The Waiting Rooms

by Eve Smith

  ‘Back in the sixties, the National Cancer Institute commissioned a plant-screening programme. American botanists were paid to collect a thousand samples a year. Taxol was the result of that programme.’ Trickles of sweat seep into golden curls beneath his collar. ‘The Americans have just launched another one, focussing on HIV. But antibiotics aren’t even on their radar.’

  Suddenly there’s a loud splash. One of the larger crocs launches out of the water and lunges towards the female. She leaps back just in time; her lithe body twists through the air as the creature plummets back into the depths.

  The corner of his mouth twitches. ‘Lucky…’ His eyes dart back to mine. ‘Mary, we know at least ten percent of South Africa’s plants are already used in traditional medicine. Many with positive results.’ He stabs my field book with his finger. ‘Some of them are listed in here. So why not put all that knowledge to use?’

  I feel myself flush. What the hell is he implying? That what I do now isn’t of use? ‘Isn’t that your job?’ I swipe some hair back off my forehead. ‘You’re the pharmacologist, not me.’

  He shakes his head. ‘I work with what we already know. There are thousands more plants out there. We need people like you, Mary – experienced botanists – to help discover the next generation of drugs.’

  I shift in my seat. I can’t argue with what he’s saying, but this is my life he’s speculating with, and I’m tired of being preached at. My hackles are up.

  ‘Species are going extinct before we’ve even identified them,’ I say, brushing crumbs of earth off my shorts. ‘If that happens there won’t be any plants left to supply drugs, food or anything else for that matter.’ I hold his gaze. ‘Frankly, I see the conservation agenda as more pressing.’

  His lips tighten. ‘Really?’ The r rolls slowly off his tongue. He looks almost as angry as he did the first time.

  ‘Look,’ he says, sitting back, ‘I know I get a bit carried away. Sometimes things don’t come across quite the way I mean.’

  They come across exactly how you mean, I think. But in a weird way, that’s part of the attraction: his absence of filter, his raw passion.

  ‘Come out with me tomorrow,’ he says then. ‘I’d like to show you something. Perhaps it will change your mind.’

  I look past him, to the dam. The waterbuck have disappeared, leaving the crocodiles to prowl alone. Until the next time.

  I could say no, and we could go our separate ways. I could tell him where to shove it.

  I deliberate one, two, three seconds at most. They might as well be infinity.

  ‘OK.’

  CHAPTER 9

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  KATE

  ‘Kate? What are you doing? We should have left twenty minutes ago!’

  Mark’s voice is a distant wail as I dash around upstairs. I check Sasha’s room first and then ours: windows shut, air purifiers on. I hit the bathroom for taps. Just as well, the cold one’s been left running; I’ll bet it was Mark, although he always denies it. I skid through the kitchen and grab my bag.

  Mask. Gloves. Resus bags. OK. I can leave.

  As I slide into my seat Mark glances up from his phone. ‘The invitation did say seven-thirty not eight-thirty, right?’

  I ignore him and flip down the sun visor. I scowl at the mirror and navigate a smear of lipstick as Mark speed-reverses down the drive.

  We’ve been going about ten minutes when I remember: ‘You did pick up the present, didn’t you?’

  He runs his tongue over his teeth and hits the brake.

  ‘Oh, Mark!’ I curse myself for not checking earlier.

  He gives me a smug grin and accelerates. ‘In the boot.’

  My eyes narrow. ‘Funny.’

  ‘Relax, woman! You’re off duty.’

  Relax. Relaxing. Now there’s a concept. We’re off to celebrate his brother’s birthday at some extortionate restaurant that’s bloody miles away. While disinfecting the cutlery, I’ll have to stop myself tallying up all the things we should have spent the money on instead.

  Mark mutters something about the driver in front and pulls onto the dual carriageway. ‘So, how was your day?’

  My stomach loops. I think of the envelope with the GRO postmark that came this morning. I snaffled it into my handbag like a shoplifter on my way out the door.

  ‘Oh, you know. The usual.’ I feel a twinge of guilt, but now’s not the time to tell him. I daren’t derail myself before the alcohol starts flowing. ‘A woman was admitted with septicaemia who’d been scratched by her cat.’

  He frowns. ‘Another one? I just don’t get it.’ Mark was no cat-lover even before the Crisis. ‘Why risk it when there are so many clawless varieties to choose from?’

  ‘She’d had it fifteen years. Probably a stray. One of those “liberated” pets that escaped the culls.’ I think of the poor woman’s mottled cheeks, the sweat rolling down onto the pillows. ‘She kept asking me where it was. I didn’t have the heart to tell her.’

  Mark shakes his head and accelerates into the fast lane. As he overtakes a hatchback, a young girl with dark, frizzy hair and a pink-and-purple mask glares at me from her child seat.

  ‘So why didn’t she get it declawed?’ Mark isn’t giving up on this. ‘It’s a free service.’

  I glance at him. ‘Apparently it’s like having the ends of your fingers amputated. Some people think it’s cruel.’

  ‘Not as cruel as giving someone septicaemia,’ he mutters. ‘I’m amazed some ambulance chaser didn’t show up at her bedside and try and get her to sue.’ He sighs. ‘Did you see that one, by the way? About the man who’s suing his daughter? Because her Jack Russell gave him a nip?’ He shakes his head. ‘Bloody lawyers. They’re the only ones profiting from this mess.’

  He’s right: the litigation is relentless. Families and neighbours turning on each other. People scared of being in the same room as a seventy-year-old, let alone talking to one. It’s hardly surprising that so many end up sequestered away in those awful retirement flats or, if they’re lucky, a care home.

  ‘I know it’s hard, love. But try not to let them get to you.’

  ‘Who? The lawyers?’

  ‘No, your patients.’

  Easier said than done. I twist the handle of my bag around my fingers. At least the woman got to talk to a soul midwife. Prepared herself for what’s to come.

  My thoughts drift back to my birth certificate. It was lime yellow with a swirling watermark that reminded me of a William Morris design. When I looked more closely I could see the circles of crowns surrounding the letters ‘GRO’: General Register Office England.

  Mark does one of his noisy throat-clears. ‘Kate? You’re awfully quiet. Is there something else going on?’

  It’s no good, I can’t keep a thing from him. I take a deep breath. ‘It arrived today.’

  His head swivels round. ‘What? Why didn’t you say?’

  ‘I don’t know…’ I shrug out a sigh. ‘I wasn’t holding out on you, it’s just all a bit…’ I rummage for the right words but succumb to a cliché. ‘I’m still trying to process it myself.’

  Mark doesn’t say anything. He keeps his eyes on the road, sneaking glances at me when he thinks I’m not looking.

  I squirreled myself away in the ladies and stared at that envelope for what seemed like hours. When I finally drummed up the courage to open it, my eyes scrambled across the paper as if they were afraid the words might disappear, just as she had.

  All of a sudden, Mark indicates and starts
to brake. We turn into a desolate layby.

  ‘We don’t have to go, you know.’ He reaches for my hand. ‘I can take us home. Right now.’ A lorry tears past, making the car quiver. ‘I’ll tell Bill I’ve eaten a dodgy sandwich. Make barfing noises down the phone.’

  I shake my head. ‘No, Mark. We should go.’ I give him a weak smile. ‘I’m fine, honestly.’

  I remember the feeling I had as my eyes moved down the page. I used to have the same feeling on fairground rides, just before they started.

  The engine ticks. A pigeon pecks morosely at a crisp packet on the verge. I inhale and say the words like a spell: ‘Mary Sommers. Mary Kate Sommers.’

  Saying it out loud unlocks something, and I have to look away. It’s the only thing she gave me, my name. I lean back and feel the tiredness pulling at me.

  ‘Nice name,’ Mark says, nodding. He squeezes my fingers. ‘Not sure about the middle one, though.’

  I smile. He is one decision I got right. This man seems able to navigate even the most difficult paths.

  ‘Was she young?’ he asks.

  ‘Not especially.’ My voice sounds all high and whiny, not like mine at all. ‘Twenty-five.’ My chest tightens. ‘Just two years younger than me when I had Sasha.’

  I know it’s unfair, but it feels like a betrayal. I didn’t think she’d be that old.

  I remember all the arguments Mark and I had about bringing a child into this world. How hard it was to persuade him, because of the risks to the baby and to me. The delivery suite felt more like A&E. I’ll never forget the sound from the next cubicle. At first I thought the woman must still be in labour. I’d heard plenty of mothers scream before, but this was different. It was a primal sound: a howling wail, more animal than human. And then the midwife walked past with that silent, still bundle. And I knew.

  Mark sighs. ‘We have to remember. Things were so different then.’

  Yes. Yes, they were. No armed guards outside maternity wards. No police escorts on the way home. No matter how many times they told me to lay her in her cot, I kept Sasha tucked in tight to my belly, her little mask on. I couldn’t sleep. I was convinced that if I did, when I woke up, she’d either be dead or gone.

  ‘So that makes her, what, sixty-nine?’

  ‘Yup.’ Something spiky pricks inside. ‘Just as well I got started. If she’s not already died, she soon will.’

  ‘Hey, come on.’ Mark pulls me into a hug.

  I rest my head against his shoulder, his sweater bristling my cheek. A few weeks ago, I couldn’t have cared less about this woman.

  Mark kisses the top of my head. ‘Where did it say the birth was registered?’

  ‘West London somewhere. I didn’t recognise the hospital – must have been private.’ I wait a couple of seconds. ‘No mention of a father.’

  It shouldn’t make a difference, really it shouldn’t. But when I saw that empty box it threw me. I’d been so focussed on my birth mother, I hadn’t really given him much thought. I felt strangely bereft. As if I’d been abandoned not once, but twice.

  Mark runs his fingers slowly through my hair. ‘Well, at least you’ve got a trail to follow now. That is, if you want to.’

  I dig my nails into the seat. I thought that getting this information would help, would make me feel more certain. But part of me just wants to rip up that damned certificate. Send it spiralling skywards, like an errant meteor, to collide with some other planet.

  Cars stream past, tail-lights winking, as the sky fades to a silky grey. My head feels woolly, as if I’m coming down with something. I imagine dozing off, snuggled into Mark, here, in this layby. Drifting back to a time before any of this had been set loose.

  Mark’s chest presses against my face as he inhales. ‘You could always make an appointment with one of those adoption advisors. I’m sure they could give you some guidance.’

  Typical Mark. He’s probably done more research into this whole process than I have.

  ‘Maybe. I’ll give it some thought.’ My words are swallowed by a yawn. ‘Anyway, look, we’d better get moving. We’re going to be obscenely late, even by my standards.’

  Mark doesn’t stir. He frowns at me. ‘You’re sure?’

  I arch my back and give him an emphatic nod. ‘Sure.’

  He looks at me a moment longer, and starts the engine. I rest back and close my eyes.

  Honi soit qui mal y pense.

  After I’d read all the boxes on my birth certificate, I found myself staring at that motto, on the royal coat of arms.

  ‘Shame be to him who evil thinks’.

  Who are you, Mary Sommers? Are you still with us?

  And then comes the darker thought.

  Why? Why did you give me away?

  CHAPTER 10

  LILY

  ‘There you are! I’ve been all over, looking for you.’

  I drag my eyes away from my book. Pam’s face is a volcanic red, and she’s puffing enough to blow. They did their research, those architects; they created these little nooks and crannies to encourage the antisocial ones out of their rooms. Unless someone looks behind this particular stack in the library, they haven’t a clue you’re there.

  ‘I’ve been in here twice already,’ she adds, just to be clear it’s my fault. ‘You’ve got a visitor.’

  My adrenaline spikes. Despite the email, I wasn’t convinced he’d come.

  ‘Room four.’

  How fitting. Four is an unlucky number in many Asian languages. Because it sounds like the word for death.

  Pam heaves me up. Reluctantly, I hand her the novel for the sterilisation rack. It’s such a treat, having a real book between my fingers. Sometimes I’ll hold one up to my nose and try to catch the smell of a bygone age.

  Like everything else, printing stopped during the Crisis. Even though the risk of infection was minimal. Book stores went first and libraries followed. By the time the new drugs came along, people had got used to touch-free audio and screens. Second-hand books became a titillating rarity, a bit like mercury-laden barometers or old medicine jars. Until someone invented a page steriliser that didn’t melt the print. I suppose we’re lucky, really. It’s only homes like ours that can afford them.

  Pam scuttles off ahead as I begin my slow trek to the visitor wing. I wheel past wooden tables with red-shaded lamps and wood-panelled walls. A couple of the residents look up, their faces a mixture of envy and surprise. I know what they’re thinking: I never get visitors. Most of us don’t. I see how it gets to some of them when, week after week, nobody comes. I suppose I should feel honoured. But this is no family visit.

  A dispenser puffs out more chemical jasmine as I shuffle past. Beyond the library, the decor changes to pastels with magnolia, and insipid landscape prints start to colonise the walls. My heart is leaping around as if it’s forgotten how old it is, and I stop a moment to rest. I wonder how much he’s changed. Probably weathered better than I have. He won’t be holed up in some tightly regulated care home. Oh, no. It’ll be the good life for him.

  Eventually I reach the carpeted area that signals I’ve made it to the border crossing: that closely guarded place where they let the outside in. Pictures are replaced with notices that shout in capitals about screening protocols and penalties. I pay no attention to them and step straight onto the circle. A violet beam hovers over my eyes. There’s a beep and the security doors slide open.

  This side of the curtain it’s black leather sofas and cream carpets, artificial flowers in glass vases. The stern warnings have all but disappeared. A large screen flashes mute images of crowds brandishing signs outside Westminster:

  Stop the Genocide!

  Don’t Cut Me Off!

  I follow the headlines scrolling along the bottom:

  More clashes between protestors and police as pressure mounts for abolition of the Medication Act…

  I think of poor Vivienne. No amount of protests can help her now.

  I shuffle along the carpet, marshalling my questions, as
the blood races through my veins. It’s me that’s asked him here. I must remember that. But memories keep closing in, like hungry sharks. It’s as if I’m living in two parallel worlds: the one that existed before I got the postcard, and a new, uncertain world that reaches back into my past and throws out questions I cannot answer.

  I contemplate the large silver ‘4’ on the door. Perhaps it was deliberate: Graham’s idea of a joke. I have a ridiculous impulse to knock. I ignore it.

  He is sitting with his back to me, staring at a picture on the wall. My eyes swerve to the painting. It’s a typical Oxford scene, all Cotswold stone and cobbles, bicycles lined up outside a college gate. It brings no comfort.

  He grips the chair with lean, manicured fingers and manoeuvres himself round. His hair has greyed, and he’s thinner than I remember. I expected the wrinkles, but not the bones pushing out as if his skin’s preparing to shed.

  ‘Ah, Lily.’ He rolls his tongue over the ls, just to put me on edge. I resist the urge to walk back out. ‘How long has it been?’

  He knows the answer – he knows everything about me. But I tell him anyway.

  ‘Nineteen years.’

  His sharp grey eyes flit over my invalid’s frame, my hunched body, my crab claws. His mouth puckers. I can’t tell whether it’s in amusement or disgust. I must look like an old hag to him. But the real monster in the room is right there.

  ‘Well, I have to say, your email came as something of a surprise.’ He smiles. His teeth look too big for his mouth. ‘I never expected to hear from you. But I kept the account open. Just in case.’

  His voice hasn’t changed: the same silky-smooth charm, which, like everything else, is false.

  I lower myself into one of the chairs and tug my sleeves over my hands. He watches every painstaking move. I try to remember what my first question was.

  He sniffs. ‘Not a bad place to end up.’

  Easy for him to say. Although I could be rotting away in one of those flats, like Pam’s mother. Or those detention centres they converted and called care homes, where they send pensioners with no money when their families eventually kick them out.