Turn Us Again

by Charlotte Mendel

  “I understand that this is her perspective. You are here, in the flesh, to clarify bits that are skewed. And you have written comments in the margins. There aren’t a lot of comments. Does that mean you agree with most of the script?”

  “It doesn’t!” my father barks, “I commented beside specific remarks which demand explanation. Everything is from Mummy’s point of view. Naturally — it’s her manuscript. The built-up anguish that caused me to kick John Drake is not recorded at all. Don’t wait till you see one of my comments to ask me questions. Every time I seem to behave in a heinous way, please point it out. I have a different perspective on events.”

  “I will, father.” Heinous? He worries too much about everything, perhaps because he is unwell. He’s just a human being, faulty like us all. Still, if he wants me to ask questions…

  “The way you are presented here does make you seem a bit controlling.”

  “She was right about that, and I regret it now. I think most couples waste too much energy trying to mold their mates in their own image. The tidy partner nags the messy partner, the abstainer nags the drinker, the spendthrift nags the spender. When you get older you look back and think, what a waste of time. Yet you can’t impart your wisdom to new couples. It seems everybody has to go through this process.”

  “Weren’t you a little more controlling than the average partner?”

  “She was frenetically trying to enjoy herself. How would you feel if your girlfriend flitted from party to party, flirting with all and sundry? I wasn’t even sure that I was the only one she was sleeping with.”

  I thought about Jenny. I wouldn’t like it if she rushed about like that.

  “What about changing her name?”

  “Was that controlling? I never thought she’d change her name officially. I just wanted to call her something else myself. ‘Anne’ was so inappropriate. Didn’t you tell me your girlfriend’s name is Jenny?”

  “Yes. I know, it’s boring.”

  “Have you ever thought to call her something else?”

  Smooty-Wooty, think I, shaking my head in denial.

  “Well, I don’t see why not, if you don’t like the name. It seems to me that it’s important to call the person you love a name you like.”

  I can’t think of anything to say to this. I look down at my hands, twiddle the papers. How to broach the subject of his illness?

  “Please read out the next paragraph or two, so I know where you are,” he instructs peremptorily.

  “Okay. Can I ask you a question first?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s been bothering me a lot…”

  He leans forward in his chair, there is an excited look on his face. Poor guy, he probably thinks I’m going to delve deeper into a fuddled segment of the manuscript that he can resolve for me.

  “I need to know more about your sickness, Dad. I want to help you, but I’m so far away. If I knew more about … timelines, perhaps I could make arrangements for you to move into a nursing home when it gets to the point that you’ll need a little extra help.”

  His face creases into disappointment as I speak. He waves his hand impatiently, dismissing me. “Everything has been arranged already. There’s no question of a nursing home. As long as I’m compos mentis I’ll stay right here. Currently a nurse comes in once a week to check on my situation. As soon as she perceives that I’m not in a condition to look after myself, a bevy of in-home nursing care providers will invade my oasis and no doubt madden me, but better than a nursing home, no? There’s nothing for you to worry about or arrange. If you want to please your dying father you will continue to do exactly as you are doing. Now read, please.”

  What a relief. The prospect of phoning and arranging complicated matters in a foreign country had been daunting. Still, dare I ask the precise nature of his terminal illness? “That’s great, you’re obviously on top of everything. But I will need to come back. I need to … what do you have, Dad?”

  “Cancer.”

  “In your…?”

  “Everywhere. Riddled with it.”

  “When…?”

  “Could be two weeks. Could be six months. No more than a year.”

  I sit blinking at him owlishly, shocked. Jenny’s right — I’m an idiot. It just never occurred to me that the outlook was so bleak. He’d been acting so … unsick all the time, looking after himself and me. Trotting around the house and even looking after his garden.”

  “Now read!” he snaps.

  I jump a little, glance at his face, which is working furiously to control his impatience. No way two weeks. I clear my throat. “The next bit is from the diary.”

  Sam’s birthday started with promise. When he awoke I kissed him on the lips and he said ‘It is the sweetest birthday present I have ever had.’ We washed and dressed and had our coffee, languidly went for a little walk, met dear John Drake and had a glass of wine with him. Sam and I then returned to our room, where we lay and dozed and made love and passed the time. After went out for a short swim — it was cool and glorious after the heat of love making. Dressed for the evening and had two ciders, then made it three and got tipsy. Sam started telling me how his relationship towards me had changed and I felt furious (drunkenly) and we quarrelled over dinner, etc. It was all very painful, then we were going for coffee, and I said ‘You’d rather go alone, wouldn’t you?’ and he said ‘Much rather’ so that was the end of his birthday.

  I glance up at my father when I reach the end of the diary entry. His eyes are closed and I can’t tell whether he is asleep or not. Then a tear seeps from his eyelid. I take his hand in a comforting way, and he removes it from my grasp brusquely. I am not offended. It must be so difficult for him to discuss his relationship with Mum. He is not used to talking about emotions or feelings; maybe that’s why he seems to strive towards a clinical candidness.

  He reaches into his pocket for the ever-present handkerchief and wipes it vigorously back and forth along the end of his nose. “It seems so pointless and unnecessary. How easy it is to ruin something nice by silliness.”

  I know he means her silliness, but I remember other reasons why nice things were ruined. “It was often your temper. You’d just flare up for no reason.”

  “Aren’t you beginning to understand the complexity of human interaction? As a child, you are not annoyed by silliness. All you notice is your father ranting, and you feel resentment that he has ruined the day. But aren’t you gaining a wider perspective as you read, especially the bits from the diary? Your mother was a silly woman, always seeing herself in the centre of some stage play. Falling off the punt for example, imagining we’d all leap in after her and save her. Then weeping dramatically when we didn’t.”

  He sees the look on my face and moderates his words. “I don’t mean that. I loved her. She was my life.”

  He retires to bed early, and I continue to read.

  NINE

  “Do you love me?” Sam asked.

  Madelyn felt triumphant, the way she used to feel all the time. ‘Is that what love is all about,’ she thought, ‘who has the upper hand? Who is asking for love?’

  “You cannot marry me in any case.” Madelyn held her breath, wondering if this time he would submit. His submission did not mean that she would marry him, but at least she would have overcome the obstacles his family presented.

  “If you truly loved me, it would not be affected by whether I can marry you or not.”

  “If you truly loved me you would find a way to marry me.”

  “You refuse to understand. It’s almost as if you think it’s a question of persuasion. My heart will break when you leave me and marry somebody else, but there is no happy ending to this relationship. My mother wouldn’t just cut me off — that might be a relief. She might do something worse, that could ruin my life. Like harm herself.”

  “Has she said so? Has
she threatened you in this way?”

  “I have always done everything my mother wants, striven to behave in ways she approves of. I was a very, very good child. A terrified, adoring little boy.”

  “But you don’t adore her anymore. You despise her.”

  “She used to work all the time, and the maids looked after me. If I did anything naughty they locked me in the cupboard.”

  Madelyn’s sympathy was aroused. “Why didn’t you tell your mother? She would have put the fear of death into them.”

  “I didn’t talk till I was four years old. The maids used to give me sweets before my mother was due home to stop me crying.”

  “But didn’t she vet the people looking after you? You were her pride and joy. And what about Daniel?”

  “He was already away at school. She didn’t like children much, or understand them. She wasn’t maternal. She couldn’t read the signs that I wasn’t happy.”

  The thought of the little boy locked in the cupboard upset Madelyn. She hugged him. “Poor Sam. Poor Sam.”

  He shrugged her off. “Enough about that. I don’t know why I brought it up. I would like to know if you have made love to Philip.”

  Madelyn was offended that he had pushed her away. She turned away from him and lay facing the wall. “Whatever I tell you, you won’t believe me anyway.”

  “Philip has dropped veiled hints about experiences of a sexual nature. I ask you again, have you slept with him?”

  “I have not slept with Philip.” She despised herself for wanting him to believe her so much.

  Sam encircled Madelyn with his arms, curving his body around her back like a fetus. Her anger made her lie rigid against him, without responding. “If you are unable to marry me, let alone trust me, I don’t think I should see you anymore.”

  “Why?”

  “I’ve just told you. You need more reasons? Maybe I want to sleep with Philip.”

  There was silence, and Madelyn twisted around to look at Sam’s face. He was staring at the ceiling. Then he got off the bed and walked out the door.

  A beautiful clear fine day. Came off work at two and back to the house, then washed my hair and sat outside to dry it in the sun. Felt exhausted, my eyes so weary, my entire forehead puckered. I have quarrelled with Sam again. He came around and wanted to know if I had slept with Philip. I was so tired, I talked about not seeing him again, and this while he held me in his arms. Sam asked me ‘why’ and I foolishly blurted out something about Philip. It is possible now that he will never return, that no tears will wash out the hurt, there will always be a misunderstanding. I am tired of quarrelling. Went to night duty, babies crying in the night and an Indian woman in labour. Helped baby to come into the world at fifteen minutes past midnight. It was blue and slippery and so was the cord. As soon as it breathed it screamed — a little female living infant of eight pounds!

  This morning I went to see Sam, I had to see him. He was out so I sat on his floor and cracked nuts, then he came in with a bunch of daffodils and looked embarrassed when he saw me. There was a blank space between us. He arranged his flowers in a tall glass. I felt as though I should creep out. We had a talk, he said that at last the possibility of giving me up had occurred, and I was shaken. Of course I know it is the best thing for Sam to do. I have deceived him and mocked him for a long time, yet I cannot leave him in peace, only as it suits me. I am not rich enough without his love. I’m so confused.

  Sometimes I feel as though Sam has betrayed me, I want to shake him off and run. O jealous heart … I know he loved me at the start. Now he hates the sight of all I stand for.

  I have eight and a half hours of work ahead of me and seven cigarettes.

  The year of obstetrics training was drawing to a close. In the beginning, a fully trained midwife always arrived for the birth, but as time went on Madelyn often looked after the mothers during their pregnancies and managed the home deliveries by herself. The doctors checked the patients twice — once in the early stages of the pregnancy to make sure the heart was beating properly and the mother was in good shape, and again around thirty-two weeks to ensure that the fetus was growing well. Many of Madelyn’s patients were poor and had a healthy distrust of doctors.

  “Will I have to see that young gentleman again?”

  “Just once more, towards the end of your pregnancy.”

  “Thank God for that.”

  “Doctor Frank is a very well-known and experienced obstetrician. Wasn’t he gentle with you? He would appreciate knowing if you had any complaints.”

  “I just don’t like men messing about with ‘you-know-where.’ I can’t look him in the eye, I’m so embarrassed. I don’t want any men anywhere near me during the birth.”

  Having made an effort to commend the doctor, Madelyn succumbed to the pleasure of shredding him. “And he doesn’t look you in the eye, I’ve noticed. Shuts his eyes to count the heartbeats.”

  “Yes! And he talks to the wall over my head! He’s too young, as well.”

  “You do know I have to check your home to make sure it’s appropriate for a home birth, Mrs. Treasure?”

  “What do you mean? What could be more appropriate than my own bed?”

  “You’d be surprised. Not everyone has a bed. And cleanliness, you know.”

  “What happens if you don’t think it’s clean enough?”

  “You might have to give birth in the hospital. I’ll be there, but there might be doctors as well.”

  “When shall you come? I’ll make sure it’s bloody clean enough!”

  Madelyn laughed, and they made an appointment for the next day.

  The apartment was awful. Despite the fact that it had been scrubbed from top to bottom, a smell of vomit and urine, mixed with mildew, hung in the air. Five children, ranging in age from a clingy toddler to a lanky girl of about ten, hovered in a group around their mother, gazing up at Madelyn with solemn, unsmiling faces.

  “Hello,” she winked at them, and bent down to tickle the toddler’s tummy. A copious amount of mucus hung from each nostril, and she took out her handkerchief and wiped it away, fighting down a sudden wave of nausea.

  The children continued to stare at her unblinkingly, and Mrs. Treasure jumped into the silence. “Hello hello! This way,” and she took Madelyn’s arm and steered her towards the kitchen. “Look, ample counter space for your things and a good kettle to boil the water. Here’s a chair for you to sit on if you want to have a cup of tea.” Mrs. Treasure whipped Madelyn around, still holding her arm, and ushered her into the bedroom. “It’s a nice clean bed.”

  It was a mattress lying on the floor. It would be hard for Mrs. Treasure to lever herself up and down during the latter part of her pregnancy.

  “Is there another bedroom?”

  “This is where my husband and I sleep.”

  “Where do the children sleep?”

  “They have mattresses in the sitting room. We put the mattresses in the cupboard during the day.”

  Madelyn lifted a corner of the freshly washed sheet so she could have a look at the mattress. It was stained. Several springs poked through the material. Stertorous breathing around her knee area pulled her eyes downwards, and there was Toddler, dripping mucus and gazing up at her with fascination. She smiled down at him, determined not to sully her handkerchief again on this endless faucet, when he wiped his own nose with a corner of the clean sheet.

  Mrs. Treasure leaped forward and whacked him. He dissolved into tears, producing unbelievable amounts of fresh mucus. The unfairness of the discipline touched Madelyn, and she bent down to hug the toddler, trying to avoid his nose as much as possible.

  “There, there, don’t you cry. You thought the sheet was very like a hanky, didn’t you? Mummy and Daddy sleep on the sheet, you see, so that’s not the right place to wipe noses.” Privately Madelyn thought that Toddler’s unhappiness was not due
to his mother’s failure to explain the differences between sheets and handkerchiefs, but to the fact that the sheet was indeed his handkerchief, and accepted as such by the whole family on any other day.

  She got to her feet and moved towards the door, anxious to get out of this claustrophobic little apartment.

  “Thank you for allowing me to see your home and meet your sweet children. I do think you’d be a bit more comfortable in a hospital. You could have a bath and get some pain medication if you needed it.” There didn’t seem to be a toilet here, let alone a bath. They probably used an outhouse.

  “I’m not going into hospital. Why are you making problems for me? I’ve had all my children right here, on this mattress.”

  Madelyn thought the mattress showed ample evidence of that. “I’m sorry, I don’t think this is quite suitable for a home birth.”

  Mrs. Treasure adopted a wheedling tone. “I can’t have a hospital birth. I’m terrified of hospitals. And that nasty doctor … please, I feel so comfortable with you.”

  “You could have a few days rest in the hospital, away from all your other children.”

  “Who would look after them?” Mrs. Treasure whispered.

  “I will see what I can do.”

  Six months later, Madelyn was whipping through the night on her bicycle. Her basket contained pain medication, scissors, a kidney bowl, twine to tie the cord. She had already left pads, cotton wool and a rubber sheet in Mrs. Treasure’s home. Her husband had arrived to pick up a large container of nitrous oxide, otherwise known as ‘laughing gas.’

  Some time in her eighth month, Mrs. Treasure had sampled the laughing gas to make sure that she wanted it during the birth. The smell had made her gag, but she obeyed Madelyn’s instructions to hold it over her nose and inhale, as though to prove how compliant she would be during her birth. Soon she was in hysterics, laughing helplessly as the gas mask fell away from her face. Madelyn took a few whiffs to keep her company, and they were soon giggling, gaining control only to burst out again on sight of the other’s red, streaming face and heaving shoulders.