Chapter 5
5
The impetus with which Fiona had started her house reorganisation had lessened somewhat by the time she arrived back home that evening. But, given that stopping would mean leaving the house in disarray, she ploughed on, shifting cobwebbed boxes and faded containers up and down the stairs, Marie Kondo-ing her wardrobe and clearing out drawers so crammed full, it took a spatula to prise them open. It was in one of those particularly jam-packed places – a unit in the living room where she stuffed all the birthday cards they received each year, with the promise of going in and sorting them out at some point – that she stumbled across the photos from Joseph’s sixth birthday party.
In truth, she’d been on the lookout for them. Her reason behind the wardrobe clear-out had been that, perhaps, they’d been stored away in one of the shoeboxes at the back. And, had she not found what she was looking for downstairs, she’d planned to move on to her mother’s old belongings in the spare room, in case they’d ended up in there. But she’d found them. The paper envelope was creased and yellowed, but inside sat thirty-six photographs of that memorable day.
It had helped that his birthday had coincided with Stephen’s photography phase, although it did mean that there were very few of Stephen himself among them. In fact, most of the pictures were of herself and Joseph. Or at least, parts of Joseph. He had been so excited, she remembered, he’d refused to stand still for even a minute, meaning over half the images were blurred, or of single limbs: an arm that was still in shot when the shutter clicked, a leg, twisting as he ran away.
Somehow though, they’d managed to grab him and pin him down long enough for someone to take one of the three of them together. Stephen was holding the cake – a two-tiered creation covered with fondant snakes and leaves and topped with an edible elephant and tiger – with the candles lit and Joseph was sitting on her lap. Eyes scrunched shut, she was ready to help him blow them out, while his hand was already reaching for the marzipan elephant. There, in the background, floated the parakeet balloon, just as she had described to Octavia. She was glad she’d been able to persuade her that the rainbow balloon arch was a good idea, even if she did wish she’d thought of it herself.
Shuffling them back together again, she placed the photographs in the envelope. All except the picture of the three of them. That one she wiped with her sleeve and placed on the mantelpiece. Tomorrow, she would look for a frame for it, she thought. After all, she was on holiday.
Shards of sunlight sneaked between the curtains as she rolled over onto the cold side of the bed, the sheet still perfectly flat and unrumpled. She’d slept in their bedroom. At least that was an improvement on the previous three nights although, from the way she was struggling to open her eyes, she probably could have done with going to bed a little earlier. What time had she finished tidying downstairs? She struggled to remember. Two? Maybe three?
Forcing herself to sit up, she checked the time, only to blink and do a double take. Ten thirty – that was practically midday! And no wonder her head was throbbing. The last time she’d gone that long without coffee must have been when she was pregnant. After checking that no emails or messages had come through while she’d slept, she swung her legs off the bed. Then, rubbing her temples, she made her way downstairs and straight to the coffee machine.
The television in the lounge was still on and tuned to a news channel. For some reason, the voices grated even more than ever today, and she went in to switch it off, when something caught her attention.
‘Early-morning joggers first noticed the sperm whale this morning,’ the presenter told her. ‘The mature female, who has been nicknamed Martha, has been most obliging, swimming peacefully up and down the river. She looks perfectly happy, don’t you think, Rick?’ she posed the question to her fellow presenter.
‘I do, Stephanie,’ he replied. ‘Now I’ve read here that sperm whales are the largest of the toothed whales, and females tend to stay in large pods for their entire life, so it is unclear at the moment how she came to be separated from her family.’
‘Or how on earth she wasn’t spotted before now.’
Fiona dropped down onto the sofa and stared at the screen. For such a large creature, it was surprisingly difficult to make out in the grey-brown water of the Thames. A minute of live footage showed nothing but passing boats and tourists on the bank, hoping to catch a glimpse of Martha. Her eyes were fixed on the television screen. She’d been whale watching herself, off the coast of New Zealand, and it had been an enjoyable trip but nothing amazing, like in the photos they showed you, where whales breach right in front of the boat. A vague dot on the horizon was the best they’d got. This is probably going to be the same, she thought. She was just about to give up and go and make her coffee, when out of the water came the head.
‘Holy crap!’ she exclaimed.
It was an aerial view, the sleek, grey body just breaking the surface, causing foaming ripples to fan out in its wake. She sat back in the sofa, her mouth wide open.
‘We have with us today marine biologist Professor Ben Arkell.’
They were back in the studio. The image from the Thames had shrunk to a thumbnail in the corner of the screen.
‘Professor Arkell, what can you tell us about sperm whales? I’m guessing that the Thames isn’t their natural habitat?’
‘No. It’s certainly not.’ The marine biologist looked concerned as he spoke. ‘Sperm whales are usually found in much, much deeper water, although it has been the case that individuals, and sometimes pods, have beached themselves on UK shores before. But even so, this is highly unusual.’
The presenter nodded, attempting to appear knowledgeable. ‘And so, can we expect to see more appearing? Whole pods, as you say? Or is this just a slight navigational error by one lone specimen?’
‘I think we can agree it was definitely not a slight navigational error here,’ the biologist replied, his expression pinched. ‘The question is how she became stranded and so far from her pod.’
‘Pods are important to this type of whale, I take it?’
More cheek sucking and nodding from Professor Arkell. ‘Sperm whale pods can reach up to sixty individuals, normally females and juveniles. A female of this age would almost certainly have calves and they’re exceptionally family orientated. It’s worrying to think what might have happened.’
The live picture expanded to fill the screen again and the cameraman zoomed out to show just how alone poor Martha was.
‘So, do you have any idea what could have happened?’ It was the female presenter now.
‘I have several,’ he told them, ‘but all unsubstantiated. What is paramount is to find a way to get her back to the open sea.’
‘And to her family,’ Fiona whispered to herself.
She remained glued to the screen. Sixty whales, she kept thinking over and over. Sixty whales meant fifty-nine other family members. Fifty-nine who should be by this whale’s side, but weren’t. And here Fiona was, finding it odd in a house with only two fewer people. It must be awful for Martha. Then again, perhaps she liked the peace and quiet? Christmas Day with all the nieces and nephews was enough to put Fiona off family gatherings for another year, and there were only twelve of them all told. Maybe the Thames was Martha’s equivalent of a spa break. Fiona took out her laptop and began a search of the general behaviour patterns of female sperm whales.
It seemed the expert on the subject was indeed correct in what he was telling them, but it still felt ridiculous. How could such a giant creature – or Physeter macrocephalus , as she now knew its correct name to be – possibly end up in the heart of London, without someone having noticed it before? It was the size of a bus.
Throughout the morning, more information and images arrived on her screen. Perhaps the whale has a son, she thought, watching Martha glide under Vauxhall Bridge. Perhaps she’d been looking out for him, doing what she thought was best for him, only to be blindsided and suddenly ending up on the wrong path, all on her own. Fiona’s heart ached. How was this right? How could someone not have stopped the whale making this mistake, long before she even got this far? But there were rescuers with her now, at least. Surely they would get her safely back where she belonged.
The arrival of the eleven o’clock news headlines made her suddenly aware of the time. Looking down at her bare legs, she blinked as she realised that she’d not even showered yet, let along dressed nor, as evidenced by the dreadful taste in her mouth, had she cleaned her teeth. The thought of staying that way – undressed as opposed to unwashed – flitted through her mind. She was allowed to wallow, wasn’t she? Isn’t that what women do when their husbands walk out or their only child flies the nest? And she was faced with the double whammy. She could break with routine. A momentary pity party began to form in her mind, only to disappear at the sight of Martha passing a group of intrigued rowers. Placing her coffee cup down, she stood and faced the television.
‘You’re still going,’ she told the whale, whose silhouette she could just make out under the water. ‘If you can, then so can I.’
After cleaning her teeth, including an extra-long gargle of mouthwash, she showered and dressed, picking an outfit from the back of the wardrobe. The short, burgundy number was something she’d put off wearing, on the basis that it seemed a bit too glam for daywear. But today, glam was what she wanted. Glam and confident. Empty nest syndrome, that’s all it was – for Stephen too. He would see it soon enough. Besides, however bad her day was, it wasn’t anywhere near as bad as poor Martha’s. And if that whale wouldn’t give up, then nor would she. It had been a long time since she could remember having a role model in her life but, standing there, thinking about Martha, she was pretty sure she’d found one again. Or at least, a kindred spirit.
‘Fiona?’ Annabel leapt to her feet the moment she came through the door. ‘What are you doing here? I thought you were in Brussels until Friday?’
‘Yes, well…’ She took off her coat in an elegant sweep and hung it on the rack. ‘Stephen got called away unexpectedly. So, we decided to cancel.’
‘Oh no!’ Annabel looked genuinely devastated by this news. ‘Is everything okay now? What do you need me to do? Your schedule’s all clear.’
‘It’s fine. I’ll just reply to some emails.’
‘Coffee? Lunch?’
‘If I need anything, I’ll buzz through.’ With a fixed smile, she stepped into her office.
The journey to work had taken less than fifteen minutes, yet her first course of action, after switching on her laptop, was to head straight to the television news channel to see if there were any updates on Martha. As it turned out, there were.
‘…There was a sighting of a small pod just north of Aberdeen last week, and it’s thought that Martha could have been a member of this, although it still remains a mystery how she became separated from them.’ It was Professor Arkell on the screen again. ‘In recent years, there have been cases of marine mammals’ navigational abilities being disrupted by military sonar. Of course, let’s not forget Benny the beluga whale who made head?—’
‘Can I get you any lunch?’ Annabel’s head appeared around the door. ‘I know you said you were fine, but I was about to take a break and grab a sandwich. So I thought I’d check again.’ Her eyes widened at the voices from the computer. ‘Oh, you’ve been watching the news too? Sad, isn’t it?’
‘Her poor family.’
‘I wonder what happened.’
Together, they stared at the screen. Martha was cruising gently through the water, her dark silhouette gliding beneath the surface. Another group of rowers – or possibly the same ones as before – had come up alongside her and were keeping a far closer proximity than Fiona would have thought was safe.
‘The news said it could be something to do with the military using sonar,’ Fiona said after two minutes of silent study. ‘Anyway, they’re talking about using boats to guide her back out through the Thames Estuary.’
‘Would that work?’
‘They think so.’
After another minute, Annabel made a more concerted effort to leave. ‘Are you sure I can’t get you anything? I’ll be going past that New York sandwich deli you like?’
‘Perhaps just a coffee,’ she replied, mainly to get the conversation over with. ‘But really, there’s no need to rush. I’m fine.’
Annabel grinned, squinting and shifting her glasses half a centimetre up her nose.
‘Well I’ll see you in a bit then. Let me know if there is any more news.’
‘I will,’ she promised, although quite what Annabel expected, she wasn’t sure.
It had always been the people aspect of her job which she enjoyed the most. That and the logistics. Working out how to operate five projectors in a room with only two plug sockets might have been a nightmare to many, but this was the sort of challenge that made her day. However, that afternoon, she was enjoying the simple monotony of filling plastic envelopes with papers and keeping up to date on Martha as she worked.
By quarter past four, however, the novelty of doing this menial task had well and truly worn off and, grabbing her coat from the stand, she bade farewell to Annabel and headed out.
Four-fifteen finishes were as unusual for Fiona as home-cooked meals, and the sudden freedom of time on her hands left her standing on the street outside the office, wondering which way to go. She’d texted Holly earlier in the day, just to mention she was out of the house, in case she’d planned to drop by, but hadn’t yet had a reply, meaning her friend was either busy, or sleeping. Either way, she wouldn’t be available. It wasn’t a bad thing, necessarily. Another round of talking about when Stephen would be back and all the possible reasons for his departure didn’t appeal to her. All she knew was that he wasn’t ready to return home yet. What she needed was a distraction.
The overcast afternoon left the Thames the colour of sludge, grimy-grey waves rippling over the surface, occasionally breaking into weak, dirty-white froth. The air was thick with car fumes as she took a break from her stroll and rested her hands against the railing, looking out over the river. A blend of disappointment and sadness mingled inside her. In hindsight, it was ridiculous, thinking she would simply walk to the water’s edge and stumble upon the giant creature floating in front of her but, somehow, she’d thought she would see something. A crowd perhaps. People with placards reading, This way to Martha . Maybe she was already gone, she thought optimistically. Perhaps a few hours’ guided swimming was all it had taken to get her back to her family. That would be something. At least that would mean one of them had resolved her problem before the day was out. She cast her gaze up and down the Thames one last time before turning around and heading home.
‘…There’s no accurate estimate we can give on how long she can survive here. Currently, the most worrisome threat is that she will beach herself in one of the shallows.’
Any hope Fiona had of a happy-ever-after for Martha had been dashed the moment she’d turned on the television.
‘But what about food?’ the presenter asked. ‘Will she be able to find something? I’m assuming there’s not much krill in the Thames? Or is it plankton they eat?’
Professor Arkell was back on screen. He had lost the smart suit from the morning show and was now dressed more casually in a polo shirt. He looked exhausted.
‘Actually,’ he began, ‘the sperm whale is a toothed whale. Unlike baleen whales – such as the blue whale and the humpback which do feed predominantly on krill – toothed whales feed on a range of marine life. In the sea, their diet would consist predominantly of squid.’
‘And I’m assuming there aren’t many of them in the river either.’ The presenter offered a jovial chuckle, to which Professor Arkell remained utterly poker faced.
‘No, but they can survive on fish. And there are fish there, including sturgeon, trout, and even catfish.’
‘Catfish?’
‘Yes, surprisingly they’re a native species.’
Fiona twisted a mouthful of noodles onto her fork and waited for them to show more footage of Martha, hopefully heading the right way this time. By her plate was her third drink of the evening.
Despite both her own and Martha’s current predicaments, she was feeling relatively optimistic about things. The meeting with Octavia had given her something to focus on and she’d arranged a midweek lunch date with Holly. There was still no news from Stephen, but she was taking that as a positive sign too. He was a man who liked control. Hopefully, her radio silence was giving him all the time he needed to work things out for himself. Two weeks, she thought. Two weeks tops. Then he would be back, she was certain.