The Waiting Rooms

by Eve Smith

  ‘My dad taught me. When I was young. We used to camp out.’

  My ears prick up. Piet rarely talks about his family. It’s one of those subjects that’s off limits, that rips open the curtain he must draw across his betrayal to enjoy it. All I’ve been able to gather is that his dad left Piet’s mother for another woman when Piet was in his teens, and died some years after.

  I risk a question. ‘What was he like? Your father?’

  Piet’s eyes remain locked on the firmament. Just as I think he won’t answer he takes a breath. ‘He was the kind of man who was happiest outdoors. In the bush.’

  I watch Piet’s chest rise and fall. ‘Were you close?’

  He glances at me. There’s a scurrying, snuffling sound underneath the veranda: some small creature foraging. Piet’s eyes sweep back to the sky. ‘We had different views about things. Politics especially.’ He pauses. ‘And he made my mother very unhappy.’

  An unhappy mother: that’s something I can relate to. But I don’t want to think about that now. I press on. ‘You never told me how he died.’

  Piet’s chest stills. The change in his expression makes me want to scoop the words back into my mouth.

  He turns to me. His eyes are indecipherable, dark pools. ‘Haven’t you guessed?’

  The blood rushes to my cheeks. ‘Oh. I’m sorry … So they couldn’t…?’ I bite my lip. ‘The treatment didn’t work?’

  ‘No.’ I roll over and rest my head on his chest. ‘He didn’t go for treatment.’ I listen to the breath sigh out of him. ‘My father wanted to die. Nobody knows, apart from me.’

  I lift myself up on my elbows and cup Piet’s face in my hand. ‘I’m so sorry.’ My lips brush the smooth, white circle of scar tissue.

  ‘Don’t be.’ His body tenses. ‘He was a quitter.’ Piet spits out the word like a bite of rotten fruit. ‘In death as in life.’

  Something inside me shifts. I was mistaken.

  This isn’t grief. It’s rage.

  CHAPTER 21

  KATE

  I run my hand over the wood, press my thumb into the grain. My kitchen table is a faithful old piece that, like me, has survived the years, but bears the marks to prove it. I gingerly prod my forehead. The bandage is off, and the cut’s healing nicely. Should be back to work tomorrow. I walk over to the sink, humming one of Sasha’s favourites as the kettle fills. A memory of the protest surfaces and I freeze. Stale breath. Hot, damp bodies. Water splashes over the rim and pours down my sleeve.

  Listen to the tick of the clock. The dishwasher’s hum. The wind stirring the branches outside.

  I turn off the tap, dry myself with a tea towel and place the kettle carefully on its stand. Just as I reach for a mug the phone rips into the room. My pulse leaps. I could just ignore it. The thought mushrooms, gathering strength. But all the what-ifs kick in: Sasha. Mark. Work.

  I pick up. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hi, Mrs Connelly. It’s Harry. From Archway Investigations.’

  I exhale. ‘Hi, Harry, how’s it going?’

  Harry’s proved to be a welcome distraction. He’s only had the case a couple of days and he’s already getting stuck in. After my conversation with Sasha, I began to have second thoughts. But Harry reassured me. I can stop this investigation any time I want to. The reality, of course, is that every clod he unearths only lures me in further.

  ‘Good, very good,’ he says, sounding rather pleased with himself. ‘Actually I’ve had an idea. I’d like you to try something.’

  ‘What is it?’ I drop a teabag into my mug.

  ‘Potential short-cut. AKA the alumni team at your mother’s uni. When it comes to record-keeping, those guys could give the GRO a run for their money.’

  It turns out Mary Sommers is no dunce: she got a first from Oxford. Stayed on to do a PhD.

  ‘You see, they like tapping up their old students for cash,’ he continues. ‘So they may have an address for her post-Crisis. It could save us a lot of time, particularly if she went overseas. They won’t release the information to us, but they might to you.’

  I stir my tea in slow circles. ‘Really? Universities are normally right sticklers about their data.’

  ‘Well, technically they shouldn’t … but if you get the right person, pull at the old heartstrings…’ I raise my eyebrows. ‘Other outfits pretend to be the clients and do it themselves. But we don’t operate that way.’

  Harry appears to be at pains to establish his credentials. Given his line of business, it seems rather quaint.

  ‘I don’t mean to sound insensitive, Mrs Connelly, but you need to ham it up a bit. Give them a sob story. Even if they don’t release her details, they might offer to send her a message.’

  Harry spends another five minutes coaching me on what I should say, how to play it. I don’t have the heart to tell him I’ve engaged in many such conversations before. The amount of time we spend trying to track down patients’ relatives, I’m virtually a sleuth myself. But the tightness in my gut suggests my own family investigations might not be quite as straightforward.

  After I hang up I sit at the table, squinting at the number he’s given me, rehearsing what I’m going to say. I take a breath and dial. It rings and rings. Part of me begins to hope no one picks up.

  ‘Alumni Relations, Jayne speaking.’

  I feel a rush as the adrenaline kicks in. ‘Ah, hello, this is Kate Connelly. Ward sister at the Marston Hospital for the Elderly. Can I speak to the alumni officer, please?’

  ‘Speaking. How can I help you?’

  The handset’s already feeling a little sweaty. ‘Well, I should start by saying I’m not on hospital business. This is a personal matter.’ I hesitate, just long enough to demonstrate vulnerability. ‘The thing is, I’m trying to locate my birth mother, Mary Sommers. She was at Oxford back in the eighties.’

  ‘I see.’ Jayne sounds rather officious. ‘Well, normal procedure for enquiries is to send us the person’s name and date of birth, and we’ll respond within forty-eight hours, confirming whether they studied here or—’

  ‘Her name was published in the class lists. I know she did.’ There’s a pause. Probably not a good idea to interrupt. ‘I’m sorry, it’s just, well, she turns seventy this year. I’ve not had any contact with her since I was born so … I was hoping you might have a forwarding address—’

  ‘I’m sorry, we can’t give out that kind of information. There are procedures we have to follow. Data protection laws.’

  ‘Of course, of course.’ Time to ramp it up. ‘You see, my mother – my adoptive mother that is – died very recently.’ I swallow. ‘My father died five years ago. So my birth mother is all the family I have left.’

  Just saying those words unplugs an unexpected well of emotion. Conjured for effect, the truth of them strikes home.

  ‘Oh. I’m very sorry for your loss,’ she says, as if she really means it. ‘I know how difficult it is.’ She sighs. ‘I lost my own father last year.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ I pause. ‘That’s why … It would be such a relief to know where she is. To have a chance to meet her, before … Well, I’m sure you understand. Those last years are so precious.’

  I clamp my mouth shut and let the silence between us grow.

  ‘I suppose it can’t do any harm…’ Her voice lowers. ‘Do you want to give me the dates she was here?’

  I reel them off. ‘Thank you. Thank you so much.’

  ‘Of course, if we do have any contact details, I won’t be able to divulge them. But I can send her a message on your behalf.’

  ‘That would be wonderful.’ I listen to her tapping the keys, willing her to go faster.

  The typing stops. ‘Oh.’

  The way she says it isn’t good. ‘Is something the matter?’

  ‘I’m sorry, I’m going to have to put you on hold.’ She speaks quickly, as if she can’t wait to get me off the phone. There’s a click and a recorded voice starts wheedling in my ear about bequests.

  ‘Hello? Wh
o is this?’

  A different woman: Jayne must have palmed me off on someone else. I start again, keeping it friendly. ‘My name’s Kate Connelly, I’m a ward sister at the Marston Hospital for the Elderly—’

  ‘Oh, please. Credit me with some intelligence. I thought I’d made myself clear.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘You’ve got a nerve, trying it again. The lies you people tell!’

  My brain rebounds. Did Harry call them already? Is that what’s pissed her off?

  ‘I … I think there’s been some mistake.’ I swallow. ‘This is the first time I’ve rung—’

  ‘What you’re doing is against the law. Impersonating others. Trying to extract personal information through deceit. I have your number right here; do you want me to call the police?’

  My heart is pounding, but I manage to keep my voice calm. ‘I’m sorry but I honestly don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m just trying to locate my birth mother, that’s not a—’

  ‘OK, that’s it. If you call again, I’ll report you. Go trawl along the bottom of some other ocean.’

  The line goes dead.

  I blink at the phone. What the hell? I should make a formal complaint.

  I punch the first three digits of Harry’s number and stop. I run through the conversation again. She thought I was someone who’d rung before. By the sounds of it, some rogue operator. The question is, why? Who else would be looking for my birth mother?

  I grab my laptop and log on; my fingers tear across the keys. This time I set my date filter later – to capture more recent entries. A rash of blue headlines appears. Suddenly my tongue feels too large for my mouth.

  I drag the cursor slowly down. My finger hovers over one of the headlines and falls, like a guillotine.

  ‘Scientist Investigated over TB Drug Scandal’

  A scientist who worked for the drugs company, Pharmaplanta, has been summoned to give evidence after the health secretary launched an official investigation into the use of Brotanol in South African hospitals.

  The experimental TB drug caused multiple organ failure, leading to over six hundred deaths…

  I stare at the words as the second hand on my watch stomps round. Somewhere outside a dog barks.

  I tell myself that it might not be the same woman. That there’s no actual proof it’s her. But I feel it already, like a force of gravity, pressing me down. The grim, irrevocable certainty that it is.

  I hunt through the other results but they’re all variations of the same story. I search another year, and another, but there are no more mentions.

  Mary Sommers has disappeared.

  CHAPTER 22

  LILY

  Every time I look at her the palpitations quicken in my chest. She’s there. Just the other side of the table. Head bent, her grey bob draped like a shroud over her face. She ties and knots the cloth with a dexterity I can only dream of. Are those really the hands that pushed me? I can still taste that minty burn. I imagine her, stalking into the bathroom, her shadow passing over my face. My eyes move to the soft, pale skin at the nape of her neck. Even murderers have their weak spot.

  She puts her Abayomi doll down and squints in my direction. But it’s not me she’s looking at, it’s the sewing box. Her eyes peer out behind silver-framed glasses, like dark beads. She rummages around the box, lips puckered as if in disapproval, picking at ribbons like a crow. My scissors have stuck mid-cut, the plastic handles wedged tight around my knuckles. My fingers are already bulging: fiery-red and swelling fast. I try to force the blades apart. They fly open, stabbing my doll in the face. Now she has scars, too.

  ‘Careful, Lily. Here, let me.’ Eloise gently frees me of the scissors and slices briskly through the cloth. All I’ve managed to accomplish so far is one twisted skirt. I sneak another glance at Margaret. She’s still absorbed with her ribbons.

  ‘There you are.’ Eloise slides her glasses back up her nose. ‘Just say if you want help, Lily.’ She leans closer: ‘Why don’t you try saying hello?’

  I shake my head. ‘She’s not who I thought she was.’

  Eloise’s mouth droops. ‘Oh. Are you sure?’ A thin crest of hair quivers on her lip.

  ‘I’m afraid so.’ I give her a tight smile. ‘Must be a coincidence after all.’

  Eloise tuts. ‘What a shame. I think it would have done her good to see an old friend.’ She unspools more lengths of wool. ‘Mind you, there’s nothing to stop you two having a chat.’

  I don’t dignify that with a reply. Chatting isn’t exactly on the agenda. I busy myself with the doll’s turban until Eloise moves on. The voices of the other residents merge into an insect-like murmur, punctuated with the occasional scissor snip. There’s a pleasant smell of lavender and rose, tainted with the ever-present sting of disinfectant. I wind one more piece of cloth around the wooden peg and slip the scissors into my pocket.

  ‘There we are,’ says a woman in a purple cardigan, brandishing her work.

  ‘Oh, that’s lovely, Heather,’ gushes Eloise. ‘Goodness me, is that your fourth? Those children will be pleased. You’re a proper little production line today, aren’t you, ladies?’

  Laughter tinkles through the room. Eloise bustles round the table, sweeping fabric ends into a pink plastic tub with one meaty hand. I wait until her back is turned. I reach for my frame and shuffle as fast as I can to the door.

  ‘Going already, Lily?’

  Damn it. I swivel round. Fortunately, Margaret is still bent over her doll.

  ‘Sorry.’ I hold up a hand. ‘They’re really playing up. I think I need to give them a rest.’

  Before she has a chance to respond I head left towards Betjeman and try to pick up some pace. By my calculations I have thirty minutes at best. As I reach the Tuscan-orange walls I feel a flutter of trepidation. Just because I don’t have a relationship with my cleaner, doesn’t mean Margaret doesn’t have one with hers.

  I scour the corridor for the sanitation trolley but it’s nowhere to be seen. I wheel slowly past each door, pausing to listen, my insides stretched as tight as a wire. When I reach the seventh door, I hear it: the Hoover’s bellow and whine. I pass another three rooms and stop.

  Margaret Benn (Oxf)

  The witch’s lair.

  I wait outside, praying nobody else comes. Eventually a door opens and a small, wiry woman emerges, trailing the vacuum cleaner behind her like a dog. I try to catch her eye but she disappears back inside. She returns with the trolley and rattles it along the carpet towards me. All I can see of her behind the brushes and mops are her feet. Her scuffed brown lace-ups remind me of the shoes they made us wear at school.

  I clear my throat. ‘Excuse me?’

  The trolley’s making such a racket that she doesn’t hear. I try a little louder.

  ‘Excuse me? Hello?’

  She pokes her head round. It looks as though the bones in her face have shrunk. The poor woman must be nearly as old as me.

  ‘Ah, I think there’s a problem.’ I hold up my arm. ‘With my chip.’

  She stares through me, as if I’m invisible.

  I point at my arm and then at Margaret Benn’s door. ‘It won’t open.’ I flash her an apologetic smile. She doesn’t smile back. Either she doesn’t understand or she doesn’t care. ‘Can you help me?’

  Her jaw sets. She gives one shake of her head, firm and slow.

  I clench my abdomen with both hands. ‘Please. I’m desperate.’

  She mutters something to herself and sighs. ‘Not allow.’ She gives the trolley a good shove.

  OK, then. It’s going to have to be the full monty.

  I scoop up my dress and yank at my tights with one claw, grunting. She turns. Her eyes widen.

  ‘No, no, no!’ She flaps her hands and scuttles forward. She grabs her lanyard and waves the metal card at the door. It beeps.

  She sticks one bony finger in my face. ‘Not say, OK?’

  I nod. ‘OK.’ I shuffle past her.

  I’m i
n.

  I stand in the middle of the room, heart racing. It’s a good size, bigger than mine, but doesn’t look it. Every corner is crammed with furniture and knick-knacks, as if she’s emptied her entire house into one room. There must be at least twenty photo frames strewn over the surfaces and walls. I pick one from the window sill. It’s a younger Margaret, the one I recognise from the news articles. She has the same short bob and serious expression, but her hair is brown, not grey, and her eyes look bigger, less shrew-like. She’s in formal college dress: mortar board and gown.

  I head towards a large gold frame mounted above the sideboard. Some instinct warns me, even before I look. I see now, just how pretty her daughter was. The press photos didn’t do her justice. Peach-coloured skin and oval brown eyes, a cascade of long, chestnut hair. As I look at the other photos I realise that, apart from a couple, all of them are of her. The first day at primary: stiff collar, white socks. A concert at secondary. Sprawling teenager and triumphant graduate. I follow her daughter’s life around the room until I reach the one just before it ends.

  She beams at the camera, golden freckles dusting her cheeks, one arm flung loosely around some guy. My chest burns. She radiates happiness. Everything ahead of her. So much promise, commemorated in that smile.

  What am I doing here, in this woman’s room? All I can offer her are apologies. I cannot change what happened, God knows, I’ve wished I could. Maybe I should just let Margaret get on with it: whatever’s next on her list. Tell Graham to leave it be.

  I hear a click and the lock thuds back.

  The door swings open.

  A faint hope glimmers that it’s the cleaner, come to check I haven’t made a mess on the floor.

  I glimpse the shoes.

  It’s not.

  CHAPTER 23

  Twenty-six years pre-Crisis

  Clinicians Sound the Alarm as MRSA Outbreaks Spread