A Song for Jenny: A Mother's Story of Love and Loss. Julie Nicholson
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down vaguely familiar stairs and corridors and leave the hospital through the same double doors that we entered several hours before, walking straight into the path of a man holding out his hand and begging for money. We’re taken aback and pause, rather than stop, for a moment and look at him as we pass. All I can do is shake my head limply in response to his extended hand. None of us is in the mood to hear his tale of woe, in fact we feel he should be ashamed of himself preying on vulnerable people coming out from the hospital. He doesn’t give up on us as easily as we give up on him, pushing his bike and pursuing us along the road. He continues following and calling out to us for some time before we turn the corner in our callous disregard.
Buildings have blotted out the sunshine and we walk the rest of the way to the car in shade. Double red lines follow the kerb around and I ask idly what they signify. Apparently they’re worse than double yellow lines. Drivers must not stop or park on them for any reason. There isn’t a vehicle in sight so the penalty must be harsh. As I follow the double red lines along the road, they seem to represent all the frustrations and ‘no go’ areas of the last twenty-four hours.
We don’t say much during the drive out of London. Sharon calls Vanda to let her know we’re on our way. Any more information can wait until we reach the house. The atmosphere in the car is pensive. The last couple of hours have been filled with words and now there’s nothing left to say. We’ve run out not only of words but of energy and purpose too. Martyn concentrates on driving and the rest of us sit slumped in the solitude of our own thoughts. Mine are brooding and as much as I try to push troubling imaginings to the back of my mind, to keep focused on Jenny and on positive possibilities, darker thoughts niggle away at the surface of my consciousness. This day has not ended; it has been a beginning, an introduction, like the prelude to an immense piece of music.
RECOVERY OPERATION
It’s a relief to be driving along a stretch of familiar road and momentum within the car is picking up as we near our destination. I lean forward, looking out for the landmarks which indicate the gap between trees and hedges where we need to turn off the main road. Martyn slows the car down; even so we overshoot the turning, spotting the obscured entrance just as we pass it. He swings the car around, swinging us with it and doubles back the short distance to turn from the main road into the approach lane leading to my sister and brother-in-law’s house.
The lane gradually crumbles into a track, uneven with ridges and potholes. Bumping slowly along towards the drive, passing the two or three other properties, we’re shaken out of our soporific states and begin speaking again. The tension of the journey is rapidly dissipated. When the car finally pulls to a halt, there’s a fraction’s pause while Martyn flexes his arms against the steering wheel, breathing a long sigh, then the doors are thrown open and our stiff bodies tumble from the car. Amidst a mêlée of greetings and embraces, we trail through the hallway, all talking at once and pour through the doorway of the kitchen in a combined state of near hysteria.
Vanda and Stefan are looking at us with stunned expressions and have become rooted to the spot as we bombard them with overlapping words. They are standing close together as if in mutual protection against the onslaught. ‘My God, you all sound so high,’ Vanda finally blurts out. ‘We thought you’d be tired and flat and we’d have to restore your spirits.’ Finding her voice seems to galvanize my sister into action and she turns to stir a pan simmering on the stove for a moment before abandoning the wooden spoon and turning her attention to a row of glass tumblers lined up on the kitchen unit.
‘Come in and have a drink.’ Stefan is taking a bottle of gin from the pantry and handing it to Vanda.
‘We’ve had a really quiet day here, apart from the phone,’ she says, dropping several chunks of ice into each tumbler. ‘Can you call Mum?’ The ice is followed by slices of lemon and a generous slug of gin. ‘I promised her you’d call as soon as you arrived.’ Tonic fizzes over the top of the bottle with a whoosh as the cap is unscrewed. My sister’s gin and tonic construction is legendary: clumsy but with great largesse.
Within minutes of piling through the front door all five of us hold a more than modest G&T in our hands. Dendy, a devotee of Harvey’s Bristol Cream sherry who doesn’t normally drink gin, magnanimously concedes, ‘What the heck, I may as well start now!’
Questions and responses dart backwards and forwards. My niece Ellie comes over and gives me a hug, snuggling her head against my chest and wrapping her arms around my waist, remaining in that position while everyone talks, doubtless taking it all in. I am smoothing Ellie’s hair and chipping in as Dendy and Sharon animatedly recount the dramas of the journey into London. My sister is still looking shocked at our high spirits and in her eyes I see a look which I think translates as, ‘I wish I had been with you; I wish I had been part of it then I might understand why you’re all behaving in this way.’ Nevertheless I believe she is glad we are all now here with her. Martyn is sitting at the table, long legs spread out in front of him. He’s beginning to look sleepy. In spite of this a grin is spreading across his face at the description of the police escort. Leaning against the sink dressed in work jeans and a T-shirt Stefan’s expression is intent. A high forehead combined with greying hair and spectacles gives him a prematurely wise old owl appearance. He doesn’t say much but his eyes behind his glasses are narrowed in concentration, listening as though he is carefully assimilating information. He has finished his gin and has folded his arms across his chest. Every now and then he darts a concerned glance across the kitchen at James who has been talking rapidly but is now very quiet and staring at the ground.
This is the tableau, varying levels of energy gathered around a kitchen table with a pot of pasta bubbling in the background.
My nephew is standing in the doorway and looks on for a little while, hopping from one foot to the other, trying unsuccessfully to be patient, before asking James to play football with him outside. I watch them go; this is normal practice for six-year-old William. Visitors arrive, they play football with him; why should today be any different?
Everything I say to my mother is a blur, she doesn’t need to tell me: ‘I wish I could be there with you.’
‘I know.’ I can imagine how she’s feeling, away from the place and one person she wants to be with.
‘Let me know as soon as there’s any news.’
‘I will.’
I can feel my energy ebbing away but I phone home before settling down to whatever the night has in store. Lizzie answers. There’s not a lot to say that hasn’t already been said throughout the day. We talk about commonplace things: what’s going on here; what’s going on there.
‘What time did you arrive?’
‘About seven o’clock. Auntie Vanda had gin waiting,’ I say, smiling across the kitchen at my sister.
‘We’re waiting for Katie and Jo to arrive and Auntie Chris is cooking.’
‘William has dragged James off to play football.’
‘The phone hasn’t stopped ringing.’
‘Nor here from what I can gather.’
‘What’s everyone else doing?’
‘Uncle Martyn has fallen asleep on the sofa, exhausted after the long drive and a large gin, Stefan is outside with William and James and the rest of us are in the kitchen talking.’ We each need to hold on to an image of the other household; it’s a connection between us.
‘Promise you’ll call, even if it’s the middle of the night.’
Thomas is very quiet on the phone but Chris assures me everyone is OK; they’re all keeping each other going. By the time I speak to Greg I’ve run out of anything to say and resort to ‘how are you?’ to which, of course, there’s no adequate answer. How are any of us? This big portent is hanging over us like a great louring cloud and all we