Is There Anything You Want?

by Margaret Forster

  But at night, she worried. The bed she was in was perfectly comfortable and the room pleasant if smaller than she was used to, but she could not sleep. Chrissie was like a little girl, polite and obedient, pathetic in her eager dependency, and it made Mrs Hibbert uneasy for reasons which had very little to do with Chrissie herself. It was the echoes which bothered her, echoes at first of her own past – her mother looking after her and the bliss of it all, of her brow being soothed and her cheek kissed, and the way her mother tiptoed out of her room and her voice shushing her brothers on the stairs, a voice heavy with concern. Where did it go, that concern? Mrs Hibbert strained to remember. It seemed to have evaporated when she went to boarding-school. That first holiday, back from school for Christmas, she had had flu and her mother seemed annoyed more than anything: it was suddenly a trouble for her to bring hot drinks and feel the invalid’s forehead. There was none of that anxious tenderness for her welfare which used to be such a comfort. It was all to do with growing up, she’d supposed, a natural process of separation, and she had tried to be brave about it. Once, her mother had seemed to recognise this new distance between them, she’d said, ‘What an affectionate child you used to be, Mari!’ as though it was her daughter and not herself who had spoiled their intimacy. Then there was another kind of echo. Inevitably, she was reminded of Francis that last week, when she had mistaken . . . She forced the memory away. This would not do.

  She concentrated instead on thinking about Chrissie, wondering if she had ever had a boyfriend. (Actually, she meant a lover, but that was how she put it in her mind, a boyfriend, feeling deeper speculation would be prurient.) Surely she had. She was pretty and pleasant, even if she made nothing of herself and spoiled her looks by her untidiness of dress. She wanted to ask the girl about friends but could not quite find tactful words. Certainly, there were few phone calls about Chrissie’s state of health. Mrs Hibbert had been in residence three days, and the phone had rung only once, and that had been Mr Wallis’s secretary saying he thought she should take a much longer break once her flu had gone, have a real holiday. Mrs Hibbert hadn’t known that Chrissie’s ailment was flu, but she went along with this and said she thought the invalid’s temperature was down and she was feeling a bit better. This was true, Chrissie did seem better, whatever had been wrong with her, and on the fourth day she got up and dressed and came downstairs. Instantly, things were much more awkward. Dealing with Chrissie when she was a wreck was one thing, dealing with her when she had recovered was another. It was her house, after all. Suddenly, Mrs Hibbert was not in control. She was a guest, and she was not good at being a guest. She didn’t like how Chrissie did things but it would have been impolite to complain about her never making tea properly (tea should be made in a teapot, not by merely dunking a tea-bag in a mug of not-even-properly-boiling water) or leaving bread in the toaster at too high a setting so that it burned. The kitchen quickly became an area of confrontation over trifles, and Mrs Hibbert wanted, to get away from it.

  ‘Chrissie,’ she said, on the morning of the fourth day, after an uncomfortable hour during which they said nothing to each other, ‘Chrissie, I think I’ll go home now that you’re better.’ The response had been entirely unexpected and alarming. ‘No!’ Chrissie had almost shouted. ‘No, please, Aunt Mary, not yet.’ ‘But I’m doing no good,’ said Mrs Hibbert. ‘I’m just in the way now you’re up and about.’ ‘You’re company,’ Chrissie said, ‘I want company, please, for a little while longer. I can’t explain . . . I . . . I know I’m being feeble, but . . . with everything that’s happened.’ ‘Well,’ Mrs Hibbert said, ‘I’ll stay until the weekend, then, but on Thursday I must go to the hospital for the afternoon. I’m on duty, I can’t let the Friends down. Will you be all right on your own for a few hours?’ Chrissie nodded. ‘And I can’t go on doing nothing here,’ Mrs Hibbert went on. ‘I can’t sit around like yesterday. You must let me give the place a good clean and do something about the garden. You can help me, sitting around does no one any good, you should know that.’

  But Chrissie did sit around while Mrs Hibbert tackled first the housework and then the gardening. She obligingly shifted rooms, so that Mrs Hibbert could wash the floors without hindrance, and she went upstairs while the hoovering was being done, but mostly she sat watching as her house was thoroughly cleaned, a kind of baffled wonder showing in her expression as the (to her) strangest things were done. She had never thought of taking all the cushions off her sofa and using an attachment on the hoover, which she hadn’t even known existed, to suck all the dust and crumbs out of the crevices beneath. She could tell that her aunt was shocked at what she was uncovering – the evidence of sheer neglect. When, in the afternoon, the garden was tackled, Chrissie stayed inside and watched through the window. She saw her aunt standing, hands on hips, surveying it and frowning hard. There was a patch of dandelion-filled grass, 12 feet by 12, with a border of soil round it, covered in weeds and nothing else. Her aunt spent two hours digging up the dandelions and digging over the soil, and then hauled out the brand-new Flymo and cut the grass. Afterwards, she spent some time measuring the fences at the back and the sides, announcing when she was finished that the next day she’d be going to the garden centre on her way home from St Mary’s.

  Why, Chrissie wondered, as another difficult evening was spent together, the atmosphere restless and frustrating, do I want her here? Her presence, so far from being congenial, was oppressive. Her aunt, she saw, was a woman of energy and vigour who had always to be doing something or about to do something. There was nothing peaceful about her, nothing companionable. Her style of conversation was abrasive, endlessly querying perfectly harmless remarks, and trying to make something of them. Silence was preferable, but even her silences smouldered. And yet there was a confidence and power about her which, in her present state, made Chrissie feel protected. They both sat ostensibly reading, but Chrissie’s eyes were fixed not on the print of her book but on her aunt, who was immersed in a newspaper. She was, Chrissie noted, systematic in this as in everything, beginning at the top left of the front page and working her way down to the right bottom corner before turning over. She should have been a doctor, Chrissie thought. Patients, my patients, would have loved her assurance even if they would also have been a little intimidated. She would have told Carol Collins not to be so silly, there was nothing wrong with her, and she would have been believed. Chrissie’s eyes filled with tears at the thought. Unfortunately, Aunt Mary chose that moment to look over at her.

  ‘Good heavens, Chrissie, what on earth is the matter? Are you feeling ill again?’ Chrissie shook her head. ‘Well, then, what is upsetting you? What is this about?’ Chrissie blew her nose, dabbed at her eyes. ‘Nothing,’ she said. She felt about 10 years old. Aunt Mary held her gaze, seeming to come to a decision. ‘It’s guilt, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘You’re feeling guilty about that young woman. Oh, I know you haven’t said so, but I’m not a fool, Chrissie. I know what all this is about, and I know it’s nonsense. You’ve nothing to feel guilty for. The young woman was unbalanced, she jumped to conclusions because of her mental state. She was ill, and when people are ill, they do things they wouldn’t normally contemplate. You ought to know what that feels like, being in a state, you’re in one now, you’re not of sound mind at the moment.’ Chrissie lowered her eyes. ‘No, it’s not that, not just that,’ she whispered. ‘It’s me. I can’t do it. I can’t do the clinics. I can’t stand it. I don’t want to do it. I’m useless, it scares me.’ She wept, waiting for the order to stop being so silly, but it didn’t come. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, after a minute or two. ‘I’m sorry.’ ‘No need to be,’ Aunt Mary said. ‘We’ve all felt like crying over our uselessness at some time or other. What we have to decide is what to do about it. That’s the hard part, what to do once one has realised what the trouble is. Now, what can you do? Think about your life and how to change it. What steps can you take?’

  Chrissie stared at her, transfixed. She felt as if she were at scho
ol again, called before the headmistress to explain herself and quite unable to do so. She did what she always did in such circumstances, smiled, dropped her head, mumbled. What she mumbled was indistinct. ‘What?’ Mrs Hibbert said, trying not to sound irritated, though really it was very irritating when people did not speak clearly. ‘What was that, Chrissie? I didn’t quite catch what you said, dear.’ Chrissie sighed and repeated, ‘I don’t know what I can do. Give up being a doctor, I suppose. Do something else. Or become a different kind of doctor, do something that doesn’t mean seeing patients, research maybe.’ There was silence. She was obliged, eventually, to raise her head. Mrs Hibbert was staring at her as though in serious doubt now as to her sanity. ‘Give up?’ she repeated, but quite gently, sounding not so much incredulous or scandalised as bewildered. ‘But Chrissie, you’re needed, you’re the sort of doctor women want.’ ‘No,’ said Chrissie, ‘I’m not. They want decisive, confident doctors, that’s what they want.’ Aunt Mary was shaking her head. ‘What women want,’ she said, ‘is kindness and sympathy and understanding, as well as expertise, of course. You have all those qualities in abundance, Chrissie. It is your duty to carry on. Have a long holiday, dear, go away somewhere nice, then come back and you’ll be fine.’ ‘I won’t,’ said Chrissie. ‘I can’t bear it, I’m sick of it. I have to get out.’

  Mrs Hibbert took a deep breath. The thought of the sheer waste made her heart pound and she knew her blood pressure was soaring. Trying to speak in measured tones, she said, ‘Chrissie, look at me, please. What do you think you see before you? An elderly woman, of course, but what else? You’ve no idea, have you, how I would like to have been you. I would like to have been a doctor. I would like to have had a career a great deal more fulfilling than the one I had. I would have liked to be in a position to help people, as you help them. I would have liked to go to university, but I allowed my father to push me into secretarial work. You have done all the things I would like to have done and I cannot bear to hear you disparage yourself and your achievement. To hear you say you want to give up shocks me. It is your duty to stay. I feel I speak in place of your mother, who . . .’

  Chrissie had got up and was walking slowly to the door. ‘Chrissie, dear, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean . . . Chrissie, please, this is childish, do sit down, do come back . . .’ But the girl had gone, there was no reply, and upstairs she heard a door gently close. It was so rude, to disappear like that, and after all the effort that she had made. She would leave. Not tonight, that would be foolish, and she was in no state to drive, but tomorrow, when in any case she was going to do her stint as a Friend. She simply would not come back. She would leave a note, informing Chrissie of this decision if the girl did not have the grace to apologise in the morning.

  Going to bed herself half an hour later, having drunk too much tea and with the uncomfortable prospect of having to get up frequently in the night to get rid of it, Mrs Hibbert found her anger fading. In its place came embarrassment. She could not bear to think about what she had said, and not just said but made into a veritable speech. Her words, in so far as she could accurately recall them (and that was all too accurately), hadn’t begun to tell Chrissie what she had wanted to say, but then how was it possible verbally to convey her sense of frustration with the way things had turned out? Her whole body ached with longing to be able to use what she had known was in her, that deep sense of having more to offer than was being asked of her. Francis may have been the only one to understand her, but even Francis had not appreciated the gnawing passion of an ambition which had not only never found its mark but never been properly identified, nor had he realised how much she blamed herself. Of course she was to blame, but what had she told Chrissie? That her father had pushed her into secretarial work. But had she tried to resist his direction? Had she tried to do what she wanted to do, become a gardener, later on, when he was dead? Well, she’d tried, but failed, given up easily. And what’s more, she had lied to Chrissie: she had never wanted to be a doctor. The sight of blood made her faint.

  She wished Chrissie had questioned her, she wished she had wanted to know more, to inquire into the details of what she had been told. She seemed unaware of what it had cost her aunt to make those admissions. Probably, Mrs Hibbert reflected as she lay wide awake in the dark, she thought she was being preached at and could not stand it. Or else despised, being made to feel ashamed, reminded of her duty. A mistake, Mrs Hibbert now saw. It never worked, trying to shame people into things. She should instead have boosted Chrissie’s ego, told her of what high regard she was held in by staff and patients alike, impressed upon her the good she did. But did she know anything of how Chrissie was regarded? The odd complimentary remark, made within her hearing and impossible not to register, had come her way. Rita, the receptionist in Mr Wallis’s clinic, had been heard to say, ‘Dr Harrison will see you soon, you’ll like her, she’s very gentle and kind’ to a distraught woman; and a patient leaving the clinic and losing her way, till Mrs Hibbert rescued her, had remarked that she felt so relieved because that nice young woman doctor had made her feel there was hope. Not much to go on, but she could have made much of it. Too late. Chrissie’s self-esteem was wrecked.

  Shifting restlessly in the bed, Mrs Hibbert tried to be practical. What was it she had urged Chrissie to do? To think of what steps she could take to solve her problem. Well, there were surely steps other than entirely giving up being a doctor. Chrissie needed to get the doctoring into proportion. It seemed to consume her life, and the anxiety and responsibility that went with it, together with all the attendant misery, overwhelmed her. So far as she could make out, Chrissie had no other life. Few friends, no hobbies, no recreational life. Mrs Hibbert knew how being on your own you risked madness when in the grip of some obsessive idea. Work, work, work. Worry, worry, worry. Chrissie believed herself to be self-sufficient. On the contrary, she was in desperate need of support, and of distraction. The girl was emotionally exhausted, quite drained. She needed something put back, but where was that something to come from?

  Sleep came finally, just as she was beginning to feel demented at the lack of answers, but when she woke up, Mrs Hibbert felt as though she hadn’t slept at all. Her head ached and her eyes felt heavy. Washing and dressing were an effort. Before she went downstairs, she packed her case, but left it for the moment in the bedroom – it would look far too melodramatic to walk down the stairs, humping her case. There was a pleasant smell of coffee floating up from below, which seemed a hopeful sign (though hope of what she wasn’t sure). Francis had ground his own beans and the smell had been delicious. Her mood was affected by this memory and she walked into the kitchen feeling less harassed than when she woke up. The thing to do was be calm, calm and polite, and to make no reference to the evening before. Yet she could not help feeling a little hesitant and nervous at the thought of facing Chrissie again. It annoyed her to feel this flutter of nerves. She was too old for nerves, this was absurd.

  Chrissie was not in the kitchen. There was evidence that toast had been made, and a jar of marmalade stood open beside the bread board; and feeling the coffee machine, Mrs Hibbert almost burnt her fingers. The coffee had been very recently made, poured out and taken elsewhere. Elsewhere could only mean the sitting-room, so Mrs Hibbert called out, ‘Good morning’, to show she was not in a sulk, and began cutting bread to make her own breakfast. She put the kettle on, made tea, and all the time she was listening. It was beginning to make her curious that Chrissie had not responded to her greeting – anxious, and then, as time went on, annoyed. It was not polite to ignore a greeting. She did not feel inclined, in the circumstances, to take her tea and toast through to the sitting-room. Instead, she sat at the kitchen table, a circular affair of white painted wood, and ate and drank. It didn’t take long. Then she scrupulously washed and dried her mug and plate, and put them away. She would go now. ‘Chrissie,’ she began, walking towards the sitting-room door, which was ajar and opened wider to her push, ‘Chrissie . . .’

 
But there was no Chrissie. She stood perplexed, and then began to search the house, calling out Chrissie’s name. The house was empty. She had not heard the front or back doors opening and closing, but Chrissie had left. The last place to check was the garage, one in a row about 50 yards from the terrace of houses. Mrs Hibbert hurried over there, breathless, uneasy, but the up-and-over door was closed and locked, and there was no sound. It was all too distressing for words. Back she went into the house, and up the stairs to fetch her suitcase. Chrissie had left no note, made no goodbyes, but she felt it would be petty of her to do the same, so she wrote a brief note, saying she had decided to return home after she’d been to the hospital, and that she hoped Chrissie would telephone her in the evening to reassure her all was well, because she could not help but be worried. She left it prominently displayed, propped up against the fruit bowl on the kitchen table. Then she left the house and drove to St Mary’s, feeling aggrieved but at the same time relieved. At that moment she didn’t care if she never saw Chrissie again.

  *

  Chrissie had walked a long way, for an hour, following the river path, before she allowed herself to stop. She’d walked fast, arms swinging, head in the air, glad that with the path so clear she did not need to decide which direction to take. She’d met no one. It was early, rain threatened, no one except dog-walkers went this way at this hour. It was something so new to her, to be out walking with no purpose in the morning, that the novelty of it was almost exciting. It made her want people at St Mary’s to see her – look, look, it’s Dr Harrison enjoying a walk! She’s swinging along! She’s happy! Look and be amazed! She smiled a real smile, at her own teasing, and felt the skin on her cheeks stretch and bunch. She wished she had a mirror to admire herself, to check that she looked as transformed as she felt. She wasn’t any longer that worried creature she’d become, always fretting, and she was going to prove it. Aunt Mary could not know it, but the effect of her little homily had been the opposite of what she had intended. It hadn’t made her ashamed of wanting to give up being a doctor but, on the contrary, convinced her that she should do so, as soon as possible. She’d written to Mr Wallis at three o’clock in the morning. The official letter of resignation to the hospital board could wait until later, but she felt the deed was done. She was free.