Gemma's Journey

by Beryl Kingston

  ‘So I gathered,’ Catherine smiled.

  ‘She came here with flowers and chocolates,’ Gemma said, ‘pretending to be a friend and all she really wanted was for me to tell her I was going to sue the railway. She conned me and I let her do it.’

  ‘That’s the trouble with a place like this,’ Catherine said. ‘You can keep them out of the wards but you can’t stop them walking into the shopping area.’

  ‘It was all a trick,’ Gemma went on. ‘I can’t believe I fell for it. That’s what’s so awful. I’m not a fool. I should have seen through it and I didn’t. I fell for it.’ Then she stopped, feeling suddenly ashamed to be unburdening herself to yet another stranger. And this woman was a stranger. She could see that now. Her dark blue uniform wasn’t the regulation dress of the hospital, after all, and she had a blue coat over her arm, so she was probably a visitor. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be going on like this. I’m keeping you.’

  ‘Actually,’ Catherine said, ‘you’re not. It’s you I’ve come to see.’

  Gemma’s anger had receded sufficiently for sense – and memory – to return. ‘Which is how you knew my name,’ she said. And she moved the flowers out of the way so that the sister could sit beside her. The air was suddenly rich with the sharp sweet smell of freesias. ‘Is it about my new leg?’

  ‘No,’ Catherine said, smiling at her. How easy this was after all! ‘It’s about your new flat.’

  Gemma made a grimace. ‘Not the hostel again,’ she said.

  ‘No, no,’ Catherine reassured her. ‘Nothing like that. This is a self-contained flat in a family home.’

  ‘You’re not a social worker are you?’

  ‘No. I work in a health centre. In Putney. And before you ask, it’s my flat. Mine and my husband’s. You met him at the crash. He was the anaesthetist who put you out.’

  He was remembered with delight and gratitude. ‘He was wonderful,’ Gemma said. ‘The kindest man. I shall remember him for ever. Fancy him being your husband. Will you thank him for me? I never got the chance that morning.’

  ‘Come and take a look at the flat,’ Catherine suggested, ‘and you can thank him yourself.’

  ‘Well …’ Gemma hesitated. Thanking him was one thing, taking a flat in his house quite another.

  ‘We thought you might like it,’ Catherine said, ‘as a sort of halfway house. You wouldn’t be there long, naturally, just for the next few weeks until you’re happy with your prosthesis and you’ve learned to walk again. After that you’ll want to find somewhere more permanent.’ Gemma was nodding agreement, so she went on. ‘It might suit you. You can be as independent as you like but we’ll be around to keep an eye on you, just in case.’ And as Gemma was obviously still thinking about it, she told her a bit more about the flat, explaining how it had come to be built and where it was in relation to the house and how long it had been empty. ‘It’s not very big, just a bedroom and a shower and a living room and a kitchen, but it’s private and it would give you your independence. So there you are, you’re welcome to it if you’d like it.’

  It was too good to be true. ‘Wouldn’t someone else in your family want it? I mean, if it was built for your mother-in-law and nobody else has ever lived in it, I might be a bit of an intruder.’

  ‘I’ve got a son in Canada who uses it when he brings his family over on a long visit, but it’ll be empty for the next month or so. Nobody’s likely to need it until the spring. I don’t think you’d be an intruder.’

  ‘I’d pay rent, wouldn’t I?’

  ‘Yes, you would,’ Catherine agreed, understanding that this was an important part of this girl’s independence. ‘So you’ll come and see it, will you? I’ll give you my card. That’s where I work and my address is on the other side.’

  ‘Wellfield Health Centre,’ Gemma read. Then she saw the name and her eyes widened. ‘Oh!’ she said. ‘My doctor here’s called Quennell. You’re not related by any chance?’

  ‘He’s my son,’ Catherine said, wondering how she would respond.

  Gemma frowned. Now this was going to complicate things. ‘Does he know you’re offering me this flat? Doesn’t he want it himself?’

  ‘Oh no. He lives in the hospital. Don’t worry. We’ll tell him if you take it. It isn’t a problem.’

  Gemma was thinking hard. ‘I ought to warn you,’ she said at last. ‘I can be … a bit tricky.’ It was hard to admit it but she had to be honest. ‘I won’t take charity. I won’t let anyone feel sorry for me. I won’t be pathetic, or a victim, or a cripple. That’s not my style.’ And she made her joke again, half laughing, half defiant. ‘I shall stand on my own feet, even if I’ve only got one.’

  ‘Quite right,’ Catherine approved. ‘So when will you come and see it? How about Tuesday? I could drive over and pick you up.’

  He’ll be so annoyed, Gemma thought. But it serves him right for offering me a ‘disabled’ room. I wonder how often he visits them. She would have liked to ask but she couldn’t do it yet. It would certainly be interesting to meet him on his home ground, on equal terms. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Tuesday would be lovely. Thank you.’

  * * *

  Andrew was on the phone when Catherine got back to Amersham Road. He waved at her but went on speaking into the receiver. ‘When would that be?’

  The phone buzzed an answer. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I think I could manage that. Fax me the details. Yes. The number is …’

  ‘What was all that about?’ she asked when he finally put the receiver down. His grin was positively devilish.

  ‘I’ve just been asked to appear on A Question of Morals. How about that?’

  It was one of the new prestigious programmes, fast making a name for itself as outspoken and hard-hitting. ‘I thought you didn’t approve of chat shows,’ she teased.

  ‘I don’t. Most of them are trashy. But this isn’t a chat show. It’s current affairs. Far more responsible.’ And when she grimaced at him: ‘Anyway, I’ve agreed to do it. Apparently they’re impressed by the way I predicted the outcome of the inquiry. They want someone who’s prepared to speak out. Thought I’d be ideal. It’s rather a compliment. Did you see our crash girl?’

  ‘Yes. And she’s interested. She’s coming here on Tuesday. I’ve invited her to dinner.’

  ‘Ah!’ he said.

  ‘Is that a problem?’

  ‘The show’s on Tuesday,’ he said. ‘I shan’t be here, at least not till it’s over. Pity!’

  ‘In that case, we’ll watch you,’ she promised. ‘And if you play your cards right we’ll wait dinner for you. How will that be?’

  ‘Sounds a good wheeze!’ he said, grinning at her again. ‘Did you see Nick?’

  ‘No I didn’t,’ she told him. ‘And you’re a wicked old devil.’

  Chapter 10

  Billie Goodeve lived on her own in a block of flats called ‘The High’ on the Streatham High Road. It was only a short walk away from the boutique she ran at Streatham Hill and it had once been quite a prestigious address, which is why she’d moved there in the first place. But now she had to admit it had rather come down in the world. Her flat was on the second floor, and had what the estate agents called ‘the benefit of a view’, which sounded rather grand but actually meant that her living room window overlooked the main road which, in its turn, meant that she had to keep it shut most of the time to avoid the noise and fumes of the traffic.

  Nevertheless it was a pleasant flat and she kept it spotless, hoovering and polishing every day even though it made her back ache. It was a point of honour with her to be presentable – just in case anyone came to call. Not that many did, apart from Mrs Cohen from the first floor, and that was usually because she wanted to borrow something. Social life in the High wasn’t exactly what you’d call scintillating. So it was rather a surprise when her doorbell rang on that Thursday evening.

  Now who’s that? she thought, and she walked through the flat to answer it, tucking the hoover into the broom cupboard as she went. Whoever it was,
they weren’t exactly patient. They’d rung again before she’d reached the door. It’ll be Jehovah’s Witnesses, she thought. That’s just what I need.

  But she only had to take one look at the couple standing in the porch to realise that they’d come from the papers. The girl was wearing a smart trouser suit and had a long camel coat slung over her shoulders like a model, and the man was carrying a camera.

  ‘Yes?’ she said, patting her hair and wishing she’d stopped to comb it. ‘How can I help you? Is it about my Gemma?’

  ‘Got it in one,’ the girl said, beaming at her. ‘Spot on! I’m doing an article on your Gemma for the Sunday Chronicle. Isn’t she fabulous! We’re all such fans. Anyway, I said to Jake here – this is Jake, by the way. I’m Nicky Stretton – I said, I’ll bet her mother will be just the one to tell us about her. Could we come in and talk to you?’

  Billie wasn’t sure. She’d already said rather too much to the newspapers and maybe she ought to draw back a bit. ‘Well,’ she said. ‘To tell the truth, I’m rather busy at the moment.’

  ‘We wouldn’t disturb you,’ Nicky promised. ‘We could come back in half an hour if you’d prefer. It’s just that your Gemma is such a star and we do so want to talk to someone who really knows her. I’ve just been talking to her myself and I do so admire her. We just need a little background. And who better to provide it than her mother?’

  The persistent flattery had its effect. ‘Just for a minute then,’ Billie decided, standing aside to let them in. If Gemma’d spoken to them it must be all right. She led them through into the living room, indicated the armchairs they were to sit in and took up a position on the sofa, facing them. This time she would be careful.

  Nicky Stretton looked at the pictures on the sideboard, noting how many were of Gemma when young, and thinking: That one must be the father. He does look a bit like Errol Flynn.

  ‘What lovely photographs!’ she said admiringly. ‘Have you got any more – an album or something? I’d love to see it if you have.’

  That was easy. And there was no harm in it. Three bulging albums were produced at once.

  ‘Brilliant!’ Nicky applauded, flicking through the pages of the first one. ‘These are wonderful, Mrs Goodeve. I suppose we couldn’t take copies of some of them, could we? We’ll send them straight back to you.’

  Yes, of course they could.

  ‘We want to write a piece on her childhood,’ Nicky explained. ‘What she was like as a little girl.’ And she began to prompt. ‘I’ll bet she was a really good kid.’

  ‘Yes,’ Billie agreed, plunging straight into her favourite fantasy. ‘She was good. A dear little girl. I never had any trouble with her. She used to spend hours playing with her dolls, dear little thing. All by herself but she never complained. My neighbours used to say she was the best child they’d ever seen. And she was, although I say it myself. No trouble at all. And pretty! You’d never believe how pretty she was. Well you can see it, can’t you, from the snaps.’

  ‘It must have been a shock when she was injured.’

  ‘Oh it was. And of course, she’s had to have another operation since then. Did you know that? The wound turned septic. They rang me up in the middle of the night to tell me. She could have died, poor darling. And now it turns out they could have saved her leg if there’d been a crane.’

  ‘I suppose when she leaves hospital she’ll be coming home to you?’

  The answer was a touch too bold. ‘Of course. Where else would she go?’

  ‘But I’ll expect you’ll move once she gets her money.’

  That put Billie on her mettle. ‘I couldn’t say,’ she told them guardedly. ‘It depends on her, doesn’t it? If she wants to buy a better place, then naturally I wouldn’t stand in her way. I want the best for my little girl. We all want that, don’t we? The best for our children. But I wouldn’t press her. I’ve never pressed her about anything. It’s something I wouldn’t do.’

  ‘Could you tell us about her father?’ Nicky suggested. ‘He left her when she was young, I believe.’

  ‘He was a lovely man,’ Billie recalled. ‘Terribly good-looking. There’s a snap of him, there. So you can see how good-looking he was. He doted on Gemma. She was his little princess.’

  Nicky waited.

  ‘She was broken-hearted when he left. Poor little thing. But there you are. It had to be. Life’s like that. It was work, you see. We all have to earn a living, don’t we?’

  ‘And you’ve earned your living and Gemma’s ever since?’

  ‘Yes, I have,’ Billie said, relieved that the conversation had moved away from Gemma’s father. If they’d followed that tack for any distance it could have been difficult. ‘We were all in all to one another. Like sisters. We still are. I think it comes of having a good home. There’s nothing to beat a good home, is there? Somewhere to come back to when you’re down – a bit of love and understanding – home comforts – that sort of thing. There’s nobody to beat your mother, when all’s said and done.’

  They taped her every happy self-enhancing word, took so many pictures of her that it made her head spin, borrowed pictures of Gemma and her father, and left her in a trance of euphoria, still relishing the full satisfying flavour of the role she’d been playing. She hadn’t enjoyed an evening so much in years.

  And when it came out the article was lovely. All about what a good little girl she’d been ‘… never a moment’s trouble … We were like sisters…’ and how brave she was being: ‘… deserted, fatherless, crippled, yet she still fights on, taking on the might of the establishment…’ and how much she missed her father. The photos they’d taken in the flat were excellent too. ‘Mrs Goodeve in her south London home … I am looking forward to the day when Gemma can come home and I can look after her … we shall be so happy.’

  But she couldn’t sit around all Sunday reading the newspapers, pleasant though it was. She had the bedroom to hoover and the ironing to do. She’d only just finished her last white blouse when the doorbell rang. Well aren’t you the popular one these days, she said to herself and this time she hurried to answer it.

  There was a lone man standing in the hallway, looking away from her down the hall as he waited. But he wasn’t a reporter. She could see that at once because he was far too well dressed. It was rather a disappointment. And he wasn’t one of the residents either, which was another. She had hoped some of them would have seen the article and come up to talk to her about it. She was still wondering about him, when he turned towards her. And then, in a moment of shock and delight and disbelief, she knew who he was.

  ‘Oh my good God!’ she said. ‘Tim! It can’t be.’ Tim Ledgerwood, in the flesh, standing on her doorstep as if he’d never been away. ‘Oh Tim! What are you doing here?’

  ‘Aren’t you going to ask me in?’ he said, smiling his old charming smile.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I’m forgetting my manners.’ But surprise was making it difficult to breathe. It couldn’t be him. Not after all these years. But it was, and just the same as she remembered him, every bit as handsome, a little shorter maybe, a touch of grey at the temples, a few wrinkles, but he still had the same jaunty air, the same smile, and that lovely thick hair and that little moustache. ‘It’s just such a shock to see you again. You haven’t changed a bit.’

  He smoothed the grey hair on his temples and smiled at her as he stepped into the flat. ‘Neither have you. You’re as beautiful as ever.’

  She led the way into the living room, her cheeks flushed with pleasure, her thoughts spinning and fractured. Had he come back to her after all these years? You heard about men returning to their first loves in the end. She’d read a story just like that only last week in the hairdresser’s. What if he’s going to ask me to take him back? Why has he come here? Why …? What if …? It was all a little unreal.

  He was smooth and assured, just as he’d always been. ‘I see nothing’s changed,’ he said, looking around. ‘It’s all exactly as I remembered it. The display
cabinet. Those vases. The clock. I remember that. It used to keep us awake at night. Do you remember, Billie? And you used to turn it off.’

  She remembered. Oh how well she remembered!

  He asked her permission to smoke and she gave it and provided him with an ashtray. ‘You have a lovely home,’ he said.

  ‘I try to keep it nice,’ she agreed, drinking in the sight of him. It was still hard to believe he was there. They sat in her chintz-covered chairs, facing one another, as he drew the smoke into his lungs in the old familiar way, holding the cigarette elegantly between his fingers, smiling at her.

  ‘I used to dream about this place,’ he said, leaning towards her earnestly. ‘This place and you. You’ve no idea how I missed you. Many and many’s the time I’ve lain awake at night wishing I could come back.’

  This was the stuff of her dreams, the words she’d always hoped she’d hear him say. ‘Oh Tim,’ she said, ‘why didn’t you?’

  ‘I didn’t dare. I thought you’d turn me away.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have done.’

  ‘I can see that now. But you’d have had every right. Anyway I didn’t dare. I was a fool, wasn’t I?’

  ‘Never mind,’ she said. ‘You’re here now. Oh it is good to see you.’

  ‘I had to come this time, didn’t I,’ he said. And he picked up her copy of the Chronicle and spread it out on the coffee table, flicking it open so that they could see his photograph on the centre page. ‘The minute I heard about our poor Gemma, I caught the first flight out.’

  ‘First flight from where?’

  ‘Cape Town,’ he told her.

  ‘Is that where you’re living now?’

  ‘That’s where.’

  ‘So what have you been doing with yourself?’

  ‘This and that,’ he said vaguely.

  ‘And did you make your fortune?’

  The answer was even more vague, as if it was hardly worth giving. ‘Oh yes.’ He leant forward towards her, grey eyes full of concern. ‘Tell me about Gemma. Poor kid. Is she very badly hurt?’