The Waiting Rooms

by Eve Smith

  She opens the door but none of us moves. Surely she must have heard?

  Her fingers tighten around the handle. ‘Come on, then. Chop! Chop! We don’t want to be late, do we?’ She clutches her collar around her vulturine neck as the residents stare. Death itself won’t obstruct her schedule.

  ‘We’d better get going,’ whispers Anne. She wheels me outside, and I suck cool air into my lungs. Out here, all appears to be normal. The same weary-looking drivers slouched up against their minibuses, the same manicured bushes trying to liven up the drive. But the day is already spoiled. Like a wedding reception that still goes ahead even though the bride never showed up.

  ‘Morning, Ted,’ says Anne to a large, red-faced man who is bent over the ramp. ‘Ready for the onslaught?’

  ‘Aye, just about,’ he says, in a thick accent. Yorkshire, I think. ‘We’re twelve on here, right?’

  ‘I believe so.’ Anne drops her voice. ‘Unless she-who-must-be-obeyed has changed it all again.’ They exchange smirks. The man called Ted wheels me on and fastens the latches. I try not to think about the dirt trapped underneath his fingernails or the wheeze in his chest. Surely he must qualify for some kind of respiratory medication. Although, these days, even if you are under seventy, they still make you go through a dozen hoops.

  The ramp starts to rise. I keep my eyes down, neck hunched into my coat like a turtle.

  ‘Alright, love?’ he shouts. I wince. Why must they always assume we’re deaf? ‘Looking forward to your big day out?’

  My nose wrinkles. Even from behind a mask, his breath still smells. I give him my best withering look, but he doesn’t seem to notice. Perhaps he assumes it’s my normal expression. He pats my arm with his grubby hand and lumbers off to get the next one.

  It takes nearly forty-five minutes to load everyone on, by which time I am approaching frantic. I used to be able to manage these trips on my frame, but with cut-off looming, I can’t take the risk. So now I’m trapped in a chair, dependent on people who treat me as though it’s my brain that’s wasting away, not my cartilage. Thankfully, there isn’t much traffic, and after an hour we arrive. The house looks like a fairy-tale French castle with its golden stone towers and silver domes, but it holds no spell for me today. They park us out front and split us into two groups: one for the house, one for the gardens. There’s a brisk breeze, but at least the weather has held.

  I scour the long gravel driveway as the previous visitors hurry out. We barely mix with the younger generations these days, apart from staff. Any amenities that do actually allow us in have age-specific rotas that are strictly enforced. With all the lawsuits flying around, I don’t blame them. But it’s like we’re living in some kind of ageist apartheid.

  Someone grips my chair, making me start. I look up. It’s that new carer. I wanted Anne. Where’s Anne?

  ‘Hello. You’re Lily, aren’t you?’ She smiles. ‘I’m Natalie.’ Her skin is rather sallow but she has nice teeth: white and even, like mine used to be.

  ‘Oh. Hello. Looks like you’ve drawn the short straw.’

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that. Anne’s told me all about you. Says you’ve quite the sense of humour.’

  I notice her vowels are very slightly clipped. I should ask her where she’s from.

  ‘Apparently you’re very knowledgeable about flowers,’ she says. ‘You’ll have to educate me. I’m hopeless, I’m afraid.’

  I smooth out a crease in my skirt. I don’t say anything, just smile. Better to be humble about one’s past, particularly with the carers.

  ‘Shall we get going, Lily?’

  ‘Yes. Let’s.’

  She pushes me past conflagrations of roses towards the place they call the parterre. Silver jets spiral out of stone fountains. The spray fizzes across my cheek like a kiss.

  ‘Are there any specific gardens you’d like to visit, Lily?’

  My head swivels round. I notice her eyes. They are an unusual fawn colour, but there are deep wrinkles around them. She must be older than I thought.

  ‘The Tropical Mound. It’s not far, you just turn right down that path.’ I glance behind. ‘Perhaps we could get a head start.’

  She takes the hint and propels me forward. To my irritation, some of the others start to follow, their wheelchairs churning up the gravel. ‘Don’t worry,’ whispers Natalie in my ear, tightening my belt. ‘I’ve got arms like Popeye. We’ll leave them for dust.’

  She ups the pace, and a small smile creeps onto my face. Perhaps the day might be rescued after all. ‘Do I detect an accent?’ There, I remembered. My memory isn’t failing me yet. She doesn’t reply at first and I wonder if she’s heard.

  ‘You’re very observant,’ she says, as we pound along the path. ‘Hardly anyone notices.’

  Oh dear, I’ve offended her: not a good move. ‘Sorry,’ I say quickly. ‘It’s the kind of thing I pick up on.’

  ‘It’s OK. I’ve been here so long now, I guess I think of myself as a Brit. My parents moved over from Australia when I was young.’

  As the path climbs her pace slows a little. We pause to admire a topiary hedge: undulating leaves stretch along a border like waves.

  ‘So, Lily, what got you interested in plants, then?’

  You can tell she’s new. Normally they switch off straight away.

  ‘I used to do a bit of gardening.’

  There are a lot of things I used to do. I used to dance. I used to discover things. I used to make men’s heads turn.

  ‘Really? My mother was into all that. Didn’t rub off on me, I’m sorry to say. Perhaps you can tell me what everything is.’

  Is she just being polite or does she really want to know? It’s not often I get an audience these days. Like toddlers, we are tended to but rarely heard. It doesn’t matter though: we’ve arrived.

  A pink-and-orange star extends towards us like a tropical sea-creature, composed entirely of dahlias. Riotous palms tower over gazania treasure flowers; red and yellow canna lilies flaunt their leaves like cabaret dancers. There must be a dozen strelitzias: their orange and purple spikes soar above the blue agapanthus like exotic birds. I want to clap my hands. It’s been so long. So very long.

  ‘Goodness,’ says Natalie. ‘Just look at all those colours!’

  ‘Would you mind taking some pictures for me?’ I hand her my tablet.

  ‘Of course.’

  She snaps away as I point out the different flowers and, for a few moments, the pressure lifts. And then I see it. An explosion of scarlet crowning glossy green leaves. The blood rushes to my cheeks.

  ‘What’s that one, over there? With those tiny petals?’ Natalie is staring at the same plant. ‘They look like feathers. Such a gorgeous red.’

  The breath sticks in my throat. Scadoxus puniceus…

  ‘A lily.’ I swallow. ‘A blood lily. We’re lucky, they only bloom once a year.’

  I see the clay pot on the table. He is standing behind me, his lips on my neck.

  Happy Birthday…

  A forgotten heat stirs.

  It changes. The petals fade and drop. A purple-spotted stem pokes up through the leaves, obscene.

  ‘Lily?’

  Two red lines.

  ‘Are you alright?’

  Two bloody stumps.

  ‘Lily, look at me!’

  I solemnly and sincerely declare…

  Something touches my arm. I flinch. Natalie is crouched in front of me, eyes boring into my face.

  ‘Are you OK?’ Her grip tightens. ‘Did something just happen?’

  I realise I’m panting. ‘Sorry, the garden, it…’ I catch myself before I say too much.

  She clamps her fingers over my wrist; they feel cool against my skin. ‘Hmm…’ She unzips my coat. ‘Can you try and raise both arms for me?’

  I heave them up. She bites her lip. A frown settles into her face. ‘I think we’d better get you back.’

  We speed past the flowerbeds, past the hedges, my arms bouncing at my sides like a rag dol
l’s. The other residents stare at us, fear breaking out across their faces.

  ‘I’ll ask Dr Barrows to check you over,’ says Natalie, breathing hard. ‘Take a look at your profile. Just to be safe.’

  I clench my chair as the gravel spits out behind us, my heart throbbing beneath my patch.

  I am here, in this garden, in an English stately home.

  So why is it I can still hear him?

  Why can I hear his voice?

  CHAPTER 14

  Twenty-seven years pre-Crisis

  MARY

  People say that you can’t choose who you love. I never used to believe them. I thought it was a convenient excuse for the ones who made bad choices or had affairs. Everything I’d seen indicated that love was a fluctuating series of responses to sex, charisma or power. But nothing about nature is random. Evolutionary mechanisms are at play, driving us to find our optimal partner. It’s quite simple really: we are biologically programmed to find our most genetically compatible mate. But sometimes the most compatible is the most deadly.

  I dab my mouth with the napkin as alcohol-infused banter barrels round the room. An untouched slab of chocolate torte glares at me. My eyes stray to the adjacent table where Piet is holding court. He looks different out of field gear: all dapper in chinos and a crisp blue shirt. He sweeps one hand through the air like a conductor and delivers his punchline. His audience toss their heads with laughter. I lift my glass to my lips, let the wine linger on my tongue. I’ve resigned myself to the fact he’s unavailable. I’ve heard all about his cute daughter, how happily married he is. It doesn’t stop me wanting him.

  The lab rat on my left leans over and slurs something; he’s stuck to me like a wad of chewing gum all night. There’s a whoop and a cheer from another table, and someone smashes a glass. My table companion breathes another waft of garlic in my face. I think he just asked if I want to go outside. I give him an icy smile and edge away. He’s not the only one who’ll have a sore head tomorrow. Let’s hope Terminalia sericea can cure hangovers as well as AIDS.

  After beavering away for months, the lab teams have finally hit the jackpot: they’ve chemically characterised the molecule responsible for attacking HIV-1. Suddenly the university thinks my career change is a wonderful idea, and the money’s flooding in. Of course the politics are with me, too. As the end of apartheid draws closer, my colleagues are keen to cosy up to the more liberal academics here. Piet hasn’t let up the pressure, though. The TB count is escalating, with an alarming increase in multidrug-resistant strains. And, thanks to HIV, this is no longer just Africa’s problem. Large-scale, highly lethal epidemics of MDR-TB have broken out in New York, Miami, Rio de Janeiro and Bangkok. London could be next.

  As for the job itself, like any research, it’s meticulous. I have to detail which parts of the plant are used for what, record their traditional preparation and dosage, and then deliver samples to the labs. Every part of the plant has potential: leaves, stems, bark. Flowers, roots and seeds. One part may be beneficial and another extremely toxic. The method of preparation is also critical. You need the right amount, added to the right solvent, mashed, burned or boiled in the right way. These plants can kill as well as cure. Precision is the key.

  I see Piet fold his napkin and push back his chair. He walks briskly towards the exit. My insides stretch as tight as a wire.

  ‘Excuse me.’ Before the lab rat can assemble his words I stand up and pad across the thick, patterned carpet towards the double doors. Cool-blue silk pulls taut on my thighs, my sling-backs slip-slapping against my heels. I follow Piet out onto the terrace. He leans over the balcony rail and sips his beer, unaware I’m there. I watch him for a second. It’s as if the very air around him is charged.

  I tuck in a curl of hair that’s escaped from my chignon. ‘Taking a breather?’

  Piet turns. He doesn’t seem surprised to see me. But his expression does not convey celebration. ‘Look.’ He gestures at the sprawl below. ‘We’re up here getting pissed. Down there it’s carnage.’ He takes another swig; his eyes are a steely blue. ‘As if we don’t have enough sickness and death to contend with, without this slaughter.’

  I’ve been immersed in South Africa’s politics ever since I arrived. I’ve learned the hard way that, sometimes, it’s better to keep your mouth shut.

  He shakes his head. ‘I tell you, it can’t go on like this much longer.’

  I follow his gaze to the towers of concrete and glass rising up through the haze. They look innocent enough from here: just another huddle of office blocks. Nothing could be further from the truth. I decide to risk it. ‘I hear the central district is like a warzone.’

  He rubs his thumb over the bottle; tiny beads of condensation slide down the glass. ‘There’s been so much violence.’ He sighs. ‘This government has to stop fighting the inevitable.’ He pushes back from the railings, and I catch a fresh, soapy scent, a fleeting triumph over the city’s perennial stench of sewers. ‘Trouble is, some people will sacrifice anything to hang on to power. No matter how much suffering they cause.’ His jaw stiffens. ‘You don’t see animals behaving that way.’

  I’ve never seen him like this; perhaps it’s the drink. ‘I thought lots of species killed for power,’ I say, twisting my necklace round. ‘But I guess you’d know more about that than me.’

  He looks up, and it’s as though he sees me for the first time. ‘Yes. Some do.’ He nods slowly. ‘When I was a ranger, I witnessed many fights for territory. I saw animals pick off the old, the young and the weak. But even then, there was always a balance.’ He frowns. ‘That’s something we’ve lost along the way.’

  His honesty is electrifying; I don’t want him to stop. ‘Do you miss it? Being a ranger, I mean?’

  He smiles and for a moment his face lifts. ‘Sometimes.’ He stares into the bottle. ‘Don’t get me wrong, I love what I do, but there’s something about being alone in the wilderness, seeing nature in the raw. Although there were bad times too, of course. When the rains didn’t come. And the fires. Huge areas of smoking black earth. One burnt carcass after another.’ He grimaces. ‘The stench. It never leaves you.’

  The sun trails a fiery line across the horizon. In this light, his hair looks a burnished gold.

  He takes another drink. ‘Often, the only way to slow the spread was to start another fire. Starve the flames.’ His gaze moves back to the sky. ‘You knew animals would get caught. You had to sacrifice some to save the others.’

  I stare at him and try to imagine what it must have been like to make those decisions.

  ‘Would you ever go back to it?’

  He hesitates and slowly shakes his head. ‘No, I don’t think so. I’m committed to another cause now. And it’s not a great life for a young family. I’d be away from them even more than I am now, and I miss them when I’m gone, especially my little Cara.’

  My eyes return to the high rises. A few windows have lit up; the rest remain ominously dark.

  He takes a breath. ‘Anyway, enough of me. How are things with you? Any regrets?’

  I look up at him and smile. ‘Actually, I’ve never been happier.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘I’ve learned so much. Met so many interesting people. Traditional healers, community elders. Even the herbarium guys.’ He smiles. ‘And I get to spend loads of time in the field doing the thing I love most. It’s beautiful out there. Really beautiful.’ I press my palms against the rails. ‘I’m beginning to think I’ll never leave.’ I feel Piet’s eyes on me, and my face grows warm.

  ‘Well, I’ve been hearing lots of good reports. You’re certainly keeping the boys in the labs busy: our inventory’s building up nicely.’

  ‘Just a matter of time.’ I edge closer. ‘First stop, HIV. Next stop, TB.’

  He downs the rest of his beer. ‘Let’s hope so. For all our sakes.’

  A light breeze pushes my dress against my legs. The rush of distant traffic rolls in like waves across shingle.

  He takes
a breath. ‘I’m glad you came with me that day to the hospital. Glad I was able to change your mind.’

  A pulse of perfume floats between us. It is me that finally looks away.

  ‘I have this bolthole,’ he says, as the sky softens from purple to grey. ‘An old ranger’s hut. Near the Letaba River. Before I left, I persuaded them to let me rent it.’ He twists the bottle round in his fingers. ‘Sometimes, I just take myself off there for a day or two. Forget all about the human race.’

  A lock of hair caresses my neck. Breath ebbs and flows.

  ‘It’s next to a waterhole. I’ve seen all sorts down there: rhino, leopard. Herds of elephant. You just wander down and watch the animals come to drink.’

  Silence builds like a force of gravity between us. I will not be the one to break it.

  There’s a click in his throat and my heart leaps. ‘Next time you’re up that way, let me know.’

  I tell myself afterwards that it doesn’t mean anything; that nothing will come of it. It’s just the drink talking; tomorrow, he won’t even remember.

  Now, when I look back, I see that I knew all along.

  I knew that he meant it. I knew that I’d go there. And I knew what the consequences would be.

  But I did not know how it would end.

  CHAPTER 15

  Steri-Swim™: the safe new swimming experience.

  Now you can enjoy all the pleasures of the water with none of the risks!

  As the weather heats up, you may think a quick dip in your local approved river or chemically treated swimming pool might be refreshing, but think again.

  A recent UK study has shown that recreational water activities were responsible for almost ten million infections last year, including ear, skin and respiratory illnesses as well as some nasty gastro-intestinal bugs. Some of these water-borne infections proved fatal, even after treatment. The primary culprit? Swimming.

  Cryptosporidium, norovirus and E.coli are just a few of the pathogens lurking in our pools, rivers and beaches. And because these microbes are carried in by other swimmers, chlorination and pollution control measures won’t work.