Gemma's Journey

by Beryl Kingston

  ‘I never said you were a millstone.’

  ‘It’s Shaw,’ she said in exasperation. ‘Pygmalion. I was quoting.’

  Literary quotations were beyond him in a moment as fraught as this one. ‘Well don’t.’

  ‘I was telling you how I felt.’

  ‘And what about me?’ he cried, too distressed to hold on to his control any longer. ‘Or don’t my feelings come into it? No I suppose they don’t. I suppose it doesn’t matter what I want. That I might mean what I say?’

  ‘Isn’t that just men all over?’ she yelled. ‘You take me out and then ignore me for weeks afterwards. We go to dinner and I end up in hospital.’

  ‘That wasn’t my fault …’

  ‘You leave me without a word for months and months and then you come bouncing back and you think you can propose and I’ll fall into your arms.’

  If only she would. ‘I don’t. That’s not … Anyway I didn’t leave you without a word. I saw you at Christmas.’

  ‘From the other side of the room. You never came near me.’

  ‘But you said …’

  ‘This is all wrong,’ she said, suddenly overcome by an intolerable fatigue. ‘We can’t go into all this now; It’s the wrong time. I think you should go.’

  ‘Well I don’t. Now we’ve started we should have it out.’

  Her face was mutinous. ‘Well I do and it’s my flat.’

  ‘All right then! I was a fool to come here. I might have known it would go wrong.’

  ‘And you were supposed to love me,’ she said bitterly.

  ‘I do. I do, you stupid woman.’

  ‘Don’t call me a stupid woman.’

  There was nothing for it. He would have to go before he made matters worse. ‘This is bloody ridiculous,’ he said and strode out of the flat, slamming the door behind him, in a storm of frustration and anger and incomprehension. How could she say such things? When he loved her so much. When he’d asked her to marry him. There was no sense in it. He fell into the driving seat, hitting his knees on the steering wheel, switched on the ignition as though he was wringing its neck, drove angrily and with no sense of purpose, unaware of where he was going. It wasn’t until he turned into Amersham Road that he came to himself again and then he felt foolish, as though he was running home to Mummy. But, as he now realised, he was also extremely hungry so perhaps he’d just go in and see them and cadge a sandwich. He didn’t have anywhere else to go.

  He found his key and let himself in, calling as he walked down the hall, glad that his voice sounded normal. ‘Hello! Anyone at home?’

  ‘Is that you?’ his father answered from the study. And when Nick put his head round the door: ‘We weren’t expecting you this evening, were we? Your mother’s out. Gone to see the cousins in Peckham.’

  ‘No, no,’ Nick said. ‘I only called on the off-chance.’

  ‘You chose the right time,’ Andrew said. ‘We’re off to Birmingham tomorrow afternoon.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘I’ve been asked to appear on Friday Forum. We’re going to stay overnight and make a little holiday of it. It’s the Wandsworth crash. It’s back in the news.’

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘It was in the papers this morning. Or don’t you read the papers these days?’

  ‘I’ve been on A and E.’

  ‘Ah!’ Andrew understood. ‘Have you had dinner? Or are you on the way there?’

  ‘No and no,’ Nick admitted. ‘I suppose I couldn’t rustle up a sandwich or something, could I? I’m starving.’

  ‘See what’s in the fridge,’ Andrew suggested. ‘Would you like a malt?’

  Nick declined the whisky. ‘I’m driving.’ But there were two tins of Carlsberg in the fridge, which were a good substitute, and the remains of a cold chicken and some coleslaw.

  ‘So how’s life?’ Andrew asked, coming into the kitchen, whisky glass in hand as his son set about his impromptu meal.

  ‘Gruesome,’ Nick said, and told him how hard pressed they’d been at St Thomas’s all week. Talking shop was a comfort and something they both enjoyed.

  But at the end of it Andrew asked a deliberately casual question. There was something so brittle about this son of his this evening that he felt it needed asking, despite his advice to Catherine to leave well alone. ‘Seen anything of Gemma recently?’

  Nick paused, thought hard and decided to tell the truth. ‘I saw her this evening,’ he admitted. ‘First time for weeks.’

  ‘Is she all right?’

  ‘No,’ Nick said. ‘Not really.’ And when his father looked another question at him: ‘As a matter of fact I’ve just asked her to marry me and she’s turned me down flat.’

  Andrew’s next question was asked as though it was part of a consultation. ‘Why was that?’

  ‘She says she wants to be independent. She doesn’t want to be looked after. I thought that was part of the deal, looking after your wife and making a fuss of her, that sort of thing, but apparently not. You’d have thought I was insulting her the way she went on. She doesn’t want to be a wife, so she says. She wants to be a consort battleship.’

  ‘Pity!’ Andrew said.

  ‘Yes. It is. But there you are.’

  ‘No,’ Andrew corrected. ‘Not pity, what a shame. Pity the emotion. It’s a poor substitute for love.’

  The word made Nick remember. ‘That’s what she said. “I don’t want to be pitied.” But I don’t pity her. I love her.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes. Of course I’m sure.’ His answer was vehement because he wasn’t sure at all. Could he have been pitying her all these weeks? That was the emotion he’d felt when he first saw her – and when she was coming round from the op—and when he examined her stump for the first time.

  ‘It’s a very dangerous emotion,’ his father was saying. ‘Leads to all sorts of trouble. Demeans the one who’s pitied and makes the pitier feel superior.’

  ‘All I want to do is to look after her and help her. Is that so bad?’

  ‘Laudable but risky.’

  ‘You help Mum.’

  His father gave a wry smile. ‘Only when she’s not looking.’

  Nick sighed. ‘Why is life so complicated?’

  ‘Because it would be dull if it wasn’t.’

  ‘Just when you think you’ve got everything sussed something comes along and knocks you back to square one.’

  That required no answer, beyond a smile. Both men returned to their drinks.

  ‘So what am I going to do?’ Nick asked.

  ‘Leave her alone for a day or two. Let her get over it.’

  But where would he go for the next four days? He could hardly crawl back to St Thomas’s. That would be a dreadful come-down. And he couldn’t stay here either. ‘I’ve got a long weekend,’ he said. ‘We all have. Rick and Abdul are going to France.’ And there was the answer. Of course. ‘Could I use your phone?’

  He tried Abdul’s number first. Without success, so he wasn’t back yet. Then he rang Rick and got through straight away.

  ‘Hi!’ Rick said, sounding surprised. ‘What’s this? God speed?’

  ‘No,’ Nick said, feeling suddenly awkward. ‘Actually I was wondering. I think I might like to come with you after all. Have you got room for a little’un?’

  Rick was wise enough to ask no questions. ‘Yeah! I reckon we could squeeze you in,’ he said, as if it were no big deal. ‘Where are you? Do you want us to pick you up?’

  ‘Well actually …’ Nick said again. ‘I was wondering if you could put me up for the night. My holiday’s not going to work out.’

  ‘No problem,’ Rick said understanding what a large problem his friend was facing. ‘You’ll have to sleep on the sofa though. So we’ll have to amputate your feet.’

  ‘Feel free!’ Nick said gratefully. Thank God for friendship. ‘I’m going to France,’ he told his father as he put the receiver down.

  Andrew had worked that out for himself. ‘Very wise,’ he said
. ‘Just what you need. Breathing space.’

  Back in the wreckage of her kitchen, Gemma was finding it hard to breathe at all, what with the lingering smell of the smoke and a throat full of tears. She’d scrubbed the baking tin and now she was sitting on the floor trying to clean the bottom of the oven, working out her distress with wire wool and a bucket full of Flash – there being nothing like housework to bring you down to earth. How could he have been so crass? she thought as she peered into the oven. She simply didn’t understand it. He’d always seemed so gentle and compassionate. She remembered his face, distorted by anger, yelling at her. How could he have yelled at her like that? But she’d yelled back, hadn’t she. She’d given as good as she’d got. Or as bad.

  She emptied the dirty water down the sink, and then had to pick all the sharp bits of debris out of the plughole. She was hungry and miserable, she’d burnt her supper and although the fridge and freezer were full of food she didn’t have the energy or the inclination to cook anything else. In any case, after such a disastrous evening, it seemed appropriate to go to bed hungry.

  To bed and straight into nightmare. Trains screamed in upon her, slicing her in half, filling her throat with dust and pressing down on her chest as she struggled and twisted and fought for breath. She was on her knees trying to wash away the dirt and grease and the axle was inches away from her face and the grease turned to a stream of blood that ran and ran and couldn’t be stanched. And Nick looked down at her through the jagged hole in the carriage with his hair untidy and an ink stain on his white coat. ‘Oh Nick!’ she cried. ‘I’m so glad to see you.’ And he turned his head away from her. ‘I’m going,’ he said, ‘and I shan’t come back.’

  She cried and screamed, ‘Oh please don’t go!’ trying to catch at his coat. ‘What shall I do without you?’ But he was beyond her grasp, walking away along the ward, his coat tails flapping. And her father had her by the throat and was choking her. ‘Sign, damn you. Sign. Do as you’re told.’

  She woke screaming, ‘I won’t! I won’t! I won’t!’ with sweat on her forehead, her heart pounding, confused by terror, still caught up in the nightmare. She was convinced that half her body had been cut away and put down her hands gingerly to feel what was left. I’ll face it, she thought, however bad it is. I must. There’s nothing else I can do. It took several seconds before she came to her full senses and knew where she was. Then she sat up and turned on the light and looked at the clock.

  It was ten past five and she was all alone. And very hungry.

  There was no possibility of any more sleep that night so she got up, found her crutches and went to the bathroom where she washed and put on her prosthesis, carefully, and dressed as though she was starting an ordinary day. Then she walked to the kitchen and switched on the radio for a bit of company, cooked herself bacon and eggs, made toast and a pot of tea, and ate a leisurely breakfast.

  After that she felt better. What had happened had happened. Now she just had to get on with the day, which was dawning beyond the kitchen window. She could see the pale green of the lightening sky through the gap in the curtains. She pulled the curtains back and stood by the window looking out.

  It didn’t seem right that the day should be beginning in such an ordinary way. After such an awful row and a night devastated by nightmare, she should have woken to a biblical darkness covering the sun for twenty-four hours, or a hurricane with black and purple skies and winds of a hundred miles an hour screaming and howling and tossing trees aside like straws. But dawn was coming in like a peaceful tide, trailing rose pink ribbons across a pale sky, and outside the flat, the daffodils were in yellow bud and the Thames shone blue as the sky. It made her remember York and their trip along the river and how close they’d been that day.

  Perhaps I could phone him, she thought, as she washed her solitary cup and saucer. But she didn’t know where he was. He wouldn’t have gone to Amersham Road. He was too proud to do that. So he’d probably gone back to the hospital, and if that was the case, there was no way she could contact him, short of phoning the switchboard and asking them to page him. Which would be much too public. She would have to wait for him to phone her – if he wanted to. And after all the dreadful things they’d said to one another, she had to face the fact that he probably wouldn’t want to. How could we have behaved like that? she thought. It was too stupid.

  The post arrived as she was cleaning her teeth but it was only bills, so she put them on the mantelpiece and went off to work without giving them another thought. Paying bills was the least of her worries that morning. For the moment she simply wanted to drive to Fairmead School and get on with her work.

  As she turned out of the compound, she noticed that she’d left the kitchen window ajar and wondered whether she ought to go back and secure it. But what was the use of fussing over little details when she might never see him again? If the kitchen got cold, it would have to get cold. She’d think about it when she got home that afternoon. For the moment there were other things pummelling her mind.

  She anguished all the way to the school, feeling more and more miserable. I didn’t mean half the things I said to him, she grieved, and now I can’t take them back. And, as she inched through the school gate, she knew she loved him.

  Chapter 28

  Tim Ledgerwood was in such a temper when got back to the High that Wednesday evening, that he needed two stiff whiskies before he could manage to tell Billie what had happened.

  ‘Well that’s it!’ he said, topping up his glass for the third time. ‘She’s left me no option. I shall have to go to the papers. It’s not nice but she’s asked for it.’

  Billie made a commiserating noise. ‘If you’d told me where she was,’ she reproved, ‘I could have gone with you and talked her round. I warned you she was tricky.’

  ‘Tricky!’ he complained. ‘She was diabolical. She threw me out. All this time I’ve been working on her behalf, setting this up, looking after her interests, and she threw me out. And I bought her a present. Full make-up kit. Gorgeous, it was. You should’ve seen it. Cost me an arm and a leg. But does she thank me? Does she hell? No, she turns round and says she won’t sign the application and she won’t go to the solicitor, and then she gives me a mouthful and slings me out. Me! Her father! It’s bloody disgraceful.’

  ‘She was always tricky,’ Billie admitted, patting her hair for comfort. ‘Even as a kid. It doesn’t surprise me. You should’ve seen the way she carried on when we had the portfolio done. You’d have thought I was killing her instead of making her look beautiful.’

  ‘Wouldn’t have a word said about that damned doctor. I was right about him. He’s got her well under his thumb. Well that’s it. I shall go to the papers.’

  ‘Yes,’ Billie encouraged him. ‘I think you should. Go to that Nicky girl. I’ve got her card somewhere or other.’

  ‘What Nicky girl?’

  ‘The reporter. The one that interviewed me. You remember. No, maybe you don’t. It was before you came back. Anyway she interviewed me. I thought she was nice. And she gave me her card and said to ring her if I had any other news. Well we’ve got some news for her now, haven’t we?’

  ‘Maybe,’ he said grudgingly. If he was going to the papers he would rather choose the reporter himself. ‘It depends what paper she works for.’

  ‘The Chronicle.’

  ‘Ah,’ Tim said. That was different. ‘Then she’ll know Garry McKendrick. Yes, I think I would like to talk to her. You find the card, Poppet, and we’ll ring her. First thing in the morning.’

  Nicky Stretton had only just come in when the phone rang. She was standing by her desk, still in her driving coat, coffee mug in hand and more than half asleep, but when she heard who was calling she took up her notebook at once and struggled out of the coat as she talked, the receiver tucked under her chin. Yes, she did remember Billie Goodeve. And yes, if there was a story, she was interested. ‘So tell me. Did she get her half-million?’

  ‘Well that’s just it,’ Bil
lie said. ‘We don’t know. She’s being kept away from us. I’ll hand you over to her father. He’ll tell you.’

  Which he did at considerable length. ‘She didn’t come home to her mother … I mean, that’s unnatural for a start. I think she’s been lured away. They let her out the hospital and he lured her away to live with him. Great house like that, it’s a temptation.’

  Nicky Stretton wrote ‘family squabble’ on her pad and prepared to give him the brush off.

  ‘Someone in the family, you mean.’

  ‘Oh no. Nothing like that. We’re a very close family. Extremely close. No, it’s that doctor.’

  That sounded marginally more interesting. Doctors made good copy. ‘What doctor was that?’

  ‘The one that’s on TV all the time, sounding off about the Health Service. Dr Quennell.’

  Nicky signalled to her colleagues and wrote ‘Quack-quack Quennell! Gotcha!’ on her pad. The excitement the message generated was intense and gathered a crowd.

  ‘Are you telling me she went to live with Dr Quennell?’ Nicky asked and keyed in her headline, TV GURU AND CRASH HEROINE IN TUG-OF-LOVE TANGLE.

  ‘Got it in one,’ Tim said. ‘He’s enticed her away. I don’t think it’s right, do you?’

  ‘Tell me about his house,’ she suggested as she typed up the story. ‘Where is it?’

  ‘That,’ she said to her audience, as she put the phone down, ‘is tomorrow’s lead, unless I’m very much mistaken. Garry’ll go bananas. Quack-quack Quennell caught with his trousers down. Is he in?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Right. You can break the good news, Jack. Give him this number, suggest he rings it and tell him I’m in Putney checking it out.’