‘She’s in the Intensive Care Unit,’ the porter said. ‘Where else would she be?’
‘So how do I get to her to ask for a permit? Can I just go along and —
‘Not without you got a permit,’ the porter said triumphantly and grinned. ‘Daft, ’n’t it? But there it is. That’s my instructions and I can’t go against them, can I? Not and do my job as I should.’
‘Oh, it would never do to go against your instructions,’ the man said, hea vily ironic, and the porter nodded.
‘Glad you understand, matey,’ he said, ‘Not my fault,’ and turned away to the next person waiting humbly with a question, and the man wandered off through the Casualty Department and lingered by the exit door, looking around.
It wasn’t too busy tonight; there was a drunk sitting with his head in his hands, staring down at the pool of vomit at his feet; the man carefully looked somewhere else. As far as they could get from the drunk and still use the waiting-room seats were a couple with a small child who was asleep on the woman’s lap, and a little further along a boy in jeans and sweater leaned back with his head against the wall, his eyes closed. The man looked at him thoughtfully and then went and sat down beside him.
He didn’t have to wait long. A nurse came and summoned the couple with the child, who set up a wail as they stood up, and the boy stirred and opened his eyes.
‘Hello,’ the man said. ‘Do you remember me? We met once, a long time ago. At David Tully’s flat. Your name’s Jeremy, isn’t it? I seem to remember you were in the third form.’
The boy blinked and peered at him and then smiled a little uncertainly. ‘Oh, yes, I remember. That party —’ He looked away then, suddenly, a shifty glance that amused the man very much. He laughed.
‘No need to look so worried, my dear boy!’ he said. ‘It wasn’t that wicked, after all! A drink or two, a smoke or two, a magazine or two — no one but the most boring of old farts would fuss over such things. And I’m hardly an old fart, am I? I mean, I may not be a spring chicken, but I was there that evening. And joining in. Hardly the action of an old fart, is it? I was there …’
‘Yes,’ the boy said. ‘Yes. You were, weren’t you?’
‘And what are you doing here now?’ the man said with a brisker air, and the boy made a face.
‘I wanted to see Mr Tully,’ he said. ‘You know, after his accident? I s’pose everyone does. Well, I want to see him but they won’t let me.’
‘I know.’ The man sounded sympathetic. ‘Got to have a permit to visit the Intensive Care Unit, can only get a permit from the Sister. Where is she? In the Intensive Care Unit. Can I ask her for a permit? No, you can’t go to the Intensive Care Unit unless you’ve got a permit.’
The boy laughed and relaxed and the man settled himself a little more comfortably in the chair beside him. ‘It’s awful isn’t it, when someone you care about is ill and you can’t see them?’
The boy went a little pink. ‘It isn’t that I care about him —’ he said quickly, and the man set a hand on his and said, ‘Of course. I know what you mean. He’s a friend. Just a friend. You’d want to visit any friend who ’d had such a terrible accident, wouldn ’t you?’
‘Yes,’ the boy said eagerly. ‘Yes, of course you would. That’s what it is, you see. I like drawing. I do cartoon figures and that and Mr Tully said they were good and he’d help me and he let me go to his parties and all and — well, it’s just that he’s my friend and I can’t tell anyone about — I mean, no one knows he’s my friend. He said we have to keep it — well, you know how it is, being at school. You know all about that, don’t you?’
‘Oh, yes,’ the man said. ‘I know all about that.’
‘So I thought I’d try to see him. I thought if I waited here I might be able to sneak along, you know, just to see if I could get to see him. It’s just that —’ He looked down at his hands. The man still had one of his set over them. The boy made no effort to move a way. ‘It’s just that he’s my friend,’ he ended lamely.
‘I know,’ the man said and patted his hand and withdrew his own. ‘Look, you’re not going to get any joy here tonight, are you? And won’t your parents be worrying about when you get home?’
Jeremy shook his head, going a little pink. ‘They don’t know I’m out. They went out first and I’m too old for babysitters now So they don’t know I went out.’
‘Well, we’d better get you home in time, then, hadn’t we? But suspect you could use a little something to eat, hmm? And a friend to talk to since you can’t visit the one you already have. I know a nice little place we could get a decent bite and you can tell me about your cartoons. I’d be most interested. I might know someone who’d publish them. I’ve got a lot of contacts, one way and another. Shall we do that?’
There was a little silence and then the boy said, ‘Well, yes That’s very kind of you. If you’re sure I’d be no trouble.’
‘Oh, no,’ the man said and stood up and held out one hand invitingly. ‘It will be no trouble at all, I do assure you.’
Twenty-four
‘She won’t talk to me at all,’ Hattie said. ‘That’s why I got in touch with you. Did you tell her you were coming to see me?’
‘Oh, no,’ Stella said. ‘I wouldn’t do that. She’d —’ She shook her head and looked round for somewhere to sit and Hattie pulled a chair forward invitingly.
‘I’m so sorry I’ve nowhere better to talk to you. This is the nearest thing I have to a room of my own here, and it isn’t up to much, I’m afraid.’ She looked round at the dismal little classroom with its stained green and cream paint and the few posters she’d found to put up to enliven it, though all they did was highlight the overall shabbiness. ‘Do forgive me. But it seemed so important to talk to you. I’d gladly have come to you if —’
‘Oh, no! That would never do,’ Stella said loudly, and Hattie said quickly, wanting to reassure her, ‘I quite understand …’
There was a little silence and then Hattie said carefully, ‘It’s Genevieve and her eating that’s bothering me. I told you when I saw you last — at the autumn fair, that time — I had to do something about it, and it’s worse than ever, isn’t it? She looks thinner now than she did last term, if that were possible. It’s such a worry.’
‘I know,’ Stella said, and looked down at her hands in her lap. ‘I worry about it all the time. But what can I do?’
‘It’s very difficult, I know. If parents interfere they get stick and if they don’t interfere they’re accused of not caring. It’s a dreadful situation to be in.’
‘Well, if you know, why ask me to come here and talk about it? You made me come. I didn’t want to but you went on and on. I had to.’ Stella looked up at her now and her eyes were pinkly accusing. She looked fatter than she had, Hattie thought, with those doughy cheeks and the way her lower lip seemed to droop so heavily. As though she’s trying to eat for Genevieve …
‘I know, I did put some pressure on. And I’m sorry. It’s just that — have you tried to get her into hospital? If you’re really worried you can — well, it sounds extreme, I know, but sometimes extreme situations demand extreme measures. You could get a psychiatric opinion, have her sectioned —’
‘Sectioned?’ The woman’s voice was flat and dull.
‘Admitted to a psychiatric hospital compulsorily, as an emergency. To get some essential refeeding started so that — I mean, she really is at so much risk the way she is. I hate to be so alarmist, but —’
‘Do you think I don’t know?’ Stella’s voice was low and Hattie had to lean towards her to hear it, but it was full of anger. ‘I know perfectly well how dangerous this starving is, but there’s nothing I can do. I’ve tried. If I say anything she gets so mad at me and then she starts to scream and when she screams I have to —’ She put both hands up towards her ears as though she could hear Genevieve’s screaming now. ‘I have to stop. I can’t go on then.’
‘Is there anyone else who can get through to her?’ Hattie asked. ‘Her brothers, perha
ps?’
Stella seemed to stiffen. ‘We don’t see much of them.’
‘Oh?’
‘They don’t — they’ve left home.’ Stella slid her gaze across Hattie’s face and looked away sharply as Hattie tried to hold her gaze. ‘They don’t visit.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Hattie said carefully. ‘Family arguments are always painful —’
‘Who said anything about arguments?’ Stella flared, her face suddenly red. ‘I never said there were arguments.’
‘I’m sorry. I thought that —’
‘Then you thought too much. I just said they don’t visit. No hard words, they just don’t come any more. It happens. People — they grow away. They get different ideas. Notions. But there were never hard words.’
She seemed to be pleading with Hattie now rather than remonstrating and Hattie, bewildered, but still determined to make her point, said carefully, ‘I do understand. I’m sorry I misunderstood. But about Genevieve — perhaps her father could talk to her? Isn’t he just as worried?’
Stella seemed to withdraw, and Hattie watched her, puzzled. She was looking down at her gloved hands again. ‘He’s worried, yes, of course he is. He’s worried …’
‘What does he say about it?’
Stella shrugged. ‘I don’t see him that much to talk about it. I mean, he’s so busy. There’s the business of course, but it’s all the other things as well. He’s a Governor here, you see, and there are the meetings …’
‘Oh, yes,’ Hattie said. ‘I’d forgotten.’ I must use that, she thought. Maybe I can catch him here when he comes for Governors’ meetings, get some sense out of him, get him to do something. She’s really too wet to be true. ‘Of course, that would keep him busy.’
‘That’s not all.’ Stella warmed to her theme. ‘There’s the Children’s Home at that place in Surrey, he’s done the accounts for them for years. And then there’s the other things he does. The church and the choir, and things like that. There’re a lot of things to take up his time. He’s very keen on public service, is Gordon.’
‘Yes, I see,’ Hattie said. ‘It would make it … Still, he does see Genevieve, doesn’t he?’
‘Of course he does! Breakfast’s the time. And in the evenings sometimes. And sometimes the weekends though there’s always something he has to do. You know how it is. There’s always something …’
‘Yes, I know,’ Hattie said. ‘But still, if he sees Genevieve he must see how dangerously thin she’s getting. And the way she always looks so anxious. You know the look I mean, I’m sure.’
‘She is anxious,’ Stella said simply. ‘All the time. She’s got a lot to be anxious about.’
‘What?’ Hattie said quickly. Too quickly. The woman was looking down at her hands again.
‘Oh, her exams, you know, and things like that,’ Stella said vaguely and then looked at her watch. ‘I really have to be going. Is that all you wanted me for?’
‘Isn’t it enough?’ Hattie said as gently as she could.
‘It’s important, I know that. You know that. But Genevieve doesn’t know it, does she? And until she does I might as well not bother even to think about it for all the good it’ll do. So is it all right if I go now?’
‘Yes.’ Hattie got to her feet. ‘Of course. But if I could just impress upon you the need to act soon. To get your GP to arrange a home visit from the psychiatrist, perhaps, so that she can be sectioned. I know it’s an extreme action but sometimes —’
‘Sometimes you have to do hard things. Yes,’ Stella said and stood up. ‘Well, thank you.’ She went to the door and Hattie watched her, and then as she set her hand on the knob she stopped and half turned back.
‘Mrs Clements, sometimes there are things that happen to girl to make them — well, you know what I mean, don’t you? They don’t want to grow up, that’s the thing, isn’t it? They don’t wan to have periods or — or a bust or anything like that. You understand what I’m saying?’
‘Of course,’ Hattie said carefully, wondering what was to come, hoping for some sort of confidence that would really help would actually give her something to work on with Genevieve ‘Of course I do. You’re very observant to have identified that that’s the case with Genevieve, if it is. It’s one of the commones reasons they give in the textbooks for anorexia nervosa, thougt not the only one, of course.’
‘Oh, I know that’s the reason, all right.’ Stella sounded stronge now and was once again looking her directly in the eye. ‘It’s just that she doesn’t want to grow up. She doesn’t like it. And you can’t blame her, can you? I mean people like little girls best or all, don’t they?’
‘Sometimes,’ Hattie said, still hopeful, and Stella shook he head vigorously.
‘Not sometimes. All the time. That’s what it is, you see. She doesn’t want to grow up. She likes being a little girl, and if it’s what she wants, I don’t mind either. I mean, if I could help he stay little, I would.’
‘But you can’t, can you?’ Hattie was disappointed. There was no real insight to come from Stella. This was just chat, words strung in a row for the sake of saying them, nothing new on useful at all. Except for what it told her of Stella’s state of mind. It was clear to her now that sick as Genevieve was her mother wasn’t too far behind her. She needed a psychiatrist, perhaps could do with some time in hospital herself, being properly as sessed. The whole family could do with help, she found herself thinking, remembering the man with the overpressed suit, the blindingly white shirt and too-perfect smooth hair. He was as uptight as anyone could be, getting so agitated when I said something to Genevieve about her periods.
She sighed then and managed to smile at Stella. ‘Well, do remember I’m here if I can be of any help. Maybe if you talk to your GP and he wants to know about things here at school, he can always phone me. I’ll be glad to be of any use I can. I do worry about Genevieve.’
‘You needn’t,’ the woman said with a sudden tartness in her voice. ‘I can worry enough over her for anyone. She doesn’t need more than that.’ And she bobbed her head awkwardly and went, and Hattie collected up her books and odds and ends and, after giving her time to get herself out of sight, followed her out of the room. It was still very unsatisfactory but at least she’d spoken to her. What the next step would have to be she wasn’t sure; but at least she’d spoken to Genevieve’s mother.
Which does little more than assuage my conscience, she told herself then with painful honesty as she went along the corridor towards the staff common room. It’s as much because of being worried about what would happen to me if Genevieve suddenly collapsed and I’d done nothing about her that I was so keen to talk to her mother, admit it. I was just doing a bit of common-or-garden buck-passing. ‘Which can always be invoked if all else fails,’ she murmured aloud, remembering the lectures she had had in her second year from old Sir Arthur Lancing who had told them all solemnly that that was the last line of defence for any surgeon, and could be just as useful for nurses. ‘Never stay with a case you can’t help. Shove it on to someone else. It mayn’t help the patient all that much but it won’t do him any harm and it could help you out of trouble.’ A dispiriting thought, she told herself as she pushed open the door of the common room. For all it’s so practical. And I wasn’t trying to get rid of Genevieve. I really am concerned for her —
‘You look like a wet weekend,’ Edward Wilton said, and she looked up at him, startled. The room was full of people, most of them clustered around the coffee tray, and several glanced at her as Wilton went on. ‘It can’t be that bad. You don’t have exam results to worry about, after all. Not like the rest of us.’
‘I was actually worrying about a pupil’s welfare,’ she said as she joined the coffee huddle. ‘Odd as it may seem, I do think about them as much as about myself.’ Liar, she whispered inside her head. Liar. ‘But I don’t expect you to understand that.’
‘It’s really remarkable what a coarsening effect this place has on people,’ Wilton said. ‘Here less than a y
ear and already you’re as rude as everyone else in this room. You see, Dinant. Beware of spending too much time in here. You might get as acidulated as Mrs Clements here.’
The man he spoke to looked alarmed. He was tall and remarkably thin and his face was a round pink moon beneath a tangle of absurd yellow curls. He looked rather like a freshly boiled kitten peering out at the world through large pale blue eyes, but his clothes were those of a much older man, a suit of olds fashioned cut with a waistcoat and a singularly dull tie. He looked the epitome of conventionality.
‘Oh, I don’t think, really, I can’t say, perhaps you —’ he said and then stopped, looking miserable, and Hattie went to his rescue.
‘I’m Hattie,’ she said, holding out one hand. ‘The new bug before you. I look after the girls in the sixth form.’
‘Er — how do you do. I’m Paul Dinant. Art teacher,’ the mark said, and at once Dr Bevan, who had as usual annexed the armchair nearest to the coffee tray and the biscuit tin, looked up sharply.
‘Has something happened to Tully, then?’
‘How do you mean, happened?’ Steenman said. ‘How much more could happen?’
‘I mean, has he died?’
‘Not to my knowledge. Has he?’ Steenman looked sternly at Dinant who blushed and shook his head hastily, denying all knowledge.
‘I never knew — I mean, I heard the man before me was off sick — I don’t know —’
‘There you are then,’ Steenman said. ‘Nothing else has happened. He remains in the land of the living albeit the Land of Nod.’
‘Hmmph,’ Bevan said, subsiding into his chair again. ‘Thought maybe he’d been replaced because he’d died. But they’ve had to take a new chap on. Will they still pay Tully? He’ll still be on the payroll, won’t he? I mean, it’s not his fault he’s sick.’
The room erupted into a busy chatter about the rights and wrongs of Tully receiving his salary and beneath its cover Hattie said to Dinant, ‘Don’t mind them. They mean no harm. Well, maybe they do, but they can’t do much.’
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