Oh Dear Silvia

by Dawn French

  ‘However prepared you were, with your bag packed ready by the door and the nursery equipped and ready for action, neither of us were prepared for the experience of that birth. The look on your face when your waters broke up on Kot Hill! You said to take you up there because you didn’t think you’d manage the steep path again ’til the baby was born, you were getting too big and out of breath. That’s the problem with Kot Hill though, you have to leave the car in the car park at the bottom and the rest is Shanks’s pony.

  ‘We were so nearly at the top, do you remember? You were ahead of me, further up the muddy path. You stopped still in your tracks suddenly, and turned round. I had never seen that expression on your face before, I didn’t know how to read it. It was a mixture of wonder and embarrassment. You seemed far off, as if you were solving a problem elsewhere. It was only when you looked down and I followed your gaze that I saw the spreading stain on your trousers. It’s funny really – I must have known your waters were due to break, but I immediately jumped to the mistaken conclusion that you’d wet yourself. My brain wasn’t working on that windy hill. All I knew was that something natural but … a bit surprising was happening. God, yes, I remember now. You had the sun behind you, filtering through your amazing blowy hair, red hair, and you said “this is it Ed, it’s bloodybabybloodywater”. That’s not a word. While I was momentarily baffled, you took my hand and firmly led me, puffing with anxiety back down the hillside to the car.

  ‘We went straight to the hospital, didn’t pick up the perfectly packed bag, and the next sixteen hours were unlike anything I had ever known or been part of before. I watched you change from a woman I knew, into a … a grunting animal. You really did become something from another species. You were so intensely focused on getting that baby into the world, and your whole body – your face, your voice, everything – was different. Long low waves of pain to start, then gradually you began to bellow. I didn’t know you could make noises like that, they sounded like they came directly from your womb, from him, desperately fighting his way here. I wanted to protect you from him then, he was attacking you from inside, hurting you, making the veins on your forehead and neck stand out … all … livid and purple. God, yes, a blood vessel in your eye burst with the sheer effort and the white went red. Demon red. I was terrified.

  ‘You growled your way through that stage and out the other side, into a weird kind of beatific trance, where you were breathing deeply and staring into a holy blissful distance. For one awful moment, I thought you were dying. I did, Silv. I thought I was losing you. I suppose I was, in a way. Losing the all-to-myself Silvia, the before-kids Silvia, the not-tired-and-irritable Silvia. That Silvia was forever gone in that exact instant because that’s when he came. Little pink, wrinkled blinking Jamie, who was furious about it all. Started out in a rage and has rarely been out of one since.

  ‘He’d like to feel differently, I think, but just as he was crawling out of his anger – what was he, nineteen? – we split up, and he was plunged right back in. I wish he hadn’t joined up in that frame of mind, that wasn’t right. It’s like being permitted to get married when drunk in Vegas. Young men incandescent with rage shouldn’t be on the front line in Afghanistan. Mind you, who else would be as effective? Jamie. The firebrand. Tearing through his life with rage as his fuel. Totally opposite to little Miss Cassie Rose.

  ‘Her entrance was very different, wasn’t it? Or maybe you were different by then. You knew how it might be, and you were resigned to it, much calmer. I thought you’d lost it when you said it was all going to happen in a pool. I didn’t get it, wouldn’t the baby drown? I know, I know. Stupid. Maybe it was because Jamie was in the room, but you remained so entirely … contained throughout the whole thing, from the minute you stepped into the shallow pool and knelt down. Do you remember repeating “yes, yes, yes” over and over? The noises this time were rhythmic murmurs, in time with the ebb and flow of your pain. Jamie was copying you and you smiled at him, so he felt included. You were sweating profusely. One final low grunt of “Christ” under your breath, and she emerged, immediately cleaned in the water, lifted up and out of it by you. You turned round and scooped her out, holding her close, and she breathed. It was phenomenal.

  ‘You are phenomenal Silv. You did it twice, that miraculous unbelievable thing. You gave life. Twice. From your “tissue”. No one would ever be as mighty. Your body made two other bodies. So. No, actually. They can’t have any of it. Sorry.’

  He flings down the clipboard, stands and cries.

  Seventeen

  Jo

  Monday 10am

  ‘Jump!’

  Jo pleads with Silvia. She is leaning over the bed and has Silvia by the shoulders.

  ‘Just jump, please darling. Try it, come on, for me. Look, I know you hate this stuff but honestly Silv, it could save you. Jump.’

  Silvia lies as still as she persistently has for six days now.

  ‘God help me Silv, you’ve got to do some of the work. Right look, listen, look, we’ll rest for a few minutes but then we’re going to give it another go missy, OK? And you are going to try harder, OK?’

  Jo slumps back down on her chair. She knows it’s wrong to feel exasperated with Silvia, but most certainly, that is what she is feeling. Bloody bloody Silvia. Why won’t she respond and make Jo feel useful for once? She is shocked by the next thought that flickers through her mind … Why doesn’t Silvia at least wake up briefly, so that everyone can witness their giant and undeniable sororal bond and then, THEN, OK, she could die, and at least it would’ve been Jo who roused her. Albeit temporarily.

  As the thought ebbs away, Jo feels the flow of the guilt that accompanies such a selfish thought. She shudders and shakes it off, because surely, she thinks, Silvia waking up and getting better is more important than Jo being the one who makes it happen? Surely …? BUT … oh come on, Silvia, this particular method of rousing seems so phenomenally simple. All Silvia has to do is to take a giant leap between two dimensions. Quantum Jumping.

  Jo tried it herself once, and admittedly, it didn’t really work for her, but maybe she didn’t have the powers of concentration? Silvia is good at focusing, and frankly, what else does she have to do at the moment? She might even be residing somewhere, deep inside her head, where the springboard for Quantum Jumping is more accessible. Yes, maybe that’s why it didn’t entirely work for Jo when she tried. She is too much anchored in this, earthly, first-dimensional plane. She is too distracted she realizes, by day-to-day stuff. A woman who can devote a whole week to mourning a pair of earrings she decided not to buy on holiday in Crete last year, is unlikely to be able to summon the mental acuity to change dimensions.

  But Silvia can. Silvia has intellectual muscle. Her brain is as flashingly sharp as a Swiss Army penknife. Or was. Who knows what she is now? And, oh God, what would she be if she woke up? Perhaps this fall has permanently harmed her, and, oh God, who would have responsibility for her if she is awake and brain damaged? And … oh God … no, Jo must banish all thoughts of anything negative and think only of getting Silvia better. She isn’t good at thinking one step at a time but to do otherwise is officially terrifying. Stay in the now, Jo, come on.

  ‘Right Sis, I’m going to explain it one more time to you, OK? Please listen, and please try. Bert thing from America, who invented it, is hugely famous and rich for this, so to start off, we know it actually works, yeah? Otherwise he’d be in prison or something, wouldn’t he, especially in America where they sue the butt, or whatever it is, off you in a heartbeat. Bert was in the army in Korea or something, and met loads of gurus and swamis and great stuff, so he picked up some amazing insights. He says that in order to Quantum Jump, all you need is an open mind and the willingness to learn. Surely you can muster that, darling, can’t you, come on? There’s guaranteed success if only you can open the frequency. I know it sounds weird, but apparently, Bert says that all leading quantum physicists agree that alternative universes exist, maybe in infinite numbers. Even that
very clever dribbly one in the wheelchair says something similar, apparently.

  ‘So all you have to do is harness the power of your mind, a power previously untapped Silv, and journey to another, parallel dimension. Now when you get there, you have to find your other parallel dimension self who lives there and … sort of … feed off them. So, say you jump into a dimension where Silvia is, in fact, a ballerina. Well, just learn to dance, how to move your body, from her and then, when you jump back into this dimension, you will bring that skill with you. Honestly, you really will.

  ‘You should see what Bert’s brought back. I mean, obviously, he is a skilled jumper and has travelled many times, but he once met his ‘painter’ self in a far dimension and now he does amazing paintings here on earth. He displays them on his website for God’s sake! You can even buy them, I think. This was a skill he didn’t have before Sis, so explain that! I haven’t bought any of the paintings myself, it’s all in dollars and frankly, they’re all a bit … hm … modern for me, but hey, good luck with that, Bert, it’s still beyond belief.

  ‘So imagine Sissy, if you could just try to jump, you could decide to meet your well and awake happy self, and maybe even send her back here instead of … this you. I’m not entirely sure how it works … so that maybe you could leave this broken you there instead? Hm, not sure, but listen darling, Bert has had profound results, he says, and since he has achieved mental and spiritual enlightenment, he can’t remember the last time he made a bad decision. Everything he does, works. Who wouldn’t want that, darling?

  ‘You’ve simply got to awaken the voice of your soul, see the other dimension in your mind’s eye, and when the slipstream is right you need to jump in and ride it baby, until you get to your turn-off. I haven’t got that far yet when I’ve done it, so I can’t exactly advise you how to turn off actually. Probably, there are signs or something? Mystic signs, maybe? And services, maybe? Anyway, I’m sure you will know. A bit like Blade Runner? You will make the slipstream stop with your mind and you will disembark from … your mind … or will you be in a little rocket-type thing or something? Made by your mind to transport you to the other universes?

  ‘I’m not entirely clear on that practical stuff, but they must have it sorted because Bert has done many many of these journeys, and he’s always returned safely, and always always been a better person. He calls it the “Inter-Dimensional Quest For A Better You”. All these other people you will meet in the other universes are all your doppelgängers. I mean honestly, I remember being taught ridiculous unbelievable Shakespeare with doppelgängers in the stories, and I can remember thinking it was an impossible word and an impossible notion. No one is exactly like someone else, are they? I mean yes, occasionally, some people look a bit like someone else don’t they, like, ooo, I don’t know, Princess Margaret and Chucky the evil doll, or that hilarious picture on the internet where a cat looks like Hitler. Well, OK, not quite like that, but you know what I mean.

  ‘But, Silv, surely it’s worth a big fat try, isn’t it? It’s a chance to awaken your soul and call to your soulmate who will give you health and wellness. The journey isn’t outside you really, is it, Silv, it’s a journey into your inner self. You don’t even have to pack babe. It’s all good. Think of it like this. You know when people have twins and they use bits of one twin to fix a disease in the other one? Use their stems, I think, or something, it’s a bit like that darling. You are going to go and find your not-in-a-coma twin and she is going to inject all her consciousness into you and you will suck it dry and come back to us. The more I think about it Silv, the more real it becomes. Please, please try. Come on now, one big go.’

  Jo resumes her position at the side of the bed, kisses her inert sister on the forehead, clasps her shoulders tight, and takes a deep breath. The deep breath is an example to Silvia of how to physically prepare herself. Jo holds her breath ’til she can do it no longer, ’til it hurts her lungs, and then she exhales in a powerful whoosh.

  ‘There. Right, ah, don’t think it’s working yet. Here we go Silv, one more big big try. And, breathe in, and concentrate, see those other dimensions, there’s the slipstream of molten thought lava. Jump in Silv! Come on! JUMP!’

  Tension, tension, wait wait.

  And exhale.

  Nothing.

  Bloody nothing.

  Lazy stubborn cow.

  Eighteen

  Cat

  Monday 11am

  ‘… Maybe I should never have told him. Just left him. Let it all get colder and colder until the whole feckin’ sham of a marriage was an iceberg and I could slide off it into the freezing water and swim away. Swim to you Sil. You were definitely the warmer waters. Perilous in your own way, but warmer than him. And anyway, I had no feckin’ choice by then, if I’m honest. It had to be you. BUT. It would maybe have been wiser … not to tell him everything …’

  Cat leans back in the chair, takes a big deep breath, and stretches her arms high above her head. She scratches and sniffs. She is tired. She is trying to behave as normally as possible in her injured life, which has been stabbed and is currently on its knees.

  Cat goes to work at the practice each day and sees her patients for the allotted fifteen minutes each, or longer if they cry or have to get undressed. Some of her patients are so familiar and predictable that Cat often wonders whether she should just drive around and drop their various drugs in through their letter boxes, like a regular milk round. It would save time, and nothing would be different. Far more efficient really, then she would have time for the other, rarer patients who present with more unusual problems or with internal, emotional issues. She prefers that to flu and rashes and contraception. She likes the crunchy mental stuff, because that’s where she mainly lives, in her own head with all the noise and shambles that’s there. She gets that.

  Normally though, she would be able to share difficult thought processes with Silvia. That’s the hardest part, being separated from Silvia’s calming and rigorous influence. They have shared so much in the last twelve years, and Cat likes how complicated and entwined they both now are. She even likes the ugly parts of it, of which there are many.

  Her Connemara childhood of mountains and sea and nature might have seemed idyllic, yes, but the young Cat was over interested in being outdoors back then, because indoors wasn’t so lovely.

  Cat has grown up with two bullies. Her father primarily and, copying his idol, her unkind elder brother. Unfortunately for Cat, both men saw her as a chance to flex their alpha muscles, and took every opportunity to demean her. Her mammy was a ghost of a woman, little more than a servant to her much older husband. If Cat had any position of strength in the family, it was over her weak mammy, Bern. When Cat was lambasted by the men, all she knew how to do was the same to her mammy. At least that way, she wasn’t entirely at the bottom of the ladder. One rung up. Only one, but an important one. She didn’t like the knot in her belly when she was shouting at her mammy, but my God, it was infinitely preferable to how she felt when she was on the receiving end.

  So Cat had come to understand how to live with a bullying man. That’s what she thought a proper man was. Physically big, physically strong and physically terrifying with a hefty slice of mentally intimidating thrown in. So, when the time came for Cat to find a husband, two key elements were a surety. First, it had to be a man. She didn’t pause for one homoment to investigate her latent fancy for other girls. And second, he ought to be a proper man. Like her dad. A man who could dominate her and control her. Y’know, a man, who was recognizably a man. That’s why, when the very English, dicky-bowed and bull-necked GP, Philip, asked her to marry him, she said yes willingly and immediately.

  Cat is considering all of this as she stretches.

  ‘Honestly, when I think about it now, all the clues were there with that twat, right from the beginning. Sure, even the way he asked me out was an order. “You will meet me at six blah blah blah. You will be back in your home by eleven thirty blah blah blah. We will travel i
n my car. You will enjoy your meal.”

  Dear Lord he was a barking Nazi robot, why did I not mind that? Felt safe, I s’pose, familiar. Plus, to be honest Silv, being Irish was like having leprosy then. Everyone thought you were carrying a bomb. I kept saying I’m from feckin’ Connemara you eejits, the only thing that explodes our way is the poitin! Wasn’t the point, it was any Irish accent. Couldn’t make any friends, felt utterly achingly lonely in England, and he pops up from nowhere showing me a deal of attention. In a town of thousands, he was the only person who connected.

  ‘It’s bloody grim bein’ so … so grateful. Ha! Yes, that’s it, I was grateful for a controlling freak of a husband. So I bought into it really, didn’t I? It is definitely my fault. Partly. Such a bad choice. Ugly, bad choice. Jeez. When I think of how compliant I was. No wonder he took charge. Who was I then? Totally different now. It was so … insidious, the way it escalated. I’m sure if someone had said to me, “Would you like to be married to a man who will isolate you and then batter you?” I would have found that preposterous. Yet – look at what happened. Exactly that. Jeez.

  ‘It crept up on me Silly, it starts with orders which, perversely, can make you feel safe, cradled in the regularity and routine of it. I was used to that, so nothing wrong there then. Then, of course, it’s stealthy, isn’t it? Incremental. Few more orders, unreasonable snipes and before you know it, five years on and subordination has tipped into subservience. I questioned nothing, Sil. I simply obeyed. Even that would have been tolerable if the bastard hadn’t thrown in the slaps. Do you mind if ? – slap. Could you pass me the? – slap. I’m not sure that’s altogether correct – slap. Then the slaps get a bit slappier and a bit punchier and then they are punches. I lost count of how many times I ended up on the floor looking up at him. I didn’t beg. I refused to. I always stayed calm. Calmly accepting blow after feckin’ blow. From Dr Philip Harris. The respected and much trusted sadistic General Practitioner.