“Oh, don’t worry about that,” came the reply. “It’s all absolutely confidential. I mean, patients’ medical notes are always confidential, but in this case I’m keeping them under lock and key. They will be referred to only as Mother A and Daughter. The nurses will just take the blood—they have no idea what we are testing for. Dr. Bamber will be doing all the analysis himself.”
“I didn’t mean to sound distrustful,” said Jean. “But this is a big story for us.”
“For us too, possibly.”
“I couldn’t bear it for one of the dailies to get wind of it prematurely.”
“No indeed. I must admit, I had some concerns when we first spoke about this. But Mrs. Tilbury seems a sensible woman and her case is very persuasive.”
“I’m still investigating,” said Jean. “My first instinct was to believe her. But my second was not to trust my instincts.”
“It will be a blow to you if the blood test results tell a different story.”
“Yes. I’ve probably overinvested in the whole idea. But it will be worse for Gretchen. Mrs. Tilbury, I mean.”
“One has to wonder at her motive. You haven’t offered money?”
“Not a penny.”
“A quester after truth, perhaps. Like ourselves. I hope she is not too disappointed.”
“You don’t expect her to be proved right?”
“On balance of probabilities, no. But let’s not prejudge the results.”
The phone rang on Dr. Lloyd-Jones’s desk. He answered it and listened for a moment without speaking. Jean could hear the distant bubbling of a male voice on the other end.
“Yes, will do,” he said before hanging up.
“That was Dr. Bamber. He wants to talk to the mother without the little girl there for a minute or two. Perhaps you could wander along and entertain her.”
“Gladly,” said Jean.
“It was good to meet you at last, Miss Swinney. Here’s to a—I hesitate to say positive, so let’s just say interesting outcome for all concerned.” He thrust an arm across the desk and she allowed her hand to be tugged.
She found Margaret sitting on one of the hard wooden chairs in the phlebotomy waiting room, swinging her legs and reading a health education leaflet about smoking, titled The Adventures of the Wisdom Family. A wad of cotton wool was stuck to the inside of her elbow with surgical tape. The sight of her white ankle socks, smudged with blue where they rubbed the edge of her T-bar sandals, made Jean’s heart ache. She remembered her own mother taking out the box of brushes and cans of polish to clean her and Dorrie’s school shoes every Sunday evening, and felt a momentary regret that she would never be called upon to perform that solemn ritual.
“I thought it was going to be a comic book,” Margaret said, laying aside the leaflet, “but it’s not.”
“We could go and find a newsstand if you want a comic book,” Jean suggested. They had passed one on the Strand earlier.
“Why do people smoke?” Margaret asked as they walked back down Agar Street. “What does it taste like?”
“Strange to say, it tastes exactly how it smells. Of burning leaves. It’s unpleasant at first, a bit like drinking tea without sugar, but you persevere and after a while it tastes just fine. And then after another while you can’t stop.”
“I’m never going to smoke. Have you ever sleepwalked? I have.”
“No, I don’t think so. Where did you walk to?”
“Just into Mummy’s room. You’re not supposed to wake people up when they’re sleepwalking.”
“I’d heard that.”
“They can die. Have you got any pets?”
“No. Have you?”
“I really, really want a rabbit. Or maybe a kitten. But kittens grow up and get run over.”
Jean couldn’t help laughing. She was finding Margaret’s scattergun approach to conversation and morbid imagination thoroughly entertaining. She felt more than a hint of envy for Gretchen; to have the unthinking love of a daughter like this, to watch her grow every day and know that she was completely yours.
They had reached the newsstand by now and after some prompting, Margaret shyly pointed out a copy of Girl. Her gratitude when she at last had the magazine in her hands was out of all proportion to its value; she was almost vibrating with excitement.
Spontaneous generosity was a new experience for Jean—until today such opportunities had seldom come her way and would probably have gone unnoticed. She and her mother exchanged small, practical gifts at Christmas, of course, but she was a stranger to more ambitious forms of giving. Dorrie had long ago forbidden her from sending anything to Kitale for her or the children. The postage was exorbitant and things were too likely to be impounded at customs or go astray.