Friends for Life

by Carol Smith

  “Anyone with a connection to Georgy is relevant,” said Emmanuel, studying his notes again. “Who’s Sally?”

  “Sally Brown.” Vivienne was surprised. “Didn’t you meet her?”

  “Not yet. Where does she fit in?”

  “She was one of the group in hospital. Nice girl, a New Zealander. Does occasional bar work, only passing through. Good friend of Beth.”

  Emmanuel made a note. “How does she get on with Georgy?”

  “All right, I think. Certainly it would seem so whenever we get together. She was marvelous when we did up the studio, wielded her paint roller like a professional. You must talk to her; you’ll like her. And she was a brick while Catherine was dying. Always round there, rallying her spirits. Still goes to see the mother, so I understand.”

  • • •

  Tonight Vivienne served dinner formally in the dining room and Beth was struck how elegant the room looked by candlelight, set with its full panoply of Georgian silver and monogrammed crystal. It’s me she should be sponsoring, she thought. Think of the dinners we could organize in a room like this! She had braced herself for the confrontation with Oliver but he greeted her with perfect cordiality and did not betray, by so much as a flicker, that she was anything more than a casual acquaintance of his wife. He took the head of the table, as master of the house, while Emmanuel was given the seat of honor at the far end.

  All eyes were upon him as he unfolded his linen napkin and glanced around the table. They were an attractive bunch, these friends of his daughter; the handsome, affluent hosts, the smiling cook with her faintly camp husband, who turned out, on closer acquaintance to be a charmer of the first order, and the doctor’s wife, a smiling, dark-haired beauty with no connection whatsoever to either of the victims but simply there as an adjunct to her husband. She apologized for that. The doctor himself had rung from the hospital to say he had been delayed but would get there as soon as he could. The eighth chair remained empty.

  “Where’s Sally?” asked Beth.

  Everyone looked at each other.

  “I don’t know,” said Vivienne. “She definitely said she was coming. I assumed she’d turn up with you.”

  “I haven’t spoken to her for several days. I wonder where she is? It’s not like her to be rude—or, indeed, late.”

  “Probably found herself a new boyfriend,” said Oliver. From the little he’d seen of her, that one seemed a right little raver. He was disappointed she hadn’t turned up; he’d been looking forward to having a closer look at those truly delectable breasts and the faintly lascivious smile with its hint of a promise. Also, he had space in his life these days for a little sexual excitement. He tried hard not to look at Beth and felt his mood beginning to darken.

  “Please eat,” said Vivienne cordially. “I’m sure she’ll be here soon and there’s no point in ruining the food.”

  Emmanuel looked round at the assembled company and raised his crystal goblet in a toast.

  “L’chayim,” he said. “And destruction to our enemies. Let’s hope this is the end of the carnage.”

  Chapter Forty-seven

  Seen close to, the Duomo was even more awesome than she had expected, despite the narrow dark streets leading up to it, filled to bursting on this stifling summer’s day with tourists and Florentines going about their business. She stepped out of the tour bus and stood bewildered, gazing about her in the strong Italian sun, unused to so much bustle and life, practically overwhelmed.

  “Care for a coffee? I think we have time.” The priest from Ohio stood smiling down at her, indicating one of the crowded street cafés nearby, but she shook her head. She had come all these miles to see the cathedral and had no intention of loitering now.

  “No thank you, Father. There’s still so much to see.”

  Modesty prevented her from telling him she was hot and craved only the coolness of the vast Renaissance interior, away from the heat of the bus and the proximity of too many chattering companions. Not for the first time, she regretted the thick stockings she was bound by convention to wear but when she stepped through the mighty carved doors and stood beneath Brunelleschi’s imposing dome, all mundane thoughts fled and she gloried only in the presence of her God.

  The priest from Ohio had found another companion and she was relieved not to have his hornetlike presence constantly buzzing in her ear. It seemed uncharitable but this was a vacation, one she had dreamed of and saved for over a great many years. As it was, only the charity of her sisters had enabled her to come at all. She was determined to make the most of it and waste no time. She had been correct. It was wonderfully cool in the dark interior and even the tourists no longer troubled her. The Duomo was built to such lavish proportions, the crowds outside dwindled to a mere trickle within.

  There was no time to ascend to the dome, and besides she had no head for heights. Instead, once she had admired the relief of The Assumption of the Madonna and the various carved monuments that surrounded her, she made her way through the echoing space and stood before the high altar where she murmured a few silent words to her Lord, with her again for the first time in months. Then she crossed the nave and descended a short flight of stone steps to the crypt, to view the Roman remains.

  Soft footsteps descended behind her and she hoped it was not her friend from Ohio. Oh well, she supposed it could not be helped. She was at one with her God again, which was all that mattered, really the purpose of the whole trip. Now she could afford to show a little Christian compassion for others.

  As she stooped to read the inscription on Brunelleschi’s tomb, the blow that caught her across the back of her neck was as light and swift as a caress, severing her spinal cord instantly so that she made no sound. It was a good twenty minutes before an Italian guide found her, crumpled as if in prayer, and summoned the guards.

  Chapter Forty-eight

  “You’re all right!” said Duncan, when he finally got through. “Thank God for that.”

  Beth was puzzled. “Why on earth would I not be?”

  “It’s crazy, I know, but I do worry about you when I’m not there to keep an eye on you.”

  Beth smiled. How adorable this man was, to be sure, and how wonderful to hear his voice again, sounding distant and strained but still full of the warmth and passion she was growing so much to rely on. He had been gone too long. She found it hard now to conjure up his face, and that was bad.

  “How are things, and when are you coming back?”

  “Not yet awhile, I’m afraid. Dad’s still not out of danger and in a day or so we’ll be getting the results of his tests and will know the worst. The very second I’ve sorted things out at this end and am sure my mother can cope, I’ll be on the next plane home, don’t you worry.”

  Home, he had said. That was encouraging. Beth had feared this sudden return to his roots might unsettle Duncan and set him off on the road again, for she knew he was, at heart, a wanderer. Rather like Sal, now she came to think of it. Maybe it was something to do with the way these Antipodeans were raised.

  “Miss you.”

  “Me too. More than you will ever know.”

  After he had rung off, Beth went on sitting there in the dark, hugging herself with sheer joy at hearing his voice again, aching with the desire to see him and touch him too. He had been gone far too long; summer was almost through. Friday was the start of the August Bank Holiday weekend, the last three-day break before Christmas, and this year she would be spending it alone. It seemed the whole of London was deserting her, not that she really minded.

  Gus was taking Imogen to visit his parents in Jersey. She loved seeing her grandparents and the break would do her good. He’d suggested Beth tag along too but she had declined. No point in giving the old folks false hopes and, besides, she rather relished the luxury of having the house to herself for once.

  “Come with us to Cornwall, why don’t you?” said Jane. “I know it’s not the most exciting place in the world but it’s good at this time of year an
d this weekend it will just be us and the boys, no hordes of visitors and endless entertaining.”

  Beth was seriously tempted. Jane was her best and longest-standing friend in the world and she loved the wind-blown granite cottage set on a high point overlooking the sea near Polperro. She thought of the walks they could have and the long intimate conversations. But she resisted. All she really wanted these days was Duncan, and until he returned, she couldn’t really concentrate. She’d just as soon be alone. She tried to explain this to Jane, who was a good enough friend to understand.

  “Just promise you’ll ring if you start to go spare,” she said. “You’ll miss the drive down but we can always pick you up off the train.”

  “No, really,” said Beth. “It’s a lovely idea, but I think this time I’d rather stay home and tidy my cupboards.”

  They left it like that. The great thing about friendship was that she knew she was always free to change her mind.

  • • •

  Duncan sat in his mother’s front parlor and tried hard to dispel the feeling of gathering menace that lately seemed to be with him most of the time. What was it that was haunting the back of his brain and wouldn’t go away? He tried to be reasonable and figure it out in a rational way. He was normally a man of sound common sense, not given to hysteria or flights of premonition, so why did he have this doom-filled feeling that Beth was in danger while he wasn’t there to protect her? Maybe this is what love is about, said a voice in his head, but he felt it was more than that.

  The window was framed by macramé ropes, each one a different length and supporting an earthenware pot with a spider plant in it, beyond which a sea of grass stretched down to an electrified fence, bordering a vast meadow where sheep were grazing. It was a pleasant enough scene but not inspiring; a few days of undiluted pastoral peace and Duncan was itching to get moving again, back to pollution and life in the fast lane.

  Across the room his mother sat in a high-backed chair, studying the local paper. She was a big woman, from whom Duncan had inherited his height, with strong shoulders accustomed to hard work and a square, sensible face from which all traces of youthful prettiness had long since been eroded. Now that her husband was off the critical list and beginning to make progress, some of the lines round her mouth had softened slightly. Duncan glanced at her with affection and wished she could learn to show a little more emotion.

  He longed to be able to tell her about Beth but it was altogether too soon. He had also inherited caution from his mother and believed in keeping his feelings to himself until he was absolutely sure of them. He hated the notion, after so many disappointments in her life already, of raising her hopes about his future only to have them dashed again. She would love him to settle down and live what she would consider a more normal life, but she’d never, ever pressure him. He was grateful for that.

  Her hair, like his, was thick, wiry, and mole-colored, heavily streaked with a distinguished gray, and the eyes behind the severe pince-nez were a clear, gentian blue like his own. A feeling of love swept over him and he went to stand beside her and read the headlines over her shoulder. She glanced up and smiled, but went on reading.

  “Something’s troubling you,” she said after a while. “Do you want to talk about it, son?”

  “There’s really not a lot to say.” He paced the old-fashioned room, with its framed samplers and crocheted table mats, and wondered if he was finally going off his head. It was the impotence of his situation that was really bugging him. But then he thought, if he couldn’t trust his own mother, who else was he going to talk to? Especially in this godforsaken backwater where what was going on in London seemed light-years away. He took the paper gently out of her hands, pulled up another hard chair, and settled down to tell her all about his darkest fears.

  • • •

  Vivienne took the call and was surprised to hear the familiar Australian twang.

  “Duncan? Is that really you? Back already?”

  He told her he was still on the other side of the world, and then what he wanted her to do. Discreetly, he said, and as soon as possible. Instinct told him they hadn’t much time.

  “And whatever you do, don’t tell Beth,” he instructed, before he rang off.

  “Why not?” Vivienne was perplexed. Life was getting stranger and more fraught by the minute; just lately she had begun to fear she was losing her grip.

  “Just don’t. I’ll explain next time we meet. My love to the pussies and I hope to see you soon. And tell him he can call me here any time of the day or night. I mean that literally.”

  That urgent. Vivienne’s fear grew.

  • • •

  “It was a strange case,” said Addison ruminatively, as he watched the umpire declare the third ball of the second over a wide. It was the second day of the test match and Pakistan had bagged seven English wickets.

  “In fact,” he said, “one of the strangest I have ever come across. I remember discussing it at the time with my students.”

  He was wearing a cream lightweight suit with his red and gold MCC tie, and they were sitting in the members’ stand at Lords in a pale, tentative August sunshine. They had just finished lunch. Oliver, in blazer and dark gray slacks with a knife-edged crease, his own concession to casual wear, stretched and glanced surreptitiously at his watch. He had urgent bank business he ought to be attending to and should not linger here too long. But it was very enticing on a day like this and he always found Addison good company.

  “Go on,” he prompted. He was really doing this for Beth, not Vivienne, even though his wife had been the bearer of the message. He could not, for the life of him, understand the urgency but the vet had spelled it out loud and clear and conveyed his alarm to Vivienne.

  Addison sighed and stroked a weary hand over his graying hair. Since Catherine’s death, he had become a mass of nerves and this latest inquiry seemed too horribly close to be coincidental. But Oliver was waiting; he could not stall him any longer. Perhaps if he answered this one, apparently innocuous, question, he would finally get them off his back.

  “There was nothing clinically wrong with her,” he said. “She was young, fit, and in the peak of good health, so I was surprised to see her on my initial ward round. She had come in via Casualty, with a cut hand or something like that, and had managed to inveigle the casualty officer into admitting her as an in-patient while she was actually on the premises. Slightly out of order, I know, but sometimes rules are made to be bent and at the beginning of the year the hospital is inclined to be quiet. Also, considering her age, there was really nothing against it, so we went ahead and did it, partly—I confess—in a spirit of experimentation.”

  “And it was a success?”

  “Completely. As far as you can be sure of anything at that stage.”

  There was a pause while both men concentrated on the bowling. This Pakistani chappie was staggeringly good; England would really have to pull their socks up if they were to avoid another ignominious defeat. A brilliant googly and there went the middle stump. Eight wickets. As a disgruntled Atherton walked off the ground to a smattering of applause, Oliver turned his attention back to the discussion in hand.

  “What exactly did you do?” he asked. “I realize it’s against the Hippocratic oath and all that but I gather it’s fairly vital that you tell me. You can trust me to be discreet, old chap.”

  Addison paused, weighing up his conscience against his common sense. What the hell; he was in it deep enough already and Oliver was a good bloke and an English gentleman, when all was said and done.

  “We reconnected her tubes,” he said. “After a sterilization when she was still a child.”

  “Good God! Is that normal? Why on earth was it done?”

  “Not normal at all, that’s entirely the point. Never seen it before in my life, as a matter of fact. But she’s over the age of consent, mentally sound, and it was what she wanted. So good luck to her. Whether she will be able to conceive in a normal way remains to be see
n but she’s been discharged so it’s out of my hands now.”

  “But how come it was done at all? Sounds barbaric to me.” Knowing how much his own wife longed for a child, it seemed incredible to Oliver that such an operation could be undertaken so lightly. Vivienne would be seriously upset if she ever found out; it seemed such a criminal waste.

  “Search me, old boy. That’s exactly the question I asked at the time. But I couldn’t get hold of any background information. All I know from her medical records is that it was done in a private clinic in Gladesville, which is a suburb of Sydney. We had to get that one referral before we could go ahead but the case is shrouded in secrecy and the clinic refused point-blank to be more specific. As it was, I had to pull some strings and fall back on the Old Boy network without letting the patient know. Sometimes it happens that way, it has to be done. The file was marked Confidential, they said. Odd, don’t you think?”

  “Indeed.” Oliver glanced at his watch again; it was time he was off. He thanked Addison for lunch and the couple of hours of cricket and took his leave. Got to get back to the bank for a four-thirty meeting, but before that there was a call he had to place. To Australia.

  • • •

  The news in Perth was encouraging; Duncan’s father was off the danger list and likely to make a full recovery. A pacemaker was called for but these days that was a relatively straightforward procedure. Duncan decided to wait till the minor operation had been successfully performed and then make tracks, long overdue, for London.

  In the meantime, he was mesmerized by what Oliver had told him. A sterilization reversed; it made no sense, certainly not for someone of Sally’s age. But who would sterilize a child, and for what reason? He was damned well determined to find out more. With Dad on the mend and Mother so much calmer, Duncan had time on his hands and meant to put it to good use. There were certain subjects, even in these enlightened times, that he simply could not discuss with his mother but she had got the gist of his concern and was as curious as he as to the outcome. Gladesville, he now recalled, was not a million miles from Parramatta, the suburb where Paul, his erstwhile best friend, was now a hospital chaplain.