by Amy Witting
He picked up the case and walked out.
‘Charming,’ said Eric. ‘Maybe I’d better get him one too.’
He patted Isobel’s arm, disappeared and returned with the face mask, put it on her and wheeled her out into the street where the ambulance was waiting.
‘Look after yourself, kid. Nice knowing you.’
He lifted her into the front seat beside the driver.
‘Say goodbye to Bernie for me.’
He handed in the duffle bag and the handbag. They held hands for a moment. He closed the door. The driver started the engine and they moved away.
II
MORNINGTON B GRADE
Clearly the driver was not inclined to conversation. That was as well, for she was too exhausted to speak to him or to notice the scenery as they climbed into the mountains. She sat with her face turned away and saw the light fade and felt the air grow colder. The discomforts of her spell in the theatrette were returning: shudders ran down her body and her head was heavy.
It was completely dark when they stopped at the lighted entrance to the building that bulked against the sky.
The driver got down and was about to disappear.
She said, ‘Will you help me down, please?’
He walked to her side of the vehicle and extended an arm, which served as a rigid support while she climbed down. Resentment of his reluctance gave her strength enough to walk through the doorway into a vestibule where a woman sat at a large reception desk.
The woman said sharply, ‘Are you Isobel Callaghan? We’d quite given you up. You have no business to be up and dressed. You’re supposed to be a stretcher case!’
Behind Isobel the ambulance men were carrying a stretcher through the room and into a further doorway.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Isobel, who had been given no choice and felt very much like a stretcher case.
‘And all the wards have had their dinner now. You will have to go to the dining room.’
Isobel did not know whether she should apologise for this, also. She stood at the desk while the second stretcher case was carried past behind her and said with desperation, ‘Please may I sit down?’
‘I’ll get a chair. It won’t be long. Sit over there for the moment while I find out what to do with you.’
The ambulance driver carried in her suitcase and her duffle bag and set them down at the desk.
The woman talked on the phone.
‘A Ward? Right. She’ll have to go to the dining room for dinner…Well, they’ll have to find her something…I don’t know.’ She covered the mouthpiece of the phone and said to Isobel, ‘Where are your night things?’
‘In the overnight bag.’
‘She has them separate in an overnight bag…Right. You can take that with you and leave the rest. We’ll see to it in the morning.’
A chair meant a wheelchair. It arrived pushed by a very tall, redheaded young man who was greeted as Max.
‘You’re an hour or so late, mate.’
‘Take her round to the dining room and see what you can get for her, then down to A for the night. She’ll need that overnight bag for the moment. I’ll ring Sister Mackenzie to expect her.’
Something in Isobel’s appearance had amused Max.
As he helped her into the chair he said, ‘You can take that mask off now, kid. You’re among friends.’
She clawed the mask off her face and dropped it into her lap, feeling foolish.
He set the small bag on her knee. They set off again, through the inner doorway into a corridor.
‘How long have you known?’ asked Max as he wheeled her along to an open double doorway and through it into a dining room with small tables flanked by chairs of bright orange plastic.
‘About a week.’
‘Longest week of your life?’
‘So far, I suppose. Yes.’
‘Gives you a turn, doesn’t it?’
Max left her wondering if he too…He was arguing at the hatch which led from this room with tables and chairs to what must be a kitchen.
‘He’ll have to find her something. Come on, have a heart. She came up by the ambulance. Should have been on a stretcher, they had her sitting up in front with the driver. Got to get her fed and to bed.’
Isobel said, ‘I don’t want anything to eat. I want to go to bed.’
Her tone was fractious, infantile. It shamed her.
‘That’s dirty talk around here. They can give you soup and bread and butter. Okay?’
‘Yes.’
He brought her a bowl of soup and a plate of bread with a pat of butter.
He perched on a plastic chair, long legs extended. He was a large-boned loose-jointed young man whose appearance, since it lacked sophistication, inspired confidence.
‘Listen,’ he said as he watched her spoon up soup. ‘It’s not half bad. Honestly. They are a decent bunch and the doctors know their job. I can vouch for that.’
‘Were you a patient then?’
‘A couple of years ago. Then I took a job in the wards. Kind of got used to the place. You’ll find you do. Have some bread?’
She shook her head.
‘Can’t.’
‘Okay. You tried and I won’t peach. Off we go again.’
He wheeled her out of the deserted dining room into the corridor, through another set of double doors, along another corridor, and repeated the process.
‘Can you stop at a bathroom?’
‘I shouldn’t, but okay. Don’t be long. We’re expected.’
He helped her up at a bathroom door. She used the lavatory, washed her hands and wiped them on the discarded face mask. He came to the door and supported her into the chair.
‘Shouldn’t have let you do that, I think. Better say nothing about it.’
Isobel was learning a new vocabulary.
‘I shan’t peach.’
‘That’s the style! And here we are.’
They had arrived in a lighted ward with eight beds. One of them was empty and beside it a small grey-haired woman was waiting.
She came forward, saying, ‘It’s Isobel, is it? We had given you up.’
‘The ambulance was late.’
‘Yes. We know that now. Thank you, Max. Are those her night things? Right. Now I’ll fetch some water for a wash and you can change into your pyjamas.’
She said to the onlookers, ‘You mustn’t get her talking. She’s had a long day and she’s a sick girl, so leave her in peace.’
The woman had a soft Scottish accent, which was reassuring.
She left to fetch the hot water. Isobel sat on the bed. The patient in the next bed said, ‘How long have you known?’
‘A week and a bit.’
‘Ah.’
It was a sympathetic sound, echoed from other beds.
There were no curtains here. Isobel fetched her pyjamas from the bag, slid out of her sweater and then her pants, thankful this time for knickers, and changed with all possible modesty and great effort into her nightwear.
Sister Mackenzie came back with a jug of water, a towel, a washer, a basin and a glass which she filled with water from the jug.
‘You’ll be wanting to clean your teeth. Do you want a pan?’
‘No thank you.’
‘Face and hands and then clean your teeth and we’ll settle you for the night. Now don’t stir.’
Having her face and hands cleaned with a wet washcloth made her feel decidedly juvenile.
‘I shan’t be doing this for you every day, I assure you.’
‘I hope not.’
‘For the moment you just keep as still as you can. You can clean your own teeth. There we are then. Settled for the night. Do you want a sleeping pill?’
‘No thank you.’
‘I’ll say good night, then. Sleep well.’
She went off carrying the equipment and saying, ‘Good night to you all. Pleasant dreams!’
‘Fat chance,’ someone said when she had gone.
Another v
oice said reproachfully, ‘Never knock back a sleeping pill. Remember you’ve got friends!’
‘Well, she has some manners, Sister Mackenzie. More than you can say for some.’
‘I want a fag. Anyone got a lighter?’
‘You’ll get caught, Pat. Have to front up to Stannard. Brrr!’
‘I’ll hand it straight to you, dear, and just sit there looking innocent. Besides, he knows. Turns a blind eye.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Joe said he heard him say, “They’ll only smoke under the bedclothes and set the place on fire if you try to stop it.”’
‘Then why don’t they allow it?’
‘They want to keep it down, I suppose. Hey, I want a lighter. Quick, before lights out. Thanks, Eily. And just in time. There they go.’
A cigarette shone in the dark. Isobel hoped it would not set the place on fire.
Someone said, ‘Nine o’clock. Back to boarding school.’
‘You get more holidays in boarding school.’
‘You’re telling me. More holidays? You get holidays.’
‘I tell you what. At boarding school you don’t meet men wandering down the corridor in their pyjamas. Some of those men are rough. Open all the way down the front. No trouble. Never heard of buttons.’
‘Ah. It’s cruel to sew buttons on flies!’
A voice said, ‘You know what I’d like just now? I’d like a nice gin sling.’
‘Ring the bell then, dear. That’s what it’s there for.’
‘I don’t think I’ll bother. The service in this hotel is rotten.’
‘Lois, where are you going tonight?’
‘I haven’t quite made up my mind.’ Lois’s voice was light, girlish and remote. ‘I hear there’s a new pianist at the Pink Tights, but I don’t know…maybe the Rococo, or Spangles.’
‘Better make up your mind, love. Time’s getting on.’
‘Time! I’ve got all the time in the world. If I go with Hooky, it had better be the Rococo. It’s more like Hooky’s style.’
‘What are you going to wear?’
‘Um. It had better not be my black lace with the cut-outs. Not with Hooky. But I don’t know that I’ll go with Hooky. He hurt me this morning with his great big needle, and Bart said to him, “You hurt my girl,” he said, “and I’ll twist your bloody nose off.” Hooky said, “Who’s hurting her? And don’t you go calling her your girl or you’ll hear from me.” “Don’t fight over me, boys,” I said. “I know I’m good, but no woman’s that good.” I just might go with Bart, for once.’
‘Oh, how I would love a nice gin sling.’
‘You know what I’d like? I’d like to go home.’
A voice floated. ‘Think I’ll go back home next summer…’
‘Ssh! Ssh! Ssh!’
‘Keep it till after her rounds.’
‘You’re quiet tonight, Eily.’
‘Got me mind on that damned bronc.’
‘Are you down for a bronchoscopy, Eily? I didn’t know that.’
‘Yeah. Thought that was it last time. But he said this morning, they’d better take another look. Reckoned he heard a wheeze. Another bronc. Great!’
‘Rotten luck!’
‘That’s what you get for smoking, Eily.’
‘Huh. Two fags a day if I’m lucky.’
‘You could sell your body to science, Eily, and make a packet.’
‘Wouldn’t be much use to me without a body.’
‘That’s right. There’s always a catch.’
‘Who’s that snoring?’
‘Mrs P.’
‘Well, nip over and wake her up. Go on!’
‘Mrs Partridge, wake up! You were snoring, keeping everybody awake.’
‘Come on, Lois. Tell us what you’re going to wear.’
‘I think…pale blue chiffon trimmed with white fox. A floaty cape with fur all round the bottom. So that it swings out when I turn round.’
‘Not much good for dancing.’
‘You take it off when you dance.’
‘Hooky will take it off my shoulders and drop it on a chair, and there I’ll be in my low-cut chiffon dress all ready for dancing. No jewellery. Perhaps one thin diamond bracelet.’
‘I can tell you where you got all that. Out of that old film they put on last month. With what’s her name. Rita Hayworth. Pretty old-fashioned.’
‘The thirties are coming back. Look at the songs. Anyhow I don’t care about fashion. I only care about what suits me.’ She sighed. ‘I hope we don’t have trouble with that waiter again. There’s this Italian waiter who’s so crazy about me he can’t control himself. He keeps hanging about making sheep’s eyes and saying things in Italian and you can see that Hooky doesn’t like it. He doesn’t like to make scenes but he won’t put up with much more of it. I hope he doesn’t do his block, that’s all.’
‘I thought you were going with Bart.’
‘No. Think I’ll stick to my old love. Last time he was looking so nasty at that waiter that I thought we’d better not go there again, but really there’s nothing like the Rococo. Such lovely suppers.’
Other voices joined in the fairy tale.
‘Little meat pies.’
‘Cocktail frankfurts with tomato sauce.’
‘Oyster patties.’
‘Caviar on white bread.’
‘Yuk. You can have that.’
Another voice said sourly, ‘Stewed mince and curried dishcloths.’
‘Don’t remind us! Me, I’d like a nice gin sling.’
‘Is that Mrs P. snoring again? Some people have no consideration. Mrs P., wake up! You were snoring again.’
‘I say, did you hear about Pam? She’s going home.’
‘Going home? Is she cured then?’
‘No. Not cured. Doctor Hook told her they decided not to operate. I met her when I came out of X-ray and she was coming out of the office. She said Doctor Hook was very nice about it, said they thought she’d be more comfortable at home. A local doctor can give her her AP.’
‘How was she taking it?’
‘Looked more puzzled than anything.’
‘The strep didn’t take. They can’t operate if the strep doesn’t take. You get a spread.’
‘Ssh! Little pitchers!’
This was said in a tone of warning.
‘Oh, she’s asleep. Hasn’t stirred.’
‘Poor little sod.’
Isobel, lying still and listening in fascination, and pity for Mrs Partridge, wondered who had inspired their sympathy.
A torch shone in the doorway and a voice taut with anger spoke from behind it.
‘The noise in this ward is disgraceful. It’s the same story every night, singing and carrying on till all hours, then in the morning it’s the devil’s own business getting you awake to take your temperatures. Well, this is just once too often. Doctor Hook will hear of this in the morning and I wouldn’t be surprised if you all went back on B grade.’ The light moved. A small large-eyed, fleshless face stared mildly like an insect caught in its beam. ‘As for you, Lois, Doctor Stannard said he was going to have to put you on silence if you showed no improvement. Keep that in mind. No thought for anyone but yourselves, the lot of you.’ The voice was receding and the torch was lowered.
There was a brief silence, then the talk began again in tones of indignation.
‘Well, I must say! What a lady!’
‘Rotten mean saying that to Lois.’
‘Look what you’ve done with your snoring, Mrs Partridge.’
‘Think she’ll really tell Hooky?’
‘Nah. Back on B grade and who’d be carrying the pans? She wouldn’t risk it.’
‘Well, she’s gone for the night. What about a singsong?’
‘What’ll it be?’
‘“Once in a While”.’
‘Why did I ask? Okay.’
The voices whined sweetly in the dark.
‘Once in a while will you try…to give one little thought to me�
�Though someone else may be…nearer your heart?…In love’s last dying ember…one spark may remain…If love love still can remember…that spark may burn again…’
Lulled by the sound, Isobel slept.
‘If ever I was to write about this,’ Isobel told herself sometime later, ‘I should call it “Adventures in the Third Person”.’
The singers of the night before had indeed woken sluggish and disgruntled, muttering protests as the thermometers were thrust in their mouths.
‘What about her?’
‘She isn’t staying here. Doctor’s coming to see her later.’
Isobel went back to sleep, or retired rather into her voluntary coma.
A nurse did say, ‘Can you get up?’
She considered the question carefully.
‘I think so.’
‘Well, make up your mind. Can you get to the toilet?’
One of the voices from last night spoke.
‘I’ll give you a hand, kid, if you want to get to the toilet.’
‘Thanks. Very much.’
‘Well, just let me know when you’re ready.’
‘Right.’
That was a weight off her mind. She withdrew again.
Breakfast came and went without her participation.
‘Listen, love. Do you want to go to the bathroom? Doctor’ll be here soon. You ought to freshen up a bit, you know.’
This was Eily, who was threatened with another bronc but retained sympathy for others. She was a tall, strong-boned young woman with heavy black hair which fell to her shoulders. Though she was comely enough, something in her appearance suggested the prizefighter. The long, delicate nose flattened at the bridge, the upper lip full enough to appear swollen, hinted at misfortunes in the boxing ring. Her voice, low-pitched and husky, did not contradict the impression.
‘Got to pretty yourself up for Bart. Where’s your toilet stuff?’
She found it in the duffle bag, took the towel which hung at the end of the bed and led Isobel away to the bathroom.
Isobel used the lavatory, washed her face, and combed her hair.
‘That’s a bit more like it. Come on, I’ll get you back to bed. You don’t want to worry too much about Nurse Piper. Got a permanent case of them, she has.’
A case of what? Isobel did not ask. She clung gratefully to Eily and wondered why she needed another bronc. She appeared strong under Isobel’s clinging arm.