A Song for Jenny: A Mother's Story of Love and Loss. Julie Nicholson
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returns a few minutes later, he is none the wiser. It looks as if there are personnel moving around the room and taking details from people, so we guess we have to wait our turn.
The nun and the cleric stand out amongst the groups of people as they don’t quite belong. I move out to the balcony, possibly to avoid contact. Their presence symbolises that all is not well. At this moment I need optimism and hope. The view is hardly soothing. I want green fields and trees and flowers, not concrete and bins and pipes. I find myself part of the other communing bodies, leaning over the balcony, speaking into mobile phones, connecting with home, feeding the same non-information. This is where I am, this is what I’m doing, this is what I know, this is what I don’t know. How are you? What are you doing? Words of love and encouragement exchanged and reinforced across the country and probably also across the world.
A few chairs are scattered around on the balcony, but there isn’t any room to sit down so we move inside and stand in a group talking and not talking and looking around, and looking lost and looking at other people looking lost. The young cleric approaches us tentatively, asking if we’ve had far to travel today. ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, what difference does it make how far we’ve had to travel today?’ Thankfully the words never leave my mouth. He’s still clutching his sandwich pack as he comes out with one asinine phrase after another. I let the others respond while I look on barely listening; thinking, impatiently and ungraciously, that I wish he would just go away and leave us alone. We all stand there for a few minutes until the cleric runs out of things to say and we run out of responses. I know I should say something to ease his discomfort but can’t be bothered. I feel irritated that we have to be subjected to his helpless ministrations. ‘Is there anything I can get you?’
I want to shake him. Clearly at a loss, he shuffles awkwardly from foot to foot before suddenly thrusting out the remainder of his sandwich towards us and asking if any of us is hungry. For a moment the sandwich hovers between us like an embarrassing pause before we politely decline. I don’t know whether to laugh or scream. With a rush of words none of us catch clearly he waves the sandwich in the direction of the refreshment table, inviting us to help ourselves to tea or coffee and biscuits and hopes it isn’t long before we get some news. On that we’re all in agreement.
Martyn pours tea and coffee into a couple of plastic beakers as a man standing close to the table informs us that the coffee is cold and the tea stewed. Nevertheless we take our beakers and move to the far side of the room where some seats have become vacant. Martyn and James stand by the window as Dendy, Sharon and I sit in a line, turning our bodies slightly in towards each other so we can talk more easily.
‘You should have told him you’re a vicar,’ Sharon says teasingly.
Our three sets of eyes follow the cleric, still clutching his half-eaten sandwich and now talking to an older couple sitting a short distance away. We sip our tepid tea and watch his slow progress around the room, warming to him as he extends his arm and offers his sandwich again. Maybe there isn’t anything else he can offer.
‘I wish he’d just eat it!’ I blurt out.
‘Is he a chaplain?’ Sharon asks.
‘I don’t know; he didn’t introduce himself as a chaplain. I think if he was a chaplain he wouldn’t be quite so ill at ease.’
‘Maybe he’s from a local church wanting to help in some way. He seems out of his depth.’ Dendy makes a half-hearted attempt at being charitable.
We’re all out of our depth, I think, but don’t say.
I might have been friendlier towards the cleric but he reminds me of who I am and possibly of my own inadequacies in such a situation. With some consternation, I realise I do not wish to be reminded of my own vocational role. If I were in his shoes, I doubt I could offer people any more than a half-eaten sandwich, which is a troubling thought. I do not wish to be aligned with these two people. I am a mother, desperately searching for her child. I am Jenny’s mother. I am also a priest but at the moment I am embarrassed by the fact and I am struggling to see how the church has a place in this room.
Eventually someone comes and takes a few details: my name, Jenny’s name, her age, our relationship and establishes that I’m the next of kin. Between us James and I give the information asked for: any scars, distinguishing features, colour and length of hair … We trip over each other in our eagerness to provide any detail that could help identify Jenny. It doesn’t take long. All of us watch and listen intently to what the woman is saying. Apparently there are seven casualties in total in different parts of the hospital in various states and conditions and yet to be identified. It’s possible that Jenny could be one of them. She’ll be back as soon as she has some information. Meanwhile, we should help ourselves to tea and coffee or water. For a moment I think she’s going to tell us to make ourselves at home.
The elderly nun is moving around, gliding up to people and standing alongside for a while before moving on. People are trying to avoid catching her eye. As though she spots a new set of faces in the room she moves over towards us. ‘Keep her away from me,’ I appeal to Sharon and turn my body pointedly in Dendy’s direction, feigning a conversation. I listen to the nun talking to Sharon for what seems an age. She has a kindly, soft, prayer-like voice and Sharon is being very patient and gentle in her response. The nun has assumed Sharon is looking for her daughter. Perhaps I should engage but it’s all too much effort and I remain resolutely turned away. At this moment I don’t want the attention of chaplains or nuns or anything except action and people who will help me find Jennifer.
Martyn has wandered off in search of a loo and James has sat down in the vacant seat on the other side of Dendy. His head is bowed and he’s staring at his rucksack on the floor between his feet. He looks far away and tired and there’s something about his hunched shoulders that makes me want to stand up and shout: Won’t somebody help us please. Of course I don’t.
The room is becoming increasingly crowded; everyone is desperate for information and feeling the frustration of needing to be tolerant of a system and await developments. The room is airless. Even with the doors to the balcony wide open, there is hardly any air circulating and the heat is oppressive and uncomfortable. Some people are waving papers like fans to create streams of cooling air. Empty water bottles lie discarded, scattered around the room on tables and under chairs. Water jugs on the refreshment table are being emptied faster than volunteers can replenish them. People sporadically go over to the table and tip the jug as though expecting a stream of water to miraculously appear.
Another cleric comes into the room, bearing a tray filled with white plastic beakers. He’s tall and has an air of confidence and authority as he announces: ‘Iced water if anyone would like some.’ He doesn’t ask anyone about their journey or sympathize in pitying tones, he simply attends to a present need – thirst in a crowded hot hospital waiting room – making eye contact and smiling his care as he passes around beaker after beaker of refreshingly cold water. ‘That’s my kind of chaplain,’ I whisper in Sharon’s ear.
The nun remains by Sharon’s side, watching events and commenting from time to time on something in the room or an aspect of the day. It seems that having found a sympathetic ear she is loath to relinquish her attachment and is now reminiscing, ‘This reminds me of the war,’ describing clearing away rubble from the streets and finding people beneath and how the spirit amongst everyone was wonderful. I dare not catch Sharon’s eye.
Just as I think we can’t bear any more Second World War recollections, however kindly meant and gently shared, the female staff member calls my name and comes over, we hope with some information, and the nun slips away saying something about hoping for good news and very nice to meet and talk with us.
It emerges there’s a young white woman, unidentified, in IT, aged about thirty. ‘Let me see her.’ Either I didn’t say it or the member of staff didn’t hear me. There are two other women also in IT but neither match Jenny’s description. One is an older woman and the other Asian. There’s one woman who could be Jenny and that’s the possibility I hold on to. I don’t think about why she might be in IT. We describe Jenny again, going over details as requested, hair, eyes, height. She confirms what James has told us, that there