by Lynne Truss
One of the doorkeepers tries to show us around and me and Janice keep saying no thank you, no thank you, but he won’t go away, so in the end I give him some money, which is the wrong thing to do as he now feels he’s got to earn it, so he keeps on following us about. “Boat,” he says, pointing at an outline on the wall. “Slaves.” And I keep walking off, trying to work out what I’m looking at with just the aid of my little torch and my book on How to Recognise Egyptian Gods Unaided Because You Have Bonked the Native Guide.
I thought I’d have to pay for it with Pat. That’s why she sulked all morning, I thought; she knew I’d been at the rumpy-pumpy when she hadn’t. But when I get back aboard I see Hisham leaving her cabin and there she is wrapped in a bath towel having a fag with the door open and I thought holiday or no holiday, Pat and me we’ve got to have this out. “You look terrible, Tina,” she said. “Not much sleep last night, I understand from the horse’s mouth?” She always does that. Gets the boot in first. I say, “Why are you so competitive, Pat?” and she says, “Why are you such a loser?” And I go, that’s better than being a show-off, and she goes, at least I’m not a bloody snob. A what, I go. You’re a snob, Tina, everyone says so. Me? A snob? How could I be a snob, I go, what have I got to be snobby about, and she goes, “That’s what I’d like to know, Tina.” I’m almost speechless. Everyone says so? That’s so typical of Pat to say everyone says so. What she means is she’s been talking about me with Hisham. She steals a bloke I really like, and I’m the one in the wrong! It’s never-ending, this. “A tenth of a bloody second, Pat!” I shout. And she shouts back, as I storm out and slam the door, “Ha! Yes! A tenth of a bloody second!”
I cried afterwards. Came back in my cabin, locked myself in the bathroom and cried. [Self-pity] All my life I’ve seen people going, “Isn’t it funny how those two can be so alike and so different? Pat’s so outgoing! And what lovely cheekbones. Tsk, poor Tina hasn’t got cheekbones at all. And Pat got the gold, too, of course, because when it came to the big day in Montreal she swam the better time.” “The better time” – that’s what they’ll put on Pat’s gravestone. “She had the better time.” I’ll never forget how I raised my head out of that water, tore off my goggles and looked at the clock; how my pounding heart almost broke. In my heat, you see, I broke both our records; and then in the final Pat swam in the lane next to that amazing German who got the silver and although I matched my qualifying time, they both beat me, Pat got the gold and I got the bronze. So they’ll put “Pat Conway – she had the better time” on Pat’s gravestone. And on mine, which will be slightly smaller than Pat’s and further away from the path, it will say, “Tina Conway – pipped at the post”.
It’s not easy having Pat as your sister. I never beat her at anything. I should have stopped introducing my friends to her years ago, because inside of twenty minutes they always fall in love with her, and I can see this look cross their faces when they realise they’ve sort of forgotten what they ever saw in me. “She’s amazing, your sister,” they say, thinking I’ll be pleased. “Can your sister come?” they ask. Look at my wedding to Tony. Pat not only upstaged me with a chic tailored outfit in contrast to my sticky-out dress, but danced provocatively with the best man, and even got in more photos than I did. The man who took the video made a short film which could have been called A Day in the Life of Pat. “You’re the clever one,” mum used to whisper privately to me, folding a stray bit of my hair behind my ear. Can you believe it, I kept that as a precious secret for about twenty years and finally, when both Mum and Dad had passed on, I told Pat one day when I couldn’t think of any other way to hurt her. “Well, Mum said I was the clever one,” I said, flatly, playing my unbeatable trump. And Pat wasn’t hurt! Her eyes filled with tears and she said, “Oh Tina, wasn’t that a kind thing for Mum to say?”
We sail back from Abu Simbel tomorrow. Pat hasn’t even been ashore yet. In fact, now I come to think of it, she’s hardly been ashore the whole trip. And now she’s put a note under my door to say she’s so upset by our argument she’s not coming to dinner – so I’ll have to go on my own, and it’s bloody mummification night, with the bog roll, so what a waste of all that practising. Janice couldn’t guess what Egyptian party games involved, so I said if she put a hook up Kevin’s nose, and dragged his brain out through the nostrils, she’d stand a pretty good chance of winning. She’d get my vote, anyway.
Scene Four: Tina; sounds of deck, chugging, birds
Well, you won’t believe it. Hisham’s being chucked off the boat for sleeping with the tourists. Pat came knocking at my door at eight o’clock, saying, “Tina! It’s terrible!” And I thought, oh no, she’s killed another one, but it was that he got caught with the vegetarian in the middle of the night, and the tour company are sacking him. Pat and he had a regular early-morning rendezvous, apparently, which explains why she was so tired all the time, and incidentally clarifies that she was sleeping with him before I was, in case I ever doubted it. So she got fed up waiting, and went to have a look for him at about half past seven, and he told her what had happened. Pat was so upset I had to nurse her at the breakfast table, and get her a special boiled egg and a special cup of tea, while Jill, the erstwhile vegetarian, had a massive fry-up to restore her spirits. And when we set sail from Abu Simbel I was so preoccupied making sure Pat was all right that I forgot to watch it or even say goodbye. If I hadn’t mentioned that – I only mentioned it – things might be all right now. But I said, “Oh Pat, that was the only chance in my life to see that beautiful sight, and I missed it because of getting you some soldiers,” and she said, “I’ve decided I don’t want to come on holiday with you any more, Tina.” And I said, “Oh.” And she said, “Sorry. I’m a bit upset.” And I said, “No, no, that’s all right, Pat. I was going to say it soon if you didn’t.” And she said, “Really?” and started crying. And I thought, why can’t I say something cutting? But I couldn’t. Instead I looked at her weeping over this Egyptian casanova, and I said, “Pat. I never want you to be unhappy.” And she says, “I never want you to be unhappy either, Tina.”
[She’s quite affected by all this. Lights up, sniffs] I’ll be all right. I just had to come back here for a bit and think. I haven’t told many people this but I did therapy for seven years with this woman called Georgina and every step of the way she was saying she’d never seen sibling rivalry like it: if I was to evolve as a human being I had to shake off Pat; stop comparing myself to Pat; stop bloody going on holiday with Pat, no wonder my marriages didn’t last; stop defending Pat. And I said in the end, all right, come to my house and meet Pat, I’ll get her round, come on, it will help you get a handle on it. And Georgina came round and I didn’t tell Pat who she was and Pat looked great and was all poised and fantastic and brilliantly well groomed and charmed the pants right off her, and I’ll never forget, Georgina collared me at the front door with this manic gleam in her eye and said, “You were right, Tina. She’s amazing.” “So can I stop coming?” I said. “On the contrary,” she said. “I think we should step it up to five times a week.”
The thing is, I could break away from Pat if I wanted, that’s what she didn’t understand. All my life I could have turned round and gone, “Pat, stop ruining my life.” I mean, I’m not stupid. Even Mum used to say, “If she makes you feel small, Tina, you’ve got to stop living in her shadow.” But the way I see it is, Abu Simbel makes you feel small. The pyramids of Giza make you feel small. What’s wrong with it? I just remember how on July 24, 1976, Pat dived into that Olympic pool and she carved through the water like a dolphin. We were in the same race but whenever I watch it, it’s Pat I follow – her white hat so steady, the grace and beauty of her windmilling arms, the strength of her kick, the absolute determination to prove herself the best in the world. I look at that race again and again. The big German girl on one side of her; me thrashing my way to the bronze in lane eight, the crowd cheering and yelling and the commentator saying, “And Pat Conway seems to be leaving the others behind!�
� And I never stop saying, as she forges through, Pat Conway reaching and kicking and bloody well winning, [very affected] “That’s my sister, that’s my sister, that’s my sister.” [Trying not to cry] Ooh, hark at Tina.
The Husband
ANDY is a cheerful, banal Scottish man, married for the past fifteen years to Sarah – who has recently started to pronounce her name as “Sara”, the first syllable rhyming with “car”. They live in Ayrshire, in considerable multi-bedroomed comfort, because his roofing business has been very successful. She’s not a trophy wife exactly; she’s only five years younger than him. But she has never worked, and they have no children. He is in a private bed in a large hospital, having been rushed in, suffering from acute abdominal pain. He stays bouncy throughout.
Scene One: Andy is very uncomfortable physically; in pain; quite brave; on a drip
[Pain] Ah! Ooh that’s bad. That’s – ooh. I feel like, like I’m going to BURST. Oh! The nurse said, don’t try to move, Mr McKee, but – ooh. I can’t reach, you see. Can’t reach the mobile. And it’s nearly eleven and I need to contact – ah! – Sara, about that meeting of hers at the university. If she got the job I can say, “Well done, Sara!” Aagh. And if she didn’t – aagh – I can say, “Och, what an outrage! You’re too good for them, sweetheart!” But that big alarming nurse spotted the mobile when I came in, that’s the trouble. “You do know these are strictly forbidden until after the operation?” she said, picking it up and shaking it at me. Agh. “Now, you don’t want to get me into trouble, do you, Mr McKee?” And I said och, nurse, what a suggestion! Agh. Shouldn’t we at least have dinner first? [Kind] “Yes, well,” she said. “Less of the amusing backchat. I’ll just pop this into your smart wee leather hold-all here, and we’ll say no more about it.” I told her I needed to text my wife – it was about 9.30 then – but she said, “She can find out how you are by telephoning the ward, Mr McKee. She does know what’s happened?” [Calling; the nurse is bustling about] “One of my men said he would call her,” I said. “It was all so quick. I was inspecting a ROOF. Roofing is what I do, you see. [His standard – very weak – joke, of which he never tires] Och, yes: you might say I spend my whole life OUT ON THE TILES.” Well, I like to break the ice. Even when you’re doubled in agony, you’ve got to make the effort.
“Look,” I said. [A wave of pain] “Aaagh. If she does happen to call, could you wish her luck from me?” [Calling back] “You’re wishing HER good luck?” she said, as she rinsed the sink in the wee bathroom with disinfectant, wiped it with a paper towel, and operated the big metal pedal bin, all in one smooth efficient action. [Proud] “Aye, a meeting at the university! Ten o’clock. Sara’s applied for the contract to redecorate the senior common room. Blues and golds. Swags in saffron silk. She’s been working on the design for weeks. It’s based on a room in Buckingham Palace, I think. Or possibly the Hermitage. In St Petersburg.” [The nurse at rest] “It’s YOU that needs the good luck, Mr McKee. Listen to you, you poor wee man. Thinking about someone else’s palatial swags when you’re that distended you look like – [an idea] well, you’ll have seen the film Alien?” [Laughs, gingerly] “Thanks a load.” [Querying the pronunciation] “Sara?” she said. “Well, she used to be [normal pronunciation] Sarah, right enough. But everyone uses the new name now.”
They’ll be along in a minute with the pre-med. Nice room. Wee menu to tick for later on. My own TV and telephone. Inoffensive upholstery in easy-wipe fabric. Somewhat like a Travelodge, but with the addition of crippling pain and guaranteed secondary infection. Ooh. I feel such an idiot, being rushed in here like this. Well, it felt like WIND. And all weekend Sara kept saying, [snappy] “Andy, could you stop lying on the floor like that, you’re confusing the dog.” And I’d say, “Look, Sara, I just can’t shift this wind.” I said to the nurse, “But is it wind, though?” And she said, “Mr McKee, between your stomach and your – [swingeing sharp pain] Aaaagh! Aaagh! – you’ve got enough wind to blow you round the world in eighty days.” She seems to be excessively interested in cinema, that woman. Aagh. I hope they didn’t tell Sara before the meeting. I wouldn’t want her to be worrying. Och, I wish I could reach that PHONE.
Scene Two: post op. A few days after. Beep-beep, beep-beep text message alert
[An effort as he reaches for the phone] Agh. At last! That will be Sara. Let’s see. Yes! [Reads] “No nws yt. Hv lrdy rdrd slk.” Slk? Oh silk. Have already ordered silk. Och, that’s terrible. What a way to treat a gifted person. “R U OK.” [Touched] Ah. You see? R. U. OK. Four letters, but how much they say! Good job I had my charger in my wee briefcase, you see! Forearmed is – forearmed, or whatever it is. I’ve been waiting THREE DAYS for that message: imagine if the battery had run out before it came!
[He texts back, laboriously] “…Dear…Sara…comma…poor…old…you…Full stop…Did-dums…Full stop…The …surgeon says…the D…I…A…R, no, delete that…try again, D…I…O…R…R, nope,…och I know…LAVVY problems will be…over…in…a…couple of…weeks…exclamation mark!…I…shant…oops, apostrophe…SHAN’T be…out…on…the…TILES [laughs] …for…a…while…exclamation mark!…Your…loving…Andy X…X…X…X. Send.
[Exhausted] You certainly get a lot of time to think, lying here like this for three days without any visitors. Oh yes. And you know what I keep thinking? I don’t want to sound smug, because that’s the last thing I am, but you know, I am a lucky man. I mean, yes, my body did just swell up like I was fifteen months pregnant and I nearly died. And I’ll spare you all the grisly details but there was a lot of weird and wonderful lavvy action, not to mention terrible, terrible pain. But I survived it OK, and soon I’ll be back to my nice modern home with five bedrooms (three en suite), to my nice, clever wife, and my nice, successful business. I’m sure if we’d had children they’d have been nice as well, but we didn’t, and as I was explaining to Geena, the big nurse, not having children, well that’s not nice but I can live with it. The thing is, Sara has such a lot to give to the world in terms of integrated curtain design and revolutionary cantilevered tie-backs that I can absolutely see what she means about letting other people do the breeding. “There’s no shortage of bairns in the world, Andy,” she says. And I say I know, I know. [Pain] I resist the obvious riposte that there are quite a few curtains in the world already too. Ah! But it’s a raw subject with her. It’s one of those subjects that are best left alone. Especially if you’re a supportive spouse. What’s the difference between a levitating banana and Sara McKee? One has no visible means of support, while the other’s got a faithful old mutt of a husband called Andy.
Geena likes to hear about Sara for some reason. She seems INTRIGUED, as if she’s never met a supportive man before. She thinks I’m a saint for agreeing not to have children when it’s so clear that I’d be a fantastic dad. We had a nice wee chat yesterday when she was removing my epidural (don’t ask) and trying to take my mind off it. She’s a confirmed singleton, she says. [Confidential whisper] A lot of bad experiences, she said. I said, [kind] Geena, you’ve no idea what it is to be loved, have you, dear? You’ve no MODEL. And she had to wipe away a tear before saying that unfortunately it’s the first rule of nursing not to fall in love with your hospital patients. “Ah ha?” I said. “Is that because the implicit power relationship makes it unethical?” I said. “Och no,” she said. “It’s because they’re generally ill and full of self-pity, plus, statistically, they have alarmingly short life expectancy.”
I didn’t say this, but to be honest, it’s quite straightforward being there for somebody. I don’t know why everybody doesn’t do it. Because there’s only about four rules to master. Basically, you just say, “Yes, dear, how much would you like?” when they ask you for money; “Och no, that’s terrible,” when they’re upset about some wee silly setback; and “Well, I’VE always thought you were much too nice to her,” when they’ve had some tiff with their best friend. Throw in an occasional “Sara’s quite brilliant, you know,” when you’re out together socially, and just w
atch the result. Of course, you can still come unstuck. The thing a man always has to remember is this: while women have a very firm idea about the reaction they require from you, you must never ask them to tell you what it is. Sounds unfair? Ah ha. It is. But the idea is: they want you to understand them so perfectly that you don’t need a hint. [Laughs] I know! Hilarious. So if you find yourself saying, “For pity’s sake, Morag! Just tell me what you want me to say, and I’ll say it!” you might as well go off and hang yourself. The way they see it is: if we have to ask, it shows we don’t know. OR: [slightly unpleasant impersonation of a woman] “It’s not enough to SAY it, Andy; you have to MEAN it. Saying, ‘Oh, poor baby’ doesn’t mean you actually care!” [Amused at how preposterous this expectation is] Ach, bless their fluffy wee heads.
“Look, I’m Sara’s rock,” I explain to Geena. “I can’t expect her to be mine as well.” And Geena says, “A rock, is it? In that case, I’m going to call you Rocky. Rocky IV was the best one, uh-huh, I’ll call you Rocky Four.” I’ve never had a nickname before. Or indeed been linked in any way to Sylvester Stallone. It makes me feel quite proud.