by D B Nielsen
Realising I was ravenous after skipping dinner last night and eating only a light breakfast this morning and having put in a few hours solid research, I decided to gather my things from the cloakroom and explore the stores and markets in the arcade at St. Pancras Station. Set beneath red brick arches, the Victorian building had been revitalised with a facelift and renovations due to its new international high speed train terminal. A glass extension had been added to not only house these high speed trains, like the Eurostar, but also to let in the light. The effect was one of vast airiness. It was easy to understand that in a country which was at the mercy of the inclement weather that the architects wanted to capitalise on the light. Just like the Great Court of the British Museum, at St. Pancras International it was all about letting in the sunlight.
I figured I could wander the boutiques later, browsing amongst the book stores and flower markets, but right now I needed sustenance and I knew where to get it – the Betjeman Arms. Like weary, hungry travellers before me, I made my way to this welcoming pub with its traditional English fare – mulled cider and pints of ale straight from the cask and sizzling pork sausages served with creamy mashed potatoes. But what I was here for was its freshly-baked scones with homemade thick strawberry jam and clotted cream and a steaming hot pot of Earl Grey tea.
Having placed my order, I dragged out the notes I’d been making about the Hanging Gardens intending to go over them, but my mobile rang and the numerical display showed that it was a call from home so I answered it. It was hard to hear Mum’s voice over the raucousness of the pub’s patrons.
‘Sage, where are you? Are you still at the library?’
When I’d left home that morning I’d left a note on the breakfast table propped up against the fruit bowl. ‘No, I’m just getting some lunch.’
Mum’s voice dipped out over our connection, ‘–good. I’ve managed to get a booking with the specialist – she has a cancellation this afternoon at two thirty. Do you want me to pick you up or do you want to meet me there?’
I groaned inwardly but agreed to meet her, quickly taking down the address before hanging up. My meal had just arrived but I found that I’d lost my appetite at the thought I’d be paying a visit to the doctor. I really didn’t want to be prodded and poked and asked questions about my eating and sleeping habits or recent symptoms of illness. I certainly wasn’t going to be telling the doctor about my visions – I didn’t need her sending me to a shrink. Sitting there, sipping my hot tea, I blindly watched as the clotted cream melted and the strawberry jam congealed.
I knew why my mother was concerned, so much so that she had arranged an emergency appointment with a Harley Street doctor no less – it was all due to the fear sparked by Fi’s illness and the disruption it had caused in the family. Her fainting spells, poor diet, skipped meals, loss of weight and mood swings had kept us on edge for months until my parents intervened, hospitalising her. And even then, the ongoing battle of wills as Fi refused to see that she was harming herself continued to affect our family.
It was a Monday in October at school as we were beginning our final senior year that I first became aware of how dire the situation was. Walking down the hall, everybody looked at me but no one would speak to me. I felt strangely both visible and invisible at the same time. When I walked into History, first period, all twenty-seven girls stopped talking. I sat down in my usual place, next to Ally. She gave me a smile but looked worried. She was the compassionate sort, wanted to study to be a nurse or midwife, and I felt her hand briefly reach under the table to give mine a small squeeze.
And then Mr McArthur walked in and noticed that everyone was uncharacteristically silent. Of course, he turned to me – I was his favourite student, the one with the best grades – and asked how my weekend had been. I can hardly remember now what I said, enough apparently to fend off the question and evoke a nervous titter that ran the length of the classroom. This he ignored and instead said, ‘And I trust everyone else had a relaxing weekend? Good. Well then, let’s continue where we left off. By the time of the rule of King Darius, there had been significant changes in the Persian army. The army was still commanded by the aristocracy but it was now a complex martial institution, the “spada”; the professional army...’
It was all lost on me. Even though I was wearing my summer uniform, I could feel beads of perspiration running down my neck and my back, yet I felt unusually chilled to the bone. By the end of the period, I still had no understanding of what Mr McArthur had said, nor why my fellow classmates were avoiding me as they fumbled their way past, escaping without meeting my eye.
And then I heard shouting and someone was leaning over the stairwell’s safety rail yelling, ‘Where’s Sage? Someone find Sage!’
And I found myself running to the lavatory, slipping on its vomit-sodden tiled floor, uncaring of the smell and its foulness staining my pleated blue uniform, someone helping me up, as I recognised the back of Fi’s head lying on the tiles inside the middle cubicle, and the teachers pushing past, ushering the girls out, of hands reaching to pull me away, as an ambulance was called for my unconscious sister...
Some things were preferable to forget...
It was only a little over a year ago that Fi began making a slow road to recovery as she was forced to seek counselling for her eating disorder. But perhaps the greatest breakthrough came with the ability for my twin to channel her angst and insecurities into her photography, which had been a lifesaver, not just for her, but for all of us.
Some things you couldn’t forget...
I sighed, collecting my belongings. Trust my mother to get an appointment with the doctor so quickly – I wouldn’t be surprised if there was a Rose Wilde-Woods hanging in her waiting room. That’s what happened when you had a famous parent.
I took the tube to Regent’s Park Station and walked the rest of the way to the doctor’s rooms. I knew virtually nothing about Harley Street except what was written in the pages of nineteenth century literature and most of these were either gothic and sensation novels about egotistical and obsessed doctors with secretive ghoulish practices like Dr Jekyll or about the vulgarity of the middle classes and of being in trade as in Austen’s novels. The reality was much more mundane – Harley Street was like a medical village.
Hospitals, clinics, the private rooms of specialists were clustered in this infamous neighbourhood. Georgian townhouses with brass plaques proclaiming the rooms of a Dr So-and-So or a Mr What’s-his-name reeked of framed degrees and exorbitant fees. It was to one of these Georgian townhouses I was bound.
I was buzzed discretely into the entranceway of the townhouse which was shared by several practitioners, among them Dr Mukherjee. Her rooms were located on the second floor, facing the street. Inside, it was brightly lit and warmer than I liked. The waiting room was fairly open; pale yellow wallpaper and curtain-free sash windows reflected the light making the room appear even larger. Potted plants were discretely tucked into corners along with wicker baskets holding magazines such as Architectural Digest and Homes and Gardens. Classical music piped into the room and I recognised Vivaldi’s La Primavera.
The receptionist’s desk was at the end of the room, backed by a wall of cupboards holding patients’ records and stationary supplies. The desk was surprisingly uncluttered, merely holding an in-tray, a neat stack of files, a fax machine which doubled as a telephone console and a large flat-screened monitor and was manned by a brittle-looking young woman with a sleek black-haired bob which framed her face and long artificial nails painted a dramatic electric blue tapping away at the keyboard.
She looked up at me as I approached. ‘Can I help you?’
Mum had yet to arrive so I informed her of my name and was told to take a seat.
Turning around to face the back of the room, I had to stifle a laugh – hanging on the wall above a tan-leather sofa was one of my mother’s earlier pieces meant to represent something to do with memory.
Personally, I didn’t get it; I never prete
nded to understand art. Unlike Fi, art wasn’t my strong suit and the painting on the wall looked to me like the finger-painting of any four-year-old at nursery school. But I never let on to Mum that I didn’t appreciate her style; it would have hurt her immensely.
Mum appeared at the doorway looking slightly flustered and complaining of London traffic just as I was told by the receptionist to go on through to Dr Mukherjee’s office. I took a seat in front of her desk where I had a clear view of Dr Mukherjee as she was finishing up some notes on the previous patient before closing the file and placing it aside. I was surprised at how youthful-looking the doctor was; her unblemished dark skin and shiny black hair tied into a bun at the nape of her neck was set off against the cream linen suit she wore, highlighting her slim curves. Her eyes were an astonishing green, unlike the brown I was expecting, and mirrored her smile, framed by a chic pair of tortoise-shell spectacles. I found myself warming to her.
‘Now then,’ her accent was all-British, not a drop of her Indian heritage came through, ‘what seems to be the problem?’
My mother went into the details of explaining my dizzy spells, light-headedness and fainting fit while I merely sat there hoping that we’d be on our way soon. Dr Mukherjee’s pen scratched the paper in front of her as she took notes. I wondered fleetingly what the purpose of having a computer on her desk was if she took everything down long-hand but was interrupted from my musings as I was addressed directly.
‘How have you been feeling lately?’ the doctor asked, ‘Tired? Stressed? When was the beginning of your last menstrual cycle?’
Here we go, I thought, proceeding to answer Dr Mukherjee’s questions. As I did so, my stomach growled embarrassingly loudly and I blushed.
Dr Mukherjee raised an eyebrow. After a moment, she said, ‘I think that it’s just a combination of jetlag, a reaction to the cold weather and poor diet. I suggest that Sage should eat regular meals and get more rest. I could prescribe some sleeping pills but, at her age, I’m loath to do this – her natural resilience to the climate and temporal changes will kick in and she should be feeling better once that happens.’
But Mum was not done – she just had to take Dr Mukherjee through the history of Fi’s eating disorder, so that I felt like a butterfly pinned and mounted on display as, every so often, the doctor would look me over, weighing me up. Luckily, at the end of this discussion, Dr Mukherjee pronounced that she didn’t feel that Fi’s illness applied to my condition. I supposed I should have been grateful that Dr Mukherjee set Mum’s mind at ease, but when she mentioned that if the dizzy spells continued she’d recommend I have a MRI to see if there were any clots or tumours in my brain, any warmth towards her I’d felt previously disappeared completely.
Twenty minutes and a hefty doctor’s bill later we left Dr Mukherjee’s rooms, but not before she took the opportunity to tell my mother how much she admired her talent. On the pavement outside the Georgian townhouse, Mum turned to face me, her expressive face showing relief.
‘Well, I’m glad we got you checked out and everything’s all right.’
I rolled my eyes at her as she put an arm around my shoulders. ‘I told you I was fine.’
Giving my shoulders a tight squeeze, she said, ‘Well, it’s better to be on the safe side.’
I just nodded in response, thrusting my hands into the pockets of my overcoat to keep them warm as we began walking down Harley Street towards where Mum had parked the car. As we reached the BMW, my stomach protested loudly again.
‘Have you eaten today?’ Mum’s voice was suspicious.
‘Not much,’ I admitted sheepishly. ‘I didn’t feel that hungry after you called.’
‘I think you should eat something.’ Mum’s voice was soft but full of authority. ‘You heard what the doctor said.’
‘Honestly, Mum, I’m not that hungry,’ I insisted, trying my hardest to convince her that I wasn’t about to pass out.
She smiled at me as she unlocked the car doors. ‘How about I treat you? Afternoon tea at Claridge’s, sound okay?’
‘Really?’ I squeaked excitedly before realisation set in, ‘But we’ll never get in – we don’t have a reservation.’
Mum’s smile merely widened. ‘Oh, I think I can get us a table; one of the perks of being a minor celebrity.’
I grinned in response. There were definitely benefits to being the daughter of a famous parent.
FUNDRAISER
CHAPTER TEN
Several days later I had made no progress and my investigation on the artefact’s connection to the Hanging Gardens had stalled. I knew I needed to contact St. John to ask for his assistance but I felt uncomfortable calling him after our numerous tense encounters, despite getting his number off Dad on the pretext of thanking him for looking after me the other night. I was also reluctant to be the first one to break the silence; I was all for women’s rights but when it came to calling a guy I felt that he should be the one to initiate things. But it looked like St. John had other ideas. Of course, that wasn’t the reason why I was contacting him. At least that’s what I told myself. I settled instead on a compromise; I would visit the British Museum and if St. John happened to be there, so much the better.
At dinner that night as we were seated around the dining table, I asked Dad if I could catch a lift with him the next morning to the museum.
Dad looked at me suspiciously as he put down his knife and fork in a deliberately slow gesture, leaning back in his chair to face me across the table. ‘This wouldn’t have anything to do with you know what, would it?’
‘No-o-o.’ I drew the word out, managing to look offended.
His eyes narrowed. ‘Because you know how I feel about you poking your nose into things that don’t concern you.’
Now I was truly offended and didn’t have to pretend. ‘That’s not fair. Even if it was about the art–’
‘Sage!’ my mother warned, throwing a glance in the direction of two pairs of inquisitive eyes and ears.
I began again, my voice shaking with emotion.
‘Even if it was about you know what, which it isn’t,’ I quickly denied, ‘if it weren’t for me you wouldn’t know that it was meant to be positioned the other way round.’
‘She’s got a point, you know?’ Fi interjected on my behalf.
Dad speared her with an angry look. ‘Stay out of this, Safie. And as for you, Sage, regardless of whether or not you think your father isn’t cluey enough to figure things out for himself–’
‘That’s not what I said!’ I protested, giving a long-suffering sigh.
Dad carried on as if he hadn’t heard me, ‘Regardless of that – I will give you a lift in to the museum tomorrow. But I better not hear that you’ve been bothering anyone with questions about you know what or poking your nose into where it’s not wanted.’
I’d felt like I’d been transported into a Harry Potter novel.
‘Fine,’ I agreed tersely, angrily dishing up Hokkien noodles into my bowl.
It wasn’t very fair of Dad to be so tight-lipped about the artefact. If anything, it was his fault that I had developed such a passion for history in the first place. Not only had my father told us of the myths and history of ancient Mesopotamia, and of other empires such as Macedonia, Persia, Greece and Rome, he was an avid collector of antiquities. Our homes were always filled to the brim with clay tablets, etched vases and rough-hewn pots, ancient tools and papyri, finely-crafted jewellery and knickknacks whose purpose was lost in time.
From my grandfather, an architect, my father had inherited a hobby of modelling. His favourite pastime was constructing architectural scale models of ancient buildings from ziggurats to bath houses, and mausoleums to temples, until Mum complained that they were cluttering her already-cluttered house and made him donate the majority of them to the university’s history department.
The Manor House, however, was large enough for Dad to pursue his hobby with abandon, which I suspected he was aching to do. Of course, this business with t
he artefact was distracting him from that at the moment. It was distracting me too. And though I longed to pursue my quest, Dad obviously wanted me to stay out of his business.
Throughout the exchange, the tension in the room had mounted and dark emotions were roiling under the surface. Jasmine and Alex had watched us in mute confusion and, even now, were the most subdued at the dining table than they had ever been. In order to break the tension, Mum deliberately changed the subject.
‘The invitation arrived today in the mail,’ she said to Dad, serving him a helping of steamed vegetables.
Fi’s eyes lit up with curiosity. ‘What invitation?’
Dad looked amused. ‘The museum is throwing its annual New Year’s fundraiser and we’re invited.’
‘All of us?’ I asked artlessly, hoping that the invitation wasn’t just for Mum and Dad.
‘The whole family,’ Mum confirmed, pouring out a glass of red wine. ‘There’ll be a kids’ play area for the little ones.’
‘Sweet!’ Fi exclaimed excitedly, pumping the air with her fist.
Dad laughed in disbelief, ‘What are you so excited about?’
Fi turned to Mum, her expression pleading, ‘That means we can get new clothes for the event, right?’
Now it was Mum’s turn to laugh. Turning to Dad, she said, ‘You better tell them the rest.’
I was desperately trying to suppress my curiosity but ended up begging, ‘What? Tell us!’
‘It’s a themed event, kids. This year the museum has decided to have it in keeping with the exhibition,’ Dad said proudly, ‘It will be like journeying back to ancient Mesopotamia. Guests are invited to wear period costumes to get into the spirit of the event.’
‘And Cirque du Soleil will be performing,’ Mum added confidentially, swearing us all to secrecy; though it was unlikely that we’d be informing anyone as we didn’t know anyone in London to tell.