Sheer Abandon (22 page)

“Dr. Scott? It’s Kate.”

“Oh—hi, Kate.” She looked across the room at Jeremy; he was deep in the motoring section of the
Sunday Telegraph
. “Any news?”

“Not really. The clot thing’s quite serious. She’s really ill and they won’t let me see her. They said Mum could, but not me. What’s going on, do you think?”

“I don’t know, Kate. But I expect she’s been sedated, and they think too many visitors are a bad idea. When she’s better, you’ll be able to, I’m sure.”

“OK.” She sounded childlike, near to tears.

Clio looked at Jeremy again; he was waving at her, tapping his watch. “Look, I’ve got to go now, I’m so sorry. Let me know how she’s doing. And if you’re really still worried, I’ll try and come back, get some more news. All right?”

“Yeah, OK. Thanks. Bye.”

There was a click as she hung up. She had failed her, Clio thought, she should have offered to go back anyway, only there really was nothing she could do. And what on earth would she say to Jeremy?

In fact, she didn’t have to say anything to Jeremy for quite a while; he was called in to the Duke of Kent Hospital himself to operate on one of his private patients who had fallen and broken her hip. Clio prayed that no one would mention her presence there a few hours earlier because she hadn’t told him…

“So, how was lunch with the billionaire retailer?” Nick’s voice was light, teasing; it annoyed her.

“Fine,” she said, slightly coolly.

“Where did you go?”

“The Waterside Inn.”

“Well, get you. Wish I were a billionaire retailer. I’d like to have taken you there.”

“You could have done. Actually.”

“Jocasta, don’t be difficult. I’m trying to make amends.”

“Sorry. How was David Owen?”

“He was charming. Very helpful. Now, I’d like to come and see you. If that’s all right.”

“Well…” Did she really want to see him? She felt unsettled by her day. If he came round, they’d have another row. She knew it. Nick would be full of political gossip and professional chitchat. She wanted more of Gideon Keeble, flattering her, telling her how beguiling she was…

“Well, the thing is,” she said, playing for time, “I—”

Her mobile leapt into life: she looked at it, wondering if it was Gideon, if it could possibly be Gideon, wondering what she could say to Nick if it was.

It wasn’t Gideon. It was the news editor at the
Sketch
. “Hold on, Nick,” she said, “it’s the news desk, sorry.”

“Jocasta? Trolley tragedy. Duke of Kent Hospital, Guildford. Agency bloke already there, with photographer. Quick as you can.”

Derek Bateson felt rather pleased with himself. He had only been working as a stringer for the North Surrey News Agency for three months and this was his third big story. Of course this one didn’t compete with the one in January where someone had been on a trolley for three days, covered in blood; but it wasn’t bad, given that this old lady was so ill.

“Derek Bateson? Hi!” A slightly breathless voice sounded behind him. Derek turned; an amazing-looking girl was smiling at him, holding out her hand. She was very tall, and she had all this blond hair, and legs that seemed to start at her shoulders, and the most brilliant blue eyes.

“I’m Jocasta,” she said, “from the
Sketch
. So tell me what’s happened.”

“Well, this woman, Jilly Bradford, slipped last night, broke her pelvis, the usual after that, long wait for ambulance, the granddaughter was with her, then all night on a trolley, nothing happening, apart from an X-ray, then around lunchtime her leg got really painful, and she’s got a pulmonary embolism. She’s in Intensive Care and apparently it’s touch and go.”

“Poor lady! And relatives? Any here?”

“Her daughter. Nice sort of woman, very quiet, and the granddaughter—now she’s a live wire. She tore them all off a strip earlier, for not doing anything, and she’s been trouble all night according to some old biddy who’s been here nearly as long.”

“Well done her. So, who can I talk to?”

“I’d say start with her but her mum’s taken her off to her grandma’s house for a shower and that. They’re not allowed to see the old lady for a bit.”

“Well, she’ll be back soon I expect. What about the duty doctor?”

“He’s over there. But it’s not the one who was on last night.”

“I’ll have a word with him. Thanks, Derek. Is your photographer around? Just in case we need him.”

“In the pub. But we can get him anytime.”

“Great.”

God, she was gorgeous. Maybe she’d like a drink later on.

“So where exactly is Mrs. Bradford now?”

“In HDU.” The doctor looked at Jocasta coldly. He was very thin, with huge bony hands and a long bony nose, and a crop of spots on his chin. She wondered how old he was; probably younger than her. Like policemen, doctors were getting younger.

“I imagine you won’t suggest interviewing her there,” he said. This was clearly intended as cutting irony.

“I’d love to.” She smiled at him. “But I can see that’s not at all practical. Maybe a little later on.”

“I can assure you that you won’t be seeing her at any point, later or sooner.”

“Well, that will be up to her, won’t it? Who was on duty last night?”

“I don’t have to answer that question.”

“No, of course you don’t. Thank you so much, you’ve been terribly helpful.”

She looked around: a very young girl was tidying up a bed in one of the cubicles. She looked much more promising. Jocasta waited until the doctor had disappeared into another cubicle and drawn the curtain, then went over to the nurse.

She was very forthcoming. Yes, Mrs. Bradford had been brought in at about nine. “Poor lady. With her granddaughter. She was in awful pain, soaked through from the rain. She was seen quite quickly by a doctor. And then sent down to X-ray. I mean, it wasn’t as if she was ignored or anything.”

“Of course not. It must be so difficult, especially on a Saturday night. Lot of drunks and so on, I expect.”

“Yes. And drugs and that. And we get a lot of abuse, you know, and we really are doing our best.”

“I’m sure. And no thanks either, I don’t suppose. Now, after she’d been seen, what happened?”

“I don’t really know. I was very busy. We had a couple of overdoses, that’s always a nightmare. A girl having a miscarriage, which was awful. Everyone was completely overstretched. I went off duty at breakfast time. But apparently the granddaughter phoned Mrs. Bradford’s GP and she came to see if she could help. That set the cat among the pigeons—they don’t like that, and you can see why.”

“Of course. But it was nice of her to come. Do you know her name?”

“Who, the GP? I don’t, sorry. But she went down to X-ray, they might just know.”

“Well thank you…” She peered at the nurse’s badge. “Thank you, Sue. You’ve been really kind.”

Jocasta had learnt long ago that you could walk about unquestioned in a great many places where you had no business to be, providing you proceeded fast and confidently, smiling at anyone you passed, and were carrying a file of papers. She took off her jacket, filched a brown file from a trolley (first emptying it of the papers inside in case they were, literally, life and death), tucked the
Sunday Times
inside it, and followed the signs to X-ray.

The X-ray Department looked like a scene from a documentary on the plight of the NHS. Dingy, dimly lit, with two depressed fish swimming round a tank, a pile of broken toys on the floor, and year-old magazines on a low table, it housed several people staring listlessly in front of them.

Jocasta went over to the desk.

“Hi. I wonder if you can help me. There was a Mrs. Bradford here last night; she’d fractured her pelvis. Her GP was with her, and I need the GP’s name.”

The woman looked terminally bored, leafed through some papers. “Who’s it for, Admin?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“Mrs. Jillian Bradford—GP’s down here as Dr. Scott.”

“And do you have the number?”

“Only the group practice number. It’s Guildford.” She looked at Jocasta. “I thought you were from Admin. They’ve got all the practice numbers up there.”

“I know, but they’re closed. I’m just doing a bit of overtime, catching up on records.”

“Oh, right. Well, it’s Guildford 78640.” She looked at Jocasta again. “You’re not the press, are you?”

“I wish. Might be a bit more excitement in my life.”

“Only we’ve all just been told not to speak to the press. Order from on high. And it was to do with this Mrs. Bradford.”

“Really? Wonder why.”

“Some cock-up, apparently. She was left too long, got a clot on her leg—we had her down again for a venography this morning.”

“Did you see her yourself?”

“Couldn’t say—it’s all a blur, this point in the day. One patient is just like another…”

Derek Bateson was still in Casualty when she got back.

“Has the granddaughter come back?”

“Not yet. I’ve got her mobile number, though. Do you want that?”

“Oh—yes, please!”

Stupid twit. Why couldn’t he have told her that, saved her all that nonsense in X-ray. Except she had got a useful quote out of it.

“Hello. Who is this?”

It was a young, wary voice.

“Oh, hello. I presume that’s Kate. My name is Jocasta Forbes from the
Sketch
newspaper. I’m so sorry about your grandmother—”

“Is there any news about her?”

“Not yet. I really want to talk to her GP, the one who came today. Derek, who you’ve been talking to, said you might have the number.”

“Yeah, I do. But—What, Mum, for God’s sake? It’s just someone from the newspaper, she—” A pause, then she said, clearly cross, “My mum wants to talk to you.”

A pleasant, worried voice came on the phone.

“Hello. Look, if you don’t mind, I think we don’t want to get involved with the press. Sorry.”

“That’s all right. I can imagine you must feel dreadful, I’m so sorry about your mother.”

“Yes, it has been a dreadful day. We’re just on our way back there now.”

“I see. Well, I don’t want to upset you any further. The only thing is—”

“I’m sorry,” said Helen. “I really would rather not talk about it.”

Clio was trying to concentrate on a programme about wildlife when the phone rang.

“Hello?”

“Hello. Is that Dr. Scott?”

“Ye-es.”

“Hi. Dr. Scott, I’m so sorry to bother you at home. My name is Jocasta Forbes. I write for the
Sketch
—”

It was at moments like this, Clio thought, that the earth really moved: moments of shock, of strangeness, even of fear, rocking you dizzily about.

“Did you say Jocasta?” she said finally, hearing her own voice shaky, odd. “Jocasta Forbes?”

“I did, yes. Why?”

“Oh my God!” said Clio and she had to sit down suddenly. “I can’t believe it. Jocasta Forbes. So you made it, you did what you said!”

“I’m really sorry, but—Have we met or something?”

“Jocasta, it’s Clio. Clio Scott. Well, Clio Graves, actually. Thailand, eighteen years ago. How amazing. How absolutely amazing!”

“Clio! Oh, my God. How are you? How extraordinary—”

“Totally extraordinary. All those clichés about small worlds are so true. God, it’s so weird. But why are you calling me now? And how did you get my number?”

“I’m doing a story about one of your patients. Mrs. Bradford.”

“A story! Why is it a story?”

“Well, as I understand it, she was on a trolley for a long time and now she’s quite ill. In the HDU. Tabloids like these stories. I’ve been at the hospital, but her granddaughter—”

“Kate Tarrant?”

“Yes. Haven’t met her yet, but she gave me your number. She sounds like quite a girl. Anyway, that’s not very important. Oh, Clio, I’d so love to see you! Why on earth didn’t we do what we agreed and meet when we got home again all those years ago? Could I come round, do you think?”

“Um…hold on a minute, Jocasta, could you? My husband’s just come in.”

“Your husband! How very grown-up of you. Look, ring me back in five minutes. Number’s—got a pencil? Right—”

Jeremy came in, tired and irritable. “Chaos there, some woman’s got a pulmonary embolism, supposed to have been left on a trolley, press involved, dreadful nonsense.”