He was in his late twenties, with tousled hair and a cheerful face. He was also wearing a towelling robe, as if he’d just got out of the bath.
‘Hi, can I help you?’ he asked.
Ruggiero felt himself engulfed by hell. It was the voice he’d overheard on the telephone, and this young man was built like a god.
‘No, thank you,’ he said hurriedly. ‘I think I’ve come to the wrong place.’
‘Maybe not. I’ve only just moved in, so perhaps you’re thinking of-Coming, darling.’
He called this over his shoulder. Ruggiero knew he had to get away fast.
‘Who is it, darling?’ A female voice floated from within.
But it wasn’t her voice. Suddenly his legs were paralysed with relief.
A young woman, also in a bathrobe, appeared. She was nothing like Polly.
‘I’m looking for Polly Hanson,’ he managed to say.
‘Oh, you mean the woman who lived here before?’ the girl said. ‘She moved out a few days ago.’
‘It was very sudden,’ the young man said. ‘She wanted to move, and we needed somewhere quickly, so we dropped in one evening to look the place over.’
‘You mean-you’re not Brian?’
‘Brian? No, my name’s Peter. I don’t think I’ve heard of Brian. Polly didn’t mention a Brian, did she, Nora?’
‘Not that I heard.’
The hell that had engulfed Ruggiero retreated very slightly.
‘Did she leave a forwarding address?’
‘She only mentioned a hotel,’ Nora said. ‘The Hunting Horn, I think it was. Not far away.’
A taxi took him to the hotel. He sat in the back, telling himself not to be fanciful. Just because she’d vanished and he was looking for her at a hotel, like last time, that didn’t mean-
She was no longer at the Hunting Horn.
‘She stayed just three days,’ the pretty receptionist explained. ‘No, I’m afraid she didn’t say where she’d be after that.’
Now his forehead was damp, and desperation was growing inside him. History was repeating itself, drowning him again.
‘Try St Luke’s Hospital,’ the receptionist. ‘She said she worked there once, and she might be going back.’
‘Thank you,’ he said frantically.
Another taxi. Another desperate journey. Trying to tell himself that this time it would be different. There was the hospital, a huge building, just up ahead. He leapt out and almost ran inside.
For a moment he thought he was in luck. The man on the desk remembered Polly.
‘She was here a few days ago. You might try-’ He named a ward and directed him to it.
As he approached the ward a nurse in her mid-thirties emerged and halted him.
‘I’m afraid visiting isn’t until this evening,’ she said, in a voice that was pleasant but firm.
‘Please, I’m not visiting. I’m looking for Polly Hanson.’
‘She’s not here.’
Darkness again, blanking out everything except the road ahead that wound around endless corners, leading to nothing.
‘I was told she worked here,’ he said, his mouth dry.
‘I hope she soon will be. I called her in Italy and tried to persuade her to come back here-because we really need nurses like her-but she said she had something urgent to do before she finally made up her mind.’
‘You know her, then?’
‘I’m an old friend. My name’s Kyra Davis, and I got to know her very well the last time she was here.’
‘She worked in this part of the hospital?’
‘Yes, but I meant when her cousin was dying. Oh, dear-maybe I shouldn’t be telling you all this. I don’t know who you are.’
‘I’m the father of her cousin’s child.’
‘You mean Matthew? She used to bring him in to see his mother in the last days. We managed to find a little side ward for her, so that they could all be together in peace.’
‘It’s here?’ he asked, looking around.
‘Yes, It’s empty just now, so you can see it if you like.’
As she opened the door to the side ward her beeper went.
‘I think someone wants me,’ she said, and bustled away, leaving him alone in the room.
It was small, plain and bare, except for the sunshine streaming onto the empty bed. Ruggiero stared at it, trying to understand that this was the place where Sapphire had died.
Only a few weeks ago she had lain in that bed, looking at this room. He tried to picture her, but there was nothing.
Nothing!
But Polly was present, sitting on the chair, pushed up close to the bed so that she could place Matti in his mother’s arms while still holding him for safety. She’d sat there hour after hour, her arms around both of them, growing tired, her body aching, her heart grieving, enduring it all so that mother and child could have those last precious moments together.
How did he know that? She’d never told him. But he knew it was true because he knew her. In those last hours and moments every fibre of her being had been concentrated on helping the people in her care, with never a thought for herself.
‘Polly-are you still there? I can’t see you.’
‘Yes, darling. I’m always here. Feel my hand.’
‘You won’t forget-you’ll find him-and tell him about the baby-’
‘I’ll find him-I’ll make sure they know each other-’
‘Where are you? Don’t let me go.’
‘I’m here-hold onto me-feel my arms around you-hold on-’
Dazed, he looked around. How could he hear them when they weren’t there?
Not true.
Sapphire had never existed.
But Polly was there. She would be there in his heart for ever, her arms outstretched in generous giving, the only way she knew to live.
The winding road had finally reached its destination-this little room, where one journey had ended and another had begun, like a torch being passed from hand to hand.
‘Are you all right?’ the nurse asked from the doorway.
‘Yes, I’m fine,’ he said joyfully. ‘I’ve never been better. But I have to talk to her.’
‘She said she was going away for a few days.’
‘With Brian?’ he asked, scarcely breathing.
‘Who?’
‘Her fiance.’
‘Polly doesn’t have a fiance. She’s in love with a man who doesn’t feel the same way. That’s all she’d tell me.’ She eyed Ruggiero curiously, but was too tactful to say more. She only added, ‘I think she’s gone to Yorkshire-back to her old village.’
‘Thank you. I can find her now.’
At the station he caught a train north. From there it was a bus ride to the little village, and by good fortune the bus stopped close to the church.
It was dark, but it was a tiny place, and, using the picture Polly had given him, he managed to locate the right corner of the graveyard. There was the little slab, with Freda’s name and the dates of her life. He glanced at them only briefly. He was looking for something else.
But he was alone. There was no sign of Polly. Only some flowers on the grave suggested that she’d been there.
He was back on the endless road, seeking something that was always out of sight around the next corner, until there were no more corners left.
