Spotting her, the children ran over, wrapping themselves around her legs with welcoming shrieks of "Auntie Gemma!" Gemma knelt to hug them, and in the process little Tiffani somehow managed to transfer chewing gum to Gemma's hair, while, with a shout of glee, Brendan clouted her in the side of the head with a plastic lorry.
"Well," she addressed her brother-in-law, Gerry, as she disentangled herself and tried to pick the pink sticky gobs from her hair, "they're in good form, don't you think, Ger?"
Gerry nodded agreeably from his bench. "Expect so. Can't do a thing with them, myself." He folded his hands over his paunch with an air of satisfaction. Gemma could have sworn he'd put on a stone since she'd seen him at the New Year.
"For heaven's sake, Gerry, there are ill people here," she retorted, giving in to exasperation.
"And your point is?" The look he gave her was not half so friendly, and left her wondering if he was really as dim as he seemed. It occurred to her that it was quite possible he thought her a self-righteous cow, and went out of his way to let the children misbehave just to irritate her.
The children, the girl just older than Toby and the boy just younger, began to tussle over the lorry, their voices rising towards full-blown conflict. "Cyn's in with Mum?" Gemma asked, resisting the impulse to correct them.
"And your dad."
"Oh, lord," she breathed. "Look, I'll see you."
"Good luck," Gerry called after her, and she couldn't be sure whether his tone was mocking or sympathetic.
She followed the rabbit warren of tunnels that led to the King George V ward with a sinking heart and an incipient sense of panic. The hospital was undergoing renovation, the tunnels makeshift, grim affairs connecting disparate wings, and as one turn led to another, her mouth went dry.
God, she hated hospitals in the best of circumstances, and she'd never thought to find herself visiting a loved one in this old pile. It was, Duncan had informed her, the oldest hospital in London, and when she reached the wing itself she could well believe it. It had been modernized many times over the centuries, of course, but there was an air of age and illness that no amount of refurbishment could quite erase.
Checking the directions to her mother's ward, she took the stairs, not trusting her sudden attack of claustrophobia to the lift. A sister buzzed her into the ward, where she found her father and sister sitting sentinel on either side of her mother's bed. Her mother lay propped up against the pillows, her hair arranged in tight curls and her lips and cheeks rouged an unnaturally bright red-Cyn's doing, no doubt. Her mum was making an obvious effort to seem brisk and cheerful and, when Gemma came in, to play her usual role as mediator.
When she kissed Gemma on the cheek, her lips felt dry as paper. "I'm so glad you've come, love. The boys-did you bring them?"
"No, since they couldn't come in to see you." Gemma resisted the urge to elaborate, realizing that the fact that Cyn's kids were there, even in the courtyard, made her look as if she'd let her mum down. Instead, she asked, "How are you feeling, Mummy?"
"Your dad brought me a filled roll from the bakery," her mother answered, deflecting. "Wasn't that nice? The food here's dreadful, but what can you expect?"
Gemma took in the remains of the roll on the bedside tray, barely nibbled, and felt her own stomach clench with anxiety. Her mother was eating like a bird, and she'd lost more weight than Gemma had realized. "Have the doctors been in? What have they said?"
"Oh, more tests. You know doc-"
"We don't really need to be talking about that, do we now?" her dad cut in, speaking for the first time. "We're here to cheer your mother up."
"Surely Mummy is the one to decide whether she wants to-"
"It's all right, love." Her mother forced a smile. "I'm sure they know what they're doing."
Gemma bit her lip. The last thing her mum needed to hear were the statistics Gemma had read on the shockingly bad quality of hospital care or the chance of secondary infection.
Her sister, who had been remarkably quiet, looked up from examining her long pink nails and gave her a very slight shake of the head. In spite of the fact that she didn't often see Cyn these days, and that they had fought like demons growing up, they shared an ingrained understanding of the family dynamic. That one gesture spoke volumes-things were bad, and their mother meant to keep it from their father, with his full cooperation. Vi Walters had spent her life protecting her husband from upsets, and she wasn't about to let a little thing like illness change matters.
"Right, then." Gemma stood and kissed her mother again, more gently this time. "I'll come in the morning, Mum, see how you're getting on." With her father manning the bakery, she might have a chance of learning the truth.
Melody Talbot's mobile rang on Monday morning one minute before her alarm was due to ring. Muzzily, she groaned as the horrible buzzing noise went on.
"What?" she mumbled when she managed to get the phone right side up and pressed to her ear.
"Melody? Are you okay?" Gemma's voice.
Melody came fully awake, ignoring the pain that shot through her head as she sat fully upright. "Boss. Yeah. Yeah, I'm all right. What's up?" Her father had called a command performance yesterday at the Kensington town house, as a result of which, Melody, normally a moderate drinker at most, had come home and polished off the better part of a bottle of red wine.
"Could you handle the incoming for me this morning? Just for a bit. I've some personal business. Shouldn't take long."
Frowning, Melody answered, "Okay. No problem. I'll be in as soon as I can." Delegating wasn't one of Gemma's strong points, nor was it like her to skive off work, especially on a Monday morning. Tentatively, Melody said, "Is there anything else I can-"
"No. I'll ring you as soon as I'm on my way back to the station. And thanks."
The mobile went dead. Slowly, Melody disconnected and sat up, throwing back the duvet. Pain shot through her head and she winced. But it was nothing that a cocktail of aspirin and paracetamol and a hot shower wouldn't fix, and it was a minor distraction compared to the warm glow she felt knowing Gemma depended on her.
Kincaid had volunteered to get the children off to school, giving Gemma an early start. It was a duty they rotated, depending on whose workload was most demanding, but as Notting Hill Police Station was a short walk for Gemma, and Toby's infant school just next door, the morning routine fell to Gemma more often than not.
In truth, Kincaid enjoyed the extra hour with Toby and Kit. Although he tried to spend some time on his own with the boys on the weekends, he'd found there was a special closeness about mornings in the kitchen.
He'd made soft-boiled eggs and toast, with juice for Toby and hot milk with a splash of coffee for Kit. It was a house rule that the boys sat at the table, even if only for five minutes, and he wasn't sure if the restriction made them eat at light speed or if they would inhale their food under any circumstances.
This morning, however, Toby had dawdled, picking pieces from his eggshell, then dipping them in the yolk and drawing on the plate. Kincaid suspected he'd picked up on Gemma's worry, even though he'd been told only that Gran wasn't feeling well. "Enough," Kincaid said to him. "Go wash and get your lessons." These morning boys, freshly scrubbed and brushed and in their school uniforms, looked slightly alien to him, like someone else's children. By afternoon their hair would be tousled, their shirttails half out, their ties askew, and they would look comfortably themselves again.