Sheer Abandon

by Penny Vincenzi

  “No,” said Grace, “we were watching it tonight, as a matter of fact, it was about a car crash—” And then realised not only how absurd she must sound, but that it had been Casualty which had prevented them from hearing the phone that evening, and speaking to Martha. The words “for the last time” tried to surface in her shocked brain; she managed to suppress them.

  “And she’s absolutely unconscious. Probably will be for many hours.”

  “Yes, well, we’d still like to see her, if we may.”

  “Fine. Nurse, take Mr. and Mrs. Hartley up to ITU, would you?”

  Helen couldn’t sleep either. This was not an unusual state of affairs; indeed, since the first story about Kate had hit the front pages, it had become more or less the norm. It was particularly bad at the moment.

  At five she eased herself from beside the snoring Jim, and went downstairs to make a cup of tea. It was already light, and very warm. She opened the kitchen door and stepped out onto the patio, and sat there amidst the birdsong, trying to think what she should do. She felt she had to do something. Make some gesture. Kate’s rage and hostility towards Martha Hartley were increasing almost by the hour, and they were bad for her.

  She had waited, in a state of great agitation, for Kate and Nat to return from their visit to Martha; Kate was white and tear-stained and went straight up to her room. Nat sat and told them what had happened.

  “She was very upset,” he said, “very upset indeed. Not too nice to the woman.”

  “Oh dear,” said Helen. She had the inconsequential thought that Martha would think she’d made a bad job of bringing Kate up, never taught her any manners.

  “But I think she understood. Miss Hartley, that is. She was quite patient with her.”

  I expect she was, Helen thought, she’s never had to deal with her before this.

  “She seems a very nice sort of person,” said Nat, accepting the beer Jim had handed him. “Cheers. Very nicely spoken and that. Course she would be, doing that job. And lovely place she’s got,” he added. “Lot of money, I’d say.”

  “Yes, I’m sure she has,” said Jim. “She hasn’t had to spend any of it raising a family, has she?”

  He was nearly as angry with Martha as Kate was; Helen felt she was alone in a desire to be at least a little conciliatory.

  “That’s true,” said Nat, “and anyway, lawyers, they’re all well rich, aren’t they? My dad says they’re just parasites, what with the—what you call it—the compensation culture and all. He says we’ll soon be suing our own parents for not doing well enough for us.”

  “I’d say your dad was right there,” said Jim.

  “Yeah, well, I don’t think Kate’ll be suing you,” said Nat. “I’m always telling her how lucky she is.”

  “Oh Nat,” said Helen, “thank you.”

  So how were they to help Kate? she wondered now. She obviously wasn’t going to fall into Martha’s arms with cries of “Mother”—and, even in her anxiety, Helen was forced to admit that the hostility was easier to bear than that particular alternative—but it would be much better for Kate if she could accept her, think in more positive terms about her, try to understand why she had done what she had done. Otherwise she was going to be angry and bitter for the rest of her life. Maybe, just maybe—and even the thought was quite difficult to cope with—she should go to see her herself, see if they couldn’t find some way together of explaining to Kate, making everything less difficult for her.

  The more she thought about it, the better an idea it seemed. It would be horribly difficult and she would need to summon all her courage, but she could. For Kate. She could do anything for Kate. Anything in the world.

  She would ring Martha in the morning and try to fix an appointment. She just hoped Martha would agree.

  It was eight o’clock. Martha had survived the hours of surgery, but she was very ill. Her blood pressure had dropped alarmingly with the blood loss, and the surgeon had told the Hartleys that at one stage he had been quite worried. He was still in his thirties, the caricature of a surgeon, confident, arrogantly tactless. But he was kind, as well; he came striding down the corridor from theatre to where they sat in silence, holding hands, Grace frozen with fear, Peter continuing to pray, and said immediately, reluctant to give them one minute more terror than was necessary, “Well, so far, so good. I tell you, if she wasn’t so fit she wouldn’t have made it. She’s an example to us all. Not an ounce of spare fat on her, heart like an ox. Jolly good.”

  Grace thought of all the times she had tried to make Martha eat more and felt ashamed.

  “So is she all right now?”

  “Well, can’t quite say that for sure. Sorry, but I don’t want to mislead you. She really has lost so much blood, and her pulse is very erratic. There’s always a fear of secondary infections in these cases. But we’re pumping her with blood and antibiotics and all sorts of other stuff, and of course she’s had no head injuries. Lucky escape. It could have been so much worse.”

  “She hadn’t been drinking, or anything,” said Grace. She was anxious that he should know. “She’d been working all day, and she was just driving down to—to see us, have a bit of peace and quiet. Oh, dear—” She started to cry. The surgeon patted her shoulder.

  “No, no, there was no alcohol in her blood. Don’t worry about that. But you know, tiredness is as big a cause of road accidents as alcohol. Anyway, she’s been lucky—so far. I should go home, get some rest if I were you.”

  Grace wondered if he had any children and decided not; if he had, he’d never have suggested anything so absurd. And Peter thought of the hours of prayer he had sent up for Martha, and knew that it had not just been luck that had seen her through.

  “We’ll stay,” they said, simultaneously.

  “Fine, it’s up to you. Coffee machine down the corridor. Try not to worry.”

  And with another dazzling smile, he was gone.

  Peter called his curate at seven, told him he’d have to take the communion service—“And the rest actually, I’ll be here all day.”

  The curate said that would be the least he could do and that of course he would include prayers for Martha at every service.

  Which was how Ed’s mother, Mrs. Forrest, who had gone to early communion rather than evensong as she usually did, learnt about the accident. She was very upset.

  Grace was dozing, her head against Peter’s shoulder, when a nurse came running past her. She stared rather sleepily after her. And then felt a clutch of fear at her heart. She had read a great many of the Sue Barton books when she was a girl; Sue Barton who rose from being a student nurse to Sister with rather dizzy speed. Sue Barton was told on her first day on the wards that a nurse only ran for three reasons: flood, fire, and haemorrhage. There was clearly no flood or fire. Therefore…

  Nick was rather halfheartedly beginning to put together the draft of a piece about Martha and Kate, when Janet called him.

  “Hi, Nick, I wondered how you were doing?”

  “Fine. Yes. Just working on it now.”

  “And have you talked to Chris?”

  “For God’s sake, it’s eleven on Sunday morning! The Pollock brunch party will be just warming up. It would be more than my job was worth. And you wouldn’t want that right now, would you?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. The Sun might be a bit quicker off the mark than you. Anyway, we’ll speak later. I’m still in Bournemouth. At a medical conference. I’m doing a bit of work before I leave for the bedlam I call home.” She was clearly trying to be funny. “So if you’d like to e-mail me any thoughts you’ve got…”

  She was like a fucking ferret, Nick thought.

  Martha was back in surgery; there was some unexplained internal bleeding, they told the Hartleys, and her blood pressure had dropped again. For the time being, they couldn’t tell them any more.

  Ed was eating his usual Sunday morning breakfast—a doughnut and a coffee in Starbucks—when his mother rang.

  “Edward? Are you bus
y, dear?”

  “No. Not at all. You OK, Mum?” She sounded a bit funny. He thought hard: he’d been down two weekends ago; she couldn’t be trying to hint that he should be there, surely? It would be totally out of character, anyway.

  “I’m fine. I’ve just been to church.”

  “Oh yeah? How was the Rev?”

  “He wasn’t there, dear. That’s why I’m ringing. Andrew took the service.”

  “Yeah? Cool.” He took a large bite of doughnut. Hardly worth a phone call—she’d obviously not got enough to do.

  “Yes. Poor Mr. Hartley was at the hospital.”

  “The hospital? What’s wrong with him?”

  “Nothing, dear. But I thought you’d want to know. It’s their daughter, the lawyer. Martha, you know.” The doughnut was turning to something very unpleasant in Ed’s mouth; he spat what was left of it out into his napkin, took a swig of coffee.

  “What’s happened to her?”

  “She’s been in a terrible accident. A car crash. She’s still alive at the moment. But it’s very serious, apparently. Anyway, I wanted to tell you, because I knew you’d met her. She drove you up to town once, didn’t she, one Sunday night? Very kind, that was. They’re such a lovely family.”

  “Yeah, I know that. Can you—can you tell me a bit more, Mum?”

  “Well, not a lot, dear. She had a collision with a big lorry. Last night. Her car was under it, apparently. There were several cars involved. She’s had surgery and she’s in a critical condition, Andrew was saying. Poor girl. After all she’s trying to do for Binsmow as well, with her legal sessions—”

  “What hospital is she in, Mum, do you know?”

  “Bury. She’s in intensive care. You sound quite upset, dear. Did you ever see more of her?”

  “A bit,” said Ed, and put the phone down.

  Quite a bit. All of her, in fact. All of her lovely, skinny, sexy body, all of her tough, awkward, fierce mind; he knew every mood of her, knew her loving, knew her laughing, knew her angry, knew her—very occasionally—calm. Usually when they’d had sex.

  And now she was lying in intensive care, her body crushed and broken, dangerously, critically ill. Her car under a lorry: last night. After he had spoken to her, after he had been so cruel to her. She had rung him for help and he had refused it. It could all have been his fault.

  Ed suddenly felt terribly sick.

  “I’m sorry, you can’t see her now.” The Sister in ITU sounded rather dismissive. “There would be no point. She’s very ill, she’s completely unconscious.”

  “I realise that. But I’m her father.”

  “I’m afraid that doesn’t make any difference.”

  “I’m also a priest,” he said, very gently, “and I would like to be with her while I pray for her.”

  She looked at him, looked at his face, looked at his clerical collar and hesitated, and he could see that he had won. There was only one authority higher even than the consultant in hospital life, and that was God. God was permitted to be with the most desperate cases, the most dreadful situations, borne by His earthly representatives; and God, she had seen for herself, from time to time, had wrought what appeared to be miracles. The doctors would have none of it, of course, said it was coincidence, but Sister knew otherwise. There were too many such coincidences for that to be true.

  She hesitated, and then said, looking rather nervously up and down the corridor, “All right. Just for a few minutes.” And Peter Hartley took God in with him to see his daughter.

  “Is that Jocasta Forbes?”

  Now, who was that? The voice was vaguely familiar. Jocasta, surfacing from a very deep sleep, said, “Yes. Well, Jocasta Keeble, if you’re being pedantic.”

  “Jocasta, this is Ed. Ed Forrest. Martha’s friend.”

  Of course. The gorgeous boy. Nothing had surprised them all more than Martha’s choice of boyfriend. They’d expected some smooth, buttoned-up lawyer, and had met instead this easy, beautiful creature who seemed far too young for her. Who clearly adored her.

  “Oh, hi, Ed. What can I do for you?”

  “I thought you ought to know, Martha’s had a terrible accident. A car crash, she—she’s in intensive care. I don’t know much more than that…”

  “Oh Ed, no! I’m so sorry.”

  “I’m going up there right away,” he said, “to see her. But I thought you should tell Nick—Sorry, I can’t remember his name, but the journalist—”

  “Yes, yes, of course.”

  “So he can tell that woman. Get her off our backs, I mean. She won’t do anything now, will she?”

  “I shouldn’t think so,” said Jocasta quickly. “God, how awful. Where is Martha? Which hospital?”

  “Bury St. Edmunds. So—quite a way. I must go.”

  “Of course. Ed, give her our love. I’m sure she’ll be fine. And don’t worry about Janet Frean. We’ll deal with her. I’ll call Nick right away.”

  “Thanks.”

  The Sun’s stringer in Colchester had got the story about Martha. He called the news desk. Chad Lawrence had one of the best-known mobile numbers in Westminster: he was also one of the best-known faces. At midday a reporter from the Sun called.

  “I expect you’ve heard about Martha Hartley, Mr. Lawrence.”

  “No,” said Chad shortly, “I haven’t.”

  “No? Well, she’s in hospital. Critical condition. Terrible car crash. We’re doing a paragraph for tomorrow’s paper, wondered if you had a quote you could give me about her.”

  “That’s appalling,” said Chad, and he was indeed very shocked. “I had no idea, no. Is she all right?”

  “Like I said, she’s critical. Not well at all, from the sound of it.”

  “God!”

  “So could you give me a quote? I know she’s one of the new stars of your party.”

  “No, I couldn’t,” said Chad and put the phone down. He called Jack Kirkland and told him.

  “Good God, how dreadful. How did you find out?”

  “I had a call from a bloke on the Sun. He wanted a quote about her. I said I wouldn’t give him one.”

  “Why on earth not? I’ll call them myself.”

  Funny bugger, Chad thought, putting down the phone. He felt genuinely upset. He was very fond of Martha.

  Kirkland spoke fulsomely and at some length about Martha; about her brilliance, her promise, how she was the future of the new party; the reporter, who was only planning a paragraph, grew impatient.

  “Thanks very much, Mr. Kirkland,” he said, cutting into a pause.

  “That’s my pleasure. Oh, and perhaps you should talk to Janet Frean. She’s the female face of our leadership. She’s been very good to Martha, helped her along, and taken a motherly interest in her. You should speak to her. I’ll get her to call you.”

  “That’s terrible,” said Clio. “I’m so, so sorry. We tried to call her last night, couldn’t get an answer. We know why now. Oh, God. Can we send flowers or something?”

  “I don’t think she’s quite up to flowers,” said Jocasta soberly.

  She would have liked to talk to Gideon; he was very fond of Martha. She looked at her watch: no. He’d be fast asleep; it was about four in the morning in Seattle. She felt very lonely, and very upset. She decided to call Nick back.

  “Bob, hello. This is Jack Kirkland. Sorry to intrude on your Sunday morning.”

  “That’s fine, Jack,” said Bob Frean. “I’m on nanny duty. Nice to talk to a human being. What? Oh, good God. How appalling. Poor Martha. Is she on the danger list? God, how dreadful. Yes, of course I’ll tell her as soon as she gets here. She shouldn’t be long.”

  Nick picked up the phone. “Janet, Martha’s had an accident. A car crash. She’s very seriously hurt. I imagine this changes everything, for the time being.”

  “Of course. How dreadful. Yes, we’ll speak later.” Janet drove on, feeling thoughtful. Actually, it would make the whole story more brilliant still. Give it an added edge. A poignancy even. She
could see it now. Yes. It would work very well. As long as Martha lived, of course.

  At this rate, Ed thought, his tyres screaming between lanes on the A12, he’d be joining Martha in intensive care. Which wasn’t going to help either of them. He tried to calm down, but all he could think of, all that was in his head, running and rerunning, was his conversation with Martha, his last words to her: “Just give it a rest. OK?” What sort of man said that to the woman he was supposed to love? A pretty bloody rotten one.

  “Bastard,” he kept saying aloud to himself, “you bastard.”

  Helen called Jocasta’s number; she was very apologetic, this being Sunday morning, probably Jocasta and her new husband were busy, giving a grand lunch party or something. But there was no time like the present.

  “Helen, it’s fine. Honestly. But—”

  “I won’t keep you a minute. I just wanted Martha Hartley’s phone number. I thought it might help Kate if I went to see her, tried to—”

  “Helen, I’m afraid you can’t go and see her. Well, not at the moment, anyway, although I think it’s a lovely idea. She’s in hospital. She’s had an accident, she’s been very badly hurt.”

  “Oh,” said Helen. “Oh dear—Is it very bad?”

  “Very bad, I’m afraid,” said Jocasta.

  Helen put the phone down, wondering how Kate would react to this, and decided that until they knew a little more, she wouldn’t tell her.

  “I thought we might ask Jocasta over for lunch,” said Beatrice. “She’s all on her own, and it’d be nice to see her.”

  “Good idea,” said Josh. He was heavily involved with Jeremy Clarkson, as he always was on Sunday morning.

  Beatrice came back into the room a few minutes later, looking shaken.

  “She can’t come. She’s with Nick.”

  “Nick? What on earth’s she doing with him?”

  “I’m not sure,” said Beatrice, “helping him with a story, I expect.”