A/N: This is the first fanfic I've ever written in first person so I was out of my comfort zone in writing it, I hope it has turned out alright. It's from Robert's perspective and is set a few years after Sandra's departure (pretending the little revelation at the end of series 11 never happened)
Disclaimer: I don't own New Tricks or any of the characters.
One Sunday
I recall how I'd grown to enjoy the drive to Whitemead over the years, feeling increasingly at ease as the hectic streets of London opened out into quieter country roads, and I became happy in the knowledge that visiting Grace wasn't a chore I resented. In fact, it wasn't a chore at all. This particular drive was the first since I'd indulged in a slate grey Mercedes, the typical vehicle of the retired high flyer, and I was enjoying the experience even more, reliving the old days through The Smiths on the stereo whilst the refreshingly cool October air filtered through the open window.
It wasn't long until I slowed down, the tyres crunching over the gravel driveway. I realised that there was a different car in the car park, one I didn't recognise, but I dismissed it as a new visitor's, even despite the French number plate. In hindsight I knew I'd been an idiot not to recognise the obvious connection. But maybe then things wouldn't have happened as they did. Anyway, I continued with my usual routine, the same every Sunday. Park the car, turn off the engine, head inside, say good morning to the receptionist, sign the visitor's book and head upstairs, to Room 17.
I'd normally stay for a few hours in all, have a chat with Grace before heading back downstairs, to the large communal room where the residents spent the majority of their time, playing card games, singing, gossiping and the like. To tell you the truth, it became as much for my sake as it was for her. We were both lonely, especially since I retired. Only she'd known loneliness for much longer than I had, and in different ways. She took me under her wing due to that, and I was grateful. I still am, in fact. Eternally so. My visits had been more of a duty, at first, taking over the responsibility from Gerry, and yes, they'd been as awkward as I'd expected. But things got easier, over time, and I began to look forward to them. It doesn't take much to recognise that Grace is an extraordinary woman; blunt, sarcastic, but incredibly warm, and very funny. Much like her daughter.
I was thinking about Sandra that day, actually. I don't know; perhaps glancing at the French number plate had triggered some tenuous link to memories of her, embedded deep in my subconscious. Anyway, I took my time walking up the stairs to Grace's room. I was a little early, and my knees weren't getting any less painful. Eventually I reached the long corridor of resident's rooms, white doors against that awful pale green that instantly reminds me of hospitals. I headed right to the end, and knocked quietly in case she was asleep. She never was, and this time was no exception. I heard a faint 'come in' and entered, closing the door behind me.
Somehow I didn't even see her at first. I just smiled at Grace, who was sat in her armchair directly opposite the door. She smiled back, although there was something like bemusement in her expression, and she nodded her head slightly in the direction of her bed. I frowned, turning to look at the small single bed with its immaculately presented covers. It was then that I saw her. Sandra Pullman. Perched on her mother's bed. She smiled, awkwardly, avoiding my eyes as I studied her, half out of surprise and half from curiosity.
She looked older, of course, it had been nearly eight years, but somehow she looked...better. Healthier. Her time spent on the Continent had enhanced her appearance; she was slightly more tanned, and her eyes, as blue as ever, made yet more of a contrast against her smooth skin. I could see a few strands of grey where her hair caught the light from the large bay window, and I noted the lines on her hands, resting in her lap. She had changed, inevitably, but she was still her, she was still Sandra. I became aware of Grace's eyes on us, expectantly waiting for one of us to break the silence. Neither of us took the bait.
"I thought you'd both be pleased to see each other," Grace opened dryly, although a hint of concern crept into her tone.
"We are," Sandra replied vaguely as she rose from the bed, her gaze still locked with mine. Conscious of her mother's worry, she pulled me into a brief hug, somehow managing to wrap her arms around my neck without any other part of us touching. I was quickly released from her hold, and watched as she looked at Grace, the question 'are you happy now?' evident in her wide-eyed stare.
"Isn't it time to be going downstairs, Grace?" I asked.
"Yes, you're right," she replied firmly, clearly wanting to diffuse the tension in the room. "I'll introduce you to Margaret and the others, Sandra, there's been lots of new arrivals since you were last here."
"Alright," she answered, again in that vague tone, yet she was still staring at me as I helped Grace out of her chair and let her take my arm as we left the room. I was half expecting her to object to my presence, as we made slow progress along the corridor to the lift for the resident's use. She was following behind us, and it was only natural that she would want to help her own mother. But for some reason she remained silent, and as we entered the communal space downstairs, full of Grace's friends, she stopped in her tracks. We both turned to look at her, and she blinked hurriedly, resuming her steps.
I guided Grace into a comfortable armchair next to Susan, one of the newer residents, and the two women began to chat amicably. I turned to look at Sandra, and found her smiling at her mother, looking around the busy space. I caught her eye, and she gestured to the patio doors leading out onto the vast garden. I nodded, following her outside. She began to head around the back of the building, following the path that had been constructed earlier that year. We remained like this for a while, walking beside each other silently. It was almost as if we were strangers, but there was an atmosphere between us, alive with our history. Eventually I stopped, and this time it was her who turned to look at me questioningly. I decided to ask the one sentence that had been on my mind since the second I had first seen her here.
"Sandra, why are you here?"
She sighed deeply. "Because...things have changed."
I indicated to a nearby bench, encouraging her to develop her ambiguous response. She nodded, and we sat down, looking out over the grass, which was soaked in rain from the previous night.
"Well, where to begin. I don't know if you've heard, but I broke up with Max about six months ago. We got engaged, but it was sort of a spur of the moment thing, and, well, I don't know. I suppose we were both scared of the commitment, deep down, despite how long we'd been together. But I think it made us realise that we weren't really going anywhere, and it made us question what we were doing together, so we decided to call it a day."
"I'm sorry to hear that," I said quietly.
"It's alright. I think it's probably for the best, in the long run. Anyway, I think we split up about as amicably as we could do, under the circumstances, so I decided to continue with my job. It was alright, at first, I got my own little flat and everything, and Max spent most of the time away. But everything was just a reminder of how happy we'd been, even the city itself, and eventually I had to encounter him at work. It was just too much, too many memories."
I nodded as she took a deep breath, maintaining her firm gaze into the distance. "I understand."
"So I found a buyer for the flat, handed in my notice, got everything sorted out and left as quickly as I could," she summarised. "I'm getting old, Rob, and I need to be happy, I need to slow down. I suppose I'm technically retired now."
He smiled. "That makes two of us."
"Only your pension is better than mine," she said sarcastically.
"Maybe so, but I don't have anything to spend it on."
"Except your new Mercedes."
I chuckled. "I didn't know you'd seen it."
"I'm a copper, what do you expect?"
"True," I smiled. I'd feared that her practically unchanged appearance had been a facade for the fact that her character had altered beyond recognition, but now I realised that she was the same woman I'd known for all that time. She was still Sandra, it was just that her circumstances had changed, like she had said.
"I know I should have said this before, but thank you, for visiting my mum. It means a lot."
"It's my pleasure, honestly. She's a wonderful woman."
She smiled, although her expression was tinged with melancholy. "I know. I've realised that too late."
A silence fell between us; I didn't quite know what to say. She clearly had many regrets, probably even more than myself, but I couldn't do anything to lessen her pain.
"I'm glad she's here, though, at Whitemead," she picked up the conversation on a lighter note. "She's got lots of friends here, and you. She's happy."
"She is," I replied simply. "Sandra?"
"Hmm?"
"Don't beat yourself up about what happened in the past. You can't change it now, so all you can do is make the most of the present. I know you love your mum, despite everything that's happened, and she loves you too."
She finally turned to face me, her bright blue eyes staring directly into mine. "You're right. Thank you."
"It's only the truth." I said quietly. "Where are you staying, anyway?"
"In a hotel, I came over on the ferry last night, drove to London and booked into the first hotel I could find. I suppose I'm kind of…homeless," she chuckled, bemused. "Imagine that, homeless at sixty. What a strange life I lead."
"You never did do things by the book."
"I did until I met the boys, it all went downhill from there in terms of sticking to the rules," she laughed nostalgically.
I laughed along with her, remembering all the arguments we'd had about doing things by the book. How long ago that seemed.
"You could stay with me, if you like," I suggested after our laughter had ceased. "I have a spare room."
She blinked in surprise before smiling. "I'd like that. Thank you."
"It's my pleasure," I responded again, making her chuckle slightly.
"You seem to enjoy looking after us Pullman women," she remarked.
"I do," I replied truthfully. "Come on, we'd better go see your mum, I feel like I'm neglecting her today."
"You can't have us both you know, you'll have to choose at some point," she winked, rising from the wooden bench and falling into step alongside me, as we returned back to the home.
"I'm sure I'll manage, as long as you don't start arguing over me."
"When have you ever known us to avoid arguments? It'll be all-out war before long," she smirked.
"At least I know what I'm getting myself into."
"True, but you'll want to be out of it soon."
"I'll take my chances."
I sighed, stretching out my aching hands above the keyboard before removing my glasses and looking out over the garden through the window of my small study. I heard the slight creak of the door opening behind me and turned around to see Sandra, carefully carrying a cup of tea which she placed gently on my desk.
"Thanks," I smiled.
"What are you doing?" she asked curiously, eyeing the document on my computer screen. "You've been up here for ages."
"Writing my memoirs," I replied hesitantly, anticipating her reaction, which was highly likely to be one of amusement.
"I thought you were joking about that."
"No, I was serious. I'm quite enjoying it actually."
"Where are you up to so far?"
"The Sunday when you dramatically re-appeared in my life," I smirked.
"That was a good day," she smiled, sitting on the corner of the desk.
"Certainly was."
"You seem to have got far, that was only a few months ago."
"I'm just focusing on the important parts really, I started on Monday when you were out shopping,"
"Oh. Can I read it?"
"When it's finished,"
"And when will that be?"
"When I'm finished," I replied sarcastically, although she detected the darker meaning behind my words.
"In that case, I don't want to read it," she said quietly. She leant in to kiss me softly on the lips and then left the room, closing the door almost silently behind her.
I sighed, cursing myself for my unwarranted morbidity. Lately my thoughts had often turned to my own death, for some reason. I suppose it's only natural; I'm not getting any younger. I re-read the pages that I'd written today, lingering on the final line.
'I'll take my chances.'
It was then that I decided to end my memoirs there, for the simple reason that I had taken my chances, and it was the best thing I had ever done. That moment was the start of the rest of my life, and I needed to live it.