The Quiet Woman, page 17
After watching the screen for a minute or two (no typing …) I gave up and returned my phone to my bag, staring around the walls of my clinic room and facing the problem. Middle-aged love had so many difficulties, so many more obstacles to manoeuvre around, so many taboo subjects. An ex, ex in-laws, kids, finances, bitter truths, hidden pasts, ugly scars and previous disappointments. Realism has no tidy pigeonhole in modern day, second-hand romance. Like searching for the perfect fit in a charity shop, you’re lucky if you find it.
I pulled my phone out and read through the texts a second time, reading his optimistic, romantic initial suggestion, my own response (which now looked pretty off-putting) and felt a mirroring stab of disappointment. I’d blown it.
I knew I’d hurt him, pushed him aside. What could have been an opportunity to bind us together had resulted in increasing the distance. He would imagine I had some happy reunion with Mark (past forgiven).
I was sorry I’d handled it clumsily. But I was convinced I’d done the right thing.
Family comes first. But I’d strangle Lara if she didn’t come after all.
THIRTY-EIGHT
Wednesday 18 October, 9.30 a.m.
The day had been set aside for a training day connected with a new bariatric service which was being set up at the hospital, but at the last minute it was cancelled as the new consultant had been double-booked and we were the losers. Or winners, depending on your take.
It meant that I had an unexpected free afternoon which bore even more unexpected fruit.
I was still a bit down after the failed date with Will. Should I have explained why I wasn’t free for the weekend? Was I wrong to have simply said I wasn’t available with the excuse ‘family stuff’? Whatever, it was too late now to backtrack or revise my text. I sat and moped for half the morning but I couldn’t do that all day.
There is nothing like a water-walk to pick up your spirits, so I put my jacket on over my uniform and headed for the canal. But this time instead of heading south along the Trent and Mersey Canal towards Aston Marina, I turned north towards Barlaston where I planned to have a coffee at the Wedgewood museum and then head home.
And who should I bump into – almost literally – but Dr Morris Gubb, our retired senior partner. Morris had been gone less than a year and I still missed him. When I’d worked alongside him I’d sometimes cursed; he could be annoyingly naive, at times failing to read between the lines. Wanting to find the best in people he often failed to recognize their worst. But he was one of those doctors whose core values were good. He prioritized patients and their needs over all else and his life had been lonely since his wife had died a few years back. He had aged overnight and it had been sad to watch him slip into old age and retirement, with just his black labrador, Doric, for company. But here he was, walking briskly towards me, his arm slipped into his companion’s arm. She was a lady, possibly in her fifties, maybe early sixties, with neatly cut, short, blonde hair, a fitted scarlet designer jacket, skinny black trousers and tan leather boots. Doric was sauntering comfortably ahead of them, nose down, searching for olfactory stimulus. Maybe he recognized me because he ran up to me, sniffed me and gave a short, welcoming bark. Or maybe it was the familiar scent of antiseptic, which seems to cling to health workers long after they’ve left their workplace, that he’d recognized. Whatever, his tail was wagging so hard it created a draught.
Morris gave me a wide, happy smile tinged with obvious pride. ‘Florence,’ he said delightedly. ‘This is Eirlys.’ I looked into a pair of well made-up, sparkling blue eyes and a smile which displayed a set of natural, even, white teeth.
Morris turned to her and introduced me. ‘This is Florence, the nurse I used to work with at the surgery.’
I was studying him, noting the fact that he looked ten years younger than when I’d last seen him, only a year or two ago.
He seemed to think some explanation was called for because he continued, ‘I met Eirlys’ – he turned to the woman at his side – ‘on a cruise. I was very brave.’ He chuckled. ‘I’d gone on my own. Eirlys was with a group of friends.’
‘Who adopted this brave, isolated man,’ Eirlys picked up with a smile. ‘And so Morris and I became acquainted.’
Acquainted? That was what they called it?
I was so happy for him. Too many GPs work and work and work. Then they retire and die. Many don’t survive long enough to draw their generous pensions and enjoy their retirement and, when Sylvia, his wife, had died, I’d feared that would happen to Morris. His sole offspring – a son, also a doctor – worked for MSF and spent little time in the UK with his dad.
So this … I met Eirlys’s bright eyes. This was wonderful. ‘Where are you heading?’
‘Thought I’d show her the Wedgewood museum,’ he said.
‘And I was planning to have a coffee there.’
‘Wonderful idea.’ Her enthusiasm was infectious. ‘Mind if we join you?’
‘No.’
So the three of us – with dog – stepped along the canal towpath and enjoyed a burst of autumn sunshine, while I learned more about Eirlys. She too was widowed although she didn’t say what job her husband had done. A profession, I guessed. She was witty and funny, poked gentle mockeries at Morris who took it all with affectionate grunts.
When we reached the coffee shop, naturally our talk turned to our times in the practice and our patients.
Which was when Morris’s face changed. ‘I heard about the Clays,’ he said. ‘Awful. Simply awful.’ He looked reflective. ‘I can hardly believe it. I treated them for years. Although …’ He frowned. ‘They were a couple who kept themselves to themselves.’ His frown deepened as he looked into the distance. ‘She changed,’ he said. ‘She was different before, but afterwards she changed.’
I was alert. ‘Afterwards?’
‘Old scandal,’ he said, trying to dismiss it. ‘None of it proved but I never quite trusted her afterwards.’
Never trusted her?
‘There was no proof, of course.’
‘Morris,’ I said, exasperated, ‘what on earth are you on about?’
Eirlys was looking intrigued, her face bright with curiosity. ‘Do tell, Morris,’ she urged. ‘Sounds like scandal.’
But he looked awkward. ‘It’s not important,’ he said, ‘or relevant.’ He lifted his coffee cup to his lips, gave a noisy sip and set it back down on the saucer.
I knew Morris Gubb and his famed stubbornness. Once he’d decided that a patient’s past was pure gossip, he would button up his lips and keep schtum.
We dawdled all the way back. The afternoon was dropping into a dull dusk. Less than a fortnight and the clocks would go back. The evenings would lengthen and I would come home to long, dark, lonely evenings because already I was beginning to realize how friable mine and Will’s relationship had proved. In the end it had taken so little – nothing more than an awkward, clumsy phrase, a badly chosen implication, the word ‘family’ shutting him out and it could have crumbled into dust.
I headed home, despondent, still puzzling over Morris Gubb’s cryptic hint.
THIRTY-NINE
Friday 20 October, 5 p.m.
Lara had rung to finalize details of their flying visit. It had been on the tip of my tongue to ask whether she had paid a similar visit to her father, but I knew whatever answer she gave it would make me conscious that our daughter appearing to have found the love of her life was something Mark and I would have shared. We could have swapped impressions post visit, as we would have shared premonitions pre visit, and bask in our daughter’s joy. If their relationship worked out we might have helped plan a wedding, celebrated together on the actual day and afterwards we could have, maybe, looked forward to grandchildren. But now I felt strangely lonely. I had no one I could share the happy news with, just as I had no one with whom I could confide my darker moments and fears.
I could hardly expect Will to share both my joys and fears when he didn’t even know her, whereas Mark and I had known Lara since before her birth.
And so, instead of being wholeheartedly excited about Lara’s new love, I fretted.
There were gaps in my knowledge of David Abrams which would slowly be filled, learning a little more each time I met him or my daughter and I chatted about him. One thing had already struck me. Handsome as he was, he was at least ten years older than my daughter – at a guess in his forties. A man of that age had to have a past. Nothing of that had been mentioned but I wondered what that past might hold. An ex? Children? I didn’t know where or how she’d met him – through the Internet, media, friends, work? All blank spaces so far, waiting to be filled in.
I simply had to focus on the fact that my daughter loved him and so I should banish my doubts and accept him as my daughter’s partner.
From Will I still heard nothing. I checked my phone too many times that Friday, making sure my answerphone was working, searching through my emails in case I’d missed one, but there was nothing, adding to my feeling of despondency and insecurity. In the end I realized it hadn’t taken much to shed my comfortable optimism as completely as a lizard sheds its skin.
I felt surprisingly down considering and scolded myself. I had a weekend ahead to enjoy with my daughter and her partner, but I also had a shadow hovering over me. Just before I’d left for the weekend I’d had a call from the coroner’s officer. In nicely couched terms his message was clear. While I probably wouldn’t be asked to make a statement at the inquest on Monday into the death of Mrs Christine Clay, I would be required to attend in case questions were asked.
And so a locum was hired to manage my Monday surgery. Who knew how long the inquest would last.
There was one benefit to this. If I was asked to provide a statement so would the police. I might learn something which helped me understand the sequence of events. In preparation I printed out each consultation I had had with the Clays over the past year, realizing that Christine Clay had had only one appointment with her GP – Jordan Bannister. I read it through recognizing his cursory style.
Patient complaining of:
Tiredness X one year.
No previous H/O same.
Physical check appeared NAD.
? Some element of anaemia.
Plan: Sent for blood tests including FBC (Full Blood Count) Ferritin levels.
And later:
Practice Nurse suggests referral to psychologist.
It was all I would have expected from him: cold, factual and efficient whereas my comments were open to interpretation: ‘Patient appeared …’ and so on.
And every time the phrase ‘accompanied by husband’.
Except that last time, which even I had failed to pick up on the point.
My worry was that I might be expected to voice an opinion on Christine Clay’s mental state. I agonized over this. But with Richard Clay sitting on the front seat, any mention of coercion or the powers of suggestion would be unwise. I only hoped that I might learn something. Possibly all or part of Christine’s alleged suicide note might even be read out. Some reference would almost definitely be made to it.
I wished Christine had been seen by Ruth Carroway. She would have been in a much stronger position to make some reference to the Clays’ marriage and in particular Christine’s mental state. But, of course, she’d never had the chance.
Now, instead of looking forward to the weekend and beyond, I was nervous and apprehensive.
FORTY
Saturday 21 October, 4 p.m.
Lara hadn’t specified a time, loosely saying after lunch, but as the afternoon drew on I started to fret. I could have called her mobile but that would have seemed as though I was criticizing her for being late.
Twice I went online to check for road delays or accidents but for once the motorways between London and the Midlands appeared clear. The M6 was behaving itself.
I’d expected them before evening, having promised them a meal on arrival. I’d thought maybe tea, but the time was heading towards dinner.
And so I fidgeted, with everything ready: salmon wrapped in foil with herbs and slices of lemon, new potatoes the size of tiny pebbles, fresh broccoli and baby carrots buttered and a homemade Hollandaise sauce – one of my few culinary talents. However, I’d bought a bread and butter pudding from Marks & Spencer. My culinary skills have their limits.
Finally they arrived at seven thirty, climbing out of a white Tesla, still laughing, looking the picture of love and happiness. Standing on my doorstep, greeting both with a kiss, I surreptitiously cast my eyes around the cul-de-sac and was gratified to note faces in windows and curtains twitching, including Eve Miller whom I’d noticed the other day was pregnant again. I only hoped this pregnancy wouldn’t be accompanied by her previous pregnancy’s drama. After a quick wave and the broadest of grins, the pair of them fumbled around in the boot of the car, bringing out flowers, wine and a small, single, overnight case.
Which answered one of my questions. Lara was tossing her head and laughing as she threw her arms around me. ‘Hello again, Mum.’
I thought that they both looked glowingly happy, lit up from the inside in the way that only a young couple in love can look.
I greeted her back then looked past her to David.
‘Hello again, Lara’s mum.’ He dropped another kiss on to my cheek before handing me a bunch of white roses and a bottle of wine. I closed the door behind us and we decamped to the kitchen. ‘I hope you’re hungry.’
‘Starving.’
I’d noticed that it was David who’d responded and I turned around, my heart just beginning to flutter. As a teenager Lara had suffered (and I mean that word) from anorexia with frequent bouts of bulimia. She’d always been picky about her food but during that period she’d become positively skeletal. And then she’d headed for university where her condition seemed to stabilize while I’d remained wary. Now I was alert again, whipping around and reading the hollowed-out cheeks together with something else that made my heart beat faster. While many of us wear clothes to disguise unwelcome bulges, during that dreadful time Lara had worn oversized clothing, trying to disguise her vanishing body. Today she was dressed in a loose sweater two sizes too big for her and a pair of very baggy cargo pants. I shot a look at David, trying to alert him. Something did pass between us, but I wasn’t sure he realized the potential seriousness of her condition.
If she’d read any of the subtext David and I had exchanged mutely, Lara provided the conversation with gusto. ‘So now you’ve met my hard-working mother.’ She opened her eyes wide. ‘Twice.’
We were all holding our breath for the natural sequitur – her dad – but it didn’t come. Instead, David started asking me about my job, whether I agreed (broadly speaking, of course) with nurses striking, before we moved to more general topics and the moment passed.
Thankfully.
They praised the meal while I watched my daughter eat and silently praised myself for hanging back on mentioning Mark, though the subject lay dormant between us, like a dead animal. Finally, over a glass of very fine Rioja (the wine they’d brought,) I bit the bullet, deeming David the safer option to address my query to.
‘So have you met Lara’s father?’ I’d tried to keep my tone light but I wasn’t convinced I’d pulled it off because he shot a very penetrating look at me.
‘I haven’t,’ he finally conceded quietly. ‘I understand he’s about to become a father again.’
Lara hiccupped and put her hand over her mouth. I remembered those hiccups. When she’d been about to vomit a meal she’d often started with a bout before dashing off to the toilet.
So now I had a reason for her current weight loss. I turned my attention back to David and tried to keep my response light.
‘So I believe.’ I gave a laugh that sounded insincere. ‘Not sure how he’ll respond to that.’
Lara hiccupped again. We looked at each other and I read the fact that we were all troubled by Mark’s approaching parenthood. Finally Lara managed an answer. ‘Thought I’d wait until the “happy” event is over before we go and see him and …’ Her eyes filled with tears and she stared at the tablecloth.
I felt terrible. I’d focussed on my own loss without really considering its effect on Lara.
She couldn’t even say the woman’s name. I reached across and touched her hand, noticing that David had done the same.
But at least mentioning the taboo subject had got it out of the way.
We chatted through the evening. I tried not to interrogate David but I still learned a few facts. He was the only child of a barrister who’d died of cancer a few years before. ‘My mum’s had a difficult time adjusting,’ he said with an apologetic smile. ‘But she’s getting there – albeit slowly. It’s helped that she’s sold the family pile and bought a much smaller Victorian cottage on the edge of a village in the Cotswolds. She’s joined loads of clubs and things but really I think she should go back to work.’
‘What was her job?’
‘She was a professor in a university.’
‘Wow,’ I said, slightly overawed.
‘But she gave up when I was born.’ He gave a rueful smile. ‘So it’s a long time ago that she had that post. To be honest, Mrs Shaw …’
I did the almost obligatory: ‘Florence, please.’
And he continued seamlessly, ‘She was a sort of …’ Again, that apologetic look. ‘Wife and mother.’
Though we shouldn’t have responded, all three of us seemed awkward at this description. And were silent.
Until the conversation started up again.
I went to bed early and finally fell asleep, hearing soft conversation from the spare bedroom.
We spent Sunday walking in the Staffordshire Moorlands, climbing over The Roaches, finally descending into Thorncliffe where we ordered a hearty meal at The Reform Inn.
