Good Friday

by Lynda La Plante

  Refreshed and calmed by the cold water, she returned to the ward to find Mitchell looking for her. He led her out of the ward, to the far end of the corridor, and through a second set of double doors. The private rooms were situated along this short corridor, a fire escape door marked the end.

  “She’s in here,” said Mitchell, showing her in to one of the rooms. “We still haven’t had any response but considering what she’s been through it might be a while.”

  Daphne lay unmoving in a single bed, wired up with drips and covered in a lightweight white blanket. Her childlike hand rested on top, the cannula held in place by two plaster strips. Between the bed and a small chest of drawers was a wingback chair, with a trolley on the opposite side of the bed.

  Jane sat down beside her and gently touched her fingers, talking softly to her in the hope that Daphne could hear her voice, and that it would be a comfort to know someone was with her. Even though there was no response, Jane continued to hold her hand. Suddenly, Daphne’s hand moved, and Jane jumped to her feet. She was about to go and find someone when Mitchell appeared. Jane explained what had happened. Mitchell moved to Daphne’s side and checked his patient, then turned to Jane.

  “It was probably just an involuntary muscle twitch. I came in to let you know that an armed officer is here.”

  They left the room together. The armed officer had placed a chair outside and was already sitting down. He looked a bit surprised when Jane asked to see his warrant card, but showed it to her with a grin.

  As Jane walked back down the corridor with Mitchell, she thanked him for his help.

  “Where are you off to now?” he asked.

  “I probably should go and see my parents in Maida Vale. Apparently one of the team I am working with called them, but I think they must have been concerned when they heard about the bomb—Covent Garden station is close to where I worked until last week.”

  “Can you wait a few minutes? I’m going off duty and could walk you to the tube.”

  Ten minutes later he joined her, having changed his nurse’s tunic for a T-shirt, with a raincoat over the top. Together they left the hospital. Jane was grateful Mitchell was with her to show her the way. She also liked the fact that he took her elbow and guided her across the road. He was rather pleasant-looking, tall and broad-shouldered with sandy hair and a lovely gentle manner.

  “What’s your first name?” she asked.

  “Michael. And yours?”

  “Jane. How long have you been a nurse?”

  He smiled. “A long time—ten years. I usually get disparaging looks when I’m asked what I do. Most people assume that nursing is a woman’s profession, and automatically think I must be homosexual. I think air stewards get the same reaction . . .”

  Jane laughed. “Well, if it’s any consolation I’m probably regarded as being a woman in a man’s world most of the time. The male officers refer to us as ‘plonks,’ or even worse, ‘a bit of skirt.’”

  “How long have you been in the Met?”

  “Nearly four years. Before that I worked in my dad’s office but I wanted to do something more challenging than surveyors’ tedious paper work. It’s odd, you know . . . I can’t remember the exact moment when I considered joining the police force. I think it may have stemmed from an article I read in the newspaper about the Met; it said the role of women within the organization was changing, and that female officers were being fully integrated with the men on shift work.”

  “So, it wasn’t exactly a calling . . .”

  “No, not really. I think it was more of an opportunity to get out from behind a desk, stand on my own two feet and do something rewarding. My parents, especially my mother, didn’t approve. What about you?”

  “I don’t often tell people this, but when I was eight my dad had a brain tumor. He was an incredibly fit man . . . used to have me out playing football with him every spare minute, even after a hard day’s work in the printing factory. But then he became frail and dependent . . . he couldn’t even feed himself. My mum was forced to go out to work, so I used to wash him and cook for him—it’s awful to be on a liquid diet for so long. His speech gradually went but I could understand what he needed. When he was lucid he used to give me this look . . . ‘Thank you, son,’ he’d try to say. So, I became a nurse.”

  Mitchell shook his head. “I dunno how you got all that background from me.” He turned to face her. “I’m going over to the pub now to have a few well-earned beers with some of my colleagues. Do you want to join us?”

  Jane hesitated. For a few minutes she had forgotten about the awful things she had seen that morning. Mitchell had been easy company and she had enjoyed talking to him.

  “No, I really should get home and see my parents . . . but thank you.”

  “Okay. Just go straight on down here and the underground station is on your right.”

  They shook hands and parted. She had only walked a few yards when he called her name and hurried back toward her.

  “Listen, would you like me to phone you when I find out more about Daphne?”

  “Oh, yes, please.” Jane took out her note book out of her bag, wrote down her home phone number and tore out the page to give to him. “Thank you, Michael.”

  “Good to meet you, Jane. Have a safe journey home.”

  Jane walked away, smiling. He was so nice and she hoped she would hear from him again. Michael had been honest about why he had chosen his career, but she hadn’t been as open with him. Jane hadn’t told Michael about how she’d had to fight her mother’s opposition to her joining the police because she hadn’t wanted to share what had happened to their family. It was something from her childhood that she kept to herself. Jane’s brother, who was also called Michael, had drowned when he was a toddler. He had been given a fishing rod by her father, and had been too impatient to wait for her father to take him fishing. He had squeezed through the hedge in their garden to go next door, where he knew they had a fish pond.

  Sitting on the train as it rattled toward Maida Vale, Jane closed her eyes as she recalled what she remembered of the awful tragedy. They had found her brother face down in the pond. His lifeless little body had been carried home and when the ambulance arrived, accompanied by police, her mother had become hysterical, refusing to allow them to take Michael from her arms. There were uniformed officers everywhere, asking questions as if there had been a crime instead of a tragic accident. This began her mother’s deep-seated hatred of the police, because she felt they had blamed her for her son’s death. She only recovered from her breakdown when her younger daughter, Pam, was born, but for years afterward the sight of uniformed police officers made her freeze with anxiety. At the time of her brother’s death Jane had been too young to understand why the police were involved. She now knew they were just doing their job, but their manner of dealing with the situation should have been more caring and understanding.

  Jane sighed. She wasn’t sure why she hadn’t opened up to Michael, when he had been so honest with her. Truth was, Jane never went into depth about her life with anyone as, like her father, she was always protecting her fragile mother.

  Shaking off her thoughts, Jane got off the train at Warwick Avenue, and walked along Clifton Gardens toward Maida Vale. She passed a row of shops, the Evening Standard displayed outside showing the headlines about the IRA bomb. She didn’t stop to buy one and instead turned onto Maida Vale, passing the large Clarendon Hotel on the corner. From there it was a short walk to Clive Court, the big building where her parents’ flat was situated.

  Jane had her own key but she rang the doorbell first. When no one answered she used her key to open the front door.

  “Is that you, Pam? We’ve still had no news. I called Scotland Yard but they didn’t have a report and—”

  “It’s me, Dad . . . it’s Jane!” she called, shutting the door behind her.

  Her father came hurrying down the corridor from the bedroom, his face ashen.

  “Jane! You’ve no idea wha
t you’ve put us through today! Didn’t you get any of my calls?”

  Jane put up her arms to hug him, but he was white-faced with anger. She was so shocked that she stepped back as her mother came running down the hall.

  “She’s here . . . she’s here . . . she’s all right,” he said.

  Mrs. Tennison let out a cry, then her legs buckled beneath her and she collapsed in the hallway. Mr. Tennison quickly gathered her up in his arms.

  “It’s all right darling . . . she’s safe . . . she’s here . . . Come on now, come and sit down on the sofa. Jane, help your mother, quickly.”

  As Jane guided her to the sofa, Mrs. Tennison burst into tears.

  “I’m so sorry, Mum. I tried to call but it was engaged, and then I got caught up in the . . . I’m so sorry.”

  “You should be! We’ve been at our wits’ end because we knew you often used that Covent Garden station. We’ve called everyone we could think of . . .”

  Just then Pam arrived, using her own key to let herself in. On seeing Jane, she threw up her arms.

  “I don’t believe it! We thought you were dead, for God’s sake! This bombing’s been all over the news and it’s in all the evening papers . . . Why didn’t you call?”

  “I’m sorry . . . I’m so sorry . . . I tried but this number was engaged. I was at the station when the bomb exploded . . . But I was so lucky . . . I wasn’t hurt.”

  “I can’t cope with you being a police officer . . . it’s too dangerous,” Mrs. Tennison exclaimed, as her husband handed her a small glass of sherry.

  “Mum,” Jane said, doing her best to reassure her, “the bomb wasn’t aimed at police officers. The injured were all innocent . . . one man saved my life because he shielded me from the explosion; he saved—”

  “I don’t want to hear the details!” her mother snapped. “Your work brings you into contact with murderous people like the IRA. We’ve been worried sick about you since the day you joined up.”

  Pam sat beside her mother as she sobbed again. It was a difficult half hour until her father suggested that she should get something to eat. He eventually persuaded her mother to go and lie down and by this time Jane was completely drained.

  “Are you going back to your flat?” Pam asked, as they went into the kitchen together.

  “I don’t know . . . I’m totally wiped out.”

  “Maybe you should stay the night here, and talk to Mum in the morning? I’ll make you a sandwich and a cup of tea.”

  “What I’d really like is a hot bath . . .”

  “Well you go and have one. I’d better be going back. Tony was worried about you as well.”

  Jane nodded and sat down on one of the breakfast stools. She wasn’t hungry but Pam had buttered two slices of bread and was peering into the fridge.

  “So, what happened? I mean, were you in the thick of it?”

  “Yes, I was right there. It was dreadful. I haven’t really got my head around it. One minute I was walking out through the ticket barrier, and the next—”

  “Will a ham sandwich do? And there’s tomatoes and lettuce?”

  “Yes . . . thank you.”

  “Or there’s some cheese?”

  Mr. Tennison walked in. “Your mother’s lying down.” he said. “She’s taken a sleeping tablet. I don’t think I’ll bother waking her up, now—she can sleep in her clothes tonight.”

  “Jane wants a bath, Daddy . . . she’s staying here tonight. I’m going to go back to Tony. I’ve made her a sandwich. Do you want one?”

  Jane didn’t have the energy to argue about staying, and found it difficult to even start a conversation as her father and sister were talking across her as if she wasn’t there. She got down from the stool and said she would run herself a bath, and eat her sandwich later.

  Her bedroom was almost as she had left it, with her old toweling robe hanging on the back of her door. As she slowly undressed she could hear Pam and her father talking in the kitchen.

  “She said she was just coming out of the ticket office when the bomb went off.” Pam said. She heard her father reply that he would talk to Jane after her bath.

  Jane almost crept to the bathroom, not wanting to face either of them. She locked the door and sat on the side of the bathtub, watching it fill. She poured in some bubble bath and watched as the water became frothy. When it was almost to the overflow, she turned off the taps, slowly stepped into the water and lay down, submerged in the warmth with her eyes closed.

  The sudden realization of how lucky she was not to have been maimed or killed at the Covent Garden explosion hit her like a massive wave crashing against rocks. She didn’t even know the names of the dead, not even the young mother or the man who’d saved her. After controlling her emotions all day, she began to tremble and then started to weep. She placed a wet flannel over her face, pressing it down over her mouth to stop anyone from hearing her cries. Her breathing turned to small gasps.

  “You’re okay . . . you’re okay . . .” she repeated to herself. As she sat up, there was a knock on the door.

  “Are you all right in there?”

  “Yes Daddy, I’m fine. I won’t be much longer.”

  “Pam’s gone, and I’ve made you a hot chocolate. I’ll put it with your sandwich, on your bedside table.”

  “Thank you.”

  Jane sighed and closed her eyes. She started to weep again, trying to muffle her sobs so that her father wouldn’t hear. Eventually she forced herself to get out of the bath, wrapped a big, soft towel around herself and unlocked the door. She went into her bedroom and opened one of her drawers, taking out an old, long nightgown. Everything had been washed and pressed as if awaiting her return. Jane sat on the edge of her bed and sipped the now tepid chocolate. Pam’s sandwich was a bit soggy and unappetizing. The bread was thick with butter and slathered with mayonnaise, with tired lettuce leaves and thick tomato chunks.

  It was after 10pm and she was beginning to feel as if she could go to sleep, when her father knocked on her door and inched it open.

  “You all right, darling?”

  He edged further into the room. Jane’s hair was still wet and she used the hand towel from the bathroom to rub it dry. She was sure her eyes would be red rimmed from crying and she didn’t want him to notice.

  “You can always talk to me, Jane . . . you know that, don’t you?”

  “Yes, Daddy.”

  He was uneasy, even a little embarrassed, as he sat beside her on the bed.

  “Your mother will be all right in the morning. You know how nervy she can get, and what with worrying about you she got herself into quite a state.”

  “I am so sorry, Daddy. I really did try to call you. I went to the hospital with this old lady called Daphne . . . She was badly injured . . .”

  Mr. Tennison gave her a sidelong look. He could tell she had been crying and he patted her hand.

  “It must have been one hell of day for you, sweetheart.”

  “Yes, but it didn’t hit me until I was in the bath . . . I sort of relived it all . . . the explosion, and the awful aftermath. At the time, I controlled my fear enough to help as many of the injured as I could, in particular the old lady.”

  “Well, I’m very proud of you. I understand what you must have been through. I lost many friends in the D-Day landing in Normandy. There were awful explosions and terrible sights—the injured and the dead . . . So I know what it feels like to have that fear. It was felt by all of us, but you eventually learn how to suppress it and cope. Fear is in the mind of every soldier in battle, and only fools fail to admit it.”

  Mr. Tennison put his arm around Jane. She had never felt so close to him.

  “What you did today, sweetheart, was beyond the call of duty. You were brave and totally selfless. In the morning, I’m going to talk to your mother and try to make her understand that she should be proud too, and not afraid of the job you do.”

  She hugged him and he kissed her cheek.

  As he opened her bedroom door
he turned and said softly, “It’s good you came home . . . good we had this time together. Now, try to get some sleep.”

  He closed the door quietly behind him, and Jane lay back on her pillow. She felt safe in her old bedroom and knew how much it meant to her father that she was here. She had not expected that she would be able to switch off, but only a moment later she was in a deep and dreamless sleep.

  The following morning Jane woke up and realized that it was already after 8am. She was just getting out of bed when her mother knocked on her door and walked in. She was holding Jane’s washed and ironed shirt, and had pressed and repaired her suit.

  “I woke up early and Daddy and I had a long talk. I’ve got everything ready for you to go into work . . . unless you don’t feel up to it.”

  “I do. Thank you so much, Mum.”

  As her mother hung up the clothes on the hook on the back of her bedroom door, she asked, “Would you like an omelet and some bacon?”

  Jane was near to tears. She walked over to her mother and held out her arms.

  “That sounds just perfect . . . and I’m so sorry again for not getting in touch sooner yesterday. Please forgive me.”

  Mrs. Tennison gave Jane a small, tight smile as she hugged her.

  “Let’s not go back into that again, shall we? The fact that you are safe and sound is all that matters . . . I am proud of you. Get dressed and come and have breakfast, just like we used to.”

  Alone in her room again, Jane knew that nothing could ever be just like it used to be. But what was important was the love she had felt from her parents, a love she reciprocated. She felt so lucky to have her family supporting her.

  They ate breakfast together then Jane left with her father to walk to the station. Mr. Tennison went into their local newsagent’s to buy his usual paper and Jane continued to the station in Warwick Avenue.