'I understand.' I didn't say I was divorced. 'Thank you for attending to him, Doctor.'
He waved me into a cubicle and left me with Matthew, a distinctly chastened young tearaway sitting up on an examination couch.
'Mum.' Mat's eyes glistened.
I went to him and held him a moment, not saying a word. I didn't trust my tangled emotions.
He said, 'I'm—'
I put a hand over his lips. 'Later. We'll talk about it later. Not here.'
He said, 'They lent me this dressing gown. My clothes are still wet.'
'Doesn't matter,' I told him.
A nurse came in and asked if we had any transport, and I confirmed that we had. She told me Mat had better wear the dressing gown and sandals home, and I promised to return them later.
I tried to let the practical arrangements fill my mind. I stooped to help Matthew get his feet into the sandals, but he put his hand to them first. He didn't want to be mothered, you see. When he stood upright I was reminded that he was an inch or so taller than I - at twelve years old. It's curious how the relationship has altered since he gained that extra height. It's so easy to fall back into the old ways and treat them as babes in arms.
As we passed through the swing doors again, the receptionist stepped forward with a form in her hand and asked me to fill in a few details. She said it had to be done, and it wouldn't take a minute.
It was just a matter of my name and address and Matthew's date of birth and the name of our GP. While I was filling it in, I was surprised to overhear Matthew in conversation with someone. I looked up and saw him by the tea trolley with an overweight girl with cropped blonde hair and large earrings. She was wearing a blue linen coat, unbuttoned, over a red teeshirt and white jeans and at first it appeared that she was in charge of the trolley. Then she and Matthew came away from it carrying cups and I realized that the coat wasn't a uniform. It was part of her ensemble.
I went over to them. 'I thought you'd appreciate a cuppa,' the girl explained with a dimpled smile. 'Shall we sit down for a minute? How about the back row, Matthew?'
It crossed my mind that she was possibly something to do with the almoner service. I was handed a paper cup. 'Thank you, but I don't think I know you.'
'You may have heard of the name,' she told me. 'Molly Abershaw.'
I hadn't. I didn't know it and I hadn't seen her before. The remark smacked a little of self-importance, I thought.
'You want to get home, I know,' she told us both, 'and I shan't keep you longer than it takes to drink the tea. Did you want a biscuit, by the way, Matthew? I always forget to ask. I have to watch the calories myself.'
I'm repeating what she said, more or less, because it gives you an insight into the sort of person Molly Abershaw is, and she had a big influence on what happened. You must have come across her sort, with the cheek of old nick, brazenly going up to people as if they were the oldest of friends.
Matthew had the good sense to refuse the biscuit.
'This is such an exciting story,' Molly Abershaw insisted on telling us. 'I was out at Bathford when I got the call. I really put my foot down on the A4. I was thinking if I don't watch out I'll be in the news myself. It's so important to be first on the scene. My photographer is on his way. We'd like a shot of you, Matthew.'
'You're a reporter?' I said, hearing the disfavour in my own voice.
'Didn't I say? The Evening Telegraph. You don't mind, do you? A rescue story is such a joy to write when we so often deal in tragedy and disaster.'
I told her curtly that we'd rather not have anything in the newspapers.
'Mrs Didrikson,' she protested, 'it's unavoidable. If we don't run the story, the other papers will. It was a major incident by local standards. We won't print distortions, I promise you. That's why I'm talking to you, just to verify the facts. Do say you'll answer my questions.'
'What's the point?' I said, looking for somewhere to get rid of the tea. 'I wasn't even there. I know less about what happened than you do.'
Matthew added in support, 'And I don't remember much.'
She was very persistent. 'Listen, I'm not trying to harass you,' she said. 'I just need to check the essential facts. I don't even know yet whether there's a 'c' in your name.'
'There isn't,' I told her.
'It's unusual.'
'I'd rather not prolong this.'
Instead of taking this as a rebuff, she dipped into her handbag and produced a notebook. 'All right. Just the essential facts. How old are you, Matthew?'
Matthew glanced towards me to see if he should answer and I gave a nod, foolishly telling myself that we might get rid of her after she'd taken a couple of notes. Twelve.'
'And you were playing by Pulteney Weir. With friends?'
'Yes.'
'How many?'
'Two.'
'Who were they?'
'I don't want to get them into trouble.'
'Why - did they push you in?'
'No, I fell. I walked along the edge and tipped over.'
'And nearly drowned, I gather.'
'I don't know much about it.'
I stood up. 'There - that's all the help we can give you. Now, if you'll kindly allow us to pass, I want to get my son home.'
'But we haven't covered the rescue yet.'
'You heard what he said. He doesn't remember.'
'You must remember the man who saved you, Matthew. You saw him when you opened your eyes.'
'Yes.'
'Did you find out his name?'
'No. He was dark and he had a moustache.'
'What sort of moustache?'
Matthew put both hands to his face and traced his fingers from under his nose to the edges of his mouth. 'Like this.'
'Mexican style?'
He nodded. 'He was wearing a striped shirt and tie.'
'Smartly dressed, then. A young man?'
'Not very.'
'Middle-aged, would you say? Over forty?'
'Not as old as that.'
'Did he say anything to you?'
'He was talking to Piers mostly.'
'Your schoolfriend?'
Matthew let out a short, troubled breath. 'Please don't put his name in the paper. We were supposed to be in school.'
'You were playing truant, then?'
I just had to assert myself. 'I don't think this is a matter for the papers,' I told her. 'It's up to the school to deal with it, arid I'm sure they will. Come on, Mat.' I made a move towards the door.
'I wish our photographer had got here,' said Miss Abershaw. 'I can't ask you to wait.'
'No, and we wouldn't.'
She walked with us out of Casualty and offered to drive us home.
I told her we had transport.
I looked along several lines of cars gleaming in the sun, trying to remember where I'd left the firm's black Mercedes. I had been in such a distracted state when I arrived.
'It's over there,' said Matthew, pointing.
Miss Abershaw was still standing beside us. 'You drive a Mercedes?'
Matthew came out with, 'My mother is a chauffeur.'
I said bitterly, 'Yes, put it in your notebook. Do you want the mileage as well?'
'I was only thinking that we all have to work for a living,' she commented, almost as an apology.
I hesitated as she felt for her keys. Do you know, the remark got through my defences? The girl's persistence had annoyed me, but a voice inside told me that she was doing a difficult job. She'd been sent by her editor to cover this story. It was not far removed from my own line of work - my boss, Stanley Buckle, sending me off to meet important clients at Bath or Bristol railway stations. Some of those VIPs turn out to be pretty unfriendly. I said, 'I'm sorry. It's been a hell of a day.'
'Do you think if Maxim, our photographer, called at your house in an hour or so, he could get a picture?'
I got into the car, picked up a card and scribbled our
She said, 'Thanks. I really appreciate it. Will your husband be at home?'
'I'm divorced.'
Matthew spoke up and announced, 'My Dad played chess for Norway.'
I closed the door and started the engine. When we had driven out of the hospital gates I told him, 'You didn't have to say that, about your father.'
'It's true. I'm proud of him.'
I didn't say any more.
Chapter Three
MATTHEW STAYED AWAY FROM SCHOOL the next day, but not because of illness. I decided he should have a day's grace before he was called to his headmaster's study. It was almost the end of term, anyway. You know the Abbey Choir School, of course. There's the prep school which Mat attends, and the main school for boys of thirteen and upwards. He won't start there for another year. They take Common Entrance in the year of their thirteenth birthday, and his will be in February. The high flyers go on to some of the best public schools in the country, but the majority just move up to the senior school. The prospectus makes a big thing about traditional values. Parents have to sign a form allowing their boys to be 'chastised' for misbehaviour. It's supposed to be the right way of encouraging respect and loyalty and most parents seem to accept it. Truancy leads inevitably to a slippering.
I was educated at a comprehensive, a large one, and I must confess that I find the public school methods quite alien. I've agonized over whether I'm right to keep Matthew at the school. Yet three years ago, when he was nine, I pleaded with the head to admit him. It was at the time when my husband Sverre had just deserted me. At that low point in my life the prospect of bringing up a son unaided terrified me. I'd failed completely in all my relationships with men - my beer-swilling father whom I grew to despise, the brothers I treated as rivals and still do, and the husband who gave me up not for other women, but for chess - so what right had I to raise a son to manhood?
Well, I tell myself that the school is a male institution and Matthew is learning to live among men, supported in the complexities of growing up. That's the justification, and now he's in the choir and everything, I doubt if I'll move him. I've worked damned hard to scrape together enough to pay the fees, first as a taxi driver, and now a company chauffeur.
I'd be happier if I really believed in the system. I accept that scripture and church music must play a prominent part in the curriculum of a choir school, and that Latin has to be obligatory, but why does everything else have to be treated in an old-fashioned way? In English they spend hours on clause analysis. The reading list ends at Dickens. The maths master bans calculators from the classroom. Games seem to consist of learning to hold a cricket bat correctly. There's no joy in it. You don't have to be an educationalist to see that there is too much cramming. And the use of corporal punishment is repellent. That's my opinion, anyway.
Surprisingly, Matthew has never asked to change schools. The only thing that he takes strong objection to is singing at the occasional Saturday wedding in the Abbey, obliging him to give up part of his one free day in the week. Otherwise he hardly ever complains. This truancy (at my school it was known more uncouthly as bunking off and I did it often) was a new development, unless he had been remarkably clever in covering it up.
When I asked him about it, he dismissed it lightly. Without looking away from the television, he said, 'Mr Fortescue was away on jury service, so our form was sent to the library. Three of us decided to go for a dip. That was all.'
'You picked a dangerous place for a swim, Mat.'
'We didn't swim. We were messing about in the water.'
'Whatever it was, it was dangerous. Why did it have to be you who went along the weir? Why not one of the others?'
'They dared me.'
'Oh, Mat!'
He turned his face towards me, ran his fingers through his hair and said on a note that signalled something of significance, 'Ma.'
'Yes?' I had ceased to be 'Mum' recently. I took it as a sign of Mat's wish to appear more mature. At the hospital he'd forgotten about this, but now he was the young man again.
'I'm sorry I caused all this trouble. It won't happen again.'
I hadn't been looking for an apology. I just wanted to reach out to him. I said, 'You're not alone in doing stupid things. I've done them. Everyone has, at some stage.'
He stared at me in surprise. 'He said that.'
'Who?'
'The man who got me out. He said almost the same thing as you just said. He used the word 'daft' - 'daft things'. He said some time in our lives we all do daft things. Something like that.'
I commented that he sounded a nice man, adding that I wished we knew who he was, so that we could thank him. Apart from anything else, his clothes must have been ruined.
Matthew said, 'It's funny that you should say the same thing.'
'I suppose it is.'
'We ought to find out who he is. I think I'd like to meet him again.'
'Well, I can't think where he would have gone in a set of wet clothes,' I told him. 'Maybe he went to the taxi rank by the Abbey. Tomorrow I'll ask the fellows I used to work with.'
I turned up the sound on the television. The strain of talking about the incident was difficult for both of us.
I was greeted warmly at the Abbey rank next morning, and there was the inevitable mickey-taking from the drivers about the Mercedes and my supposedly up-market status. At the first opportunity I asked about yesterday's incident. Nobody remembered a fare in wet clothes, but several of the fellows had early copies of the evening papers. I was handed the Telegraph. Prominent on the front page was the picture of Matthew under the headline SHY HERO IN WEIR RESCUE.
I read Molly Abershaw's report and had to admit that the story was broadly correct. I didn't remember a rather pious-sounding quote attributed to me, but the gist of it was true. Mat and I did want to trace the man who had gone to the rescue, and thank him personally.
I handed back the paper and asked the drivers to let me know if they heard any thing.
My visit to the taxi rank made me nearly forty minutes late for work. When I got there, I slammed on the brakes at the sight of another black Mercedes parked in the space reserved for the chairman. The company owned two such cars, one for me to drive, the other for Mr Buckle's exclusive use. Wouldn't you know it! My boss's appearances at the Bathford site were pretty few and far between, and he was never usually in so early. In my fatalistic mood, I knew before talking to Simon, the office supervisor, that Mr Buckle had left word that he wanted to see me as soon as I reported for work.
Stanley Buckle bought a controlling interest in Realbrew in 1988, when it was on the point of collapse after years of ineffective management. He invested heavily in new plant and brought in a new team to run it, and already it looks as if the firm's decline has been halted.
Upon joining Realbrew Ales, I learned that Mr Stanley Buckle isn't everyone's idea of Santa Claus. He sacked half the existing staff when he took over, and several others have gone since for various shortcomings. Being summoned to his office isn't reckoned to be a promising way to start the day.
I tapped on the door and went in, prepared to be penitent — if necessary, to plead for mercy, offer sackcloth and ashes, anything... I needed this job. I couldn't afford to go back to taxi-driving. I'd sold my cab and the money had gone on a dozen essential things.
So it was immensely reassuring that Mr Buckle smiled as he looked at me over his half-glasses. Dressed as usual in a dark pinstripe that must have been Italian and outrageously expensive, and with the customary red rosebud in his buttonhole, he was giving out a distinctly roguish message for the time and place. He stepped around the desk and approached as if to embrace me.
The thought raced through my brain that if this was the price he wished to exact for my late arrival, I'd better settle for it. Physically, he was bald and beginning to be paunchy under the skilful tailoring, not exactly my fantasy lover, but this need not amount to any more than a token smooch. He reached out and grasped my upper arm, pulling me firmly towards him. Then, against all expectation, he pressed his hot hand against mine and shook it.
'Congratulations, my dear!'
My confusion must have been starkly obvious.
'.. . upon your boy's fortunate escape!' he explained. 'I read it in the paper. Miraculous! I spotted the name. Unusual name, yours. But I couldn't be certain until I saw the reference to Realbrew.'
That was what had pleased him: free publicity in the local papers. Saved by the power of the press!
He said, 'How about some coffee? What this must have done to your nerves! Is the boy really none the worse?'
'He's fine,' I assured him. 'The reason I'm late —'
'Late!' Mr Buckle cut in. 'We didn't expect to see you at all after a ghastly experience like that. Are you sure you wouldn't like the day off?'
'That's very generous,' I succeeded in saying, 'but it happened the day before yesterday.'
'Never mind. If there's anything we can do, just mention it.'
That evening I got home after Matthew. He was watching the TV and eating baked beans on toast. I didn't enquire what had happened when he'd reappeared at school; he must have had enough humiliation.
'There was a phone call,' he told me. 'That jumbo-sized reporter, Miss Abershaw.'
I sighed, partly in annoyance at Molly Abershaw and partly in her defence - against masculine insensitivity. 'Mat, she can't help her size. What did she want this time?'
'She asked if I could remember anything else about the man. She said she would call back when you got in. She could help her size if she dieted.'
'What exactly did you say to her?'
'There was nothing much I could say. I mean it isn't as if he had a safety pin through his nose. He was just an ordinary bloke with a moustache. I told her that.'
I asked him tentatively if he had any homework.
He switched off the TV. 'Plenty actually. The usual Latin vocab. And old Fortescue has given us a pig of a history project. We've each been given a street in Bath and we've got to write its history.'
'What's yours?'
'He really planned this. He said as I was given the kiss of life I should have Gay Street. It got a cheap laugh, of course.'
'Some of those masters are no better than the boys they teach. What are you supposed to do tonight?'
The Last Detective Page 20