A Song for Jenny: A Mother's Story of Love and Loss. Julie Nicholson
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in place through the hospital and so we’ll be amongst the first to have someone assigned to us. We’re assured that for the time being this is the best place to be.
As hard as it is – and it is hard – all we can do is wait, patiently. Restless and impotent, together with everyone else in the room, we give ourselves up to the process. The term ‘waiting room’ has taken on a new meaning.
Martyn goes off in search of sandwiches, supplies for the long haul, he says, even though none of us is interested in eating. It’s hot. I go out on to the balcony for some space and air and attend to the now regular ritual of checking messages and rigorously calling Jenny’s mobile, persistent in urging her to be safe and in contact. The latter feels like a salve to the implications of the last hour. Hang in there, Jenny, we’re on our way to you.
Leaning over the balcony rail, for a few minutes blotting out the crowded room, I gaze down at the concrete vista, as I call home imagining the scene with Greg and Lizzie and Thomas, frustratingly dependent on us for any morsel of news. I wish I had something positive to give them other than relaying bare facts and rigorously repeating the need to stay positive. A smile escapes at Lizzie’s affectionate description of Auntie Chris making them feel they weren’t quite so alone any more. She tells me of friends who had called and of Sharon and Mike’s older girls, Katie and Joanne, who are driving down from Manchester so they could all be together – cousins in solidarity. Lizzie’s voice, sounding wobbly yet so courageous, lingers in my ear as my eyes remain fixed and staring.
Take courage, soul. This is my prayer, all I can muster.
I feel suspended between endlessly blue sky above and grey unrelenting concrete below. One contradicts the other, like my head, full of opposing forces. When I speak to people I hear my voice reasoning positively full of hope. Yet in moments of isolation this deep, creeping fear almost overwhelms me. Ripples of it rise up threatening to break the surface and I have to take deep guttural breaths to force it back in place. I remain calm, but it is, in truth, a fearful calm. On my way back into the room I stop to speak to a couple who smiled and said hello as I passed earlier. We talk for a few minutes, sharing stories of the last twenty-four hours and sympathizing with each other. They hope I find my daughter. I hope they find their son. This is a very worrying time, we all agree. They seem very alone.
As the afternoon wears on more and more people arrive. All the cultures of the world seem to be gathered here, united in purpose, many carrying pictures of missing relatives. A Japanese couple struggle to make themselves understood. A group of young adults looking for a lost friend bring new energy into the room as they take up seats in the same area as us. Their chatter is a diversion and provides a new focus for a time.
The person who spoke to us earlier and took Jenny’s details comes back. The young woman in IT is not Jenny. They checked hair colouring and other features and distinguishing marks. I don’t know whether to be relieved or despondent. In desperation I ask about the remaining casualties in other parts of the hospital, any chance one of those could be Jenny? Even as I ask I know checks will already have been made. I can’t take my eyes off her face as she shakes her head slowly. ‘No, I’m sorry.’ For a moment or two we stand in awkward silence.
‘What happens now?’ Martyn’s voice cuts into the pause.
‘A police officer will be along shortly to speak to you and take things on from here.’
For some reason I find myself saying ‘thank you’ before sitting down and waiting for the next directive.
More cooled water is being circulated but we’re almost too tired and preoccupied to bother taking any. The plastic bag containing packs of sandwiches Martyn went out for earlier lies neglected at our feet, mostly untouched. For a while after the latest information none of us speaks; we focus instead on drab peeling paintwork, metal window frames, torn or worn patches on seats and our own private thoughts. I watch as James takes his mobile from a pocket to check a text and replace it without replying.
Heads turn in the direction of the door as two police officers come in. The officers pause for a moment, scanning the room, before reading out the names of two families. The rest of the room waits expectantly for a few minutes before returning to its mix of activity and contemplation.
A young woman in a light blue shirt stands just inside the doors and looks over towards us, raising her eyebrows to enquire, ‘Mrs Nicholson?’ She introduces herself as Joanne, a police liaison officer. She’s a similar age and colouring to Jenny. We follow her into another room, smaller with a few functional tables set against the wall and chairs pulled around. There are already two other families talking to police officers in their respective groups. Joanne apologizes for the cramped space as we settle ourselves into seats and make introductions. She’s warm and friendly. Forms are systematically filled in; we respond to question after question, while Joanne writes. Descriptions and details already given are gone over again in minute detail: position and size of scar, dental work, surgical procedures, height, and vital statistics – hip measurements, chest. ‘She has a wonderful bosom,’ I blurt out, aghast at myself and recognizing shock in the faces of my companions at my outrageous remark. ‘Well, she does!’ I persist with some embarrassment.
James tries to remember what Jenny was wearing when she left for work, whether her hair was tied up or loose, what kind of bag she was carrying and what personal possessions she had with her. Between us we rack our brains for any detail that may help locate and identify her. James recites the route Jenny would normally take to work, and the timings, the unlikelihood of her being at Edgware Road travelling in the direction of Paddington. ‘It doesn’t make sense,’ James insists over again. ‘Jen would be travelling away from Paddington not towards it.’ Joanne doesn’t have any answers; all she can do is collate as much information as possible about Jenny and all we can do is cooperate in the task.
The interview is difficult; it’s impossible not to listen to snatches of conversation from the two other interviews going on in the room at the same time, we’re all in such close proximity. None of us has the luxury of privacy.
Joanne asks about Jenny’s teeth, whether she had any significant dental treatment. ‘She doesn’t have any fillings,’ I say when Joanna’s pager bleeps and with a hasty ‘excuse me’ she leaves the room and we have no alternative but to sit and eavesdrop on what the other families in the room are saying.
On her return, Joanne explains how the police liaison service works. I feel considerable relief knowing that someone is going to be working alongside us, on our behalf, in finding Jenny.
‘Where are you going now: Reading or Bristol?’ she asks.
‘Reading for the time being.’ I give her my sister’s address and phone number, then we go back into the waiting room while Jo attends to some practicalities.
After the confined atmosphere of the interview room, the open and fresh air of the balcony is a welcome change. For a few minutes we discuss the various aspects of the interview before dispersing around the balcony busy with our mobile phones.
I hear my name called and swing around quickly, my eyes sweeping past Dendy and Sharon and James in different parts of the balcony before fixing on the person coming towards me. Would I consent to having my DNA taken?
Through a haze I’m aware of a small room, a swab and plastic tube. I think I open my mouth. It is said that children only ask questions they are ready to hear answers to. I do not ask any questions of the person taking my DNA.
It’s all over. Joanne tells us to go home. There’s nothing else we can do here. The police liaison service will take over all the groundwork now.
‘Will that be you?’ I ask.
Disappointment is reflected in all our faces as Joanne explains that as she is attached to London we will be assigned liaison officers from the Reading area. We’ve warmed to her and built up some trust and confidence with her.
‘When will we hear from someone?’
‘Soon, probably in the next few hours.’
As James takes her card and puts it in his wallet,