When Billie Goodeve stormed into the lift, she was in a bad mood too, furious with the doctor for sending her away and furious with herself for allowing him to do it. By the time she reached the ground floor, she was steaming with resentment. She strode through the shops towards the entrance, clutching her handbag like a weapon.
There was a knot of people standing on the walkway almost in front of her, youngsters most of them, all in blue jeans, and all talking earnestly to a woman in a green anorak. She’d almost passed them before she realised who they were and what they were doing.
‘Still in traction of course, poor little man,’ the woman was saying, ‘but ever so much better.’
‘You didn’t happen to see Gemma Goodeve, did you?’ one young man asked.
The name echoed in Billie’s head like a challenge. Right! she thought. There’s my chance! I’ll be even with you, young feller-me-lad, you see if I won’t. And she strode into the crowd. ‘If you want to know anything about Gemma Goodeve,’ she said, ‘I’m the one you should be asking.’
The effect was electrifying. She’d never had such instant attention. Faces and microphones swung her way at once. Young bodies surrounded her, all eager to hear what she was going to say. It was wonderful. Made her feel ten feet tall.
‘And you are?’ the young man asked.
‘I’m Gemma’s mother,’ she said, turning towards the cameraman. ‘I’m Mrs Billie Goodeve.’
He held his microphone towards her. ‘What can you tell us, Mrs Goodeve?’ he asked. ‘How is she?’
‘Ruined,’ she said, ‘if you really want to know. She’s being very brave about it, of course, but her life’s over. She was going to be a model, you see. The photographers loved her. They said she was a natural.’
‘You haven’t got a snap of her, have you?’
‘Well actually, as it happens, I have,’ Billie said, opening her bag to find it. ‘She had a portfolio done. I’ve got one of the proofs here somewhere.’ It was paining her to remember the fuss there’d been over that portfolio. She’d had to literally drag the silly girl to the photographer’s, kicking and screaming all the way. And then she hadn’t used them. ‘There you are. Wasn’t she a beauty?’
The reporter took the little portrait and looked at it, plainly impressed. ‘Could we borrow it for a day or two, Mrs Goodeve? We’ll give it back.’
‘Why not?’ she said. ‘She can’t use it now, can she, poor girl. Not with one leg and a great scar all down her face. And God knows what other injuries.’
‘Have you seen her this morning?’ another reporter asked.
‘No I haven’t,’ Billie told him, anger renewing. ‘I wasn’t allowed to.’
‘Why was that?’
‘I couldn’t tell you. They said they were attending to her. She had the curtains drawn all round her bed. I couldn’t even see her from a distance.’
‘So she’s worse?’
‘I hope not. But how can I tell?’ Billie said, delighted by the way the interview was going. ‘Poor girl. Still, she’ll get massive compensation.’
That interested them all very much. ‘Is she going to sue?’
At that point Billie realised with a pang that she might have gone too far. But it was too late now. The words were said. She had to continue. ‘Well of course she will,’ she said firmly. ‘I should just think so with injuries like that! She’ll never work again. Not in that state. She’ll have to come home with me and be looked after for the rest of her life. It won’t be easy. She’ll need all the help she can get.’
‘Have you any idea how much you’ll go for?’
Billie hadn’t thought about a sum of money. ‘As much as possible,’ she supposed. ‘It will depend on the inquiry, won’t it? Who’s to blame and that sort of thing.’
‘A quarter of a million?’ the reporter suggested. ‘Half?’
Billie smiled at that. It would be like winning the lottery. ‘Probably. Who knows?’
It was just what they wanted to hear. They thanked her profusely, took her address, checked what time she’d be back the following day, told her she was a star.
‘What papers are you from?’ she asked as they parted company.
All the Sunday tabloids, apparently. Excellent! Put that in your pipe and smoke it, Dr Whoever-you-are! ‘I shall look out for them,’ she said.
‘Watch the front page!’ they told her.
And the front page it was, as she discovered early the next morning when she went down to the newsagent’s. They’d made a wonderful spread of it – a big picture from the portfolio, looking really glamorous, and a smaller one of the poor darling on a stretcher all bloodstained, alongside huge headlines: CRASH HEROINE TO SUE. She bought all three papers on display and took them home to enjoy with her breakfast.
That was a lovely photograph. What a good job she’d kept it. But the memory of the making of that portfolio set a suspicion sneaking into her mind. She shouldn’t have told those reporters quite so much. Not yet anyway. Not until Gemma had made up her mind. She’d really jumped the gun a bit. But then again it was too good an opportunity to miss and, if she’d left it to Gemma, it would have gone on and on before she did anything. She’d always been the same. In any case this was different. An accident is not the same thing as a few photographs. She’s going to need that compensation. She’d’ve gone for it anyway, sooner or later. I’ve done her a good turn really, if you think about it.
She bundled the papers together and put them on the sideboard out of harm’s way. I’ll take them in with me this evening and let her see them. They’ve said some lovely things about her. She’ll be thrilled. Poor darling.
Actually newspapers were the last thing on Gemma’s mind at that moment because morning rounds had just finished and most of her fellow patients were being allowed home. The girl called Patsy was the first to leave. Lucky thing!
‘I’m off then,’ she said, breezing across to Gemma’s bed when the doctor had gone. ‘Told you he’d sign me off, didn’t I? He’s a sweetie, our Dr Quennell.’
Gemma kept her opinion of the doctor to herself. ‘I shall miss you,’ she said. ‘What about the others?’
‘Them an’ all,’ Patsy said happily. ‘We’re all signed off.’
‘The place’ll be quite empty.’
‘It’ll be full again by evening, I betcher,’ Patsy said. ‘You look after yourself. There’s the Sundays. Thought you’d like to see them. You’re on the front page again.’
Gemma frowned. ‘I’m not, am I. What for?’
‘Says you’re going to sue for damages,’ Patsy said, spreading out the paper so that she could see it.
‘News to me,’ Gemma said.
‘You go for it, kid,’ Patsy advised. ‘Screw ’em for every penny you can get. Why not? If they give it to you, they might shell out for us an’ all. Here’s my old man come for me. I gotta go.’ And she bent to give Gemma a kiss.
There was a bustle of leave-taking and then all four of them were gone. The ward was horribly quiet. The oldest inhabitant was fast asleep in her bed at the end, the woman with the heart bypass was concentrating on her knitting and the kid with crossed eyes had taken herself off to the day room to watch television with her one good eye. The two nurses on duty swished in as soon as the last patient had left but they’d come to make up the empty beds ready for their next occupants. So there was no one for Gemma to talk to and nothing to do except read the papers, even though she didn’t particularly want to. The headline was enough to put her off for a start with its ghastly pun, DAMAGES FOR DAMAGED GEMMA, and she had a nasty feeling she knew what they were going to say in the article. And there it was, sure enough: ‘Mrs Billie Goodeve, speaking at the hospital yesterday …’
Oh Mother! she mourned, letting the paper slip out of her hand, why must you always interfere? Why can’t you just leave me alone? This is my business, not yours. I haven’t had a chance to think about it and you go to the press. You don’t let me breathe. The combination of anger and impotence was making her feel really down. And to make matters worse, her stump was hurting.
One of the nurses smiled across the ward at her. ‘You all right?’ she called.
‘Bit down, that’s all.’
The nurse walked across to her. ‘Do you need some pain-killers?’
‘What I need,’ Gemma told her, ‘is a pill to stop my mother living my life for me.’
Susan Pengilly breezed into York station, glanced up at the clock on W. H. Smith’s and decided she just had time to pick up a paper before she caught the London train. The headlines caught her eye, the minute she stepped through the door. She wasn’t particularly surprised. It had to happen. There is always someone ready to make capital out of any misfortune and this girl had a good case, if the papers were to be believed.
As soon as she was on the train and settled in her reserved seat, with coffee at her elbow, she scanned through all five papers so as to sort fact from speculation, and discovered that the information had come from the kid’s mother, which in her opinion made matters worse. Once families were involved things usually got sticky. Then she phoned the chairman of the inquiry to tell him she was on her way and to keep him informed.
He was having a leisurely breakfast and, although he’d heard the news on the radio, he was determined not to be influenced by it. ‘Early days,’ he said. ‘It shouldn’t affect the inquiry. We’ll keep an eye on it.’
‘Maybe compensation should be on the agenda,’ Susan suggested. ‘Perhaps we should pre-empt them.’
The chairman didn’t see the necessity. ‘It’s outside our remit, I’m glad to say. Let the accountants handle it. That’s what we pay ’em for.’
‘But it could have a bearing,’ Susan pressed. ‘We ought to consider it.’
He was courteous. ‘There is that, of course.’
‘Maybe I’m being over-cautious but I think we need to cover all the angles.’ It was his favourite catch-phrase, so he had to hear it.
There was a pause while he digested what she’d said and gazed at his waffles, wishing he could digest them instead. ‘I’ll give it thought,’ he temporised.
Susan smiled with satisfaction as she put down the phone. She prided herself on her ability to handle executives and this one was going to be nicely malleable. It made for smooth running if secretary and chairman were in accord, particularly if he were more in accord than she was. Then she made a happy return to her notes.
Although she wouldn’t have acknowledged the fact and certainly not to herself, she was only unquestionably happy when she was at work. It was the one environment in which she truly belonged and the only one in which she was in control. As a child she’d always had the uncomfortable feeling that she was on trial, watched for faults, supervised for unacceptable behaviour. She was honest enough to admit that there’d never been any justification for the feeling. She hadn’t been beaten or treated harshly. It was just something she’d picked up from her mother’s perpetual anxiety. In many ways she was fonder of her stepfather. He was a more open character and easier to understand. Like Rob, who was so laid back she sometimes forgot he was in the house at all.
But, whatever the reason, work was her solace and she carried it with her wherever she went, travelling with a briefcase crammed full of papers and a laptop primed to receive her thoughts. In her neat business suits, large spectacles, discreet jewellery, with her dark hair sensibly bobbed and face and fingernails immaculately painted, she looked like the high-powered executive she was. Even her over-large spectacles were a status symbol. She’d chosen them four years ago in a moment of drunken bravado, declaring that since her eyesight was so poor she might as well make a virtue of necessity. And had then discovered that they suited her to perfection, giving her rather ordinary face a certain panache.
She had her mother’s air force blue eyes. It was the one feature that she shared with her brothers, but few people outside the family realised it. For where Catherine’s eyes were hooded and slightly protuberant, and the boys’ were frank and tender, Susan’s were contained behind her glasses, their shape and colour defined by the latest fashion in eye shadow and mascara, their expression guarded. A flash of temper was so rare that her colleagues would remark on it but the warmth of her smile was an equally remarkable reward.
Now she smiled at the guard as he came to inspect her travel pass, greeting him by name – having checked what it was from his name-tag.
‘Nice to have you aboard, Mrs Pengilly. King’s Cross, is it?’
‘That’s right, Bob,’ she said, returning her attention to her laptop. ‘All the way.’ Just time to write up yesterday’s report and then she’d have lunch. As a railway executive she had travel down to a fine art.
By the time the train pulled into King’s Cross, the brakes filling her pressurised carriage with the smell of burning rubber, the inquiry team were organised down to the last name-tag. She gathered her belongings, feeling pleased with her morning’s work. There would be a hired car waiting for her on the forecourt. And it had better be an improvement on the one they provided last time, or there would be words to say. Slick, neat and ready for action, she stepped out into the capital.
Andrew and Catherine always got up late on Sunday mornings so they didn’t read the news until it was nearly midday and they were having brunch.
‘I see the girl from the crash is suing the railway,’ Catherine observed, pouring herself a second cup of coffee.
‘Quite right too,’ Andrew said. ‘So she should. Good luck to her. Might make them realise you can’t play politics with people’s safety.’ He cut into his fried egg and let the yolk run over the bacon.
‘OK?’ she asked, as she always did.
‘Superb,’ he told her. As he always did. ‘I like Sunday. Best day of the week.’
‘When we retire it’ll be Sunday every day,’ she told him. ‘How about that?’
He grinned with pleasure at the thought. ‘We’ve earned it,’ he said. ‘We’ve done our share of rushing about. Now it’s time to put our feet up and read the papers.’
Nick Quennell was so hard at work in the surgical wards that day that he didn’t get a chance to look at a newspaper, let alone read one, and he certainly didn’t put his feet up. Lunch was a sandwich eaten standing up, at four o’clock he got himself a cup of tea but not the time to drink it, and by dinner time he was tired out and ravenously hungry.
‘Duodenal, here I come!’ he said to Abdul, as the three friends carried their trays to one of the window seats in the hospital restaurant.
‘Me too,’ Abdul said. ‘I could do with a nice long cruise to recuperate.’
‘Round the world,’ Rick suggested, unloading his tray.
‘Anywhere except A and E,’ Abdul said. ‘It’s been mayhem today.’
On the other side of the Thames the Houses of Parliament blazed with yellow light and behind it the evening sky was indigo blue. ‘I wonder what they’re cooking up for us tonight,’ Rick said.
‘Read the papers tomorrow and you’ll find out,’ Abdul said.
‘I haven’t read today’s yet,’ Rick told him.
There was a discarded collection heaped on a nearby seat. ‘There you are,’ Nick said, handing the bundle across to him. ‘Read it now. What d’you want? Review, news, colour supp, sport?’
The various sections were distributed and for a few restful minutes they browsed and fed. They’d reached the lemon meringue pie before Abdul discovered the piece about Gemma Goodeve. ‘Your crash girl’s going to sue for compensation,’ he said to Nick. ‘What d’you think of that?’
Nick was still feeling sore about Miss Goodeve. ‘It’s her business, not mine,’ he said shortly.
His friends pulled a face at one another. But at that moment his bleeper sounded, so he didn’t have to continue the conversation, which was quite a relief because he could see they were going to tease.
It was the staff nurse on Page Ward. Would he come and take a look at Gemma.
‘Back in a minute,’ he said to the others and strode off to the lift, white coat flapping.
She was lying on her side in exactly the same position as she’d been in under the wreckage and was obviously ill, her cheeks flushed and her eyes swimmy with fever. He knew the wound was infected even before he looked at it. Damn, damn, damn.
‘She’ll have to go back to theatre,’ he said to Staff.
Gemma took the news with the calm he’d come to expect. Whatever else he might think about her, she was certainly brave.
‘When?’ she asked.
‘Tonight,’ he told her. ‘As soon as I can arrange it.’
She managed a smile, faint and lop-sided but a smile. ‘Will you let my mother know?’ she said. ‘You owe her that at least.’
Was she daring him, or teasing him, or what? There was a lot about this young woman that he simply didn’t understand. ‘She’ll be told,’ he said, stiffly. ‘Of course. That goes without saying.’
On Monday, the report of Billie’s interview with the tabloids reached the quality press in Cape Town.
It was a fine spring morning and Tim Ledgerwood was sitting on his veranda, sipping orange juice and enjoying the sunshine. It gave him quite a shock to see Gemma’s name in his newspaper. Well, well, well, he thought, CRASH HEROINE SEEKING DAMAGES OF HALF A MILLION. Imagine that.
He put the paper down on the table, amused to see that it completely covered all the hideous mail he’d received and hadn’t answered for the last awful month – the bills and the letters from creditors, the endless, idiotic demands.
‘I think,’ he told the sunshine, ‘the time has come for me to take a trip to England. This could be the answer.’