I think back again to that day we chose her dress. A gorgeous sunny day. Lunch at the café by the river. I feel a sigh leave my body as I picture her in the mirror. That gorgeous shade of pink.
I feel tears coming once again, imagining the moment her name is called. I turn to Ed and he winks. Good. I am properly forgiven. I stretch out my hand and he squeezes it.
It takes fifteen minutes per page and finally we are on to the fourth.
I take in a deep breath, counting the names. One more batch of six. Then her group.
I am this ridiculous ball of emotion. Suddenly there are all these scenes swirling around my brain. The day they put her in my arms. That picture on the fridge of her in a paddling pool with Ed spraying cold water on to her. I think of the day she got the offer to come here. The scream of delight from her room when she logged on to get the ‘yes’ even before we picked up her A-level results.
And now a pause. Her batch next. I find that I am holding my breath. I trace the names with my finger. Walk, applause. Walk, applause. And then at last.
Gemma Hartley . . .
I see her appear at the back of the choir stall in her gown and her mortar board with her long dark hair loose over her shoulders. I take in the neutral shoes and the slightly tanned legs. And then there is this little punch of shock as she walks forward.
Not the glimpse of gorgeous pink beneath the black of the gown as she moves. I feel myself frowning. I turn to Ed, but he hasn’t noticed.
It’s the wrong dress. I don’t understand. The dress is pale lemon.
Ed is calling out – ‘Hurrah! Well done Gemma’ – and everyone is applauding.
I am clapping too and smiling now, trying to cover up the puzzlement.
Gemma recognises her father’s voice and turns to spot us. She looks down at her dress and then up at me with this sort of worried look on her face.
I just smile. I don’t understand . . . but I deliberately turn the smile up to a beam.
Then she turns towards the guy holding out her certificate so that we are looking at her back as she reaches out her right hand to take her prize.
There is this noise from behind the trumpeters. A sort of thud as if someone has dropped something heavy, like a large music book, at the back of the choir stall.
It startles poor Gemma and the very thing she has feared all her life – at sports days and presentations and the like – happens right this moment. She stumbles.
My hand is immediately up to my mouth. She is flat on the floor and everyone sort of leans forward.
I am all at once mortified for her and also overwhelmed with love for her. I want to be beside her telling her that it doesn’t matter. That no one will care. Just get up and smile. No one will care. A part of me wants to run to her but I know it will make things worse; magnify her embarrassment.
There’s a beat as we all wait for her to get up so that we can cheer her on; signal that it really doesn’t matter. But the beat is too long. I stand now, worrying that she may have fainted. Or banged her head?
Two professors sitting nearer have now moved also. All at once they are crouching beside her. Next there is shouting.
‘A doctor. We need a doctor.’
I am aware only that I am suddenly pushing. Ed too. I push, push, push past the three people seated in my way and reach the aisle just as they say it . . .
‘She’s been shot.’
Next come ugly, unimaginable words. A bubble of bile suddenly surrounding me.
‘An ambulance. We need an ambulance. She’s been shot . . .’
And now slow motion. People screaming. Run. Run.
There is a chaotic surge of bodies – parents and students and ushers too. A starburst of panic blocking my way as everyone rushes to the various doors.
I have to shoulder people aside. No longer pushing – shoving. Get out of my way. Out of my way. It’s my daughter . . . I need to get to my daughter.
When finally I near the huddle around Gemma, a woman is barking instructions. Give me some room. I’m a doctor and I need something to press against the wound. That shawl. Give me your shawl.
Someone’s handing the doctor a green shawl as I crouch down to stroke my daughter’s hair.
‘Gemma. It’s Mummy. I’m right here, darling. Right here . . .’
She’s head down, utterly still, and I try again to push the hair back so I can see her face as I take it in – the wrong dress.
This dress covered in blood that is seeping into a large and terrifying pool on the stone floor beneath her.
Not the pink dress – not even a lemon dress any more.
Dark red.
Everything blood red now.