Chapter 9

Susanna did not recognise either of the young men on the doorstep. She had answered the doorbell while moving from one room to another half way through her breakfast, and she realised she was still clutching a half-drunk mug of instant coffee. With her other hand she automatically pulled together the edges of her dressing gown – an apple green, frilly nylon number borrowed from her mother’s wardrobe. She experienced a sudden panic. Perhaps they were from the hospital to tell her something dreadful about her mother. Impossible, she told herself. The operation was not even due to take place until later this morning.

“Sorry to disturb you so early, Miss Parson. We wanted to make sure of catching you before you go to the hospital and, come to that, we have a deadline to meet. I’m sorry. Let me explain. I’m Tony Georgiou, senior features reporter and this is Bob, my photographer.” He proffered an ID card with his photograph, the name of a well-known Sunday tabloid paper and the word ‘press’ prominent in heavy capitals. “Could we speak to you for a minute. It is quite important and it won’t take long.”

Susanna hesitated but conscious of the inadequacy of the flimsy dressing gown and the sidelong stares of early-morning passers-bye, hurrying along the pavement beyond the open gate on the way to their offices and bus stops, she stepped backwards, pointing with the coffee mug towards the living room door in the middle of the narrow hall. “Just a minute please. I’ll be right back.”

“White with two sugars please,” called the reporter after her retreating back. “No sugar for Bob. He’s already as sweet as we can make him at this time of the morning.”

She returned in jeans, finishing the buttoning of her cardigan while running the fingers of her other hand through her hair. Glancing down, she quickly kicked off the fluffy, pale green mules – more of her mother’s bedroom attire – that she had absent-mindedly put back on while hurriedly dressing.

“What can I do for you?” She asked.

“I’ll come straight to the point. I believe you were the hostage in the people-smuggling incident in Corfu on Monday. We’d like to print your story and in exchange for the exclusive right to do that, I’m authorised by my editor to offer you five thousand pounds.” As he spoke he reached into his inside pocket and produced a cheque that he placed, face up, on the coffee table. It was already completed and payable to Miss S. Parson. Taken completely by surprise, Susanna stalled.

“How did you find me? I thought my name was being kept confidential. Anyway, I’m not sure I want this all over the papers. It was all over in a couple of hours.”

“It’s my job to find people, Miss Parson, and I have very good contacts, family contacts, in Corfu. And can I call you Susanna? Don’t you think, though that something should be done about the slack security at the airport that allowed someone almost to the steps of the plane with a gun, not to mention the coastguard or whoever allowed these traffickers and the girls to get past them. I mean… the Italians seem to have got the problem under control, don’t you think it’s time the Greeks got their act together?”

From corrections about how the traffickers really got hold of the guns and generalisations about security, Susanna found herself drawn, little by little, into talking about the girls and their minders and her own role and experiences. She noticed the dictating machine, its red, recording light blinking occasionally, that had been laid on top of the cheque but it did not seem to matter now. She was just giving basic facts to dispel misunderstandings. She did not want people to get the idea that she had done anything brave or, indeed, done anything, really. It all seemed so matter of fact, almost an everyday occurrence looking back on it now. She was surprised to find that she was crying as she describing the moment the gun had gone off and black-overalled and masked policemen had crashed through the windows of the airport office. Wiping her eyes with the sleeve of the cardigan, she realised she had not told anyone the full story since the day it happened and somehow she had opened the emotional floodgates.

“And how did the police treat you?” asked the reporter, gently.

“Well, okay, actually.” Susanna sniffed. “In fact they seemed pretty anxious that I shouldn’t be delayed and should get back to my mother as quickly as possible. She’s having an operation today, you know.” She pulled herself together, straightening her shoulders. “And I’ve got to go an see her before the operation, so if you’ve got everything you need…”

“Of course. Could we just have a couple of photos? We could wait while you go and get ready. A picture is better than a thousand words, eh Bob? Brings a story to life, somehow. And you’ll want to get off home soon, I expect. Back to your boy friend, George, isn’t it?”

“Oh no, no. This is a bad day. Please don’t take a picture!” but it was too late.

“Bloody hell, George! I asked you to offer a bit of moral support; not go into the people trafficking business with them!”

“No you didn’t! You begged me, you pleaded with me to help them. Well, the help they need is getting away from Albania and that’s the help I’m organising. And with some difficulty too, I might add. I’ve had to make contact with people I would rather not contact right now, and call in a few favours too!”

“I didn’t mean for you to adopt them, George. After all they’re only would-be hookers!”

“No they’re not. They’re bright and well-educated young women who can’t follow a decent career in their own country. They deserve a break and as it was you who asked me to help them, you could be a bit more grateful. After all, I’m doing this for you, you know!”

”Well, you’ve changed your tune! You couldn’t be bothered to do anything about them until I practically went down on my knees to you!”

“See! See! I told you I only got involved because you pleaded with me!”

“Well, I don’t want to hear about your conquests, George, but while you’re on, I’d better tell you that the bank’s pensions people want to hear from you and I also had a call from Sir Alec who seems pretty keen you should contact him.”

“Christ! You didn’t tell him where I am, did you?”

“Give me credit for some sense, George. Of course not, but I said I’d tell you he wants to talk to you. And now I have! And another thing, I don’t enjoy getting malicious calls from your bloody wife. She was quite nasty and as usual you weren’t here so I had to take the flak! I’m getting fed up with covering for you. I’m not your bloody secretary any more!”

“How the hell did Sue and Alec find out how to contact you in the first place?”

“As you have been baring your soul to complete strangers in Greek police stations and ringing all and sundry at the bank, you might already have the answer to that question. And I don’t need your permission to have lunch with an old colleague.”

“Bloody Jill! I might have known! Tele-phone, tell a woman or, if you want everybody to know, tell Jill!

“As it happens she didn’t know it was supposed to be a secret. And come to that, why is it? You can’t pretend you don’t know me for the rest of your life, George. You should stand up to these people, unless you’ve got something to hide. Are you ashamed of me or what? Why shouldn’t we tell people where we live? And Mum has had a mastectomy, thanks for asking. I’ll giver her your love, shall I?”

“Oh!” said George, just as the telephone went dead leaving him breathing heavily and struggling with a cocktail of emotions. Thank God he hadn’t said anything about Deborah. One of his reasons for ringing Susanna had been to spike the gun of local gossip by being the first to casually mention that she had visited him late at night. The telephone rang, making him jump.

“And another thing, George. You’d better have a look at the English Sunday papers because my story will be on the front page. You weren’t here so I told someone else! I made myself a nice fee, too, as a matter of fact!” The telephone went dead again.

Susanna unexpectedly burst into tears for the third time that day. Not only was bloody George not there when she needed him, but he was also devoting all the time and attention that should have been hers to helping other women! She hated him at that moment and had he been there she would have thrown him out. What the hell did he think he was playing at? Anger, frustration and a sense of betrayal combined to send her into a fresh flood of tears and she hurled the telephone across the room, changing her aim at the very last moment, to hit the sofa instead of the mirror over the fireplace. The lead popped out of the wall. Hell!, hell!, hell! And something saved her so she burst out laughing at her own vehemence and impotence – something closer to hysteria than hilarity but better than the alternative. She wiped her eyes and briefly considered using the telephone in her mother’s bedroom to ring George again. No. Let him stew. It would do him good to know she was upset with him and with everything in general. She hadn’t lost her rag with him before. This would teach him a lesson. He might even get the point. Typical man! All over you when you don’t want them; nowhere in sight when you do.

Valerie never seemed to have any trouble starting her little red hatchback but Susanna had not got the knack of the temperamental choke and throttle and flooded the carburettor again. When she had told him about it, George had jokingly called it a typical woman’s car, only prepared to perform without complaint when it was in the right mood. ‘Why on earth can’t mother get a decent car?’ she thought, sitting drumming her fingers on the steering wheel? One day it would give up the ghost somewhere distant and embarrassing; then she remembered that it hardly left the garage between one weekly supermarket-shop and the next and probably never went anywhere distant, and so suited her mother’s modest needs perfectly well. Nevertheless, the wretched thing was making her late for her second visit to the hospital. She was silly not have kept the underpowered hire car. At least it was reliable. Yet again, her habit of looking for ways to save money, to be economical, had got the better of her. She also regretted not haggling with the journalist. Even at the time and in spite of her discomfort, she had noticed Georgiou’s momentary hesitation before he reached into his pocket to produce the cheque and she now realised that he probably had several different cheques in different pockets, each one of a higher value. If she had asked for more she would have got it and her ridiculous, English, middle class reticence about bargaining or asking for money had very likely cost her several thousand pounds. Viewed that way, she was not nearly so pleased with her fee as she had told George.

Susanna had seen her mother before she went to the operating theatre, arriving late and harassed after her newspaper interview even though she was probably the only person aware of her lateness. This was going to be much more difficult because, although the details were still vague, the surgeon had, after all, decided to remove her mother’s left breast. Whatever the reason and whatever the prognosis – contact with hospitals made you think in medical terminology, Susanna noticed – her mother’s worst fears had been realised and she would take it badly. Like most people, Susanna disliked the smell of hospitals. In this particular corridor the warm, clinging, almost organic odour of antiseptic hand wash predominated. Her mother’s ward was, of course, a brisk, ten-minute walk from the entrance. Following the pastel-coloured, hanging signs, she wondered what they used to get the floors so shiny. Fellow visitors either squeaked or clicked along them depending on their shoes. Susanna clicked and although she secretly wished for a skateboard to make the journey quicker and more fun, she acknowledged to herself that the walk gave her time to gather her thoughts and calm down from the irritation of not only having to park as far away from the ward as was possible without leaving the grounds altogether, but also having to pay to do so. This was not a shopping expedition; nor was she on her way to a well-paid job. She was visiting a close relative in hospital. Surely the NHS could not be so strapped for cash that it had to overcharge visitors to use its insecure, vandalised and distant car parks. Her mother looked much older than she had that morning. Susanna hoped her shock at the sudden aging and Valerie’s pallor did not show in her face.

“Hello, Mum. How are you feeling?” Valerie turned he head on the pillow towards the sound of her daughter’s voice and smiled weakly.

“Hello, dear. They’ve taken it off.”

“Yes, I know, Mum. I ‘phoned this morning. I’m sorry. The doctors must know what they’re doing, though.” As she said the words she wondered yet again why her mother stubbornly refused to use private medicine. She tried not to allow head-space for the suspicion that a surgeon working in the NHS under time and cost pressure might be able to convince himself that radical surgery was in the patient’s best interest – especially if the surgeon was a man treating her mother’s condition with intellectual dispassion rather than feminine understanding of the emotional effect of having a breast removed. A voice broke into her thoughts.

“Miss Parson? I’m Sandra Patel. I carried out your mother’s operation. Has she told you about it?

“I rang earlier. I know you carried out a radical mastectomy.” Again, she noticed how contract with hospitals and doctors seemed to make the use of technical, medical terms appropriate and natural.

“That’s right,” said the white-coated figure. “Both your mother’s GP and I hoped that wouldn’t be necessary after all but there really was no alternative. It was definitely the best course of action for your mother’s long-term health. Anything less would have risked much worse problems later. As it is, I’m pretty confident we have dealt with the problem once and for all, although, of course, I would like to see Valerie again in a month to be on the safe side and she should have regular checks in the future. I’m telling you all this because, in these cases, relatives might think we undertake such major surgery because it’s easier or avoids on-going treatment. That’s quite a natural reaction.”

“Oh, no!” Susanna felt herself blushing hot. “I’m sure you did absolutely the right thing.”

The surgeon smiled and moved on down the ward. Susanna turned back to her mother’s wan smile.

“Never mind, Mum; you’ll just have to be careful that your boyfriend sits on your good side when he takes you to the pictures,” and she instantly regretted having allowed her embarrassment to provoke such a heartless remark. The two women looked at each other for a long second then simultaneously dissolved into tears.