I managed to say, ‘I’m fine, thank you. How are you?’
She said, ‘Oh, fine,’ and touched the pot. ‘Let’s have a refill, shall we?’ She signalled to the waitress and ordered more tea. I started to get up and then wondered where I was going to go and sat back down again.
She chattered aimlessly while we were served, but as soon as the waitress left she leaned closer and said in a low voice, ‘Where have you been? I’ve been looking everywhere for you.’
‘Have you? Why?’
‘Dr Bairstow wanted you found as soon as possible. He’s been really worried about you. We all have been. And rightly so, I think. You look terrible. What’s been happening?’
‘I’ve been here in Rushford since I left St Mary’s,’ I said carefully. ‘But these last few days I’ve been in the clinic.’
‘Nothing serious, I hope?’
I lost my baby.
‘No, I had a bit of a chest infection, but I’m all clear now. And I must be going.’ I really don’t know what stupidity was pulling me out of the warm café and back to my spore-ridden ice-cube. Pride probably, but pride doesn’t keep you warm.
She put her hand on my arm. ‘Wait a minute. I need to speak to you. But not here.’ She looked at me carefully. ‘I have a proposition for you. I’d like you to come back to my house.’ I started to speak. ‘No, just for a few days. I have some of your things with me. My sister gave them to me for safe keeping.’
‘Your sister?’
‘Cleo Partridge – my sister.’
Cleo? Sister? Now I knew who Mrs Partridge reminded me of.
I considered this, trying hard to close my ears to the siren song of a warm house, maybe another meal. I opened my mouth to say no and it came out yes. I felt ashamed. I felt even more ashamed when she paid the bill. We argued. I lost, but told myself I could leave the money at her house later. She insisted we drive to my rooms, where, under her gentle bullying, I packed my stuff. It still all fitted in one small sports bag. I looked around. I knew, for one reason or another, I’d never come back here. I slammed my door behind me and left the keys on the table by the front door and never looked back.
She had a very large house on the outskirts of town. ‘I sometimes do B & B,’ she said. ‘Life is boring since I retired. I get to meet some interesting people. But the house is empty at the moment.’
We went up to the big double room at the front. It was warm and nicely furnished. I loved it. ‘Make yourself comfortable. I’ll get your stuff and see you downstairs.’
I thought about unpacking, but it seemed presumptuous, so I left it. I met her downstairs in her big kitchen and we sat at the table. She pushed over a small box. Inside, I found the photo of the Chief and me, together with my Trojan Horse.
I looked at them both and then slowly reached out to the photo. The sense of loss cut through me like a knife. I stood it on the table in front of me. Him and me, laughing together about daffodils, of all things. I touched the frame with one finger. Then I fished out the little Horse. Still as exquisite as the day he made it for me. Other memories rolled over me in waves.
I could have shown the photo to my son and said, ‘Look, this is your father.’
I could have shown the Trojan Horse to my son and said, ‘Look, your father made this.’
I said hoarsely, ‘These mean a great deal to me. Please convey my thanks to Mrs Partridge when you next see her.’
‘I will. May I?’ She picked up the Horse. ‘Is this a model of the Wooden Horse of Troy?’
‘Yes. The Chief made it for me. He always used to say he would have given a lot to see Odysseus and his men dropping out from under the Horse’s tail. He didn’t believe the trapdoor was in the belly because he said that would have weakened the structure, but he was just winding me up.’
She turned the Horse over. ‘Well, he’s put the trapdoor in the belly, nonetheless.’
I took the Horse from her. She was right. I shrugged. ‘He was just teasing me,’ and put it down.
She poured another cup of tea. ‘So tell me what’s been happening to you?’
I countered, ‘If you’ll tell me what’s been happening at St Mary’s.’
‘Nothing’s been happening. That’s the point.’ she said angrily. ‘That stupid woman has everything nailed down. No one’s going anywhere. Well, they can’t. She has no historians left.’
‘Wait,’ I said, alarmed. ‘Dr Bairstow? He’s not dead, is he?’
‘No, you can’t kill Edward, but he’s still on “sick leave”, and she’s doing her best to keep him out.’
‘And she has no historians?’
‘Well, no, how can she? You’re gone, Peterson’s dead, and Kalinda …’