‘Hi Osh,’ she calls gaily, sweeping through, still proud that she can push open the metal door marked ‘Staff Only’ and go on up the stairs and along the corridor which cuts through the middle of each workstation. There is Caro turning her wide welcoming face with a smile; and there, as she walks along, is Elmer, so slim and concentrated, not turning but just lifting a hand in salutation as she passed; and then she was in her own space, sliding into her Aeron chair, dumping her bag, clicking the mouse and about to type her password only there was a slip of paper on the keyboard: ‘Omar meeting at 2, CH.’
‘What’s this?’ – she called, standing up and looking over into Charlotte’s cubicle.
‘He rang earlier from home.’ In her buttoned tweed jacket, Charlotte revolved slowly: ‘Or from somewhere.’ There were her knees in thick, blue-grey tights.
‘Is it . . .’
‘He won’t be in till then.’
‘Is it the Wednesday meeting brought forward?’
‘Dunno.’ Charlotte’s face, looking up, smiled briskly. ‘He sounded a bit cross. Apart from that, I’m afraid there’s no information I can give you.’
Efficient Charlotte would have everything prepared for all eventualities. Whereas she . . . if it was going to be the Wednesday meeting she needed to . . . because she had counted on having some time. What she ought to be doing this morning was working on the Al Ahmed catalogue but she could push that back. She settled down again, logged on, saw Philip was online but he could call her if he wanted. She needed to . . . she opened a doc and contemplated the white virtual page. She typed ‘ECG’. She typed ‘Trains’. She thought: how is that going to, the train thing is too much of a . . . She was going to delete ‘Trains’ but instead pressed Return again and again and again, pushing that wrong word down to the bottom of the screen, away from the focus of her thoughts. Because what you wanted was something that developed coherently from room to room. So that if you had mainly sound in the first room you needed . . . But who was this looming from behind? Oh it was Caro who was now standing there expectantly. She was holding a box file. She was wanting to talk through ideas for the merchandise. Damn!
Sue turned, stood, pulled a chair close to hers. She and Caro greeted each other, sat down; and at once they were politely harmonising their expectations for the encounter, establishing clear though implicit parameters. Then they were into the harmony of the meeting, two professionals speaking and listening and responding; inclining their bodies side by side to study the drafts and mockups; raising their heads and leaning apart so as to read each other’s faces. They talked through the choice of postcards. A natty idea of a Fortuny swatch stretched over a little balsawood frame that you could slash to make your own miniature Al Ahmed. And then the usual books etc. And some actual Fortuny cushion covers and scarves. It was all fine, as of course it would be. Caro was good. And yet . . .
As the aftermath of Caro’s presence faded from the workspace, Sue found she wanted to howl. The feeling had been erupting slowly inside her during the mild conversation and now it was about to overflow. Because merchandise was actually the worst. Because merchandise was where the whole thing became so obvious and so upsetting. Because people had had, or at least people ought to have had, the amazing, fracturing, possibly life-changing experience of encountering a work of art. And then what did they do? They bought a catalogue that told them how they ought to have responded. That . . . OK of course people wanted to have some knowledge. Only natural. No, more than natural, necessary. Sometimes you simply couldn’t open yourself to the artwork in the right way unless you had a grounding. But what so often happened was that the experience was totally stifled under the too-big heap of information. So that, say, when you were talking to someone about something, about some show that they had seen. They so rarely told you what it was really like, how it had seemed to them. Instead, they told you stuff about it. Captions were the same, of course. And even postcards, even actually postcards could be dangerous. Because the risk was, with a postcard, that you thought you were buying a reminder of the thing that you had seen; but actually you were buying an impediment, a sort of veil. An interloper like a cuckoo. Because the postcard was not in fact the same as what you had seen; it came to take the place of it. Because the needling, tantalising, fleeting but so important actual experience went skipping away, and all you were left with was a little bit of cardboard. And maybe you would look at it and think: what was so special about that? You would search in your memory for the thing that had made you buy the postcard in the first place and you wouldn’t be able to find it. Because somehow, insidiously, the postcard would have got inside there too. It would have got inside your brain and located the experience and smothered it and kicked it out.
By now she was up and walking, hugging her coat tight around her, walking quickly along the white corridor, skittering as though unconcernedly down the steps. She wanted out, into the air and the bustle and the noise. And as she pushed open the heavy glass door of the building, Philip, 54 miles away, was pushing the light, hollow, plywood and veneer door that opened into the so-called common room, i.e. just the room where the kettle and coffee were, also the venue for the weekly practice meetings. Sara Kaiser was there, greeted him. She was standing by the window, a cup held in both hands in front of her just below her chin, her head bowed towards it. Philip moved to the table, switched on the kettle, picked up the jar of instant to unscrew the lid. Her stance was reminding him of something. Cold daylight shone on one of her cheeks; the other side of her face was in shadow. He let a second heaped teaspoon of instant pour into his mug.
‘If we had a machine,’ she said, ‘we’d only drink more and it would be bad for us. So it is in harmony with our vocation as healers that we have only instant coffee on the premises.’
‘Ought to be QOF points for it.’ The kettle had boiled already and he poured as she laughed her loud laugh: ‘Oh yes.’ The spoon tinkled in his mug as he stirred. ‘A sensor’ – she continued – ‘connects the kettle to our computer system so our usage can be monitored.’
‘And costed.’
‘And costed.’
‘An Imbibing Incentives Scheme, soon to be rolled out nationwide.’
‘Or rather not to imbibe.’
‘Like antibiotics: just say no.’
Philip felt at ease. An OK morning and now he was happily chatting. Sara had been warm to him from the start.
‘Can I ask, did Dr Hibbert, Adam Hibbert, did he ever mention Janet and Albert Stone, mother and son? Did they ever come up?’
‘No,’ she said quickly. Then she said earnestly, in her deep voice, looking at him with her wide, dark eyes: ‘You know we don’t gossip about patients.’
‘Well I wasn’t . . .’
‘If you’re having a clinical concern’ – now the tone was bossier – ‘then you can raise it at the practice meeting.’
‘Yes of course I didn’t mean to.’ He was sitting on the little tatty foam sofa. He leaned forward, started to leaf through the brochures, X-Chem contamination control, OptiCap Ph-independent in vitro dissolution.
She was moving towards him. She was settling into the wooden armchair which had squeaky black-plastic-covered padding. He looked up, took in the mass of her leaning forward in a monkish brown dress and knotty cardigan. She said: ‘Is everything OK?’
‘Yeh. Yeh it’s fine.’
‘You know,’ she said. She started to lean back but stopped herself by hooking her hands around her knees. ‘Something to bear in mind is that patients often when they see a new doctor lay it on a bit thick. They have another go at trying to get what they want. Which is not necessarily what they need. For example antibiotics, as you say.’
Philip now had unhunched himself and felt that there was friendliness between them once again.
‘I had one, each time went from me to Adam, to George, to Isobel, to Paul – and then, when none of us would give them to her – she changed practice!’ Sara Kaiser was looking into his face, offering
a smile for him to respond to. He gave a hint of a chuckle back.
‘Also’ – now her eyes slid away – ‘there isn’t always one right path. You know that too.’ A quick glance up at him. ‘Each of us tries out different things.’ Now looking solemnly at the floor. ‘Follow your instinct and your training. If Adam said one thing and you think another, that’s OK. Maybe he’s right, maybe you’re right. You can only do your best. Just like he tried always to do his best. Like we all do.’
As he listened, Philip felt the presence of Ms Stone in his mind: didn’t see her, exactly, but re-encountered the impact of her as, two weeks before, she had been sitting upright in a chair in his consulting room, staring straight ahead. ‘The ritalin did help’ – this shadow-figure of Janet Stone began to enunciate as Sara Kaiser finished speaking – ‘it has made him easier to handle. But that isn’t necessarily a good thing, is it. What he used to be like – he was really responsive. He’d hear something, birdsong or the phone ringing and he’d imitate it. He’d sit down to do a drawing and then after a minute he’d stop, run upstairs and do something else, be on his bed being a downhill skier, jumping and swerving. And it was annoying’ – the voice pressed on – ‘I can see why the school didn’t like it. I’m not saying he wasn’t a handful. I found him a handful meself. I mean I basically wasn’t coping, at times I totally wasn’t coping – that’s why I . . . but what I can’t get over is I can’t stop thinking that that was really him, that because’ – and here her voice was thickening, the sobs were about to come – ‘that because I was a crap mother he is being stuffed full of chemicals, and they’ve turned him, those pills have, into a different person.’ She had sniffed. She had dragged her hand across one cheek to wipe away the tears.
‘I hope you have a happy afternoon,’ Sara Kaiser’s voice broke in. She was all the way over at the side of the room by the sink, rinsing her cup. She posed it upside-down on the draining board and moved towards the door.
‘And you,’ said Philip, vehemently. He was bewildered. Sara Kaiser swept out and the door swung to. But Ms Stone was still there vividly in his mind, rubbing her hand across the other cheek, lifting her head, shaking it like a dog emerging from the water.
‘So he seems to have lost his appetite?’ – Philip had asked.
‘Yes.’
‘He strikes you as being subdued?’ – Philip had continued, following procedure, piecing together a history.
‘Yeh that’s right.’
‘Have you noticed any other changes, for instance anxiety or physical twitching?’ The whole scene was running on replay in his mind.
‘He does have a bit of a twitch in his face . . .’
‘I’d like to talk to Albert himself now for a bit, if that’s OK?’
‘Do you want me to . . .’ – she had begun to ask.
‘No that’s fine,’ he had replied: ‘You can stay. Albert?’ Sitting in the common room he saw again the boy as he had stood in the consulting room, his face at an angle so it was half in shadow, half gleaming in the window’s slatted light.
‘Would you mind if I asked you a few questions about how you’ve been feeling?’
The boy had twisted his head very quickly, just a little each way.
‘Would you mind coming to sit here, nearby? It’s easier to talk.’
The boy had sidled over, edged into the chair, sitting with his hands under his thighs, see-sawing on them gently.
‘Thanks. Do you sometimes find, at lunchtime or teatime, you’re not hungry?’
‘Mmm.’
‘Do you sometimes feel worried about things?’
That movement of the head again.
‘He doesn’t rush out to play like he used to’ – his mother had filled in – ‘I don’t know if it’s he’s feeling flat or he’s worried. That’s the problem, doctor. I don’t think I can tell any more how he’s feeling inside.’
‘OK. Thanks Albert. That’s very helpful. We’re going to see if we can make you feel a bit better. Now Mrs Stone . . .’
‘Ms.’
‘Sorry.’
‘Or Janet.’
‘OK. Do you know what dose he’s on at the moment?’
‘One capsule each morning, when he gets up.’
‘OK I’ll just . . .’ Philip had risen and, still bent over, had nudged around the desk to where he could see the screen; had tapped, and – 20mg. Huge!
‘Albert, would you mind if we just . . .’ – he had said, moving back – ‘found out how much you weigh?’
So they had done; and it was while they were doing that that he had asked Janet whether it had been the psychiatrist in the hospital who had prescribed that dose; and she had answered:
‘We never went to no hospital.’
He heard it again: ‘Never went to no hospital’; ‘Never went to no’; ‘no hospital’; ‘Never went to’ and his heart started thumping again as it had thumped back then and his throat tightened as it had tightened back then. He must have blushed; he must be blushing. Because the guidelines were granite strong for suspected ADHD. They had to be. Always refer for specialist assessment. ‘So it was only Dr Hibbert who . . .’
‘That’s right. He was very certain of it.’
The memory stopped when it hit that rock and dropped Philip back into the common room in the present on the tatty foam sofa. There was the window, the ceiling. His body was trembling still, his breath quick and uneven. He looked for the clock on the wall and saw that it said: 2 pm. He took a slow, deep breath, lifting his ribs and his shoulders. He shut his eyes. Then he opened them, and rose, and moved towards the door at pretty much the same moment as, 54 miles away, Charlotte’s head popped above the dividing half-wall and said: ‘Ready?’ Sue reached for a pen, a piece of paper; she stood, folding the piece of paper in half and then, as she walked along behind Charlotte’s loud steps, in half again, before she stopped and turned to pull the glass door shut behind her. Omar Olagunju, in his neat dark blue suit and soft lilac shirt and olive tie, turned, said ‘Charlotte, Sue,’ and nodded them towards the two grey Aeron visitors’ chairs that were located in front of his wide glass desk. He leaned forward as they settled into the springy mesh: his arms were laid out in front of him, his hands clasped in a double fist. Behind him, and to the left, two bare grey walls. Behind Sue and Charlotte, and to their right, the wide metal slats of blinds half barring the floor-to-ceiling windows.
Omar said: ‘Al Ahmed has cancelled.’ He let the words sit there for a moment. And then: ‘Obviously I’ll need to tell everyone before long and there will need to be a press announcement but for now I want to keep it tight, between the three of us.’
‘But’ – Charlotte stuttered – ‘we’ve been working for . . .’
‘I know. It’s unbelievable.’
Charlotte had her hands on her knees now, was breathing deeply, leaning forward: ‘Why . . .’
‘I don’t know. I haven’t spoken to him. He hasn’t had the courtesy to speak to me. His principal assistant says he is unwell. Implies some sort of breakdown. He says Al Ahmed is withdrawing from all engagements. Speaking to no one. He says Al Ahmed apologises profusely and promises that if ever he exhibits again it will be first of all with us.’
‘Would it help’ – Sue said – ‘if we . . .’
‘Yes’ – Charlotte came trampling in – ‘if we made clear that we can offer a very high level of support; that really he can simply be an inspiring presence, we can create the piece, have it created, like we did with . . .’
‘Of course I’ve said that. Jesus I’ve been fighting this for a week!’ Omar actually banged the table. The flat of his hand came into contact with the glass of the table, jarring it. ‘It’s over.’ He was looking at them both, looking from one to the other. ‘I’m sorry to spring it on you. It’s a shock, I know. And a waste. Of all our time. And a terrible disappointment to me. I feel personally let down. But I assure you there is nothing to be done. What we have to do now is leave it behind. And think forward.’
> There was a pause. Omar kept shifting his gaze from one of them to the other. Charlotte was calming herself.
‘One thing’ – put in Sue – ‘is that Caroline is about to order the . . .’
‘That’s right: Caroline will have to be the next to know.’ Omar turned to the slim monitor at the leftward end of his wide desk and tapped for a moment on the keyboard. ‘But Sue,’ he said, turning back, ‘can you delay her for a few days without saying why? – say . . .’
‘I’ll say Al Ahmed wants refusal.’
‘OK. Good. Only a little lie.’
Charlotte was sitting up straight again. She said: ‘So what are we . . .’
‘For myself, I simply cannot see a way forward. I think it very likely that for those three months we will have to go dark. As Director of this Gallery I cannot approach another high-profile artist in this circumstance. It is too late. We would look desperate. And it would be insulting to them, it would look as though we thought them second best. And anyway they will all already have made their arrangements years ahead.’
‘We could spin that to our advantage,’ Charlotte said constructively. ‘We don’t deny that a crisis has happened but the line we take is that we’re not prepared to compromise on quality. And then, come the autumn, there will be extra publicity for the Art and Language retrospective.’
‘Nevertheless it is a grave step. Ideally we would not be taking it. That is why I asked you both last week, when this . . . eventuality was starting to seem unavoidable, to do some thinking. About innovative ways we might use the gallery. In case, if this happened, as it has done, there might be a different pathway. Not just to think outside the box, but – to blow the box sky high.’ He swirled his hand as though with a fly-whisk. He looked smilingly from one of them to the other.
Sue felt cold. A pulse was throbbing in her throat. Her mind was clear. This was her chance, grab it! – so she said: ‘We could . . .’ but Charlotte cut in: ‘I was thinking about up-and-coming artists. If we turn ourselves into a studio, recreate a studio show, really fresh . . .’
The World Was All Before Them Page 4