‘I can’t have lunch at a time like this!’ she exclaimed in horror.
‘It’ll be good for you to get out of the house, have some hot soup, it’ll make the time go faster.’
‘But the telephone?’ she stammered.
‘I’ll divert it to my mobile. Don’t worry, when they know something they’ll call us wherever we are,’ he reassured her.
News travelled fast in Polperro. Ingrid chain-smoked, unable to paint or rise in her usual vague way above her cares. Inigo closed his philosophy books and sat with his wife in front of the fire, pondering on the meaning of death. Nuno shook his head and knocked back a glass of brandy lamenting that it should have been him. ‘My time is nigh,’ he sighed. ‘Those boys had years ahead of them.’
Sam sat in front of his computer at work, longing to call Federica. Molly had
rung up and told him the news. He had immediately turned on the radio and listened to the details of the crash, wishing he could comfort her like he had that day in the bluebells after she had overheard Arthur’s marriage proposal. She had been so young and forlorn then, gazing up at him with timid eyes, adoring him unconditionally. He recalled the sweet kisses in the barn and their awkward confrontation in the kitchen at Christmas and felt her drifting away from him. He already loathed Torquil Jensen. ‘What sort of a name is that, anyway?’ he thought to himself with resentment. In her confusion Molly had forgotten to tell him that Federica was engaged to be married. She had only remembered to give him Federica’s new number and ask him to call her. ‘She needs our support,’ she had explained.
Sam doodled around the number he had written on the corner of the Evening Standard and debated whether or not she would be pleased to hear from him. Then he pushed his reservations aside and dialled the number. He leant back in his chair and listened to the tone with an accelerated heart. Finally it ceased and a gravelly male voice responded with urgency, ‘Torquil here.’
Sam’s gut twisted with irritation. ‘It’s Sam Appleby for Federica,’ he stated coldly.
The man indicated his disappointment with a loud sigh. ‘She’s in the bath, I’m afraid.’
‘Oh,’ Sam replied impatiently, taking off his glasses and rubbing the bridge of his nose in agitation.
‘Can she call you back later? We’d like to leave the lines free. I don’t know whether you know but...’
‘I do. Just tell her I called,’ he interrupted and hung up. Angrily he stabbed his letter opener into the front of the newspaper. He regretted having telephoned at all. ‘Torquil Jensen,’ he scowled under his breath, ‘what an imbecile.’
‘Who was that?’ Federica shouted from the bathtub. Torquil chewed the inside of his cheek, deliberating whether or not to tell her. He didn’t much like the sound of Sam Appleby. His arrogance grated. Anyway, Federica didn’t need any male friends now; she had him. ‘Nothing, sweetness, just the office,’ he replied with a smirk.
Sam Appleby might have hung up on him but he had just had the last word.
Torquil took Federica out to lunch in a small restaurant around the corner from
his house. The waiter, who knew Torquil well, gave them a table by the window and Federica sat staring unhappily out onto the grey pavement. ‘Uncle Toby has always been like a father to me,’ she said, stirring her spoon about the soup bowl. ‘My own father never bothered really, but Uncle Toby always had time for us. I have so many memories of him.’ She sighed, not bothering to wipe away a heavy tear that balanced on the end of her eyelashes.
‘You’re talking in the past, sweetness,’ said Torquil, stroking her arm with tenderness. ‘I’m sure he’s alive, you’ll see.’
‘Oh, he’s dead,’ she replied sadly. ‘If he were alive we would have heard.’
At that moment Torquil’s mobile rang with a loud shriek that jolted the entire restaurant.
‘Torquil here,’ he answered briskly. ‘Ah, Mrs Cooke, it’s Torquil Jensen. Any news?’
‘Is Federica with you?’ Helena asked, ignoring the usual pleasantries.
‘I’ll pass you over.’
‘Fede, sweetie, I’m afraid we still don’t know for sure. There are thirty-two dead. Toby and Julian aren’t among those, but they’re not among the survivors either. They still don’t know. They’re still looking. We’re all trying so hard to be
strong. Arthur’s been wonderful. He’s taken over completely. I didn’t think he had it in him.’
‘Oh Mama, I’m praying so hard,’ she whispered.