Billie Goodeve lived on her own in a block of flats called ‘The High’ on the Streatham High Road. It was only a short walk away from the boutique she ran at Streatham Hill and it had once been quite a prestigious address, which is why she’d moved there in the first place. But now she had to admit it had rather come down in the world. Her flat was on the second floor, and had what the estate agents called ‘the benefit of a view’, which sounded rather grand but actually meant that her living room window overlooked the main road which, in its turn, meant that she had to keep it shut most of the time to avoid the noise and fumes of the traffic.
Nevertheless it was a pleasant flat and she kept it spotless, hoovering and polishing every day even though it made her back ache. It was a point of honour with her to be presentable – just in case anyone came to call. Not that many did, apart from Mrs Cohen from the first floor, and that was usually because she wanted to borrow something. Social life in the High wasn’t exactly what you’d call scintillating. So it was rather a surprise when her doorbell rang on that Thursday evening.
Now who’s that? she thought, and she walked through the flat to answer it, tucking the hoover into the broom cupboard as she went. Whoever it was, they weren’t exactly patient. They’d rung again before she’d reached the door. It’ll be Jehovah’s Witnesses, she thought. That’s just what I need.
But she only had to take one look at the couple standing in the porch to realise that they’d come from the papers. The girl was wearing a smart trouser suit and had a long camel coat slung over her shoulders like a model, and the man was carrying a camera.
‘Yes?’ she said, patting her hair and wishing she’d stopped to comb it. ‘How can I help you? Is it about my Gemma?’
‘Got it in one,’ the girl said, beaming at her. ‘Spot on! I’m doing an article on your Gemma for the Sunday Chronicle. Isn’t she fabulous! We’re all such fans. Anyway, I said to Jake here – this is Jake, by the way. I’m Nicky Stretton – I said, I’ll bet her mother will be just the one to tell us about her. Could we come in and talk to you?’
Billie wasn’t sure. She’d already said rather too much to the newspapers and maybe she ought to draw back a bit. ‘Well,’ she said. ‘To tell the truth, I’m rather busy at the moment.’
‘We wouldn’t disturb you,’ Nicky promised. ‘We could come back in half an hour if you’d prefer. It’s just that your Gemma is such a star and we do so want to talk to someone who really knows her. I’ve just been talking to her myself and I do so admire her. We just need a little background. And who better to provide it than her mother?’
The persistent flattery had its effect. ‘Just for a minute then,’ Billie decided, standing aside to let them in. If Gemma’d spoken to them it must be all right. She led them through into the living room, indicated the armchairs they were to sit in and took up a position on the sofa, facing them. This time she would be careful.
Nicky Stretton looked at the pictures on the sideboard, noting how many were of Gemma when young, and thinking: That one must be the father. He does look a bit like Errol Flynn.
‘What lovely photographs!’ she said admiringly. ‘Have you got any more – an album or something? I’d love to see it if you have.’
That was easy. And there was no harm in it. Three bulging albums were produced at once.
‘Brilliant!’ Nicky applauded, flicking through the pages of the first one. ‘These are wonderful, Mrs Goodeve. I suppose we couldn’t take copies of some of them, could we? We’ll send them straight back to you.’
Yes, of course they could.
‘We want to write a piece on her childhood,’ Nicky explained. ‘What she was like as a little girl.’ And she began to prompt. ‘I’ll bet she was a really good kid.’
‘Yes,’ Billie agreed, plunging straight into her favourite fantasy. ‘She was good. A dear little girl. I never had any trouble with her. She used to spend hours playing with her dolls, dear little thing. All by herself but she never complained. My neighbours used to say she was the best child they’d ever seen. And she was, although I say it myself. No trouble at all. And pretty! You’d never believe how pretty she was. Well you can see it, can’t you, from the snaps.’
‘It must have been a shock when she was injured.’
‘Oh it was. And of course, she’s had to have another operation since then. Did you know that? The wound turned septic. They rang me up in the middle of the night to tell me. She could have died, poor darling. And now it turns out they could have saved her leg if there’d been a crane.’
‘I suppose when she leaves hospital she’ll be coming home to you?’
The answer was a touch too bold. ‘Of course. Where else would she go?’
‘But I’ll expect you’ll move once she gets her money.’
That put Billie on her mettle. ‘I couldn’t say,’ she told them guardedly. ‘It depends on her, doesn’t it? If she wants to buy a better place, then naturally I wouldn’t stand in her way. I want the best for my little girl. We all want that, don’t we? The best for our children. But I wouldn’t press her. I’ve never pressed her about anything. It’s something I wouldn’t do.’
‘Could you tell us about her father?’ Nicky suggested. ‘He left her when she was young, I believe.’
‘He was a lovely man,’ Billie recalled. ‘Terribly good-looking. There’s a snap of him, there. So you can see how good-looking he was. He doted on Gemma. She was his little princess.’
Nicky waited.
‘She was broken-hearted when he left. Poor little thing. But there you are. It had to be. Life’s like that. It was work, you see. We all have to earn a living, don’t we?’
‘And you’ve earned your living and Gemma’s ever since?’
‘Yes, I have,’ Billie said, relieved that the conversation had moved away from Gemma’s father. If they’d followed that tack for any distance it could have been difficult. ‘We were all in all to one another. Like sisters. We still are. I think it comes of having a good home. There’s nothing to beat a good home, is there? Somewhere to come back to when you’re down – a bit of love and understanding – home comforts – that sort of thing. There’s nobody to beat your mother, when all’s said and done.’
They taped her every happy self-enhancing word, took so many pictures of her that it made her head spin, borrowed pictures of Gemma and her father, and left her in a trance of euphoria, still relishing the full satisfying flavour of the role she’d been playing. She hadn’t enjoyed an evening so much in years.
And when it came out the article was lovely. All about what a good little girl she’d been ‘… never a moment’s trouble … We were like sisters…’ and how brave she was being: ‘… deserted, fatherless, crippled, yet she still fights on, taking on the might of the establishment…’ and how much she missed her father. The photos they’d taken in the flat were excellent too. ‘Mrs Goodeve in her south London home … I am looking forward to the day when Gemma can come home and I can look after her … we shall be so happy.’
But she couldn’t sit around all Sunday reading the newspapers, pleasant though it was. She had the bedroom to hoover and the ironing to do. She’d only just finished her last white blouse when the doorbell rang. Well aren’t you the popular one these days, she said to herself and this time she hurried to answer it.
There was a lone man standing in the hallway, looking away from her down the hall as he waited. But he wasn’t a reporter. She could see that at once because he was far too well dressed. It was rather a disappointment. And he wasn’t one of the residents either, which was another. She had hoped some of them would have seen the article and come up to talk to her about it. She was still wondering about him, when he turned towards her. And then, in a moment of shock and delight and disbelief, she knew who he was.
‘Oh my good God!’ she said. ‘Tim! It can’t be.’ Tim Ledgerwood, in the flesh, standing on her doorstep as if he’d never been away. ‘Oh Tim! What are you doing here?’
‘Aren’t you going to ask me in?’ he said, smiling his old charming smile.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I’m forgetting my manners.’ But surprise was making it difficult to breathe. It couldn’t be him. Not after all these years. But it was, and just the same as she remembered him, every bit as handsome, a little shorter maybe, a touch of grey at the temples, a few wrinkles, but he still had the same jaunty air, the same smile, and that lovely thick hair and that little moustache. ‘It’s just such a shock to see you again. You haven’t changed a bit.’
He smoothed the grey hair on his temples and smiled at her as he stepped into the flat. ‘Neither have you. You’re as beautiful as ever.’
She led the way into the living room, her cheeks flushed with pleasure, her thoughts spinning and fractured. Had he come back to her after all these years? You heard about men returning to their first loves in the end. She’d read a story just like that only last week in the hairdresser’s. What if he’s going to ask me to take him back? Why has he come here? Why …? What if …? It was all a little unreal.
He was smooth and assured, just as he’d always been. ‘I see nothing’s changed,’ he said, looking around. ‘It’s all exactly as I remembered it. The display cabinet. Those vases. The clock. I remember that. It used to keep us awake at night. Do you remember, Billie? And you used to turn it off.’
She remembered. Oh how well she remembered!
He asked her permission to smoke and she gave it and provided him with an ashtray. ‘You have a lovely home,’ he said.
‘I try to keep it nice,’ she agreed, drinking in the sight of him. It was still hard to believe he was there. They sat in her chintz-covered chairs, facing one another, as he drew the smoke into his lungs in the old familiar way, holding the cigarette elegantly between his fingers, smiling at her.
‘I used to dream about this place,’ he said, leaning towards her earnestly. ‘This place and you. You’ve no idea how I missed you. Many and many’s the time I’ve lain awake at night wishing I could come back.’
This was the stuff of her dreams, the words she’d always hoped she’d hear him say. ‘Oh Tim,’ she said, ‘why didn’t you?’
‘I didn’t dare. I thought you’d turn me away.’
‘I wouldn’t have done.’
‘I can see that now. But you’d have had every right. Anyway I didn’t dare. I was a fool, wasn’t I?’
‘Never mind,’ she said. ‘You’re here now. Oh it is good to see you.’
‘I had to come this time, didn’t I,’ he said. And he picked up her copy of the Chronicle and spread it out on the coffee table, flicking it open so that they could see his photograph on the centre page. ‘The minute I heard about our poor Gemma, I caught the first flight out.’
‘First flight from where?’
‘Cape Town,’ he told her.
‘Is that where you’re living now?’
‘That’s where.’
‘So what have you been doing with yourself?’
‘This and that,’ he said vaguely.
‘And did you make your fortune?’
The answer was even more vague, as if it was hardly worth giving. ‘Oh yes.’ He leant forward towards her, grey eyes full of concern. ‘Tell me about Gemma. Poor kid. Is she very badly hurt?’
She told him everything she knew, in the most graphic detail, and was pleased when he winced and even more pleased when tears welled up in his eyes.
‘That’s horrendous!’ he said, stubbing out his cigarette. ‘What a good job she’s got you to look after her. It says here she’s coming back to live with you. Is that right?’
‘Well I hope so. We haven’t made any firm plans yet.’
‘And she’s going to sue the railway.’
‘Well, possibly. It’s early days.’
‘Very wise,’ he said and he stood up. For a moment she thought he was going to take her in his arms. But he walked across to the window instead and looked down at the street. ‘Would you like to come out for a meal?’ he asked. ‘A little celebration. It’s been far too long since we had a meal together. And yes, I know what you’re going to say. It was all my fault.’
The invitation and the start of such a charming apology made her heart leap as if she was still a girl. ‘When?’
‘No time like the present. I ought to start making amends.’
So they went to one of the local restaurants. ‘They’ll wonder who you are,’ she said, as they made an entrance.
‘Let them wonder,’ he said masterfully. ‘We’ve got other things to think about.’
But oddly, what they talked about was money and how it could be invested. Afterwards she wasn’t quite sure how they’d got around to the subject but he was certainly knowledgeable about it.
‘There are all sorts of ways to beat the taxman,’ he explained. ‘Trust funds. PEPs. And you have to be careful where money’s concerned. You ought to look into it. For Gemma’s sake. She’ll need someone to advise her.’
She supposed so.
‘I could get you a few leaflets if you’d like,’ he offered. ‘You need to be prepared.’
She wasn’t sure about that. ‘I wouldn’t want her to think I was putting her under any pressure.’
‘The trouble is,’ he told her, ‘where money’s concerned this world is full of sharks. Absolute sharks, believe me. If we don’t look after her, they’ll get at her and before she knows where she is the money will be gone.’
‘That sounds awful.’
He reached across the table and took her hand. ‘Not to worry,’ he said. ‘I’ll help you.’
She held his hand tightly, thrilled by its pressure. ‘If you ask me, it’s a good job you’ve come back.’
‘I’m glad you think so,’ he said and his voice was full of emotion. ‘Now the next thing is for me to visit our Gemma. When are you going to see her next? Maybe I could come with you.’
‘No,’ she said. ‘I don’t think that’s a good idea.’ And she explained quickly in case she’d upset him. ‘It gave me enough of a shock to see you again and I’m fit and healthy. Let me warn her. Sort of prepare her for it.’
He agreed at once, smiling at her in his most charming way. ‘Of course. Very sensible. So when’s your next visit?’
‘Tuesday,’ she said.
‘Not tomorrow?’
‘I’ve got the accounts to do tomorrow.’
‘Always the worker,’ he said, admiring her. ‘You’re a wonderful woman, there’s no doubt about that. One in a million. You see her and give her my love and see what she says.’
‘Leave it to me,’ Billie said, basking in his admiration.
But when she reached the ward on Tuesday, Gemma wasn’t there – not in bed, not in the day room, not in the corridors. She even looked in the disabled toilet but there wasn’t a sign of her. After a while she began to get upset. What if she’s been taken ill again? she thought, drifting back to the ward. I shall have to find a nurse and ask what’s going on.
But there didn’t seem to be any nurses around, and there weren’t many patients either except for two who were asleep and the oldest inhabitant, who was sitting beside her bed doing her knitting.
The old lady looked up and beckoned to her.
‘You looking for Gemma?’ she asked. ‘Thought you was. She’s gone out.’
Billie was relieved. And then cross. ‘Gone out? She can’t have.’
‘For the evening.’
Billie looked down at the wrinkled face below her and decided the old lady didn’t know what she was talking about. ‘You don’t go out for the evening when you’re in hospital.’
‘You do nowadays,’ the old lady said. ‘It’s all changed now.’
They must have taken her off for some treatment, Billie thought, sighing with annoyance. ‘Do you know when she’ll be back?’
‘Late, I should think. I reckon she’s gone out to dinner. Never ’ad no supper and then some woman came to collect her. I seen her bein’ wheeled out.’
How very, very annoying, Billie thought. And how typical. Her father comes back to us and she goes out to dinner. ‘Well, will you tell her I came to see her,’ she asked the old lady, ‘and say I’ll be back tomorrow. I’ve got a surprise for her.’