The Quiet Woman, page 11
She stared at me, still hostile, but starting to ask the same questions that I was.
Which neither of us made any attempt at answering.
I paused to catch my breath before launching back into the attack. ‘Your father was present at all consultations’ – honesty compelled me to add – ‘except the last one. No …’ I repeated the word to give it emphasis and maintain control of the narrative, ‘… no mention was ever made of cancer.’ I realized then I was missing something – the result of the post-mortem – and felt the ice crack beneath my feet, felt my balance shift and my feet slide from beneath me. ‘None of the tests showed anything serious. Your mother had pernicious anaemia, sure. And her blood pressure was a little high but there was nothing, nothing,’ I repeated, ‘to suggest your mother had cancer. However,’ I was forced to add, ‘we were concerned at her frequent attendances at the surgery and she had been referred to a psychologist to see if it might help her persistent fears.’
‘And how long until she reached the top of the list?’ Harriet spoke to herself as she turned away from me, then stared out over the garden, a square lawn surrounded by still-colourful flower beds.
‘What are you talking about?’ Richard Clay was standing in the doorway and I was struck at the change in him. He was watching us both with a gleam in his eye. The very quietness of his voice sounded menacing.
I eyed Harriet, even took a step towards her, in the unexpected position of being her ally.
Then I took the bull by the horns. ‘Harriet was just telling me your wife feared she had cancer.’
He dropped his head again and nodded and I caught the hint of a smile. ‘Nothing I could do would convince her otherwise.’
Oh, you clever man, I thought. Such an act.
His eyes were firmly on me now, sounding me out, and I felt uncomfortable, veering on threatened. He was reading my mind, sucking out my thoughts and slowly chewing on them, always with that smile. Harriet had her back to me, busying herself making the tea which now, feeling so uncomfortable, I wished I’d refused. I wanted out.
Harriet bustled back into the sitting room, her father and myself trailing behind her like recalcitrant schoolkids. I drank my tea as quickly as I could without burning my tongue, made my apologies and prepared to leave after repeating my sympathies to the bereaved widower.
Harriet followed me to the door. It was obvious she wanted to say something more. ‘I wondered,’ she began. She seemed to have lost some of her confidence. ‘Would you be able to see me?’ She gave a quick look back into the house and changed the request to a rather desperate: ‘Can I come and see you at the surgery? On my own. Please?’
‘Yes, of course.’ She had every right to come and talk to us if she had questions about her mother. And even if she hadn’t, she could register as a temporary resident.
I did try to sidestep. ‘Is it me you want to see or her GP?’
She stopped and thought about that for a moment. ‘Who saw Mum most?’
‘Probably me.’
‘Then I’d like to speak to you.’ Another swift glance behind her and she repeated, ‘On my own.’ And, reinforcing for clarity, she added, ‘Without Dad.’
TWENTY-FIVE
5.15 p.m.
As though designing to satisfy at least some of my curiosity, Will Summers rang just as I was reaching home. Seeing his caller ID on my screen, I felt that warm feeling one has when a woollen blanket wraps around you against the chill. Comfortable.
I felt that even more when he greeted me with a simple, ‘Hi,’ not having to explain who he was. That is the sign of a close and exclusive relationship, I decided.
‘Hi,’ I returned.
‘You managed to ditch the ex then?’
I laughed because there was no undertone in the question. No jealousy, interrogation or spite. It was a merry mockery. ‘I did.’ I laughed again. ‘I’d like to say I sent him away with a flea in his ear but, to be honest, I suspect he got enough earache when he reached home.’
Will laughed too and there was a brief pause. I wanted so much to ask him how the investigation into Christine Clay’s death was proceeding but I was worried he’d think that was the only reason our friendship was blossoming. I’d picked his brains before and didn’t want him to think I was using him and our friendship simply to get an inside story on an investigation. There were borders I would be unwise to cross.
Instead, I invited him over for dinner.
‘What?’ He sounded astonished.
‘I can cook, you know.’ I was only slightly insulted.
He tried to rescue the situation with a hasty: ‘I’m sure. I’m sure.’
Which made me laugh again. ‘I suppose I’d better check on allergies?’
‘None,’ he responded quickly.
‘Or anything you simply can’t eat for love or money.’
‘Not that I can think of,’ he said brightly.
And I thought how simple, how pleasant, and how uncomplicated this relationship was – so far.
‘Tomorrow night then? Around seven. I don’t like eating late,’ I added.
‘I’ll see you then.’ I was already planning what to cook. Nothing too heavy, plenty of veg. Something healthy but massively tasty. I wanted to impress.
But first I would have to deal with Harriet Clay who had booked into my surgery tomorrow. Darcey had rung to ask if she could add her on to the end of my morning surgery and I’d agreed. Tackle her sooner rather than later, I thought, because for sure I’d sensed she was going to be full of complaints. I was starting to doubt my original theory about the Clays’ supposed suicide pact. What I’d witnessed from Richard had been genuine grief. I was sure of it. But I wasn’t confident the police would conduct anything but a superficial investigation. Maybe make a casual enquiry into the source of the drugs, but I suspected they would not dig deep. Perhaps even if the source could be traced back to him he might claim Christine had pressured him into buying them because she had trouble sleeping. Which I’d documented in her notes – if they looked that far.
And there was no way I could see of proving he’d manipulated his wife.
I felt my face crumple into a frown. My conviction, which had been so strong, had melted when I’d seen his wrecked unhappiness. However he had appeared when she had been at the surgery, he now seemed distant and I was doubting my own observation. I tried to think back, to resurrect my memory of the consultations we had had. I tried to picture her vulnerability, hunched up in her chair, the dowdy clothes she had worn, her quiet submission and something in me shifted.
I tried to find a narrative.
Maybe he had planted the cancer story. Possibly he’d even encouraged it? If so, why hadn’t he confronted us with a direct question? That was in his nature after all. Maybe they had both been waiting for one of her numerous tests to confirm it.
Perhaps his impatience had been with us rather than her.
In my eyes Richard had always held the upper hand. Dogmatic, intelligent, coercive. I simply hadn’t found the reason why. Simple dominance? And now I struggled with another image of him – as a victim. Also, seeing him as a victim, the likelihood was that the police and coroner would agree not to press charges unless some hard evidence turned up.
Coercion is notoriously hard to prove in a court of law. Particularly with the main witness dead.
Perhaps having done his worst, Richard was now regretting the murder of his wife.
Or maybe his grief was a clever mask.
No one but I would have watched his behaviour. They lived alone. I hadn’t seen their daughter for years. There would be no witnesses.
Unless I could find some hard evidence.
Such as?
It would have to be watertight. Sympathy for the grieving widower would tilt the balance towards him. But testifying against one of my patients was not part of my job description.
I tumbled around this moral conundrum.
The rights of patients.
For now I spent the evening tidying up the house, cleaning the kitchen and planning a menu. I wanted DC Will Summers to see me as an efficient housewife, my home sparkling with cleanliness.
TWENTY-SIX
Tuesday 10 October, 12.15 p.m.
I was nervous when I saw that Harriet Clay had booked in for midday. I didn’t know what she wanted from me and I couldn’t think how best to respond to any interrogation she might subject me to about her mother and father, their relationship and the tragic events that followed. I could hardly be honest or share my suspicions that her dad had had a hand in her mother’s erroneous belief that she had had cancer, let alone my fear that he had actually orchestrated the suicide pact scenario.
However, she had already indicated she was after blood and blame so I should be wary.
Both her parents were protected by a confidentiality clause as they were patients of the practice so my options were limited, even to their daughter, unless Richard gave his permission for his information to be shared. After checking the screen I flicked it over to blank as my finger hovered over the bell to summon her.
Maybe she had something she wanted to pass on to me or else she wanted something from me – some small detail or opinion. I could hardly share that when my opinion pointed a finger at her dad. What would she ask? I wondered. My finger shook as I pressed the buzzer and moments later heard her footsteps, crisp and determined, step towards my room.
Even her knock felt a threat, an assertion.
I stood up and opened the door.
Today her hair was scraped back which emphasized her pointed, witchy features: sharp nose, thin mouth, narrow eyes, and she didn’t look as angry as I’d expected, but … the only word I could use was grief-struck. I’d expected confrontation. Not defeat. For a moment I was taken aback feeling primarily sympathy for her. She had lost her mother in terrible circumstances. Illness happens but in a suicide those near to the deceased feel guilty, convinced their neglect played some part in the tragedy. Ultimately they believe they failed them. And, if the accepted version was to be believed, almost her father too. She must be feeling a terrible daughter. But what could I do to alleviate her guilt?
She sat down and looked me straight in the eye. And her opening gambit was unexpected. ‘How much do you know about me?’
I was taken aback. That was not what I’d expected. ‘Not a lot.’ I tried out a smile, ‘Which is to say nothing except …’ I was about to say, ‘your parents’, but I stopped myself just in time, the words almost colliding into each another.
‘I make documentaries,’ she said, ‘about wrongs that need to be righted.’
It sounded like something out of fiction, a child’s version of Robin Hood, or The Three Musketeers. I almost smiled. But her next sentence sucked any humour out of me.
‘You could say I’m an investigative reporter.’ Her pale eyes were focussed on me, watching for my reaction.
I couldn’t think of a suitable response so said nothing while I wondered where this was leading, why she was here. What she wanted from me. I felt the tiniest frisson of concern when she added, one elbow on my desk, chin resting on her knuckles so her eyes were level with mine, ‘In fact, Nurse Shaw, I’ve done a couple of programmes on health matters.’
That was when my heart started pounding and instead of feeling sorry for her I felt intimidated. And angry. I’d thought she’d wanted to talk about her parents, in particular about her mother. Not chase up some story about NHS failings. If there is one thing that worries health professionals it is that two-word phrase, investigative reporter, because however well we feel we have performed they will always find something, a weak link, a failure to provide … and so on.
Now she worried me, not as a recently bereaved daughter of one of my patients, but as a combatant. The press don’t do good stories about the health service. And this one wasn’t good anyway. Someone had died so how was that not a failing? Only bad stories make headlines. What was she going to focus on? What failures in my part had robbed her of a parent – almost two parents?
I met her eyes now, as cold and flat as an ice floe, and challenged her. ‘So am I talking to you as an investigative journalist? In which case I should have my union representative present – possibly a lawyer too.’
She took her elbow off the desk and sat back, thinking. I caught the whiff of trouble, meeting her eyes and clamping my mouth tight shut.
I had colleagues who had had a rough time on the other end of an investigation and they hadn’t gone well. One, whom I had considered beyond reproach, had subsequently left the profession. Demoralized and depressed, she had rung me late one night, admittedly when she’d had a couple of drinks. ‘Nursing’s changed,’ she’d said sadly. ‘Once we were loved and trusted. Heroines. Now we’re constantly questioned. Suspected. People are looking out for our mistakes.’
‘But surely—’ I’d begun.
She’d cut me off. ‘Don’t you believe it. The public want blood or else they want money. They’re baying for it and they want someone to take the blame for any ill health.’ She’d given a high-pitched, almost hysterical laugh. ‘And as most of them are atheists, they can’t blame God any more, can they, Florence?’ Chuckle, chuckle. ‘People feel they are entitled to health, happiness, a long life and designer handbags, so these days they can’t accept illness and its consequences. Or the results of poor lifestyle choices,’ she’d added with a huff.
I hadn’t known what to say and there had been a brief silence between us before my friend had turned into a Cassandra. ‘You wait,’ she’d said and, even on the end of a phone, I’d felt her index finger jabbing into me. ‘You just wait. One day it’ll happen to you. You’ll get blamed for something that isn’t your fault. You’ll feel the injustice, Florence. And you’ll want to hang up your nurse’s uniform and never see a patient again.’
But I couldn’t, I thought now. I couldn’t afford to hang up my uniform. I had a mortgage and no other source of income. No one to help me out. I didn’t have a husband who might step in with bills if I was struggling. I was on my own. There was no backup.
And now, as I met Harriet Clay’s frozen face, I recognized I was faced with just the situation that ‘Cassandra’ had predicted. And, I confess, I felt shaken.
I tried to read the motive in Harriet Clay’s hard, unforgiving eyes. Why had she really booked in to see me today? What did she want from me? To see me strung up for her mother’s death? At the same time I recognized I had two choices now – refuse to speak to her without a legal representative or else try and find out what she was after. Cautious curiosity won as I sat and faced her. ‘So what do you want?’
The full-frontal assault, or rather capitulation, took her aback. She hesitated then spoke in a low voice that felt as threatening as a shout. ‘I want the truth, Nurse Florence.’ I could hear the derision in her voice and the heightened threat it held. Her sharp little chin jutted out like a stroppy eight-year-old’s. ‘Someone cocked up here, didn’t they?’ She leaned back in her chair, bony knees pressed together. ‘She believed she had cancer and that she was dying. If she didn’t have cancer, she should have had some counselling, shouldn’t she?’
I could have prompted her into asking where that belief had originated but I was silent for a moment, gathering my thoughts, before I finally found my voice. ‘Your mum never questioned anyone directly on that subject, neither did your dad.’
Her pale eyes met mine and her response was quiet. ‘Maybe she was frightened to.’
I absorbed this sad little statement for a moment until I realized her eyes were still fixed on me. But her head had shifted to one side as though she was appraising me. ‘Harriet,’ I said, falling backwards into the cliché, ‘I’m sorry for your loss. I really am, but I think you’re barking up the wrong tree.’ I didn’t dare point her towards the right tree. ‘Your mum didn’t have cancer. All her symptoms were investigated thoroughly.’
‘I know,’ she admitted quietly. ‘The post-mortem showed there was no evidence of cancer.’
To say I felt relief would have been an understatement. I let out my breath. I wanted to say, See, told you. I also wanted to ask her what the drug they had taken was. But I found I couldn’t say anything.
For a moment anger took over. Her hands gripped the arms of the chair and she stared at me, lips pressed together. I sensed a gathering storm but she hadn’t left her seat and she was shaking her head like some sage of old, shaking her head in incredulity. ‘You don’t understand,’ she said. ‘I don’t want confrontation, Florence. I don’t want trouble. I just want to find out why my mother killed herself.’
I said nothing for a moment, though the words ‘I think I know’ hovered dangerously near my lips. But I wanted her to see this from my perspective, so I sat back and folded my arms. ‘You’re a journalist, Harriet,’ I said. Fragments of a documentary I’d watched were swimming through my memory. I saw the rocky journey of a bodycam secretly recording patients in distress, hands reaching out for help that never came. Brusque responses from unseen members of staff. Undercover work in somewhere advertised as a luxury nursing home with eye-watering fees. I’d switched off five minutes into the programme, unable to watch any more of this pathetic sight. But, I reflected now, as the silence between us thickened, the programme had been fair, without obvious bias. I didn’t know who had produced it or gathered the information, but it had got a point over articulately.
But journalists don’t make programmes about the success of the NHS, only its failures.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said.
She still didn’t budge. Her face crumpled and her shoulders bowed. ‘I was fond of my mother,’ she said.
