Time drags as we motor south. There are hold-ups on the motorway so we find an alternative route which takes us through villages and small towns. I can feel myself growing increasingly agitated as we hit one hold-up or roadwork after another. In distance we’re close to Reading yet in time so far away. Martyn estimates we’ll be an hour or so, later arriving than anticipated. It’s frustrating for all of us and all sorts of useless berating goes on in my head: We should have taken the train to Reading … We still have to get to London … I should have left Anglesey yesterday and ignored police advice … I should have travelled to Reading last night … I should be in London finding Jenny not held up by roadworks … I’m letting her down. Then I hear my grandfather’s voice piercing my memory: Don’t waste your time worrying about what you should have done – things are as they are.
At last we’re on the approach to Reading. We drive past the university and Elmhurst Road where Jenny spent her first undergraduate year in halls; then I phone James for directions to the house. James and Vanda come out as we pull up outside. As we pass through the front door I catch sight of Jenny’s black high-heel shoes, kicked off and lying abandoned. The sight of them is almost my undoing.
There isn’t time or opportunity to stop and ponder as we move on into the sitting room where my oldest friend Dendy, Jenny’s godmother, is sitting with a mug of tea, having travelled from Bristol by train earlier to help with the search. Over mugs of tea we talk about what to do. My sister Vanda is speaking, saying her husband Stefan has stayed home with their children but is concerned that we must have a plan and not wildly rush into London going randomly from place to place. I had thought we could split up into pairs and cover as many hospitals as possible in a short time but James, having been in London the night before, thought we should head straight for the Royal London Hospital as apparently that is where all survivors have been taken who were not yet accounted for. James has printed off a large picture of Jenny, taken outside the Albert Hall. It’s not one I’ve seen before; she looks beautiful, happy and laughing. He’s saying how people in London last night were handing out pictures of missing friends and family and thought it would be a good idea to take one of Jenny; someone may recognize her.
Should we go by train or car? Martyn volunteers to drive but there isn’t enough room for all of us and it doesn’t make sense to take more than one car. Stefan, practically, had thought there should be someone at the end of a phone, providing a kind of base camp and keeping in touch with Greg, Lizzie and Thomas. My sister makes a reluctant suggestion that she should withdraw from the search party and return home to be with Stefan, where they can be the conduit for news. I really want her to come with me but the fact is there isn’t room in the car for more than five people and someone has to stay behind. Vanda also has two young children to take care of. All things considered, this is the only sensible compromise. A decision has to be made and we need to get going. We agree to call every hour even if there’s no news.
My husband and two children are in Bristol, my parents in Anglesey and now I’m leaving my sister in Reading. Everything is starting to feel very fragmented but this isn’t the time for self-indulgent emotions; all I can think about is finding Jenny.
Sharon sits in front with Martyn and I sit in the back of the car with James and Dendy. James is very quiet, mostly looking out of the window as we travel along the motorway towards London. I need something to do and begin sending text messages to various people who won’t yet know about Jenny. Dendy suggests sending a block message but I can’t manage the technology so pass the mobile phone over to her. She asks me what I want to say. What do I say? ‘I’m on my way to London. Jenny appears to be missing following the explosions on the underground yesterday. I thought you would want to know. Julie’.
Conversation is mostly sporadic and light. Sometimes we even laugh. Martyn finds a packet of Minstrel sweets and passes them around. Ordinary things! There are long periods when very little is said as we are lost in our own thoughts, gazing out of the window or attending to text messages on mobiles.
Traffic slows to a crawl on the approach into London. We travel alongside a small white van on the inside lane for a while before picking up speed again and moving ahead. The driver is bobbing his head around, listening to music and tapping out the beat on the steering wheel, oblivious to being watched from the neighbouring car. He’s wearing green overalls; some kind of maintenance uniform, I suppose. We pass each other several times as traffic speeds up and slows down in alternate lanes.
I ask James about the photo of Jenny taken on the steps of the Albert Hall. They were going to a Proms concert. James points out that what you can’t see in the picture are Jenny’s feet which had been hurting from walking around all day. She had swapped her high heels for a pair of James’s trainers, several sizes too big.
Once in the thick of London traffic we debate a route to the hospital. None of us really has a clue and consider stopping to pick up a map. For a while we go with the general flow towards central London, stopping and starting and trying not to get impatient with the slow progress. There’s nothing around us that suggests anything of the carnage we were fixated upon yesterday, glued to our television screens. Everything looks as normal: roads full of traffic; people meandering along and rushing about; shops open; offices functioning. For those of us in the back of the car, there’s nothing to do but be patient and look out of the window. Stiff from sitting in one position I shuffle around a bit and stretch my neck, looking out through the glass roof of the car; it’s a Scenic, I think. For the first time I notice tops of buildings and comment that one can’t usually look up and out from the inside of a car and it’s a new and interesting perspective. For a few minutes the talk is all about the buildings we pass and the architecture – architecture, for God’s sake!
We pull up at some traffic lights and a police car draws alongside. Waiting for the lights to change, Martyn quickly winds down the window and asks the police officers for directions to the Royal London Hospital. The officer nearest to us asks why we want to get there, as though they can sense the urgency, and Martyn explains, indicating towards me in the back. ‘My cousin’s daughter is missing and we’re trying to find her.’ The officer turns slightly to glance at me, and then tells Martyn to follow them; they will guide us to the hospital. The lights change and the police car pulls in front of us, forging ahead through traffic and traffic signals with determined confidence and speed. At times Martyn can barely keep up, nervously pressing through a red light as the police car ignores the signal to stop. It all starts to feel bizarre and quite surreal, on the tail of a police car speeding through the streets of London – not so fast that it was dangerous, just fast enough to bring Martyn out in a cold sweat.
‘This feels all wrong,’ he says. ‘Every instinct in my body tells me to slow down when I see a police car, not speed up and definitely not to go through red lights!’
The police car is clearly doing its best to get us through the traffic and to the hospital as swiftly as possible. Despite the tension it’s impossible not to see the farcical side of this; ‘Jenny would find this hilariously funny, like something out of a Bond film,’ I say just as the police car indicates for us to pull over.
The police officer in the driving seat gets out and walks the few steps to our car. ‘We’re heading straight on now but if you turn into this road on the left it will take you down to the hospital. I hope you find your daughter.’ With that he was gone and in moments the police car had sped off without giving us any opportunity to find out their names or say more than a hasty ‘thank you’.
The hospital building is obscured by scaffolding and green mesh, which makes the entrance difficult to find at first. Martyn drops us off and then goes to find somewhere to park the car. Dendy goes with him. ‘Don’t wait,’ Martyn says. ‘We’ll come and find you.’ The remaining three of us stand and watch as he drives off down the street then we turn and enter through the double doors of the hospital.
1989
Jenny is about eight years old. I’m rushing around, getting ready to go out, typically late, as is my