Standing at the window, my back to the room, I become aware of other voices.
‘I thought we might as well have some lunch.’
‘Can you pull that table out, Jimmie?’
‘Alf, would you like ham or cheese?’
‘Do you want tea or coffee, Julie?’
I turn back to the room. ‘Tea please.’
Plates of sandwiches appear: cheese, ham and English mustard, cherry tomatoes halved on each plate. Questions easily answered dart backwards and forwards as lunch temporarily takes priority over television.
‘Any salt for the tomatoes?’
‘It’s already on.’
‘Be careful you don’t get tomato juice down your shirt.’
‘What time is it?’
‘Quarter past one.’
New voices speak and voices already heard are repeated. I listen to the Mayor of London describing the attack as a cowardly act and praising Londoners for the way they’ve responded, with calm and courage. President Bush tells us the War on Terror must continue and the Archbishop of Canterbury urges all religious leaders to stand and work together for the wellbeing of the nation. I listen and I listen and I listen, nibbling at my ham and mustard sandwich and sipping tea from a white china cup.
The phone rings and all our attention is jerked away from the television. I jump to my feet, spilling tea in the saucer as I replace the cup before rushing into the dining room and grabbing the receiver to my ear. I listen to my sister’s voice, calling from work in her lunch hour, and hear myself say, ‘I’m not overly worried.’ Neither of us speaks for a moment – Vanda knows it isn’t true and in my heart I know it isn’t true. I feel suddenly I have to get out of Anglesey and in a moment I make my decision. ‘I’m going to look at train times.’
There’s another pause in which I picture Vanda in the blue uniform she wears as a theatre nurse in a Hampshire hospital. ‘I’ll call as soon as I get home.’ Home being a village on the outskirts of Reading which, like Bristol, seems far away from Anglesey.
After replacing the receiver, I stand for a moment looking at it, knowing I’ve made the right decision, the only decision, and I tell myself not to panic. Then I go back to the others waiting with half-eaten sandwiches, a television with the sound turned down, the sun pouring through the windows and say to their expectant faces, ‘I’m going to London.’ No one is surprised, no one tries to dissuade me. My mother wants to come with me but is worried about slowing me down. There’s also my father to consider. I think it would be better if they stay in Anglesey with my aunt and uncle as I don’t know where I’m going when I get to London, how I’m going to get around or how much walking there’s likely to be. My mother understands and, hard as it is for her, agrees I should go without her. It’s all very gentle and considerate, both of us trying to do what’s best. As I leave the room to phone Greg I hear my father say, ‘It’s just as well she isn’t going to drive,’ or something like that.
Greg is still at work, keeping occupied but listening to the news and in touch with Lizzie and Thomas.
‘I’m going to London.’
‘When?’
‘As soon as I can make arrangements. This evening probably. I feel too far away from everything here and want to be on hand, just in case.’
He doesn’t ask me in case of what, which is just as well as I don’t think I could answer.
‘Are you driving?’
‘No, I’m going by train.’
‘Good. Do you want me to come with you?’
We talk about practicalities for a while and settle on Greg staying in Bristol with Lizzie and Thomas so they have one parent with them at least.
I come off the phone and think what to do next; find out about train times, I suppose. I don’t do anything straight away but sit on the dining chair next to the sideboard, thinking about the conversation with Greg. I’m not sure the full significance of Jenny’s continued non-contact and non-appearance at work has quite sunk in with him yet. Has it with me? I lean my head back against the wall and close my eyes for a minute, feeling the warmth of the sun on my face. Please be all right, Jenny, please don’t be hurt.
I think about Lizzie and Thomas, alone at home. Anyone would think they were 12 and 7, not young adults of 22 and 17. Still, when the pressure’s on, they’re my babies and I’m their mother; and the pressure is on. I think of them huddled together on the sofa, frightened and waiting for news. The reality is they’re spending the day in the same way as me, watching, waiting and feeling helpless, calling someone when they need to and keeping vigil for their sister. Even so I can’t help but worry about them. Which is perhaps why, when my sister-in-law calls from Dorset a few minutes later asking if there’s anything she can do, I ask, without hesitation, ‘Can you go to Bristol and be with Greg and Lizzie and Thomas?’
Jenny’s route takes her from Reading into Paddington, then the Bakerloo line tube from there via Edgware Road to Oxford Circus, change to the Central line for Tottenham Court Road and walk from there to Shaftesbury Avenue. I’ve checked with James; he’s certain of the route. Nevertheless, I call him and ask about the route again, repeating it back for confirmation. We talk about what we should do, how we can get information. James tells me what he knows, which isn’t much more than I do, just a few details. The police will be issuing a number for people to call if they’re worried about someone – I must have missed that – which will be released through the media. Meanwhile people are being urged not to travel into London.
I can’t believe we’re having this conversation.
James has decided to go to London as well and is working out the best way to get there if we still haven’t heard from Jenny by late afternoon. He thinks there isn’t much point in trying to get into London yet, owing to the transport situation. If Jenny hasn’t contacted any of us by the time the police release the helpline number we’ll phone in with her details and decide what to do from then.
We talk more about where Jenny could be and why we haven’t heard from her, staying rational, calm and focused on the positives. She could be trying to find a way to work on foot, there’s still such chaos with commuters trying to get places, the underground at a standstill, mobile phone networks down, people trying to get out of London. We talk about the cryptic ‘Bakerloo line screwed’ message to Michaela and how she may have been forced to find an alternative route. We explore all the possibilities we can think of. James also believes she would walk, not hang about. If by any chance she is caught up in the mayhem, she would be helping others in some way; if someone was hurt Jenny wouldn’t leave them. Maybe she’s standing on the sidelines somewhere, in the crowds, watching from a distance? All sorts of things could have happened in the mass exodus, people falling over each other,