Martin Edwards - I Remember You

‘So, this is it, eh? First broadcast to the nation, right? Don’t worry. Next thing, “on your dressing room door they’ve hung a star”, and all that crap. Now, this is simple. After the news bulletin, Tracey will tell us when the fog is going to clear and the moment I start talking about the lane closure on Runcorn Bridge, you wet your lips and get ready to speak, right,’ cause there’ll only be seconds to go. Okay? Good luck.’

The local news was bad, as usual: an attempted murder in St Helens, redundancies at a printing firm, a drugs haul in the docks, a strike in local government. The weather outlook was equally grim, but Harry was past caring. His mouth was dry and he was wishing he was anywhere but behind a microphone.

Suddenly, the microphone was open and he was on air. How he actually sounded to the indifferent outside world, Harry was never sure. Against all expectations, his time on air sped by. The stories he had chosen seemed to go down well, with Baz chuckling at regular intervals, and the lead-in to his choice of song was less of an ordeal than he’d imagined.

He didn’t tell the whole truth about the song, of course, describing it simply as an old favourite. It had hooked onto a peg in his mind long ago, but had acquired a special meaning since Liz had left him. Whenever he walked along the Liverpool streets he had walked along with her, he couldn’t help but recall how much in love they had once been. He didn’t know how to forget her when there was always so much to remind him of the past.

At last Baz was thanking him and giving a thumbs-up sign and farewell wave as he cued in the next jingle. ‘Great, Harry. See you around.’

He made his way to the other side of the panel, where Sophie mimed applause. She had been joined by a young man with an anarchic haircut and John Lennon glasses; Harry recognised him as an authority on the tangled web of Liverpool politics.

‘Wonderful,’ she said. ‘I told you it would be a success. Thanks a million, sweetie. You know your way out, don’t you?’

And that was it. The show would go on and Harry’s part in it was history. He wandered back alone through the labyrinth and a couple of minutes later found himself outside in North John Street where it had begun to spit with rain. He turned up his jacket collar as people hurried past on their way to work, oblivious of his presence.

His flirtation with stardom was over.

‘Have you heard the news?’

Suzanne’s tone as he arrived at the office was hushed, yet her eyes sparkled with excitement. The carefully contrived anxiety of her frown didn’t fool Harry. Joy-in-gloom was Suzanne’s speciality; the misfortunes of others were her meat and drink.

Act soft , he told himself. Ten to one all that’s happened is the temp has walked out in a huff .

‘Heard it? I was actually in the studio when it was broadcast. Sterling’s at an all-time low, unemployment’s on the rise. Anything else you want to know?’

A cloud of bafflement passed across her face.

‘You what? Oh, you were doing your thing on Radio Liverpool! God, I forgot to listen. I always tune in to Radio City, you see — the music’s better. No, I was meaning the news about Mr. Crusoe.’

‘What’s up? Lost a bundle of deeds, has he?’

‘No, no, nothing like that. He’s had an accident!’

Harry felt a sudden sickness in his stomach. ‘What sort of accident?’

‘A car crash.’ Suzanne lingered on the words. No question, she was in her element. ‘There was a pile-up in the fog last night.’

Christ, yes, he’d heard something about it on the air earlier that morning. Not paid much attention, of course; other people’s tragedies seldom strike us as significant compared to our own preoccupations. Now his apprehension whilst waiting to join Baz Gilbert seemed like self-indulgence. His heart beating faster, he demanded, ‘And Jim — is he all right?’

‘He’s alive,’ said Suzanne. ‘His wife phoned, she’s been with him at the Royal through the night. The rescue people had to use special equipment to get him out of his Sierra, she said.’

The girl sounded sorry she’d missed the chance of sightseeing at the scene of the carnage. Harry could barely restrain himself from grabbing her by the throat.

‘So what’s happened? Is he badly hurt?’

‘He’s fractured a couple of ribs and his face was cut by the flying glass. And he’s still very groggy, not able to make much sense, according to Mrs. Crusoe. The doctors say it’s too early to tell how bad things are. They have to make tests.’

Harry swore. His knees felt as though they were about to buckle and he sat down hard on one of the chairs reserved for clients. Jim Crusoe was more than merely a business partner. He was Harry’s anchor.

‘Where is Heather? I must talk to her.’

‘She said she’d call again in ten minutes.’

‘Let me know as soon as she does. Never mind if I’m with a client, interrupt.’

Suzanne smiled at him. She’d had her pleasure and could afford kindliness. In a motherly tone, she said, ‘So how was the show?’ Before he could reply, a bleep from the switchboard distracted her.

‘Crusoe and Devlin. Oh, Mrs. Crusoe … yes, he’s just got back. Shall I…’

Harry snatched the receiver from her hand. ‘Heather? How is he?’

‘Could be worse, Harry. Could be better. He spent the night in intensive care, but he’s lucky to be in one piece. Some of the others in the crash aren’t.’

Stress shortened Heather Crusoe’s comfortable Wigan vowels, yet her characteristic calm had not altogether deserted her and in a handful of sentences she answered Harry’s agitated questions. Jim didn’t remember anything about the accident, but the police thought it had been caused by a car travelling too fast round a blind corner in the opposite direction, hurtling to disaster on the wrong side of the road. Three dead and a dozen injured, by the latest count. Jim’s windscreen had shattered and his face was a mess — she said it as matter-of-factly as if she were describing a cut finger — but the main concern was whether he’d suffered any internal damage. Soon the truth would be known.

‘No point in panic,’ she said. ‘I’m sure he’ll be fine. Jim’s so strong — it would take more than some maniac with more horsepower than sense to finish him off.’

Harry groped for words. No one was more keenly aware than he that road disasters can change lives, as well as destroying them. His parents had been killed by a fire engine frantically responding to a 999 call which proved to be a hoax. And he had once watched as another spectacular crash, to this day etched in his mind, had helped in part to avenge the murder of his wife.

‘If there’s anything I can…’

‘Thanks, but there’s nothing at present,’ said Heather.

Harry detected a tremor in her voice but in an instant it was gone. She said she was okay, the kids were okay, the hospital wouldn’t welcome outside visitors until people had a clearer idea about Jim’s condition. She would keep in close touch.

After hanging up, Harry went to talk to the staff. Life must go on, and so must the legal process: clients still had wills to make, houses to buy and sell, businesses to trade.

‘I’ll take all his property files,’ offered Sylvia Reid. Traces of tears stained her cheeks. A plump and serious girl, she’d been distressed by the news about Jim. He had been her principal during her two years as an articled clerk and to the partners’ surprise — and considerable relief — after qualifying as a solicitor she had stayed on instead of moving elsewhere. Given the modest level of salaries which were all Crusoe and Devlin could afford, there could be no surer sign of loyalty.