A Dead Man Out of Mind (19 page)

It was on Thursday afternoon that she paid another call on Vera Bright. The older woman had been much on her mind lately, but she'd found it extremely difficult to get to know her in any meaningful way with the old doctor always present. On Thursday, however, she was in luck: Dr Bright was taking a nap when she called, and she was able to have nearly an hour alone with his daughter before he returned to consciousness and began demanding his tea.

Afterwards, cycling home, Rachel wasn't sure whether it had been a good thing or not. Vera Bright had clearly needed someone to talk to, someone to listen to her, but it had been an emotionally draining – and troubling – experience for Rachel. Vera Bright had poured out her soul to her: where should she take it from there? Obviously some action was needed. It was the second time in as many days that she'd felt pastorally out of her depth, and it made her realise how inadequate her theological college training had been in preparing her to minister to people in the real world. Her knowledge of tidy textbook cases was extensive, but it was only now that she was becoming aware of how insufficient that was. People, and the lives they lived,
weren't
tidy – they were messy and complicated. She had a lot to learn, Rachel thought ruefully, and the realisation was both depressing and dispiriting.

The problem was, she didn't know quite where to turn for help. Father Keble Smythe wasn't the answer, she decided: he was far too busy with his own parish responsibilities. He might even think she was interfering, overstepping her brief as a curate, by getting involved with the parishioners in this way.

Father Desmond! she thought suddenly, as she came round the corner near her flat, wondering why she hadn't thought of him sooner. Father Desmond, her mentor, who had seen her through that terrible time after the accident, and had set her feet on the road to healing, faith, commitment and finally vocation. He had been her spiritual director through her time at theological college, a wise and holy man as well as an experienced parish priest. Dear Father Desmond – he would know what to do. Letting herself into the flat, she was overwhelmed with the need to see him, to draw on his compassion, his wisdom, and above all his experience.

She went straight to the phone and rang his Cambridge vicarage. He wasn't there. ‘I'll have him ring you as soon as he gets in,' his housekeeper promised. She knew that she could have expected no more, but Rachel couldn't help feeling vaguely disappointed as she put the kettle on for a cup of tea.

Father Desmond rang back later. ‘Come up and see me, my dear,' he said promptly. ‘Come tonight, if you like.'

‘I can't do that,' she protested. ‘I have to visit Colin tonight.'

‘Then come in the morning, on the train. You can be here in an hour. Name the time, Rachel dear – I'll meet you at the station.'

Frantically she reviewed her schedule for the following day. It would be tight, but if she put off one or two non-essential things she just might be able to manage it and still be back in time for her weekly late afternoon staff meeting with Father Keble Smythe, the Administrator, and the Director of Music at St Jude's. ‘All right,' she said, making her mind up. ‘But I'm not sure about the time – why don't I ring you when I get to King's Cross?'

Her visit to Colin the next morning was necessarily a brief one. She had to get to St Margaret's well before early Mass to prepare the register for Saturday's wedding, a task she'd meant to do later in the afternoon; now, given the uncertain timing of this trip to Cambridge, she decided that she'd better get it out of the way before she left. As soon as Mass was over she was on her way to the Victoria tube station to get the Underground to King's Cross.

When she returned home, a little after three, her answerphone was flashing. She filled the kettle and switched it on, then pushed the button to listen to her messages while the kettle boiled.

There were two messages. The first was from an almost incoherent Nicola Topping. The girl's voice was frantic, desperate: ‘Rachel,' she gasped tearfully, ‘I've got to see you. This afternoon. It's a matter of life or death. You can't reach me, but I'll come to your flat at four. Please don't let me down.' There followed a few seconds of uncontrolled sobs before the phone was put down.

Rachel barely had time to react before the second message began playing. It was, surprisingly, from Colin's brother Francis; Colin and his brother had never been particularly close, and Rachel's contact with him since the accident had been minimal. ‘This is Francis Nightingale,' the brisk voice informed her. ‘Please ring me at my office. I don't think it's anything to be alarmed about, but Colin's doctors weren't able to reach you so they've just rung me instead.'

Rachel wasn't alarmed. She might have been, but this sort of thing had happened before: periodically, Colin developed infections, and the doctors had to check with her before they started treatment. The only difference was that Francis had never before been involved; these new London doctors were evidently being ultra-conscientious.

She'd better ring Francis first, and reassure him, she decided, before worrying about Nicola and the staff meeting. Automatically she went about the soothing routine of making tea, pouring the boiling water on to the bags in the teapot, releasing their fragrance.

While the tea steeped she set about locating the number for Francis's London office; it wasn't one she had often required. Eventually she found an old address book in the bureau. She poured herself a large mug of tea and took a reviving sip; she hadn't realised until that moment how tiring her flying trip to Cambridge had been.

The secretary who answered put her on to Francis almost immediately. ‘Hello?' he queried.

‘Francis?'

‘Oh, hello, Rachel.'

‘Colin's doctors rang?' she prompted him.

‘Yes. They couldn't reach you, and they had me down on their list as next-of-kin after you. It seems that he's developed a kidney infection, and they wanted to talk to you about treatment.'

‘But the answerphone was on,' she said. ‘Why didn't they just leave a message?'

‘I suppose they thought that a message on your answerphone might alarm you.'

‘Oh, I'm not alarmed,' Rachel reassured her brother-in-law. ‘This sort of thing has happened before, when he was in Cambridge.'

‘They don't just automatically start treatment, then?' he asked curiously.

Rachel laughed. ‘It's all terribly discreet – they'd never come out and say so – but what it's all about is . . . well, you know. Letting people die.'

‘What do you mean?'

She took a sip of her tea. ‘Sometimes, family members . . . well, I suppose they find it difficult having someone like Colin to worry about. They might even consider it a burden in some ways. And when the person gets an infection, it's easy for the doctors to give them minimal treatment, in effect just to let them die of the infection. It happens all the time. The doctors always like to give the next-of-kin the chance to opt for that.'

‘And what about you?' he probed.

‘Oh, there's no question about it,' Rachel stated. ‘The doctors in Cambridge stopped asking, after a while, because they knew I would always want them to do everything they could.'

There was a pause on the other end of the phone. ‘Haven't you ever been tempted? I mean, it must be very difficult for you . . . ?'

Rachel might have been angry, but she realised that her brother-in-law didn't know her very well. ‘Good heavens, no,' she responded mildly. ‘I love Colin. I've never considered him a burden.'

‘Then what will you do?'

‘Well, if you'll give me the number, I'll ring the doctors straightaway and tell them to go ahead with the treatment. And tonight I'll go and see him as usual.'

Francis gave her the number; there was another brief pause. ‘Do you think that I might visit him some time?'

He had never before expressed any interest in seeing his brother, so Rachel was surprised and touched. ‘Yes, of course. It would be lovely if you did.'

‘When do you usually go?'

‘Early in the morning, and again at night, at about half-past nine.'

‘Every day?' Francis asked incredulously.

‘Of course.'

After yet another thoughtful pause, Francis said, ‘Well, perhaps I'll see you there one day soon.'

As she put down the phone, and before she rang the doctors, Rachel acknowledged an unhappy truth to herself: it wasn't quite as simple as she'd made it sound to Francis. One day the treatment wouldn't work; one day she would lose him. She said a silent prayer that it would be far in the future, and that when the time came, she would have the grace to let him go.

The doctors dealt with, Rachel looked at her watch. It was clear to her that she'd have to be here when Nicola arrived at four, but that would mean missing the staff meeting. She picked the phone up again and rang the vicarage.

Father Keble Smythe answered himself. ‘Stanley's just arrived,' he said. ‘I thought you'd be on your way by now.'

‘I'm so sorry, Father, but I won't be able to make it this afternoon,' she apologised. ‘Something very important has come up – an emergency with a parishioner.'

He masked his irritation quite well. ‘Ah, well. Can't be helped, I suppose. Anything I should know about?'

‘Not really, Father. Perhaps later.' Rachel hesitated. ‘There is something else, though. Something I really need to talk to you about, and as soon as possible. I was wondering if you might have a few moments this evening, after the service . . . ?'

The Vicar gave a short laugh. ‘Actually, that's one thing I wanted to speak to you about. I've got some problems about tonight, and I'd like you to take the service for me.'

He wasn't really offering her a choice, but Rachel thought carefully just the same. The service wasn't a Mass – it was St Margaret's Friday night Lenten observance of Exposition of the Blessed Sacrament and Devotions – so there was theoretically no reason why she shouldn't take it, but it seemed to her that there were a number of factors that made it not a very good idea. Her detractors at St Margaret's – how would they accept it? And she'd never done it before, so she was unsure about how well she would manage it. ‘I don't know, Father,' she equivocated. ‘Isn't there anyone else? I'm not so sure . . .'

‘Nonsense,' he declared heartily. ‘You've been there every week – you know the form. Just a few prayers, the usual stuff. You'll do just fine. Didn't you do that sort of thing at Cambridge?'

‘Well, no,' she admitted. ‘But that reminds me, Father. I had to make a quick trip to Cambridge earlier today, and while I was there I called in at my old theological college, and met someone who said he knew you at St Andrews – his name was Douglas. Hamish Douglas. He said to say hello to you.'

There was a brief silence on the other end of the phone. Oh God, thought William Keble Smythe. Not that. He felt a trickle of sweat on his brow that had nothing to do with the warmth of the fire which Mrs Goode had so efficiently provided in his study. ‘So you'll take the service,' he said at last, in a jolly voice that sounded false to his own ears. ‘Good girl. And I'll see you on Sunday.'

Aimlessly Rachel rearranged a few things on her kitchen worktop, then looked at her watch again. There was still nearly a quarter of an hour to go before Nicola was due, enough time to make another phone call, this time to the Archdeacon.

Emily Neville answered the phone. ‘Oh, hello, Emily,' said Rachel. ‘This is Rachel. I'd hoped for a word with the Archdeacon.'

Returning her greeting, Emily went on, ‘I'm sorry, but Gabriel's not here. I don't expect him back much before supper time. Was it something urgent?'

Rachel, half regretting the impulse that had made her ring, hardly knew how to articulate it. ‘Well, no, I wouldn't say urgent. But it's important, I think. I'm not even sure that he's the person I need to talk to, but there's something that's bothering me, something not quite right, and I thought perhaps I ought to tell him about it.'

‘If you'll hold on a minute, I'll check the diary in his study,' Emily offered. After a brief pause she came back on the line. ‘It looks as though he should be able to see you first thing on Monday,' she said. ‘Say about nine. Will that be good enough?'

‘Oh, that's fine.' Rachel was relieved; that would give her time to think out what she wanted to say to him, and perhaps to have a word with the Vicar as well. She switched gears. ‘So, how are you, Emily?'

‘Fine. We're all fine. How about you? Is the job getting to you?'

‘Oh, it's not so bad,' Rachel said charitably.

‘Even Dolly?'

Rachel laughed. ‘Even Dolly. I stay out of her way, and she seems to be trying equally hard to stay out of mine.'

‘I'm sure that's just as well.'

‘We're both much happier that way, I'm sure,' Rachel agreed.

‘And how is Colin?'

‘Well, not so good at the moment, as a matter of fact. He's got a kidney infection.'

‘Oh, dear.' Emily sounded genuinely concerned, prompting Rachel to go into more detail.

‘He'll be fine,' she assured her friend. ‘Once they get him pumped full of antibiotics. I was in Cambridge earlier today – I made a quick trip up to see Father Desmond – and when I got back I had a message that the doctors had contacted Colin's brother.'

‘I didn't know that Colin had a brother,' said Emily curiously. ‘And why did they contact him?'

‘Yes, just the one brother, but we've never seen much of him. Francis is some sort of high-powered businessman in London, and Colin has never felt that they had much in common. Anyway,' she went on, the doctors needed permission from the family so that they could begin treating his infection.' She then explained matter-of-factly to Emily, as she had to Francis earlier, that some families might wish to have treatment withheld, and the reason why.