Time had no meaning for John now, as he drove over to Joe Channing's house. He felt that he was on some perpetual journey, while time lay suspended. The minutiae of his profession, lying on the table in his chambers lay in some other dimension, that was separated from him. He had pulled one rabbit out of a hat in talking to Charlie about her mother, but wouldn't lay bets that he could perform another miracle in talking to Joe Channing about his daughter. He dared not think of the effect that the bombshell would have on Joe. He knew only too well of self evident pride that Joe took in his very glamorous, successful daughter. The trouble was that he found it far too easy to identify with Joe's point of view, as he was a father himself.
As he sat patiently at a set of traffic lights, the irony was not lost on him that he was being called upon to exercise qualities quite different than those which paid him for a living. He normally scrutinized the detailed facts of a case ,nosed out those that were hidden from casual scrutiny, and applied the full scope of his retentive memory of legal precedent. Added on to this, was his sense of where he could find the law that he could not actually recall. Incisive thinking and an ordered memory had carried his career a long way. What he was called on to do was to show different qualities, to be wise and compassionate of speech, to be strong and supportive for others when he did not know if he was being strong enough for himself. All he knew was that he had to steel himself for what he had to do. His sense of irony picked up the stray thought that this was what Helen had to do for a living, and that he had relied on her strength. In a similar way, Connie's livelihood included supporting anxious patients and relatives alike.
He drove his car into the well remembered entrance, and drew up on the gravel drive. John smiled briefly at the huge edifice which was impossibly ornamental in its splendidly gothic style, being built in an era when money was no object. It was so obviously a relic of an aristocratic age, extravagant in its buttresses and sheer grandeur, and somehow typical of Joe Channing's family background. The elderly square-sided Rolls Royce similarly made no concessions to the modern age which, judging by the way it was going, was not necessarily a bad thing. The visible presence of Joe's mansion brought back feelings of gentle nostalgia in John, of uncomplicated days when he and George would call over to receive Joe's generous hospitality and for the two of them to lock horns in debate.. It was then that John had learned that, while politically he was to the right of Genghis Khan, he was certainly not stupid. In fact, he had often seen that hidden verbal gambit come from out of nowhere, and that only with an adroit lightning parry could he hold his own. At moments like these, George would fade into the background, as she tolerantly indulged the men at play or, if the return match was fought at their house, she would busy herself in the kitchen.
John's smile faded when he dragged himself out of the mists of the past to the present , and his spirits dropped further when Joe greeted him effusively. They headed straight towards Joe's comfortable sitting room, whose furnishings and huge bookcase had hardly changed in thirty years. If only times were different, John could bask in that comfortable feeling.
"Do you want a malt whisky, John? I forgot, you don't often drink." Joe offered.
"Well, just this time, Joe. Abstemiousness is all very well but it can be taken too far"
"The politically correct brigade have a lot to answer for," rumbled Joe scornfully, reaching for the nearest pair of cut glass tumblers, and pouring out two generous measures. John is mellowing nicely over the years, he reflected, before continuing to hold forth on his take on the modern world.
"The country has gone to the dogs, John. In my younger days, there was a level playing field and you stuck to it. There were standards, John, but it didn't stop us driving out to a nice country inn. We could drink some of the finest malt whiskies and be damned to puritanical licencing laws. We drove home all right without any trouble. No breathalisers in those days. Now, the country is run by the worst kind of spivs and racketeers imaginable, and to make it worse, they are intolerably mealy mouthed about enjoying some of life's simple pleasures. They want to inflict their miserable existences on other people. And talking about Houghton………"
Joe broke off, grinning all over his face.
"Couldn't agree with you more, Joe, especially about him"
"You know, this feels like the old days. It's a pity George isn't here just to make this meeting complete. I suppose she is working on a case of hers"
"Ahh." Murmured John.
Joe shot a swift, keen look at the younger man. Despite their one time estrangement from each other and lack of contact, he could remember all of John's little mannerisms very well. That utterance meant that he had something to confess.
"Have you seen George recently? In fact the last time I remember seeing her was about three weeks ago when she brought Kay Scarpetta, that very impressive American pathologist friend of hers. I suppose that she's been busy"
"George has been busy all right." Murmured John in ominous tones despite his best attempts.
"You mean in court? I heard about how George and Jo Mills secured Barbara's acquittal , no doubt thanks also to the trial being in your capable hands"
John looked at the expectant, hopeful look in Joe's eyes. It clearly begged John to say that there was some harmless explanation of George's absence. He looked at the man and it worried him that Joe was looking older and more frail than his mental image of the man. It occurred to him that he could quite easily suffer a heart attack. For precious moments, he hovered in an uncharacteristic attack of indecisiveness before the words took shape.
"You had better prepare yourself for news that is not good"
"I don't understand…"
"I've just been to see George in hospital today, as she was admitted there for a serious operation, and I volunteered to see you tonight to break the news to you." John articulated in deliberately slow and measured tones.
"What operation?" Joe gasped, a wild look in his eye. John mentally registered Joe's awareness that the worst fate that could befall him had arrived.
"I hate to say it Joe but I can put it no other way. Unknown to all of us, George has had breast cancer. When she finally came public on it, she went into hospital at very short notice but too late to save her breast"
Joe's mouth hung open and he was speechless. It was as well that he was sitting comfortably, or else he would have collapsed. The silence was torture to John as it exposed him by forcing him to fill the silences. Eventually, Joe broke the silence in a faint gasp which trailed off.
"Will she… "
"George will be in hospital till the weekend, and will hopefully be able to go home but she'll be off work for a bit. She will need a course of chemotherapy. I think she's in the very best hands at the Hadlington hospital. I know that for a fact because two of the people looking after her appeared as witnesses at Barbara's trial"
John's voice faded away, as Joe suddenly turned and poured himself a very large measure of neat whisky. He drank it down with a rapidity that surprised and alarmed John. However, he supposed that there was no alternative.
"I'm sorry, John, but I didn't hear what you were saying. She'll live, won't she"
Joe's eyes were vacant and his hand shook, as he placed the glass down on the side. John spoke clearly and distinctly as he carefully rephrased his remarks.
" They said that George should be able to go home at the weekend but she'll be off work for a bit. She will need a course of chemotherapy. The three surgeons that we talked to will give her the very best care, not only because they are caring professionals but we know two of them as witnesses at Barbara's trial so they aren't total strangers……….."
"We"
"I was at the hospital with Jo Mills who accompanied George to hospital"
"I thought that you were at Warwick"
"Jo phoned me up two days ago so I hot footed it down here"
As Joe refilled his glass, John was fairly sure that Joe had understood that simple statement, after looking glazed eyed at him with incomprehension.
"She must get better. I mean, I always thought that George is in blooming health, so strong, while I am in the autumn of my life, helped along by drinking too much whisky." Joe pronounced in slightly slurred tones, drinking the second measure down with another gulp.
John let Jo carry on with his drinking without comment. He joined him with a smaller measure of whisky, which he sipped. He knew that Joe needed some sort of anaesthetic, to dull his mind, and to cast some kind of foggy numbness to ease the pain and blunten its sharp edges. Why he did not get plastered on his own account, John could not work out afterwards. All he could think of was that it didn't feel right and that some obscure instinct repressed such a temptation.
"I mean, I can remember George when she was little. It was only yesterday." Joe continued, his eyesight trying his best to focus on the portrait picture of her when she was eight. It held pride of place on the mantelpiece and he and his wife towering over her to left and right of her. He swore that if only he could focus his eyes, he could picture the innocent round cheeks and immaculately brushed golden hair of long ago. It fell down over her shoulders and exposed that pleased as punch expression on her face, as if she were the luckiest child on the planet. And indeed, she was, from what he remembered at the time.
"I remember when her mother died. It was such a shock to me. She was the bravest child that there could ever have been." Sighed Joe, talking half to himself.
"I almost envy George her spirit." Murmured John somberly, his own dark memories stirred from their unquiet grave. His words were unheard by Joe except as a generalized response that took the edge off his loneliness and grief.
"I can remember her holding my hand at the church service." Burst out Joe. He was talking in short random snatches of sentences from random thoughts that invaded his mind. "I never felt more wretched in my life when I saw the coffin being carried into the church
"George has a lot to live for," reasoned John smoothly, "and you of all people know how obstinate she can be"
So the evening wore on. Joe was locked into a primal fear, that not only his wife had been taken from him, but so would his daughter. John conjured up as much positive, hopeful spirit as he could to try and allay Joe's fears while a tiny portion of his mind secretly understood how Joe felt. So might he react if ever Charlie's life were ever threatened. They talked away the hours until Joe's voice became sleepier as the alcohol seeped into his consciousness and he finally drifted off to sleep in his chair.
John looked around, and became conscious of his surroundings. Apart from the grandfather clock in the hallway chiming out the hour, an utter silence hung over the house. It felt as if all of them were somehow removed from the busy, bustling world in some other dimension of existence. The low lights cast a glow in the room but left much of the room shadowed in darkness. John took in the details of the furnishings which had hardly changed over the decades and weren't greatly different from when he had first visited, many years ago. He sank back in his chair and waited. He was tired enough on his own account, now he came to think of it.
"How do you feel about everything, John?" Joe suddenly mumbled out of nowhere though the natural resonance of his tones made him still audible. He was slumped deep in his armchair while next to him, the level in the whisky bottle had dropped alarmingly.
For the first time in his life, John's mind went totally blank. He had spent the last two days rushing round from one disconnected event to another, talking to surgeons and trying to remember every last syllable while his memory felt fogged up, unreliable, finally acting as social worker cum councilor. Buried deep below this frenzy of activity were his own feelings. He could not even begin to describe them.
"I'm sorry to say that I don't know. I suppose that I feel somewhat helpless and this goes against the grain. It doesn't usually happen to me. I remember a couple of times when George went through one of her anorexic phases and at least I could do something about it. I could try and understand her and talk to her. I feel very strongly that the spoken word can change things. After all, that is why I set out to become a high court judge. All I know is that I can't help her now the way I want to"
"I'm sure there's a way"
"I can't lose her, Joe" John murmured in a soft tone.
"Well, we'll have to make sure we don't." Joe tried to answer, making a better attempt at adult reassurance than his alcohol intake merited.
What should he do, John wondered? He had gradually sipped at his glass and had refilled it as time had gone on and he doubted if he would pass the breathaliser test if he were stopped, especially knowing how potent Joe's whisky was. He dared not take the chance.
Suddenly, Joe's housekeeper made a tactful entrance into the room and John's tired mind made one last decision. If it weren't inconveniencing anyone, he would stay the night. He knew very well that the bedrooms in Joe's mansion were very large and very cold but that was a minor consideration if he were to ensure that Joe at least got through that most difficult first night.