Gemma's Journey

by Beryl Kingston

  I suppose I’ll have to thank him for it, Gemma thought, whatever it is. But her heart sank at the sight of the wrapping paper, let alone the present. It was pink with orange and blue powder puffs all over it.

  ‘Go on, Poppet, open it,’ he urged. ‘It’s lovely. You’ll love it.’

  There didn’t seem to be any way of avoiding it, so she opened her present. It was a teenager’s make-up kit, in garish colours and with a pink plastic mirror at the centre of it all.

  ‘Neat, eh?’ her father said proudly. ‘You girls always like make-up, don’t you?’

  It was all beginning to be a bit too much for Gemma. She wanted to cry because he was such a disappointment but she knew she couldn’t. She wanted to laugh because his present was so absurd but she couldn’t do that either. She knew she ought to thank him but it was simply beyond her. Fortunately the kettle was boiling, so she made him a mug of tea and suggested that it might be more comfortable to drink it in the living room.

  He took possession of the armchair and accepted the tea as though it were well-earned thanks. And Gemma sat on the sofa and drank her tea without saying anything.

  Her silence didn’t seem to worry him. ‘I must say you look better than I thought you would,’ he said. ‘When I saw you on the news you looked dreadful. I thought you were a goner, as a matter of a fact. And now here you are, an absolute stunner, as good as new.’

  ‘Well not quite,’ she corrected, annoyed that he was making so light of her injuries. ‘I’m scarred for life and I’ve got a false leg.’

  ‘Nobody would know it,’ he said, fingering his moustache. ‘So tell me, how are you getting on?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ she said. ‘As you see.’

  He gave her a rather calculating look. ‘I dare say you could do with a bit more cash, though.’

  That’s none of your business, Gemma thought, but she answered politely. ‘I manage.’

  He insisted. ‘But you could do with a bit more, now couldn’t you? For wheelchairs and things like that. Things you need. Cripple’s things. I mean, take this flat for a start. It’s very nice but it must’ve cost you a pretty penny. You can’t deny it. And you’ve got a car, haven’t you. I’ll bet that didn’t come cheap. Everything costs.’

  That was true enough but she wasn’t going to admit it to him, especially when he’d just called her a cripple. ‘I work,’ she told him. ‘I manage.’

  ‘It’s a good job I came here, if you ask me,’ he said, and leant towards her conspiratorially. ‘I could help you manage a bit better. Well a lot better, actually. In point of fact, that’s why I came to see you. I thought you might need some advice.’

  She felt that he was putting some kind of pressure on her and didn’t like it. ‘No,’ she told him firmly. ‘I don’t.’

  ‘This is a nasty world,’ he explained. ‘There are some terrible sharks out there. You take it from one who knows. Terrible sharks. As soon as I knew you were in trouble I thought to myself, you ought to get over there, Tim Ledgerwood. You ought to get over there and protect your little girl before the sharks move in. Because they’ll move in sure as God made little apples. They only have to get the slightest whiff of a bit of money and they’re round.’

  Gemma stared at him. I’m not in any trouble, she thought. What is he talking about? ‘As far as I know there’s no reason why sharks should move in on me,’ she said. ‘I haven’t got any money for them to get a whiff of. Just my wheelchair. And they’d hardly be after that.’

  ‘But you could have,’ he said. ‘That’s the point. You could have. If you sue the railway for compensation you could be a millionaire. Think of it. Well, half a millionaire anyway. And that’s where I come in. I could show you how to invest that money. Right out of the way where the sharks can’t get their greasy paws on it. I could be really useful to you.’

  Money, Gemma thought. I might have guessed. After all these years dreaming and wondering and building you up into a hero who was going to come and rescue me and love me, you turn out to be a money-grabber. And she turned to him with the sweetest smile she could conjure and began to play him along.

  ‘You must tell me all about it,’ she said, charmingly. Oh, she was a good actress! ‘I’m intrigued.’

  It was all the encouragement he needed. ‘Well first,’ he confided, ‘you ought to come with me and see a solicitor. I know a very good one. Very good. In point of fact, I’ve got him to draw up a sort of document in case you were interested. We’ve done the ground work, so to speak. The thing is, time’s getting on, and you ought to make a claim pretty soon or it could all go wrong. You wouldn’t want that, would you?’

  Smile.

  ‘There’s a lot of money at stake here,’ he explained, his face avid. ‘Half a million. And why not? You take them for every penny you can get out of them. That’s my advice. They’ve asked for it.’

  ‘Which you’d invest for me. Is that it?’

  ‘Got it in one. Actually I’ve got some brochures, if you’d like to see them. Cast-iron investments.’

  ‘And all I’d have to do is sign on the dotted line. Is that it?’

  This time her smile was just a little too sweet.

  ‘I could get you a good deal,’ he told her defensively. ‘All you’ve got to do is file the application. You want some compensation, don’t you?’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘Not particularly. I’ve got enough to live on.’

  He could feel his blood pressure rising. What was the matter with the girl? ‘We’re talking half a million here,’ he told her. ‘You’re not going to tell me you’d turn down half a million.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I think that’s exactly what I am saying.’

  She’s going out of her way to annoy me, he thought. ‘Now look here, Poppet,’ he said, assuming his stern face. ‘All this play-acting’s all very well. I mean I appreciate a joke. In the proper place. But you ought to be serious about this. If you play your cards right you could be a millionaire.’

  Time to call a halt, Gemma thought. ‘Let’s get things straight, shall we,’ she said. ‘I’m not a millionaire. I’m not going to be a millionaire. I don’t want to be a millionaire. And even if I were I wouldn’t give my money to you.’

  She was making him so cross it was all he could do to contain himself. ‘Oh I see how it is,’ he said, heavily. ‘Somebody’s been putting pressure on you, haven’t they?’

  The unpleasantness of his tone alarmed her. ‘No,’ she said.

  ‘You don’t fool me,’ he said. ‘It’s that damned Dr Quennell. Well let me tell you something about your Dr Quennell. He’s not the great hero everybody imagines.’

  ‘Dr Quennell is a very good man,’ she said springing to his defence. ‘If it hadn’t been for him I wouldn’t be here now. He saved my life.’

  ‘He’s a phoney,’ Tim said. ‘And it’s high time you knew it. He’s no more a hero than that table. When he was out in Cyprus …’

  ‘You don’t know anything about him,’ she said, before he could tell her something she didn’t want to hear.

  ‘And you do?’

  ‘Yes, I do. I’ve lived in his house.’

  ‘And that’s another thing,’ he sneered.

  The implication was too obvious to be borne. ‘I’m sorry,’ she interrupted. ‘I can’t have you maligning my friend. If you go on with this, I shall have to ask you to leave.’

  What happened next was so unexpected that it took her completely off balance. He jumped to his feet, took two strides across the carpet, seized the arms of her chair and leant over her, pushing his angry face so close to hers that they were locked in a stare. She could see the veins standing up on his forehead.

  ‘Now you listen here!’ he threatened. ‘And you listen good! You want to stop being a bloody fool. That’s what you want to do. I came here to help you. Which no one else will. D’you understand. No one. And do you know why? I’ll tell you why. Because you’re a cripple and no one wants a cripple. You ought to be down on your knees fa
sting for the help I’m giving you. Down on your knees fasting. Not coming over all hoity-toity and butter-won’t-melt and Lady Muck and I don’t want to be a millionaire. That’s not going to get you anywhere and don’t you think it. I’ve set everything up for you. I’ve gone out of my way. All you’ve got to do is come down to the solicitor’s and sign the forms. So you just make up your mind to it and stop all this bloody silly nonsense.’

  She was so shocked that for a few seconds she couldn’t move or speak and she could feel her heart swelling with fear of him. Her instincts urged her to spring to her feet and run away from him but her prosthesis seemed to be locked. Something had to be said, even if she couldn’t move. She stiffened her spine, took a deep breath and anger came suddenly and powerfully to her rescue. ‘Go away!’ she spat at him. ‘Get out of my house! How dare you behave like this!’

  He went on glaring at her for a long, long second but then he stood up, let go of the chair and took a step away from her. ‘You’re my daughter,’ he said. ‘I can speak to you how I like.’

  Now that he’d moved out of her space, she was more in command of herself, although her heart was still throbbing painfully. ‘I suggest you leave,’ she said. ‘Or I shall phone the police and have you thrown out.’

  ‘All right then,’ he said, struggling with his fury. ‘I’ll go for now. If that’s the way you want it. But I’ll be back, let me tell you. Don’t think I won’t. You’ve got papers to sign and I’m going to make sure you sign them.’

  ‘You know where the door is,’ she said. And looked away from him, willing him to go.

  She heard the door open and close but it was several seconds before she turned her head to check that he’d gone.

  It was peaceful in the flat without him. And safe. Blessedly, blessedly safe. She got to her feet at last and walked out into the hall where she leant on the arm of her wheelchair for support, feeling limp with relief. Now she could cry.

  Chapter 27

  Nick drove to Putney that Wednesday evening fuming with impatience. Just when he needed a nice clear road, the traffic was worse than he’d ever known it, slow-moving, bad-tempered and bottlenecked at every turn, at Vauxhall, in York Road and virtually all the way through Wandsworth, where the one-way system hadn’t eased the traffic flow at all. Consequently, he swung in through the archway to St Mary’s Court much too fast and at exactly the same moment as a large BMW was driving out.

  For a second he thought they were going to hit one another. ‘Fool!’ he shouted as he stood on his brakes. ‘Look where you’re bloody going!’

  The driver took no notice, but drove arrogantly past, and much too close. If he’d been an inch nearer he would have scuffed the paintwork.

  ‘Bloody roadhog!’ Nick roared and screeched to a halt in the visitors’ parking space. Then he belted across the compound to Gemma’s flat, still in a temper.

  ‘I’ve damn nearly had an accident,’ he said when she opened the door. ‘Some bloody old fool in a BMW. Driving out of here like a bat out of hell. Nearly had me off the road.’ Then he realised that she had tears in her eyes and was turning away from him. And he knew he’d made a mistake. ‘What’s up?’ he said, changing his tone. And when she didn’t answer. ‘Gemma?’

  His concern was too late. She’d needed sympathy too, not some stupid masculine complaint about somebody else’s driving. It hurt her that he hadn’t noticed what a state she was in. ‘Nothing,’ she said and walked into the living room without looking at him.

  Christ, what a bad start! He was instantly and totally reasonable again, trying to put things right. ‘It can’t be nothing,’ he argued, following her. ‘You’re crying.’

  She protected herself by being independent and stubborn. ‘I can cry if I like.’

  Now that he’d calmed down, he realised that she looked delectable, in a new red jersey and tight black jeans. He wanted to put his arms round her and comfort her with kisses. But it was too soon for that. Or too late. Oh, not too late. Don’t let it be too late. ‘What is it?’ he said, as tenderly as he dared, ‘Can’t you tell me?’

  ‘The man in the BMW was my bloody father, if you must know,’ she said, her voice angry.

  ‘Did you invite him?’ She must have done or how else would he have known where she was?

  ‘No I didn’t. He just turned up out of the blue. Oh Nick, I thought it would be wonderful to see him again. I’ve been dreaming about it for years.’

  ‘And it wasn’t,’ he understood following her into the living room.

  She walked to the window, drummed her fingers against the glass, walked back towards him, tense with misery and disappointment. ‘No,’ she said. ‘It was horrible. He hasn’t come back to look after me. He’s come back because he thinks I’m rich. He’s after the compensation money.’

  Nick felt awkward standing in the middle of the room but he didn’t like to sit down for fear of doing the wrong thing. ‘That’s vile!’ he said.

  She was too near tears to be comforted. ‘Don’t sympathise,’ she said angrily. ‘It’s my business. I can handle it.’

  ‘Don’t let it get to you,’ he advised, deciding to sit in the armchair. ‘They’re never worth it. Parents.’

  The fury she’d held in check while she was dealing with her father broke through her control and came pouring out of her mouth. She knew, in the more distant and reasonable part of her mind, that she was being angry with the wrong person but she couldn’t help it. ‘What’s that supposed to mean? Are you getting at my mother?’

  He hadn’t thought about her mother until that moment. ‘No, I’m not,’ he said, looking up at her. ‘But she’s not exactly perfect either. Look how she went on when you were in St Thomas’s.’

  ‘Once.’ She glared at him.

  ‘Twice to my certain knowledge. And again at the Ps’ house that time.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ she mocked, turning and pacing. ‘I knew we’d get round to that.’

  ‘I was there,’ he pointed out. ‘I heard her.’

  ‘You don’t know anything about her.’

  Battle was joined. It was ridiculous but that’s how it was. She meant to fight him even though he didn’t want to fight her. He cast about for something simple and factual to say and remembered his studies. ‘I know quite a bit about her, actually.’ And he quoted from one of his textbooks. “You can tell a lot about the parent by studying the child.”’

  She rejected that as nonsense, snorting at him. ‘Oh come on!’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘Seriously. This is a classic case of parental repression.’ If he could get her to talk generally they might cool down.

  But she roared at him, sparks flying between them so powerfully it was a wonder they weren’t visible. ‘So I’m repressed now, am I? That’s nice to know.’

  ‘That wasn’t what I said,’ he protested. But then he stopped and sniffed the air, lifting his head and turning away from her. ‘Something’s burning,’ he said, jumping to his feet. ‘Look!’ There was smoke billowing out through the archway to the kitchen.

  ‘Shit!’ she said. ‘Oh shit!’ She went limping into the kitchen to open the oven. ‘It’s the bloody salmon.’

  It was burnt black and the bottom of the oven was covered with bubbling lumps of black tar.

  She removed the wreckage, fanning it with an oven glove, her face pink with heat and fury. ‘Bloody rotten stinking thing!’ she said.

  He stood beside her in the kitchen and laughed, the tension of the last few awful minutes released in a roar of amusement. ‘Oh Gemma, you’re so funny!’

  She wasn’t amused. ‘It’s nothing to laugh at,’ she scowled. ‘That was our supper.’

  ‘Never mind,’ he said. Now they could be normal and he could tease her and kiss her. ‘We’ll have a take-away.’

  The kitchen was so full of smoke it was making her cough. She opened the little top window to clear it a bit. ‘Oh God! Look at the mess.’

  ‘Leave it,’ he advised.

  But she wasn’t lis
tening to him. She was still coughing and complaining. ‘How could I have done such a thing?’

  ‘I wouldn’t worry if I were you,’ he said, trying to cheer her up. ‘It’s part of your charm, burning food.’

  She was too tense to be teased. ‘I don’t burn food!’

  He gestured at the remains of the salmon, grinning at her.

  ‘Once!’ she said.

  ‘What about the Ps’ retirement cake?’ he reminded her.

  She was wafting the smoke towards the window with a rolled newspaper. ‘That sank,’ she corrected, between coughs. ‘I didn’t burn it.’

  ‘Same difference. We had to cut a hole out of the middle.’

  ‘And now I suppose I’m never going to hear the end of it. Is that it?’ She looked wild, beleaguered, vulnerable, with her brown eyes watering and the rolled newspaper falling to tatters in her hand. He loved her so much it was making him ache.

  ‘I think you should marry me,’ he said. ‘You need someone to look after you.’

  He’d spoken instinctively, without thinking what effect such a proposal would have, offering his love simply like the great gift it was. And to his horror, she turned on him as if he was insulting her.

  ‘That,’ she told him furiously, ‘is the one thing I don’t need. I’m not a cripple …’

  He was completely thrown and terribly hurt. ‘I never said you were …’

  ‘Yes you did. You implied it. I’m not a cripple. I’m not an invalid. I don’t need looking after. Not by you or my father or my mother or anybody. I can look after myself. I’ve got a job, and I’ve got a home, and there’s nothing I can’t do if I set my mind to it. Nothing! I won’t be looked after and I won’t be pitied.’

  ‘But I want to look after you,’ he protested. ‘I love you.’

  She snorted. ‘Now he tells me!’

  ‘Where’s the harm in wanting to look after you? It’s what husbands do.’

  ‘I’ll tell you the harm in it,’ she said wildly. ‘It’s belittling. It puts me down. I don’t want to be some stupid Barbie doll being pampered and petted and looked after all the time. If you want that, you’d better get a poodle. If I ever marry anyone I shall be his equal. An equal partner. Not some feeble thing that has to be cared for.’ Some lines from Pygmalion sang into her head and she quoted them, feeling they were better then any words she could find for herself. “Not a millstone round your neck. A tower of strength. A consort battleship.”’