Matthew was easy to deceive and Anne was intimidated by my subterfuges, but you knew neither deception nor intimidation. You could walk easily, and all through the summer you had complained whenever I picked you up. Now, as the days grew shorter, you demanded to be carried with increasing frequency. “Carry me,” you were saying, “not the pain.”
In early December, nearly a fortnight after Anne had seen the woman, she and I took Robert and you to play on the swing that hung from the cooper beech beside the Grange. As we trundled up with our prams, the sound of barking came from the house. “Dogs,” you said hopefully, but no dogs appeared.
The ground beneath the tree was thick with leaves. While Anne pushed Robert, you bent to examine them, and I remembered the churchyard in Troon, the dead leaves drifting over Barbara’s grave. Next summer, I thought, we should go for a holiday. Lily would come too, and we could stay at the Bell and Bush, visit Ballintyre, and play on the beach.
Robert had soon had enough of the swing, but you clamoured for turn after turn. Finally I said, “I’m sorry, darling. I’m too tired.”
“I’ll give you a turn,” said Anne.
Your lips quivered. “No. I want Mummy. I want a turn with Mummy.”
“What a silly girl you are.” In spite of the darkness that rose around me, I hoisted you onto the swing and pushed you back and forth until Anne called a halt. Before you could protest, she had you seated in the pram. We started up the hill towards home. As we reached the California redwood, Anne said, “Eva, I don’t mean to pry but are you all right?”
I steered the pram around a pothole left by the autumn rain. I could feel Anne watching me and I knew she saw what Matthew did not: how thin I’d grown, how pale. Since the afternoon she’d surprised me with the woman, there had been a wariness between us. Sadly, I thought she must attribute my odd behaviour to some failure of affection. Now, in an effort to recover our closeness, I told her about the appointment with Sir Hamilton.
“Oh, good,” she said. “At last you’re being sensible. I can look after Ruth. You know I’m always happy to have her.”
That evening as I sang you to sleep, I wondered for the hundredth time why someone else had finally glimpsed a companion. Anne was a dear friend, but other dear friends—Isobel, Daphne, Samuel—had seen only empty air. I recalled my last meeting with Neal Cunningham. I could still picture his face, blackened with tannic acid, and the jovial smile of his companion as he bore Neal away, briskly, in a wheelchair, to his death.
I shivered, and at the same moment a tremor passed over you, like wind over a field. I reached down to stroke your back. I wanted to shield you from every harm and danger.
18
At night I waited until Matthew was asleep, then I slipped from our bed to pace the quiet rooms, hoping that fatigue would overcome pain. I longed for the opiates I had given to others, but why should I have drugs for an illness with no name? Often the woman came to share my vigils. She plied me with questions. Had you learned to sing “Away in a Manger”? Was Matthew still busy with exams? Would Lily come for Christmas? Had I heard that people were once again planning holidays in France? One night, when the pain was especially acute and frost flowered the windows, a feeling of recklessness came over me. “Why me?” I said.
“What do you mean?”
“Why do you visit me? Why do you take care of me?”
For a moment she looked dumbfounded, and I thought she would do what she always did in the face of awkward questions: vanish. She stared down at her moss-green skirt, pleating the material back and forth between her fingers. “Do you remember how you used to think of us like a flash of colour or a note of music?”
“Blue and silver, D sharp and middle C.”
“Well, that’s not far from the truth. Our natures can’t be spoken, even by us. Why some of us come back and some do not, I don’t know, anymore than you know why you usually overcook the potatoes.” She raised her eyes to mine. “I do know that only a few people can give us life, people who have lost someone at a young age. We cling to them.”
“And do I have a say?”
“Oh”—she leaned forward eagerly—“it all depends on you. When Samuel asked you to give us up, you could have.”
I sank down into the armchair. “So he was right.”
The woman nodded. “We behaved unfortunately. We knew you liked him, so we tried to help. Then it became apparent that Samuel was like a cuckoo; he wanted to push us out of the nest. But it all depended on you.”
I eyed her raptly, everything else forgotten. “And Matthew? You even took him to the shop to buy the ring.”
“Matthew is different. Besides, you wanted a child.”
So did you, I nearly added, but I hurried on. “The girl is Barbara’s sister, Elizabeth. Who are you?”
“Marion Hanscombe. Your mother saved my son’s life. When I helped you lift David from the river, I was doing no more than she had done.” She smiled. “And the man who came to cheer you up? You were right; that was Barbara’s uncle Jack.”
“So why doesn’t Barbara come? Why you three and not her?”
“I’ve wondered that too. Maybe she was missed so much, there was no need for her to return. In a way, she never left.” Her smile faded. “You should get some rest.” Before I could reply, she was gone.
Alone in the empty room I glimpsed the last exit in a dark maze—the maze which I had all unwittingly entered, years before, beneath the red-currant bushes—and dreaded the illumination I might find. I padded down the corridor to kneel beside your bed. Everything else might be in question, but you, your sweet breath, was real. Suddenly I realised the pain had dipped below the horizon. I hurried back to bed and slept.
On the day of my appointment with Sir Hamilton, Anne insisted that I ask Matthew to drive me to Perth. I hated to alarm him, but I need not have worried. He fussed briefly and then, taking my word that it was a routine checkup, began to look forward to an afternoon in town. When we arrived at the infirmary he said, “Can I just drop you? I thought I might pop into Deucars to see his new books.”
On my last few visits I had bypassed the infirmary waiting room. Now I had ample time to take in the dingy decor: blackout blinds still hung in the windows, and on the wall was a LOOSE LIPS SINK SHIPS poster. A dozen other people were already gathered, and as I took my seat I studied them curiously. Beside me a dapper middle-aged couple—the man in a checked suit, the woman in a well-cut dress—were talking quietly. Next to them a man and a small boy with his arm in a sling read a comic. Near the door two women, sisters perhaps, were knitting. Everyone, except the boy, appeared to be in good health, and somehow this made me feel better—we all had hidden illnesses.
At last the nurse called my name. I followed her across the corridor into a consulting room. Sir Hamilton was seated at a table, with a small group of interns standing deferentially behind him. He was reading a file, mine I presumed, and all I could see was the crown of his head, white and bony through the thinning hair.
No one spoke. In the silence I found myself remembering Samuel and how good he had been at putting his patients at ease. Then Sir Hamilton raised his head and I felt the weight of his brisk scrutiny. “So, Mrs. Livingstone, you have a pain. I’ve read the reports of my colleagues and there’s nothing very illuminating. Could you describe it for me?”
“I have a pain in the abdominal region. It fluctuates in intensity and seems unrelated to diet or exercise. Occasionally it causes nausea.
“Were you a nurse?”
“Yes, sir. Glasgow Infirmary 1939—45.”
“Good, good. I see Dr. Singer ordered some X rays. Why don’t we start by taking a look at those?”
A nurse put two X rays up on the screen. Sir Hamilton and the doctors gathered round. From where I sat I could hear him, ticking off my organs. “I must say,” he said at last, “everything looks fine, but as you’re here I may as well examine you.”
I went into the examination room and changed into a gown. For two
pins I would have turned and fled, but I thought of Dr. Singer, who had worked hard to get me this appointment, and I thought of you. I lay down and waited. Presently Sir Hamilton came in, entourage at his heels. He lifted the gown and began to palpate me. “Does this hurt?” he asked. “Does this?”
I answered wearily. It all hurt, no one place more than another.
“Well, Mrs. Livingstone, you seem fit as a fiddle. I see in your file you date your illness to the birth of your child. Unfortunately many women do allow childbirth to turn them into hypochondriacs.”
Behind him the interns nodded, a jury echoing a judge. I remembered Daphne sneering at the private patients with their nerves and hernias. I remembered Sir William, the hospital ghost, taunting the young man with headaches. “I’m sorry,” I stammered. “Perhaps I have a touch of indigestion.”
But Sir Hamilton was already leaving the room. Only one of the interns lingered, a stocky young man whose white coat barely buttoned around him. “Have you always been this thin?” he asked.
“Just since my daughter was born.”
“These X rays don’t show everything. Ask your doctor to get a complete set.” He hurried away.
In the waiting room, Matthew dropped the newspaper and stood to meet me. “Eva.” He put his hands on my shoulders. “Are you all right?”
Through my dress I felt his touch, warm and sure, and for a moment I wanted to throw myself into his arms. I had to swallow before I could repeat Sir Hamilton’s verdict.
“Splendid,” he said. And suddenly, seeing his face break into a smile, I understood that my uncertain health had not entirely passed him by. He bent to kiss me.
Back at Glenaird we went straight to collect you. Anne invited us in for tea, but I said it was your bedtime. I wanted to avoid her anxious sympathy and in particular the need to tell her that it was unjustified. As we drove up the hill, I asked about your afternoon. “We painted,” you said. “And we made biscuits.”
We turned off the main road. “Look,” you exclaimed. In your excitement you almost slipped from my arms. In the headlights of the car a group of black-and-white birds were strutting up and down in front of the house.
“Magpies,” said Matthew. “Can you count them, Ruth?”
“One, two,” you called, pointing wildly. “Three.”
“Four, five,” he prompted.
“Six,” you said triumphantly. The birds rose as one and flew off into the darkness.
That night after Matthew had fallen asleep, I got out of bed. I went into the living room and switched on the overhead light and all three lamps. Marian and Elizabeth were on the sofa, as if they had been waiting for me. The man with a moustache, Barbara’s uncle Jack, stood against the wall, and beside him the soldiers from the river.
I did my best to ignore them. All my life, I thought, I had been too credulous. I had believed in the companions and that belief gave them power. Now it was the same with my illness. “Malade imaginaire,” I murmured. If I could only rid myself of this foolish notion, then I would be well again.
I began to pick up your toys. Even that slight exertion exhausted me, but I forced myself to go on. “There’s nothing the matter with me,” I whispered grimly. When I finished, I looked around the room. The desk caught my attention. I had never liked it by the window. How much larger the room would seem if it were in the corner.
The desk had two pedestals and twenty pigeonholes; two men had carried it into the house with considerable effort; Lily and I had tried in vain to lift it. If I can move this, I thought, the pain will vanish. I grasped a corner. “One, two, three.” I heaved. I might as well have tried to push back the walls.
I stopped to reconsider. My heart was pounding, as if my blood had thickened and could only with huge effort be forced through my veins. I wiped the hair from my forehead and took a tentative step forward. Beneath my feet the floor buckled. I closed my eyes and waited for it to grow flat.
When I looked up again, Marian and Elizabeth were beside me. Elizabeth touched my arm, motioning towards the sofa. Her face was much paler than usual; her eight freckles stood out, tiny and distinct. I shook my head and turned back to my task.
Marian barred my way. Against her dark dress her hair shone like snow on a winter’s morning. “Excuse me,” I said. “I’m moving the desk.”
“Please, Eva. Sit down and rest.”
In her deep-set, melting grey eyes I seemed to see all those occasions when the companions had come to my aid: They had saved me from the gypsies, they had persuaded Lily to let me go to the infirmary, they had rescued me after the air raid. I saw the men in uniform lift David out of the river and carry him to safety. They had brought me to Matthew, and to you.
Slowly I turned my head to break her gaze. Then I did what I had never done before. I stepped blindly forward as if she did not exist.
19
I was not surprised to open my eyes and see the green screens around my bed. From the familiar odour that greeted my first conscious breath, I had known I was in a hospital. But where were you? In my fear I tried to get up, but the normal link between impulse and action was broken. I was as helpless as if bound to the bed. Even to crook my little finger was an effort.
Then I thought Anne would be taking care of you; it was better for you not to see me like this. I lay back, hoping someone would come. On the ceiling two roughly triangular cracks resembled the shaky maps of Africa and India I had drawn as a child. I stared at them, trying to recall the different countries, the spice routes.
At last a nurse appeared between the screens. She had dark hair, and for a confused moment I mistook her for Daphne. Oh, she’d soon have me well. “How are you feeling, Mrs. Livingstone?”
I shaped a response, but no words emerged. I held on to the nurse’s sleeve. Up close she was nothing like Daphne. Her hair was straight and no one would have accused her for a moment of using makeup. After a minute I managed to whisper, “Where am I?”
“Newcastle Infirmary. They brought you in last night.”
“Newcastle.” Fear gave me the strength to speak louder. “Could you get the sister?”
She disappeared and I lay with my heart struggling in my chest. How could I be in Newcastle and not know it? Where were you?
The sister bent over me, her face large as the moon. “Good morning, Mrs. Livingstone, this must be very confusing. You collapsed, and your husband arranged for you to be brought here to Newcastle Infirmary so that you could be under the care of Dr. Halliday, an old friend of his.”
“Where is my daughter?”
“Your husband is in the waiting room. We don’t normally allow visitors now but I’ll have him fetched. He’ll explain.”
A few minutes later Matthew tiptoed towards the bed. He was unshaven and his collar and cuffs were edged with grime. I recognised the maroon tie you had given him for Christmas. “Eva,” he murmured, “thank God.” He sank down on the edge of the bed and took my hands in his.
I felt my eyes fill with tears as I waited for news of you.
“I woke up,” he said, “and you were gone.” Although this often happened, for some reason he had been alarmed and had got up at once. He had found me lying on the living room floor with you curled beside me. “At first I thought you were both asleep,” Matthew said, “but I couldn’t rouse you. Ruth woke and I told her I was going out for a few minutes.
“I rushed from the house and drove to Anne’s. She was wonderful. She sent Paul to telephone Dr. Singer, then she came immediately. When we got back, Ruth was having a sort of fit. She was shaking you and shouting, ‘Mummy, wake up! Mummy, come back!’
“Dr. Singer arrived and said you were unconscious. While we were waiting for the ambulance, I telephoned Tink Halliday and he suggested we bring you down here.”
“What about Ruth?”
“Ruth is fine. She’s with Anne.”
“Can I see her?”
“When you’re better, darling. It would only upset her to bring her here. Besides,
what would I do with her? I’m staying in a lodging house just round the corner.”
“Please, Matthew. I want her to know that I’m all right.”
He shifted his chair and cleared his throat. “Why don’t we wait until Tink has examined you? Then we’ll make plans. He’s coming to see you as soon as he’s finished his rounds.” Matthew smiled. “He’s a wonderful doctor, Eva. He used to practise in Stoke-on-Trent. I remember when the fishmonger’s boy was run over by a cart. Everyone said he’d lose his legs, but Tink had him walking in less than a year. And there was a woman—”
“I’ll have to ask you to leave, sir. We’re doing the beds.”
The nurses lifted me briskly from side to side, talking as if I were still unconscious. “The carrots are always soggy,” the taller one said, stretching the bottom sheet.
“And cabbage three times a week. Can you move her a bit higher?”
When they had gone, I sank back against the clean sheets. The image of you trying to wake me was unbearable. But Anne would look after you, I thought, and perhaps at long last the doctors would discover what was wrong. They would operate and I would be cured. I remembered how ill Scott had been; he had recovered.
Comforted, I allowed my eyes to close. But before I could fall asleep, the pain began to rise. Since I woke it had been flickering dully. Now it twisted into my side, sharp and fierce, as it had when I tried to move the desk. Escape was impossible.
When Dr. Halliday came, the first thing he did was give me an injection. He stood beside the bed, a small neat-featured man, watching until he saw from my eyes that the morphine was taking effect. “So, Eva, I hear you’ve been poorly. We’ll soon have you back on your feet.”
“Do you know what’s wrong?”
“We did some tests while you were unconscious,” he said. “We should have the results in a few days.”
“And then you’ll operate,” I whispered.
“Operate.” He seemed to be examining his stethoscope. “Why would we operate? Nothing the matter with you that a little rest won’t cure.”
Eva Moves the Furniture Page 17