One Small Act of Kindness Read online

  Silence fell again, apart from the half-conversation of the farmer on the phone to the police dispatcher, and birdsong in the trees around them. Something this dramatic shouldn’t be happening in such peaceful surroundings, thought Libby. In London, there’d be sirens by now, passers-by crowding round, opinions, people shoving in to help, or walk past. In Longhampton, there were just a lot of birds. Possibly a distant sheep.

  It made her feel very personally responsible.

  ‘Hang on,’ she murmured again, trying not to see her younger sister in the woman’s face. ‘You’re going to be all right. I’m not going to leave till you’re safely in that ambulance. I promise. I’m here.’

  What else could she do? Libby looked at the woman’s bare feet and took off her blue cashmere cardigan to cover them up. This was a strange place for her to be, wearing flip-flops, she thought. There was no footpath along this side of the road, and the hotel was a bit of a hike out of town. Sometimes Libby saw walkers strolling past with dogs; there was a bridle path running through the grounds, one of the routes that made up the Longhampton Apple Trail, but she obviously wasn’t on her way there – Libby knew from walking Margaret’s dog that the paths were still muddy enough to need wellies.

  Was she heading for the hotel? Libby looked around for a bag, but couldn’t see one. And there was definitely no booking for a single woman in the hotel that night – although, if Margaret had taken the booking . . .

  She checked her watch. Nearly ten to one. Jason hadn’t said what time he and Margaret would be coming back. Margaret liked to spin out her trips to the big Waitrose: not only did she much prefer the superior-quality produce, but it gave her a chance to show off Jason, her successful financial-expert son, to the various committee friends of hers who also liked to make a morning of their shopping. Libby didn’t want Margaret to be upset by the accident, but at the same time she didn’t want the unsupervised Harolds to explore too far into the hotel, not with the chaos upstairs. It had been a stupid idea to do all the rooms at once, she thought, mentally kicking herself. A beginner’s mistake – thinking like a homeowner, not a hotelier.

  Libby sat back on her heels, ashamed of obsessing about cleaning logistics when the unconscious stranger might be seriously injured.

  ‘It’s fine,’ she whispered, hoping the woman would hear her voice and know someone was trying to help her. ‘It’s fine. Not going to leave you.’

  She hummed tunelessly, as much to calm her own rising panic, until she heard footsteps approaching. Libby’s head bounced up, hoping for a reassuring figure in uniform or at least the farmer returning with an update. Instead, she saw Jason’s broad frame striding towards them and relief swept through her like the sun coming out from behind the clouds.

  Jason looked concerned but not worried – worrying wasn’t his style. But as he got closer, he frowned and ran a hand through his blond hair – farmer’s-boy thatch, as Libby used to tease him when they’d first met. It never looked quite right above his pinstripe suit, unruly and thick. Now, in his checked shirt and jeans, it looked fine. He’d fitted back in here as if he’d never left.

  ‘Has there been a shunt? I saw the triangles up just before the turning to the car park, so we left the car and—’ His eyes widened as he registered the woman on the ground. ‘Christ! What’s happened? Are you all right, babe?’

  ‘No.’ Libby rose to her feet, and wobbled. She felt light-headed. ‘I mean, I’m fine, but I don’t think she is.’

  ‘Hey, come here. You’re white as a sheet.’ Jason hugged her to his chest, dropping reassuring kisses onto the top of her head while he rubbed her back, and Libby felt her shoulders relax. His touch was comforting; she fitted into him perfectly, the top of her head level with his chin. Thank God Jason’s here, she thought, and realised how many ways she meant it.

  Then, just as she was about to ask if Margaret had gone straight in to the hotel, Libby saw her mother-in-law carrying two bags of shopping. For a moment she looked like the old Margaret – fussy, filling her clothes exactly, bustling somewhere – but the smile that had started on her round face slipped away as she took in the scene in front of her. In an instant she looked older, nearer seventy than sixty. She put the bags down and covered her mouth; her eyes, an unusual pale blue like Jason’s, filled with horror.

  ‘Oh my goodness.’ It came out like a wail. ‘What’s happened?’

  Libby wished she hadn’t had to see this. It was only six months since Donald had collapsed in reception, then died from a massive heart attack before the ambulance arrived. Margaret had been alone. Overnight her confidence had vanished, leaving a twitchiness that could easily turn to frightened tears. Libby broke free from Jason’s arms and took a step towards Margaret, blocking her view.

  ‘I don’t know. I didn’t see it – I just came out and found those two cars and this lady on the ground. Don’t worry – we’ve called an ambulance and the police are coming.’ Libby glanced down as she spoke; it felt odd talking over the woman’s body as if she weren’t there. ‘She’s going to be absolutely fine,’ she added, in case the woman could hear.

  ‘Sounds like you’ve done everything you can.’ Jason hovered between his wife and his mother, unsure who he should be comforting first.

  Libby gave him a nudge towards Margaret and muttered, ‘Take her inside. There’s a couple waiting in the lounge – can you deal with them? They’re called Harold, and they say they’re booked in for the weekend, but there’s no record on the computer.’

  Jason looked exasperated, but Libby shook her head. ‘It doesn’t matter. Don’t make a big deal about it, but we need to put them somewhere. See if Dawn’s finished one of the rooms. Or, we hadn’t started the carpet in room seven – try that.’

  ‘Is there something we can do?’ Margaret called. Her voice was brave but plaintive.

  ‘No, everything’s on its way, Margaret. You go inside.’ She glanced at Jason. ‘Hurry up before your mother checks them in to room four. They’ve got a dog.’

  His eyes rounded at the mention of room four. ‘Say no more.’ Jason squeezed her shoulder. ‘But are you sure you don’t want me to stay till the police get here? You’ve done your bit.’

  Libby half wanted to let him, but she felt a strange reluctance to leave the woman. ‘No, it’s fine. I said I’d stay with her and I will.’

  ‘What’s she called?’

  ‘Oh. I don’t know.’

  ‘Where’s her handbag?’

  They both looked around; there wasn’t one in sight.

  ‘I’ll check the hedges,’ said Jason, but Libby waved him away.

  ‘I’ll do that once the police arrive. You sort the guests out. And make sure your mother hasn’t let Bob into the lounge again. I spent all morning hoovering that sofa. He should be bald, the amount of hair that dog leaves behind him.’

  Jason opened his mouth to reply, but at that moment, in the distance, Libby heard the sirens tearing through the air, and the raw anguish on Margaret’s face washed away any lingering worries about the bookings system.

  The ambulance crew worked briskly around the injured woman, and as they were getting a stretcher ready, a police car arrived. Two officers began interviewing the drivers, marking off the scene and radioing instructions ahead.

  The controlled activity felt reassuring after the stillness before. Libby walked up and down the road, looking for the woman’s handbag, but couldn’t find anything. After that, she wasn’t sure what she was supposed to do. She wasn’t involved and yet she didn’t want to leave until she knew what was happening to the stranger. The paramedics had wrapped the woman in a blanket and strapped an oxygen mask over her pale face. She looked much smaller under the blanket.

  ‘And did you witness the accident, ma’am?’

  Libby jumped. A young police constable was standing right next to her. He had a local accent, with the stretchy vowels that made Libby thin
k of tractors and fields and cider orchards. Jason’s accent, sharpened by years in London, had already started to soften again, mainly thanks to the catching up he’d been doing in the Bells with his old mates, none of whom had ever managed to leave Longhampton for more than two years.

  ‘No, I heard a noise from inside the hotel.’ She gestured towards it. ‘My name’s Libby Corcoran. We own the Swan. When I got here, everything was just as you see it now.’

  ‘And you don’t know this lady?’

  ‘No, I’ve never seen her before.’

  ‘Did you pick up her handbag?’

  ‘I didn’t see one. I’ve checked the hedges, but there doesn’t seem to be anything. It might have gone through to the field.’

  The policeman looked frustrated. ‘I was hoping you’d say you’d picked one up. That’s going to make things trickier. No ID.’

  Libby was surprised. ‘None at all? No phone? Have you looked under the cars?’

  ‘We’ve searched the scene – there’s nothing. And you’re definitely saying you’ve never seen her before?’

  ‘Definitely,’ said Libby. ‘Why do you ask?’

  He frowned. ‘Because the only thing the ambulance lads found on her was your address, in her pocket – she’d written it down.’

  ‘My address?’ The unexpected connection between them startled her. Why would this stranger have her address? They were miles away from Wandsworth.

  ‘Yes.’ The policeman seemed surprised by Libby’s reaction. ‘You did say you ran the hotel, didn’t you?’

  ‘Um, yes, of course, the hotel.’ What was she thinking? That house wasn’t hers anymore, anyway. Someone else was wafting around her gorgeous kitchen now. Someone else soaking in her roll-top bath. She shook her head. ‘Sorry – I’m still getting used to the new job. We’ve only been here a couple of months.’

  The policeman smiled politely. ‘Thought you didn’t sound local, ma’am.’

  ‘If I had a fiver for everyone who’s said that—’ Libby began, then stopped, because she was going to say, ‘I’d have enough to pay some bills.’

  But the tingle of connection was still there: this dark-haired, bare-legged stranger had written down the name of the hotel, looked it up somewhere. She was coming to them. Another two minutes and she’d have been walking through the door and none of this would be a mystery. She was a stranger to Libby, but she knew Libby’s name, Jason’s name. The hairs on the back of Libby’s arms prickled up.

  ‘We don’t have anyone booked in for tonight,’ she said.

  ‘She might have been calling in to enquire about work. Have you advertised for any staff recently? Cleaners? Cooks?’

  ‘No, we haven’t. We’re not taking on any new staff.’

  Far from it. When Jason had gone over the books, it had been touch and go as to whether they could afford to keep on both part-time cleaners.

  ‘Maybe she was meeting someone at the hotel?’ The police officer knitted his brows. ‘A friend? A boyfriend?’

  ‘Excuse me,’ joked Libby, ‘it’s not that kind of hotel,’ but then realised when the policeman’s ears turned cerise that that was a townie joke too far.

  ‘We don’t really get spur-of-the-moment guests, and we don’t do lunch or dinner, so there aren’t many drop-ins,’ she amended hastily. ‘I’ll certainly keep an eye on anyone arriving looking for her.’

  ‘If you could call us, I’d appreciate it.’ He started to take her contact details, and out of the corner of her eye, Libby saw the stretcher being loaded into the back of the ambulance. The woman was almost invisible under the blankets, apart from the fall of brown hair that reminded Libby of her sister’s fringe, always getting in her eyes, and she felt a tug of guilt: she’d promised she’d stay with her.

  ‘Should I go with her? To the hospital?’ she asked. ‘Will she be all right on her own?’

  ‘It’s kind of you to offer, but there isn’t much room in the back of those ambulances, and they’ll want to get her straight in for a CT scan.’ The policeman’s radio crackled and he turned to answer it. ‘I’ve got your details – and if you find anything else, give me a ring.’

  ‘OK.’ Libby watched the ambulance’s blue lights start up again and she felt cold inside, thinking of the grazed legs, the pink toenails. The flashes of colour on the pale skin. ‘I just wish . . . there was something more I could do.’

  ‘You’ve done plenty just by staying with her and getting us out as soon as you could’ – he checked his notes – ‘Mrs Corcoran.’

  ‘Libby,’ she said. ‘It was nothing. What else are you supposed to do?’ The other officer was looking at her now, standing next to the surly Mini driver, who was holding a breathalyser and trying not to cry.

  ‘Plenty don’t do anything, believe me. You’d be surprised. Now, then. Get someone to make you a cup of sweet tea, eh?’ he added, patting her arm. ‘The shock will probably hit you once you sit down. Don’t always sink in at first. But you’ve done a good turn here today.’

  Libby managed a smile. His kindliness, not the shock, was making her tearful.

  The ambulance siren wailed, making Libby jump as it accelerated away. She watched until it vanished, then hugged herself tightly.

  ‘We’ll be in touch if there are any . . . developments,’ said the policeman, and with the dip of his head on the word ‘developments’, the reality of what had happened finally did hit Libby, square in the chest, and a cold shiver ran through her whole body.

  Chapter Two

  The first thing she noticed when she woke up was the smell of antiseptic and coffee.

  There was someone in the room with her. A woman. A nurse in blue overalls, checking the charts at the foot of her bed. She was frowning. When she moved, the nurse didn’t stop checking the charts, but turned the frown quickly into a smile and said, ‘Good morning!’

  She started to say, ‘Where am I?’ but her throat was too sore and dry, and nothing came out apart from a croak.

  ‘Don’t move,’ said the nurse. ‘Let me get you a glass of water.’

  It took the time between the nurse leaving the room and returning with a very cold plastic cup of water to process where she was: a hospital room, on her own, view over a half-full car park, heavy sheets pinning her to the bed. Her brain seemed to be moving extremely slowly.

  How did I get here? she thought, and instead of an answer there was just a heavy black sensation in her head like a rubbery cloud, filling up where the answer should be. She felt that should worry her more than it actually did.

  ‘There you go. Sip it slowly. You’re probably still a bit groggy. Been out of it a little while, haven’t you?’ The nurse guided the cup into her hand.

  She smiled back automatically, but felt something stopping her facial muscles moving. She reached up and her fingers touched bandages. Rough elasticated bandages on her cheek.

  There were bandages on her head. How did that happen? What had she done? She lifted her hand upwards to feel where the bandages stopped, but there was a drip attached to the back and the thin tube caught on the blanket.

  The nurse stopped her moving, gently but firmly.

  ‘Don’t touch the bandages. I know they must be itchy.’ She slipped a blood pressure sleeve up her arm and started the machine. ‘You’ve had serious concussion. Probably feels as if you’ve got the hangover to end all hangovers!’

  Bad hangover. That felt about right. Her head was throbbing with the worst headache she’d ever had, as if her brain was too big for her skull, and her eyes felt sore and gritty, and the inside of her mouth . . . Rough. But there was something else. Something bigger at the edges of her mind, something that kept sliding sideways out of her fuzzy grasp.

  She was in a hospital, but she had no idea how or why she’d got here. Everything was fine, but in an oddly synthetic way. As if everything was a little slow. A little far away, lik
e a bad recording.

  Why am I not panicking more? she wondered, and before she could speak, the nurse said, ‘And you’ll still feel woozy, with the painkillers.’ She slipped off the sleeve. ‘Blood pressure’s fine. Well done. Can I check your pupils? Look over here . . . And here . . .’

  She blinked as she focused on the nurse’s finger, moving slowly backwards and forwards, side to side. There was a name badge: Karen Holister. She had short grey hair, black-rimmed glasses. Her face wasn’t familiar, but her voice was. And as she followed the nurse’s finger, the movement of her eyes felt familiar too. She didn’t know why. A distant flutter of fear skimmed across the back of her mind like wind rippling across a deep lake.

  ‘What happened?’ It didn’t sound like her voice. It was scratchy and faint. It ached to speak – not just her throat, but her head, her chest.

  ‘You were in a road accident. You came in to A&E unconscious, and you’ve been under observation for two days. Don’t worry – someone’s been with you the whole time.’

  Two days? Had she been here for two days?

  She sipped at the cup to distract herself. The icy water hurt as it ran down her parched throat and increased the throbbing in her temples. Hung-over. Was this a hangover? Had she been so drunk that she’d blacked out? Been found somewhere? Nothing made sense.

  ‘Was that why I was in the accident?’ The words came out painfully.

  The nurse took away the plastic cup. ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Was I . . . drunk?’ She probed in her mind for the details, but there was nothing, just darkness. A blank space. Like putting your hands into water and connecting with nothing.

  ‘No, you weren’t drunk. You were hit by a car.’

  A car? Hit by a car. Again, nothing. Nothing in the memory. No ambulance, no pain, no panic. ‘Where am I?’

  ‘Longhampton Hospital. We put you in a side room because it’s rather noisy out there.’ The nurse was checking her notes, then checking the upside-down watch on her blue tunic top. ‘The head injuries specialist will be along to check on you again very soon.’