A Song for Jenny: A Mother's Story of Love and Loss. Julie Nicholson
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keeping an eye on the television screen.
Lizzie tells me she had woken to her radio alarm and the 9 a.m. news reporting explosions on the London Underground. She had tried to call Jenny’s mobile but wasn’t getting any response. ‘Something’s happened to Jenny, I know it has’ – more insistent this time –‘I’ve tried her mobile over and over but she’s not answering.’
‘What time is it now?’ I ask. Someone says 9.15.
‘She’s probably at work already and has her phone switched off.’ My voice is calm, more concerned with reassuring my younger daughter than troubled over the whereabouts of my elder daughter. ‘As soon as Jenny realizes what’s happened she’ll call to let us know she’s OK.’ Of this I am certain.
My father and Uncle Jimmie are heartily tucking into a plate of bacon and egg.
‘We’re about to have breakfast,’ I tell Lizzie. ‘I’ll speak to Dad and James then call you back.’
‘OK, Mum, thanks, but promise you’ll call me as soon as you find out anything.’
‘I will, don’t worry.’
I replace the receiver and relay Lizzie’s call to the others as I simultaneously dial my husband’s office number. Greg answers immediately. I ask if he’s heard the news. He hasn’t. I tell him about Lizzie’s phone call. He says he’ll listen to the news and try Jenny at work. Then I try James, Jenny’s partner, on his mobile. He’s in the lab and probably hasn’t heard any news either. James’s phone goes on to voicemail. I leave a message for him and then send a text to Jenny, tapping out the words ‘are you ok? call me as soon as you can. Mx’.
I join the others at the table and start to eat breakfast, quite calmly, despite the drama of the phone conversation with Lizzie. The television remains on in the background. A report that the explosion could be a collision between two trains is debated. I drink a glass of orange juice and eat a slice of bacon. I ask my mother to pass the toast.
‘White or brown?’ she asks.
‘I don’t mind.’ There are coffee cups on the table, filled with coffee, Poole pottery, white, with a brown rim – no mismatched crockery in this house! I don’t remember putting the cups there; someone else must have. My father asks what the plans are for today and what time we are going out. ‘Later this morning,’ I suggest, ‘about eleven?’ I spread my toast with some butter and marmalade as the others discuss the day’s itinerary.
The landline rings; my cousin’s daughter calling to speak with my aunt. Delighted, my aunt replaces the receiver, a proud grandmother. ‘Joanne has her results, a 2:1.’
Joanne asked if we had heard from Jenny. Apparently she had sent a text as soon as she saw the news but hadn’t heard back yet. Jo had also sent a text to her other cousin working in London, Michelle, who had replied saying she was fine and in work.
I take a bite of toast and wash it down with a mouthful of coffee, freshly brewed, savouring the aroma. Replacing my cup in the saucer, I pick up the slice of toast to take another bite and stop, feeling suddenly that it is imperative I speak to Jenny. I drop the toast on my plate and get up from the table, picking up my mobile and searching for Jenny’s name in my contacts list. I press call. Ringing out; no reply. I send another text urging her to call a.s.a.p. I don’t panic; there’s still no real cause for alarm. I just need to hear her voice and then we can all get on with the day.
We switch the television on in the sitting room; listen to reports of power surges, speculation over the cause, explosions at three underground sites, one is Edgware Road, Circle and District line. The camera shows a slanted angle of the entrance down a side road. ‘That’s the tube station I used when I lived in London,’ I comment to no one in particular. We all watch, aghast, as the horror unfolds. I didn’t think Jenny’s route took her on that line. ‘Something has to cause a power surge,’ my father’s voice cuts across the voices on the TV.
I track down Jenny’s work number and call her office. She hasn’t arrived yet but her colleague assures me they’ll get her to contact me as soon as she walks through the door. I ask if anyone else has failed to turn up. There’s a moment’s pause before the person on the other end of the phone says, ‘No, only Jenny,’ and then hastily explains that London is in complete chaos and lots of people must be delayed getting to work. I phone my husband Greg who has also called Jenny’s office and left messages on her mobile. We don’t linger talking in case Jenny is trying to get through.
Loud sirens blare out from the television, filling the air across London, piercing the already frenzied atmosphere and spilling over into the Anglesey household. Breakfast is being cleared away in the next room and for a few minutes the rhythmic chink of crockery and cupboard doors and drawers opening and closing mingles with the jarring sounds on the screen. Strips of distinctive blue and white police tape begin to appear, criss-crossing the screen, defining scenes of crime. My mother sits beside me saying there’s more coffee if anyone would like it.
Confused-looking commuters emerge from the underground, immediately set upon by reporters asking questions, eager for news and information. I listen intently, my senses alert to what is happening on the screen hundreds of miles away, yet immediate here. People seem muddled; most don’t have any clear idea of what has happened; some talk of bangs, smoke, darkness; some nurse minor wounds and are being helped away. One person says they heard a bang and describes how the train just suddenly stopped. Another passenger, at Edgware Road, describes seeing bodies in the wreckage. Oh God!
My aunt stands watching in the doorway for a while, a cloth in her hand. ‘Terrible, isn’t it,’ she says, more of a statement than a question.
My mother asks again if anyone would like coffee. I say, ‘Yes, please,’ and she follows my aunt out into the kitchen, needing to be active more than drink coffee.
My father, uncle and I are left alone in the room, watching, not speaking; Dad in an armchair, sitting back, legs crossed, neglecting the newspaper open on his lap; my uncle leaning forward, intent on the screen, arms resting on his knees; me on the sofa; all three of us basking in sunlight flooding through picture windows on two sides of the room. There’s a calm silence between us, in contrast to the tension and barrage of sounds and images currently being transmitted from London. As we watch, reports flood in of another explosion, a bus. ‘That’s not a power surge,’ I hear my father say.
Shocked, we wait for further news, more details. My uncle calls out, ‘There’s been another explosion,’ and my mother and aunt rush back in and sit down wondering out loud, as we all do, how many more? Where will it end? Five of us gaze at the screen in horrified awe as the minutes tick by with barely a movement or a sound between us.
My mobile rings; I snatch it from the sofa and grasp it to my ear. Automatically I move out of earshot of the television and into another room. It’s Jenny’s partner James; his phone has been switched off as he was doing a radiation test in the lab, he’s only now picking up messages. I tell him what I know, or don’t know. He says he’ll call back when he’s checked out news reports. I report back to the others whose looks of resignation mirror my own.
I try to assimilate all the information streaming from the television, beginning to feel uneasy at Jenny’s silence and non-appearance at work. It doesn’t make sense; she can’t be anywhere near any of the explosion sites, so where is she? Why aren’t we hearing from her? My eyes are fixed on the screen but my mind wanders. Come on Jenny, call. Maybe networks are blocked; everyone must be using mobile phones. She’ll call one of us as soon as she can. Probably she’s walking to work – hence the delay in getting to the office. Jenny’s never one to hang about waiting for public transport. If anything, she’ll be caught up in the crowds somewhere, part of the general throng and exodus spilling out from the underground. Still, it’s slightly unsettling that she hasn’t put in an appearance at work. I look at my phone, willing the familiar tune. I send another text: ‘hope yr ok call me. Mx’.
The TV screen is displaying charts and computerized maps of the underground; coloured dots represent the movement of trains. There’s more speculation and repetition