by Ann Quin
In Block C she joined the half dozen patients who were in the middle of describing their paintings.
‘This is me in the middle.’
‘But it looks like a horse.’
‘It’s me and above are two moons in eclipse.’
‘That looks more like you.’
‘Hallo Sandra where’s your painting—the one you did last week?’
‘I destroyed it—I’ve done another though it’s outside.’
‘Well fetch it and we’ll have a look.’
‘I can’t—anyway the wind has probably wiped it out.’
‘Very well, if you feel like doing one now Sandra you have time.’
She thought of Clive’s paintings; the need for posterity. How much better to create like the Navajo Indians, beginning at sunrise in the desert, a sand painting that would be rubbed out by sundown. A desert landscape with wild horses galloping across. Sand rippled. Landscape only disturbed by the wind. In a grain of sand the whole universe—something like that, Blake put. He had visions. A God who laughed, belched, snored and picked His nose. Her God had been straight out of Blake, long snowy beard and snowy locks, and in His face every conceivable landscape.
‘That’s a funny face Sandra.’
‘It’s God.’
‘Looks like a lump of shit to me.’ A patient said, making up her face with paint brushes. Someone else suddenly woke up and cried out ‘The light, the black one, ahh, that stabs in the dark, ahh, because, ahh, I haven’t, what, looked at them from the outside, of what this is a step towards, in that if I don’t make these reasons.’
‘Now Charles what have you done to-day?’
‘I’ve switched off the connecting line to the President.’
‘Yes well—but I mean you haven’t done any work have you Charles, you’ve been asleep the whole afternoon?’
‘The connection has been switched off.’ He collapsed over the table and went back to sleep.
It was time for tea. They filed out, back to their wards. Back to the trolley where the wolves pounced on pieces of cake and biscuits.
‘There’s a visitor to see you Sandra.’
She looked up and saw Clive stride in.
‘Hallo how are you?’
‘Fine—and you?’
‘Fine.’
Silence. He sat down on the edge of the chair. On the edge of the bed she spread out her legs as he bent over her.
‘Cold today isn’t it?’
‘Yes colder than yesterday.’
‘Yes—temperature has fallen.’
‘Yes.’
‘Cigarette?’
‘Thanks.’
Silence. He pulled her off the bed, carried her towards the mirror.
‘Still you’re nice and warm in here—best place to be really.’
‘Yes.’
Silence. Body to body. Body part of body. One body. The spaces between limbs.
‘The food OK?’
‘Oh it’s all right.’
Silence. She took him in her mouth. He moved with the rhythm of her tongue.
‘Oh I forgot—something for you—just a little something—here.’ She took the box of chocolates from him, and smiled, looking at his hand. Fine boned, veins showing through like a Chinese water colour. What other skin had that hand explored?
‘Been working well?’
‘On and off—you know.’
‘And the teaching?’
‘Just the same—same old rut.’
‘How are your parents?’
‘Fine—sent their love to you.’
‘Well I…’
‘Do you still…?’
‘Sorry you were saying?’
‘Ought to be going.’
‘Yes.’
‘Well goodbye—take care—see you again soon.’
‘Goodbye.’
‘Goodbye.’ He bent over and pecked her on the cheek.
‘Don’t eat them all at once.’ He said, indicating the chocolates, and strode out.
‘Time for group session.’ A nurse shouted. Shuffle of feet, chairs put in a circle. Patients from other wards came in. Three doctors surveyed the scene. Annie Carr tripped in and made the sign of the cross over each person.
‘Sit down Annie—now who would like to begin?’
‘I would like to say that I think the food here is pig’s muck.’ Said an enormous woman.
‘It’s better than what you’d get in the nick I can tell you.’ Said another woman.
‘I think there ought to be two televisions it’s not fair just having the one and Mrs. Whatshername hogs it all the time I never see what I want to see.’
‘I want to know when I can leave?’
‘I don’t think it’s fair being woken up at six in the morning.’
‘Someone has stolen my slippers.’
‘I have a poem here I’d like to read it’s called “The Trees Aching Green”—when the trees move…’
‘We don’t want to hear any of your crappy poems.’
‘When the trees begin to walk…’
‘I want to know when I can go home?’
‘Naked I stand in the roots…’
‘Imagine him naked ahhha.’ All the patients laughed. The doctors remained silent, yawned, or doodled, or looked at the clock.
‘An earwig crawled into my ear Doctor and it’s eating away my insides—I wish to have an X-ray please.’
‘Looks as though it’s eating away the outside as well.’
‘The roots of my heaven leave holes in the sky…’
‘You’ve got holes in your socks if that’s what you mean?’
‘Can we please have our eggs soft boiled?’
‘I want to know when I can be discharged?’
‘Two televisions instead of one.’
‘The branches of my hell leave traces in the mirror…’
‘Not surprised the way you look.’
‘Someone’s stolen my pearls.’
‘Can we have two eggs instead of one for breakfast?’
‘I want to go home.’ Someone shouted, rose, and made for the corridor. A nurse brought him back.
‘Has anyone anything else to say?’ A doctor asked. Silence, apart from coughs, clicking of knitting needles, and someone snoring.
‘Well I think that’s it for this afternoon—thank you.’ The doctor said, smiling round the circle. He and the other doctors marched out, followed by a few patients, whom they ignored. Cries of ‘When can I…?’ ‘Please tell me Doctor when…’ ‘I demand an X-ray so you’ll believe me you’ll see the earwig for yourself…’ Cries that bounced back onto the patients, leaving them with each other, from whom they turned away, turned into themselves, or the walls, the floors, the windows that looked on to concrete blocks.
Sandra went into the dormitory and lay down. Someone opposite muttered in her sleep. Someone else bent over paper bags. In the distance a man shouted ‘No don’t do it I don’t—don’t want it—leave me alone.’ Two nurses entered with the Charge Nurse, they marched down the line of beds.
‘What’s this Sandra aren’t we feeling well?’
‘I’m tired.’
‘You can’t sleep here now you know.’ She went back into the ward and sat in a corner near the window. An old woman in a wheelchair stared at her, without blinking. Oh God, she’s dead, Sandra thought, and turned away. Somewhere beyond the buildings Clive would be striding towards a yellow circle enclosed in a green triangle. Or perhaps a yellow triangle between white circles, a triangle he would enter.
A dry rasping cough startled her. She turned round and the old woman bent over. Sandra moved away and went into the area for television. The boy was there, staring at his fingers, motionless on his knees. She walked up the corridor, back again.
‘Sandra come and sort out some counters.’ A nurse called out.
‘No.’ She went and looked for Thomas, he was busy writing.
‘Hi.’ She bent over and tried to see what he had written, minute words cr
awled into each other across the paper.
‘Is that God’s Joke you’re writing?’
‘Just some notes—I think I’ve reached the point where I realise that I am betraying myself.’
‘I should think by now Christ has forgiven you Thomas.’
‘How can I know that He—Bob—I mean He can’t speak and whenever I try and speak to Him He has such an accusing look in his nose.’
‘How do you mean I mean eh how can you see that in his nose?’
‘It points straight out at me.’ He continued writing.
‘I’ve seen God’s face Thomas did you know that?’
He did not answer, but went on writing. She moved away, and went back to the ward. A young girl was silently crying. The old woman had gone back to her death-like mask. A group of women sorted out the coloured counters, putting them in polythene bags. A woman was trying on a wig.
‘What you want that for—it’s exactly the same as your own hair?’ Someone asked.
‘Well I got this lobotomy op coming up and they shave the head you see—nice isn’t it—they designed it specially so it would look like my own hair?’
Sandra opened her journal at random.
I don’t remember that day as a day—not surprising—for a long time no day seemed like a day, no night seemed like a night. But that particular day has no shape in my memory. I used to mark the time by meals, but as I believe we are given several sets of meals in each real day—about half a dozen sets of breakfast, lunch, tea and dinner in each twelve hours—this was not much help.
She turned several pages and continued reading:
CONVERSATION WITH TWO DOCTORS
Dr. X: Sandra, I wish to ask you something. I’m holding a pen here. Do you see this pen?
S.: No.
Dr. X: Dr. Y, do you see this pen?
Dr. Y: Yes, I see the pen.
Dr. X: Sandra, how is it when I show you the pen, you say, no you don’t see it, and Dr. Y says yes, he does see it. How is it he says yes and you say no?
S.: Well… ah the doctor says he doesn’t see it?
Dr. Y: I do see it.
S.: You do see it?
Dr. X: What do you say, Sandra?
S.: I do see the pen.
Dr. X: You do see the pen?
S.: Unnhhh.
Dr. X: No, wait, you tell me. I’ve got the pen here. Do you see the pen?
S.: No, I don’t see it.
I see an endless road, white-glittering under the sun’s rays, glittering like a needle; above the remorseless sun weighing down the trees and houses under its electric rays. How can I explain, describe that to them? They would never understand. How ridiculous he looked holding that pen, nodding, grinning up at the other doctor. What a relief to get away from them and hear a newly arrived patient exclaim, ‘I am St. Michael the Archangel and the Red Horse of the Apocalypse. You might say I have delusions of grandeur, but like Christ, I glorify myself for my Father’s sake. For additional proof, I refer you to metaphysicians and Jehovah’s Witnesses. I am in disguise and one might say a blessing in disguise.’
Sandra turned the pages over and began writing.
Have just seen C., and saw myself seeing him, saw him seeing me, or rather not seeing me. His visits now have become a duty; as soon as he’s here he wants to leave, obviously can’t stand the role of visitor with sick person. I shall write and tell him not to come here anymore. No point. Nothing. If I love him still it is only love in memory.
Sandra paused, looked out of the window, some gulls circled above the grey buildings, tips of their wings caught in the fading light. She thought she heard the sound of waves breaking, the rush and sliding of pebbles, but it was only the rush-hour traffic. Out there was a world that carried on its daily duties, and somewhere they might be waiting for her, waiting for her to help in the Cause. But what Cause? She had almost forgotten what it was all about, what it was they wanted of her; like a dream now, the electric waves that had sent messages through her body had disappeared, the Cosmic Forces gone—gone. But not her memory, they hadn’t obliterated that with their injections, pills and tentacles on her head. She looked across at the woman with her wig, she held it up for other women to admire. What would she be like after they had operated on her brain? And all because she was a compulsive house cleaner.
She suddenly felt claustrophobic, the smell of women penetrated her nose, mouth, ears and eyes. She went again into the dormitory, where it was dark, silent. She lay down and slid into black velvet. A sea of velvet that tossed her gently, and somewhere above her the sound of ice breaking. If I go back to the beginning of it all… but there is no beginning, and in the description I lose the threads. How many days, nights she had attempted going back over the journey, always it appeared in flashes, like a film running backwards, at top speed, a few pictures were stills, frozen, hovered there while others piled up. A landscape with snow, and the north wind god telling her to move in another direction. A ship’s mast in a park, no, wrong again, a heavy cross leaned towards the west, and there was the mast, a ship sliding into dock, moving slowly below the town, in air it seemed. A hotel room overlooking rail tracks, the shuttle of trains, wagons throughout the night. Before then, before I arrived there, how did it begin? Let me see…
Someone groaned across the way. Sandra opened her eyes and peered into the darkness, a huddled shape moved, jerked towards her. She sat up. The smell of stale bread and beef breathed over her.
‘Go away.’ She shouted at the old woman. ‘Go away do you hear?’ The old woman laughed and crouched over the bed. ‘Nurse she’s at it again.’ Sandra screamed and sprang off the bed, and ran out.
‘Listen that old hag has got out of bed really she can walk she’s there go in now honestly if you don’t believe me go in now…’ The nurse shook her head, clicked her teeth, and marched into the dormitory. Sandra behind her. The old woman lay snoring in her own bed.
‘Well she’s just got back—honestly she was up a minute ago.’
‘Poor old thing she’s asleep as usual Sandra you must have been dreaming.’
‘I wasn’t.’
‘She hasn’t got out of that bed for eighteen months she’s quite incapable of walking Sandra so don’t be so silly.’
Ugh, the monster, a clever monster at that, Sandra thought, and went back to her bed.
‘You can’t sleep now Sandra—you know you’re not supposed to be in here at this time of day so come along now.’
She went and watched the television. A newsreel shot of bombs being dropped in an area the pilot had marked out for him on a map. Someone started laughing.
‘Shutup.’ Someone else said, and concentrated on the picture that had changed to a girl rising in slow motion out of a sparkling sea, following an animated bambi.
‘The doctor is human you know yes he’s human I know now he’s human ’cos he farted today when I saw him.’ Someone said, and collapsed into silence.
‘Yes she left it all to charity it’s a mortal sin that shouldn’t be allowed but these old people get cranky don’t they funny how they go all queer when they get past a certain age.’
‘Such a shock for her…’
‘A loud fart it was and the smell was strong.’
‘Shutup.’
‘And I told Jack to see a lawyer not right leaving it all to a dog’s home is it?’
‘Have you seen Beryl’s wig it looks just like her real hair—less trouble it will be really?’
‘So Jack’s going to see a lawyer and get it sorted out.’
‘I mean when you hear a fart and smell a fart then you know a man’s a man and he’s human.’
‘Will you shutup.’
‘Just like her own hair, same colour and everything, cost a bomb I’m sure—had it specially designed for her—can’t tell the difference at all.’
Someone changed the television channel. Screams of protest.
‘Well you weren’t watching anyway just natter natter natter.’
‘Th
at’s not fair we were watching.’
‘No you fucking wasn’t.’
‘No need for that.’
Silence. A picture came on of a table laden with food.
‘Looks nice doesn’t it?’
‘Not poisoned like it is here.’
They leaned forward and watched the picture intently. They leaned back and swallowed their saliva; carried on chattering, nose-picking, knitting; fingers plucked at buttons, cigarettes, fingers at fingers, a battle of insects.
Sandra moved heavily away, and looked at the clock. An hour to go before supper. She saw Thomas staring into oblivion.
‘What you thinking – you look miles away?’
He did not answer, nor look at her. Obviously in one of his moods. She persevered.
‘Thomas tell me about God’s Joke?’ But he persevered in his silence. She put her hand out as if to touch him, but there was that feeling again—overpowering from his body—his grey mottled skin would not feel like skin to touch, but some horrible substance that would congeal under her hands. She looked round the ward. People slept, or muttered to themselves, to each other, or were transfixed by some part of their anatomy; a lot seemed concerned with their hands, as though they were palm reading. Some nurses laughed behind a closed door. She looked again at the clock. Soon it would be supper, soon it will be over, and the long night crawled ahead of her.
She went into the dormitory once more, hastily looked over for the lump of senility—the old woman was not there. Sandra looked quickly round and saw a shadow move or rather lurch from the other shadows, and the old woman, cackling, stumbled towards her. Sandra quickly went over to her own bed, brought out her journal and ran out.
She found an uninhabited space where she pulled up a chair and table, but someone entered her new-found territory. It was Thomas, blinking like a bat behind his spectacles.