Sally

by Freya North

  ‘It was late at night!’ protested Richard, somewhat relieved. ‘Next time I’ll run along to Covent Garden.’

  ‘Next time?’

  ‘God forbid. Di, can I call her? Pop round tonight?’

  Diana paused and pondered the merits of tact against truth. She plumped for a diplomatic blend of both.

  ‘Richard, we don’t even know why she passed out. But I would hazard a little guess that it had something to do with the state she’s been in of late. Of course it’s not your fault, you daft old bugger! I just think, for Sally’s sake, that she’ll probably recover and be back to her good old self if left to her own devices. Compris?’

  ‘Oui.’

  ‘Bien.’

  Diana found Sally asleep with the radio on when she called in during lunch break. She noticed with fabricated disdain that the gladioli were now on Sally’s dressing table. She warmed the pea soup and put a note by Sally’s bed saying she had done so. Sally woke at three, ravenous, and sung Diana’s praises as she sipped soup and listened to the afternoon play. It was riveting and she was held a happy captive by the incomparable voices of Judi Dench and Martin Jarvis. A short nap was broken by Diana calling in after school. Sitting on the edge of the bed, she chattered away while Sally tried to look fit and fine.

  ‘First, how are you, my poppet blossom? Did you eat? Sleep? Good girl. Next, I come with strict instructions from the powers that be: no school for Sally – you’re to take the rest of the week off. Hush it! I won’t hear any of it, girl. You clonked your head and knocked yourself clean out, remember? Do you know how many brain cells you destroyed? Can you really afford not to replenish them, ho ho? You have to be one hundred per cent, Lomax. Doctor’s note ’n’ all. Understand?’

  Sally felt tired and groggy and, though she did not want to admit it, Diana was exhausting her. A strange transformation had occurred in the face of crisis; daffy scattiness had been replaced by an unwonted bossiness – a conversion enhanced by a crisp white shirt (spattered though it was with red paint) and a pair of well-pressed trousers. Sally thought it best to remain a malleable patient. Diana thought it wise not to mention Richard. Sally did not dare. She was quietly relieved when Diana bade her farewell with kisses to the cheek and strict instructions not to move from her bed until the next morning.

  She lay in stillness and in silence for a little while and, when she was quite sure all was safe, clambered out of bed for a shaky walk around. She settled in the sitting-room, curled cosily in her old Lloyd-Loom with the thirty handmade cards on her lap. Most of the children had chosen to draw a down-mouthed Miss Lomax in hospital, swathed in bandages like a mummy. Rajiv, however, had created a comic strip featuring Miss Lomax as a lump lying in the lower left corner of each frame while another figure (Rajiv, who else?) saved the day with sword, with shield, with astonishing ambulance-driving skills and with superhero powers too.

  Marcus’s card brought tears to her eyes.

  He’s my real superhero.

  With glitter, crêpe paper and lusciously thick paint, Marcus had made her the most exquisite bunch of flowers, the blooms themselves filling the entire page. The intensity of the colour and the overall richness of the surface seemed to symbolize Marcus’s devotion and twanged the strings of Sally’s heart. Inside he had written:

  Dear Miss Lomax, you’re the best

  Please get better, have a good rest!

  We hope your head doesn’t hurt or ache

  Come back to school soon, or Goodness Sake!

  I’m sure you’ll soon be as right as rain

  So you can be our fave teacher again!

  Marcus (x)

  Sally kissed the card back and decided she would keep it for ever. She remembered Marcus on the last day in Paris, looking after her with Ribena and apricot-flavoured chewing gum; she could see him again racing back across the playground to tell her she was the best. Had he somehow known? Had he caught drift of her sorry soul? How discreet he had been.

  Children are the most intuitive of creatures. He’ll go far, Sally thought. Somewhere out there is a very lucky ten-year-old girl! I’ll be an old bag when they’re ready to court. There’ll just be me and my bloody memories. Just me, rocking away in the Lloyd-Loom, wizened and grey, reliving my antics over and over. Might I cringe? Might I shudder if J-C pops into mind? And Richard … how will I feel? Remorse? Guilt? Joy?

  Dread swept over Sally and engulfed her.

  But I don’t want him to be just a memory.

  She sat, silent and horrified. Turning to the hat stand, she furrowed her brow and declared in a small voice: ‘I don’t want merely to remember him; I want him to be there. I want to reminisce with him. Gracious Good Lord, what does that imply?’

  She cocked her head and contemplated the carriage clock on the mantelpiece. She had found it in a jumble sale at the Students’ Union in Bristol and, despite her dwindling grant and the fact that the clock was irreparably broken, had bought it all the same. A walnut case enclosed a very pretty face with beautifully scrolled numbers, the filigree arms outstretched at ten to three for ever more. There was something vaguely comforting about it; the caught moment, time standing still, no tick-tocking the days away. There was a sense of stability about a timeless clock; the years might pass and a whole host of events befall but it would always be ten to three between Sally and the clock.

  She fell asleep, waking in the small hours of the new day – perhaps it was indeed ten to three – and was distressed to see she had crushed Marcus’s card. She felt hot and bothered and realized she was wringing wet; the back of her neck was clammy and her hair stuck to it in rat’s tails, her forehead bristled with sweat, her eyes felt puffy and hot. Feeling very unstable, she made a slow passage to bed aided along the way by furniture, door frames and determination. She was freezing by the time she made it there but had neither the wits nor the energy to fetch a jumper. Shivering, she cocooned herself as best she could and was compliant when dreamless sleep fetched her away.

  The next morning, Sally saw spots before her eyes.

  There was a large one slap bang in the middle of her forehead and, on further exploration, two on her chest and one on her right wrist. She stood stock still in front of the mirror and wondered what on earth to do. She noticed that her whole body was tingling; she was hot, feverish and bemused. Resigned to the fact that something was most certainly amiss, she called for the doctor.

  The cold stethoscope felt blissful against her raging skin and the doctor’s umming and poke-out-your-tongue-please comforted her. Two more spots had sprung up on the top of her left thigh and a rather large one was forming below her ribs before their very eyes. Dutifully, she told him about the fainting, and he did not seem in the least surprised.

  ‘Well, Miss Lomax,’ he announced after he had taken her blood pressure, explored her ears and beamed light into her eyes, ‘it’s not the Lurgy, it’s chicken pox!’ Sally was stunned.

  Chicken pox! It can’t possibly be, I’m a grown up! I don’t know anyone with chicken pox! Do you mean to say it’s not the Richard Thing that’s making me poorly? That I am no damsel in distress? Just plain old chicken pox? Damn!

  A very quiet part of her felt disappointed. A greater part of her felt embarrassed and irritated. The greatest part of her was just plain hot and tingly.

  ‘What does that mean?’ she asked at length.

  ‘Well,’ came the bedside manner reply, ‘expect the spots to continue for another day or so. And then be prepared for the itching. DO NOT SCRATCH or YOU WILL SCAR. Calamine should soothe but DO NOT SCRATCH or YOU WILL SCAR. What do you do?’

  ‘Do not scratch or I will scar,’ Sally said miserably.

  ‘No, no,’ tutted the doctor. ‘What do you do, for a living?’

  ‘I’m a teacher,’ Sally replied, somewhat indignantly.

  ‘That probably explains how you caught it. You are highly contagious,’ he warned. ‘Bed rest for at least three days,’ he ordered, ‘and no school for at least two weeks.’r />
  ‘Two weeks?’ Sally exclaimed.

  ‘You are highly con-ta-gious,’ he reiterated. ‘You don’t want to inflict this on your pupils, now do you?’

  Sally felt thoroughly ostracized. Snapping shut his Gladstone, the doctor smiled at her, propped up by pillows and pouting.

  ‘The spots’ll go in a couple of weeks and should have faded by the end of the month,’ he assured her. ‘That is, if you don’t scratch. You will scar otherwise,’ he concluded sternly. Laying a caring-profession hand on her shoulder, he said, ‘Don’t worry yourself. Get some rest. I’ll see myself out. Cheerio!’

  Just like on bloody television, Sally later thought, feeling utterly sorry for herself.

  ‘Sally? Sally! Open the door. Are you all right? Heavens, girl, where are you?’ Diana rang the bell again and snapped the letter box open and shut, open and shut.

  ‘I’m coming,’ came a muffled reply.

  Sally opened the front door a fraction of an inch and saw Diana standing there, all but obscured by a large brown bag of groceries.

  ‘I thought I’d make spag bol!’ she announced triumphantly, brandishing a packet of spaghetti and poking herself in the eye in the process.

  ‘You can’t!’ cried Sally through the crack.

  ‘’Course I can! It’ll have to be veggie of course – I’ve bought that dried soya stuff. Open up, old thing!’

  ‘No, you can’t,’ stressed Sally. Diana was flummoxed and pulled an appropriate expression.

  ‘I’ve got bloody chicken pox,’ wailed Sally, ‘I’m in isolation. In quarantine. I’m VERY CON-TA-GIOUS. I can’t come out for two weeks.’

  After a moment’s silence, Diana laughed and laughed and kept asking: ‘Really?’ Sally was bemused.

  ‘Let me see! Let me see!’ hooted Diana so Sally poked out her pocked wrist. ‘Heavens above! It’s true.’ Nurse Lewis vanished at once and Diana stood there, quite horrified and starting to itch. ‘Poor duck – I’m off! Look, I’ll leave this bag right here on the doorstep. You watch through the spy-hole and when you’re quite sure that I am a safe distance away, you can open the door and retrieve them. DON’T SCRATCH or YOU WILL HAVE FRIGHTFUL SCARS!’ With that, Diana ceremoniously dumped the groceries and made off. Sally, who did not have the energy to point out that Diana would have caught it by now, waited before opening the door to take in the bag. Suddenly Diana reappeared from behind the hedge, waving and jumping up and down.

  ‘Let’s see some more!’ she squealed.

  Smiling now, Sally took a surreptitious look around and then lifted up her pyjama top, the cold air providing instant relief and giving Diana a good eyeful.

  ‘Blimey! You’re covered! I’m out of here! I’ll give you a ring as soon as I’m home – you can’t catch it down the phone, can you?’

  When Diana phoned her an hour later, Sally did not want to talk. She had discovered a spot inside her mouth and could feel that they were in her throat too. Silent and unfed, she shuffled to bed hoping it was all an unfortunate dream.

  THIRTY

  ‘Oh, hi, Bob, hi.’ Finding it impossible to hide the disappointment in his voice, Richard decided not to beat about the bush. ‘Sorry, mate, not a good time. I need to keep the line free – I’m waiting for a call. About Sally. She’s been in hospital. Concussed.’

  Inevitably, Bob’s concern (and by now Catherine was glued to the other phone too) impeded Richard’s speedy getaway so he divulged all and said, ‘Yes, flowers would be nice.’ He was desperate to go for a run but incapacitated by the lack of news. He had rung Diana twice but there had been no answer. He was dying to ring Sally but knew he should not. The phone rang.

  Pleasepleaseplease.

  ‘Diana. Thank God. Talk to me!’ Richard gasped. ‘She’s got what?’ His hand shot up to his brow. ‘Chicken pox?’ It dropped down to his hips. ‘Chicken pox! Good Lord!’ He threw his hand up to the heavens. ‘Does that account for the fainting? Chicken pox. Is she covered? Is she in pain? Discomfort? Poor lamb. Has she any calamine? What can I take her?’ He was out of breath. ‘What!’ he exclaimed. ‘Two weeks?’ he cried. ‘Can I phone her? Can’t catch it down the phone. What?’ he whispered. ‘In her mouth? Her throat? Poor darling girl.’

  Richard felt hoarse and strangely excited. He ran very fast over to the Woods’s and panted out Sally’s ailment.

  ‘Two weeks,’ gasped a horrified Catherine. ‘Whatever’ll she do?’

  Sally wondered the same thing on waking the next day. With trepidation, she went to greet herself in the mirror. She was rooted to the spot (sorry, Sally, bad pun) and could not manage even a groan of displeasure. Wriggling out of her pyjamas, she stood and stared. Poor Sal.

  There are too many to count. They are everywhere. They are even on my scalp and in my ears. My trunk is the worst, they are so blotchy and puffed up there. They are neat and small on my arms, larger on my legs, and I can’t even see my face for them. I look sort of roasted. I look awful. Christ, they’re even between my toes. And on my buttocks. And – Gracious Good Lord – not there too?

  She still felt feverish and could bear no more clothing next to her skin than a pure cotton vest, knickers and Aunt Celia’s hand-knitted cashmere shawl. She teetered around the flat chanting ‘Feed a cold and starve a fever’ but thought perhaps it was ‘Starve a cold and feed a fever’ and was at once in a dither, convinced that if she put into practice the wrong permutation, the spots would surely wreak vengeance. What was she to do? The solution lay in the cashmere shawl.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Aunty Celia? Guess who!’

  ‘Sally? Gracious, what a treat, how are you, my wee one? Everything okey-dokey?’

  ‘Yes, yes. No, actually. I have chicken pox.’

  ‘Poor bairn. You must be feeling rotten. Have you a fever?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Starve it!’

  It seemed trite to delineate the coincidence so Sally received the advice graciously and said, yes, she was strong enough for a little chat.

  ‘I’m wearing your lovely shawl.’

  ‘Ach, it must be threadbare! I made it moons ago, for your sixteenth birthday, no? I shall start a new one for you, if you like. It will be finished by May the nineteenth. How old this year? Twenty-four, is it?’

  ‘Sorry, Aunty, twenty-six actually.’

  ‘Eeh, tish! You’re a well and truly grown-up lassie. Maybe another shawl won’t suit your fashion taste?’

  ‘I’d love another shawl, but this one’s just fine.’

  ‘A woman can never have too many hand-knitted shawls, she should have one draped on the back of every chair in her house!’ Celia declared with aplomb. ‘I have some lovely yarn, there was a craft fair at the Town Hall in Tobermory. It’s a linen-silk mix, so soft. A lovely sort of mauve. Does that sound nice? Does that tickle your fancy?’

  ‘Yes, Aunt Celia, I think I should love it. I love mauve,’ Sally lied kindly.

  They bade each other farewell with a promise to lessen the gap between calls. Feeling hungry but keen to starve her fever, Sally took a nap instead. She dreamt that Celia came to see her in her lunch-break at school. She had bustled into the staff-room and called over to her, ‘Sal, my lassie,’ for Aunt Celia was the only other person from whom Sally welcomed the abbreviation. She had brought the shawl, it was vast and very mauve. She wrapped it around Sally’s shoulders and then went to teach Class Five rounders. Sally watched from the window, breathing in deeply (in the dream and out) the unmistakable aroma of an Aunt Celia hand-knit.

  It is now tea-time. Reluctantly, Sally has gone to the mirror to check the spot situation. The pox has shown no mercy and has rooted out the last patches of clear skin to inhabit; behind her left era, above her right eyelid and under her armpits where they are particularly painful. Feeling ravenous, fed up and not so feverish, Sally has retrieved a bumper block of milk chocolate from the fridge, taken the phone off the hook, put a Genesis tape on low and clambered into bed armed with a clutch of old diaries and photo a
lbums. She is soon lost in adventures of old; painted in retrospect with a tint of rose and a hint of sepia.

  Where’s the chocolate?

  It is under your pillow.

  Ah, Scotland. Mull. Heather and dampness, the light, the water, the clarity. Tobermory: those pretty, brave little harbour-side houses, candy colours yet not at all twee. Look, you and Aunt Celia throwing the frisbee on the sweep of soft sand at Calgary Bay. Whose is that shadow, who is taking the picture? Must be Uncle Angus, the late Uncle Angus, gruff with whisky but always on for a reel.

  Does she miss Angus, whom one only ever heard her call ‘LoveLove’? It was so lovely to speak to her today. It’s been so long. It must be a good two years since I last saw her.

  Sally feels like having a day-dream, she wants to transport herself to Mull. Trying hard to look at nothing in particular, she finds her eyes continually stray to her mottled limbs. Mull remains far away. Take another album, Sally, another piece of chocolate. Let Phil Collins’s nighttime voice be a certain calamine.

  Oh, look! Sally aged nine and in a tutu. And here! Sally aged thirteen, in a tutu and on points. And here is Sally aged sixteen, tutu, pointes and taking a graceful curtsey. Look at the make-up, the impeccable bun, those sinewy arms! Remember how elated you felt? Do you really miss the bleeding toes, the straining tendons, the pulled muscles, the damaged joints?

  No, but I miss the poise and energy.

  Don’t dwell, Sal. Turn the page. Giggle at your brown and beige childhood wardrobe from the seventies, cringe at the ra-ra skirts and stretch jeans you wore with pride during your teenage years. Lose yourself again in University days. Here, a batch of photographs of friends and cohorts at Bristol: living it up at faculty balls, looking tired but cool in shabby student houses, looking dapper in mortar-boards and fur-trimmed gowns at graduation.

  Where’s my diary? Where’s the corresponding text? Oh, this is fun! I’m right back there – chicken pox? What chicken pox! The present is unpleasant, the future is a burden, but the past is safe so back I go!