Sally

by Freya North

  ‘What about? That you’re not sure of your feelings?’

  ‘No!’ Sally retorted. ‘Yes?’ she furthered. ‘I don’t bloody know!’ she wailed.

  ‘Are you in you-know-what?’ Diana ventured.

  ‘I am deeply and irrevocably very much in love,’ proclaimed sad Sally, ‘with Richard,’ she sighed, ‘who is everything I thought no man could possibly be. I love him totally, with my body and with my Self. The point of no return is way back there somewhere,’ she continued, gesticulating wildly at nowhere in particular. ‘It’s gone from the safety of my view,’ she concluded, down, dejected, diminutive. There was silence, an initially awkward soundlessness which eerily metamorphosed into a graceful and welcome peace. Only Sally broke it. Giving Diana an almighty shock, she shrieked an urgent and most un-Sally-like: ‘Fuck!’ Slapping her hands flat, smack, against her soft cheeks, ‘Shit!’ she fulminated, her eyes wide and darting, her hands scratching and pulling her face. ‘Bugger, bugger, what am I doing! Get me away. I don’t want this! I’m not nearly ready. I can’t, I won’t!’

  Everything fell; tears, her hands away from her red cheeks, her shoulders, her head, everything tumbled down.

  ‘Cope,’ she whimpered, ‘I can’t cope. I want to be like before, by myself. It’s just too much.’ Sally crumpled to the floor of her sitting-room and sobbed.

  She was broken yet it was she who had broken herself, and though Diana rushed to her side and crouched beside her and laid a hand of comfort and support upon her shoulders, she knew and Sally knew that only one person could help. She lay broken and smashed about herself yet it was she who had wielded the metaphorical hammer. So she would have literally to pick herself up. Of all the King’s horses and all the King’s men, none would be able to help her; she was the only one who could put herself together again.

  ‘What should I do, Diana?’ But Diana couldn’t find her own voice, let alone offer Sally constructive advice of any merit. Still Sally sobbed, on the floor in an embryonic hunch, her face contorted with the frustration of it all, the salt of her tears reddening her eyes and stinging her cheeks. Diana looked on and saw for the first time that Sally was noticeably thinner; her face had a new gauntness that threatened to overpower its former prettiness. Her shoulders looked a little bony, making her head seem a little too large. With a degree of horror, Diana conceded to herself that she looked quite pathetic.

  ‘Why not go away for a little while?’ she ventured. ‘To your Mum’s, to Lincoln?’

  Sally gave her a don’t-be-so-stupid look.

  ‘Paris?’ Diana suggested. But suddenly J-C, his bedroom, his bathroom, his smell, his taste, rushed uninvited into Sally’s mind and she shuddered until she had quite shaken him away.

  ‘I can’t. School, silly,’ Sally whimpered.

  ‘But you seem awfully poorly to me,’ Diana cooed, stroking her hair. The maternal connotations of the word ‘poorly’ coupled with the action of hair-stroking caused Sally to crumple down again. This time she let Diana soothe her, huddled in a muddle on the floor.

  Sally made it through Saturday, Sunday too, on the steel of her butterfly wings. Just. She avoided thinking about that which she knew she had to; she just looked after herself and made sure all was neat and tidy, spick and span, safe and sound, comfy and cosy. Her voice remained silent. It was unwanted, untrusted. Her self-constructed mute world was a safe one. She mooched around in her snuggly socks and her tatty dress and her Aran-knit cardie, she darned four pairs of socks and finished off the skirt she had been making. The clacketing of her sewing-machine lulled her into a settled state and she was pleased with the finished item.

  Sally made soup. Two batches subdivided into eight Tupperware containers, six to freeze, two for the fridge. Leek and potato. Pea.

  Nice and hearty. Thick slush.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Sally sprinted with the speed of a cheetah and the grace of a gazelle. The warm wind buffeted her ears as she ran with it. She sprung a gravity-defying jeté over the irrigation dykes which loomed, with east-coast regularity, every forty strides. She thought of Hopkins:

  The hurl and the gliding rebuffed the big wind.

  Whoosh! Sally was master of the wind, a part of the air; the ground beneath her feet spring-boarding her upwards so she could greet the sky. Boundless energy, freedom and delight. Sally felt exhilarated. On and on she pelted, lungs and legs going strong and keen for more. The land looked lovely and felt soft, welcoming her back after every leap. The ditches glinted shards of crystal as she flew over them.

  Plotted and pieced … Hopkins again. All her senses were alight; she could hear the soft thuds of her footfalls, her fast breath, the wind; she could smell the grass, the earth; she could taste the very freshness of the day. The day was divine and she felt so alive.

  She could make out something strangely vertical in the distance silhouetted against the sun, defiantly upright against the uncompromising horizontality of the Lincolnshire landscape. On she ran. There was a lovely rousing tune in her head, what was it? Smetna. It was like being in a film. Oh, yes! Most certainly a film because as she neared the distant post, it assumed the irregularities that told her it was a figure. A man. And as her feet raced closer, her heart hurtled to her head that maybe, just maybe …

  Yes, it was!

  Two ditches separated her and Richard.

  Joy of joys! Praise be!

  ‘Richie!’ she shrieked and the breeze swept her call to his ears. His outstretched arms carried his reply. Sally’s smile was so wide it could have fallen off her face but the wind held it there, forcing rivulets to run from her eyes instead.

  But I’m not crying!

  She leapt the last dyke and was sure that she flew; oh, the ease of it! the softness, the power, the hush and rush of the abetting wind. A final graceful leap delivered Sally into the arms of Richard. His face was kissed by the sun so she kissed it too. His eyes swallowed her and, with his strong, lovely arms about her waist, she melted into him, her head cradled close to his heart. She was breathless with excitement, speechless with joy. She could feel herself slipping out of her body into his. Oh, RichardRichardRichard.

  ‘Darling, darling Richard. I so love you. Oh, my Richardrichardrichard.’

  You’re not Richard. You are not Richard.

  Sally opened her eyes and stared drunkenly at the blurred face in front of hers. The fuzziness slowly lifted and the features asserted themselves. Familiar yes, Richard no.

  ‘Marcus!’

  ‘It’s okay, it’s okay, Miss Lomax. Are you all right? Stay still, we’ve gone to fetch someone. Relax. Don’t worry.’

  Miss Lomax did as she was told and kept her arms fixed about Marcus’s straining uncomplaining neck. She closed her eyes. Nothing. Richard was gone. Gone too was the landscape and the flying and the wind and the water and the big sky and the thrill and delight of it all. All that was there was a murky brown nothingness and an infuriating thrumming.

  ‘It’s all going to be fine, Miss Lomax,’ comforted Marcus. ‘You just sort of tumbled. You banged your head. But you’ll be right as rain. Right as rain, Miss Lomax. Promise.’

  Thank God. The grown-ups were here. Phew!

  ‘God, Sally!’

  ‘Good Lord! Miss Lomax!’

  Miss Lewis and Mr Tomlin, Diana and Geoff, Art teacher and Headmaster, friend and employer.

  ‘Marcus, what on earth happened?’ Mr Tomlin crouched beside Marcus, voice gentle, his panic hidden well.

  ‘We were doing Alfred the Great. She – I mean Miss Lomax – stopped talking. She just kept looking out of the window. Only there wasn’t anything there. She sort of came to a halt – you know, like a car? We didn’t know what to do. It seemed like ages. Then she made this horrible funny noise in her throat and she just crumpled. Didn’t she?’

  Young voices murmured confirmation. Marcus continued: ‘She just went crash. Like a tree falling. It was like in slow motion. But she clonked her head on the corner of the desk.’

&n
bsp; ‘How long has she been like this? After she crumpled? Since she clonked her head?’

  ‘Well, that’s my desk there, you see, so I could get to her immediately. I leapt up as soon as she started to fall, didn’t I?’ Class Five said ‘Yes’ in unison. ‘I was with her practically straight away and told Rajiv to fetch someone. I shouted, actually – I didn’t mean to. I was scared, we all were. Are. Anyway, then you came. Only about three or four minutes, I suppose. I––’ Marcus faltered ‘––is …?’ He could not do it. There was a loaded pause while little Marcus, our brave boy and Sally’s saviour, bit his lip and scrunched his eyes in a futile attempt to keep tears at bay. ‘Is Miss Lomax dead?’ he sobbed. ‘Please don’t let her be,’ he begged his headmaster.

  ‘Darling Marcus,’ cooed Miss Lewis, ‘no, she’s not dead and she’s not going to die either. It seems Miss Lomax fainted. Banging her head has probably made her unconscious. You did wonderfully, all of you. Brave, darling children.’

  They managed to pry Miss Lomax’s arms away from Marcus’s now bowed-down neck and put her feet up on a bench, crossing her arms over her chest.

  ‘Are you hurting anywhere?’ Mr Tomlin asked quietly, bending down right next to Miss Lomax’s ear. She could hear him asking, somewhere in the distance, but she had forgotten how to open her eyes.

  ‘Sally, are you hurt?’ trembled Miss Lewis.

  Yes, in my heart.

  With enormous effort she gave a slow small shake of her head. A trickle of blood coursing down her cheek said otherwise.

  ‘Can you sit up?’ Mr Tomlin implored. He turned away from Sally and spoke in hushed, urgent tones. ‘Rajiv, run to my office – run. Ask Mrs Gates to call an amb-ul-ance.’ He mouthed the word, not wanting Miss Lomax to hear, not wanting to alarm the children. Rajiv bolted. Mr Tomlin turned to Miss Lewis who sat stroking Miss Lomax’s hair. The tips of her fingers were wet with blood; Sally’s hair was dark with it.

  ‘Sally sweetie, can you sit up?’ Diana urged.

  Sally blinked twice to say, I’ll try, and with the help of Mr Tomlin and the gallant Marcus, up she sat, Diana’s hand-holding and neck-cradling supporting her all the way.

  ‘I’m okay,’ she croaked. ‘Just fine,’ she stammered. ‘Dizzy,’ she whispered. ‘Want to lie down.’ Marcus was out of his blazer in a flash and proffered it as a cushion. Where was Rajiv? Where was the ambulance? The class were silent. Golden children. A siren came and went, and with it their hopes. Rajiv arrived with an anxious, tearful Mrs Gates. Mr Tomlin suggested she wait by the main doors. They waited on. Another siren, louder, louder still. Here.

  The stillness was gone, their job was done. Marcus, Miss Lewis and Mr Tomlin stood by, feeling sheepish even, as the paramedics swung into action. They eased Sally on to a stretcher and put orange blocks around her head and neck, placed a mask over her nose and mouth, and wrapped a blanket around her body. She no longer looked like Miss Lomax, nor did she look like Sally. Swiftly, she was stretchered away, out of their sight. Gone. Then sirens. Gone. Silent prayers, intense wishes of get-better-come-back, followed the ambulance right into Casualty.

  Miss Lewis presided over shell-shocked Class Five for the rest of the afternoon. She was delighted with the way they had all pulled together, there was a great feeling of solidarity, hugs were liberal, chocolates were shared and patience was abundant. Mr Tomlin had been thoroughly impressed and was planning a special trip to the Planetarium as a reward – once Miss Lomax was back, of course. Class Five remained impeccably behaved and an air of utter concentration imbued the room as get-well-soon cards were lovingly designed. Crayons, pastels, charcoal, even pencils were set to task. No erasers, of course. Any mistakes – and there were few – were triumphantly incorporated into the overall design. Diana gathered a clutch of thirty cards, and took them, along with thirty special messages and thirty kisses, to the Whittington hospital after school that afternoon.

  ‘Sally?’

  ‘Di?’

  ‘You okay? Know where you are? How are you feeling? Don’t talk if it hurts. Just wink or squeeze my hand or something.’

  ‘Why are you talking like that?’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘All nasal. Funny?’

  ‘I hate hospitals, I hate the smell! That’s why I’m talking through my nose. Don’t laugh, shush! Are you ready to go home? Please say you are or else I’ll expire then I’ll land up here and that really isn’t the point so why don’t we get you to your feet and go homeward Highgate-bound!’ Saying a sentence with no pause for breath took its toll on Diana who flopped into a plastic chair and breathed heavily, deep into the sleeve of her jumper. Sally stared at her and tried to make her brain work.

  ‘I feel fine. I keep telling everyone here that I’m fine. Just had a funny turn. Funny. Never happened before. Yes, Di, yes. Take me home.’

  Diana bustled. She marched Sally out of the hospital holding her in a most matronly manner. She bundled her into a taxi and kept her arms locked about her for the entire journey home. She insisted on Sally staying put while she paid the driver, and then insisted that he help her walk Sally to the front door.

  ‘You earn your tip, my man!’

  Once inside, she sat Sally on the edge of the bed and eased her out of her clothing, tutting sympathetically whenever she neared her head. She put Sally into her pyjamas and added bedsocks and an old cardigan for good measure.

  ‘Warmth, my girl. Must keep you warm. You’ve had a shock. You mustn’t catch cold.’ She tucked her in tightly, bunching the duvet around her like a cocoon. Looking quite the sorry caterpillar, Sally muffled, ‘Sorry to put you to all of this,’ before welcoming the comfort of her familiar pillow and drifting effortlessly to sleep. Leaving the cards by her bed, Diana kissed her carefully on the forehead, tutting some more. She watched her awhile, sleepy and childlike, and then left.

  ‘Richard, listen! No, calm down. Richard, shut it, I can’t talk if you don’t shut up a bit. It isn’t serious, she’s okay. She fainted in class and banged her head on the desk as she went down. No, you can’t visit. Certainly not you and certainly not now. She really is very woozy. She needs a quiet, long night. It’s what the doctor ordered. And I’m ordering you too, so listen up! Do not worry, young man. You have a good night. Promise me? Promise! Good! night night, ducks.’

  Richard felt sick.

  My poor darling baby.

  After ten minutes pacing up and down, hugging himself and murmuring ‘Sal, Sal’, he grabbed his car keys and left the flat, lights blaring and CD still on.

  Grapes, I must stop to buy grapes. No, chocolates. No, no flowers. She may not feel like eating. Flowers it is. Damn, it’s nearly eleven. Quick.

  He hovered outside Sally’s front door with a bunch of rather vulgar gladioli, not knowing quite what to do and dreading Diana suddenly appearing and giving him what for. He flipped the lid of the letter box and peered inside. A dim light edged its way out from the bathroom, casting soft shadows.

  Night light. Good idea.

  He peeled his ears and sought out any sound. He thought perhaps he heard a rustle from the bedroom and cooed, ‘Sally! Sal?’ He thought he heard something. He couldn’t be sure so he gave himself the benefit of the doubt. ‘Poor bunny, don’t say a thing.’

  Oh God, talk to me!

  Richard eased himself up from the crouch he had almost frozen into. He chewed his thumb thoughtfully and studied the grain of the front door.

  I want her to know that I’m here. But I don’t want to disturb her.

  The flowers, Richard.

  The bunch would not fit through the letter box. He toyed with propping them against the front door but knew they would have the life and colour frozen out of them before morning. There was only one thing for it. One by one he posted the stems through the letter box. He blew a kiss through it and then left, hoping sincerely that Sally found the flowers before Diana.

  She did. And she knew who they were from. She thought she’d heard him last night, but there again, she also
thought she’d had a chat with Queen Victoria sitting on the edge of her bed.

  We hate gladioli. She smiled as she trimmed the stems.

  He likes tulips. I like cornflowers. We both like love-in-amist. But we hate gladioli!

  She stroked the knobbled stems and placed the vase surreptitiously on the mantelpiece in the sitting-room so that she could see them from her bed but would be spared any explanation to Sister Lewis.

  ‘Darling, darling girl! How are you! Have you eaten? Toast! Well done!’ Sister Lewis had arrived in a bustle of good cheer and nurse-knows-best. ‘Is it all awfully fuzzy? Do you remember anything?’

  ‘I’ve tried and I’ve tried and I can’t. I thought I was in Lincolnshire, near home, the place I’ve told you about. I was running and dancing and Richard was there. Then all of a sudden I had this cracking headache and woke up in hospital.’

  ‘Well, it appears you fainted in class and whacked your head on the desk. You were absolutely out of it when we arrived. You were hanging on to Marcus like he was your knight in shining armour.’

  ‘I thought he was.’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘Oh, nothing. Go on.’

  ‘Well, an ambulance came and whisked you away. Luckily you didn’t need stitches but they had to chop off a little of your hair to bathe the wound and put on that dinky butterfly plaster. Here.’ Diana handed Sally a tiny round mirror from her bag. First Sally looked at the wound and was less distressed at the hair loss than she anticipated. She then angled the mirror downwards slightly and snuck a little look at her face. She looked rather grey and her lips were very pale.

  Silly old Sal.

  TWENTY-NINE

  Diana tucked her tight in bed with a cup of tea, a gossipy magazine and the radio, and made it to school just after First Break. She gave a running bulletin to anyone who came into the art room and phoned Richard with an update.

  ‘I took flowers last night. I was quiet as a mouse – promise. Does she know?’

  ‘How very disobedient you are, Mr Stonehill. She didn’t mention anything. But, come to think of it, she did keep shooting her gaze over to a vase of pretty vulgar gladdies lurking on the mantelpiece. And I thought you had taste!’