For a moment their gaze held and Jean could read in his unhappy expression all that he was feeling and at the same time the impossibility that he could ever act on it, or even speak of it. But it was enough.
“Nothing,” she promised, her heart singing as she watched him get in his car and drive off, home to his wife.
19
Dear Miss Swinney,
I am taking the unusual step of writing to you regarding the ongoing tests on Mother and Daughter. They failed to attend the scheduled appointment for the serum protein electrophoresis test and Mother has not responded to my follow-up letter of inquiry.
I wonder if you could use your influence to iron out whatever seems to be the problem and reassure her that this procedure is very simple （for the patient at least; the analysis is rather more complex, but that is our business）， requiring no more than a blood sample. All of us involved in this experiment are very excited by the findings so far and keen to press on as far as the science will take us.
If hardship is an issue, we may be able to assist with travel costs. Perhaps that is also something your newspaper might consider.
I await your early response.
Yours,
Dr. Stewart Bamber
They met as before under the clock in the ticket hall at Charing Cross. Jean noticed with dismay that since their last meeting Gretchen had a new short haircut, which suited her but made her look a lot less like Margaret. For the purpose of a striking portrait of mother and daughter to accompany her story, dissimilarity was not ideal.
It took her a moment or two to subdue an attack of wholly unreasonable indignation that she had not been consulted. Howard had so thoroughly displaced Gretchen in Jean’s consciousness lately that she was almost surprised to be confronted with the origin and purpose of their meetings.
Since receiving Dr. Bamber’s puzzling letter, it had taken her an inordinate amount of time to bring matters to this point. Previously, appointments had been arranged by calling Howard at the shop; this time Jean preferred not to use him as an intermediary unless absolutely necessary. In any case, it was Gretchen she needed to talk to in order to discover what lay behind this fresh resistance to further tests. The only solution seemed to be to call on Gretchen uninvited and hope to find her at home.
Accordingly, at eleven o’clock on a Monday morning, an hour when Jean judged Margaret and Howard would be out and Gretchen most likely working at her dressmaking, she left the newspaper office and caught the bus from Petts Wood to Sidcup. It was late September; the trees still wore their summer colors and the fogs of autumn were only a distant threat, but the air was cool and damp. The Tilburys’ elderly neighbor was polishing the tiles of her doorstep with red wax; she sat up and nodded at Jean as she opened the gate.
“Mothers’ meeting?” she inquired, which struck Jean as an odd and rather rude comment, so she said, “Hardly,” and gave a thin smile in reply.
The side gate was locked, so Jean pressed the doorbell for just longer than was polite and waited, rehearsing various phrases of friendly concern, which turned to frustration as it became apparent that they would not be needed. Never without a notebook and pen, Jean wrote a brief message and posted it through the letterbox:
Dear Gretchen,
I called to see you this morning for a chat, but no luck. I will try again tomorrow at the same time. I hope there is nothing amiss.
Jean
She was at the end of Burdett Road, walking briskly to burn off her irritation at a wasted journey, when she heard her name. Turning, she saw Gretchen hurrying toward her, pulling a cardigan over her dress. Even now she looks lovely, Jean thought. You could call on her uninvited on a Monday morning and still not catch her with nails unpainted and hair unbrushed.
“I’m sorry,” Gretchen panted as she came within range. “I was in the bathroom and I came down to find your note.” She was holding the crumpled page in her fist. “Is anything the matter?”
“Not with me. I was going to ask you the same thing,” said Jean. “You missed your appointment with Dr. Bamber; he wrote me a rather peevish letter when you didn’t reply to him.”
Gretchen shook her head impatiently. “Well, I couldn’t make that date. Margaret was still a bit off color from that sickness. I thought I’d told Howard to phone and cancel it, but perhaps I didn’t. Anyway, I don’t understand why they couldn’t use the blood from the first tests.”
“Well, I gather this electro . . . whatever it’s called . . . is quite elaborate to run. You have to fast overnight and the blood needs to be analyzed within a day of sampling. I don’t understand the exact process, but . . .” She tailed off. This is what you signed up for, she wanted to add. You approached us, not the other way around. Instead, she shrugged. “I was worried that something might have happened to change your mind about the whole business.”