Gemma's Journey

by Beryl Kingston

  ‘Is anything up?’

  It was too direct and the answer was aggressive. ‘No. Why should there be?’

  So there is, Catherine thought and backtracked at once. ‘No reason. I just wondered.’

  ‘I think I’m going to accept the job I told you about.’

  A clue? Catherine wondered and asked, ‘Do I congratulate you or would that be premature?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Well, let me put it another way. Is it a good thing or a bad thing?’

  Susan put down her glass and looked her mother directly in the eye. ‘I don’t know that either. There’s a snag. Matter of fact, I phoned Chris about it yesterday. To see what he’d have to say.’

  So this is what she really wants to talk about, Catherine thought, considering how much a call like that would have cost, and it’s serious. I shall have to be very careful.

  ‘And what did he say?’

  ‘He said go for it. But that’s Chris all over.’ She sighed. ‘I don’t know. I suppose it’s what you’d call a moral dilemma.’

  Catherine waited.

  ‘It’s a matter of telling the whole truth,’ Susan said, plunging into confession at last. ‘Or not quite the whole truth. What it boils down to is this. Do I tell my new bosses I’m Dad’s daughter and risk not being offered the job? Or do I keep my mouth shut and risk them finding out later on?’

  ‘Is it a risk?’

  ‘I think so. But that’s part of the trouble. I can’t be sure. If he hadn’t started all this by slagging off the railways it might have been all right. Or if he wasn’t in the news all the time slagging off the government. I just don’t know what to do for the best.’

  Catherine smiled. ‘Is that how you see what he’s doing? Slagging off the government?’

  This time it was Susan’s turn to backtrack. It wouldn’t do to let her mother think she was criticising her father. ‘Well no, not exactly. That was anger talking.’ And when Catherine’s eyebrows rose at the word, she explained. ‘I know he doesn’t mean to but he’s making my life very difficult at the moment.’

  ‘He’s writing a column for the Independent,’ Catherine felt she ought to warn her.

  ‘Well let’s hope they restrict him to talking about medicine,’ Susan sighed. ‘If he starts on about the railways again, I shall be sunk.’

  ‘But that’s all over, isn’t it?’ Catherine said. ‘The report’s published. There haven’t been any side-effects.’

  ‘If you discount twenty-four claims for damages.’

  ‘But it’s history.’

  Susan sighed again. ‘I only wish it were. The trouble is there’s going to be another inquiry. By Railtrack.’

  Ah, Catherine thought. So this is politics. ‘What for?’

  ‘To inquire into the availability of cranes. Railways South have been pressing for it. They say that if the cranes had been brought in more rapidly there wouldn’t have been so many fatalities. They’ve been pressing for someone else to be involved for weeks – ever since our report was published, in fact. It’s what comes of being privatised. When we were BR there was never a problem. It was all done centrally and we could withstand any number of claims. Now the network’s been broken down, there are dozens of companies and we’re into buck-passing time. Nobody wants to take the blame.’

  Catherine could see the problem. ‘Have you talked this over with Rob?’ she asked.

  Susan made a grimace. ‘No,’ she said. ‘He wouldn’t understand. They don’t go in for office politics in the gardening world. Besides, he’s been in Leeds rather a lot recently with this Christmas show. I haven’t had much chance to talk to him about anything.’ He was there at the moment at a gardeners’ conference, which was why Catherine had come to visit and why they were all going to Leeds the next day. ‘Not that it would make any difference if I had. He’s so laid back he’d just say, “What’s the problem?” and forget about it. No, when it comes down to it I’ve got to work this one out on my own. It’s a straight choice. Do I tell the whole truth and risk not being offered the job? Or do I keep my mouth shut and get the job and hope I won’t get found out?’

  It was a dilemma. And it kept Catherine awake for what little was left of the night. What could she advise? What could anyone advise? Maybe I ought to say something to Drew. But what? And how? Why was family life so hideously complicated?

  Chapter 21

  Saturday was one of those bleak December days, when the sun is so weak that every trace of colour is leached away from earth, sky and human countenance. The winter grass was so pale that it was almost grey and the tatty hedges and denuded trees were reduced to a dull monochrome, their branches grey against the dirty white of the sky.

  Billie woke that morning feeling ill and one look at the world beyond her window made her feel worse, but she got up and made herself a cup of tea and tried to get on with her day. While she was sipping the tea, the post arrived but it was only a letter for Tim from Gresham, Gresham, Philpott and Mainwaring and she didn’t have the energy to think about that. It would have to wait until he got back. She swathed herself in her warmest coat, found a hat and a very thick scarf and set off to work, even though her nose was running like a tap and her throat felt as though she’d been eating barbed wire. Saturday was her busiest day and she couldn’t afford to miss the trade.

  Nick was hard at work on the wards and too weary to notice what the weather was like. From time to time he wondered how Gemma was and promised himself that he’d ring her as soon as he got the chance, because he really should have tried to find the time to go down and say goodbye to her. But once he was off duty he fell across his bed and slept as though he’d been anaesthetised.

  In Poppleton, Helen and Naomi were up at six, loud and ready for their day in Leeds. They were so excited they didn’t care what colour the sky was, and wouldn’t have noticed if it had fallen on their heads, Chicken-Licken style.

  Only Gemma paid any attention to it and that was because she was reduced to travelling in her chair. She knew she ought to take a rug to keep herself warm but decided against it. She was young and strong and, after the humiliation of the previous night, she needed to prove it. There was no necessity to appear more of an invalid than she was. She jammed a red woollen hat on her head, arranged a red paisley scarf round her neck, found her one and only pair of gloves, tucked her crutches beside her and set off for Putney High Street and the letting agencies.

  And didn’t find anything suitable, which, despite her deliberately cheerful mood, was rather dispiriting. The trouble was that nearly all the flats she visited were impossible for a wheelchair, the first because there were awkward steps, the second because the door was too narrow for her to get through. The third had a better entrance but was poorly lit and hideously ugly inside. The fourth looked so dour she didn’t even bother with it.

  By this time the estate agent, who was young and conceited, was beginning to get sick of her. ‘Well that’s it,’ he told her, walking away from the fifth flat. ‘I haven’t got anything else.’

  ‘Just as well you’re not the only letting agent in town,’ she said, grinning at him to keep up her spirits.

  But the other one hadn’t got anything suitable either. By lunchtime she’d annoyed him too by turning down every single flat he suggested. Bar one.

  ‘I’ll come back after lunch and see that,’ she said. ‘Is there a restaurant or a McDonald’s anywhere that can take a wheelchair?’

  He didn’t know and plainly didn’t care.

  ‘Not to worry,’ she said. ‘I’ll find one.’

  But like finding a flat, it was easier said than done. Why is everything so complicated when you’re in a chair? she thought, buzzing past yet another impossible entrance. And then, as if to show her that there were complications she hadn’t even thought about, the chair suddenly seized up and stopped.

  It didn’t take her long to realise what had happened. The wretched batteries had gone flat. She’d noticed how low they were on F
riday morning when she went to the school, so she ought to have put them on charge overnight. But she’d been in such a rush to get out to the theatre that she’d forgotten all about them, and later on she’d been too upset. How could she have been so careless? More to the point, what was she going to do now? It was much too far for her to walk back home, even if her stump was up to it, which it certainly wasn’t. What was worse, there was no one she could phone to come and rescue her, because Andrew and Catherine weren’t due back until tomorrow morning. What was she going to do?

  By this time the chair was causing an obstruction and people were giving her odd looks. ‘I’ve broken down,’ she explained and tried to cover her embarrassment with a joke. ‘I’m waiting for the AA.’

  ‘Would you like a push?’ two young men offered.

  ‘I live at the top of the hill,’ she told them. ‘And it’s very heavy.’

  The weight of the chair deterred them. ‘We’ll get it out the way then,’ the older one compromised.

  So they heaved it to one side and parked it beside the nearest shop front. I shall have to phone for a taxi, Gemma thought. But there was no sign of a phone box anywhere – wouldn’t you know it?

  Now that she wasn’t in the middle of the pavement, the shoppers passed her without giving her much attention, apart from the occasional sympathetic look from those who’d stopped to gaze at the shop window, and an unexpected wave from a dilapidated lady on the other side of the road. She was a funny-looking old thing, not much better than a tramp, in an ancient tweed coat tied round the middle with a man’s belt, Wellington boots and a woolly hat that had fallen over one eye, but she was smiling happily and didn’t seem a bit abashed when Gemma stared at her. Quite the reverse, in fact. She stepped to the kerb, looked carefully to left and right, crossed, and walked straight towards the chair.

  ‘Hello duck,’ she said. ‘Didn’tcher get yer new leg after all, then?’

  The sound of her voice revealed who she was – the oldest inhabitant from Page Ward.

  ‘Well hello to you,’ Gemma said, smiling at her. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Fell on me feet, didn’t I,’ the old lady said, sucking her teeth.

  ‘You didn’t go to a home, then?’

  ‘Not likely. I told you I wouldn’t, didn’t I. No, I got one a them sheltered flats up the ’ill. Lovely it is. We got a warden an’ a club room an’ a nice little bus to bring us down here shopping. All sorts. Worth waitin’ for. But never mind me, what are you doin’ here? I thought they was gonna fit you with a new leg.’

  Gemma explained, shivering a little in the cold wind.

  ‘Good job I was passin’ then,’ the old lady said. ‘How far can you walk?’

  ‘About a hundred yards, I should think. I don’t want to go too far in case of making it worse.’

  ‘That’ll do,’ the old lady said, nodding and smiling. ‘Come on.’

  ‘Where to?’

  ‘Why, the church. Where else? They’ll help yer. Ever so nice they are. I go every Sunday. It’s just up the road.’

  Gemma wasn’t hopeful. For a start she doubted whether there would be anyone there. Most churches were locked up during the week these days, weren’t they? And if there was someone around, it was even less likely that there’d be a phone. From what she remembered of churches they were dull empty places with rows and rows of dusty pews facing a distant high altar where you had to creep about and whisper. But she struggled to her surviving foot, balanced on her crutches and limped off towards the church.

  ‘How’s yer mum?’ the oldest inhabitant asked as they struggled down the slope towards the church entrance.

  The question provoked a stab of conscience. So much had happened in the last few days, she’d forgotten all about her. She’d even forgotten about her father. ‘She’s fine.’

  ‘She’s ever so fond of you, you know,’ the old lady said. ‘She used ter come an’ talk to me when you wasn’t there. I still got all them cuttings. You remember. You as a little gel. I show ’em to the old folks. I say, See that gel. Famous, she is. I was in hospital with her. I tell ’em about your flowers. D’you remember? An’ how you dressed up as a clown that time. D’you remember that? Give her my regards next time you see her.’

  ‘I will,’ Gemma said, speaking the words automatically but wondering when it would be. I really ought to ring her.

  But there wasn’t time to feel guilty about it because the old lady was bustling her through a side door. ‘Here we are then,’ she said. ‘This is St Mary’s.’

  It wasn’t a bit what Gemma expected. The side door led into a modern vestibule made of a richly coloured wood. Beech, was it? Or ash? And when she hobbled through into the church itself she found a place transformed. The side aisles were gone and there were no pews, only rows of wide chairs, upholstered in leather and arranged in long curved rows to face north, towards the river. The altar wasn’t where she expected it to be either, but in the centre of the north side of the building, below a new stained-glass window designed in long strips of shiny primary colour, like a stage curtain or a collection of bright, furled flags. The impact of the place was extraordinary, uplifting and decidedly friendly.

  ‘Stay there,’ the oldest inhabitant ordered. ‘An’ I’ll get John.’

  She returned within seconds with a middle-aged man in a fleecy T-shirt and corduroy trousers. He reminded Gemma of someone but for the moment she couldn’t think who it was – middle-aged, dark eyes, gentle face, brown beard going grey.

  ‘I gather you need a lift home,’ he said. ‘You’ve come at the right moment. I was just going to take my wife shopping. My car’s just outside.’

  Gemma was touched. ‘That’s very kind of you.’

  ‘We are kind,’ he said. ‘That’s us. If you’ll just wait here a minute while I get Sarah … We’ll pick up your chair en route.’

  ‘I shall sit here and admire your church,’ she told him. ‘I’ve never seen one like this.’

  ‘Ah!’ he said. ‘Thereby hangs a tale, which I’ll tell you on the way.’

  So the oldest inhabitant took herself off, saying she’d have to look sharp or she’d miss her bus, and Sarah was collected from the office and away they went.

  ‘Right,’ John said, when the chair had been picked up and they were driving up the High Street, following Gemma’s directions. ‘About the church. It’s quite a story. We had a fire, you see. A really bad one. The whole place was gutted. By the time the Fire Brigade got it under control, there was nothing left but the outer walls. It took us ten years to rebuild it, didn’t it, Sarah? We only reopened in 1983. But as you see, it gave us a chance to redesign, to think about the sort of church we wanted, to start anew in the way we wanted. I suppose you could say we made a virtue of necessity.’

  ‘And now you’ve got a beautiful new church,’ Gemma said.

  ‘Well we think so.’

  ‘With a larger congregation,’ Sarah smiled. ‘I’m happy to say.’ She was an old-fashioned foil to his dark gentleness, being slight and pale with her fair hair caught up in a bun at the nape of her neck.

  ‘It must have seemed like the end when it was burnt down,’ Gemma sympathised. ‘I know how that feels. It seemed like the end to me when I knew my leg had been cut off.’

  ‘It never is the end, though, is it?’ John smiled. ‘Sometimes it’s a beginning.’

  ‘Yes,’ she agreed. ‘Sometimes it is.’ And she suddenly realised who he reminded her of, with that gentle face and that neat greying beard. It was Rob Pengilly.

  When they reached Amersham Road, it was an effort for her helpers to struggle with the heavy wheelchair into the flat, which embarrassed Gemma, even though they assured her it was quite all right.

  ‘You’ve been so kind,’ she said to them. ‘I don’t know how to thank you.’

  ‘It’s all part of the service,’ John told her, as he got his breath back. ‘Incidentally, Mabel said you were flat-hunting when your chair broke down. Have you found what you wanted?’ />
  She shook her head. ‘I wish I had.’

  ‘Have you tried St Mary’s Court?’

  She hadn’t even heard of it.

  ‘Oh well, if that’s the case, let me recommend it,’ he said. ‘It’s a new complex down by the river, built by a housing trust. Mostly family flats and houses but they’ve got a block of sheltered flats too. They might be just the thing. What do you think, Sarah?’

  Sarah thought they would be ideal. ‘They’re really rather nice,’ she said. ‘I’ve seen them. They’ve got lifts and special fitments and all that sort of thing. Would you be interested in one?’

  ‘Yes,’ Gemma told her. ‘If I could afford the rent. Very interested.’

  ‘I don’t know about the rent,’ John admitted. ‘But it shouldn’t be prohibitive. Why don’t you go and see?’

  It was the third time since her accident that she’d been picked up from a miserable state by the unexpected kindness of strangers – first the flowers, then Catherine with her offer of the granny flat and now this. ‘I will,’ she told her new friends. ‘And thank you very much. For everything. I’m really grateful.’

  She went the very next morning, driving her newly charged chair down the long hill towards the High Street in a state of such happy expectation that only success was possible. The sun was shining again, colour had returned to the world, and she sang as she drove, ‘Let it be! Let it be!’ past the Edwardian villas and the prestigious flats of Manor Fields, round the crossing and past the curved frontage of Bernard Marcus Estate Agents, along a High Street which was empty of everything except two red buses and a family car, down to the river and the friendly tower of St Mary’s Church.

  St Mary’s Court was on a smaller site than she expected but, once inside, she found herself in a spacious courtyard, neatly paved with flowerbeds, with a fountain in the middle, and blocks of pristine new houses to north, east and west. They were built of sandy London brick richly ornamented with terracotta and in several variations of the Victorian style with gables and bay windows and wrought-iron balconies. She liked them at once and set off to find the site office.