by Ruth Mancini
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“Oh, hi. I’m just trying to get this finished.”
“Tim's cooking dinner,” I pointed out. “Catherine and Martin are here.”
“I know, I know, I know ...” said Zara irritably, flapping her hands in the air. She dropped her biro on the floor.
“Come on Zara. You have to eat.”
“Okay.” She dropped to the floor and began feeling around for her pen.
“Have you seen James?” I asked, hoping that her favourite topic of conversation might entice her downstairs to dinner.
“Why, has he phoned?” asked Zara, from under the table.
“No,” I said. “I don’t think so.”
“Oh,” said Zara, rummaging around on her hands and knees. “Where did the bloody thing go?”
“Leave it,” I said. “You can find it later. “
“Look, I'm not even that hungry,” said Zara. “Why don't you lot go ahead and start without me?”
“You invited us over,” I reminded her.
“It was Tim's idea -” Zara began, then stopped short and sat up, hitting her head on the table.
“Suit yourself,” I said, and shut the door.
Back downstairs, Tim was stirring a saucepan, which was heating on the stove. Catherine and Martin were in the garden, sitting on a bench and drinking wine. I stood by the open back door to the garden and lit a cigarette.
“You want to pack that in, Lizzie,” called Martin.
“Yeah, yeah. I know.”
Tim came and stood beside me in the doorway. He looked out at the garden and sighed.
“What’s up, Tim?” I asked.
“Clare's dumped me,” he said. “She's met someone else. She’s moved out.”
“Oh Tim, I'm sorry.” I stubbed out my cigarette and put my arms up round his shoulders and pulled him against me. He put his arms back round me and held me tight, his chin resting on the top of my head. His t-shirt smelled of patchouli oil.
“Breaking up is...” I searched for something comforting to say which didn't sound like a cliché.
“It's like that feeling that you get in the pit of your stomach when you're about to jump out of an aeroplane,” Tim said into my hair. I nodded, stood on tiptoes and kissed his cheek.
Martin looked up from the bench where he was sitting. I could see him watching me and Tim hugging for a moment and then, as he caught my eye, he smiled and got up.
“This looks cosy,” he said, walking towards us.
“Can I play?” asked Zara, who was standing in the kitchen looking upset. “I'm sorry,” she added, to me.
“Group hug,” I announced, and stretched out my arm to her. Martin joined in, putting his arms round me and Zara and squeezing us tight. I looked over at Catherine who was still sitting on the bench. “Come on Catherine,” I called, feeling Martin’s arm around me and worrying that she might feel left out. “Group hug.”
“It’s okay,” she smiled.
We ate Spaghetti Napolitana with bread, parmesan cheese and salad on blankets in the back garden. This one had not been tended, and was home to all the neighbours' cats as well as various different species of wildlife which came in through the hedge backing onto the park behind.
“I feel as if I'm in the countryside,” I said, looking around at the patchy grass and brambles and at the charred logs that lay in a dirt hollow under the trees where someone had recently had a bonfire.
“We should do something too,” said Zara. “Shelley did the front.”
Tim topped up our wine glasses. “Only because she's got a new boyfriend she wants to impress.”
“Oh,” I said. “What's he like?”
“He's a banker,” said Tim.
Zara looked up. “I thought he was a sales rep?”
“I wish I could just stay home tomorrow and weed the garden,” Tim sighed.
I rolled over onto my stomach. “I thought you enjoyed your job?”
“Oh yeah. Another day of cancelled ops and running around, getting nowhere.” He shrugged. “They've closed half the wards - 200 beds have gone. All so we can balance our books next year.” He picked up the wine bottle and shook it. ''We've got two new managers instead, paid fifty grand a year each to sit in an office and work out ways to cut costs. Isn’t that right Zara?”
Zara looked confused. “What did you say?” she asked.
Tim pulled his tobacco pouch out of his pocket and began rolling a cigarette. “Britain’s oldest hospital,” he continued. “Founded in the eleven hundreds, it was, by an Augustinian monk. It escaped destruction by the fire of London and the bombing in the second world war, and now here we are in the nineteen nineties and they're taking it to bits. One thousand years of history ...” He clicked his fingers. “Up for sale.”
No-one spoke. Zara looked depressed, even in the darkness.
“It should be protected,” said Catherine. “Like a listed building, part of our national heritage. Under customs law or something. There must be something you can do.”
“It’s called rationalisation,” said Martin. “The existing beds need to be used more efficiently. That’s the idea.”
“How can you use a bed more efficiently?” asked Catherine.
“Put two people in it?” I suggested.
Martin looked at me and laughed.
“It’s all about money,” said Tim. “They don’t care about people, just money.”
“It’s got to come from somewhere,” Martin said.
“There’s plenty of other places it could come from,” said Tim. “But that might involve taking a bit of money away from the fat cats.”
“It’s their money,” said Martin.
“No it’s not. It’s ours.”
“I mean “the fat cats”, as you call them. They’ve made their money.”
“Yeah, by paying peanuts. Off the backs of people like me and Zara.”
“It's getting dark,” I said, sensing an argument brewing. Martin was one of those people that would argue that black was white. I’d heard him saying just the opposite a week earlier. I sensed he was trying to antagonise Tim.
“Do you want to go inside?” asked Tim.
I shook my head. “Just point me to my wine glass.” I lay back on the blanket and squinted up at the night sky. “I can only see three stars.”
“No, there's more,” said Tim, lying down beside me. “You just have to let your eyes focus.”
“I wonder,” I said, “If they have some sort of test for astronauts, you know, like the number plate test. Okay, Mr Armstrong, how many stars can you see?”
“A lot,” said Zara, quietly.
I gave her a sideways glance. “Yeah. You pass. Get in your rocket Miss Lewis.” Zara wasn’t smiling.
“I wonder what they look like up close?” asked Catherine.
“Big,” said Martin, looking down at me and Tim, lying on the rug. I felt self-conscious, all of a sudden, lying there with my head so close to Tim’s. I sat up again, slowly, and shifted slightly away.
Catherine said, “It’s comforting to know they’re always there, even if you can’t see them. Puts things in perspective.”
“Souls,” said Zara. “Of dead people.”
We waited a moment, expecting some kind of amplification.
“Well the scientific view is that they’re big exploding balls of gas,” said Tim. “But that’s a nice idea.”
Zara sat up abruptly and knocked over her glass of wine. I realised with alarm that she was crying.
“When I try to look into the future,” she blurted out, “I can't see anything there!”
Nobody wanted to drive home so we all stayed the night. Catherine and Martin went to sleep in Clare’s old room and I crawled into bed beside Zara, but I couldn’t sleep. After tossing and turning for a while I entered into a strange half-dream about an Augustinian monk in his hooded cloak, wandering around, in and out of the old brick walls of the hospital and the courtyard and by the fountain in th
e middle, then up and down the empty and hollow wards. Shelley appeared briefly with a lamp, wearing an old Victorian nurse’s uniform and said, “They're all dying,” but then the Augustinian monk was back in the courtyard and nothing much else really happened. I began to get bored of the same scene with the walls and the fountain and the courtyard playing over and over, and all the time the Augustinian monk kept repeating “Half the wards, two hundred beds,” until I realized that it was still just my brain ticking away and that I wasn't really asleep at all. I opened my eyes and stared dully into the darkness. Zara lay silently beside me in the same position she'd fallen asleep, curled up on her side with her back to me. I always found it remarkable how little she moved, and how deeply but noiselessly she slept.
After an hour or so of lying in the darkness, I got up and went downstairs for a drink of water. When I passed Tim's bedroom I saw that the door was open and I peeped inside. He was lying facing me, his tousled dark hair curling over his forehead. The covers were pushed away from his lean torso and his arms were wrapped protectively around a pillow. As I stood watching him he shifted slightly on the bed and opened his eyes.
“Lizzie?” he said. “What are you doing?”
“I couldn't sleep,” I whispered.
He blinked sleepily and glanced at the clock. He reached out an arm. “Come here.”
I went into the room and sat down on the edge of the bed. Tim put his arm round me and pulled me down beside him. He stroked my hair. “Stay with me,” he said, putting his arm round me again and then he fell straight back to sleep.
I must have drifted off because when I woke it was light and I'd just heard the door slam. I looked at the clock. It was eight o'clock. Then I noticed that the door to the bedroom was open and Martin was standing there looking at me and Tim.
“Sorry,” he said. “Wrong door. I wanted the bathroom.”
“Next door,” I pointed. He paused for a moment, looking at us both, and then he disappeared.
Tim was still sleeping deeply; I could feel his breath against my neck. I lifted his arm which was still wrapped round me and slid out from underneath him.
Shelley was in the kitchen making tea. She looked exhausted.
“Do you want a cup?” she offered.
“Go on then.” I sat down. “I'll have to go straight to work from here.”
Shelley sat down beside me. “God, I need my bed,” she said. “A quick soak in the bath. And then I’m going to sleep for England.”
“Maybe you’d better wake Zara on your way up,” I suggested. “Hasn't she got college today?”
“I doubt she's going in,” said Shelley. “She hasn't been in for about three weeks now.”
I looked up at her. “She didn't tell me that.”
“She's trying to catch up with her coursework,” said Shelley. “She's got her first exams in two weeks time and she's getting stressed out.”
“I didn’t realise,” I said.
“I found her crying the other morning when I came home. Tim was on nights and I was at Gavin's.”
“Gavin?” I echoed. “Is that his name?”
She nodded.
“Really, Shelley,” I said. “A banker called Gavin?”
“He's not a banker,” she said, confused. “He's a sales rep.”
“Morning,” said Martin, appearing in the doorway.
“Oh. Morning.” Shelley got up to leave. “Need sleep,” she added.
“But Shelley...” I tailed off, as Martin sat down next to me. “Hi,” I said to Martin.
Shelley stopped as she got to the door. “I’ll talk to you later,” she said.
“Okay.”
“So,” said Martin. “How are you this morning?”
“Yeah, good. Tea?” I got up and fetched him a cup from the sink and added milk.
“Thanks.” Martin took the cup from me and spooned sugar into it from a cracked jar next to the teapot. Slivers of sunshine glanced in through the window onto the table in front of us, though the kitchen was largely dark and the air slightly damp.
“So, what’s going on, then? With you and him?” Martin nodded up at the ceiling.
“Tim? Oh, nothing. Really. We’re just friends.”
“That’s not what it looked like. You were in bed with him.”
“It’s not like that. I couldn’t sleep. It was just a… a cuddle.”
Martin smiled and stirred his tea. “Whatever you say.”
“It’s true,” I protested, then stopped. I couldn’t work out if Martin was just teasing me, or whether he actually minded, about me and Tim. But why would he?
“He likes you,” commented Martin. “That’s bloody obvious.”
I looked up, surprised at his tone. “Well, I like him too. But it’s not like that.”
“So what is it like then?”
I paused. “Rationalisation,” I smiled. “Efficient use of beds.”
“You don’t want to lead him on.” Martin wasn’t smiling now.
“I’m not,” I protested. “He knows how things stand.”
“He’s a bloke, Lizzie,” Martin said. “Blokes have needs.”
“Well so do women,” I said, crossly. “You’re not the only ones. But me and Tim are just fine with how things are.”
“I doubt that very much.”
“Look, Martin,” I said. “I’m sorry, but I can’t see how this is any of your business.”
Martin looked down at his cup in silence.
“More tea?” I suggested, after a minute, trying to lighten the tone.
“Go on then.”
I poured him a second cup. “So. Catherine still asleep?” I asked.
“Yeah. She’s always asleep.” Martin said. “I was thinking of going for a jog. Want to come?”
I shook my head. “I've got work. I’ve got a meeting. I have to go soon.”
“Okay,” he said. “It doesn't matter.”
I picked up my tea and pulled my cigarettes out of my handbag. I stood up and opened the back door. The air outside was cool, in contrast to the night before. The neighbour’s cat shot into the hedgerow.
“You really want to pack that in.” Martin looked up. “Seriously. You’re an athlete. It doesn’t make sense.”
“I’m hardly an athlete,” I said. “I like swimming that’s all.”
“Well, imagine. Imagine how much faster you could swim if you did.”
I shrugged, flicked my lighter and lit my cigarette. “Maybe. You’re right, I know. I will. Soon. When I’m ready.”
“So. No time like the present.” He smiled. “Tell you what. I’ll give you….erm. Five hundred quid. If you give up.”
I laughed. “Five hundred quid? You’re kidding, right?”
Martin smiled. “No. I’m serious. You give up and keep it up for six months, I’ll give you five hundred quid.”
I blew out a cloud of smoke. “But why? Why would you want to do that?”
Martin shrugged. “Why not? It’s only money. It’s an incentive, isn’t it?”
I nodded. “You could say that. It’s certainly a lot of money.”
“So? Are you up for it?”
I stubbed my cigarette out on the wall and dropped the butt into the dustbin outside. “I don’t know. I don’t believe you’re serious. And anyway, what would Catherine say? You two could go on a nice holiday for that.”
Martin shrugged. “You can’t do it. You haven’t got the willpower.”
“Yes I have,” I objected. I thought about it for a moment. We looked each other in the eye and neither of us gave in until we both started laughing. “Alright,” I said, finally. “Game on.”
“You’re serious?”
“Yeah. That was my last cigarette.”
“Okay,” said Martin. “Put it there.” He held out his hand and I gave him a high five. He grabbed my hand and held it for a moment. “No cheating?”
“I’m not going to cheat,” I said. I tried to pull my hand away but Martin held onto it tightly and said ag
ain, “You sure?”
“I’m sure.” I tried again to withdraw my hand from his grip. The door opened and Catherine’s head appeared. Her face fell slightly, unmistakeably, when she saw us. Martin let go of my hand.
“Oh, hi, Catherine,” I said. “We were just…”
“I thought you were coming back to bed?” said Catherine, to Martin. “I was waiting.”
“Just coming, sweetheart,” said Martin. “I was just making tea.”
Catherine came into the kitchen and sat down at the table. She was wearing Martin’s jumper and she pulled it down over her bare knees.
“Go on back up,” insisted Martin. “I’m coming now.”
“I’ll wait,” said Catherine. “I’m here now.”
“I’ve got to go,” I said. “I’m going to be late.”
Nobody spoke.
“So. I’ll see you later, then?” I looked at Catherine.
“Yeah.” Catherine nodded.
Martin leaned over and gave her a kiss.
“Bye then,” I said and closed the door behind me.
I ran upstairs to the bathroom. The door was open, the walls damp and steamy. A wet towel was draped over the banister. I ran up the next flight of stairs to Shelley’s room.
“Shelley?” I called softly outside her door, but there was no answer from her room. I poked my head round Zara’s door but she was fast asleep still, curled up in a tight little ball. I picked up my boots and jacket from the floor next to her bed where I’d left them and kissed her on the cheek. Then I closed the door behind me and hurried down the stairs.
I worried about Zara all the way from Clerkenwell to Euston. But when I got into work, there was a war going on in Bosnia and I had that to think about instead.
15
A few days later Catherine and I caught the tube down to the Barbican where Catherine was meeting her friends for rehearsals. I had tried ringing Zara but got no answer. As it was a Saturday I decided to travel down with Catherine and surprise her instead. I knocked on the door and Shelley answered.
“She’s up in her room,” she said. “She’s been up there since yesterday. I can’t get her to come down.”
When I got upstairs Zara was curled up in bed, crying. She looked exhausted, as if she hadn’t slept.