Cath Staincliffe - Blink of an Eye

I began with Martin, Suzanne’s trainee, and asked if we could meet up. Although taken aback – he didn’t know me at all well and we had not spoken at the barbecue – he agreed. He could do coffee at Piccadilly station after work.

The station was thronging with commuters, travellers and shoppers. I’d told Martin I’d find a seat in the coffee shop and would be wearing a black jacket. Poor choice: there were four women in similar attire. When a potential candidate wandered in, looking right and left, I waved and he came over.

He was all togged out in a posh suit – well, it looked posh to me – and a startling puce shirt. He was young and seemed wary. I’d no idea if Suzanne had spoken to him since the accident. I couldn’t see why she would have – she was still on leave – but he might have needed to check something out with her. He asked after Suzanne and Ollie, and Naomi, made all the right noises.

I repeated what I’d told him on the phone, that Naomi had amnesia and we were trying to find out more about the events leading up to the accident in the hope that it would help her get her memory back. ‘Did you see Naomi, talk to her?’

‘Saw her; she came in the kitchen a couple of times for a top-up.’ The drinks were in the kitchen: beer and soft drink cans in a barrel full of ice cubes, a parade of wines and spirits and fancy fruit juices on the counter.

‘Did you notice what she was drinking?’

‘No idea, sorry. Just said hello, that’s all. That was it.’

‘Do you remember anything else – see her talking to anyone else?’

He shook his head.

‘You were in the kitchen with Alex?’

‘That’s right, we’re both footie fans. We were rehashing the Premier League.’

‘Man City?’ They’d won the title for the first time in forty-four years, pipping their arch-rivals Man United to the post.

Martin nodded. ‘What about Alex?’ I said. ‘Was he drinking much?’ If Suzanne was right and Naomi was pissed, that would account for him not realizing. And it would explain the difference between his recollection and Suzanne’s.

‘Vodka and orange,’ Martin said. ‘We were drinking that Ukrainian one they had. Rocket fuel. He’d got a job, right?’ So he’d be celebrating.

‘Yes. Can you remember who else was there?’

‘One of the neighbours, didn’t get her name.’

‘Black hair and glasses?’ I said.

‘That’s right.’

‘Julia,’ I told him.

‘And a couple, Australians,’ he said. ‘They knew Jonty from golf.’ One of the peculiar pastimes my son-in-law pursues when he isn’t filming ruins or sourcing organic cheese. ‘There were other people coming and going too,’ he added.

‘Did you see Alex and Naomi leave?’

He thought. ‘Alex went out to fetch her. That’s all.’

I was disappointed. Nothing much there to add to the picture I was building for her. On the train home I looked through the list of other party guests. After the fruitless meeting with Martin, I’d decided to establish over the phone whether people had been in the garden with Naomi for any length of time, and only if that was the case would I arrange to meet them face to face.

For all my concern and good intentions about attending the Ivy Cottesloe hearing and saying my piece, when I was actually there I found it claustrophobic and couldn’t wait for it to be over.

I didn’t know anyone else, which was a relief, and if anyone linked me to the accident they didn’t let on. There were jugs of coffee, and hot water for tea, before we convened. I got a tea bag, added water and a splash of milk. Took a biscuit. But when I came to drink it, there was a foul taste of stale coffee, bitter and oily.

The chairman was the sort of character who likes the sound of his own voice and never uses one word when a paragraph will do. His laboured introductions and summations at every micro stage of the process were excruciating and had me grinding my teeth. And of course everything took far longer than it should.

I’d submitted a written report months previously which had been circulated, along with other contributions, to those attending. When it came to my part there weren’t any questions. Things became marginally more energized as we attempted to agree on where mistakes had been made – the failings in the system – and on the wording of our recommendations as a result. The general view was that human error had led to Ivy slipping through the net. Either someone in the hospital discharge team had failed to pass her case through to the community social workers, or the office for the community social workers had failed to allocate Ivy to one of the staff. If existing procedures had been followed, she would have been safe.

Human error. My thoughts kept spinning back to Naomi. Was it simple human error that had caused her to accelerate when she should have slowed, to misjudge the curve of the bend and find herself on the wrong side of the road, wrench the steering wheel in a jolt of shock then, too late, see the figure on the bicycle, feel the thump of impact, the punishing lurch as the car tumbled over, hanging upside down, flung about, the force breaking bones and rupturing soft tissue?

After the hearing concluded, I called into the office. I’d arranged to go for a bite to eat and a catch-up with Evie. She waggled her fingers at me, phone pressed to her ear, and I waited for her to finish the call.

‘How was it?’ she asked.

‘Grim, glad it’s done.’

She retrieved her bag from her desk and we walked across the square to a little deli with a few tables outside. The city was bathed in golden heat. It seemed peculiar that there was this balmy, bright backdrop to the misery of the accident, to the fate of Ivy Cottesloe. I said as much to Evie, who nodded. ‘Yeah, should be pissing it down really. Oh, yeah!’ She feigned surprise. ‘Usually is.’

I laughed.

‘Look at this.’ She stabbed her finger at the freckles on her arm; Evie’s fair-skinned, red-haired and the sun really brings her freckles out. ‘Few more days and they’ll all join together and I’ll look like I’ve got a tan.’

She asked after Naomi again and I told her about Don. Every so often a bus or a taxi lumbered past, making it difficult to hear.

‘It’s hard on Suzanne, too,’ I said. ‘New baby and all. It’s a tough time and suddenly all the attention’s on her little sister. And Jonty’s away again. Of course Suzanne says she’s fine with Ollie – doesn’t know what all the fuss is about.’

‘You believe her?’

‘Well – you know Suzanne: Mrs Capable.’ I groaned. ‘Oh, that sounds mean. It’s just she never puts a foot wrong.’

‘Which might not be such a great reputation to have. Lot of pressure living like that, trying to be perfect all the time. Can’t let your guard down.’

I put my glass down. ‘You think we fucked her up?’

‘Course you did,’ she teased me. ‘It’s what families are for. But honestly,’ she sat forward, ‘there she is being so great at everything, getting praise and respect from all quarters: how can she ever fail? How can she ever ask for help?’

‘I know. I’m run ragged with Naomi and hospital and the lawyer and I’m not giving Suzanne as much time as I want to.’

‘Make it clear. Tell her. Unless you’d rather write,’ she added flippantly.

‘Ha ha! Will she listen?’

‘That’s up to her, but you’ll have said it.’

‘It’s you and Russell, isn’t it?’ Evie had been the well-behaved big sister to her wayward brother Russell. Their parents were always getting drawn into helping Russell with the endless mishaps and mistakes that dogged his life. Evie was left to get on with it. When she actually did crave their support – going through months of infertility treatment with IVF and failing to get pregnant – they were too wrapped up in Russell’s latest melodrama – an ill-advised and tempestuous marriage to a Estonian waitress – to respond to her.