Authors: Sarah Bilston
The blue jays shrieked and jeered; I could hardly hear myself think. “I can’t imagine you’re right. Now he’s seen us he’s bound to sober up,” I said firmly. “He’ll be a bit embarrassed, he’ll drink a pint of water, and by tomorrow, Monday at the latest, he’ll be fine. I think Kent will be able to come with us,” I continued, standing up as Samuel’s sleepy snuffles turned to wails on the monitor. “It’s probably just a weekend thing. He fell off the wagon on a Friday—he’s not the first alcoholic to do that, I’m sure.”
Tom cocked an eyebrow. “I think I’ll make that phone call,” he returned coolly.
Jeanie
W
ith Samuel propped on my knee, I typed “geriatrics” into every social work database I could find, while Tom and Q were out. I found about seventy-five jobs that required the applicant to manage several hundred octogenarians and a fleet
of undertrained volunteers. I found one job that involved running a day center for geriatrics with mental health problems, but it would require moving to Poole. I applied for it anyway; I’d never been to Poole.
Then I took Samuel to Quiet Lanes, which I’d been meaning to do ever since Paul suggested it. The fascination of a small child drove everyone “crazy,” as Mrs. Forrest inevitably predicted, clutching her hands to her pointy nose, and Samuel was so entranced by the attention he didn’t cry once. Passed from hand to hand, from knee to knee, he felt soft faces with a gentle hand, and even laughed when Ken made loud farting noises against his stomach. Sue-Ellen thrilled everyone by doing her palmistry (Samuel will apparently enjoy an extraordinarily long life, vast quantities of cash, and a beautiful wife from India) and Tim gave Samuel a cranial massage that sent him into a peaceful doze. He really seemed to be getting better, just as Alison predicted.
“I’m thinking of working with old people—seniors, I mean,” I explained to Sue-Ellen, in a quiet corner, “for my career. I’ve applied for a job back home in London. If they accept my application I think there’s a good chance I’ll get it.”
“Marvelous idea, honey!” she exclaimed. “It’s been wonderful, having you around these last few weeks, someone who comes because they
want
to, not because their school tells them they have to.” She patted my hand. “You volunteered to work with us out of the good of your heart, Jeanie; we appreciate that. You’ve restored my faith in young people. The others feel the same way. We’ve had some kids here, you can tell they’re just thinking of a grade at the end of a page, we’re just a means to an end. Not like you.”
My heart lurched. “Sue-Ellen,” I began, and she looked innocently up at me.
“Yes, dear?”
I opened my mouth, and then I closed it again. I couldn’t—well, put it this way, I didn’t tell her the truth. What would be the point in puncturing her illusion? Instead, I returned the pressure on her
hand. “If I’ve found my way, it’s got a lot to do with you,” I explained, and I was absolutely sincere about that. “If things are making some sense to me now, I think it’s because I met you. I really mean it. Thank you.”
I arrived in our kitchen at home an hour or so later to find Q murmuring in hushed tones on the telephone. She looked up and reached immediately for Samuel; then an expression of conscious guilt passed over her face: “Oh,
Jeanie,
hello, I didn’t realize you were—uh—home,” she said, in the loud tones you use to tell someone on the other end of the phone that the person they’re talking about has just walked into the room. Alison, I presumed, or possibly Mum. I scowled.
“Yes. Would you rather I wasn’t?” I replied irritably.
“Of course not, Jeanie, don’t be silly,” my sister returned patiently. “But you did say you’d help me clean up the sitting room this morning, I was waiting for you, and then you
completely
disappeared.”
I stomped upstairs. Alison didn’t seem to phone me so much these days, she’d opened up a permanent line to my sister instead, so when I saw a message icon on my mobile, which I’d left on the table, I wondered for a dizzying second who it might be. I dialed my messages and pressed the phone a little closer to my ear.
It was Dave. “We haven’t been in touch for a while. Thought you might want to know I got back all right. I’ve just got back from Ranger and Magsie’s; fancied a break. So I went down to their place in Brighton. They’re planning a trip to the Netherlands to meet a bloke who’s going to teach them about harnessing the power of the wind, and I might go with them for a bit. It’s something to do. Just wanted you to know in case—well, in case you tried to reach me.”
I put down the phone, feeling faintly sick. Poor rudderless Dave, meandering around the countries of northern Europe, blown hither and thither by the wind.
But there were no other messages.
Q
A
ll day Sunday we called Kent’s offices; no reply. Finally, at four o’clock, we put Samuel in his car seat and drove to Cheasford. The two-tone pickup was still in the parking lot, but there was no answer at his door—which was now unexpectedly locked, the chain slid into place. “Maybe he’s—you know,” I said nervously, not quite meeting Tom’s eye above Samuel’s head; and then, just as I was debating whether to dial 911, we heard a thin, bleary, but unmistakable voice. “How many times do I have to tell you to—leave me in peace? I have a lot of things, invoices and papers and stuff, to do here. Are you two working, or what?”
Tom shrugged. “I’m not wasting any more time on this,” he said impatiently. “He obviously wants us to take charge. And frankly, he’s in no condition to take control of Emmie Cormier’s case anyway. This has gone on long enough.” After peering through the keyhole and assuring myself that Kent was on a chair, not ready to jump off a rafter, I reluctantly followed my husband back down the stairs.
“We’re here to see Lieutenant Driscoll,” Tom announced, when we arrived on the premises of the small purpose-built block just after lunchtime on Monday. The bald desk clerk was blandly bored.
“Kenton Tyler’s associates—yes, yes—I remember. I’ll let him know you’re here.”
We sat down in the small, empty waiting room. After a few min
utes we heard a buzz; the door opened, and the clerk appeared on the other side. “He’ll see you, but he’s only got ten minutes to spare, he’s
very
busy at the moment,” he told us, managing to achieve an expression of official officiousness as he ushered us into an interior office. Lieutenant Driscoll—who was about forty, with a simple face, sandy hair and eyelashes—was fiddling aimlessly with a pen when we entered; he began hastily typing at his computer, then gestured to two plastic chairs. As I sat down, I noticed a picture of a little girl in a pink tutu facing him on his desk.
“Old man Tyler said he had a coupla city lawyers working with him,” he began. “You think you can cut it up here, eh?” he added, with a short laugh. “If lawyering’s anything like police work, you don’t stand a chance. You need to be
from
a town if you’re going to understand it, the
heart
of a town, that is.” He sat back on his chair and looked over at us with a vastly superior expression.
“I’m sure you’re right, Lieutenant Driscoll,” Tom answered respectfully. “We’ve only been here a few months, but already we can tell that working in a town like this takes real care, real commitment. But we’ll try to help Mr. Tyler as best we can.”
Driscoll nodded. “Sure, sure, I get it. Not much you can do for that girl Cormier, though; she’s a—harrumph,” he finished lamely, looking at me.
“We know the score,” Tom said. “Look, we just need to get a few answers, get the story straight, so we don’t look like idiots in court. Some of this stuff—” he got out his BlackBerry—“some of this stuff Tyler wants us to get, it’s real obvious, you know? Just details. Like, what was the name of the doctor on the scene when her kid died?”
The policeman visibly relaxed. “Jeez, half the folks in town could tell you that. Between you and me, Kenton Tyler needs to walk out of that practice before
he falls
out of it, or
off
of it, know what I mean?” he added, guffawing. “It was Reid, Phil Reid.” He leaned back in his chair. “Phil Reid has been the family’s doctor for years.”
Tom tapped
Philip Reid
into his BlackBerry. “That’s great. You’re
being a tremendous help to us! Now then, the other people in the house were—I’m guessing the mother, her father, and her grandfather, right?”
Driscoll nodded again, fingertips held lightly together. “Sure. Terrible upset they were,” he added soberly, a quick glance at the tutu girl on his desk.
“We have a baby boy ourselves, actually,” I put in suddenly. “My husband here, and I. His name is Samuel. He’s just a few months old. Now I’m a mother, this kind of story—I feel it very differently, don’t you? Before I had kids I didn’t quite grasp what the death of a child would mean. But now—just think—think what it would be like if you could—y’know. Never kiss her good-night…”
Lieutenant Driscoll gulped. “I can’t imagine it,” he said gruffly. He reached out unconsciously for the photograph.
“The thing we don’t understand is how a child can just die, without warning, in the middle of the night,” Tom picked up the thread. “I don’t mind telling you, Lieutenant Driscoll, since we heard the story about the Vaughan baby my wife has hardly been able to leave our son’s bedside. She’s too frightened to part from him in case he vanishes like that, without warning or symptoms. One minute healthy—the next minute gone.” He snapped his fingers for emphasis.
Driscoll had put down the photograph and was leaning forward to face me now. “I know what you mean. Yeah. But it wasn’t quite like that,” he explained earnestly. “The kid had been ill for a week at least, maybe longer. Emmie told me at the time, I remember. She kept saying she wished she’d taken the baby into the hospital.”
“Is that right? Well, that does make me feel better!” I said. “Do you happen to know what those symptoms were, Lieutenant?” I went on. “It would really put my mind at rest, I think.”
“She had this cold that got worse and worse, then she was out of sorts, acting kind of funny; Emmie said she’d had the doctor…”
He stopped himself suddenly. There was a silence. Tom and
I kept our eyes off each other. “Said she’d had the doctor—?” Tom prompted.
But Driscoll’s face had clouded over. “Had the doctor out a week or two before she died. Just like I said before.” His body was stiff with suspicion.
“But Dr. Reid wasn’t able to help her?” I asked politely.
Driscoll drummed his fingers against the long metal desk. “You’ll have to ask Reid what it was they discussed,” he said, his tone now distinctly surly. “The way I remember it, when he came out to see the kid, there wasn’t a whole lot wrong with it. Emmie should have called him out again, when the kid got worse, but she didn’t. I submitted a report about all of this to the medical examiner. You’ll find the details there.” He stood up abruptly.
Tom made one last attempt. “I don’t suppose we could see your own notes on the death scene, by any chance, Lieutenant?” he asked, standing up to face the young police officer. “The internal police report? Just in case there’s something there—some small detail—that might help us—?”
“Help you with what?” Driscoll said immediately, fronting up to Tom, and when my husband mentioned something vague about Emmie’s court case with Ryan, Driscoll’s answer was short. “Emmie Cormier is a deadbeat, always has been, always will be. Whatever you need you’ll find in the medical examiner’s report.” He opened the door. “If Emmie Cormier loses that kid, she’ll have no one but herself to blame. You tell old man Tyler that, from me. If he’s sober enough to understand you, of course.”
Jeanie
J
ust as I was beginning to give up hope, I was asked to schedule an interview in Southwark. A formal “please contact us at your earliest convenience” e-mail accompanied by a second “dear Jeanie” message from someone named Sandra arrived on Monday morning. “Sorry our initial letter got delayed, we received your message though, loud and clear. Can you send us a hard copy for the files?”
Someone in the world really seemed to want me—for a job! A real job! Ludicrously excited, I spent half the morning sketching out plans for “Third Age” day centers. I would bring in financial counselors to help people who’d lost their savings and masseurs to improve morale, I decided. I’d ask Mum for advice on yoga for the over-sixties, and perhaps Alison could help with contacts for a program in sculpture and art. And perhaps I could collect stories from the seniors on how people survived financial crises in the twentieth century—in the 1930s; after the war—to make them feel like useful and valued members of society. We could even turn the stories into a book—!
My happy sense of purpose was only briefly checked when Dave phoned me a few hours later to tell me (sheepishly, with deep embarrassment) that over the weekend he got together with—
Ellen.
I won’t deny that at first I gulped. The thought of them together brought a strange lump to my throat—Dave finding consolation in
those plump round arms, Dave burying his head in that generous white bosom—but, as he nervously explained how they’d got together, I found myself making peace with it all. Mam died late Friday night, poor lady, breathing out her last with Dave and the rest of the family arranged by her side. Ellen was there, weeping salt tears for the confused old woman, and their hands met in grief, and the rest followed quite naturally.
“You’re not cross with me, are you?” Dave went on anxiously. “I mean, it was a bit quick and all…” his voice tapered off into embarrassed silence. I laughed with the sudden happy consciousness of complete delivery from guilt, then told him I was actually
looking forward
to seeing them together, as a couple. When I got home.
“To be completely honest with you, Dave,” I said—although frankly I wasn’t, there was some stuff I missed out—“I need to come back, see my friends, get on with my life. It’s all right over here, but after a while you miss your mates, people you can really trust. And I’ve got an interview for a social work job, so things are really coming together in my career,” I went on semi-self-importantly, because
I
needed to have a story to tell him too, I couldn’t quite bear to be upstaged by Dave.