A Song for Jenny: A Mother's Story of Love and Loss. Julie Nicholson
Читать онлайн книгу.
purse I turn my attention to my bag and go through the same ritual, getting rid of screwed-up tissues, more receipts, bits of paper relating to work, empty chewing-gum wrappers and an assortment of pens which are sorted into those that work and those that join the pile of torn-up paper scattered beside me.
Somewhere in all of this a cup of tea appears but I don’t notice until a voice reminds me to drink before it gets cold. I replace all that’s relevant in the decluttered bag and gather up debris and discarded contents into a plastic carrier, which my aunt takes to put in the rubbish bin, leaving me to my cup of tepid tea.
The light is not so bright now; early evening shadows start to creep across the lawn. The day is losing its lustre. Patterns of leaves are cast against the grass and I trace the shapes with my eyes. Even though the sun is still warm in the sky the mountains in the distance have lost their earlier heat-haze shimmer; they seem darker and more intimidating as they stand rigid, outlined against the still blue sky.
Where are you Jenny? Are you helping someone, sitting with them and soothing them with your voice, holding their hand? If you’re hurt, be brave, we’ll be with you as soon as we can. Know that we’re all thinking about you and trying to find you. Keep her safe, God, don’t let her be hurt or frightened or alone.
The mountains are shimmering again, glistening, though the cause is not heat haze. Stay positive. Believe she’s all right. I listen to the voice of reason inside my head, saying over and over again that no harm will have come to her; she’ll be out there somewhere waiting for us. I turn from the window as I have so many times throughout the day and call her mobile, sending words of love and reassurance.
The last few hours have brought waves of callers and then periods of stillness and silence. Now there are flurries of activity and fewer gaps between calls. We’ve all found our purpose. I announce my intention to pack a bag and go into the bedroom dragging an overnight bag from the top of the wardrobe. I go through the sparse amount of holiday wear unpacked from the same bag a few days ago, now spread around a couple of drawers, and throw some underwear into the base, not bothering with my usual packing ritual of counting out pairs of knickers or matching sets and colours. My hand shuffles tops around, while my mind tries to decide what will be functional. The two won’t co-ordinate and suddenly the simple task is beyond me. A voice from the doorway asks, ‘Do you want any help?’
‘I don’t know what to take!’ The voice of a frustrated and frightened child cries out and fills the space as I feel all my composure slipping from me. My aunt takes over and begins packing while I sit and watch. The rhythm of watching item after item being removed from drawers and cupboards, folded neatly and placed in the case has a calming effect. The overwhelming task and inner turbulence of moments ago settles into a gentle, comforting intimacy, ‘the still point of the turning world’.
Somewhere a clock is ticking, the sound regular and hollow, marking out time.
If we speak we speak about the ordinary, the job in hand. My aunt takes a pair of dark red linen trousers from a hanger and begins to fold them, commenting on how badly linen creases. My mother brings a small pile of freshly laundered clothes into the room enquiring if any are needed – she’s been ironing, a safe and comforting ritual in times of uncertainty. The two sisters go through the items as I look on. The air is weighted with what is not being said.
‘Humankind cannot bear very much reality.’
I think about my father and uncle keeping watch over the television further along the hallway, saying little and feeling much. These four people growing old are still youthful in my memory. Even though time has cast its shadow on their years they are to me as they have always been: constant, reliable, practical, a stoic generation, showing love in action and solidarity. I want to hug them all but don’t quite know how.
Job done, we lay out on the bed the clothes that I will travel in and can’t help smiling at the denim jacket that Jenny and Lizzie coveted after it was bought for me by the now infamous gurus of style Trinny and Susannah. For a moment I hold the jacket to me like a comfort blanket, breathing in the faint residue of last week’s perfume and last year’s memory, before hanging it over the bedpost and following my aunt out of the bedroom.
In the sitting room my uncle has poured a drink for himself and my father. There’s an absence of the usual banter in the activity and nobody mentions the hilarity of the previous evening when he paid such attention to the ice and lemon that he left the gin out of our gin and tonics. A triumph of style over content! Then the mood was rich with joking and laughter, now the men sit in contemplative silence with their glass of whisky and hardly notice we’ve come back into the room.
As the evening wears on there’s a quiet, fearful limbo about the house. Evening shadows turn to dim light and darkness before curtains are drawn and lamps switched on. News 24 remains our constant companion and link to London. Number of confirmed dead is now thirty-seven. Earlier news reports are constantly repeated: the attack has all the hallmarks of al-Qaeda … security services and police had no warning … Queen is to visit some of those affected on Friday … Prime Minister says it is a very sad day for British people but we will hold true to the British way of life. As I get up to answer the phone for the umpteenth time I wonder what the British way of life is.
‘Julie, it’s Martyn.’
‘Hi.’
Hearing Martyn’s voice is like a piece of an essential form slotting into place. The eldest, the tallest and now, on the end of the phone, the most authoritative.
‘I’ve been talking with Vanda and Sharon. We’re not going to let you do this alone.’
Pause.
‘It’s not looking good, is it?’
‘No.’
Although my elder cousin and I speak for the best part of five minutes, that’s all I really hear.
The distant brrrr of a replaced receiver at the other end of the line barely registers as I continue to clutch the phone tight against my ear long moments after the conversation ends. It feels like an invisible and sacred line has been crossed.
It’s not looking good, is it?
With those words Martyn becomes the first person bold enough to articulate what we’re all feeling. The truth, when we hear it, is hard to bear. With the echo of his sombre and resigned voice still resounding in my ear I replace the phone and go back to the others, saying, ‘Martyn is coming with us to London,’ leaving the rest unsaid.
Humankind cannot bear very much reality.
People are beginning to settle down for the night and family and friends who have been in contact throughout the day now want reassurance that if there’s any news of Jenny I’ll let them know, regardless of time. I promise to call even if it’s the middle of the night. Here, bed and sleep is far from everyone’s mind. My sister-in-law Chris has arrived in Bristol and Greg, Lizzie and Thomas are now all at home together. Lizzie tries to muster up a light-hearted comment about Auntie Chris arriving laden with enough food for an army. Thomas sounds very quiet and says he and Lizzie are going to drag the duvets downstairs and sleep on the sofa so they can keep the television on and be close to the phone if it rings. I tell him I’m going to find Jenny and bring her home. Greg speaks with a forced cheerfulness and we both collude with the pretence.
James is getting ready to go into London with a friend now that some of the access routes are reopened. He says he’s going to head for hospitals – it’s impossible to stay home and do nothing. He’s been talking to Vanda and the suggestion is that we all meet up at his and Jenny’s house in Reading in the morning and decide what to do if he doesn’t find Jenny overnight and we need to resume a search.
Sharon and I talk about logistics of travel. There are no direct trains from Bangor so we’ll either have to meet up en route or I could go to Manchester and we’d get a direct train from there. We talk about the possibility of me going to Manchester overnight; Mike, Sharon’s husband, would come and collect me, and then we could get a train at 6 a.m. together. My head