The Dilemma

by Abbie Taylor

  Yet as she walked down the hill, Francine returned to her mind. Francine, with her bright white dress and her bright white smile. Her serene, soothing manner that the patients loved. Her ITU credentials that gave her access to slip, unquestioned, into an isolated room at the end of a ward and to close the door softly behind her.

  But it was all right. It was all right. Francine would not harm Gordon Farnley. For the next few hours at least, Mr Farnley would be safe. He would be in theatre for a minimum of three hours, constantly watched and accompanied. Then in an open room on Ocean Ward, surrounded by people. He would be attached to a monitor in full view; he would not be left alone for a second. Francine would not be able to get at him.

  No one would be able to get at him.

  Dawn walked on to the bus stop.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Laburnum Crescent was a curved cul-de-sac, lined with plane trees and red-bricked, medium-sized houses of mixed period. Most were Victorian terraces with front gardens about the size of Dawn’s own. Some of the gardens were overgrown, with wheelie bins on the grass and bicycles chained to the gates, but the majority were neat and well kept. Number 18 had a black-and-white tiled path, similar to Dora’s, edged with a scalloped stone border. The lawn was mowed, the conifer border neatly clipped. The flower bed along the wall bustled with red and pink and orange azaleas.

  Dawn stood in the arched front porch and pressed the doorbell. The door was painted glossy black, with a polished brass knocker and letterbox and a window of whorled, yellow glass to the side. A hand-written card in the window read, No Junk Mail. Dawn pressed the bell again. No answer.

  She walked backwards down the path, looking up at the house. The window blinds were all pulled halfway down in such a way that it was impossible to tell whether anyone was in there, or had plans to return for the night.

  ‘May I help you?’

  Dawn turned. In the garden next door, a woman was looking up from where she was kneeling by a flower bed. She appeared to be in her seventies, trim, with short white hair. She held a trowel and wore an expression of polite but suspicious enquiry.

  Dawn went to the dividing wall. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I’m looking to speak with Mr Gordon Farnley.’

  ‘May I know who’s asking?’

  Dawn paused. She remembered Mr Farnley’s words when he had woken up and peered at her with his hopeful, pleading expression.

  ‘I knew his wife,’ she said. ‘Edith. Before she died.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’ Carefully, the woman placed her trowel on a square of matting beside her. Then she climbed to her feet, brushing the dirt from her trousers. ‘Poor Edie,’ she said, coming to the wall. ‘A real shock. Were you a good friend?’

  ‘Well – it was my mother, really, who knew her,’ Dawn said, backtracking. She held her hand out to the woman. ‘Dawn Torridge. I’m the Matron at St Iberius Hospital.’

  As so often happened, the mere mention of the word ‘Matron’ caused all doubt and mistrust to melt like an ice-cream in the sun. The woman’s suspicion was replaced by a respectful, deferential look. She shook Dawn’s hand. ‘Helen Cummings.’

  Helen Cummings! The next of kin listed on Mr Farnley’s hospital chart. Dawn looked at the woman more closely. She was not as formidable as she had first appeared. Her face was round and friendly. She had chubby, hamster-like cheeks and guileless hazel eyes which gave her a youthful air.

  ‘Are you a good friend of the Farnleys?’ Dawn asked.

  ‘Oh yes,’ Helen Cummings said. ‘For years. My husband and I.’ She shook her head. ‘Poor Gordon. He was always such a giant. Like one of those wrestlers you see on the television. But since Edie had her heart attack, he’s shrunk to half the size.’

  ‘I heard he was going in to hospital soon,’ Dawn said.

  ‘Yes. Today,’ Mrs Cummings said. ‘In fact, the taxi from St Iberius came to pick him up at five this morning, if you can believe that. It seems odd to me, expecting a person of that age to travel at that hour on the day of an operation. But then,’ Mrs Cummings seemed to remember to whom she was speaking, ‘I suppose the doctors do know what they’re doing. And Gordon himself was quite happy to put off going until the last minute. He’s always hated hospitals.’

  Dawn pulled carefully at a tuft of moss on the wall. ‘Why is that, do you think? Did he have a bad experience at a hospital in the past?’

  ‘I don’t think he’s ever been to one before,’ Helen Cummings said doubtfully. ‘He’s always been very healthy. But then, that’s the very sort of person, isn’t it, who most mistrusts anything to do with illness and doctors? Edie was at him for months to get his hip done but he kept refusing. But in the end he had no choice. The joint was all worn away. He was in such pain he couldn’t even walk his dog. And if you know Gordon, you’ll know what that meant.’

  Dawn hazarded a not-so-wild guess, ‘His dog is everything to him.’

  ‘Oh, everything!’ Mrs Cummings was much more chatty now. ‘But then, their dogs always were like the children they never had. Although, between you and me, I think it was a mistake to get such a large breed again after Rupert. Rupert was a softie, but he was an old dog. It’s different with a pup, isn’t it? I think the new dog’s been a lot for Gordon to handle by himself. But then, they weren’t to know when they got him that Edie wouldn’t be around.’

  ‘It’s so hard to manage when you don’t have the strength.’ Dawn remembered the loose pyjamas flapping around the wasted shoulders.

  ‘Yes, it’s been very difficult. Fortunately a young man Gordon happened to meet on the common has been helping out a great deal. Walking Boris for him. It’s been a great help, because I don’t know that my husband Martin or I would have managed. I’ve never been good with dogs, and Martin’s emphysema lately has been getting worse and worse.’

  The sun was disappearing behind the houses opposite. Time to come to the point.

  Dawn said, ‘Mrs Cummings, did Mr Farnley ever happen to mention anyone he knew working at St Iberius?’

  ‘At St Iberius?’ Mrs Cummings considered. ‘Not that I recall.’

  ‘You’re sure? He never mentioned a nurse called Francine Hartnett?’

  ‘He never mentioned knowing anyone who worked at a hospital,’ Mrs Cummings said. ‘Why do you ask?’

  Dawn wondered how to broach the matter. How much she should say to this woman, who seemed to have Mr Farnley’s interests at heart – but then, you didn’t always know, did you? Mrs Cummings’ chattiness could just as easily be due to nosiness and a love of gossip as to genuine friendship or concern.

  ‘I’m sure,’ Helen Cummings said, ‘that if Gordon did know someone, he would have said. He was so nervous about going in. In fact, I’d go so far as to say that he has an actual phobia about hospitals. He was so worried he even made his will before he went. So that will tell you.’

  ‘His will?’ Dawn stopped pulling at the moss on the wall.

  ‘Oh yes. And it just shows you, doesn’t it, because he always said that with Edie gone and no children of their own he didn’t care who got the house. But there. You can tell, can’t you, that when it comes down to it, people do care. Don’t want the state to get their hands on it, do they?’

  Dawn followed Mrs Cummings’s gaze to Mr Farnley’s house, solid and pink in the evening sun. A spacious, well-built Victorian with its own garden in the middle of the city. Probably worth a good bit of money. Who had Gordon Farnley left it to? Helen Cummings and her husband? Given that he had put them down as his next of kin, the assumption was not unreasonable. But it was hardly the sort of thing Dawn could ask.

  But she didn’t have to. Mr Farnley’s neighbour was of the Mandy breed, happy to tell all. Mrs Cummings glanced from side to side, then leaned towards the wall.

  ‘And you’ll never guess,’ she said in a low voice, ‘who he’s left it all to.’

  ‘Er – no?’

  Mrs Cummings said triumphantly, ‘His dog!’

  ‘His dog!’

  ‘Yes! Isn�
��t that just typical of Gordon?’

  Dawn glanced at her watch. She had been here for almost an hour. Mr Farnley would be waking up from his surgery soon. The softly-softly approach hadn’t worked. She was going to have to be more direct.

  ‘Mrs Cummings—’ she began.

  Helen Cummings waved her hand. ‘Now, wait a minute,’ she said. ‘I’m being a little facetious here. What Gordon has done is actually quite sensible. He’s left all the money to a dog charity. On the condition that if anything happens to him they’ll take his dog in and make sure he’s looked after properly.’

  ‘I see,’ Dawn said, ‘but—’

  ‘He and Edie were always so fond of their dogs,’ Mrs Cummings said reminiscently. ‘So in a way, it’s exactly the same as leaving it to one’s child, isn’t it? Now, let me see – what was the name of the charity? Quite a small one, I believe. Not Battersea, but … Oh, what was it?’

  ‘Mrs Cummings—’

  ‘It’s the young man he met who runs it. The one who helped him with his dog. Oh my word.’ Mrs Cummings tapped her finger on her temple. ‘It’ll come to me in a moment. I don’t know why I can’t seem to—’

  Her front door opened. A furry, orange blur came streaking out of the house, heading straight for the gate. Helen Cummings cried, ‘Oh, there he is. Oh, Martin – catch him. He’s not supposed to go on the road.’

  A red-faced man in a golf V-neck came panting out of the house but the orange blur was already on the pavement. Fortunately a crisp wrapper happened to blow past, distracting the dog from continuing straight on to the road.

  ‘That’s Gordon’s dog,’ Mrs Cummings said. ‘We’re looking after him while he’s in hospital. Oh quick, Martin. He’ll be killed.’

  Martin made a grab for the dog’s collar. The dog, bursting with energy, bounced out of reach. Martin managed a few steps in pursuit before he had to stop, bending over and puffing his cheeks out, his hands on his knees. The dog galloped off down the pavement, his feathery tail and gold-red coat burnished and shiny.

  Chapter Twenty

  By the time they had finally recaptured the dog – bribing him back down the road and into the garden with a piece of chicken – Dawn could stay no longer. Any moment now, Mr Farnley would be waking up from his operation and coming back to the ward. Also it was clear that the Cummingses, rattled by the dog’s lunge for freedom, were keen to take him back into the house and get on quietly with their evening. A final, hasty couple of questions established that neither of them had ever heard of Francine Hartnett. From what Mrs Cummings had said, Gordon Farnley was badly missing his wife and worrying about his dog and these were the only issues recently to preoccupy his mind. Dawn couldn’t think of anything else to ask. None the wiser, she was forced to leave the house and walk back up the road to the bus stop. On her way, she took her phone from her bag and called Daphne on Ocean Ward.

  ‘Is Mr Farnley back yet from theatre?’ she asked.

  ‘Just back in the past few minutes,’ Daphne said. ‘He’s pretty out of it. Looks like he’ll stay that way for the next few hours.’

  Dawn tapped her nails on the side of her phone. If Mr Farnley was going to sleep for the evening, was there any point in her going back to try to talk to him?

  ‘Are you watching him closely?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes,’ Daphne said, rather stiffly. ‘We are.’

  ‘OK. Thanks, Daphne.’

  Still thinking, Dawn clicked her phone shut. It would look odd, she supposed, to go in and hang around the bed of a comatose patient who wasn’t even hers. The best thing now would be for her to go home. In a way, the decision was a relief. After that odd sensation she’d had at Mr Farnley’s bedside earlier, she found she had a strong reluctance to visit him again. She crossed the road to catch the bus towards Silham Vale. But on the way home, she continued to worry. Mr Farnley would be all right tonight, perhaps – Daphne’s team would keep an eye on him – but he couldn’t be watched for ever. Sooner or later Francine would realize that Dawn was not going to kill him. And when she did – what then? Would she take matters into her own hands? It would would not be difficult for her to sneak in at some point and get him on his own. She had almost as much influence in the hospital as Dawn had.

  Francine. Listlessly, Dawn gazed through the grimy window at a billboard poster advertising margarine. It was only now it was really beginning to hit her. Beyond everything that had happened – beyond the vicious e-mails, the danger Mr Farnley was in, what had been done to Milly – beyond all of these things was the fact that Francine had been her friend. Her good friend. That she could have done this … it was a far worse blow than if it had been any of the others. All the laughs they’d had. The merry conversations over horrible powdered coffee in the ward kitchens; the support Francine had given to her since she had become Matron; the way she had held Dawn’s arm so tightly at Dora’s funeral. And all the time – how she must have resented her. Dawn saw now how difficult it must have been; Dawn winning the Matron post even though Francine had greater experience; Dawn receiving the pay rise when Francine was the one in financial difficulty, with children who depended on her and a husband whose job was on the line. But she had never shown it. She had hidden her feelings behind her usual gracious smile. How are you, Dawn? You look tired. Shouldn’t you take a holiday? Pushing her, Dawn saw now, to go on leave so that Francine could take over the Matron post while she was away and show everyone what an excellent replacement she was. Francine had been biding her time. Like all good managers, she was used to being pleasant with people she didn’t like. Hadn’t Dawn seen her a hundred times, smoothing the ruffled feathers of senior surgeons at meetings, smiling courteously at the likes of Dr Coulton? Even the way she had gone to fetch the Dipyridamole for that crotchety old dinosaur Dr Carmichael instead of simply telling him that he couldn’t have it and that was that. That mask of niceness which was, in reality, a form of ruthlessness, a way of handling people so that ultimately they would do what you wanted. Francine must have seen how stressed Dawn had been since Dora had died, must have guessed it was only a matter of time before she tripped up and made some kind of error – though just how spectacular an error it would be even Francine could not have foreseen.

  The garden of number 59 was empty. No snuffle of welcome at the gate, no friendly patter of feet following her into the house. Dawn flung her keys on to the coffee table in the sitting room and dropped to the couch. She let her head fall on the back-rest. Something about the conversation she’d had with Mrs Cummings was bothering her. But she had too much else on her mind to wonder about it.

  So now what? Being up against Francine was a completely different proposition from being up against someone like Clive or Dr Coulton. Francine would be taken seriously. People would believe her when she told them what she had witnessed. There would be far less chance of Dawn managing to deny everything and brazen things out. She closed her eyes. One thing was for certain: there was no doubt that she would hear from Francine again.

  From the hall came the jangle of the doorbell.

  Dawn opened her eyes again and looked at the ceiling. Eileen Warren, almost certainly. Dawn really wasn’t in the mood right now to chat with her neighbour about tomato plants or how it was impossible to buy fresh leeks these days in the Somerfield. Wearily, she rolled her head to glance into the hall. But through the sidelight, instead of Eileen’s thin frame and round, fuzzy perm, she saw a tall, bulky shape with broad shoulders that took up most of the glass. Will.

  She was on her feet before she knew it. Part of her was saying, Don’t let him in. Don’t see him tonight; you’re too vulnerable. In the mood she was in, she’d be bound to break down at some point, blurt out the whole story to him. Then regret it bitterly the next day. But the rest of her kept going to the hall. She would not break down. She would maintain her self-control. Will was the one person she could bear to see right now. He would ask no questions, make no judgements; he would simply be there, filling the void, his square, stolid fa
ce a relief and a comfort.

  She opened the door.

  ‘Hello there!’ Will looked even more untidy than usual. His tie was half-undone and pulled to one side, his jacket off and crumpled over his arm. Sweat-circles spread down the sides of his shirt.

  ‘I’m later than I expected,’ he said. ‘There’s been an accident somewhere and the police are everywhere. Half the roads are blocked off. I’ve had to leave the car a couple of miles away at Norbury and walk the rest.’

  His nose was shiny with sweat. His glasses slid down it towards the tip. He poked them back up again, in the manner, Dawn realized, that had lately become so dear and familiar to her. How many more times would she see him doing that? For how much longer would she have him? Her plan to go to the Lakes with him – would it ever happen now? No matter where she went, Francine would track her down. Sooner or later, if she stayed with him, Will would be bound to find out everything.

  She forced herself to stop gawping at his nose.

  ‘Come in,’ she said. ‘I was just about to make coffee, would you like some?’

  ‘Yeah. Any kind of drink would be nice.’

  In the kitchen, she boiled the kettle and took the coffee grounds down from the cupboard. It made things easier, having this ritual to perform, as if she was a normal hostess and this a normal, stress-free visit. It was like a dose of Valium, not eliminating the problem but putting it on hold for another time. The coffee filters were in the odds-and-ends drawer. She pulled the drawer open and saw Milly’s faded collar, wrapped in its layers of tissue paper.

  ‘You look tired,’ Will said from the table.

  Dawn paused. The contents of the drawer were blurred. She blinked to clear them.