‘Oh, dear me, no,’ he chuckled. ‘I can just about climb stairs.’
Abigail understood.
He elaborated anyway. ‘A bottle of whisky and a rather large selection of pills. Thought it would do the trick.’
Abigail meant to ask what had happened, but it was as though they had a silent understanding – no questions.
‘Let me buy you a cup of coffee,’ he offered. ‘It’s the least I can do to say thank you.’
Abigail looked at him, bemused. ‘What for?’
‘For saving Ulysses, of course.’
She offered Sidney a wisp of a smile before turning her attention to the dog. He was still sitting by her feet, staring up at her, waiting for a fuss. Abigail couldn’t resist. She knelt and stroked the top of his head and down those silky, smooth ears. She’d forgotten what a spaniel’s ears felt like. Abigail stood up. ‘I think you’ve got it wrong. Ulysses saved me.’
Sidney smiled but didn’t comment.
They walked together across the bridge and settled on a small café along a walkway past The Tower of London, overlooking the River Thames and the South Bank on the other side.
Abigail put her chilled hands around her takeaway cup of strong black coffee. She raised her eyes to look at Sidney, guessing he was well into his seventies. She didn’t ask why he had wanted to take the pills and end it all, just as he didn’t ask her what she had been doing on that bridge. She guessed that, like herself, he’d lost someone he couldn’t live without. Perhaps he even blamed himself. She glanced at the dog sitting by her feet and asked, ‘So, who saved you?’ She wondered if it had been Ulysses.
‘Arthritis.’
‘Pardon me?’
‘I couldn’t open the bottle. I had to ask my daughter. By the time she’d come round during a shopping trip, showing me her new clothes, chatting, well, the moment was lost.’
Abigail stared at Sidney.
‘Moments. That’s all we have, precious moments, until they’ve run out.’
Abigail started thinking about the clock that was no longer hanging on the wall. Time lost. People lost.
‘Who did you lose?’ he asked quietly.
Abigail took a deep breath. ‘My husband.’
Sidney reached across the table and squeezed her hand.
‘And you?’ she asked.
His bottom lip trembled. ‘My grandson.’
‘I’m so sorry.’ The question she wanted to ask –how did he die?– didn’t pass her lips.
‘I feel responsible. My family says I shouldn’t blame myself, but …’
Abigail nodded. She knew all about blaming herself, even though the incident itself wasn’t her fault. Toby had been on that bridge trying to save a young man who had been knifed in a street brawl, but no one had noticed that he’d still had a knife on him. He’d stabbed Toby once in the heart.
Abigail tried to focus on Sidney sitting opposite her, with his grey afro hair, sunglasses and ready smile. She didn’t want to think about her late husband starting his shift, getting that call, and being brought back in his own ambulance, fighting for his life – and losing.
Sidney put his coffee cup down. ‘He was only sixteen. My daughter’s relationship broke down when my grandson was small, so I was like a father to him. He went off the rails. It was all that Windrush business.’
Abigail recalled a news article about the Windrush generation. Apparently, many children had arrived with their parents from former British colonies like Jamaica to settle in Britain. They had travelled on their parents’ passports, and the government had not formally given the children British citizenship, so they had no official documentation. Many had lived in the UK for most of their lives, and decades later, the government had decided they would send them back.
‘What happened? Are they going to deport you?’
‘They did. I’m back now with some compensation money in my pocket and a British passport.’