Gemma's Journey

by Beryl Kingston

  Sister Foster explained. ‘They’re because of our Gemma,’ she said. ‘She’s quite a star. They’ve been coming in since yesterday afternoon. Mr Barnaby was very impressed. Good publicity, he said.’

  Nick didn’t want to talk about publicity. It wasn’t relevant. He pulled his medical dignity about him and began his routine questions. ‘Any problems I should know about?’

  They brought him up to date. The oldest inhabitant had been a nuisance during the night but the casualties from the crash were all making steady progress. ‘Gemma had a bit of a setback after her mother’s visit.’

  ‘In what way?’ he asked, and listened carefully while they told him what had happened.

  ‘Right,’ he said. ‘I’ll see her first, in that case.’ If she was going to be a problem it would be best to get it over at once.

  She looked different from the girl he remembered. When they’d been inching her out of the wreckage she’d seemed tall, but now lying in her regulation bed, with her legs under their cradle and her cropped hair spiky against the pillows, she seemed surprisingly small, as if she’d been cut down to size. Under the train she’d been a beauty – yes, he had noticed – calm and stoical despite her bloodstains, enduring everything that happened to her. Now her face was bruised and swollen and she had a black eye and hair like an old Brillo pad. She was staring into space, her expression pained.

  ‘Good morning,’ he said in his professional voice as he picked up her notes. ‘How are you this morning?’

  She turned her head, looked from his name-tag to his face and smiled at him, as well as she could for her injuries. ‘It’s you,’ she said. ‘The one who saved my life.’

  Her praise pleased him and so did the smile. It was a good start,’ ‘That’s my job,’ he said, coolly.

  He’s different here on the ward, she thought, very handsome with all that thick hair and those blue eyes, but different. Formal and haughty as if he’s deliberately putting a distance between us. The change in him disappointed her. ‘I never thanked you.’

  ‘There’s no need to,’ he said, studying her notes. ‘You seem to be making good progress. How do you feel?’

  She looked at him steadily, aware of the discomfort her smile had caused as it stretched her swollen flesh. She’d been awake most of the night buffeted from one strong emotion to another, depressed by her helplessness, guilty to have made such a fuss the previous day, aggravated by her flatmates, furious at her mother’s bossiness, proud and touched to be the centre of so much public attention, burning with fury at what had happened to her. But she couldn’t tell him any of that. Not now he was being so formal. ‘All right,’ she said.

  He admired her self-control. Perhaps she wasn’t going to be a problem after all. ‘Are you in any pain?’

  ‘Not now.’

  ‘Good,’ he said. ‘I’ll just examine you, then.’ And he signalled to Sister that the dressings were to be removed.

  As the nurse swished the curtains around the bed, Gemma shivered. This was the moment she’d been dreading. ‘Look at the stump, you mean?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Which meant she would have to look at it too. At the wreck of her leg. At the scar.

  ‘I have to see if it’s healing properly,’ he explained, as the nurse removed the cradle.

  Seeing his stern expression, she controlled herself, the effort visible. ‘It’s all right,’ she said. ‘I haven’t got used to it yet, that’s all.’ The dressing was being peeled away, painfully. The stump was revealed, raw, swollen and held together with horrible stitches. She was appalled by it, aching at the sight of such ugliness. Her lovely, long striding leg reduced to this. But she swallowed her tears and didn’t say anything. She wasn’t going to let him see her cry. That would be demeaning. From this moment on she was going to get better. As quickly as she could.

  ‘That’s fine,’ Nick said, looking at the stump so as to avoid her eyes until she’d recovered from the first shock. ‘Nice and healthy.’

  It didn’t seem nice or healthy to Gemma. Nothing about her body seemed nice and healthy now. She submitted to the rest of his examination, turning her head, wriggling her remaining toes. Despite his aloofness he was thorough and his hands were gentle. But it was an anguish to face what had happened to her, even so.

  ‘Right,’ he finished, signalling to Sister Foster that the stump could be dressed again. ‘That’s all.’

  But Gemma wasn’t listening to him. There was a voice complaining, very loudly, just beyond the swing doors and she’d turned her head towards it and was straining to hear it.

  ‘Now look here,’ it protested, ‘I’ve been here twenty minutes. It’s not right.’

  Nick was alerted by her tension. She’s not going to get emotional on me now, he thought. Not when she’s done so well. ‘What is it?’

  She gave an involuntary grimace. ‘My mother.’

  ‘Don’t worry about her for the moment,’ he advised. And he swept out through the closed curtains thinking, I’ll deal with her.

  Billie Goodeve was standing beside the nurses’ station, holding forth to the nurse on duty, and she was so enraged it was several seconds before she realised that he’d arrived to speak to her. Then she turned to give him the full force of her displeasure, brown eyes flashing, well-upholstered bosom visibly heaving her jewellery up and down.

  ‘Now look here,’ she complained, ‘I’ve been waiting here for twenty minutes and it’s not good enough. I haven’t got all day. I run a boutique and it can’t be left.’

  He dealt with her as though she were any other relation of any other patient, asking who she wanted to see and explaining the delay with magisterial politeness. ‘I’m sorry we can’t let you in for the moment,’ he said. ‘Your daughter’s having her wound dressed. That’s why we’ve drawn the curtains.’

  ‘And how long’s that going to take?’

  ‘Quite a while,’ he told her. ‘It’s not a thing we can hurry.’

  ‘Well how long, then? Five minutes? Ten? I’m a busy woman.’

  ‘Another half an hour at least,’ he said. ‘It’s a major injury. We have to attend to it properly.’

  Being reminded of Gemma’s injuries triggered Billie’s concern. ‘Is she all right?’

  It was the first sign of any interest in his patient’s well-being. And about time too, he thought. If you’d been halfway decent you’d have asked me that first. ‘She’s making good progress,’ he told her, adding, ‘We shouldn’t be more than forty minutes. Would you like to wait in the day room?’

  She hesitated, her face baleful. It was aggravating to be kept out like this but her time was precious. ‘No,’ she decided finally. ‘It’s no good. I’ll have to go. I can’t wait another forty minutes. I’ve been here long enough already. Tell her I’ll come back tomorrow.’

  He decided it was time to end the interview. He’d achieved his object. ‘I’m sorry I can’t be more helpful,’ he said, turning on his heel. ‘Now I must go. I’ve got rather a lot of patients to see.’

  The curtains were still drawn round Gemma’s bed and the space inside was so rich with the scent of flowers she felt as though she was sitting in a bower. Now that her stump was covered up again and her mother had stopped complaining she felt easier.

  ‘I can’t cope with my mother just at the moment,’ she explained to Sister Foster. ‘She’s a bit heavy sometimes. Well very heavy, actually. Normally I can stand it but now I’m like this …’

  Sister smiled, her hands busy.

  ‘She wants to live my life for me, that’s the trouble,’ Gemma went on. ‘She will keep on about how she wants me to be a model. She’s been pressurising me about it since I was four. Well I shan’t do it now, shall I?’

  Sister Foster took her question seriously. ‘I don’t see any reason why not.’

  ‘A one-legged model,’ Gemma joked. ‘I can just see it. Hopping down the catwalk. I’d be a sensation. I mean, whoever heard of a model with one leg?’

  ‘We had one
last year.’

  ‘You mean a model who lost her leg?’

  Sister Foster’s answer astonished her, ‘No, I don’t. I mean a model with one leg. She was a model when she had her accident and we fitted her with an artificial leg and she went on modelling.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘There’s no end to the marvels of modern science,’ Sister smiled. ‘You’ll be surprised what we can do once we get started.’

  Gemma was so much easier now that it was possible to ask, ‘When will you fit me with a new leg?’

  That answer was even more surprising. ‘In about a fortnight, I should think,’ Sister said. ‘When your wound’s healed.’

  The thought of being back on two feet so quickly lifted Gemma’s spirits as powerfully as the sight of her injuries had cast them down. ‘Good God!’

  Sister Foster laughed. ‘We don’t hang about,’ she said. ‘You’ll be back on the catwalk in no time.’

  ‘Actually,’ Gemma confessed, ‘I don’t want to be a model. I never did. That was all my mother’s idea. I want to be an actress.’

  ‘No problem,’ Sister said, smiling at her. ‘There’s a good precedent. Sarah Bernhardt played Hamlet with a wooden leg. And in tights too. How about that?’

  ‘Brilliant!’ she approved. ‘A woman after my own heart. If she could do it, so can I.’ Her bruised face was fierce with determination. ‘I’m not giving in to this,’ she said. ‘I’m not going to let it change my life. If my mother can’t do it, half a leg won’t either.’

  ‘You’re doing well,’ Sister told her as the nurse put the cradle back over her stump. ‘Go on like this and we’ll have you in the West End for Christmas.’

  And at that point, just as she was happy again and feeling that she’d be able to cope with her mother now that her stump was back under the bedclothes, Dr Quennell put his head through the curtain, looking pleased with himself.

  ‘Right,’ he said to Gemma. ‘I’ve dealt with your mother.’ His voice was full of cheerful confidence. ‘You don’t need to worry.’

  Her precarious peace was instantly broken. She was so surprised she hardly knew what to say. What was he talking about, ‘dealt with your mother’? ‘I beg your pardon.’

  ‘She’s gone,’ he explained and he paused for her approval, smiling at her. ‘You don’t have to see her. I’ve sent her away.’

  She didn’t approve at all. She was very annoyed. How dare he take it on himself to do such a thing! ‘I never asked you to.’

  He was surprised to see that he’d made her angry and, thrown off balance, took refuge in formality. ‘I made a professional judgement,’ he said stiffly. ‘It was for your own good. I can’t allow visitors to upset you.’

  Anger sparked in the air between them. He might be handsome but that didn’t give him the right to play God. ‘They’re my visitors,’ she told him, ‘and I’ll cope with them. I’m not a child.’

  ‘You’re my patient,’ he retorted angrily. ‘And it’s my judgement. I can’t allow you to be upset by outsiders.’

  ‘Outsiders!’ she said, brown eyes flashing. Her voice was so loud she was very nearly shouting. ‘That’s my mother you’re talking about. How dare you call my mother an outsider?’

  ‘As far as this ward is concerned she is an outsider,’ he said furiously, thrown even further off balance by the impact of those eyes. And he left her quickly before they could quarrel outright. What was she thinking of to question his judgement? His professional judgement. She really was the most difficult patient he’d ever known. And the least grateful.

  He’s as bad as my bloody mother, Gemma thought, as she watched him stride away down the ward. He’s pushing me around in exactly the same way. I won’t have it. How dare he send her away! The nerve of it!

  ‘And he’s supposed to be gorgeous,’ she complained to the nurse. ‘If that’s being gorgeous, I can do without it.’

  The nurse was as surprised as she was. ‘I’ve never known him go on like that,’ she confessed. ‘He’s usually lovely. Ever so calm. Never a cross word. I don’t know what’s got into him.’

  Chapter 6

  When Billie Goodeve stormed into the lift, she was in a bad mood too, furious with the doctor for sending her away and furious with herself for allowing him to do it. By the time she reached the ground floor, she was steaming with resentment. She strode through the shops towards the entrance, clutching her handbag like a weapon.

  There was a knot of people standing on the walkway almost in front of her, youngsters most of them, all in blue jeans, and all talking earnestly to a woman in a green anorak. She’d almost passed them before she realised who they were and what they were doing.

  ‘Still in traction of course, poor little man,’ the woman was saying, ‘but ever so much better.’

  ‘You didn’t happen to see Gemma Goodeve, did you?’ one young man asked.

  The name echoed in Billie’s head like a challenge. Right! she thought. There’s my chance! I’ll be even with you, young feller-me-lad, you see if I won’t. And she strode into the crowd. ‘If you want to know anything about Gemma Goodeve,’ she said, ‘I’m the one you should be asking.’

  The effect was electrifying. She’d never had such instant attention. Faces and microphones swung her way at once. Young bodies surrounded her, all eager to hear what she was going to say. It was wonderful. Made her feel ten feet tall.

  ‘And you are?’ the young man asked.

  ‘I’m Gemma’s mother,’ she said, turning towards the cameraman. ‘I’m Mrs Billie Goodeve.’

  He held his microphone towards her. ‘What can you tell us, Mrs Goodeve?’ he asked. ‘How is she?’

  ‘Ruined,’ she said, ‘if you really want to know. She’s being very brave about it, of course, but her life’s over. She was going to be a model, you see. The photographers loved her. They said she was a natural.’

  ‘You haven’t got a snap of her, have you?’

  ‘Well actually, as it happens, I have,’ Billie said, opening her bag to find it. ‘She had a portfolio done. I’ve got one of the proofs here somewhere.’ It was paining her to remember the fuss there’d been over that portfolio. She’d had to literally drag the silly girl to the photographer’s, kicking and screaming all the way. And then she hadn’t used them. ‘There you are. Wasn’t she a beauty?’

  The reporter took the little portrait and looked at it, plainly impressed. ‘Could we borrow it for a day or two, Mrs Goodeve? We’ll give it back.’

  ‘Why not?’ she said. ‘She can’t use it now, can she, poor girl. Not with one leg and a great scar all down her face. And God knows what other injuries.’

  ‘Have you seen her this morning?’ another reporter asked.

  ‘No I haven’t,’ Billie told him, anger renewing. ‘I wasn’t allowed to.’

  ‘Why was that?’

  ‘I couldn’t tell you. They said they were attending to her. She had the curtains drawn all round her bed. I couldn’t even see her from a distance.’

  ‘So she’s worse?’

  ‘I hope not. But how can I tell?’ Billie said, delighted by the way the interview was going. ‘Poor girl. Still, she’ll get massive compensation.’

  That interested them all very much. ‘Is she going to sue?’

  At that point Billie realised with a pang that she might have gone too far. But it was too late now. The words were said. She had to continue. ‘Well of course she will,’ she said firmly. ‘I should just think so with injuries like that! She’ll never work again. Not in that state. She’ll have to come home with me and be looked after for the rest of her life. It won’t be easy. She’ll need all the help she can get.’

  ‘Have you any idea how much you’ll go for?’

  Billie hadn’t thought about a sum of money. ‘As much as possible,’ she supposed. ‘It will depend on the inquiry, won’t it? Who’s to blame and that sort of thing.’

  ‘A quarter of a million?’ the reporter suggested. ‘Half?’

  Billie smiled
at that. It would be like winning the lottery. ‘Probably. Who knows?’

  It was just what they wanted to hear. They thanked her profusely, took her address, checked what time she’d be back the following day, told her she was a star.

  ‘What papers are you from?’ she asked as they parted company.

  All the Sunday tabloids, apparently. Excellent! Put that in your pipe and smoke it, Dr Whoever-you-are! ‘I shall look out for them,’ she said.

  ‘Watch the front page!’ they told her.

  And the front page it was, as she discovered early the next morning when she went down to the newsagent’s. They’d made a wonderful spread of it – a big picture from the portfolio, looking really glamorous, and a smaller one of the poor darling on a stretcher all bloodstained, alongside huge headlines: CRASH HEROINE TO SUE. She bought all three papers on display and took them home to enjoy with her breakfast.

  That was a lovely photograph. What a good job she’d kept it. But the memory of the making of that portfolio set a suspicion sneaking into her mind. She shouldn’t have told those reporters quite so much. Not yet anyway. Not until Gemma had made up her mind. She’d really jumped the gun a bit. But then again it was too good an opportunity to miss and, if she’d left it to Gemma, it would have gone on and on before she did anything. She’d always been the same. In any case this was different. An accident is not the same thing as a few photographs. She’s going to need that compensation. She’d’ve gone for it anyway, sooner or later. I’ve done her a good turn really, if you think about it.

  She bundled the papers together and put them on the sideboard out of harm’s way. I’ll take them in with me this evening and let her see them. They’ve said some lovely things about her. She’ll be thrilled. Poor darling.