'You're a reporter?' I said, hearing the disfavour in my own voice.
'Didn't I say? The Evening Telegraph. You don't mind, do you? A rescue story is such a joy to write when we so often deal in tragedy and disaster.'
I told her curtly that we'd rather not have anything in the newspapers.
'Mrs Didrikson,' she protested, 'it's unavoidable. If we don't run the story, the other papers will. It was a major incident by local standards. We won't print distortions, I promise you. That's why I'm talking to you, just to verify the facts. Do say you'll answer my questions.'
'What's the point?' I said, looking for somewhere to get rid of the tea. 'I wasn't even there. I know less about what happened than you do.'
Matthew added in support, 'And I don't remember much.'
She was very persistent. 'Listen, I'm not trying to harass you,' she said. 'I just need to check the essential facts. I don't even know yet whether there's a 'c' in your name.'
'There isn't,' I told her.
'It's unusual.'
'I'd rather not prolong this.'
Instead of taking this as a rebuff, she dipped into her handbag and produced a notebook. 'All right. Just the essential facts. How old are you, Matthew?'
Matthew glanced towards me to see if he should answer and I gave a nod, foolishly telling myself that we might get rid of her after she'd taken a couple of notes. Twelve.'
'And you were playing by Pulteney Weir. With friends?'
'Yes.'
'How many?'
'Two.'
'Who were they?'
'I don't want to get them into trouble.'
'Why – did they push you in?'
'No, I fell. I walked along the edge and tipped over.'
'And nearly drowned, I gather.'
'I don't know much about it.'
I stood up. 'There – that's all the help we can give you. Now, if you'll kindly allow us to pass, I want to get my son home.'
'But we haven't covered the rescue yet.'
'You heard what he said. He doesn't remember.'
'You must remember the man who saved you, Matthew. You saw him when you opened your eyes.'
'Yes.'
'Did you find out his name?'
'No. He was dark and he had a moustache.'
'What sort of moustache?'
Matthew put both hands to his face and traced his fingers from under his nose to the edges of his mouth. 'Like this.'
'Mexican style?'
He nodded. 'He was wearing a striped shirt and tie.'
'Smartly dressed, then. A young man?'
'Not very.'
'Middle-aged, would you say? Over forty?'
'Not as old as that.'
'Did he say anything to you?'
'He was talking to Piers mostly.'
'Your schoolfriend?'
Matthew let out a short, troubled breath. 'Please don't put his name in the paper. We were supposed to be in school.'
'You were playing truant, then?'
I just had to assert myself. 'I don't think this is a matter for the papers,' I told her. 'It's up to the school to deal with it, arid I'm sure they will. Come on, Mat.' I made a move towards the door.
'I wish our photographer had got here,' said Miss Abershaw. 'I can't ask you to wait.'
'No, and we wouldn't.'
She walked with us out of Casualty and offered to drive us home.
I told her we had transport.
I looked along several lines of cars gleaming in the sun, trying to remember where I'd left the firm's black Mercedes. I had been in such a distracted state when I arrived.
'It's over there,' said Matthew, pointing.
Miss Abershaw was still standing beside us. 'You drive a Mercedes?'
Matthew came out with, 'My mother is a chauffeur.'
I said bitterly, 'Yes, put it in your notebook. Do you want the mileage as well?'
'I was only thinking that we all have to work for a living,' she commented, almost as an apology.
I hesitated as she felt for her keys. Do you know, the remark got through my defences? The girl's persistence had annoyed me, but a voice inside told me that she was doing a difficult job. She'd been sent by her editor to cover this story. It was not far removed from my own line of work – my boss, Stanley Buckle, sending me off to meet important clients at Bath or Bristol railway stations. Some of those VIPs turn out to be pretty unfriendly. I said, 'I'm sorry. It's been a hell of a day.'
'Do you think if Maxim, our photographer, called at your house in an hour or so, he could get a picture?'
I got into the car, picked up a card and scribbled our
She said, 'Thanks. I really appreciate it. Will your husband be at home?'
'I'm divorced.'
Matthew spoke up and announced, 'My Dad played chess for Norway.'
I closed the door and started the engine. When we had driven out of the hospital gates I told him, 'You didn't have to say that, about your father.'
'It's true. I'm proud of him.'
I didn't say any more.
Chapter Three
MATTHEW STAYED AWAY FROM SCHOOL the next day, but not because of illness. I decided he should have a day's grace before he was called to his headmaster's study. It was almost the end of term, anyway. You know the Abbey Choir School, of course. There's the prep school which Mat attends, and the main school for boys of thirteen and upwards. He won't start there for another year. They take Common Entrance in the year of their thirteenth birthday, and his will be in February. The high flyers go on to some of the best public schools in the country, but the majority just move up to the senior school. The prospectus makes a big thing about traditional values. Parents have to sign a form allowing their boys to be 'chastised' for misbehaviour. It's supposed to be the right way of encouraging respect and loyalty and most parents seem to accept it. Truancy leads inevitably to a slippering.
I was educated at a comprehensive, a large one, and I must confess that I find the public school methods quite alien. I've agonized over whether I'm right to keep Matthew at the school. Yet three years ago, when he was nine, I pleaded with the head to admit him. It was at the time when my husband Sverre had just deserted me. At that low point in my life the prospect of bringing up a son unaided terrified me. I'd failed completely in all my relationships with men – my beer-swilling father whom I grew to despise, the brothers I treated as rivals and still do, and the husband who gave me up not for other women, but for chess – so what right had I to raise a son to manhood?
