Hope

by Rhian Ivory

  Oi! Man of mystery, why are you ignoring all my messages? Hope I haven’t hurt your tender feelings.

  Again there’s no reply. I look around the surgery. There are posters on the wall offering all kinds of help to victims of domestic violence, smokers, pregnant women, diabetics, women and men with breast cancer – I didn’t know men got breast cancer – people with Parkinson’s and how to spot the physical signs of someone who’s suffered a stroke. No poster or leaflet offering me any advice or help or support groups. I tune in to the tannoy and hear my name called. I look up and see it on the screen.

  The next patient is Miss H Baldi

  Room 15

  I find my way to room 15, following the arrows. The door is shut. I knock and a friendly but professional voice invites me to enter. I push the door open so that I can’t turn back and leave the surgery without seeing who is behind the door.

  ‘Hello, come on in. I’m Doctor Khan. Sit down there. Now, what can I do for you?’ It’s a she. I didn’t even ask the receptionist who the appointment would be with. I’m so glad it’s a she.

  ‘Um, I’m having a problem with my periods,’ I say. I rehearsed a few sentences in my head while sitting in the waiting room but none of them feel right now I’m here.

  ‘What kind of problems?’ She’s young, she’s pretty and she has neat black hair caught in a ponytail. She’s got small silver earrings, neutral-coloured lipstick and a bit of dark eyeliner. She’s waiting for me to say something.

  ‘I get problems the week before my period. I’ve just started using this app that tracks your menstrual cycle, it’s called Clue.’

  ‘I’ve heard good things about Clue and it’s going to be really helpful that you’ve already got some data and information about your cycle. Well done,’ she tells me without sounding patronising. She taps some information onto the screen. I want to know what she’s writing about me but don’t feel I can ask. The screen is turned slightly away from me. I wonder what her name is, she probably told me as I sat down but it’s gone now.

  ‘I read somewhere that caffeine makes things worse. I’ve made a list of all the things I’ve stopped eating and drinking.’

  ‘It sounds like you have done the right thing, you’ve researched the impact food and drink can have on your body at certain times in your cycle. Good. Has this helped?’ she asks.

  I don’t want her asking questions I can’t answer. I want her to wave a magical medical wand and make this all better. Can’t she just give me a prescription?

  ‘It’s getting worse if anything, but I don’t think that’s to do with food or drink. I’m getting worse,’ I tell her.

  ‘When you say getting worse, can you elaborate?’

  Of course I can elaborate, I just don’t want to.

  ‘Moody,’ I start, using the classic adjective but she puts her pen down, as if she knows this isn’t what I mean. I wonder how long I’ve got in here before she gets fed up with me. I’m sure GP appointment slots aren’t longer than ten minutes. I bet she’s thinking, ‘Come on! Get on with it, I haven’t got all night!’

  I breathe in air

  and breathe out

  Truth.

  ‘I’m not depressed, this isn’t depression, because the rest of the month I’m me again. It’s just the one week. On that week I could spill some juice in the kitchen and it is the worst thing that’s ever happened to me. Or someone at school could ask me for a crisp and I’ll call them a disgusting, fat, greedy pig and I’ll completely mean it. But I won’t remember it. Or one of my friends might make a comment about what I’m wearing on a night out and I’ll go from 0-100 on the anger scale and have to walk away from them so I don’t do or say something really bad.’ I stop talking for a second. She’s listening to me, making notes on the screen, taking me seriously. So I carry on.

  ‘I’ll go and sit in a room on my own and people think I’m storming off for attention. I hear them say it after me, when my back is turned. The last thing I want is for someone to come and find me because it’s not safe to be around me. I’ve wanted to tell someone all of this for ages but it sounds crazy. I sound crazy,’ I confess. I’m not crying though. I thought I’d cry.

  ‘How awful for you, just awful,’ she says.

  Great, now I’m crying.

  ‘It sounds like you’ve been coping with this for quite a while?’

  I nod because I can’t find my voice. She passes me a box of tissues. I wonder how many boxes she gets through in a week.

  ‘You’ve been very intelligent about this, emotionally and physically. Your record keeping and awareness of your own body is hugely helpful, a big step in the right direction and a good way to begin to understand what you’re going through. Now, what we’re going to do…’ she pauses and turns back to the screen to type something.

  I let out a massive breath as I take in the ‘we’ in her sentence.

  ‘…is start with some Fluoxetine, take one tablet every day for a month, then come back and see me. Keep using the app to make notes on how you are each day, what you’ve eaten and drunk, and note if and when the tablets start helping. If you can avoid alcohol as well as caffeine that might be wise. How does that sound?’ she asks, as something prints out noisily in the corner of the room.

  She collects the paper from the printer. ‘Tablets don’t work for everyone, or it can take a while to find the right tablets. There’s two or three others we can try if we don’t have any success with the Fluoxetine.’ She keeps saying we. Things we can try, things we can do. I sit still, so still, and just listen to her friendly and professional voice. She’s with me, it’s her and me in this together. I could sit on this chair listening to her voice all night.

  ‘And there’s counselling and CBT, here’s a leaflet which will explain it. If you decide you want to see a therapist, I can recommend Dr Dee, she has more expertise than me in this area. It is quite difficult to diagnose PMDD but it does sound as if this is what you are suffering from. Dr Dee is a specialist in PMDD so we’ll get you on her waiting list. Here’s another leaflet which will explain PMDD a bit more and this leaflet – last one I promise – is a list of books on prescription, self-help guides. You should be able to get most of them at your local library.’

  I want to hug her and kiss her and tell her all the things in my head but I don’t. Instead I smile and take the prescription from her. I smile and shut the door behind me. I’m still smiling as I walk out of the surgery and into the pharmacy next door.

  The chemist smiles back as I hand the prescription over. And I just can’t stop smiling.

  I’m not on my own anymore.

  Relief wraps itself around me like a second skin as I put the white box with my name and address on in my bag.

  We sit on faded red seats in the Swan theatre – Nonno’s favourite. We’re in the round, so close to the stage, behind a wooden balcony. We watch the cast bend, stretch, chat and sip from bottles of water. Behind them is an onstage wardrobe without doors. An array of ragged and well-worn costumes hang from hooks dangling from ropes which climb out of sight. Nonno waves to someone and they come over. I feel nervous. Nonno stands up, so I do too.

  ‘Gianni! Ciao! Come stai?’ A girl kisses Nonno on both cheeks.

  ‘Molto bene, grazie, Lucia. This is my granddaughter, Hope. Hope, this is Lucia,’ Nonno puts his arm about my shoulder.

  ‘Hi,’ I say, hoping that I’ll have something more articulate to add. The girl – well, young woman really – has wide-apart green eyes that were smiling a second ago, but are now serious, taking me in. Her hair is a mess, black curls falling in her eyes. She needs some clean clothes, hers are covered in what looks like chalk. She’s wearing a denim pinafore dress with a greying t-shirt which looks a size too small for her and loud stripy tights. Her black eyebrows dominate her face, which makes the green stand out all the more. She’s stunning. I know she’s just said something to me but I’ve no idea what. Come on, Hope, think. ‘I’m Hope,’ I tell her, which she of course already kno
ws but she doesn’t laugh.

  ‘And I’m Lucia. Come, come and meet everyone.’ She holds out her hand. It’s warm and takes mine firmly. I thought I’d just be sitting with Nonno. I follow her on to one of the wooden walkways to the stage.

  ‘Hey, everyone! This is Hope. Hope, this is everyone.’ Lucia gestures to the people gathered on the stage, about eight, I think, not too intimidating. They’re all women and girls, no boys or men, which feels different. Most of them smile or wave and say hi. I look out to the audience but the house lights are up so I can’t see Nonno. I wonder if he’s still there. Someone hands me a battered copy of Top Girls.

  ‘We’re on the kitchen scene with Joyce and Marlene,’ another actress tells me, as if they don’t mind me being on stage with them. ‘Do you know the play?’ I nod. ‘Good, I’m Mae.’ Then I place her: she’s on the posters in the foyer. I’m sure I’ve seen her before, from something on the telly maybe. She looks a lot younger in real life, although she’s probably got stage make-up on in the poster.

  Someone sets two chairs out in the middle of the stage. There’s already a table with two cups of tea. Mae and another woman head to the back of the stage, near the hanging costumes, I can’t hear what they’re saying. The rest of the women sit in a semi-circle facing the two chairs. I’m sat here, with them, on the RSC stage, about to watch their rehearsal.

  ‘Right, are we ready? Vicky? Mae?’ a woman calls out, I guess the director. The air changes and the lights dim. The faces of the two actors centre-stage transform. Mae’s jaw drops down, making her lips jut out a bit. She draws her cheeks in, visibly souring. The other woman, who must be Vicky, rises in her chair a little, bringing her whole body into alignment – she becomes knowing and powerful. They start, their words shooting at one another.

  I know this scene well. Aisha and Callie did it for their duologue. The best bit about it, apart from the swearing, was the way the two characters cut across each other naturally. All the other plays we’d read made sure that characters waited politely to speak their lines but this play threw all of that out the window. It felt more real, more honest. Lucia is standing at a funny angle, like she’s waiting to join the scene. I take in her clothes again and realise she must be playing the kid, Angie. That explains her odd fashion choices, she’s in costume. Mae and Vicky pause, then move to the director – I wish I knew her name. I turn to hear them better.

  ‘…it’s the brutality of the honesty, though, that’s what we want to see,’ Vicky replies to whatever the director just said. ‘They say things to each other that they’d never say to anyone else. They know how to hurt with their words because they’re family.’

  I think about Mum and me and all the ways I’ve hurt her with my words.

  ‘Yes, this, this, and also the undertones of the lost child. Joyce is dripping with pent-up resentment about all the sacrifices she’s made,’ Mae adds.

  I think about what Mum said, about needing to do something for herself for once.I picture all the sacrifices she’s made for me.

  ‘And the play asks us, the audience, does Marlene’s behaviour – to become the kind of woman she wants to be – excuse her? Can we forgive her the mistakes?’ the director asks.

  I wonder if Mum will be able to forgive me for saying I hated her.

  ‘It’s all about choices. What has to be sacrificed. You can’t have everything, or at least not without some repercussions!’ Vicky declares.

  I can’t imagine having a child. I don’t know whether I want kids. I can’t see my body working well enough to make a baby – a lot of the time it struggles to get through the day without a complete breakdown.

  ‘And Marlene makes the ultimate sacrifice when she hands over her child. She’s made to pay!’ Mae says – and, before I can stop myself, I’m responding too.

  ‘But both of them make huge sacrifices, not just Marlene,’ I say. I only know I’ve said it out loud because everyone turns to look at me. I was keeping all my other thoughts in my head, but this one escaped.

  ‘Yeah, you’re right. They’re both deeply flawed.’ Mae nods. She’s thinking about what I’ve said, really considering it.

  ‘All of them are. All of us are, we’re all deeply flawed, that’s what makes us so interesting,’ the director adds, and they laugh and I join in. I get it, the truth of it.

  ‘That’s what’s universal about this play. No matter your gender you can relate to the characters. They make mistakes and then have to try to fix them,’ Lucia adds, to me. I worry that Nonno’s said something about me and my situation. She’s sat cross-legged on the floor, looking encouragingly at me.

  ‘I think Churchill’s maybe saying you can’t escape your past even when you’re powerful, like Marlene?’ I can’t stop my voice going up at the end, as if I’m unsure. ‘Even if you’re an adult and you’ve got all the power, you still can’t run and hide,’ I add.

  We discussed this loads in Theatre Studies but this isn’t a safe little lesson. This play is on this stage in The Swan theatre and people out there, like me, are going to pay to see it. They’re going to go online and pick seats and maybe book a table for a meal after. And they’ll watch these women, then they’ll go home and talk about it. But do I want this, to be one of the actors people go home and talk about? I don’t know how I’d feel about that, strangers discussing my voice, my body, the way I said certain lines, or the way my face looked. I know I like being part of the debate but that’s very different from standing in a place like this, with people like them, in front of a real audience of strangers who don’t know me and don’t care about me.

  ‘Power is key. Take the scene with Angie and Kit for example,’ Vicky says, and they all start talking over one another – just like Joyce and Marlene.

  ‘Good, good. Mae, Vicky, I think we’ll move forwards to Marlene’s line: “You were quick enough to take her,” Alright?’ the director says. Someone switches the teacups for glasses of apple juice. Mae and Vicky walk back to the chairs and their body language changes again. Vicky is leaning forwards now, possessive and assured, whiskey glass in hand. She looks confrontational but animal-like, too, as if she’s eyeing up her prey.

  I know this scene, I’ve watched Callie do it enough times. Mae is poised like she’s ready for a fight. The air is tight and the rest of us feel it, wired and rigid. It’s almost unpleasant, too close, too fraught, but I find myself inching closer. I’m swimming in every single drop of the tension. The first grenade is yet to be thrown but you can see what’s to come just by looking at them, you can see the warfare that’s about to take place.

  ‘And then what happened?’ Nonno asks. He’s barely touched his panini, but I don’t have time to ask him why he’s not hungry. I’ve got too much to say. We’re sat on benches by the river Avon and I’m shovelling food and drink in as fast as I can because we’ve been asked to stay and watch tonight’s press performance. Nonno couldn’t buy any tickets, they’d sold out, but Susannah – I finally learned the director’s name – invited us to stay and watch. They always keep a seat or two spare on press night and tonight we’re the lucky ones.

  ‘Yes, Lucia asked Susannah if it’d be alright, which was really kind of her. I think I was supposed to just be watching but when Susannah found out I knew the play she let me join in!’

  ‘So you were Angie!’ I can sense his excitement. He understands what this means to me.

  ‘Yes! I had Lucia’s spare costume and she lent me her script. Susannah asked me questions about Angie and gave me some notes and Vicky and Mae were really patient. We ran the scene several times. I could have done it all day long. Susannah said that my projection is really strong,’ I tell him, trying hard not to sound like someone with a crush. I must have mentioned her name at least ten times so far, but she is the director after all.

  ‘Did Lucia give you any advice?’ Nonno asks. I shake my head.

  ‘No, she let me take it. She just sat back and watched. I think she didn’t want me to feel like I had to copy her Angie, so
she let me find my own version. But she told me afterwards that … that Susannah said I wasn’t bad,’ I say shyly.

  ‘Ha! Praise indeed, piccolina. And how did it feel, this being not bad?’ He gets to the heart of the matter, cracking open his sparkling water. He pops a tablet out of a packet and swallows it.

  ‘Have you got a headache?’ I ask him. It’s pretty hot in the sun. He nods and sips more water, then waves his hand and points back to the theatre, telling me to carry on talking, so I do. I can’t not. ‘Nonno, I feel lit up.’ I tell him honestly.

  ‘Ah, I see,’ he says.

  ‘What?’ I ask.

  ‘You know there isn’t an open door here? We have to go home tonight, back into the world. I’ve spoken to your mamma. She’s not happy. I will explain it better to her in person. Don’t worry. Hope, this is just a taste, sì? Just to show you what can be. The rest is up to you. You have to go out and find your own door.’ He stands and puts his rubbish in the bin. ‘And now, we must go. Susannah is expecting you!’ he says with a smile. I smile back, because he’s right, the rest is up to me, it’s my choice.

  I rush into Waterstones and look around for Callie. She’s standing at a table of books holding two already. I spot a Foyles carrier bag on the floor next to her, she’s obviously had a good shopping session in the station, she must have caught an early train from Shrewsbury. I watch her before she’s seen me – she looks relaxed, holidayed and happy. As if she senses me, she looks up, drops both books back and runs to me.

  ‘Congratulations!’ I hold out my arms to her.

  ‘I know, right? I was starting to think I might not get in anywhere,’ she laughs with the ease of someone who’s safe. ‘You know the theatre school’s around the corner from your hospital?’ Of course, I know where it is. While I’m stuck in hospital, she’ll be starting at Birmingham Theatre School.

  ‘So, how was the holiday?’ I change the subject.

  ‘A-MAZE-ING. Total blast. But I missed you a disgusting amount,’ she says into my hair. We part and she carries on. ‘There was loads of street theatre and singing in the evenings, which you’d have loved. I wish you’d come with us. They even had snow globes there! I got you one, total cheese-fest with glitter and plastic figurines.’