by Anne Donovan
Pure.
Art.
I had a lot to think about.
* * *
Finding somewhere tae think wasnae easy. Amrik could dissolve everything outside hissel as soon as he started playing; wherever he was, whoever was around, he stepped intae that place inside him and the rest was irrelevant.
I wasnae like that. I needed peace and quiet, had tae prepare mysel, no jump fae washing the dishes or having a conversation to daeing my work. I wisht I was different; mibbe it showed I wasnae a real artist like Amrik cause I wasnae as focused as him, mibbe I had to be that obsessed if I was ever gonnae dae anything good. Art School started in a week and I’d done nothing since the fire.
Amrik could have lived wi my da and the twins, wandered fae one house to another and never bothered about it. But when I came back after talking to him, fired up with enthusiasm, determined to really work things out and produce something better, all it took was the first moment in the doorway – the sight of oose on the carpet, the ironing board left out in the middle of the hall, iron still on it, no put away by whichever twin had been using it – and my intentions all fizzled away.
I put my heid round the living room door. Declan was clocked on the settee watching the twins, in full western gear with short skirts, bare legs, cowboy boots and Stetson hats, daeing their routine, twirling and birling as they had when they were wee. The stereo was blaring out a song about someone who’d lost his heart in a Kentucky farmyard and when it finished they collapsed in a heap on either side of Declan, giggling.
Declan was Mona’s boyfriend. He wore a trackie of dazzling whiteness, spotlessly white trainers and a pastel coloured polo top wi a designer label. His baseball cap was at a perfect forty-five degree angle and covered a hairstyle so short it looked as if it had been trimmed wi a lawnmower. Mona had met him hinging about the swing park after school. I could never understaund how they’d got to the stage of gaun out cause I’d rarely heard Declan say mair than two words strung thegether. He spent a lot of time smiling admiringly at Mona and grunted when anyone else spoke to him. Although he was technically Mona’s, Rona seemed to still be always with them; watching them thegether it was as if the twins were a couple and Declan the hanger-on.
Hi, I said.
Hiya.
I closed the door on them, went through tae my room. In the tiny space I threw mysel on the bed.
THE FIRST DAY of Art School sneaked up on me afore I knew it. I’d meant tae look for a flat or find out about residences but somehow never got round tae it, couldnae get my act thegether.
Da was already in the kitchen. Want some toast, hen?
If you’re making it.
Usually the morning was a mad scrabble, a trail of crumbs and hauf-drunk mugs strewn across worksurfaces, but he’d set the table wi placemats and coasters, poured a glass of orange juice for me. Next tae my place was a wee package, wrapped in red shiny paper.
Marmalade?
No thanks, Da.
I opened the parcel. Inside was a pack of coloured pencils, the kind you get in Woolies when you’re starting school.
He turned, put the plate in fronty me.
Seein it’s your first day.
Thanks, Da.
Just a wee thing.
Thanks very much.
When I set off, the pencils were in my rucksack.
I loved being an art student. Loved carrying a portfolio under my airm, wearing paint-spattered jeans and above all walking up they steps every morning to a building designed by one of the greatest architects ever. I loved the ruggedness of it – like a fortress rooted intae that steep steep slope – counterpointed wi the delicate design features. I thought everybody would feel the same, but some folk in my class thought it was cool tae play doon the Mackintosh stuff, make light of the wee square glass panes in the door, the metalwork, the motifs they claimed had all been devalued, printed on teatowels and postcards.
My style was changing too. Insteid of baggy trousers I’d started to wear tighter jeans and I searched charity shops for floral dresses which I customised and wore over them. I tied scarves round my hair and clipped diamante earrings to the lapel of an auld velvet jacket. I was dead chuffed with mysel as I looked in the blotched mirror on the back of the door, getting ready to go out. The turquoise and green jewel colours made my hair look less drab and I’d even started slicking a bit of shiny eyeliner on my lids, using red lipgloss instead of Vaseline. The twins noticed the change with interest but just as much disapproval as they had for my usual look.
Christ, Fiona, you look like some auld hippy.
Check the bandana – you’ll be gaun on a demo next.
* * *
Monica fingered the edge of my top. Pretty, she said. Monica had had her straight shiny dark hair cut in a neat bob and every article of clothing was perfectly clean, pressed and coordinated. Now she no longer wore school uniform, she’d adopted a kind of uniform of her ain choosing: white camisoles with neatly fitting pastel cardigans, blue denims and highly polished shoes. You could imagine her wearing a version of this for the rest of her life, daeing the school run in a 4x4, sitting in her office seeing patients. Monica had torn up all the leaflets on weird and wonderful careers and, with her straight A passes, was studying medicine. Her family, of course, bristled with joy. Jemma was back fae Edinburgh for the weekend, looking lovely, with streaks of pinky-gold layered through her hair. We were in Giardini’s for the first time since term started.
So how is your course, Fiona?
Cool.
What do you do? Painting? Drawing?
A bit of that. We have classes but there’s also a lot of time to develop your ain stuff.
Hang about in bars you mean. Jemma laughed. Don’t gie us that developing your art stuff. I’ve met loads of art students in Edinburgh and they’re the ones that are at every party.
And you’ve been in the house studying every night?
The first week was wild. Theresa O’Rourke fae St Phil’s – she’s in my hall and she was so drunk she fell downstair and broke her leg – had tae be carted aff to hospital. That’d be something, Mon – if your first case is one of your pals with a broken leg.
I don’t think I’ll get to see a patient for a long time. The first few years is all science, really.
Don’t suppose you’ve been daeing much partying.
Monica smiled. Not really.
So apart from developing your art, how are things, Fiona? Are you still going with Amrik?
Jemma’s phrase disturbed me. Going with seemed such an innocent way to put it, suggesting that we went on dates and he bought me flowers or sent me a Valentine’s card.
We’re still seeing each other.
It’s just, I didnae know if I should mention it, but I met Jas.
Where?
We got the same train – there was something up wi the Aberdeen trains that day so he had to go via Edinburgh.
Is he enjoying the course?
Seemed to be – he’d only been there a week so I dunno really.
I havenae seen him since we broke up.
Monica looked at me seriously. Do you really like Amrik, Fiona?
Of course she does, why would she be with him?
No, I mean, does he make you happy?
It sounded simple. Do you really like him? Does he make you happy? A for Yes, B for No. Tick the box on the quiz in the magazine and work out if you should be with this person. And if you get all Bs, dump him.
It had seemed that simple with Jas at the beginning. Nae doubts. But then Amrik arrived; sweeping in like a force of nature, a great unstoppable wave destroying everything that had seemed so secure, forcing a new kind of reality. One that wasnae cosy, wasnae simple and suitable but somewhere underneath seemed like the only true kind.
But it wasnae just that. When Jemma conjured that picture in my heid – her and Jas sitting on a train thegether talking, just an ordinary day on an ordinary train, scabby seats and a scuffed table in fronty them, their c
arryout paper cups of coffee, Jas’s face, eyes so like Amrik’s but the mouth that different – it hurt.
I’d treated Jas so badly that I had tae make it work with Amrik. The only way to wipe out the shame was if something good and beautiful resulted fae my actions.
CHRIST KNOWS WHAT he must of been thinking. I was too much in shock to take in the look he gied me, the glance round the manky room. Deid flies stuck to the bottom of the curtains, oose clumped in corners of the room, Amrik, dishevelled and hauf-dressed.
Amrik had phoned the doctor when I started shaking and got the chills. I was so out of it I hardly registered what he was daeing but afterwards, when I remembered, I was amazed at how calm and insistent he was.
No we can’t come in – she needs a doctor, here, now. It is an emergency.
It was like Jas, the way Jas would of done it, no like slow, casual Amrik at all. The one time I saw a brotherly resemblance between them.
Then, as he was haunding back my phone, the pain suddenly cracking my belly in two. Earlier I’d thought I was getting a bad cramp, noo I felt as if someone was tearing my insides out with a Hoover. I tried tae go to the bathroom and my legs wouldnae support me. Amrik put his airm round my waist and we both went.
I was too far gone tae be embarrassed at the flood of red all over my pants, the flair, the toilet seat. Even then, I was still thinking it was some terrible period, when a horrible big disgusting clot came out and there, swimming in a sea of gunk and blood and mess, was something that looked like a curled up wee prawn.
Our baby.
The nurse was dead nice in a matter-of-fact kind of way. Temperature taken, chart checked.
Are you in any pain, dear? Then away tae someone mair in need of attention. I didnae want attention. Just left alane.
The emergency doctor had wheeched me aff tae hospital to get checked up. Best make sure it’s all away, he said.
I lay on the bed for what felt like ages till a young doctor, her fair hair tied in a pony tail, came and sat on the chair beside me.
Everything seems fine, she said. No retained products.
What?
Sometimes after a miscarriage little bits of the placenta can stay inside, cause an infection. Looks fine in your case, though.
Oh.
I’ll just check a few details, then you can go home as soon as you feel up to moving. Now, when was your last period?
I’m no sure. They’re not that regular.
Looked as if it was about eight weeks. Does that seem right?
Probably. I usually have them every four weeks but sometimes it’s six weeks or a couple of months.
That’s a pain, isn’t it? Mine are like clockwork.
I always know it’s about to start when the cramps come. That’s what I thought was happening at first then it got so bad I couldnae speak.
So you weren’t planning a pregnancy?
No. I’d nae idea I was.
What contraception were you using?
Condoms.
Any time your partner didn’t use them?
No.
D’you ever notice one splitting?
No.
I know this has been a shock – not even knowing you were pregnant – but once you’ve had time to get over it, it’s probably for the best.
I stared at her.
I mean if you weren’t planning the baby. She looked at my notes. I see you’re a student. What’re you studying?
Art. First year at Art School.
That is so cool. I wish I was creative.
She scribbled something on the form, then stood up.
There’s a counsellor in the hospital who talks to couples who’ve had a miscarriage. You could go along with your boyfriend if you like.
No. Thanks.
Well, if you feel like it later, you can come back. I’m Doctor Harrison. Trudi. Just give me a ring if you need to.
I thought he’d be waiting for me. Sitting there on a plastic seat, ready to put his airms round me, take me hame, wherever that was.
But he wasnae.
The nurse at the reception area saw me come out, look round.
Fiona?
I nodded.
Your friend said he had to go – he’ll call you later.
Thanks.
He had to go.
Oh of course he did, his life is so full. Mibbe he had a rehearsal or a gig, or mibbe there was some wonderful tune that came intae his heid he just had to get out, inspired by being in a grotty bathroom with a woman screaming and pouring out blood. Perhaps the sight of his unborn child moved him that much he had to write a raga or a saga or whatever about it.
Or mibbe he just didnae care enough tae stay and wait for me.
I’d never felt so alone. When my mammy died, when my daddy set fire to the hoose, no then. There was always someone else to share the pain; the twins, Patrick, my da. Even when I thought they didnae understaund how I was feeling, at least someone else had experienced the same thing. But me and Amrik were the only folk who’d experienced this, except for a locum doctor who probably thought we were a couple of pathetic irresponsible tramps. Some silly lassie that never even knew she was pregnant till she tossed out the remains of her baby in a manky shared toilet in a grotty shared flat. I sat on the bed in my wee room, put my haunds over my eyes trying to block out the image of that mess.
I never tellt my da or the twins. Just said I wasnae feeling well and wanted to lie doon. I’d nae idea what time it was or how long I’d been lying there when Mona knocked on the door and asked if I wanted a cuppa tea.
Thanks.
She squeezed in the tiny space and set it doon on the bedside table. I broke open the chocolate gingers since they’re your favourite.
Ta.
Hey what’s up, sis? You look terrible.
I looked beyond the wall of make-up, the elaborate hairstyle, the short skirt and pierced belly button, and seen my wee sister who was genuinely worried aboot me. For a split second I nearly broke doon and tellt her everything, but something stopped me.
I’m all right. Must be some bug. I’ll be fine if I have a rest.
Well, let me know if you need anything. But shout loud. We’re watching ‘Tom and Jerry’.
I drifted in and out of sleep as the sounds of cartoon music and the twins and Declan laughing floated through the thin walls. When my phone rang I’d lost all sense of time but the clock said it was 10.30 at night. Twelve hours since I’d been discharged.
Hi, Amrik said. Are you at home now?
Aye.
How are you feeling?
If you’d bothered to wait for me, you’d know.
They’d no idea how long you would be and they wouldn’t let me on the ward to see you. I thought it was pointless to hang around.
Oh.
Silence.
D’you want to come over? Or should I come round?
Amrik had never been tae the house. Mibbe this was his way of showing it was important.
It’s late.
I was at a gig.
Right.
I’ll come round if you want.
Voice like honey and cigarettes.
No, I need to sleep now.
Cool. Talk to you tomorrow.
A night of tossing and turning, getting up to change my towel, soaked through with the reddest blood I’d ever seen. Fairytale blood like Snow White’s pricked finger, but a flood of it. They said at the hospital I would bleed a little. Normal. No need to worry unless it continued for more than a few days.
I always thought medical folk used scientific words, precise delineations.
What’s ‘a little’ blood?
What’s ‘normal’?
What’s ‘a few’ days? Two? Three? Six?
You could bleed tae death and be carted aff, your dying words, It was only a little blood for a few days. I thought it was normal.
I rose early the next morning and started tae clean. First my room, folding up the camp bed and hoovering every inch of
the flair, washing the windaes, clearing all the dust that had accumulated while I lived my nomadic existence between here and Amrik’s room. I got a binbag and flung in wads of auld papers and school stuff, never stopped till the place was shining. Then I done the rest of the house, bleaching and scouring obsessively.
When I was finished I stood in the shower for ages, letting the water cascade over my heid, my body, every part of me. I could feel the blood flow between my legs and when I looked doon there was a pinky trail in the bottom of the shower.
The pain started for real the next day. No as bad as the miscarriage but a dull throb and a feeling of unreality, as though my heid was stuffed with cotton wool. I thought I must of overdone it with the cleaning and lay on my bed in the room that now looked like a nun’s cell, held a hot water bottle to my middle. I grew too hot, then started to shiver. I don’t know how long I lay there afore Mona tapped on the door, pushed it open slightly.
Tea?
No thanks.
She moved a few steps intae the room, knelt doon and put her haund on my heid. Hey. You’re burning up. Whit’s wrang?
Dunno.
D’you want me to phone the doctor?
No. I’ll get a cab.
I tried tae stand up. The room swam.
The young doctor with the fair hair was on duty again.
Sorry, she said.
What?
You know I said it was very unusual for an infection to develop afterwards. Well you were one of the unlucky ones.
Oh.
We’re going to do a D&C just to be on the safe side.
What’s that?
Don’t worry, it’s totally routine. A tiny scrape to make sure everything’s away. And we’ll put you on intravenous antibiotics till you settle down, then continue with an oral course. You’ll be fit as a flea in a few days.
Do I have to stay here?
Till your temperature is down and you’re stable. You’ll probably get out later today.
Dreams of dead babies, flying through a grey fog. Bits of babies – airms and legs and heids all floating round by themselves, looking for the lost parts. When I was wee they used tae tell us about Limbo, that place between Heaven and Hell that the deid babies went, the ones who died afore they could be baptised, the ones that never got properly born. I didnae understaund what an unborn child was.