Harvest

by Celia Brayfield

  The reply came in a harsh and lofty tone which Grace had never heard him use before. ‘How dare you use that word? My family, to me, is the most precious, the most important, the most sacred thing in my life. The idea that betraying my wife with you could have anything whatever to do with family is absolutely obscene. My God, what kind of woman are you?’

  Louisa was magnanimous in defeat. Without haste or shame, she collected her hairpins from the table and her shoes from the floor. ‘Not your kind of woman, obviously,’ she said, making for the terrace on swaggering hips. ‘Such a pity.‘

  7. Clearing Away

  Nick went back to the bathroom to use the lavatory. As he raised the seat, he saw something at the bottom of the pan, a tiny patch of cream against the white porcelain. It was a tooth, a lower incisor, natural enamel not a broken crown.

  As he sat down again at Imogen’s bedside, a tremor crossed her eyelids, and the long black lashes lifted a little, then fell back against her cheek. Another spasm seized her throat, but she was too sedated to do more than give a weak cough, then curl more tightly in a ball. Thoughtfully, Nick looked at her long body; the sheet was still pulled around her, she was clutching the pillow in her arms. He considered the contrast between her limbs and her abdomen. At her age, perhaps, it was not unusual.

  Diagnosis, the most important aspect of medicine. They had dinned it into him, and he saw himself in his turn boring the students at the clinic with the same lecture, getting pompous with the authority of his experience. Lastly, once you’ve made your diagnosis, don’t get so obsessed with it that you ignore information which doesn’t fit. Keep checking your observations. A patient may be presenting symptoms of more than one condition. And – you may be wrong.

  Here was a young woman, with a history of random drug abuse and eating disorders, severely underweight and, for all the fashionable rig, showing signs of chronic self-neglect; hence the lost tooth, which she probably spat out with the last mouthful of bile. He would have liked to open her mouth to make sure the tooth was hers, but experience added to inhibition had made him wary of invasive procedures without a witness.

  Was she spewing because of the drug, or in spite of it? The vomiting centre in the brain was affected by stimulation from the stomach, and by emotions. The body’s own chemicals could produce vomiting, so could toxic reactions, but they affected a different part of the brain. Drugs to relieve vomiting fell into three groups, according to which brain area, they targeted. Prozac prescribed to treat bulimia produced nausea. The boy had not mentioned any prescribed drugs, but he’d been wrong, she’d deceived him. And emotion was part of this – but what else?

  The boy had protested too much, trying to defend her. An eating disorder seemed likely: her arms were like sticks and her ribs like park railings, although she had full breasts and an unexpected ripeness in her abdomen. An examination would probably confirm it, but again it was a procedure that was out of the question in this situation. The most persuasive thing was the condition of her skin; it was rich and smooth, almost like cream. He had seen the papery complexion and harsh, thin hair of anorexics persist years after the disorder was past, but this woman was blooming, even with her pallor and smudged makeup. Over her chest the distended blood vessels were obvious. Put all that together with the vomiting and you could get more than a shot of temazepam.

  Then there was the boy. He was transparently honest, so in all probability he knew nothing. How to raise the subject with him? The mere idea made Nick squirm. He was so pitifully clumsy with words; sometimes he considered that staying in clinical medicine at all was just a form of masochism. This was where Grace saved him so often, she would happily invade his mind and pull out his thoughts for him in flowing declarations. But he could not involve her here.

  Stephen returned with the case and keys; it was obvious he had kept many vigils like this with Imogen. He was restless because someone had taken his chosen seat beside her at the head of the bed. Gentle, conversational, Nick decided on a few questions about the relationship, and then began to advance his suspicions. ‘What does she do about contraception?’

  He was very ready to answer. ‘Nothing. I do it. When we need to.’

  ‘When you need to?’

  We agreed last year we were so close that sex wasn’t adding anything. In fact, it was taking away, for her, because she doesn’t enjoy it. So contraception isn’t an issue for us at the moment.’

  ‘Uh-huh. But when you were having sex, it was necessary? I’m wondering about her menstrual cycle.’

  ‘It’s always been very erratic. She started her periods very late, years after the rest of her class, and there were always long gaps. That was another reason. There was certainly less risk for her with a condom than for someone with regular periods. And less risk than pills or something. She hates interfering with nature.’

  Looking at the malnourished body now restless in its chemical sleep, Nick could not help saying, ‘Isn’t it strange how people think of nature?’

  OK, so there’s nothing very natural about sticking a needle in your arm. OK, so I indulge her. OK, you’ve taken my role away and I resent it. Stephen said nothing but walked about the shadowy room again, glaring into the corners, avoiding Nick’s gaze.

  There was an ugly noise from the bed. With eyes half-open, Imogen pushed herself up on one elbow. She started to retch again, a little mucus dripping from her open mouth.

  ‘Imogen, can you hear me talking to you?’

  She heaved and swallowed, the painful force of the convulsion bringing her round, although all she could do was moan in reply.

  ‘Take it easy. You’ve been out for a while. Do you remember me? I was at lunch, talking to your – to Jane. I am a doctor. Can you hear me talking?’

  ‘Yeah.’ It was only a whisper. Her eyelids fell again; she swayed in the bed, then fell sideways in the grip of another spasm.

  ‘I think you’re vomiting because you shot up some stuff, is that possible?’

  The streaked face half-buried in the pillow wore a silly but cynical smile. ‘Oh yeah. Def.’

  Even with her eyes open, Stephen was not in her sight. He was holding back uncertainly, still at the edge of the room camouflaged by the bars of shadow from the shutters. Nick continued, ‘I can give you something to stop you being sick, but I need to know if it’ll be safe for you. Are you allergic to anything at all?’

  ‘No. Not really.’ She raised herself again; the shot was wearing off.

  ‘Not allergic to any drugs?’

  ‘No.’ An uncoordinated shake of the head.

  He looked up over the bed and fixed Stephen with a stare, keeping his voice even. ‘And is there any chance that you could be pregnant?’

  ‘No chance.’ Another shake, a dreamier smile. Stephen’s face was a mask of indignation. ‘Don’t take chances, me. I had the test.’

  ‘You mean, you took the test to see if you were pregnant?’

  ‘Uhnh.’ Weakly, she raised her free arm and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

  ‘A test at home you did yourself, or did someone else do it, a pharmacist? Maybe a doctor.’

  ‘Man at the pharmacy.’

  ‘And what result did you get?’ With a stern look, he was still pinning Stephen back away from her; suddenly the younger man understood that she would not tell the truth if she knew he was there. He leaned back against the wall with folded arms, his face set.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Yes, I am. Positive. ’Sokay. Don’t matter. I can deal with it. You can give me whatever you like.’ Even at a distance, Stephen’s shock could be felt in the air.

  ‘Okay. But I’ll give you something safe anyway.’ Nick opened his case and ran his eye over the lines of plastic bottles. ‘One last question – did you drink any alcohol today?’

  ‘Don’t know. Can’t remember.’

  The vomit had not smelt of alcohol. Stephen was shaking his head. Nick made his choice. ‘This may make y
ou sleepy again, though probably not so much. But there’ll be someone with you. It’ll be another needle because you won’t keep anything down now. Just lie back and let me have your arm.’ In a few quiet movements, it was done and she was lying looking at him with a peaceful smile, her elbow bent to hold a swab against the puncture. Within a minute her eyes closed again.

  Now, the boy. Nick got up and walked to the door, inviting him outside the room with an inclination of his head. Stephen said, ‘She lies constantly, you know.’

  ‘Sense of hearing is the last to go, first to come back.’ Nick pulled the door almost closed without a sound. ‘You don’t believe she was telling the truth?’

  ‘I could hardly hear what she was saying.’

  ‘You heard, though. I needed to ask, I’m sorry.’

  ‘It’s a routine question, I suppose.’

  ‘Yes, but I had a positive reason. How do you think she’s looking at the moment?’

  He was leaning against the corridor wall, hostile and suspicious, fiddling with the rolled sleeve of his shirt. ‘Great. I hadn’t seen her for a while until yesterday and she looked good.’

  ‘Healthy?’

  ‘For her, yes.’

  ‘But she’s underweight, isn’t she? Undernourished, really.’

  ‘Yes, she always is. She likes to be thin. I thought she had a sort of glow, all the same.’

  ‘So did I.’ Nick was pleased with himself. He was getting through. ‘My line of thinking was this: vomiting after injecting a benzodiazepine isn’t typical. You want to inject a narcotic for that. Vomiting in early pregnancy, of course, is very common. And you’re right, she has got a sort of glow. In pregnancy the amount of blood in a woman’s body increases by a third, and the process gets under way as soon as the pregnancy is established. Hence that blooming look.’

  ‘You’re telling me you think she really is pregnant?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Oh God. She won’t be able to cope …’

  ‘She seems to have taken care of herself so far – up to a certain point.’

  Stephen turned around and walked a few steps down the corridor, his hands in his black hair. Then he came back, bracing his shoulders and looking Nick directly in the eye. ‘I suppose I should say thank you.’ He reached out a hand, then thought better of it. ‘You did that very well. I’m sorry I was hostile.’

  ‘I don’t call people hostile until they pull a knife on me.’

  ‘I care for her so much.’ Now it was said unsteadily, but he was not going to cry. ‘Can I stay with her for a while?’

  ‘Of course. She won’t make much sense and I expect you realize that the acid or whatever it was may not have worn off. The thing to watch for is …’

  ‘Inhaling the vomit, I know …’

  ‘So it’s best if she lies on her side, as she is now, rather than her back. Keeps the airway clear.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘I’ll go and find my wife.’ He indicated his messed-up shirt. ‘I’ll come back in an hour.’

  At the end of the corridor a misgiving prompted Nick to turn and look back; there was no one there, the boy had immediately retreated to the bedside.

  Another part of his lecture on diagnosis dealt with instinct; it was the passage his experience had added to the standard text, an observation which made all the students nod in agreement. Respect your instinct, he would tell them. If necessary, make the silence for its voice to be heard. There are ways of gathering information outside your conscious intelligence, ways of knowing things which can’t be noted on a chart or entered on a file. If you have an irrational feeling, don’t act on it without good reason, but don’t dismiss it. Let it guide you.

  The voice of his instinct was distinctly advising him that the sad, angry girl in the bedroom had come to her father’s house with an intention which was not yet discharged. She intended to do something more here.

  Michael can pull the truth out from under your feet like a rug. Grace grabbed at the thought, the first piece of the jigsaw. The rest of her mind was a meaningless jumble. Hardly aware of her actions, she had walked out of the side door of the house, through the garden and across to the trees, heading in the direction of her car.

  The party was over. The canopied path across the meadow had gone, leaving a trampled causeway through the long grass. The tracks of the caterers’truck led to the edge of the trees, where it stood with the long grass up to its axles while sections of dais were loaded on to it. There was activity and noise, but to Grace everything was muted. She was absorbed in the tumult of her feelings, not in the concrete world outside. At least it was a familiar state. Only Michael, with his passion and his disorienting certainty, could blend all her emotions into a primordial soup.

  At times like this, her talent for the mot juste took care of quite a bit. Putting the right word to her feelings was the beginning of mastery. When she knew what her experience was, she could analyse it, and then control it. Name it and you could tame it, the Rumpelstiltskin effect. Right now she felt cheated, but the word wasn’t big enough; this was a giant’s cheat, a cheat worth eight years of her life. She had heard Michael deny her, and himself; she had seen the reality instead of the picture he projected of his family and himself as a father.

  Automatically, she found Nick’s clean shirt as she had packed it, folded into a box in their bag in the car. As she turned she remembered that she had promised – what were Nick’s words? To let the parents know. Had he avoided saying Michael’s name?

  ‘Have you seen Mrs Knight?’ She had to ask several people. Under the young oaks, the circus was packing up. The food had been cleared, the utensils crated, the tables folded, the chairs stacked. While she watched the striped pavilion collapsed, flapping canvas and tinkling tent-pegs.

  At the far edge of the melancholy scene was the Knights’nanny, a surreal figure straddling a solitary chair, her chin resting on her folded arms. The two little girls were nearby, wandering separately among wreckage.

  ‘How’s Imogen?’ Debbie asked as Grace approached. She was tired; the vigour had drained from her body, she looked ungainly and pale.

  ‘She’s asleep now and my husband is staying with her. I was looking for Jane, to let her know.’

  Nothing was said, but they held the same opinion; Michael and Jane were not concerned enough. Even tacitly, that was as far as the two women would go, being by character discreet and slow to condemn. Debbie did not ask for more information; all she said was, ‘Jane went back to the house. She’ll probably be in her office, just off the kitchen. We’ll be coming back in a few minutes ourselves. I like to get the kids in the pool before bedtime, it relaxes them a bit.’

  ‘Train.’ The little one, rubbing her eyes, was tugging her sister’s skirt, which the older child pulled away with a cross exclamation.

  ‘Be gentle, Em, she’s only little.’ Wearily, Debbie held out her hand to the toddler. ‘Yes, Xanthe, we’ll go see the train and then it’s time for a swim.’ To Grace she said: ‘The train’s at six, so we’d better be making tracks. You go into the kitchen from the hall, then straight through to the office.’

  She left the chair and set off with the children, three pale figures meandering separately into the shade of the wood. Grace retraced her path across the meadow. What did she feel for Michael now? Nothing so passionate as hatred. On this point she interrogated herself, suspicious that she was seeing merely the dark side of love. Contempt. Disgust, perhaps. Shock, more than anything. His words repeated themselves in her mind. Evangelical family-values speeches were nothing new from him, she had heard him make them a thousand times, for her alone and for a public audience.

  Now she was seeing him standing at the edge of his own family, a sham, a stranger, inhibited and inauthentic. She had Nick’s evaluation, which was sterner than that. ‘He seems to have an overwhelming compulsion to prove that his family is a good family, that it really works. A competitive thing, it must be.’

  Jane’s office was almost as large as
the kitchen, cool, with only one small, deep-set window; the embrasure caught the rich gold rays of the late sun. Books were shelved along the long interior wall, and more books were stacked untidily on the large table which took up the centre of the room. Jane was sitting at her desk near the door putting a folder of bills away in the filing drawer; as Grace entered, she turned towards her with an expectant expression.

  ‘Imogen …’ Confusion distorted the delicate face; Jane had been expecting her to say something else. ‘Imogen’s asleep upstairs. Nick thought you ought to know – he’s staying with her for a while.’ Tactfully, having learned to tread carefully around the subject of drugs, she passed on Nick’s diagnosis.

  ‘Tranquillizers? Is that all she’s taken? What did Stephen say? He usually knows what she’s been up to.’ In speaking she bit her top lip. She muttered ‘Damn’under her breath. A little blood oozed from the corner of her mouth and she licked it away.

  ‘Stephen wasn’t sure; Nick thinks she was tripping, so she may still be affected by that when she comes round.’

  ‘Well, I’m glad you warned me. It’s very kind of him to stay.’

  ‘He’s like that. He wouldn’t dream of doing anything else.’

  ‘Yes.’ Jane rubbed her eyes, feeling that she wanted to clear her sight. Events were still passing by in a dream. Then she saw distress in the other woman’s face. ‘Are you all right, Grace? Has this upset you? I’m sorry, I’m so used to Imogen acting out … Why don’t you sit down? Shall we have some tea?’

  Her voice was soothing. What sweet relief to accept its comfort, to sit down in the cool quietness and be looked after. She took the shabby wing chair beside the desk, automatically murmuring compliments on the party while they waited for one of the staff to bring in the tray. Jane was comforted in her turn. When they were settled with the tea, she suddenly said, ‘You must think I’m very cold, but Imogen’s been the same for so long. I have to cut off. I wish I could do something, but now there’s nothing anyone can do for her.’