‘Yes, I thought you probably had. Which, then?’
‘We’ll go to the Middlesex. Thank you.’
‘Right. Come on, then. And put him near an open window, there’s a good girl.’
Three hours later, as Barnaby lay still groaning spasmodically in a cubicle, Kirsten rather nervously phoned the house in Hamilton Terrace. Sandie answered the phone.
‘Sandie! Thank God it’s you. This is Kirsten. I’m sorry to phone so early, but we need a bit of help. We’re at the Middlesex Hospital, and Barnaby’s ill. No it’s not serious, but they say it’s dysentery and he ought to be properly looked after, you know, and I really think he should go home there. Could you possibly ask Francesca if that would be all right? And then I’ll try and get a cab. Only they mostly don’t seem to fancy him too much as a passenger. Thanks.’
She waited; after a few minutes Francesca came on the line. ‘Kirsten? I’ll come down and get Barnaby. I’ll only be about half an hour.’
‘Thanks,’ said Kirsten, adding reluctantly, ‘that’s very kind of you.’
The Mercedes pulled up outside the Middlesex in under fifteen minutes; Kirsten was waiting outside. She waved at Francesca, went to fetch Barnaby. He needed help in walking; it wasn’t difficult to support him, he was appallingly thin.
‘He looks ghastly,’ said Francesca, getting out to help her. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Dysentery, apparently. From India.’
‘Why did you take him to Casualty?’
‘The police insisted – ’
‘The police? How did they get involved, for God’s sake?’ Kirsten told her.
‘Kirsten really! Fancy going clubbing when he was so ill. I cannot believe such stupidity.’
‘It was his idea,’ said Kirsten, aware she sounded like a sulky child.
‘I really don’t think that’s a very good explanation. I dread to think what your father will say. Here, Barnaby, get into the back. Then you can lie down, more or less. How do you feel?’
‘Terrible,’ he said, lying back, closing his eyes. ‘I’ve got these terrible cramps and I can’t stop shitting, you know?’
‘Yes, thank you, I think so,’ said Francesca.
‘Sorry,’ said Barnaby humbly. ‘I’m very sorry, Francesca, for everything. You must be really glad I came home.’
‘Well, not entirely happy,’ she said, smiling, albeit slightly coolly, at him. Kirsten looked at him; she had forgotten how diplomatic he could be, how good the results. Of course he always had brown-nosed Francesca, he’d always been her favourite. And everyone else’s.
‘Let’s get you home and into bed,’ she said, ‘and I’ll get the doctor. Are you hot?’
‘No, freezing. Shivery.’
‘Yes, well, that’s probably the temperature coming on.’
‘Francesca,’ said Kirsten carefully. ‘Did – does Dad know about this?’
‘Yes, I’m afraid he was there when you called. He had an early meeting, but he said he wanted to hear about it later. He couldn’t understand why you were in Casualty. I should tell him you panicked, called the ambulance, if I were you. He probably won’t believe it, but it’s worth a try.’
‘Yeah,’ said Kirsten, looking at her, making an effort to smile, to be gracious, ‘yeah, that’s a good idea. Thanks.’
‘Anyway, he said he’d phone me later, find out what had happened. Do you want to get a cab, go back to your flat, or will you come back to the house with me and Barnaby?’
‘I’ll go to the flat. I’ve got to get to work. You OK now, Barney?’
‘Yeah, more or less. Thanks for looking after me, Kirsten.’
Kirsten had already started to walk away, but she turned, reluctantly, knowing what she must do.
‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘Thank you for coming. And for – for everything. I expect Dad will phone, though. Tell me himself how stupid I am.’
‘Yes, he probably will.’
But he didn’t. At least not that morning. Or even that afternoon. And when he did, in the early evening, her stupidity was not even mentioned.
Brigadier Forsyth enjoyed his conversation with Graydon Townsend. He had been waiting for it all morning, had told his wife not to disturb him, that he was being interviewed by the press. She had been very impressed. And Townsend did seem so extremely interested in everything he had to tell him. Well, of course, he had got many years of experience under his belt, had formed some very strong views on the property business. He had actually personally advised Bard Channing not to buy Coronet Wharf, but he hadn’t listened. Luckily for him it had turned out all right.
Mr Townsend asked him if he had worked with Douglas Booth at all, and he had said yes, of course, and Mr Townsend had then asked if he had also played golf with him, adding that he was surprised Booth had never persuaded Bard Channing to get into the leisure business and particularly into golf. ‘Such a vastly burgeoning industry.’ It was funny he should say that, the Brigadier said, because there had been talk of a golf course and complex, some land and property had been found, indeed the company had paid a great deal of money for it, but he assumed it must have been sold again.
‘Up in Scotland, it was,’ he said, ‘some place with a ridiculous name, sounded as if he’d made it up, what was it now, Loch Multyre or something like that. Just a minute, I’ll remember it. Anyway he seemed very excited about it at the time, said he knew he could get planning permission, and that Arnold Palmer was going to design the course. Interesting project.’
‘I don’t know much about land values up there,’ said Gray. ‘I mean, what would a great deal of money be?’
‘Oh – well over a million. Actually I think it was nearer two. But you can bet your life Channing wouldn’t have paid over the odds for it. Very shrewd. And I expect he sold it at a very good profit. Anyway, Booth would be the man to talk to about that sort of thing if you were interested. Auchnamultie,’ he addded suddenly, ‘that’s the name of the place.’
‘Oh, right,’ said Gray. ‘Yes, it’s a good idea, talking to Douglas Booth. I’m having lunch with him soon, I’ll ask him about it then. It’s those little details that make a piece so much more interesting. Thank you so much, Brigadier Forsyth.’
‘My pleasure, young fellow. My pleasure entirely. Nice to have something to do. It gets very tedious, you know, just killing time. Now you follow up that lead I gave you on the Docklands railway. I think you might find there’s a story there.’
‘I will indeed,’ said Graydon Townsend.
Sandie was putting some clean towels into Francesca’s bathroom, checking on the supply of cotton wool and tissues and loo paper and replenishing the two small bottles of perfume (one Coco, one Mitsouko) with which Francesca unwittingly kept her supplied, when the phone rang in the bedroom. That would be Colin, she thought, glancing at the clock on the fireplace; he had said he’d phone at ten. He was always very punctual. Colin was her boyfriend; Colin Douglas he was called, very smooth, very good looking, she liked him a lot. He was divorced and he worked as a sales rep for a big pharmaceutical company. She always rang him back; no point him making expensive phone calls when the Channings could pay for them. He rang from public call boxes, all over London, so the number was always different, just in case the Channings checked their phone bill. She tucked the two bottles in her pocket and settled down on the chair by the bed for a nice lengthy chat.
Only it wasn’t Colin. It was Liam Channing. Sandie liked Liam; she thought he had had a raw deal from life. He was very sexy looking too, a bit like his father she supposed, the same colouring, the almost black eyes, the heavy eyebrows, the thick dark hair, but he was a good six inches taller and a great deal better looking. She hadn’t seen much of him recently, but when she had first arrived, he had come to the house occasionally, and she had met him at various family parties. He had always been extremely nice to her.
‘Hallo Liam,’ she said now. ‘How are you? I was so sorry to hear about your accident.’
‘Oh – on
the mend, Sandie, thank you. I’m actually out of bed now, hauling myself about on crutches. Very sexy. And Sandie, thank you so much for your card. It was very sweet of you.’
‘Oh goodness, it was nothing. You don’t have to thank me.’
‘Of course I do. It was one of the reasons I phoned, I thought I might catch you. Is Fr – ’ He seemed to catch himself short. ‘Is Mrs Channing there?’
‘No Liam, I’m afraid she’s not.’ This was a turn-up for the book. Liam and Mrs Channing had always been at daggers drawn. ‘She’s gone to fetch Kirsten from somewhere.’
‘Kirsten? Since when did Kirsten need fetching from anywhere?’
‘I don’t know. Anyway, I don’t know when she’ll be back. I think she might have one of her charity things after that.’
Sandie took a very dim view of Francesca’s charity work. ‘It’s therapy,’ she said to Colin, ‘gives her something to do, makes her feel useful.’
‘Oh, I see. Well – never mind. I just wanted to speak to her.’ He sounded sad suddenly. ‘She’s been so sweet, coming to visit me almost every day in hospital.’
‘Oh really?’ Curiouser and curiouser. She wondered if Mr Channing knew about that. He certainly hadn’t been to visit Liam.
‘Anyway, could you tell her I rang? And give her my l – my best wishes. I’ll ring again.’
‘Yes, of course I will. Well, bye Liam. Take care. Glad you’re all right.’
‘Bye Sandie.’
Now what was that about, thought Sandie. She could have sworn Liam had been about to say to give Francesca his love. Surely there wasn’t something going on between them? No, that was ridiculous. But Liam was very charming; they’d obviously become friends, the two of them. Maybe Mr Channing was finally getting her down and she was just looking for a little light relief, bit of a flirtation. She could hardly blame her.
Not that Sandie didn’t like Bard; she did, although she was very frightened of his tempers. But no-one, she thought, could call him attractive. And she really couldn’t imagine how Francesca could have married him. He must be at least twenty years older than she was. And the thought of going to bed with him turned Sandie up: how could someone who looked like Francesca do that? Well, it had to be the money she was fucking. It was perfectly obvious that was all she wanted. It had to be. Well, good luck to her; who wouldn’t do that if they got the chance? Just the same, Sandie found it hard to feel anything for Francesca but a certain distaste, and she didn’t find her exactly easy to work for; she was demanding and very critical. Of course Sandie had been spoilt in a way, she was the first to admit it, not having a woman boss for several years; had had a chance to queen it really, and the kids had all been fond of her, and when they’d all been at home they’d had a good laugh together in the evenings; it had been a shock getting used to having to do things Francesca’s way. Every so often she thought she’d leave, but it really was a very cushy job. There was Mrs Roberts to do the cleaning, and there was Nanny Crossman, and there was Horton, and most weekends she had the house to herself; she got a car and a good salary, and rarely even had to babysit on account of the old dragon not wanting any time off; and there were lots of hidden perks like the perfume and the odd T-shirt she could hive off into her own collection – not one of the classy Joseph ones of course, but ones from Gap and Marks and Spencer – and there was no need for her ever to buy tights or even knickers, Francesca had a huge supply of both and it was really easy to take a few pairs every now and again – and obviously she fed Colin every weekend from the housekeeping money, they ate like lords. So it was worth putting up with a bit of high-handedness from Madam. Just the same she didn’t like her, and she just had this feeling – and Sandie was very strong on feeling – that one day she was going to get her comeuppance, be revealed for what she was: a gold-digger. Nanny Crossman didn’t like her either, she knew; she thought she lacked class, was always comparing her to Pattie Channing and some of her other mothers, as she called them. She also thought she was incompetent, and they both agreed she was what Nanny called over-strung and Sandie called neurotic. You certainly never knew when she was going to snap, get all hyper over some minor matter. And they both felt, for slightly different reasons, there was no excuse for that: Nanny worshipped Mr Channing, explained away his most violent rages as exhaustion and worry and said if he could cope, then Francesca certainly ought to be able to: Sandie simply felt if you got all that luxury and no responsibility you ought to shut up and put up when the going got a bit rough.
Sandie put the phone down and looked at it thoughtfully. Very interesting. Very interesting indeed. She went back into the bathroom and helped herself to a liberal spray of Coco. She couldn’t wait for Colin to ring.
‘Come on, you poor old thing,’ said Francesca, ‘you look absolutely terrible. I’m going to put you to bed and then call the doctor.’
Barnaby opened his mouth to tell her not to, he’d had enough of doctors for one night, and then another agonising cramp clutched at him, and he had to run from the room. He was lying on the sofa in the small upstairs sitting room, clutching what seemed like a raw empty space where his guts had been, when she came in. She looked down at him worriedly.
‘Feel really bad?’
He nodded, tried to smile.
‘I’ve rung Dr Hemmings, he’ll be here quite soon. Now look, a bath might be an idea. Could you manage one, do you think?’
‘If you wash my back,’ said Barnaby.
‘Barnaby, don’t be silly.’
‘I’m not being silly. I’d love you to wash my back. And I might faint or something in the bath and drown, then think how you’d feel.’
‘Irritated,’ said Francesca briskly. ‘Come on, I’ll run it for you, and I’ll stay within calling distance just in case.’
‘Oh all right. You’re a hard woman, Francesca.’
‘And you’re a hard case, Barnaby. Now come on, take my hand, I’ll pull you up. Can you make the top floor, do you think?’
‘No, I think I should use your bathroom, I’d be safer there. And then maybe I should sleep in your bed, for a few days, just till I’m better. That’s what little boys are allowed to do, isn’t it?’
‘Oh Barnaby,’ said Francesca, laughing. ‘Barnaby, in spite of everything I’m glad you’re home.’
The doctor examined him, prodded and probed at his stomach with his cold hand, which was agonising, took a sample of his blood, asked him to provide samples of various other unpleasant kinds, and then said as far as he could see he only had mild dysentery and a few days’ rest and starvation diet should see him on the mend.
‘And I do mean starvation,’ he said to Francesca. ‘Clear soups, nothing remotely solid, maybe some dry toast with something like Marmite on it, no dairy products, just plenty of water. And several sachets of this stuff every day, in the water, it’ll help rehydrate him.’
‘Beer?’ said Barnaby hopefully, from his pillow. ‘Beer is very rehydrating, rum, gin – ’
‘Barnaby, don’t be naughty,’ said Francesca. She looked at him severely; he grinned back at her. He’d forgotten how pretty she was. He liked her hair longer, and what she was wearing, a T-shirt and shorts, made her look really young. She had a great figure. Fantastic legs. How his father had managed to pull her he’d never know. And he didn’t think it was the money either; well, not just the money. She had too much of a mind of her own to have done that; and anyway she’d had a job, been really successful. She wasn’t just up herself, like most of the women that came to the house. He hoped his father appreciated his good fortune. Probably didn’t.
‘Thank you so much for coming, Dr Hemmings. I’ll see he does everything you say.’
‘Yes, well, it’s very important. Especially no dairy products. And no alcohol, young man. And no smoking!’ He was obviously trying to look fierce; he failed totally. Barnaby grinned at him.
‘Scout’s honour, Dr Hemmings. Just cigars.’
When Dr Hemmings had gone, Francesca came in and put a la
rge jug of water by his bed.
‘You’re to drink all that by lunchtime. Then if you’re very good, I’ll make you some chicken noodle soup.’
‘Fantastic,’ said Barnaby. ‘Oh Francesca, don’t go. Stay and talk to me.’
‘I just want to ring Duggie Booth, then I will for a bit. How are you feeling?’
‘Terrible. I probably won’t even live till you get back.’
‘I think you will,’ she said, and went out of the room laughing.
She was back in a few minutes.
‘He was out. Pity. I wanted to arrange to go and see him at the weekend, with the children. I’ve been meaning to do it for so long.’
‘How is he?’
‘Oh he’s fine. Just the same. Old darling.’
‘And Attila?’
‘Who? Oh, you mean Teresa. Barnaby, you are naughty. She’s all right. Yes, she’s fine.’
‘How’s Dad?’
‘Oh – busy. You know.’
‘Yeah. I know. How’s his temper?’
‘Oh – you know,’ she said again, laughing. ‘I’m learning to live with it.’
‘Me too. Still learning, I mean. And Francesca, what about the baby? Kirsten said she’d been ill.’
‘She has. She’s not really very well at all. She’s got a problem with her heart. May have to have surgery, when she’s a bit bigger.’ She sighed. ‘It’s very frightening.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Barnaby. ‘I haven’t even seen her since she was about a week old. Is she pretty?’
‘Very,’ said Francesca.
‘Does she look like you?’
‘A bit, yes.’
‘Well, she must be extremely pretty then.’ He smiled at her, put his hand out, took hers. He felt rather sleepy suddenly. ‘Thank you for everything you’ve done this morning, Francesca. You’ve been great.’
‘That’s all right. We must try and keep it from your father that you went out clubbing, though. And got picked up by the police – dear oh dear – ’
The Dilemma Page 33