The Best of Times (68 page)

“Yes. Yes, it is, thank you. Anyway, it was not correct to say that Barney—Mr. Fraser—had persuaded me … not to check the type pressures. It was at my insistence that we left immediately and drove on. I’d had … well, I’d had a rather … rather pressing call from my father-in-law-to-be. I just felt that we had to get to the wedding no matter what. Mr. Fraser was very anxious to check them, very unhappy at leaving them. I’m extremely sorry about the … the confusion. Really very sorry indeed.”

“Well, well,” said Andrews, “thank you for that, Mr. Weston. Of course, we have heard from Forensics that in their opinion the blowout was caused by the presence of the nail in the tyre, so I don’t think you need to worry on that score. But accuracy in statements is, of course, very important, as I’m sure you realise, and mistakes can waste time and indeed change the outcome of an enquiry in certain instances. It’s always a pity when it is lacking, and indeed deliberate inaccuracies can be regarded as an offence. Do you have any other corrections?”

“No, no others.”

“Good. Then let’s go on.”

Weston’s evidence was without further dramatic input.

• • •

Fraser, his best man, he who had clearly been so distressed earlier, was called; he appeared shocked, strained; his answers were often faltering; then suddenly he spoke of his remorse that he had escaped “literally without a scratch, while everyone around us, it seemed, was horribly hurt. To this day, I feel bad. One of the doctors at the hospital was great; she told me how common that was, helped me to come to terms with it, this survivor-guilt thing.”

“I’m glad to hear it, Mr. Fraser. May I say, this kind of remorse is very common. It doesn’t mean you should feel you bear any of the blame. And we now know,” he added, looking directly at Toby, “that you were keen to do the right thing and check your tyres. I think you will find that gradually you will lose your sense of guilt. I hope so.”

More evidence followed: from a rather sleazy-looking chap, the white van driver, whose nail-studded planks had slithered out onto the road; Andrews rather enjoyed questioning him very closely as to how this had happened. It was not for him to apportion blame; it was still possible to make plain where blame lay.

And finally, an old lady gave evidence, a very anxious old lady, who said that she felt responsible in a small way, because she’d made Mr. Weston wait while she paid for her own petrol.

“I feel absolutely awful,” she said. “I kept thinking how wrong of me it had been; he asked to go first, he said he was in a terrible hurry, and for some reason, I told him he had to take his turn. Who knows, had I not done that, those young men might not have been caught in the accident, but arrived at the church in time, and … Well, I’d like to apologise to them.” She looked across at them both rather nervously.

“I really don’t think, Mrs. Mackenzie, you should feel too bad,” said Michael Andrews gently. “It would have made so little difference to the time and—”

“Yes, yes, but that little difference might have been crucial, don’t you think? I’m sure you know the old parable about the horseshoe nail?”

“I’m … not sure,” said Andrews.

“Oh, yes …” And as he waited, clearly expectant, she went on. “Well, it goes like this. ‘For the want of a nail a horseshoe was lost; for the want of a shoe the horse was lost; for the want of a horse the rider was lost; for the want of a rider the battle was lost; for the want of a battle, the kingdom was lost. And all for the lack of a horseshoe nail. Who knows? I might have been that nail. If you follow me.”

“I … think so, yes. But I think even the rather more tangible nail would not alone have kept them from the wedding, you know. Still it’s a very interesting thought. Thank you, Mrs. Mackenzie. You may step down now.”

• • •

It was five o’clock when Andrews rose to do his summing up. He was surprised by how positive an experience this inquest had been. Long, gruelling, and very sad at times—but uplifting in its own way: the courage displayed by the victims’ families, and indeed by some of the witnesses, the general clarity of the evidence. It had also been very satisfying to conduct; there had been no serious confusion, no conflicting evidence, no self-justification … except for that ghastly van driver chap.

It had been one of those rare things, this: an accident, pure and simple; nevertheless, for the families of the victims this was little comfort.

He began by speaking to them, saying how sad it was when lives were cut short … “any lives, not only young lives; one cannot compare or quantify losses or tragedies. Mr. Barnes had much to look forward to in his retirement; Sarah Tomkins had her whole life ahead of her; and for the Marks family a wife and a mother have both been lost. I am sure I speak for the whole court today when I say our hearts go out to you. Accidents are terrible things: one moment everything is under our control; the next we lose that control, fate takes over, and the world changes. No one can anticipate accidents, and they are in many cases virtually unavoidable. We have heard how the road on the afternoon in question was dangerous because of the recent spell of hot, dry weather and the heavy hailstorm; we have heard that no one was driving in any way dangerously. We have heard that the nut came off the wheel of Mr. Bryant’s E-Type not through lack of care, but if anything too much. We have heard that Mr. Connell was driving meticulously and that nothing could have prevented his lorry jack-knifing and his load spilling on the road. We have heard of much courageous
and unselfish behaviour, and I would like to pay tribute in particular to Mr. Gilliatt, and of course to the emergency services and the staff at St. Marks Hospital, Swindon. And I would like to thank certain witnesses for their courage in coming forward when they were clearly nervous as to the outcome.

“There is much talk these days of the perfect storm—a confluence of weather patterns that separately would not be fatal or even dangerous, but which combine to be both; I would make an analogy between those perfect storms and this accident—everything conspiring to make it happen as and when it did. Rather as in the old nursery rhyme, as Mrs. Mackenzie reminded us. It is so easy to say if; and yes, if Mr. Weston had left the petrol station a few minutes earlier, if there had not been the queue for petrol, if the thunderstorm had not taken place … One can go on ad infinitum: the fact remains that it was not because these things happened in isolation; it was because they happened in a sequence that was tragically fatal. I therefore return the only verdict I can, that of misadventure.”

CHAPTER 52

Abi stalked out of the building. She felt absurdly near to tears. She looked behind her; there was no sign of William.
Shit
. She’d really upset him; he must have felt utterly betrayed. Dragging it all up again, more or less spelling out that she’d been chasing Jonathan Gilliatt, when she’d always sworn he’d done the chasing.

But … she knew that she had done the right thing. Her evidence had been, in a strange, subliminal way, a public apology to Laura. Not for having the affair with Jonathan, although she was pretty fucking sorry about that on her own account, but for what she’d done that night, at the party. Testifying had been hard, and it had certainly taken
her by surprise; she’d never meant to say any of it, but she’d done it. Without telling a word of a lie either. Not technically, anyway, and certainly not in a way that would pervert the course of justice.

As she had returned to her seat, she’d been aware of two things. One was that William turned his back on her, as far as he was able. And then Laura turned round, and her eyes, meeting Abi’s, were very steady, no longer hostile. She didn’t smile at her, but there was no hostility in that look. It was almost gratitude. She knew what that meant. She’d got the message. An affirmation that at least Jonathan had had finished the affair that day, the day of the crash. She need feel humiliated no longer.

Abi had made her amends to Laura at last. She could close the book.

• • •

“Abi!” It was William. His face was dark with anger. She hadn’t seen him look like that before. He was always so even tempered, so level altogether.

“Yes, William.”

“What the fuck was that about?”

He never swore usually either. Not real swearing.

“I can’t talk about it here.”

“You’re going to bloody well have to talk about it somewhere.”

“Why?”

“Why? Because I want some answers.”

“To what?”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake.”

“I don’t think heaven has much to do with it. William, please leave me alone. You must have something to milk, or scan or something.”

He turned then, walked away, over to his mother; she watched them getting into the Land Rover, saw it drive off, saw his bleak, set face. She struggled not to cry.

And then suddenly she knew, with a certainty that took her by
surprise, that she had to talk to William, to try to explain and tell him that even while it was clearly hopeless, she did love him. She had to tell him that, in order to be able to wipe the slate clean. She couldn’t leave it unsaid. She’d humiliated herself over one man today, in front of a crowded courtroom; she could certainly do it over another in private …

• • •

Barney thought he would never forget leaving that courtroom: alone. He thought he had never felt more alone in his life. He looked at Toby, getting into a car with someone who looked like a driver; still avoiding his eyes, he had positively scuttled out of the courtroom, bloody coward he was, as well as a total arsehole. He felt sick just thinking about him. And humiliated and totally stupid. OK, Toby had done the decent thing, in the end, but he had still been prepared to see Barney go to the wall to save his own skin. His best friend. His lifelong best friend. Barney could still hardly believe it.

He saw the Abi girl getting into her car. How extraordinary, saying all that in court. Humiliating herself, in a way. Pretty brave. Dead sexy she looked. Gilliatt must be a pretty cool customer to turn his back on her. The pretty blond wife—bit preppy, bit of an Amanda—must be very good at her job as well. Her job as a wife, that was. As Amanda would have been too. She—

“Hi. Nice to see you. Barney, isn’t it? How’s it going?”

It was Mark Collins, the surgeon who’d operated on Toby that day. In another time, another life altogether. When he’d had a lot. Instead of nothing.

“Yes. Hello.” He didn’t really want to talk to him. He didn’t want to talk to anybody. Ever again. But he managed to smile, took Collins’s outstretched hand.

“And your friend. Toby. I see he’s walking pretty well.”

“Pretty well, yes,” said Barney shortly.

“Has the wedding taken place yet? I was thinking about it the other day, wondering if you’d be here.”

“No,” said Barney, “no, it hasn’t. The wedding’s off. Cancelled. Actually.”

“I see.” He could see Collins was taken aback. “Oh … I’m sorry. What about yours? Weren’t you getting married too?”

“I was, yes. That’s off as well.”

“I see.” Now he was really embarrassed. Poor sod. Thought he was going to have a quick cheerful chat, and he’d got lumbered with an episode from some kind of a soap opera.

“Er … how’s Emma?” he said. He was astonished to hear himself asking, so terrified was he of the answer.

“Oh … she’s fine, yes. Off to pastures new when she can organise it.”

“Really? What, you mean to … to Milan?”

“What? Oh, no, no, that’s history, I think. No, she’s applying for new jobs. She’s very excited about something up in Scotland; not sure how that’s going.”

“Great. I mean, well, I hope she gets it. Give her … that is, remember me to her, please.”

“I will, Barney. Look … I’d better go. Dr. Pritchard’s waiting. Nice to see you, anyway.”

“Yes, sure. And … do give my regards to Emma.”

“I will. Cheers.”

And he was gone.

• • •

So … what had that meant? About Milan being history? That the boyfriend was history? Or just … no longer in Milan? Maybe he should call her. But … supposing she was with Luke again? It would be painful for her. Well … he’d made it pretty clear he hadn’t … forgotten her. Forgotten her. If only. If only you could do that to order, just neatly get rid of something, remove it, throw it away.