The Weight of Angels

by Catriona McPherson

  ‘Great,’ I said. I saw Surraya move her head yet again and it boosted me, even though I didn’t look. ‘And two. Is Julia’s dad actually dead?’

  This time the silence was more like a freeze-frame.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ said Dr Ferris.

  ‘Off the back of what you were saying before,’ I ploughed on, ‘about not . . . what was it? Bolstering her confabulations? Well, I kind of didn’t know what to say because I didn’t know if he was dead of natural causes and she just pretends she killed him or if he’s not even dead and she’s confabulating the whole shebang.’

  ‘Patients’ confidential personal circumstances should have no reason to come up in the course of any of the services you offer,’ Dr Ferris said.

  ‘He walked out shortly before her admittance,’ Dr F said.

  I was pleased, in a nasty way, to see that she could change colour too. Dr Ferris was in salmon, coral and brown today, and as her face turned an angry pink with suppressed annoyance, the scarf and cardie clashed pretty badly.

  ‘Thanks,’ I said.

  ‘Anything else?’ said Dr Ferris.

  I smiled at her. ‘I know where to find you.’

  Then the nurses and the rest of them started folding the seats that were set out and stashing them on a trolley that Amana the kitchen assistant rolled away.

  ‘Bloody Nora, Ali!’ Lars said, once the office door had been shut smartly at our heels.

  ‘Bloody Nora, yourself,’ I said. ‘She’s hellish. How long have you worked here? How can you stand it?’

  ‘It’s a laugh,’ said Marion. ‘It doesn’t get in the way as long as you’re firm. She doesn’t even know she’s doing it.’

  ‘But what’s she like with the patients?’ I said. ‘I can’t imagine turning to her and telling her all my worries. And her daughter!’

  ‘The ice princess can’t get frozen by the ice queen,’ said Surraya, who was coming along behind us. ‘It’s a fair fight. Oh, hey, good challenge in there, by the way, Marion.’

  ‘Oh, yeah,’ I said, remembering. ‘Why shouldn’t you be sitting with Rosa?’

  ‘Shift charge nurse should be doing admin and leaving the grunt to the greenies,’ Marion said. ‘But I’ve been here the whole time Rosa’s been in and she knows me.’

  ‘She’d moan if we were doing it too,’ said another – one of the ‘greenies’? – who was walking along arm in arm with Surraya. ‘I’ll never forget her saying it straight out that time when it was old Ted.’

  ‘Yvonne, isn’t it?’ I said, pleased when she nodded.

  ‘She said,’ Yvonne went on, ‘that sitting by the bedside of an unconscious patient waiting for them to die was a waste of staff resources.’

  She was watching me carefully but I didn’t have to act my shock. ‘Seriously?’ I said. ‘She reckoned someone in here could just lie there and die alone?’

  Yvonne gave me a smile. I had passed the test. ‘She said, “What is the benefit of this use of a nurse’s time?”’

  ‘What did you say?’ I asked.

  Yvonne drew herself up. ‘I said, “Anyone who has to ask that question probably wouldn’t understand the answer.” Said it loud and clear. In my head. Nah, I said I’d wait to hear the new protocol from Lars and Marion. That shut her up.’

  ‘You know what else I didn’t understand,’ I said. We had got to my treatment room now and I stopped at the door. ‘What’s she got against book clubs?’

  ‘No clue,’ said Marion.

  But Belle, who hadn’t spoken yet, let out a deep chuckle. ‘That was all my fault, sweetness.’ I looked around but it seemed that ‘sweetness’ was me. ‘Book clubs were in her mind on account of Oprah. Because she was looking at me. Because she can’t look at me and see a nurse. She looks at me and sees B-L-A-C-K.’

  I gave that nervous laugh you do when you don’t know whether you can laugh or not. Then another thought struck me. ‘Is that what’s wrong with the patient too? The one that won’t let you . . . whatever it is?’

  Now they were all laughing.

  ‘Lord! No, that’s not the problem with little Miss Drew. She only just came in – six stone and eating tissues – and who does Dr F get to sit with her at mealtimes and make sure she gets her shake down and keeps it there?’ Belle spread her arms and displayed herself. She really was pretty impressive. ‘Only her worst living nightmare!’

  ‘You’re a beautiful woman, Belladonna,’ said Lars.

  ‘I’m two beautiful women,’ Belle said, and sashayed off along the corridor, swinging her hips so hard they shivered, still laughing.

  ‘Bloody wish I came from somewhere where fat was fabulous,’ Yvonne said. ‘Wait till you see Belle’s husband, Ali. He’s drop-dead gorgeous. And guess what mine got me last Valentine’s Day? A free month’s intro at Ballantyne’s. Bloody gym membership. Bastard.’

  I looked at Lars, wondering if he minded being the only man, listening to women bitch up their husbands all day.

  He read my mind. ‘It’s training. When I get my hands on another woman I’m gonny be an expert. “She’s too thin, love. You’re younger than her too. Let’s go and see the new Jane Austen, then get a bottle of wine to take home.”’

  ‘Hey,’ I said. ‘Some men actually like historical drama.’

  ‘Oh, yeah, so they do,’ said Lars. ‘Except, no, they don’t. How long have you been married?’

  ‘Twenty years.’

  ‘Poor sod. That’s four films and the six-hour BBC thing he’s had to sit through.’

  ‘Don’t listen to him, Ali,’ said Marion. ‘But don’t make your man watch Jane Austen, eh?’

  I was happy. As I let myself into my room to pick up Sylvie’s slippers and take them to her, planning an art class that would make the boys laugh and help Jo and Harriet smile if I was lucky, the last six months faded. I was wearing my whites again with my hair scraped back and I was joking with my workmates. I was in a big, warm, clean house, even if I only worked there. There was a master-chart and an integrated schedule, and I was part of it. Even the last three days seemed more like a bad dream now. My husband was a kind man who watched my soppy films. My kid was a good boy who only rolled his eyes because he didn’t know how lucky he was to have me. Yes, at that minute of that day, I was actually feeling happy.

  Chapter 11

  Sylvie was in bed. I had to fight the thought that she was stuck there to keep her feet warm because I’d binned her slippers, but two minutes after I arrived, Yvonne came trotting in after me, already talking.

  ‘Sorry, pet. Big mess over on the acute. Did you think I’d run away and joined the . . .’ Then she saw me. I had taken Sylvie’s hands and held them up as she swung her legs out and got to her feet. We were standing like two dancers about to start a minuet. Me in my whites and Sylvie in a poly-cotton nightie that fell to mid-calf, washed out and pilled. ‘How did you get her up?’ she said.

  I shrugged. Walking slowly backwards, I led Sylvie towards her bathroom door. She was gazing through me at about the level of my collarbone but she moved smoothly, no shuffling. She didn’t react when her bare feet left the carpet and hit the bathroom lino.

  ‘Well, I’ve seen everything now,’ Yvonne said. ‘Ali, I don’t suppose you’d get her washed and changed, would you? I’m already dead late.’

  ‘I’d love to,’ I said, and I meant it.

  ‘On the quiet, like?’

  ‘My PVG’s through.’

  ‘Eh?’ said Yvonne. ‘That was quick. No, I mean don’t tell Lars. I’ve got my appraisal coming.’

  ‘Lars?’ I said, taking my eye off Sylvie for the first time and looking over my shoulder.

  ‘Aye, aye, but he’s not your boss,’ Yvonne said. ‘I’ll swing back. Case you get in a fankle.’ But she was already walking away.

  I led Sylvie to the toilet and pushed on her shoulder until she sank down onto the closed lid. Then I moved close and cradled her head against my stomach, stroking her hair back, trying to work out what to do with her.


  ‘This is a new one on me too, darlin’,’ I said. I thought I could feel her resting against me, but maybe that was the way of it. Maybe she’d slump against any object close enough. I leaned over and felt around her waist, through the nightie. She wasn’t wearing a nappy so presumably she used the loo. ‘Upsy,’ I said. I held both her hands in one and got her nightie hitched up and her knickers pulled down. Then I opened the lid and guided her down again. ‘You needed that,’ I said, listening to her peeing. ‘You must have been busting.’ When the trickle turned to drops and then to silence, I waited. Then I whirled a big wad of paper off the roll and looked at her. I didn’t fancy my chances of coping with the nightie, the loo roll and Sylvie herself, so I grabbed the hem and said, ‘Hands up!’ Nothing happened. I tugged gently upwards pulling her arms into the tent of fabric. They fell hard when I had it clear of them but landed harmlessly in her lap.

  She was as pale as a candle, her skin so soft and crumpled, it made me think of newspaper after a bonfire, burned away to a billowing grey gossamer, too fragile to touch. And she was thin. Her shoulder bones showed through and her ribs. Even her hip bones poked out on either side of the small drooping pouch of her stomach. I needed to speak to that physio: Sylvie should be working her muscles. I wondered if she could cope with a swimming-pool. If I could lead her around by her hands, neck-deep in water, working against the resistance. Or would she sink?

  I ran a basin of hot water and soaked the flannel that was screwed in a knot behind the taps. I soaped it, nasty supermarket liquid soap in a pump bottle but it would do until I could bring her something better. I started with her face. And when I drew the flannel away to rinse it, what I saw made my heart leap. She had closed her eyes to stop the soap getting into them.

  ‘You’re still in there somewhere, Sylvie, aren’t you?’

  I rubbed her neck, ears, arms and hands, everything coming back to me. Rinsing the soap out of hairy armpits was new, but I couldn’t see shaving them without making her uncomfy. ‘Your feet’ll do since they had a major wash yesterday,’ I said. ‘Now what about the fiddly bits?’ That’s what I used to say to Angelo. A big bath meant hair and back and arms and legs all scrubbed pink. In between times if he wasn’t mucky it was feet, pits and fiddly bits. But this was a thirty-year-old woman.

  While I was trying to decide, Sylvie started shivering and goose pimples broke out on her arms. ‘Right,’ I said. ‘That’s that decided.’ I took the bathrobe off the back of the door and wrapped it round her while I brushed her hair and, just to entertain myself more than anything, twisted it into a French plait. I always had scrunchies on my wrists when I was working, ready to scrape clients’ hair out of the way of my products and I worked one onto the tiny tail of thistledown left at the end of the plait.

  Her wardrobe had day clothes in it, even though I had only ever seen her in night things. Slouchy socks that were easy to pull on and wide linen trousers with elastic waists. She had soft cosy camisoles instead of bras – I couldn’t imagine getting a bra onto her – and a selection of chenille jumpers with wide necks and flared sleeves. Even so, I was panting by the time I had her in her chair.

  ‘You look fantastic, Sylvie,’ I said. The trousers were pink and the jumper was green with pink flecks. I changed the scrunchie for a yellow one to match her socks and put her new slippers on. I took out my phone and snapped a picture. Either of her or of all my hard work, it was hard to say. It was probably against a hundred and fifty regulations but I wasn’t going to show anyone. It was just for me. She looked about seventeen, in the bad light with the flash off. Like a bookish seventeen-year-old, who studied for piano exams and didn’t smoke.

  ‘Is that who you are?’ I asked her. ‘Is that who you were when you came in?’

  She breathed in and out and stared at a spot behind me.

  ‘Well, what will we do now?’ I asked her. ‘I can’t go till Yvonne’s been back and checked my handiwork. What do you fancy?’

  I didn’t have any of my kit with me, even if I’d wanted to make Sylvie sit through any more of my efforts after I’d just learned on the job, washing her. I looked in my bag.

  ‘Oh, here’s a thought. Draw me something, eh?’ I took out my pad of paper and a black marker pen. I thought she could do with all the help she could get and it was a good size to put in her hand. I printed ‘SYLVIE’ at the top of the sheet, then wrapped her fingers round the pen until she held it in her fist like a kid with a crayon. I put the paper under the tip and held it steady. ‘Sylvie? Can you draw me a house, a tree and a person? Can you do that for me?’

  The pen was leaking ink in a spreading blot as she held it pressed against the paper. Then her hand relaxed and it trailed away in faint jags and dots towards the corner.

  ‘Come on, eh?’ I said. ‘A house. A tree. And a person.’ I lifted her hand back into place again. ‘Come on, Sylvie. You can walk and sit and eat and hold your pee, even when your nurse is late. Come on, sweetheart.’

  The blot spread again, so I grabbed the paper and started to move it away. But as I did so a thick black line started to spool out across the white and – I wasn’t imagining this – Sylvie was watching it. And I wasn’t imagining this either. When the line was three inches long, she took a tighter grip on the pen and pushed it. The line turned a corner and then another and a third until she had made a square. A very small square in the top left-hand corner of the paper but she had done it.

  ‘Is that a house?’ I said. ‘Can you put a roof on it? A door? How about some windows?’ And I held my breath as Sylvie lifted the pen and set it down a quarter-inch above the little shape. She pulled the pen down until she had made a slash right through it. Then she lifted her hand and slashed through it again, left to right. She let the pen drop out of her grasp and I bent and snatched it up before the ink could bleed into her pale-green carpet.

  ‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘I didn’t mean to nag you. I’m really sorry, sweet girl. Here, let me take that paper away.’ I had got it hidden, the pen capped and stowed, when Yvonne came back.

  ‘Hey, look at you!’ she said, chucking Sylvie under the chin. ‘It’s been a while since I’ve seen her in anything but her nightie.’

  ‘Yeah, sorry,’ I said. ‘Bit of a nerve, waltzing in here thinking I know better than folk that’ve been here years.’

  Yvonne turned to me with her mouth hanging open. She had a weak chin and small eyes behind her narrow glasses and the expression made her look vacant. She was anything but. ‘What the hell did you just hear, Ali?’ she asked me. ‘Because what I said was meant to be a compliment.’

  ‘Sorry,’ I said again.

  She walked over and put her hand on my arm. ‘Get your chin up,’ she said. ‘You’ll need it.’ It sounded like a threat but I didn’t want to do it again – hear something that hadn’t been said. ‘Did Dr F get a chance to talk to you?’ she asked me. She moved her hand down to under my elbow and drew me away, right out of the room.

  ‘What about?’ I said.

  ‘Standard,’ said Yvonne. ‘New staff get a counselling session. Kind of like a vaccination more than anything. There’s some pretty manipulative individuals wind up in here, you know. The ana-mias can have you tied round yourself if you’re not careful.’

  ‘Counselling?’ I said. ‘I don’t need counselling. There’s nothing wrong with me.’

  ‘Just so the doc can see where your sore spots are,’ said Yvonne.

  ‘I don’t have any “sore spots”,’ I said. ‘And I need to go back to Sylvie’s room. I’ve left my bag in there.’

  Yvonne finally let go of my arm and stopped dragging me. Where was she taking me anyway? Straight to Dr F’s office to be put under the microscope? ‘Just as a matter of interest,’ she said, ‘how old were you when it happened?’

  I couldn’t speak. There was no way she could know that anything had ever happened to me.

  ‘Was it your mum or your dad?’ she said. ‘That abandoned you.’

  ‘It was both,’ I
said. ‘But I was in my thirties.’

  ‘Can’t be that, then,’ she said. ‘What is it, Ali? What are you so sorry for?’

  I was never going to answer her but, still, the clip-clop of Dr Ferris approaching filled me with relief. She came round the corner of the dining-room corridor and stopped two paces before she bumped into us.

  ‘At last,’ she said. ‘Yvonne, you should be in Group. Alison, you need to go to Julia and see what you can do. I can’t even speak to you yet. I’ll try to calm down and you can come to see me before lunch. Twelve fifteen in my office.’

  ‘What’s happened?’ I said.

  ‘You and I need to have a long conversation about boundaries,’ she said quietly. ‘I thought, given your experience, that you could be trusted to work independently but perhaps it would be more suitable for me to draw up a rota and set some targets for you.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re—’ I said.

  ‘Go to Julia now,’ said Dr Ferris. ‘I’ll talk to you later.’

  I bounded up the stairs with my heart a high, painful lump and my face red with the shame of it. I hadn’t been spoken to like that since I was at school. And if I was so useless and had made Julia worse, I was the last one she should be sending to fix whatever it was. I gave a quick rap on the door and went in.

  ‘Oh, Jesus!’ I said.

  She was sitting on her bed, with a pair of scissors in her hand and a lapful of her bushy orange hair. She had hacked it off in handfuls, all over her head, only missing the odd tuft at the nape of her neck where she couldn’t quite reach. She’d made no attempt to follow the curve of her skull either. Some of it was down to the scalp and some of it was an inch long.

  ‘What do you think?’ she said.

  I didn’t know whether it was tears or laughter burbling up inside me, only that if I let it go, it would come out in hysterical shrieks. ‘I was right,’ I said. ‘It’s better. You need some blusher but you’re halfway there.’

  ‘What the actual fuck are you on about?’ Julia said, scrambling to her feet. ‘This face needs all the camouflage it can get.’ She stalked into her bathroom. ‘Oh! Oh, fuck, no!’ she screamed. ‘Stupid ugly shit!’ I heard a sound I was pretty sure was the scissors hitting the mirror. She had covered her face with both hands by the time I came up behind her and took her in my arms.