The household is quietly functioning, in limbo while we wait for news. Through the side window I see my aunt is now talking to her neighbour, across a stone wall and expanse of garden. The conversation is predictable. Occasional hand movements and a turn of the head in my direction tell their own story. My uncle gets out of his seat, muttering irritably over a journalist’s inane comment. A few moments later he appears in the garden and walks around for a bit, before going over to my aunt, saying something to her and then disappearing out of view around the side of the house.
On the television there’s still confusion over whether there have been four or six explosions and the official line is they’re ‘still unsure’ as to the cause. The bus explosion was in Tavistock Square, outside the British Medical Association.
My mother comes back in with cups of coffee, followed by my aunt who pulls some small tables out. The tension emanating from the television is eased by routine conversation, reasoning and reassurance as to Jenny’s whereabouts. For the moment everyone seems to have given themselves up to following events as they transpire in London; all talk of driving to Criccieth and idly meandering and eating ice cream temporarily suspended. I realize I’ve slipped from the sofa on to the floor, kneeling closer to the screen. Behind me someone says we’re sure to have heard from Jenny by lunchtime so maybe we could have a sandwich here then drive to a cove further around the island for the afternoon.
I pop into the bathroom, clean my teeth and wonder whether to put on a bit of make-up. Staring at my reflection in the mirror, I decide it’s hardly worth it as we’ll be going to the beach later.
Lizzie calls again; I tell her there’s no news and we’re waiting for James to call back. I ask about her brother Thomas. She’s woken him up and they’re sitting together, glued to the television. I call my sister Vanda but she’s at work so I leave a message.
Almost immediately my phone goes off again. It’s James saying he’s received an email from one of Jenny’s work colleagues, Michaela. Apparently Jenny sent her a text at 8.30 a.m. saying ‘Bakerloo line screwed arse!’ We try to fathom out her cryptic text, does it mean Bakerloo line wasn’t working, overcrowded, delayed? James is convinced that if there was a problem with the Bakerloo line Jenny wouldn’t have hung around waiting but would have found an alternative route to work and confirms she is most likely caught up in the general chaos of it all as her route wouldn’t take her near any of the explosion sites. He seems confident and I relax a little. We agree to keep in touch though.
‘Was that James?’
‘What did he say?’
‘Has he spoken to Jenny?’
‘No.’
I turn and look into the faces of my family who have gathered in the doorway and relay the conversation with James. My mother moves further into the room and sits on a dining-room chair. My father, frustrated at not being able to hear properly, interrupts; wanting confirmation of what’s being said, bending his head in the direction of my voice, deafness causing him to frown in concentration.
As promised, I call and speak to Lizzie, who sounds less fraught, though no less anxious. She and Thomas are regularly leaving messages on Jenny’s mobile: ‘At least when she checks her phone, she’ll know that we’ve all been looking out for her.’ I agree and bring her up to date with what James has said. Bemoaning the fact that I’m so far away, but glad that Lizzie and Thomas are home in Bristol together, I end the call and go back to the television. All we can do is wait and watch.
Over and over again, we watch scene after scene of emerging commuters, visibly shaken. I dare not take my eyes from the screen, scanning for a face with shoulder-length blond hair. Would she be wearing it loose or tied back? What was she wearing? Why am I looking for her? I peer deeper into the screen, tutting with frustration as the camera moves away before I have a chance to properly scan a group of bystanders near Edgware Road tube. A stretcher is brought out and borne towards a waiting ambulance; a girl walks alongside, with long fair hair and a denim skirt. I hold my breath for a second. More passengers emerge. Some turn away from cameras; others speak to reporters. I pick up my phone, press to contacts … search … Jenny … call …
Official voices emerge; the Home Secretary makes a statement from Downing Street, speaking of a dreadful incident and terrible injuries, his face, solemn and worried, communicating more than the careful words being spoken. The Police Commissioner Sir Ian Blair states there have been about six explosions and suggests this is probably a major terrorist attack. Nothing clear; nothing confirmed.
I feel a sudden need to break up the atmosphere in the room and make something happen; all at once I feel uneasy and unable to sit still any longer watching more and more of the same barely changing scenes. I move over to the window and stare out over the panorama of garden, fields and mountains. All so tranquil, no passing cars or even a breeze to sway the leaves in the trees, motionless except for the birds busy and unconcerned, flitting from shrub to tree then away to somewhere beyond my sight. Where are you, Jenny?
A robin lands on the bird table, ignoring the scattering of crumbs, and seems to look directly at me, not moving, its red breast shimmering in the sunlight. We hold the stillness; I gaze back unblinking and scarcely breathe, afraid to break the connection. Moments tick by until unconsciously I raise a finger to my eye and wipe away a tear. The robin captures the movement and flies away. A shiver goes through my body. Why a tear: the beauty of the moment? Or something else, unspeakable, unthinkable?
With sudden determination I turn from the window and move purposefully out of the room, away from the television, calling out to my aunt, asking if I can use the telephone. I dial a number and wait while it rings. Taking a deep breath and keeping my voice steady I say for the first time: ‘Hello, it’s Julie. We can’t get hold of Jenny.’
Silence at the other end of the phone, then a voice, quiet, tentative.
I only pick up fragments of what’s being said: watching television; questions; concern.
I respond calmly, hearing only my voice going round and round in my head: We can’t get hold of Jenny.
‘I’ll let you know. As soon as we hear, I’ll let you know.’
Then again, another number, another silence, more questions – more or less the same questions and replies as before, everyone is watching the television and each time I repeat the words: We can’t get hold of Jenny.
The morning takes on the quality of a vigil. Watching and waiting. There’s very little conversation, all of us focused on events in London. Physically we’re gathered together yet each of us is sitting quietly and isolated in our own thoughts and hanging unspoken between us is the hope that we will hear from Jenny soon. If we talk, we talk about what we see, leaving anything else unsaid. Sitting around waiting for a call and watching developments is about all any of us can do, apart from the odd household chore or necessary trip to the loo. Telephone calls are hastily dealt with to keep the lines free for that all-important voice.
I can’t bear to leave the television screen, can’t bear to watch and can’t bear not to. It’s the only way of keeping in touch. I look at my watch; it’s just turned mid-day.
The scene moves to Scotland, Gleneagles; we’re told the Prime Minister is about to make a statement. He steps forward, flanked by other world leaders; there’s an ominous air of solidarity, suits and ties, a sea of grey and white against a stone backdrop and blue sky. Tony Blair looks grave and, wringing his hands, begins to speak, telling us what we’ve already worked out for ourselves: London has been subjected to a terrorist attack. There have been serious injuries and people killed. The PM is returning to London, leaving the summit to carry on without him.
Cameras take us back to London. The Home Secretary confirms four explosions and announces the underground will be closed all day. Never mind that, my mind screams, what about the people, what about Jenny. I don’t care if the underground is