A Song for Jenny: A Mother's Story of Love and Loss. Julie Nicholson
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but I can feel myself getting agitated working it all through. Finally we make a decision to travel independently from Anglesey and Manchester and meet up at Crewe station. I’m relieved. It means I’ll have a bit of a wait for Sharon’s train to arrive but that’s OK. I suspect they don’t want me to be alone, even for half an hour. ‘I’ll be fine,’ I say.
I call out and ask my aunt if she has a taxi number and there’s a scurry of activity while she searches for the number and I go through the saga of train times and connections with my mother who then relates it all to my father in the next room. My aunt comes up with details of a local lady she and my uncle have used for doctor’s appointments in the past. She’s reliable. That’s what’s important. The taxi is booked for 5 a.m.
A few minutes later Sharon calls again to say that Martyn wants to meet the train at Rugby and drive us the rest of the way. I sense myself being slowly enfolded in a protective shield. I don’t question the motive. I can’t go there yet.
Vanda has been calling hospitals, needing to be occupied and do something positive and pro-active towards finding Jenny. I take down a list of hospital numbers from her, adding them to the gathering contact information in my notebook: St Mary’s, Royal Free, Charing Cross, Barts, Guys, Royal London.
It is long past midnight and the men are looking tired, wanting to keep watch but needing to sleep. They can hardly keep their eyes open. Television has a mesmerizing effect; reactions to the attacks from around the world fill the late-night airwaves. We leave it switched on because we can’t bear to turn it off. My uncle is the first to give in and go to bed. My father stays, focused on the news, until age and the night stretching endlessly ahead get the better of him. My mother suggests he goes to bed. Significantly, he lies on top of the bed not under the covers – resting not sleeping.
The grandfather and the great-uncle drift in and out of sleep while the grandmother and great-aunt sit in companionable quiet with the mother, waiting and hoping and passing the long night together.
My aunt is knitting, filling time rather than enjoying the occupation, fingers on autopilot, eyes on the television. The sound has been turned off. The rhythmic clicking of needles taps into the silence. My mother is sitting very still, gazing at the screen but seeming miles away. There’s a book lying unopened beside her on the settee. I wonder what she’s thinking or trying not to think.
One of my aunt’s sandals has fallen off exposing a strip of pale flesh on an otherwise suntanned foot. We’re all wearing flip flops – exposing three sets of painted toenails, shades of red and deep pink – a frivolous sight which already belongs to yesterday.
The click-click of metallic knitting needles has a hypnotic effect. I close my eyes, listening, lulled by the repetitive sound. The distant drone of an electrical appliance, a fridge motor, emphasizes the silence. Minute after minute; needle against needle.
In my head I go over something James said earlier, about Jenny leaving for work, how she took him a cup of tea and teased him about being a sleepyhead; she told him not to stay in bed all morning but to get up and do his research. Then she gave him a kiss and dashed out of the house for the twenty-minute walk to the station. James said he was so sleepy he barely opened his eyes as he responded to her goodbye kiss. I try to visualize the scene; its warmth and intimacy is reassuringly real. I imagine the clothes she is wearing – for some reason I see her dressed in sky blue – and wonder if her hair was tied back or hanging loose, picturing it first one way and then the other. I smile at the exuberance in her voice calling out ‘bye’ as she slams the door behind her, not waiting for a reply, and inhale deeply at the faint echo of J’adore, her current favourite perfume, recently sprayed and lingering in the air as she hurries down the street. I watch her retreating back and then all I can see is her laughing face.
I wish I was in Bristol; I could be on my way to London now not waiting for morning.
The spell is broken.
My aunt asks if anyone would like coffee. My mother says she’ll make it and gets to her feet, probably glad of something to do.
As we drink our coffee we go over the events of the day, recounting every detail from the moment Lizzie called. We go through checklists of people, family and friends called, people yet to be informed. Informed of what? What do we say? Jenny’s missing? No! I don’t want to say that. It sounds too formal, too meaningful. Say we can’t get through to her; we don’t know where she is and think she may be caught up in the chaos. Hopefully we’ll know more in the morning. Hopefully.
I suddenly remember someone, a close family friend who would want to know and I’m relieved when my mother says she called her earlier.
We drift in and out of conversation, sometimes turning the sound up on the television, sometimes just sitting, lost in thought or watching the silent screen. Every now and then my mother picks up her mobile phone and checks for a message that isn’t there, sending yet another to Jenny. My aunt has given up on the knitting for a while and has closed her eyes, drowsing; the partly made sweater lies in her lap, needles shoved into a fresh ball of wool. The waiting is interminable and we’re all starting to feel exhausted, time is passing so slowly.
I close my eyes again. Muddled thoughts and anxieties play with my psyche. A tune repeats itself in my head and refuses to go away. I can’t remember the passage, only the tune, from a musical setting of the Crucifixion. I concentrate hard, trying to recall the words, but they elude me. Instead, I find my own words, ‘Stay awake, stay awake; do not sleep’.
The concentration becomes too much and I can’t sit still any longer. ‘I’m going to have a shower.’
My mother looks up as I speak. ‘What time is it?’
We both look at our watches: – 3 a.m.
‘Shall I make you a sandwich?’
‘I don’t feel like eating.’
‘Take something for the journey then.’
‘All right.’
When a Hambleton voice speaks, it’s easier to assent than to argue! Hambleton is my maternal grandmother’s family name. The Hambleton siblings were renowned for strong views and stubborn personalities, often resulting in family fallouts. Although all but one is now deceased, the legacy lives on. Within the current generation there’s a lot of teasing as to who inherited the ‘Hambleton’ streak.
Before going into the bathroom, I sit on the edge of the bed and leave one more message on Jenny’s phone, whispering into the mouthpiece as if it was her ear, then repeat the message in a text: ‘Wherever you are, Jenny, be safe, we’re all thinking about you. I’m coming to find you sweetheart. I’ll be with you soon. Everything’s going to be all right … be brave … I love you … Mumsie’.
It’s a relief to get under the shower, refreshing. For a few minutes I stand motionless, giving myself up to the sensation, finding release in the powerful torrents of water gushing from the shower head, before reaching for the shower gel.
Carefully I step from the shower and pick up a couple of towels, wrapping the fluffy greenness around my head and then my body, drying my face on a corner and tucking it in, sarong style. Then I take a cleaning cloth and wipe down the shower cubicle – force of habit – before padding into the bedroom and drying myself. I bend over to dry my toes before straightening up to towel my hair, when I catch my reflection in the mirror. I freeze, staring in the glass, and like a bolt out of the blue have a sudden recollection of a dream, a nightmare, involving Jenny, that I had a couple of weeks ago, and with the memory comes an overwhelming sense of separation. Why remember that now? A terrible feeling, as if something immense has gone, sweeps over me. All I can do is stare at my reflection, my heart pounding.
For a moment I can’t move, and then I start to shake, dreadfully, unable to control my limbs. My hands are trembling as I reach down and retrieve the towel from the floor, folding it around my body like a blanket and sitting on the edge of the bed, forcing myself to breathe steadily, deep breaths, choking back tears and screams. I don’t want this to mean anything. I shake my head firmly, fighting down the