XXV
Nothing had changed at the hospital except the staff. Two nurses were dressing the bed, rolling her mother first one way and then the other, like a corpse. Ellie couldn’t watch; she waited outside the curtain. A sign on the wall reminded her that she should switch off her mobile phone. At least it would save the battery. In the last few weeks, it had been running down surprisingly fast.
When the nurses had gone, Ellie took up her vigil. She’d brought the old postcards from the attic and she read them aloud, giving life to a voice she’d never heard. She hoped her mother could hear, that somewhere behind that still face she was remembering happier times. What was Dad like? Ellie wondered. In her eyes, he’d only ever been a source of sadness to her mother. It was strange to think of them happy together. Like most children, she couldn’t imagine her parents having an existence without her.
The hospital closed early on a Sunday. With a stab of guilt, Ellie realised she almost felt glad. It had only been twenty-four hours, but she was already sick of the hospital, the low light and random interruptions and long hours of nothing. Was this how she’d spend the rest of her life?
The moment she got home, she found herself climbing back to the attic. She looked at the flight coupon again, half-hoping she’d imagined it. But the name was still there. John Herrin.
Now that she knew what to look for, she went through the loft systematically. She found her old school atlas and plotted her father’s travels using the postcard dates and places, ticket stubs, any receipt in a foreign currency. She looked for anything to do with John Herrin, anything to do with London and the Underground, any references to a tubby man called Harry. Working in libraries on her dissertation, she’d trained herself to disconnect the analytical half of her brain, to inventory the goods without appraising them. Only when she had all the pieces would she let herself think about how they fitted together.
At half-past midnight she was done. The hot water tank stood revealed at last. Her clothes smelled of dust, her arms and face itched from rubbing the rockwool insulation. She found the switch on the tank and treated herself to a long shower, lingering until the hot water supply started to fail again. She rummaged out a tin of soup and some cheese biscuits from her mother’s cupboards and made herself a late supper — she hadn’t eaten all day. Only then did she examine the evidence she’d accumulated.
She had the atlas. A scattering of dots marked across the double-spread Europe, trips taken every two or three months from 1984 through 1987. The furthest east was Istanbul; the furthest west Santiago de Compostela, but most of the dots clustered between the Rhine and the Seine, the fault line where France and Germany had pushed against each other for centuries, throwing up statelets like Belgium and Luxembourg in their tectonic struggle. Another string of dots ran along the Alps, from northern Italy to southern France. Several clustered in Switzerland around Lausanne.
Then there was the plane ticket for John Herrin — to which she had added a hotel bill and an application to Somerset House for a duplicate birth certificate, both in the same name.
Finally there was the letter, typewritten on thick cream paper, inviting John Herrin to a job interview on Thursday November 22nd 1987. The letter that made Ellie gasp when she saw it.
The Director, Mr Vivian Blanchard, would be delighted if you could visit him to discuss possible career opportunities at the Monsalvat Bank.
Ellie couldn’t believe anyone used phone boxes any more. But, like Cliff Richard and Harvey’s Bristol Cream, they still seemed to exist. Huddled inside the glass box on the corner of Moorgate and London Wall, she was glad for it. She knew Monsalvat could monitor the calls from her phone — she’d signed a piece of paper that let them do just that. Until two weeks ago, she hadn’t imagined she’d have anything to say worth listening to.
The phone rang and rang until an answering machine kicked in. Ellie looked at the card Harry had given her in the gardens in Brussels — a phone number with a London prefix, and a scrawled message. If no answer, leave a message for Harry from Jane.
‘Hi Harry, this is Jane.’ She stammered for something to say and couldn’t think of anything. ‘Give me a call.’ But he wouldn’t call on her mobile, and there was no phone at the flat.
A car drove by, flooding the phone box with light. Ellie turned away. Could it be the Bentley? She tried to catch a glimpse, but it was already nothing more than a pair of red brake-lights glaring back at her.
She looked at her watch. In Newport, the hospital reception desk would close in ten minutes. Hoping no one was watching, she stepped out of the phone box and got out her mobile. A soft voice, as familiar and unworldly as the talking clock, told her the same news it had told her every day for a week. No change.
All she could do was wait.
In most of the City, January was one extended hangover from the year before: slow days, long lunch breaks and early finishes. Even the junior analysts sometimes made it home before eight. But at Monsalvat, the phones rang and the corridors hummed and the e-mails flew about as quickly as ever. Ellie found out why on the Friday after New Year, when Blanchard called her into his office.
‘How is your mother?’ he asked at once.
‘Stable. Still unconscious.’ She didn’t meet his eye. Each night when she went back to the Barbican, she held her breath for fear the Bentley would be waiting outside. Each night, it wasn’t there. It was almost as if Blanchard could smell the reluctance that had come over her. She’d barely even seen him in the office.
‘You are satisfied with the care she has? She is getting everything she needs?’
‘As much as you can expect.’
‘She has family to visit her?’
‘Not really.’
Blanchard toyed with his cufflinks. ‘I was speaking to a friend of mine, a doctor. He is an expert in stroke recovery, perhaps one of the four or five best in the world. He has a private hospital near Harley Street. He is willing to accept your mother as a patient, if you like.’
Ellie shook her head. ‘That’s so kind — but we’d never afford it. My mother doesn’t have any insurance.’
‘The bank will pay.’ Blanchard leaned forward over his desk, staring so hard Ellie couldn’t look anywhere else. ‘I know you do not want charity — nor would I. But you must do what is best for your mother. When she comes out of her coma she will need intensive therapy. The Health Service is a machine; one life is nothing to them. Especially in winter. For the care your mother needs, London would be better.’
She couldn’t argue; she knew he was right. But she couldn’t agree — not because she was proud, but because she was terrified. Bringing her mother to London, to stay in Blanchard’s hospital tended by Blanchard’s doctors, would be surrendering her into his power.
Blanchard misread her doubts. ‘You forget, I have an interest in this too. I do not want you to suffer unnecessarily. It will be easier for you if you do not spend half your life on the train between here and Newport. Better for your mother if you can visit her every day. For coming out of a coma, I am told, the presence of loved ones is very important.’
He picked up a gilded letter-opener and spun it on its point on the desk. ‘And there is business. Always business. I understand your thoughts must be with your mother, but I need you here. Now.’
Ellie waited.
‘Michel Saint-Lazare was delighted to win the Talhouett auction. The company are not so pleased. The management refuse to accept our nominee to the board, or give us any access to the company. So Michel has decided to launch a bid for outright control.’