Forget Her Name(52)

I struggle to stand up. ‘My mum—’

‘No, don’t try to move,’ Pauline tells me, before hurrying out into the hall to explain to my mother what’s happened.

I’m alone at last.

Swiftly, I take the notebook out from the waistband of my jeans. There aren’t many good hiding places I can easily reach with a swollen ankle, but I’ve had twenty minutes to consider what to do.

Leaning as far over from the armchair as I can without overbalancing, I slide the notebook under the glass-fronted cabinet behind me.

I catch the base of the glass door by accident, and the display of cut-glass crystal and china inside rattles. But the notebook disappears underneath the cabinet, and a few seconds later I’m sitting upright in the armchair again, as if nothing has happened.

At that instant, the door is pushed wide open and my mother stumbles in, breathless and unhappy, carrying four heavy bags of Christmas shopping in both hands, her smart Gucci leather handbag in the crook of her arm.

She’s been to Harrods and Harvey Nicks, I realise, noting the logos on the gift bags. That kind of shopping expedition would normally leave her smiling and sated. But her eyes are wild, looking down at me in horror.

‘Oh my God, darling. What on earth have you done to yourself?’ She dumps her bags and bends over me, clucking with her tongue. She was always very capable with minor injuries when I was a kid. But she seems bewildered and a little lost for what to do. This is something a sticking plaster and some antiseptic cream won’t fix, I guess.

‘We did offer to call you,’ Pauline says.

Traitor, I think, flashing the policewoman a sharp look.

‘You should have done. You should have called me. Oh, your poor head.’ My mother touches the gash on my forehead. ‘The police officer says you fell down the cellar stairs. How in God’s name . . . ?’

I decide not to go through it again. Not with Pauline listening. ‘It’s nothing serious, probably just a sprained ankle,’ I start to say, trying to sound calm about it all, but Pauline interrupts.

‘Concussion may be a possibility,’ she says, correcting me. ‘Catherine gave her head quite a nasty bash, as you can see. But the bleeding’s stopped now, which is a good sign.’

My mother stares at her. ‘So she called you? The police?’

‘We were here about another matter. It was lucky we found her. She could have been stuck down there for hours.’ Pauline smiles, and holds out her hand. ‘I’m Pauline and this is Ahmed. May I ask your name?’

‘Ellen,’ Mum says warily, and they shake hands. ‘Ellen Bates. What other matter?’

‘It’s not important,’ I tell her.

She’ll find out soon enough about the wedding dress, when Dad reads the letter I’ve left in his study.

To my relief, Pauline ignores the question. ‘Don’t you worry, we’re whisking your daughter off to hospital to be checked over. Soon be right as rain.’

Just as she says this, two paramedics in green uniforms appear in the doorway – a middle-aged man and a young, freckle-faced woman.

‘Where’s Kasia?’ my mother asks, standing back to let them pass. ‘Why isn’t she here? She should be here.’

‘I don’t know,’ I say.

‘Hello, Catherine,’ the young paramedic says with a friendly smile. ‘I’m Frieda and this is Medhi.’ She puts her green emergency kit down beside the armchair and snaps on a pair of latex gloves. ‘Hurt your ankle too, did you?’

‘Yes.’

The police had already taken my trainer and sock off my right foot, so she sets to work examining the swollen ankle, her fingers cold through the latex, pressing gently.

‘Yes, it’s sprained, I’d say. Not too badly though, to judge by the amount of swelling. A cool-pack and a few hours’ elevation should see that right. Your head’s another matter. We’ll need to take you into A & E for that, okay? Get you checked over by a doctor.’

I am just agreeing reluctantly when there are footsteps on the stairs, quick and light. Suddenly Kasia is there in the doorway. Her hair is messy and her cheeks look a little flushed, like she’s been sleeping.

‘There you are,’ my mother exclaims, sounding almost angry, which surprises me.

Kasia stares in at us, her expression shocked.

‘Wh-what’s going on?’ She looks at the police uniforms in horror, then spots me in the armchair, my swollen ankle resting on a footstool, the paramedic strapping on some kind of cold compress. ‘Catherine?’ Her gaze lifts to my mother’s face, and I see guilt there at last. ‘Was there accident?’

My mother’s face is cold. ‘Where have you been?’

‘Upstairs.’

‘And you didn’t hear anything?’

Kasia glances at the police, then shakes her head. ‘I’m so sorry, Mrs Bates. I was . . . I was . . .’

‘Were you asleep?’

The cleaner bites her lip deeply, looking ashamed. ‘Just a little sleep. Half-hour in the guest bedroom. I was up all night with my little one.’ She taps her mouth. ‘Teething.’

‘Well, you’re here now.’ My mother’s face is stiff with outrage. ‘You’d better make yourself useful. Call my husband. Let him know what’s happened and tell him to ring me later. I’m going to the hospital with Catherine.’