Eleanor Oliphant Is Completely Fine

by Gail Honeyman

  “I rang Bob’s mobile and explained the situation to him, and he dug out your number from the personnel files for me,” he said.

  I mean, really. Was all of me on show in buff folders, splayed wide for anyone to flick open and do with as they wished?

  “What a gross abuse of my privacy, not to mention an offense against the Data Protection Act,” I said. “I’ll be speaking to Bob about that next week.”

  There was silence on the other end of the line.

  “Well?” I said.

  “Oh, right. Yeah. Sorry. It’s just, you said you would call and you didn’t, and, well, I’m at the hospital now. I wondered, you know . . . if you wanted to bring the old guy’s stuff in? We’re at the Western Infirmary. Oh, and his name’s Sami-Tom.”

  “What?” I said. “No, that can’t be right, Raymond. He’s a small, fat, elderly man from Glasgow. There is absolutely no possibility of him being christened Sami-Tom.” I was beginning to develop some serious concerns about Raymond’s mental capacities.

  “No, no, Eleanor—it’s Sammy as in . . . short for Samuel. Thom as in T-h-o-m.”

  “Oh,” I said. There was another long pause.

  “So . . . like I said, Sammy’s in the Western. Visiting starts at seven, if you want to come in?”

  “I said I would, and I’m a woman of my word, Raymond. It’s a bit late now; tomorrow, early evening, would suit me best, if that’s acceptable to you?”

  “Sure,” he said. Another pause. “Do you want to know how he’s doing?”

  “Yes, naturally,” I said. The man was an extremely poor conversationalist, and was making this whole exchange terribly hard work.

  “It’s not good. He’s stable, but it’s serious. Just to prepare you. He hasn’t regained consciousness yet.”

  “In that case, I can’t imagine he’ll have much use for his Irn-Bru and lorne sausage tomorrow, will he?” I asked. I heard Raymond take a breath.

  “Look, Eleanor, it’s entirely up to you whether you visit or not. He’s in no rush for his stuff, and I guess you should throw out anything that won’t keep. Like you say, the poor old soul isn’t going to be making a fry-up anytime soon.”

  “Well, quite. In fact, I imagine that fry-ups are exactly what got him into this situation in the first place,” I said.

  “I’ve got to go now, Eleanor,” he said, and put the phone down rather abruptly. How rude!

  I was on the horns of a dilemma; there seemed little point in traveling to hospital to see a comatose stranger and drop off some fizzy pop at his bedside. On the other hand, it would be interesting to experience being a hospital visitor, and there was always an outside chance that he might wake up when I was there. He had rather seemed to enjoy my monologue while we were waiting for the ambulance; well, insofar as I could tell, given that he was unconscious.

  As I was pondering, I picked up the fallen page from the file and turned it over. It was slightly yellowed around the edges, and smelled institutional: metallic, like filing cabinets, and grubby, touched by the unwashed skin of multiple, anonymous hands. Banknotes have a similar odor, I’ve noticed.

  DEPARTMENT OF SOCIAL WORK

  NOTE OF CASE MEETING

  March 15, 1999, 10 a.m.

  Case Meeting: OLIPHANT, ELEANOR (07/12/1987)

  Present: Robert Brocklehurst (Deputy Head, Children and Families, Social Work Department); Rebecca Scatcherd (Senior Case Worker, Social Work Department); Mr. and Mrs. Reed (foster carers).

  The meeting took place at the home of Mr. and Mrs. Reed, whose children, including Eleanor Oliphant, were at school at the time. Mr. and Mrs. Reed had requested the meeting, which was outside the regular scheduled sessions, in order to discuss their growing concerns about Eleanor.

  Mrs. Reed reported that Eleanor’s behavior had deteriorated since it was last raised at a case meeting some four months earlier. Mr. Brocklehurst requested examples, and Mr. and Mrs. Reed cited the following:

  Eleanor’s relationship with their other children had almost completely broken down, particularly with John (14), the eldest;

  Eleanor was insolent and rude to Mrs. Reed on a daily basis. When Mrs. Reed attempted to discipline her, for example, by sending her upstairs to the spare room to reflect on her behavior, she had become hysterical and, on one occasion, physically violent;

  Eleanor had, on occasion, pretended to faint in an attempt to avoid being disciplined, or else in response to being disciplined;

  Eleanor was terrified of the dark and kept the family awake with hysterical crying. She had been provided with a night-light and reacted with violent sobbing and tremors to any suggestion that she should give it up, being too old for it now;

  Eleanor often refused to eat the food which was provided for her; mealtimes had become a source of conflict at the family table;

  Eleanor refused point-blank to assist with simple household chores, such as lighting the fire or clearing out the ashes.

  Mr. and Mrs. Reed reported that they were extremely concerned about the effects of Eleanor’s behavior on their other three children (John, 14, Eliza, 9 and Georgie, 7) and, in light of these concerns and also those raised previously during scheduled case meetings, they wished to discuss the best way forward for Eleanor.

  Mr. and Mrs. Reed again requested more information about Eleanor’s past history, and Mr. Brocklehurst explained that this would not be possible, and indeed was not permitted.

  Miss Scatcherd had sought a school report from Eleanor’s head teacher in advance of the meeting, and it was noted that Eleanor was performing well, achieving excellent grades in all subjects. The head teacher commented that Eleanor was an exceptionally bright and articulate child, with an impressive vocabulary. Her class teachers had reported that she was quiet and well behaved during lessons, but did not participate in discussions, although she was an active listener. Several members of the staff had noticed that Eleanor was very withdrawn and isolated during break times, and did not appear to socialize with her peers.

  After lengthy discussion, and in light of the concerns raised and reemphasized by Mr. and Mrs. Reed about the impact of Eleanor’s behavior on their other children, it was agreed that the most appropriate course of action would be to remove Eleanor from the family home.

  Mr. and Mrs. Reed were content with this outcome, and Mr. Brocklehurst informed them that the department would be in touch in due course regarding next steps.

  File note: on November 12, 1999 a Children’s Panel Review of Compulsory Supervision Order concerning Eleanor Oliphant took place, at which Mr. Brocklehurst and Miss Scatcherd were present (minutes attached).

  The Children’s Panel concluded that, on account of Eleanor’s challenging behavior in this and previous placements, foster care in a family environment was not appropriate at the current time. It was therefore agreed that Eleanor should be placed in a residential care home for the time being, and that the decision of the panel would be reviewed in twelve months.

  (Action: R. Scatcherd to investigate availability of places in local facilities and notify Mr. and Mrs. Reed of expected date of removal.)

  R. Scatcherd, 11/12/99

  Liars. Liars, liars, liars.

  7

  The bus was quiet and I had a seat to myself, the old man’s shopping sitting in two Bags for Life beside me. I’d thrown out the sausages and the orange cheese, but I kept the milk for myself, reasoning that it wasn’t stealing as he wouldn’t be able to use it anyway. I had some qualms about throwing out the other perishable items. I do understand that some people think waste is wrong, and, after careful reflection, I tend to agree. But I’d been brought up to think very differently; Mummy always said that only peasants and grubby little worker ants worried about such trivial things.

  Mummy said that we were empresses, sultanas and maharanis in our own home, and that it was our duty to live a life of sybaritic pleasu
re and indulgence. Every meal should be an epicurean feast for the senses, she said, and one should go hungry rather than sully one’s palate with anything less than exquisite morsels. She told me how she’d eaten chili-fried tofu in the night markets of Kowloon, and that the best sushi outside of Japan could be found in São Paulo. The most delicious meal of her life, she said, had been chargrilled octopus, which she’d eaten at sunset in an unassuming harbor front taverna one late summer evening on Naxos. She’d watched a fisherman land it that morning, and then sipped ouzo all afternoon while the kitchen staff battered it again and again against the harbor wall to tenderize its pale, suckered flesh. I must ask her what the food is like where she is now. I suspect that Lapsang souchong and langues de chat biscuits are in short supply.

  I remember being invited to a classmate’s house after school. Just me. The occasion was “tea.” This was confusing in itself; I had, not unreasonably, been expecting afternoon tea, whereas her mother had prepared a sort of early kitchen supper for us. I can still picture it—orange and beige—three luminous fish fingers, a puddle of baked beans and a pale pile of oven chips. I had never seen, let alone tried any of these items, and had to ask what they were. Danielle Mearns told everyone in the class the next day and they all laughed and called me Beanz Meanz Weird (shortened to Beanzy, which stuck for a while). No matter, school was a short-lived experience for me. There was an incident with an over-inquisitive teacher who suggested a trip to the school nurse, after which Mummy decided that said teacher was a barely literate, monolingual dullard whose only worthwhile qualification was a certificate in first aid. I was homeschooled after that.

  At Danielle’s house, her mother gave us each a Munch Bunch yogurt for pudding, and I snuck the empty pot into my school bag so that I could study it afterward. Apparently, it was merchandise pertaining to a children’s television program about animated pieces of fruit. And they said I was weird! It was a source of disgust to the other children at school that I couldn’t talk about TV programs. We didn’t have a television; Mummy called it the cathode carcinogen, cancer for the intellect, and so we would read or listen to records, sometimes playing backgammon or mah-jongg if she was in a good mood.

  Taken aback by my lack of familiarity with frozen convenience food, Danielle Mearns’ mother asked me what it was that I usually had for tea on a Wednesday night.

  “There’s no routine,” I said.

  “But what kind of things do you eat, generally?” she asked, genuinely puzzled.

  I listed some of them. Asparagus velouté with a poached duck egg and hazelnut oil. Bouillabaisse with homemade rouille. Honey-glazed poussin with celeriac fondants. Fresh truffles when in season, shaved over cèpes and buttered linguine. She stared at me.

  “That all sounds quite . . . fancy,” she said.

  “Oh no, sometimes it’s just something really simple,” I said, “like sourdough toast with Manchego cheese and quince paste.”

  “Right,” she said, exchanging a glance with little Danielle, who was gawping at me, revealing a mouthful of partially masticated beans. Neither spoke, and Mrs. Mearns placed a glass bottle of thick red liquid on the table, which Danielle then proceeded to shake violently and slather all over the orange and beige food.

  Of course, after I was taken into care, I rapidly became acquainted with a new culinary family; Aunt Bessie, Captain Birdseye and Uncle Ben all featured regularly, and now I can distinguish HP Sauce from Daddies by smell alone, like a sauce sommelier. It was one of the innumerable ways in which my old life and my new life differed. Before and after the fire. One day I was breakfasting on watermelon, feta and pomegranate seeds, the next I was eating toasted Mother’s Pride smeared with margarine. That’s the story Mummy told me, at any rate.

  The bus stopped right outside the hospital. There was a shop on the ground floor selling an eclectic assortment of goods. I was aware that it was very much the done thing to take a gift when visiting a patient, but what to purchase? I didn’t know Sammy from Adam. Comestibles seemed pointless, since the purpose of my visit was to bring him his own food, items that he’d only very recently selected for himself. Given that he was in a coma, reading material seemed somewhat irrelevant. There wasn’t much else that might be suitable, however. The shop carried a small range of toiletries, but it seemed inappropriate for me, a stranger of the opposite sex, to present him with items pertaining to his bodily functions and, anyway, a tube of toothpaste or a packet of disposable razors did not strike me as very charming gifts.

  I tried to remember the nicest gift I’d ever received. Apart from Polly the plant, I couldn’t think of anything. Alarmingly, Declan came into my mind. My first and only boyfriend, I’d very nearly succeeded in erasing him from my memory altogether, so it was rather distressing to be reminded of him. I recalled an incident when, on seeing the single birthday card I’d received one year (from a journalist who’d somehow managed to track me down, with a note inside reminding me that she’d pay a substantial sum for an interview, anytime, anywhere), he claimed that I deliberately hadn’t told him the date of my birthday. For my twenty-first birthday gift, he therefore punched me in the kidneys, kicked me as I lay on the floor until I passed out and then gave me a black eye when I came round, for “withholding information.” The only other birthday I could recall was my eleventh. I received a sterling silver bracelet from the foster family I was living with at the time, with a teddy bear charm attached. I was very grateful to receive a present, but I didn’t ever wear it. I’m not really a teddy bear sort of person.

  I wondered what sort of gift the handsome singer might give me, for an anniversary, say, or for Christmas. No, wait—for Valentine’s Day, the most special, romantic day of the year. He’d write a song for me, something beautiful, and then play it for me on his guitar while I sipped perfectly chilled champagne. No, not on his guitar, that was too obvious. He’d surprise me by learning the . . . bassoon. Yes, he’d play the melody on the bassoon for me.

  Back to more prosaic matters. For want of anything more suitable, I bought some newspapers and magazines for Sammy, thinking that I could at least read them aloud to him. They stocked a passable selection. From his appearance and the contents of his shopping bag, I divined that Sammy was more Daily Star than Daily Telegraph. I bought a few tabloids, and decided to take him a magazine too. That was more difficult. There were so many. Condé Nast Traveler, Yachts and Yachting, Now!—how would I know which one to choose? I had no idea what interested him. I thought carefully and rationally in order to deduce the answer. The only thing I knew for sure about him was that he was an adult male; anything else would be pure speculation. I went with the law of averages, stood on tiptoe and reached up for a copy of Playboy. Job done.

  It was too hot inside the hospital and the floors squeaked. There was a hand-gel dispenser outside the ward, and a big yellow sign above it read Do Not Drink. Did people actually drink sanitizing hand gel? I supposed they must—hence the sign. Part of me, a very small sliver, briefly considered dipping my head to taste a drop, purely because I’d been ordered not to. No, Eleanor, I told myself. Curb your rebellious tendencies. Stick to tea, coffee and vodka.

  I was apprehensive about using it on my hands, for fear that it might inflame my eczema, but I did so nonetheless. Good hygiene is so important—heaven forfend that I would end up becoming a vector of infection. The ward was large, with two long rows of beds, one down each wall. All the inhabitants were interchangeable: hairless, toothless old men who were either dozing or staring blankly ahead, chins slumped forward. I spotted Sammy, right at the end on the left-hand side, but only because he was fat. The rest of them were bones draped with pleated gray skin. I sat down on the vinyl wipe-clean chair next to his bed. There was no sign of Raymond.

  Sammy’s eyes were closed but he obviously wasn’t comatose. He would be on a special ward if that were the case, hooked up to machinery, wouldn’t he? I wondered why Raymond had lied about it. I could te
ll from the regular way that Sammy’s chest rose and fell that he was sleeping. I decided not to read to him, not wishing to wake him, and so I put the reading material on top of the cabinet next to his bed. I opened the compartment at the front, thinking it best to deposit the Bags for Life inside. The cabinet was empty apart from a wallet and a set of keys. I wondered if I should look in Sammy’s wallet to see if it contained any clues about him, and I was about to reach forward for it when I heard someone clear their throat behind me, a phlegm-filled sound that indicated a smoker.

  “Eleanor. You came,” said Raymond, pulling up a chair on the opposite side of the bed. I stared at him.

  “Why did you lie, Raymond? Sammy’s not in a coma. He’s merely asleep. That’s not the same thing at all.”

  Raymond laughed.

  “Ah, but it’s great news, Eleanor. He woke up a couple of hours ago. Apparently, he’s got a severe concussion and a broken hip. They reset it yesterday—he’s very tired from the anesthetic, but they say he’s going to be fine.” I nodded, and stood up abruptly. “We should leave him in peace then,” I said.

  I was keen to be out of the ward, to be frank. It was too hot, and too familiar—the waffle blankets, the chemical and human smells, the hard surfaces of the metal bed frame and the plastic chairs. My hands were stinging slightly from the gel, which had seeped into the cracks in my skin. We walked together to the lift, and rode down in silence. The doors opened at the ground floor and I felt my legs speed up of their own accord toward the front door.

  It was one of those beautiful midsummer evenings—eight o’clock and still full of heat and soft light. It wouldn’t get dark till almost eleven. Raymond took off his jacket, revealing another ridiculous T-shirt. This one was yellow and had two white cartoon cockerels on the front. Los Pollos Hermanos, it said. Nonsensical. He looked at his watch.