Fruitful Bodies

by Morag Joss

  She woke this time shivering with cold. The green of the leaves and grass was receding behind the charcoal gleam of twilight. The pale flowers of the roses and meadow sweet held the last of the brightness. Birds called late in the trees; insects were silent. Sara wandered back down to the house, which seemed suddenly too large. Tom’s answering machine was still switched on and again she could think of no message to leave. She wandered from room to room neither tired, rested, hungry nor satisfied, her mind numb yet in a storm of incoherent protest.

  Why should James be the one to die? In the music room she took out her cello and tuned up. The Dvořák which she wished to forget had been played on her Peresson cello, the big Romantic instrument that Andrew liked so much. Her need to be soothed called for the Cristiani’s creamy, gentler sound. She would play something that James liked, perhaps. She began Fauré’s Élégie in C Minor, and the soft tug of the notes loosened tears which ran down her face as she played. An almost physical ache was beating in her at the thought that she would never hear James play, or play with him again.

  She began to play the theme of the St Anthony Variations. Despite the measured, gracious calm of the music she found herself beginning to grow angry. It enraged her, suddenly, to think that James had been persuaded, by her as much as by Tom, into staying at the Sulis. Had he gone to a proper hospital, his ulcers would have responded to the insult of conventional treatment and he would be alive now, mangled by surgeons and stuffed with drugs, but alive. She put down her bow and blew on her hands. They were still cold from her long sleep in the cooling air of the garden and too stiff to deal with the first variation.

  She got up and put away the cello. In the kitchen she ran the hot tap, turning her fingers in the water as they began to tingle, and recalling James’s hands and his poor cold feet. Hot and cold, burning and freezing at the same time. It was now almost twenty-four hours since she learned of his death, and she was only now allowing her mind to turn to the manner of it. She had been too shocked to ask the hospital, but she considered now that it would be almost as if she had stopped caring about him if she did not find out in detail exactly what had happened and what he had gone through. Had he suffered? She had to know. It was a silly idea, she knew, but finding out might be the last thing she was able to do for him. Had the poor darling suffered? Her mind returned to the agonising picture of the struggling St Anthony with the serpent, his livid face gleaming in the shaft of innocuous sunlight hitting the canvas, and next to it the other, reassuring image of St Anthony the benign father, with his crutch, the sweet little piglet and the tiny people entreating his intercession for relief for their poor burning hands. What else happened to people poisoned by ergot and what exactly was it? Bernadette had not known. In her maddening voice during the interval (another lifetime ago) she had only yapped in her self-congratulatory way that she had found out that the people in the picture were suffering from St Anthony’s Fire, from grain blighted by ergot. And that was all Sara knew: nothing much except two names for what had killed James.

  The Compact Oxford Dictionary told her little else though it told her in a different way:

  A diseased transformation of the seed of rye and other grasses, being really the sclerotium or hardened mycelium of a fungus (Claviceps purpurea) …

  ‘Mycelium’ sounded familiar. Was it its similarity to ‘mycology symposium’? Professor Takahashi’s exact area of academic research had seemed not just inpenetrably arcane but an irrelevance to the fact of his wife’s murder. Andrew would be interested in the connection and she might find a way of letting him know of it, without speaking to him herself. Some time. Right this minute she had no interest in his unsolved murder. She needed to understand what had happened to James and she only knew of one mycologist who, even if he had killed his wife, might be able to help her.

  CHAPTER 44

  HELLO, I’M CALLING from England, I’d like to speak to Professor Takahashi.’ Sara had spent most of the previous hour on the telephone, trying to track down someone at Bristol with responsibility for extra-mural programmes and summer schools. She had spoken to someone who clearly expected to be congratulated for being in the office late at night because she was snowed under, and as a reward for doing so Sara had been given a name and an extension number, which was not answered. She went back to the first person, got another name of someone who was definitely in the building as he taught Adult Learners Intermediate Methodology on Thursday evenings, whose number was answered by a security officer who had never heard of him. She tried a few minutes later, got the person who had been missing who said that actually he was not the person Sara wanted but the person Sara did want was on holiday. Sara went back again to the first person, who turned out to have the summer school records on her database if that was all she wanted, so wasn’t that lucky. Sara explained how she had loved the mycology symposium but she had lost the list of delegates’ contact addresses and she was just about to start work in an area suggested to her by Professor Takahashi. Wasn’t Professor Takahashi from Kobe University? Didn’t he have an email address there? He turned out to have not just an email address but a fax and telephone number, too.

  As she waited for somebody to answer the telephone she allowed herself to feel rather clever. Just as she was thinking that if only her reasons for being clever weren’t so appalling she might laugh, she was put through and a voice said, very fast, ‘Takahashi.’

  ‘Professor Takahashi, I hope you don’t mind, I know it’s early for you.’

  ‘It is eight, yes. I am extremely busy, I begin early, at seven-thirty. You are?’

  ‘I’m ringing you from England. I was a student on your course at Bristol.’

  ‘Ho, yes, hello. Your name is?’

  ‘Oh, I’m er … M-m er Mary Morrison. I expect you remember me? I certainly remember you.’ Fingers crossed. ‘I felt there was a great deal of overlap between our er … two areas.’

  ‘Yes, yes. Your area yes, of course, that is?’

  ‘And it was a wonderful symposium. I’m ringing because I’m looking at my notes and … er … wondering if you could clarify a point or two. If you can spare five minutes. I’m interested chiefly in ergot?’

  There was a short silence. ‘Well of course, my entire contribution to the symposium was in field of the larger Ascomycetes.’

  ‘Of course! But I’m hoping to concentrate mainly on ergot, and the question of human poisoning?’

  ‘Oh, you mean my historical overview of European and British outbreaks? But this is basic! Manchester outbreak, if you recall, of 1927, was characterised by ergot’s effect on a working-class population …’

  ‘Yes, I remember that.’

  ‘… and the strange phenomenon of a considerably lesser effect of the same amount on better-off, lower middle-class population who were nevertheless eating bread from the same source?’

  ‘Errmmm …’

  ‘Do you remember—the toxic effects were lessened or totally absent in the second group. This is now thought to have been the effect of spreading butter on the bread which the better-off group was in the habit of doing. The relevant inhibiting factor in the butter is vitamin D and other compounds, of which the most important are, of course—But you surely have the transcript of my lecture?’

  ‘I don’t! Oddly enough, I don’t seem to have it! I wouldn’t need to bother you otherwise.’

  ‘You wish me to fax it to you?’

  Sara gave him the number and thanked him over-profusely, which was somehow what she gathered was expected. ‘Yes, well, that would be wonderful, if you would fax it straight away, I’m working on it right now.’

  ‘Yes, I have copies. I shall fax right now and if there is problem you can call, okay?’

  ‘I am so grateful. Thank you. Now I do have just another quick question, if I may. I hope you don’t mind my asking but did your late wife, who I believe was your assistant and picture researcher, did she … did she take as great an interest in this area as you yourself? What was the ext
ent of her involvement?’

  There was a long silence.

  ‘Professor Takahashi, I do hope you don’t mind my asking. It’s just that I’m writing up the symposium for my department and I wanted to include a brief appreciation of your wife’s work. A tribute, in view of the dreadful thing that happened. I’ve got most of what I need from the course literature, but I just wondered if I could put in some biographical details, that she was a dedicated researcher who shared your passion for the subject. Are you still there, Professor?’

  ‘My wife was a wonderful woman.’ Professor Takahashi’s voice was husky. ‘She was … she made my work her work. I undertake much work since … since 1995, I am working extremely hard when she comes to be my assistant and she involves herself completely. Just before her death she—’The professor’s voice faded. ‘She was most passionate about the subject but she never … please, your name was? I would like a copy of your tribute, please. I do not think I remember your name. You are?’

  ‘Oh, I’m here and there, you know, guest lecturing mainly, writing, reviewing. So, you’ve got my fax number? I would so much like a copy of your lecture. Thank you so much.’

  CHAPTER 45

  DARLING, CAN YOU hear, can you hear me, pet? Hilary was having a lovely dream, not such a strange thing to have when you’re in bed—she knew for a certainty she was in bed because if she moved she could feel soft material slipping under her feet—that bit wasn’t in the dream. So she was in bed but not at home. It did not feel like her bed at home … You can hear me, can’t you, pet, it’s me. Hilary smiled and shook out her long black hair, lovely hair she had, right down her back, exotic-looking for Yorkshire, she was. Everyone said so. Except Dad, who said you look like god knows what. You could be an exotic dancer you, her mates Denise and Carole said, you could, you’ve got the figure. Hilary tossed her dark hair again and wriggled to the music, forgetting of course she was in bed where dancing is difficult. Actually, her body felt far too heavy to dance and she wouldn’t swear there was really any music. That must be in the dream, too.

  She wished they would make themselves known. She wished they would declare themselves, the dream and the real bits, and stop mixing her up. Was her hair quite as long and as black now? Hil, you’re in hospital, remember? They put you to sleep. Of course. That’s why she was dreaming, then. She’d been asleep. And of course, that’s why her body was so heavy she could hardly move. Someone had surely filled her lap with stones, and whatever happened to Carole and Denise? It was sad the way you lost touch as you got older. Hilary moaned, remembering that her black, swinging hair was not like that any more and her body, it wasn’t what it had been at seventeen. Still. She smiled again—strange how normal it felt to smile with your eyes shut—never mind. She remembered now, and realised half-sadly that she had left the dream behind. How daft of her to make a mistake like that. Of course she didn’t have stones in her lap. She wasn’t dreaming now. That delicious, heavy, burdensome weight in the middle of her body was her baby. She smiled again, happy to have left the dream. Real was better. She was having a baby. Hil, you can hear me, can’t you?

  And that was Ivan speaking to her. Hello you. That was herself speaking now, she was almost certain. Possibly she only thought she had said it, she wasn’t opening her eyes to find out. You keep still and rest. They’ve given you something to make you nice and sleepy after the operation and it’s very late. Everybody’s asleep. I know, even me, she thought she said, laughing.

  I’m going to tell you a story. The voice was not just faint, it seemed to be coming from all directions and from nowhere, its meaning sounding in her head like soft breaking waves. Yet it must be Ivan’s voice. About a woman. Some story about a woman. Now, this woman, we’ll call her Hilary, all right, pet? She smiled. It was Ivan’s voice so the story would come right. Well, this Hilary and her husband wanted a baby so badly, and a baby just wouldn’t come, and they were so worried the woman’s husband had a little sperm test and that turned out to be fine so they stopped worrying and soon after the baby was on its way. Isn’t that a nice story? She smiled, then frowned a little. Please stay, voice, stay with me.

  Ivan got up and checked through the clear glass in the door that there was nobody in the corridor. It was fortunate that Hilary had been put in a side room on her own, more than he had hoped for. The sister in charge had confided in him that she didn’t hold with mixed ante- and post-natal wards. ‘It’s pure cruelty, miscarried ladies in the next bay along from ladies with newborns. Anyway I’ve got a side room free because my last placenta praevia’s just gone. I’ll pop your wife in there.’ Hilary and he would not be disturbed. ‘It’s open visiting here, you stay as long as you like. You need to grieve together. Talk. She’ll need to let it all pour out,’ the sister said. Ivan resisted the temptation to observe that that, surely, was what Hilary had already done.

  He sat down next to Hilary again and sighed. It had been difficult for him, and nobody recognised that. Nobody in his whole life knew how difficult it was, not until Hilary. That’s why it had been so very difficult.

  Hello, pet, still nice and sleepy? Back to the story. Now, Hilary’s husband—the husband’s called Ivan, by the way—he has this test and everything’s okay. Or at least his father says it’s okay. Oh, his father’s a doctor, did I mention that? A nice doctor that everyone loves but that really is another story, I mustn’t lose my thread, must I. So, into a little bottle the sample goes and the doctor gets it sent off for him because he knew what problems they’d been having and being a doctor he can ‘fast-track’ it for them. They were a nice open caring sharing lot, this family. So, the result comes back and it’s fine.

  Ivan bent over close to Hilary’s face. Her eyelids were closed and still, but behind the thickening flesh of her cheeks he thought he detected a tremor of muscle. Now where were we? Oh yes. Well, we skip to Easter. That’s when little Alex comes to be the new music lady at the clinic. And there’s a nice room for her just below the doctor’s flat at the big smart clinic. But all is not well, because guess what. Very soon after Alex hears noises coming from next door. Can you guess what they were, Hilary? Can you? Hilary was whimpering. Ivan hissed in her ear. They were fucking noises. Hilary’s moans grew loud and her head tossed from side to side. Ivan bent forward and grabbed her hair so tightly that her head stopped moving. Understand? Yes! Yes! Yes! Fucking noises. And Alex is a nice girl, far too nice to spy or pry, but she isn’t stupid. She doesn’t see anyone but she can work out who it is—Yvonne, of course. Yvonne loves Dr Golightly, you can see that.

  Ivan rose and poured himself water from the jug on Hilary’s locker, sat down again and drank. So, he began, his voice breaking, so. He took several deep breaths and swallowed more water. Alex thinks, very naughty of them, because the doctor’s the boss and Yvonne’s not really single, she lives with Chris. Poor Alex can’t put up with these embarrassing, awful noises coming through the walls, not when it’s her boss and the senior nurse. Alex is so upset she gets another job but feels bad about leaving like that, she thinks someone should know what’s going on. So she has a word with Ivan. You remember who Ivan is, don’t you. The husband. Ivan, the nice, kind, gentle one that she can talk to.

  Ivan watched Hilary’s eyes twitch behind the tightly screwed up eyelids. Tears welled into his own eyes and he pressed his hands hard into them and rubbed. The next bit would cheer him up.

  So Ivan says there there I understand and don’t you worry. But he worries. You know why, don’t you? Because it couldn’t be Yvonne, that’s why. And he wonders who else it could be, and then he thinks back to the sperm test, because he knows things about the way his father deals with tests. His father’s a bit naughty with tests, though he doesn’t know Ivan knows this, but Ivan knows a lot of things, starting with where his father keeps the key of his filing cabinets. And Ivan does a bit of research because he is not stupid, people forget he did pharmacology even though that’s not as good as medicine so it doesn’t count. And he finds out a sad t
hing. Men like him who use naughty drugs, sometimes they can’t have babies. So he goes off and has another test done all by himself and guess what? His sperm’s next to useless, very low count, not quite impossible to make a baby but unlikely, especially as his wife is so OLD—oh, did I mention that?

  Tears ran from the corners of Hilary’s eyes into her hair. She appeared to be trying to swallow. Ivan hoped she was trying to scream. When the test had come back as borderline, she and Stephen had discussed what to do. How to prevent Ivan from losing hope. He must never be allowed to lose hope that there would be a baby.

  Not absolutely sure you’re concentrating, pet, but never mind, I’ll be telling you this story lots from now on. Anyway, Ivan works it out. Hilary and his dad decided not to tell Ivan the result of the first test because they think he might get so upset he’ll have another breakdown and start hurting himself all over again. So they don’t tell Ivan that his juice is as much use as a Cup-a-Soup for making babies. Can’t manage anything, can he?

  Ivan’s head sank on to the side of the bed. He did not see, as he cried noisily into a scrap of green hospital paper towel, the lifting of Hilary’s fingers lying across her stomach. She moaned, hearing his weeping somewhere very distant. So Hilary will carry on giving Ivan lots of screws and pretend they’re making babies and then when husband’s not looking Doctor Dad will shoot his four-star, tried and tested spunk up her until she’s pregnant. Dad and son look so alike, you see, nobody will ever know the difference! And they have always wanted to screw each other, you see, Hilary and the dad. Ivan has seen that and thinks they might even have done it before. So what fun they will have and all in a good cause.

  Hilary’s eyes were wide open. She gasped, trying to find her voice, while her lips worked like two small landed fish. Ivan stood up and whacked her hard across the face with the flat of his hand. She gurgled and moaned. Now shut up, pet, and listen to me, or I’ll have to do that again. If you make me cross like that again I won’t tell you the rest of the story. Well, then, everything goes along nicely for a while, but-oh I should have mentioned—the clinic’s had it and Dad has scarpered-until guess what. One day, splosh! Out tumbles disgusting red slippery bag of giblets and that’s the end of baby. Not Ivan’s, though, that’s the point. I did make that clear, I hope.