‘You’re OK… you’re OK…’ she repeated to herself. As she sat up, there was a knock on the door.
‘Are you all right in there?’
‘Yes, Daddy, I’m fine. I won’t be much longer.’
‘Pam’s gone, and I’ve made you a hot chocolate. I’ll put it with your sandwich, on your bedside table.’
‘Thank you.’
Jane sighed and closed her eyes. She started to weep again, trying to muffle her sobs so that her father wouldn’t hear. Eventually she forced herself to get out of the bath, wrapped a big, soft towel around herself and unlocked the door. She went into her bedroom and opened one of her drawers, taking out an old, long nightgown. Everything had been washed and pressed as if awaiting her return. Jane sat on the edge of her bed and sipped the now tepid chocolate. Pam’s sandwich was a bit soggy and unappetising. The bread was thick with butter and slathered with mayonnaise, with tired lettuce leaves and thick tomato chunks.
It was after ten and she was beginning to feel as if she could go to sleep, when her father knocked on her door and inched it open.
‘You all right, darling?’
He edged further into the room. Jane’s hair was still wet and she used the hand towel from the bathroom to rub it dry. She was sure her eyes would be red-rimmed from crying and she didn’t want him to notice.
‘You can always talk to me, Jane… you know that, don’t you?’
‘Yes, Daddy.’
He was uneasy, even a little embarrassed, as he sat beside her on the bed.
‘Your mother will be all right in the morning. You know how nervy she can get, and what with worrying about you she got herself into quite a state.’
‘I am so sorry, Daddy. I really did try to call you. I went to the hospital with this old lady called Daphne… She was badly injured…’
Mr Tennison gave her a sidelong look. He could tell she had been crying and he patted her hand.
‘It must have been one hell of day for you, sweetheart.’
‘Yes, but it didn’t hit me until I was in the bath… I sort of relived it all… the explosion, and the awful aftermath. At the time I controlled my fear enough to help as many of the injured as I could, in particular the old lady.’
‘Well, I’m very proud of you. I understand what you must have been through. I lost many friends in the D-Day landing in Normandy. There were awful explosions and terrible sights — the injured and the dead… So I know what it feels like to have that fear. It was felt by all of us, but you eventually learn how to supress it and cope. Fear is in the mind of every soldier in battle, and only fools fail to admit it.’
Mr Tennison put his arm around Jane. She had never felt so close to him.
‘What you did today, sweetheart, was beyond the call of duty. You were brave and totally selfless. In the morning, I’m going to talk to your mother and try to make her understand that she should be proud too, and not afraid of the job you do.’
She hugged him and he kissed her cheek.
As he opened her bedroom door he turned and said softly, ‘It’s good you came home… good we had this time together. Now, try to get some sleep.’
He closed the door quietly behind him, and Jane lay back on her pillow. She felt safe in her old bedroom and knew how much it meant to her father that she was here. She had not expected that she would be able to switch off, but only a moment later she was in a deep and dreamless sleep.
The following morning Jane woke up and realised that it was already after eight. She was just getting out of bed when her mother knocked on her door and walked in. She was holding Jane’s washed and ironed shirt, and had pressed and repaired her suit.
‘I woke up early and Daddy and I had a long talk. I’ve got everything ready for you to go into work… unless you don’t feel up to it.’
‘I do. Thank you so much, Mum.’
As her mother hung up the clothes on the hook on the back of her bedroom door, she asked, ‘Would you like an omelette and some bacon?’
Jane was near to tears. She walked over to her mother and held out her arms.
‘That sounds just perfect… and I’m so sorry again for not getting in touch sooner yesterday. Please forgive me.’
Mrs Tennison gave Jane a small, tight smile as she hugged her.
‘Let’s not go back into that again, shall we? The fact that you are safe and sound is all that matters… I am proud of you. Get dressed and come and have breakfast, just like we used to.’
Alone in her room again, Jane knew that nothing could ever be just like it used to be. But what was important was the love she had felt from her parents, a love she reciprocated. She felt so lucky to have her family supporting her.
They ate breakfast together then Jane left with her father to walk to the station. Mr Tennison went into their local newsagent’s to buy his usual paper and Jane continued to the station in Warwick Avenue.
Mr Tennison was folding his newspaper to tuck under his arm when he caught sight of the front-page headline about the Covent Garden explosion. He walked out of the shop and opened the newspaper, stopping in his tracks when he saw the black-and-white photograph of Jane, her hair matted and face smeared with what was obviously blood. He thanked God that they didn’t have their newspapers delivered. If his wife had seen what he was looking at, the lengthy conversation about Jane’s work and her promise to be supportive about their daughter’s career would have disintegrated into hysteria. As he passed a dustbin he threw the paper in it.
Chapter Five
Jane took the tube to New Scotland Yard. The Underground was busy, everyone refusing to let yesterday’s explosion change their way of life. She was impressed by London’s resilience to the IRA attack. Only a day after the horrific explosion everything was up and running, and throngs of people were still using public transport to get to work.
As requested by DCI Crowley, when Jane arrived at New Scotland Yard she showed her warrant card and was told that the Bomb Squad offices were on the seventh floor. She took the lift and walked along the corridor until she came to DCI Crowley’s office.
Jane knocked on the door and it opened sharply. Crowley gestured her in.
‘This is WDC Jane Tennison,’ he announced, and waved an arm at the other man in the room. ‘Commander Gregson.’
Gregson rose from his seat behind a modern desk and shook Jane’s hand. There were numerous files neatly laid out alongside a telephone and notebook, with a large leather-edged blotting pad and a row of pens. The commander was austere and slim and wore an immaculate suit, unlike Crowley, whose clothes were crumpled. He looked as if he had been up all night.
‘Take a seat, Tennison,’ said Crowley, as he sat down himself. ‘How are you feeling after the bombing incident?’
‘I’m fine, thank you, sir. I’m here to give a statement about it.’
‘You read the papers this morning, WDC Tennison?’
‘No, sir.’
Gregson looked at Crowley and drew a file towards him.
‘There was a photojournalist who was exiting the station at the time of the explosion. He took a fair few photographs of you tending to the injured, and of you getting into the ambulance. You accompanied an elderly woman to St Thomas’?’
‘Yes, I did, sir.’ Jane looked from one man to the other. ‘Is there a problem with me going to the hospital, sir?’
‘No, but what is a major problem is this.’
Gregson passed over a copy of a tabloid article. The heading read:
IRA BLAMES WOMAN POLICE OFFICER FOR COVENT GARDEN EXPLOSION
Shocked, Jane couldn’t speak. There was a large photograph of her getting into the ambulance at Covent Garden station.
Gregson lit a cigarette.