the ground. And lie there, absolutely still.
Jocasta switched her mobile off and smiled at Josh.
“Sorry about that.”
She wasn’t quite sure what she felt. Guilty? A bit. Worried? She supposed so. And—what else? Well, you know what else, Jocasta? You’re excited. Very, very excited.
She was having supper with Josh: a rather subdued Josh, because it was his birthday and she had felt she couldn’t leave him all alone. Nick had refused to come; he was still angry about her disappearance the night before.
“It’d have been nice if you’d tried a bit harder to contact me. I was actually worried about you, Jocasta.”
She’d told him she couldn’t count the number of times he hadn’t contacted her under similar circumstances, and he’d said OK, fair enough and let’s not go down that road, but he really couldn’t face supper with Josh.
“But he’s so lonely, Nick.”
“I expect he is. Stupid bugger. Would that be his third birthday? Or maybe even his fourth?”
“Well—I know. But I can’t help feeling sorry for him. Living all alone in that beastly flat—”
“What, that little hovel in Chelsea, you mean?”
“Oh Nick, shut up. Don’t you have any human feelings?”
“Yes, for Beatrice. Anyway, I’ve just got an exclusive interview with Iain Duncan Smith, comments on the new party and the future of his own as he sees it. The Sunday paper wants it first thing in the morning.”
“Fine. Absolutely fine. Don’t you worry about me.”
“I’ll call you in the morning.”
“And what were you thinking we might do tomorrow? Read your piece? Read everyone else’s? And then read yours again, and say how much better it is than theirs?”
“Jocasta, don’t be childish. I’ll call you in the morning. I’m having lunch with David Owen, but apart from that I’m free.”
“Wow,” she said, “that does sound marvellous—Sunday evening, maybe, after you’ve finished that piece. Don’t bother, Nick!” She rang off, knowing she had to an extent picked a quarrel with him, and knowing very well why. Picking quarrels was one of her talents. So Nick said.
That was when she started wondering how she felt.
And now she was really wondering. It had been Gideon Keeble on her mobile. Would she and Nick like to come to lunch with him the next day?
“Nick isn’t free,” she said, her head already fizzing with excitement. “So—”
“So,” he said, and there was a long silence. “So what about you? If you’d like to risk a boring Sunday with an old man, you’re very welcome. It’s up to you.”
“I’d love it,” she said. “Thank you.”
“Excellent. How do you feel about the Waterside Inn?”
“I feel very warmly about it,” she said. It was good that: far less compromising. Not that she cared about being compromised. Not in the least.
“Good. I’ll pick you up at—what? Eleven thirty?”
“Great. I’ll be ready. Bye, Gideon.”
Actually, she felt guilty, she realised, as she pushed calamari round her plate, very guilty indeed…
“I must ask you to switch your phone off at once.”
The voice rapped across the waiting room: a bored, harsh voice.
“But I want to call my mum. That’s my gran in there.” She indicated the cubicle where Jilly lay. “My mum needs to know.”
“Well, you must use the public call box. Mobiles interfere with hospital equipment. You can see the notice there.”
“So where do I find a public call box?”
“There’s one in the main hospital entrance.”
“Yeah, and it’s not working. I’ve tried it. Any other suggestions?”
Everyone was looking at her now: a packed Casualty Department. White-faced young families with babies; small children crying; one vomiting constantly into a plastic sandwich box; a drunk with a bleeding head, several more drunks lolling against the wall; a pitifully young Asian girl, visibly pregnant, holding her husband’s hand; at least three elderly couples; a couple of middle-aged men, one with his foot roughly bandaged: a sad wave of misery and pain and anxiety washed up on a hostile shore, waiting with painful patience, occasionally going up to the desk to ask how much longer it would be, only to be sent back again to sit down and wait some more. They all welcomed the diversion of the small drama.
“There’s no need to be rude,” said the woman behind the desk.
“I wasn’t being rude. I was asking for another suggestion. Since that one was totally unhelpful.”
Misery and anxiety were making Kate feel worse by the minute; she had expected comfort, attention, a swift resolution of her grandmother’s troubles, had thought to see her safely tucked up in a warm hospital bed, her pain dealt with efficiently and fast. Instead she had been lying on a trolley in a cubicle for almost two hours, ever since the ambulance which had come after forty long minutes had delivered them here, waiting to be taken to X-ray, with no discernible improvement in her condition whatsoever. A doctor had examined her, said it might be a broken hip or a fractured pelvis; he could do nothing until she had been x-rayed.
She was still in her rain-soaked clothes, shivering violently, despite a nurse having promised three times to get her something warmer. Kate had offered to take her to X-ray herself, since no porter was forthcoming; they had looked at her as if she had suggested she should do a strip in the middle of Casualty.
“A porter has to do it, she can’t be moved off that bed.”
“I could push it.”
“I expect you could,” said a nurse, pulling the curtains round her grandmother, “but you don’t know where to go.”
“You could tell me,” said Kate.
“I could,” she said wearily. “But I still couldn’t let you do it. I’m sorry. The porter shouldn’t be long.”
She looked exhausted; she seemed at least kinder than the others, said she would go and find Jilly another blanket.
She hadn’t.
Jilly was finally x-rayed at 1:00 a.m.; her pelvis was fractured, but
her hip wasn’t broken.
“So there’s no need to operate,” said the doctor, summoned back to her cubicle. “The pelvis will heal itself, given time. Now then, I think as she has possible concussion, and in view of her age, we’ll get her up into a ward, settle her down for the night, sort out some pain relief.”
“She’s terribly cold,” said Kate, “she keeps shivering.”
“That’s shock,” he said. The nurse, standing beside him, nodded sagely. The minute a doctor appeared, there seemed to be plenty of nurses; the rest of the time there were none to be seen. They’d even managed to get her out of her wet clothes.
The doctor patted Jilly’s blanket condescendingly. “Poor old soul. What name is it—oh yes, Jillian. Soon have you nicely tucked up, Jillian.”
“My name,” said Jilly, and her voice was steadier suddenly, “is Mrs. Bradford. That is how I wish to be addressed.”
The doctor and the nurse exchanged glances.
When Helen and Jim arrived it was two in the morning; Kate had finally gone outside and called them, after the doctor had left.
“Where is she?” said Helen. “Is she in bed?”
“No,” said Kate, “she’s on a trolley. They’re totally useless. She was freezing to death until I made them get a blanket. She’s had nothing, except for the cup of tea I got her. No painkillers, nothing. Stupid tossers!” she added loudly.
“Kate, dear, don’t talk like that,” said Helen. “Er—do you think I could go and see my mother?” she asked the woman behind the desk rather tentatively.
“Of course you can,” said Kate. “Don’t ask anything, they only know how to say no.”
An old woman with no teeth cackled loudly.
“She’s a right one, isn’t she?” she said to Helen. “She’s put ’em all to rights round here. More guts than all the rest of us put together. You should be proud of her.”
Helen smiled rather nervously and followed Kate to Jilly’s cubicle.
Kate woke up with a start; her head was in her mother’s lap. She was asleep, too, her head on Jim’s shoulder. Daylight was coming in through the dingy net curtains. Kate looked at her watch; it was half past six.
She sat up, walked over to the cubicle; please, please let her be gone.
She wasn’t; she was still there, wide awake, feverish.
“Kate! Oh, how nice to see you. I thought you’d all gone.”
“Of course we haven’t gone. Oh Gran, I’m so sorry. How is it now?”
“Painful,” said Jilly, “terribly painful. Could you ask again for painkillers? I can’t stand it much longer. And Kate, darling, could you get me another cup of tea? Or even a glass of water?”
By ten o’clock, still no bed had been found. Kate slumped in Casualty, biting her nails. This was unbelievable. She was exhausted: How on earth did her grandmother feel? She walked round the room, her arms folded, trying not to scream. Her mother was standing anxiously by the cubicle; her father had gone for what he called a little walk. He hated hospitals.
Someone had left a newspaper behind; she picked it up idly. It was the Sketch. There was a big article on the inside page, about an old lady who’d been on a hospital trolley without food or water for twelve hours and had died. It was a disgrace, the Sketch said, that such things happened in a country that had pioneered the National Health Service; the old woman’s daughter was saying she would sue the hospital, the doctor, and the NHS.
At least they had some guts, Kate thought, they didn’t just sit around saying yes doctor, no doctor, three bags full doctor.
God, this was awful. What could she do? Who would help? And then she remembered her grandmother’s nice doctor. The one who’d come into the shop that day. Surely she would be able to do something. She went into the cubicle; Jilly was dozing restlessly.
“Granny?”
“Yes?” She woke up at once.
“Granny, what’s the name of your doctor? The lady who came into the shop that day?”
“Oh, Dr. Scott. Yes. Nice girl.”
“Do you have her number? I thought I’d ring her. See if she can help.”
“It’s in my address book. In my bag.” Her voice was slightly slurred. “But darling, she won’t come on a Sunday. And what could she do?”
Kate shrugged. “Dunno. But it’s worth a try.”
She went outside and rang the surgery number. A robot answered.
“The surgery is closed. You have a choice. If it is a real emergency, you should go to the Casualty Department at the Duke of Kent Hospital. If it is a minor problem, call the NHS direct help line. Or stay on the line to be connected to our duty doctor who can advise you further.”
Kate stayed on the line. Please, please God, let it be her. Let it be Dr. Scott.
Chapter 12
Somewhere in the long wakeful hours (however could they be called small?) she had made the decision. She called Chad early and said she would do it. Well, begin to do it. Go along with them, just a little way at first, see what happened, try and judge whether it was even possible. Take a week’s leave—once the big presentation was over—and really give it her best shot.
Chad had been very surprised; delighted, excited even, but still surprised.
“All I’m saying,” she warned him, “is that I’ll go down there with you. Talk to the constituency people, to Norman Brampton. All right?”
“All right. Martha, that’s fantastic. I know we can make it work. Absolutely know it.”
“You don’t,” she said. “But at least this way you’ll know if you can’t.” She sounded odd. She could hear it herself.
Marcus was pleased and extremely surprised also. “Wonder what persuaded her?” he said when Chad called.
“God knows. Let’s just be thankful. And put some arrangements in place before she changes her mind.”
Chad had invited Jack Kirkland and Janet Frean for a working lunch at his London flat, to discuss policy. The next day, Chad said, they would—hopefully—stop being front-page celebrities and instead become working politicians again. The electorate was a bit tired of celebrities; it wanted the country in the hands of sensible, grown-up people.
The immediate challenge was persuading as many MPs as possible to join them; there was also the need to establish local councillors where humanly possible.
It was going to be tough, but a few gains would grab all the headlines and put them on a roll. The more success they had, the better the publicity; the better the publicity, the greater the chance of success. At the same time, they were embarking on a heavy programme of public round-the-country speeches. Jack would be taking on the home counties and London, Janet the Midlands, Chad the North. “But then on Saturday I’ll come down south, head for East Anglia, starting with Binsmow in Suffolk, with our lovely young putative candidate, and see what I can do there. Best I go personally, for several reasons, not least that I’ve had several conversations with Norman Brampton already.”
“Which lovely young putative candidate?” asked Kirkland. His voice was slightly edgy.
“Martha Hartley.”
“Good Lord!” He had wagered Chad that Martha would say no.
“Yes, indeed. So you owe me a hundred pounds, I think.”
“It’s extraordinary. Maybe she really is out of love with the law.”
“Maybe. Maybe she does think she’ll enjoy it,” said Chad.
“Maybe she’s just a bit starstruck,” said Janet. “It’s hard to imagine the slog of the thing until you’ve done it.”
They agreed it was probably a combination of all those things.
Clio arrived just after two. “I’m sorry I’ve been so long,” she said rushing into Casualty. “I was on endless calls this morning. It’s Kate, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” said Kate. She looked exhausted, Clio thought. Her wild hair was straggling round her white tear-stained face, her eyes were dark and heavy, and she also looked rather grubby.
“How is your grandmother? And where is she?”
“In something called HDU,” said Kate and burst into tears.
“Oh no! Look, I’ll go and find out—Oh, hello. You must be Kate’s mother.”
“That’s right. It’s very good of you to come, Dr. Scott.” Helen looked and sounded tired. “We need some help. My mother’s just been rushed off to HDU and then we had a bit of an upset. Kate started shouting at a nurse.”
“I wouldn’t worry,” said Clio, “they’re quite used to it. But why is she in HDU?”
“Something about a clot. She was having pains in her legs, said she didn’t like to complain and then suddenly had quite bad chest pains. Oh dear. It’s all such a nightmare.”
“I’ll go and see what I can find out,” said Clio patting her hand. “Try not to worry too much.”
Some insistent questioning of the duty doctor revealed that not only did Jilly have a deep-vein thrombosis—arguably caused by the long period on the trolley—but it had moved upwards and part of it had lodged in her pulmonary artery. Clio returned to Helen and Kate, and broke the news as gently as she could.
“I know it’s terribly worrying for you. But she’s getting the best possible care now. She’s on intravenous heparin which is a wonderful drug, and the doctor will keep you informed—he’s promised to come down as soon as he knows any more. I’m afraid they wouldn’t let me see her, but she’s basically fit, and she should be fine. She’s such a—such a splendid woman,” she added, flailing around rather wildly for things to say, cheerful, positive things. “So smart and attractive. I love her shop.”
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