The Witness at the Wedding. Simon Brett

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СКАЧАТЬ years. Well, just under two years.’ Then, as so often, before Carole had time to ask supplementary questions, her neighbour moved on. ‘Incidentally, I’ve got a friend coming to stay for a while.’

      ‘Oh?’ However much she tried, Carole couldn’t keep the frost out of her voice. The last friend Jude had had to stay for any length of time had been an ex-lover, who had not only revived their relationship, but had also died of cancer in Woodside Cottage. Even though he had proved useful in researching the background to a murder case, Carole could still not think of Laurence Hawker without a little flicker of jealousy. She had felt excluded by Jude’s absorption in him. While accepting her neighbour had many circles of friends in many different parts of the world, on their home ground in Fethering she felt a proprietorial interest. Unwillingly, she found herself asking, ‘Is this another of your lovers, Jude?’

      ‘No. By no means. A woman friend. Been through a bit of a rough time recently. Just needs to chill out for a while.’

      There were two reasons for the inward wince that this prompted in Carole. First, there was the fear of someone new, someone who might unbalance the delicate microclimate that encompassed High Tor and Woodside Cottage. Second, there was the atavistic revulsion Carole felt towards expressions like ‘chill out’.

      ‘When’s she coming?’

      ‘This afternoon. She’s been . . . well, she’ll be free then.’

      Carole did not miss the hesitation. For her its instant implication was that Jude’s friend had just come out of hospital – or possibly even prison.

      ‘What’s her name?’

      ‘Gita.’

      ‘Gita?’

      Jude smiled at the ill-hidden prejudice in the repetition of the name. Carole wasn’t exactly racist. She was just one of those many middle-class English women who had very rarely encountered people of a different ethnicity from their own. Jude was amused to see the tension leave Carole’s face as she said, ‘It’s a childhood name. Short for “Marguerite”. She’s always been called “Gita”. Gita Millington.’

      ‘Oh.’ The name did sound vaguely familiar, but Carole couldn’t think from where. ‘And what’s been wrong with her?’

      But Jude wasn’t to be drawn on that kind of detail. ‘Just been under a lot of stress. Needs a break.’

      Carole clearly wanted more information, but was too genteel to press the point.

      ‘Will she be staying long?’

      Jude knew that her shrug would infuriate Carole, but she was determined to say no more. Until Gita actually arrived, until it was clear what kind of state she was in, Jude wanted to keep information to the minimum.

      Carole looked dissatisfied, but ceased her interrogation. With a slightly huffy, ‘Well, do tell me if there’s anything I can do to help while your friend’s here,’ she moved the conversation on. ‘Stephen took Gaby to look at the local churches yesterday afternoon, so I suppose that’s a step in the right direction. Though the chances of one not having another wedding already booked for the fourteenth of September is—’

      She was interrupted by the phone ringing. Jude answered it and, after mouthing ‘Talk of the devil’, said, ‘Yes, that’s me. Gaby – right. Carole mentioned you, yes. Congratulations on the engagement. OK, whereabouts are you feeling the pain?’

      Having fixed for Gaby to come and see her the following morning, Jude told Carole she’d better be getting on. Carole agreed that she should be getting on too. There was shopping to be done, and Gulliver needed a walk. Jude said that a car was coming to pick her up at two. She was going to meet Gita. Resisting the appeal in Carole’s pale blue eyes for more information, Jude saw her neighbour to the door, and made herself a quick lunch of bruschetta with salami, cheese and tomato.

      The car was on time. It was a big expense, but a necessary one. Carole’s offer of help would certainly have covered a trip to North London in her immaculate white Renault, but Jude didn’t want to confuse Gita with new acquaintances. An anonymous hire-car driver was a pricey option, but the right one.

      The clinic was private, housed in two adjacent West Hampstead mansions. The girl at reception was expecting her. Miss Millington was ready to leave. If Jude wouldn’t mind waiting for a moment, a nurse would take her to Miss Millington. The doctor would like a word.

      Gita looked pale rather than ill. A smile flickered across her lined face at the sight of Jude. Though not resisting her friend’s hug, she did not return it. She was docile almost to the point of being uninterested. On heavy medication, Jude reckoned.

      Gita Millington was almost her exact contemporary, but looked older. Without its usual make-up, her face seemed pulled downwards by care. Her hair had always been carefully dyed to reproduce its erstwhile dark-chocolate sheen, but enforced absence from the hairdresser now left a stripe of white along the parting.

      She was dressed casually, too. Trainers and grey jogging bottoms, a zip-up navy-blue fleece a couple of sizes too big, whose sleeves came down over her knuckles. A scruffy nylon knapsack on the floor by her chair presumably contained her other clothes. Gita, normally so soignée, seemed to have lost interest in what she looked like.

      She seemed, in fact, to have lost interest in everything. Again, probably the medication.

      There was a lot of it. The woman doctor, practical, efficient and seemingly determined to allow no glimpse of personality, took Jude through the various pills and doses. She concluded by asking how long Gita would be staying in Fethering.

      Jude shrugged. ‘As long as she wants to. There’s no rush from my point of view.’

      The doctor said this was good, and checked that Jude would be there a lot of the time.

      ‘Yes. I do work, but most of my clients come to me.’

      The doctor asked politely what her work was. On hearing a mention of the word ‘healing’, a professional disapproval of alternative medicine froze into her face, and she reiterated the importance of Gita’s taking her medication regularly.

      ‘It’s all right,’ said Jude. ‘I’m not about to put her on a regime of St John’s Wort and aromatherapy. I believe in complementary medicine. I don’t think you should exclude anything that might help.’

      The doctor’s sniff suggested that there were a good few things she would exclude. She then gave Jude a list of phone numbers, and told her that she shouldn’t hesitate to make contact in the event of ‘another incident’.

      At this, Gita spoke for the first time. Her voice sounded furry, unfamiliar to herself, as if she had not used it for a long time. ‘It’s all right,’ she said. ‘I’ll be fine.’

      She didn’t speak again in the car on the way back. Jude chatted a bit about Fethering and the surrounding area, but soon stopped. The lack of response from Gita was not combative, though, and the atmosphere in the silent car was peaceful.

      When they arrived at Woodside Cottage, Jude paid the driver – yes, it had been expensive – and led her guest inside. Was Gita hungry? No, most of all she was tired. Very tired. Would it be all right if she had a sleep?

      Jude СКАЧАТЬ