“What, with Gideon away? Bit odd, I’d have thought.”
Beatrice gave him a look that meant he was no arbiter of any kind of behaviour and said, “Anyway, apparently that girl Martha Hartley’s in hospital. You know, the one who was ill at the party, who rushed off in the morning—”
“Yes, yes. Why is she in hospital?”
“She’s had an accident. A car accident. She’s in intensive care. Unconscious. Poor thing. I mean, I didn’t actually meet her, but you knew her, didn’t you?”
“Well…hardly. Haven’t seen her for seventeen years. But we had a little chat at the party. How ghastly. Is Jocasta going to keep us informed?”
“I expect so. Anyway, she was very upset. I was quite surprised how much; she said after the party she really hardly knew her.”
“Yes, well, it’s always a shock when something like this happens to someone you know,” said Josh. “I feel a bit shaken myself, to tell you the truth.”
“You do look a bit pale,” said Beatrice briskly. “Why don’t you take the children to the park for an hour or so, while I do lunch? Bit of fresh air will do you good.”
Jocasta was also surprised to find how upset she was.
“It’s not as if we were friends,” she said to Nick. “I hadn’t seen her for nearly seventeen years, and she was pretty vile when I went to interview her. But she has had a basinful, poor girl. It was probably worrying so much that caused it, she wasn’t concentrating. Ed was so upset. Distraught. He obviously really loves her. It’s a weird relationship, though, isn’t it?”
“I don’t see why.”
“Well, he’s so much younger than her, for a start. And what can they possibly have in common?”
“You’re a fair bit younger than Gideon,” said Nick, “and what do you two have in common, after all?” His tone was quite hostile; Jocasta stared at him.
They had met for coffee at Starbucks in Hampstead; Nick was writing a quick piece about Peter Hain and Europe. “Well, I’m not doing anything,” Jocasta said, “so I’ll come up to you.”
She wasn’t sure why she wanted to be with him; she told herself it was because of their joint involvement in this extraordinary drama. Talking to anyone out of its loop would have felt irrelevant that morning. They sat in the sunshine, drinking lattes. It was like the old days, Jocasta thought, the old Sundays—and then crushed the thought firmly.
“I’m still worried about Janet,” said Nick, “I just don’t trust her.”
“Nick! No one’s going to rat on someone when they’re lying in intensive care. They just aren’t.”
“I’m not sure. Anyway, I don’t know that I spelt out how bad Martha was to the bloody woman. I might just ring her again.”
But the usual enraging voice told them that the number they were calling had been switched off and suggested they leave a message, adding brightly, “or why not send a text?”
Nick threw his own mobile across the table. “Bloody woman. Bloody, bloody woman. What is she up to now?”
Ed knew he couldn’t risk it, the petrol gauge had been running on empty for miles; he would have to stop at the next garage. He pulled in and could smell the burning rubber of his own tyres as he got out of the car. He put twenty litres in, decided that would get him there, and ran into the pay station.
“Fifteen quid, mate.”
Ed fumbled for his credit cards. “Shit,” he said, and then again, “shit.”
“Left your cards at home?” The expression on the man’s face was not attractive.
“Yes, I have, Look—I’ll leave you my watch. I won’t be long.”
“Yeah? If you could see the pile of watches I’ve got here, mate, you’d wonder why I didn’t open a shop. Funny thing, their owners never come back. Never pay for the fuel either. I’ll have to call the police, I’m afraid.”
“But my girlfriend’s in intensive care, I’ve got to get there!”
The man shook his head. “We get a lot of them and all. Now if you just wait over there, while I make the call…”
Ed stood staring at him, frozen to the spot. Then he said, “Can I go and look in the car again. I might find some cash.”
“Only if you leave your keys.”
“Yes, OK.”
He threw them at the guy, walked out to the car, feverishly started searching it again. Nothing. Not in the glove compartment, not on the backseat, not in the boot, not in the door pockets…
And then—“Shit,” he said. “Fuck me.”
Falling out of his A to Z was a twenty-pound note. What was that doing there, how did it get there? Then he remembered. It was Martha; she’d tried to pay for some petrol, months ago, but he wouldn’t let her and she’d stuffed the money into the A to Z. She’d even written “Love from Martha” in her neat writing in the corner. It was—well, it was—
“It’s a bloody miracle,” he said, staring at it, and rushed up to the man who was tidying a row of cigarettes behind him.
“Give me my keys, please,” he said. “Quickly.”
“Oh. Right. Don’t you want any change?”
But Ed was gone.
When Janet got back to the house, it was unnaturally quiet. The only child present was Lucy.
“Hi, Mum. Go well last night?”
“Yes, fine. Everything OK here?”
“Yes, I think so. We weren’t expecting you yet. Jack Kirkland rang. Wants you to ring him.”
“OK, I will. Any other messages?”
“Don’t think so. Anyway, I’m watching EastEnders, see you later.”
A major earthquake in the next street would not keep Lucy from EastEnders.
Janet went up to her study, rang Jack.
“Hello, Janet. You heard about Martha?”
“Yes. Very sad. Is there any more news?”
“No. I just wanted to make sure Bob had told you about the Sun.”
“The Sun? No.” Surely they couldn’t have got a hint of the story already?
“Yes, they want you to ring them with a quote. About Martha. I’ve already given them one, but I thought it would be nice if you did, too. As a fellow woman politician. Do ring this chap, he’s waiting to hear from you. His name’s…”
Janet scribbled down the name, her head whirling. If ever there was a piece of serendipity, it was here.
Martha was not very well, Sister told Peter and Grace. Her blood pressure was falling again; she had bleeped the doctor. Yes, if they wanted to see her for a moment…
“Dear God,” whispered Grace.
Ed had arrived at the hospital. He screeched to a halt in the only space he could see, which stated clearly that it was reserved for medical staff only, and rushed into the building.
“I’ve come to see one of the patients,” he said to the woman on reception, “Martha Hartley.”
“Hartley, Hartley—let me see…”
An officious-looking man came up behind him. “That your car, sir? The old Golf?” He put the emphasis on the word “old.”
“Yes,” said Ed, without looking at him. The woman was clicking keys endlessly on her computer.
“Going to have to ask you to move it, sir, I’m afraid. That’s a consultant’s space.”
“Yes, well, he’s not here, is he?”
“She’s on the second floor, Ward F. But you won’t be able to see her.”
“Can I go up there?”
“There’s no point.”
The door to reception opened sharply. “Who’s parked in my space, Evans?”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Thompson, sir. This gentleman—”
“Look, I’ve got a seriously ill patient in surgery and I can’t waste time with bloody cars. Get it moved, will you? Here are my keys.”
“Yes, Mr. Thompson. Right away.” He turned to Ed, put his hand on his shoulder.
“Now, sir, would you please move your car? At once. As you can see, you’re disrupting serious medical procedures—”
“Oh fuck the cars!” said Ed. He threw the keys at him. �
��Move it yourself. Sorry,” he added, seeing the man’s face, “but my girlfriend’s desperately ill, I have to get to her.”
“You won’t be able to,” said the woman again. But Ed was gone.
“Is that the news desk? Yes? This is Janet Frean, I think you’re expecting my call. It’s about Martha Hartley, the girl in the car crash. Yes, I’ll wait.”
Ward F was very quiet; even hospitals seemed to respond to the mood of Sunday mornings. Ed ran along the corridor, desperately trying to find anyone, anyone at all.
He saw a door marked ITU. He tried to open it, but it was locked; there was a bank of numbers on the door. Bloody combination lock. Shit. He hammered on the door. An irritable face appeared.
“I think my girlfriend’s in there. Martha Hartley?”
“If she is, you certainly can’t see her. This is ITU. No visitors.”
“Oh, God. Please, PLEASE!”
“I’m sorry, no. Please wait outside, and someone will help you in a minute.”
“But—Oh, Mr. Hartley. How are you? I mean, how is she? I mean—”
Peter Hartley’s face was ravaged with grief.
“She’s not very well, Ed,” he said simply. He showed no sign of surprise at seeing him there. “Couldn’t you let this young man in, Sister? Just for a moment? It can’t make any difference now…”
Bob stood in the doorway of Janet’s study. His face was very cold, very blank.
“Janet—”
She raised her finger to her lips, put her hand over the receiver. “Sorry, talking to the Sun. Won’t be long—”
Bob walked forward and put his hand on the receiver.
“Bob! What are you doing, you’ve cut me off!”
“Good,” he said, “that was what I intended. And before you ring them back, I have just one thing to say to you, Janet. If you tell the Sun anything at all unpleasant about Martha Hartley, I shall tell them a great many unpleasant things about you. Starting with your rather odd relationship with Michael Fitzroy.” He smiled at her, quite politely, and then turned and walked out again. Janet sat staring at the telephone, listening to his footsteps going along the corridor.
Martha’s eyes were closed; she looked perfectly peaceful, her face slightly swollen and bruised, but no worse. Tubes seemed to be coming out of every part of her; drips hung above her on both sides of the bed, one delivering blood, the others, he supposed, drugs of some sort. A bank of monitors to her right blinked various incomprehensible messages: the one comfort he could find was that there was no dreadful straight line on any of them, the line so familiar to viewers of hospital soap operas, signalling, as it did, the end of a story.
But this was not a soap opera and this was not a story line. And the person on the bed was not an actor, but Martha, his Martha, whom he loved more than he had ever even realised. And who it seemed he was about to lose.
He looked, panic-stricken, at the Hartleys: Grace was very calm, sitting by the bed, her eyes fixed on Martha’s face; Peter was holding one of her hands.
Ed moved round the bed, and carefully picked up the other hand. She had very small hands, she was quite small altogether, he thought; it was rather as if he was realising this properly for the first time. The hand felt warm. Well, that had to mean something good.
“Can I—am I allowed to speak to her?” he said, very quietly, remembering, from his own father’s death, that hearing was the last sense to go.
“Yes, of course,” said Grace.
She sat there watching him now, as he bent down, totally unselfconscious, and said very gently, very quietly, “Martha, it’s me. Ed. I’m here now. I’m here with you.”
If this was Casualty, Grace thought, Martha’s eyelids would flicker, she’d move her head, she’d squeeze his hand. But it isn’t, it’s real life and none of those things will happen. Real life isn’t like Casualty; real life is much harsher, much crueller than that.
And Peter thought, if she recovers now, it would be a miracle. And struggle as he might, in that moment he didn’t believe in miracles.
Ed was still talking in the same gentle voice: “Martha, I’m so sorry. What I said last night. So sorry.”
Still real life. Still no miracles.
“I don’t care about Kate. I don’t care about any of it. I love you, Martha. Very, very much. I really, really love you.”
And then it happened, against every possible expectation, and Grace and Peter watched, awed, as Martha’s eyelids did indeed flicker and she turned her head, just very slightly. No more than a hair’s breadth but enough to be seen, in Ed’s direction, and a glancing shadow of a smile touched her face; and two great tears, Ed’s tears, fell on the hand that had—almost imperceptibly—squeezed his.
It was only a small miracle: but in some ways it was enough.
Afterwards, real life came swiftly in again: the line on the monitor grew straight and Martha’s story was written gently out of the script. But Ed, who had both worked and experienced the miracle, felt, as he bade her farewell, just a little comforted.
And thought later, as he sat outside the room, numb with shock, while Martha’s parents said their own goodbyes to her, that it had actually been the second miracle that day.
Chapter 38
“I don’t know why I feel so upset,” Jocasta said. She was sitting in Nick’s flat in Hampstead, weeping; his arms were round her, and he was tenderly stroking her hair. “It’s not as if I’d been close to her, or anything. I suppose it was Kate; she came with Kate, in a way. Oh dear. Nick, it’s so sad.”
“It is sad,” he said, “dreadfully sad. I can’t believe it, not any of it.”
“But at least Ed got there. That’s something. He was so distraught, Nick, I can’t tell you. He said he was going to stay with his mum tonight, in Binsmow, and he’d see us tomorrow. He said”—she swallowed hard, sniffed loudly—“he said he thought they’d like us to be at the funeral. He said we’d done so much for her. I wish.”
“Well, we tried,” said Nick. “We did our best. I think Janet must be feeling pretty bad.”
“I bloody well hope so,” said Jocasta.
“That’s dreadful,” said Helen, “I’m shocked. I mean, I never even met her, but obviously—well, she’s part of us now, after all. It’s an odd feeling. Kate’s in a very strange state.”
“I expect she is,” said Jocasta, “poor little thing.”
“I feel awful,” said Kate. “Really bad. Just think, my mother, all my life I’ve been looking for her, and then I find her and all I ever said to her was horrible things. God, Nat, I really am a right cow!”
“No, you’re not,” he said. “You weren’t to know. And you don’t owe her nothing, don’t forget. It’s not like she was your real mum.”
“Nat!” said Kate. “She was my real mum. That’s the whole point, don’t be stupid.”
“No, she wasn’t. She didn’t, like, look after you, did she, didn’t bring you up? I’d say your mum, downstairs, she’s your real mum. Think how you’d feel if it was her.”
“Oh, don’t!” said Kate. “I’d rather die myself.”
“Well, there you are.”
“I know, but she, Martha, must have died thinking I hated her. That’s not very good, is it? And then, just think, finally I found her, finally I could’ve got to know her, and now I’ve lost her again forever. It’s not fair, Nat, it really, really isn’t fair!”
Nat left shortly after that. Kate was crying again and he was beginning to feel he’d had enough. But before he went, he looked in on Helen, who was in the kitchen, rather feebly peeling potatoes, and told her that Kate had just said that, if it had been Helen who’d been killed, she’d prefer to be dead herself. He thought she’d like to hear that, but it seemed he was wrong. Helen burst into tears.
Nat’s dad had often told him women were a complete mystery and it was a waste of time and energy to even try to understand them. Nat decided he agreed with him.
“Oh, it’s so, so sad,” said Clio. Her eyes were
red with weeping; like Jocasta she couldn’t quite work out why she was so upset. Fergus told her it was because she was tenderhearted, but she knew it was more than that. In a few short weeks Martha had wound her way into their lives, just as insistently as if they’d had the annual meetings they had promised one another all those years ago. She kept thinking of Martha as she had last seen her on the beach in Thailand, brown, smiling, her hair sun-streaked, no longer touchy and inhibited, but happily easy, and thought of the dreadful ending to that happiness, the long days in the hot, filthy city, waiting in dread for her baby to be born, and then of what must have been the nightmare of that birth, all alone, with nothing and no one to help her through the pain. And then she thought of her making her new life, her perfectly accomplished and successful new life, and all the time with her dreadful secret, and she thought that Martha was, without doubt, not only the bravest person she had ever met but the bravest that she was ever likely to meet.
Beatrice had called Jocasta for news of Martha; she expected to be told she was better, or at least holding her own. She went to tell Josh, and he had been clearly upset as well; it was just that it was a shock, they agreed, as they sat drinking larger-than-usual gin and tonics before dinner that night. Of course neither of them had known her at all well, they said, in fact Beatrice had scarcely met her, it was just the thought of that lovely, brilliant girl, with so much promise and life before her, being no more, her light put out forever.
They agreed that there was no reason for them to go to the funeral, but that they would send some flowers.
Jack Kirkland called Janet Frean. “It’s about Martha. Dreadful thing. She’s died.”
There was an endless silence, then: “Died! But I thought—Jack, are you sure?”
“I’m very sure. Nick Marshall just rang me.”
“Nick Marshall! What’s it got to do with him?” Her tone was very harsh.
“She and Jocasta were friendly, as you know. They went travelling together when they were girls. Anyway, she died. Around lunchtime today. Janet, are you all right?”
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