A Conspiracy of Friends (22 page)

She shifted in her seat and began to slide her legs out of the car. She could move, she discovered, but when she lowered her feet to the ground a searing pain shot up her leg. It was as painful as when the dentist touches a dental nerve: a sensation not unlike a bolt of electricity.

She gasped.

Tim Something was standing on the edge of the road, looking at his ruined car with anger. His face was scratched from the impact with the glass, but only mildly so. Caroline was astonished that her employer should be uninjured.

“Look what you made me do,” he said peevishly.

Caroline closed her eyes. Ex-employer, she thought. As from now—right now: ex-employer.

T
HE DRIVER OF
the van with which they had collided was shaken, but, like Tim Something, unhurt. It was he who telephoned for an ambulance, and it was he, too, who helped Caroline limp to the side of the road. Once there, she lay down on the coat that he placed on the pavement, while he held her hand and comforted her. Tim Something, still glowering, walked about his car, inspecting the damage and muttering to himself. From time to time he looked at his watch, obviously irate about being delayed.

“We’re going to lose this job,” he spat out as he came over to Caroline. “The client is going to find someone else.”

Caroline said nothing, but at her side the van driver stared up at Tim.

“Are you blind, mate?” he asked. “Can’t you see this young lady’s hurt?”

Tim Something, who appeared not to have noticed him until now, looked at him scornfully. “Mind your own business. What do you know?”

This brought a spirited response. Standing up, the driver shouted, “I know that she’s hurt, and all you seem to be concerned about is your precious—”

Tim did not let him finish. Swinging round, he brought his clenched fist up towards the man’s chin. He muttered something as he did so, but his words were unclear. The driver saw what was coming and ducked, at the same time jabbing with his own fist at Tim’s abdomen. His attack was more successful: with a sound like wind being knocked out of a bag, Tim doubled up, lost his footing and fell to the pavement.

Had he fallen a few inches to the right, Tim Something might have escaped injury. As it was, he fell in such a way that his head hit a metal bollard at the side of the road. Blood appeared remarkably quickly, running down Tim’s face from a gash across his forehead. He groaned, and held a hand to the wound.

It was not a major wound, and the application of a handkerchief, passed to Tim by Caroline, soon stemmed the flow of blood.

“Did you see that?” Tim spluttered. “You’re my witness, Caroline. You saw that?”

Caroline shook her head. “I saw you attack him,” she said quietly. “I saw him defend himself. That’s what I saw.”

Tim glared at her in astonishment. “You’re fired,” he shouted.

“You can’t fire somebody who’s resigned,” said Caroline. “And I resigned five minutes ago.”

Any further exchange was prevented by the arrival of the ambulance.
The two ambulance men, clad in green outfits, attended to Caroline first, placing her on a stretcher which they slid gently into the back of the vehicle. Then they inspected Tim Something’s wound and offered to take him to hospital too. He had risen to his feet by now, though, and said that he needed no help.

“You take that to your GP then,” said one of the ambulance men. “Get it dressed, sir.”

The ambulance set off. Inside, Caroline lay on the stretcher and remembered a little rhyme from her childhood. It was for use when one saw an ambulance, and involved reciting the words “Touch your collar. Touch your toes. Hope you never go in one of those!” She used to say it religiously whenever she saw an ambulance speeding past, and had believed, as children do—and adults as well—that the words could protect us. And they sometimes did, of course, when uttered with such a degree of conviction as to rally the spirits. But now she was in an ambulance, heading to hospital; any protection the shibboleth might have given must have worn off.

“You’ll be all right,” said the ambulance man who was riding in the back with her, taking her hand gently in his. “A small laceration, I think, on your leg. Bruises too. But it doesn’t look broken to me.”

“It’s sore,” said Caroline.

He squeezed her hand. “Won’t be long, love. Five, ten minutes.”

They made their way through the traffic. Caroline stared up at the ceiling of the ambulance and thought of how, for some, it might be the last thing they saw in this world. Somewhere, for each of us, was a last ceiling, a last sky, before the end. She started to cry.

The ambulance man touched her cheek with the back of his hand. She was grateful for the sign of human comfort, even if the thought occurred to her that it was probably against the rules. No doubt these paramedics, these specialists in human suffering, were cautioned not to touch their passengers unnecessarily, for fear of all sorts of accusations. It was the same with teachers, who were warned
against comforting children lest similar accusations arise. Caroline reflected: how strange, how completely bizarre that we should seek to prohibit the normal human responses to pain and distress. Of course we should embrace people who need embracing; of course we should hold their hands and seek to comfort them; of course we should.

She looked at the ambulance man. He had a kind face, she thought. There was a hint of the Caribbean in his accent.

“Thank you,” she said. “Thank you for coming to collect me.”

He smiled at her. “That’s our job. We can’t let people lie around on pavements all day, can we?”

Caroline laughed. “I feel so stupid. All helpless and stupid.”

“Nobody’s stupid, love,” said the ambulance man. “None of God’s children are stupid. You, me. Everyone.”

She nodded. Her eyes were once again filling with tears. I am not crying for me, she thought; I’m crying because of … well, because of everything. Because there are people in the world who help other people. Because there are people who believe that we are God’s children, as this man puts it. There are those who would mock an expression like that, who would condescend to this man, but he knew better than they; he knew one hundred times better, with his experience of pain and disaster.

The ambulance man glanced through the back window. “We’ll be there in less than a minute. Then we’ll pop this stretcher out and get you inside.” He paused. “Would you like me to phone anybody? A friend? It would be good if somebody knew you were here. Your people, maybe.”

My people. Who were they? Her mother and father, of course; they were her people, but who else was there? There was James: too late for that. And then she thought: Ronald. She had entered his mobile number into her own mobile and she had that on her, in the pocket of her jacket.

She gestured towards the pocket and the ambulance man took the phone out for her. “Go to the address book,” she said. “Look up Ronald. Please phone him.”

The ambulance man nodded and made the call. They were entering the hospital grounds, and Caroline was distracted by the flashing of a light as they approached the building.

The ambulance man handed the phone back to her. “I’ve told him,” he said. “He’s coming straight here.”

She took the phone and thanked him.

“You don’t need to thank me,” he said. “You just go in there and get better quickly. Understand?”

C
AROLINE FELT HERSELF
being wheeled out of the ambulance and up a short ramp through the busy door of the Accident and Emergency department. It was an odd sensation, and she found herself wondering when she had last been wheeled by anybody; it must have been as a small child, she thought, when she was pushed in a pushchair, but naturally one remembered nothing of it. After that, wheeling happened only on occasions of misfortune—such as this undoubtedly was—until the time came to be wheeled on one’s final journey, while people sang, perhaps, and one was surmounted by flowers. But enough of such thoughts; one should not think about final journeys on entering a hospital, and she put them out of her mind and thought instead of … of Ronald, who was coming to the hospital. She would ask him to phone her parents and tell them, although she did not want them making a great fuss and rushing up from Cheltenham when all she had was a sore leg.

And it was very sore, making her wince when her trolley went over a bump. The porter at her head bent down and said, “Sorry, love, the roads are in a terrible state.”

Caroline managed to smile, if not to laugh. “Your driving’s pretty good so far. Don’t worry.”

“You tell my missus that.”

They continued along a corridor, and then stopped in what seemed to be a sort of lay-by for stretchers and trolleys. A nurse appeared and took Caroline’s name and address, and asked her what medicines she was on. Then the nurse went away, to be replaced by another person who looked at her leg and said, “Not too bad. Seen worse.” Then somebody else arrived and said, “X-Ray,” to a person standing behind her, and that person said, “X-Ray,” too.

Half an hour passed before somebody came to take her down the corridor. Caroline said, “X-Ray?” more in an attempt to make conversation than anything, and the person pushing the trolley nodded and said, “X-Ray.”

They turned a corner. “X-Ray,” the porter said again. And then added, “So long.”

“So long,” said Caroline.

A man in a blue outfit now arrived, and peered at her. She looked up. He smiled and consulted a piece of paper that somebody had placed on her lap. She stared at his badge. The print was smudged for some reason and she could not read what it said.

“I’m Ray,” he said. “And we won’t keep you long here. I just want to pop you over here and then you can go back. Take a quick holiday snap.”

Caroline was helped onto a table. A machine hovered above her and the lights were bright. She closed her eyes.

“Stay still for a moment,” said Ray from behind a screen. “That’s it.”

An assistant helped her back onto her trolley, and the porter who
had first wheeled her in appeared. “Me again,” he said, and then to the radiographer, “Thanks, Ray.”

“Yes, thanks,” said Caroline. And then added, “Do you think it’s broken?”

Ray shrugged. “I won’t be reading the scan, but it doesn’t look like it to me. But you can get little fractures. Wait and see.”

Ronald arrived another half an hour later. He had spent some time trying to locate Caroline, having been given conflicting directions, before he found her in the corridor. He came up to the trolley, running the last few paces, and took her hand in his.

“Oh my God, Caroline, what a terrible thing …”

She sought to calm him. “Not really. I don’t think I’m badly hurt. It’s just a bit sore.”

“They said your leg was crushed. Somebody down there said—”

“It isn’t. It’s been cut, I think. I haven’t really looked, but that’s what it feels like.”

Ronald squeezed her hand. “That’s awful, just awful.” He paused. “You’re being pretty brave. I’d be terrified if it were me.”

She smiled. “I’m sure you wouldn’t.”

He straightened her sheet—a useless, thoughtful gesture. “There,” he said. “I’m going to stay with you until everything’s sorted out. Then I can take you back. I borrowed a car from somebody at the office. I’ve left it down the road. I’ll get a ticket, but it doesn’t matter.” He stroked her hand gently. “Poor you,” he said.

Caroline considered the words “poor you.” It was the best, most sympathetic thing you could say to anybody. There did not have to be an accident; you could say “poor you” in any circumstances and it would help. It was much better than saying good morning or uttering any other greeting; “poor you” could be used at any time and with anybody—everybody, but everybody, felt hard done by in at least some respect and would appreciate the sympathy.

“No, poor
you
,” replied Caroline.

Ronald looked puzzled. “Why poor me?”

“Having to hang about in this hospital,” said Caroline.

“I don’t care about that at all,” said Ronald. “The important thing is you. Poor you.”

It was at this moment that something profound and changing happened to Caroline. She was not sure whether it involved a decision taken consciously and deliberately, or whether one did not take a decision to fall in love. But whichever it was, something that happened to her or something that she willed to happen, there was no doubt in her mind: five minutes ago she had not been in love; now she was.

She closed her eyes and then, opening them again, looked straight at Ronald. He smiled at her, and she thought:
His smile is very beautiful
.

She remembered her parents. “Could you phone my folks?”

His smile broadened. “I’ve done it already. I let them know you were going to be all right.”

She felt a flood of gratitude for his thoughtfulness. James would have panicked; he would not have thought things through, as Ronald had. James would not have borrowed a car; James would not have—She stopped herself. It was disloyal to think in that way about James, and she should not compare the two of them anyway. James had been kind to her, and she had repaid him by lying to him.

A doctor appeared. “I need to take a look at this leg of yours,” she said. “We can do it in the treatment room down there. Your boyfriend can wait here if he likes.”

“That’s fine,” said Ronald. “I’ll wait.”

As the doctor said the word “boyfriend,” Caroline noticed that Ronald gave her hand an extra squeeze: a squeeze of affirmation, of possession.

B
ARBARA WAS NOT
unconscious at any stage: she had not fainted, but simply collapsed. It was a curious feeling, one for which she could not find exactly the right words.

“My limbs just seemed to lose their strength,” she later said to a friend. “I was standing there, listening to Hugh, and suddenly my legs felt as if they had … well, as if the bit in the middle, the bone, had lost all its firmness. Very peculiar. It was as if my body was saying, ‘There’s no point in standing up any more.’ Very curious.”