The Waiting Rooms

by Eve Smith

  I wheel into the bathroom and am blinded by all the chrome and white. There’s a smell of tea tree and something else I can never remember that’s supposed to help. I wait a couple of beats before I ask. ‘Have you ever worked on any of the other dorms here, Anne?’

  She swings the bath seat round and locks it into place. ‘Oh, yes. Quite a few, over the years. Covering holidays and sick leave, that kind of thing.’ Steam rises from the bath and a perfumed mist clouds around our heads.

  My eyes sidle to the floor. ‘Did you ever work on Betjeman?’

  She glances at me. ‘Why, are you putting in for a move?’ She unties my belt. ‘Trying to get shot of me?’

  ‘Anne, you’re the last person I’d want to get rid of.’

  She chuckles and carefully slips off my robe. There was a time when I took pleasure in being undressed. Gave pleasure, even. Now I feel like a wrinkly old turtle that’s been yanked out of its shell.

  ‘Let’s see … Yes, I covered for Eloise just a few months back. She had to take some time off to be with her father.’ She lowers me onto the seat. My skin looks a ghostly grey against the glare of clinical white. She grabs the remote. ‘Ready?’

  ‘Ready.’

  The chair starts to rise. My toes lift off: I am airborne.

  ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘I recognised a name on a door. It’s probably just coincidence.’ I pause. ‘Margaret Benn.’ Just saying those two words makes my pulse quicken. ‘I used to work with a Margaret Benn. At the university.’

  ‘Margaret? Hmm. There might have been a Margaret…’ She tuts. ‘My memory, honestly. It’s going to the dogs.’ My legs clear the side of the bath and she swings me round. ‘I’ll check with Eloise. It’d be nice for you to make a new friend.’

  ‘I don’t want any fuss,’ I say quickly. ‘It was a long time ago. It might not be her.’

  Anne hits the button and I begin my descent.

  ‘Well, why don’t I have a quiet word? Eloise can point her out to you. Don’t worry, she’s very discreet.’

  The tips of my toes brush the water, sending goose bumps up my legs. Suddenly the chair grinds to a stop.

  ‘Uh, oh.’ Anne stabs the button. Nothing happens. She tries again. ‘I don’t believe it. This infernal machine was playing up yesterday. I thought they’d fixed it.’ She shakes her head and tries a different button. There’s a small whirring sound. I think I hear Anne swear.

  I’m beginning to get cold, but I don’t say anything. The hairs on my skin lift up like hackles. Anne tries again and frowns. ‘I’m sorry, Lily. Looks like it isn’t going to play ball. We may have to abandon this.’

  I gaze at the water beneath me as coils of steam curl around my ankles. ‘But it seems such a waste,’ I say. ‘And this is my only perk.’

  Only medical conditions such as mine warrant a bath. Normal practice is showers: less time, less hassle for the carers, and much easier to sterilise.

  I attempt a coquettish smile. ‘Couldn’t I just, you know, slip in?’

  Anne stands back and folds her arms. ‘And how exactly are you going to “slip in”? Or out, for that matter?’ She shakes her head. ‘Come on, let’s get you off that contraption. Before you catch a chill.’

  She unlocks the arm, but I’m not giving up that easily. That cushioning warmth of water is one of the highlights of my week.

  ‘Please, Anne…’ As she swings me back round, I touch her arm. ‘My joints have been giving me hell. I know how busy you all are; I didn’t want to make a fuss.’

  She gives me a long hard stare. ‘Lily Taylor, you push me to the limit, you really do.’

  I do my best to look contrite. She leans in and puts one arm under my knees, the other under my arms.

  ‘You’d better not breathe a word of this, you hear? Just as well there’s nothing of you.’ I fold my arms around her neck. ‘Hang on tight. On three.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘One, two, three…’

  She lifts me over the side of the bath. My body slides out of her grip with an ungainly splash. I spin over and get a face full of water.

  ‘Whoa, you OK?’ She catches my arm and pulls me back round. I’d forgotten how slippery it is, without the seat. ‘And that is exactly why we shouldn’t do what we just did,’ she says, breathing hard.

  I pat the water playfully with one hand. ‘Most fun I’ve had in ages.’

  I hook my wrists over the handrails and glide back down. My skin tingles as the water covers my ears. It’s a delight, being weightless: no creaking limbs or stiff moves. Anne is still remonstrating; I watch her lips, just the odd word breaking through. I have a sudden flashback to myself as a young girl in the bath, my mother raging silently above me.

  Anne pulls me back up. ‘Lily, what on earth do you think you—?’

  The buzz of a phone cuts her off. She wipes her hands on a towel. ‘This really is turning into one of those mornings,’ she mutters. She scans the screen and her face hardens. ‘I have to go, Lily. Right away.’ I don’t say anything. ‘I’m sorry, but you know I can’t leave you. We’ll have to get you out.’

  I roll my eyes. ‘But I’ve only just got in! You’re not going to be long, are you?’

  ‘That’s not the point, and you know it.’ She spreads the bathmat out. ‘Now please don’t be difficult. What if you slip? Or have another episode?’

  ‘I won’t. I’ll hold on, I promise.’

  Her phone buzzes again. ‘Alright, alright!’ She glares at it, her cheeks colouring.

  I point at the red plastic emergency cord dangling over my head. ‘If I get into trouble, I can always pull that. Say I got in without you.’

  She eyes me warily and sighs. ‘Five minutes. I’m relying on you, Lily. No silly business. This kind of thing could cost me my job.’

  She scurries out, and the door clicks shut. I count to five and sink back down. I am on my own in the bath for the first time in nearly five years. I feel a pulse of excitement, like a teenager who has bunked off school.

  I close my eyes. The water lifts me, massaging my hips and shoulders, tickling the back of my neck. A soothing warmth seeps into my joints. I scull my arms, sending ripples across my stomach, and, like the Tin Man, feel myself start to unlock. I listen to my heartbeat, drumming its own gentle rhythm, and imagine I am floating in a turquoise sea, waves lapping my body, fish nibbling my toes. Memories flicker. The heat of sun on flesh. The lick of salt on skin. Sand, pushing against my back.

  The water caresses my skin. I drift, weightless, as the shadow of a cloud passes overhead.

  My mind stirs, sleepy but insistent.

  There can be no clouds. Because that is a ceiling, not a sky.

  I open my eyes just as my face goes under. My hands flail for the rails. I strain to lift my head, but it’s too heavy, as if someone is pressing it down. I swing my arms up, claw at the sides, but I can’t get a grip. I force my eyes to stay open; all I see is a stinging blur of light. I wedge my feet against the edge, try to lever myself up, grab the cord. My legs thrash against the porcelain as the pressure mounts in my chest. On reflex I inhale; minty water burns down my throat. I cough out my breath in a blast of bubbles.

  Someone hauls me up. They drag me over the side and my body hits the deck like a speared fish. Pain ricochets up my spine. They roll me onto my side and slap my back as I hack the water out of my lungs. I hear muffled words, but I can’t make sense of them. I gulp some air and explode in a fit of coughing.

  ‘Sweet Jesus. Bring it up, that’s it. Get it all out.’

  Anne’s olive face presses up to mine; her voice sounds miles away. She rubs my back and I heave again. The room swims in and out of focus.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Lily. I should never have left you. To think what might have … If I’d been a minute later…’

  My eyes dart behind her, but no one else is there.

  ‘Lord in heaven, what happened? Did you have another attack?’

  I see the fright in her eyes but I cannot
answer. It’s all I can do to breathe.

  ‘It’s OK, Lily, take your time, take your time.’ She gives my back quick little pats. ‘Are you OK to sit up now, do you think?’

  I nod. She props me up against the wall and swaddles me in the bathrobe like a baby. My head sags down over my knees. I can’t stop shaking.

  ‘Were you holding on to the rails, Lily? Were you? Now tell me the truth.’ Anne is so close I can see the pucker lines around her mouth.

  ‘I don’t…’ Each word stings like acid. I try to swallow. ‘I was just lying there, when…’ I hesitate.

  She stops rubbing. ‘What?’

  ‘I saw something.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Like a shadow. In the room.’

  She sits back on her ankles. ‘What kind of shadow?’ I notice the damp patches I’ve made all over her uniform. She frowns. ‘What exactly are you saying, Lily?’

  ‘I … I don’t know.’ I stare at the tiles. ‘It was just before my head went under.’

  Anne takes a deep breath. ‘There was no one here.’ Her voice is a little gentler. ‘The corridor was empty. Are you sure?’

  There was something. I saw it, didn’t I? And that pressure on my head…

  ‘Perhaps you dropped off? Just for a second?’ she says. ‘Or maybe it was a trick of the light?’ I shake my head and sigh. She squeezes my arm. ‘You’ve had a horrible shock, you poor thing. No wonder you’re at sixes and sevens.’ She stands up. ‘Come on, let’s get you back to your room. I need to give you a proper check over. Then I’ll bring you a nice cup of tea.’

  Anne fetches the wheelchair and helps me in. As she fusses over me I don’t say a word.

  Could Anne be right? Did I drift off and slip under? Or has Margaret Benn tired of paper?

  I rewind over and over, but it’s like an old radio that won’t tune in.

  The truth is, I really can’t be sure.

  CHAPTER 20

  Twenty-six years pre-Crisis

  MARY

  ‘That’s it. Just a few more steps.’

  He steers me to the right, his knees pressing into the backs of my thighs. I bang into something sharp and my eyes flick open. All I see are slits of pinkish light.

  He tuts. ‘No cheating.’

  My lashes sweep back down. Amidst the salted scent of him I detect a new smell: faint but sweet, like nectar. My face grows sticky under his palms. For some reason, I’m finding it hard to breathe. I fight the urge to prize off his fingers.

  He releases me. ‘OK, you can look.’

  It’s a blaze of colour. Hundreds of delicate tendrils curl out from their stems, each a slightly different shade: carmine, vermilion, scarlet. As if all the reds in the world have blossomed in these feathery petals, here, on this table.

  His breath blows into my neck. ‘Do you like them?’

  ‘I … They’re stunning.’ I scrutinise the green, spotted stems, the undulating glossy leaves. They must be some kind of lily, but I haven’t come across this species before. ‘What are they?’

  ‘A South African treasure.’ His lips graze my hair. ‘Scadoxus puniceus.’

  Scadoxus…? My brain attempts to place it as his fingers climb down the thin cotton of my dress.

  ‘We call them Rooikwas. Means “red brush”.’ My spine arches as he snakes round another vertebra. ‘But they have several names.’ He skirts the small of my back, damp where the sweat has gathered. ‘The paintbrush lily. The snake lily.’ His tongue probes my ear as he circles my coccyx. ‘But I prefer their other name.’ His hand slides down, under my dress. ‘The African blood lily.’ My eyes close as words melt into flesh. ‘They only bloom once a year.’

  I press my hands against the table, moving with him, breaths drawing short and quick. The lilies tremble in their pot as he reaches deeper, his lips covering my face, my throat. Colours streak behind my eyes as the petals, the room, the constant dread of him leaving fade. All that remains is the pant of breath, the pulse of blood that quickens until the heat swells through my body and I surrender to that sweet, sweet release.

  ‘Happy Birthday,’ he whispers. I bury my head in his chest, listen to his heart. In moments like this, I can believe he is mine.

  My breathing slows as the room folds back into view. My dress clings to me like a second skin.

  He rubs his thumb over my lips. ‘Thirsty?’ He reaches into a cool box and lifts out a fat-bottomed bottle. My eyes widen. Iced droplets glisten on emerald glass.

  I laugh. ‘Now that is smooth.’ I brush my hair off my face. ‘How on earth did you get hold of it?’

  He twists off the wire and grasps the cork. ‘I have connections, you know.’

  We sit on the veranda and watch the sun drop out of the sky as the creamy lime petals of a bushwillow pulse out their scent. I let each mouthful of champagne linger, popping fruit on my tongue.

  Piet empties the last few drops into my glass. ‘Fancy a stroll to the hide? It’s almost a full moon.’

  I peer up at him, the alcohol trickling through my veins. ‘Actually, I had other plans.’ I tug at his belt. My words are sluggish, bordering on slurred.

  Piet smiles and takes my hand. ‘Come on. The light will be perfect.’

  I let him haul me up. We wander across the grass, the air cooling at last. As the light wanes, the trees recede to silhouettes, and hundreds of male frogs commence their evening chorus of courtship. We climb the steps of the hide and I wait while Piet flicks on his torch and checks for less welcome visitors. We settle on the wooden bench and open the viewing slats. A bulbous moon ripples across the water.

  Gradually, the greys distinguish themselves and shapes materialise on the banks. None of them are animals. I hold myself rigid, as if stilling my own body might encourage others to come. All around us frogs compete with the chirps of bush crickets rubbing their wings to attract a mate. Something stirs in the water, spreading slow circles across its surface, but whatever made them remains invisible below. I glance at Piet. I can just make out his sharp nose and the firm, unrelenting jaw. My fingers itch to touch him. I resist.

  Minutes pass. I recognise the purring chant of a nightjar followed by a scops owl’s clipped trill. My eyes start to play tricks on me, summoning creatures out of bushes, but still nothing comes. It’s stifling in the hide, as if all the day’s heat has been sealed into this little wooden box. A moth batters past my face, and I flinch. Piet doesn’t stir. I lean forward to adjust my weight and the bench creaks.

  All of a sudden, Piet holds up one hand. He tilts his head. I try to blank out the other sounds and train my senses on whatever it is he just heard. Another second and I have it: a strange rasping noise, like someone sawing wood. Piet puts one finger to his lips and claws the air. He doesn’t need to. I know what it is. I can hardly believe it. He’s told me about her before.

  We wait two, maybe three minutes. It feels like thirty. And then, through the trees, I see her. I’ve seen pictures, watched programmes, but nothing has prepared me for such muscled grace. Her golden fur gleams a silvery pearl in the moonlight, amplifying intricate black patterns of rosettes. She takes four strides along the bank and stops. I glimpse pale-amber eyes perfectly outlined in black. She sniffs the air and her body tenses. She backs up against a bush and lifts her tail.

  ‘She’s marking,’ Piet whispers, eyes fixed straight ahead. ‘She must be in season. That was her. Calling to a male.’

  My first leopard. These are highly elusive, solitary creatures. And there she is, all forty kilos of her, just the other side of these planks.

  She pads towards the waterhole, her huge paws sinking into the mud. As she turns I catch a gleam of white behind her ears. She lowers her head and laps the water, eyes constantly on alert.

  ‘Adults only come together for courtship and mating. Even then it’s just for a few days.’ His eyes glitter. ‘It’s the females who initiate it. They’ll mate every five or ten minutes. Then they go their separate ways.’

  I’m tempt
ed to say something but don’t. The leopardess licks her mouth and whiskers, revealing a flash of murderous teeth. She lifts her head, and my eyes meet hers. I feel something powerful, unnameable, akin to yearning. This female is perfectly adapted to her life in solitude. A supreme hunter and a devoted mother. She needs no mate by her side to make her feel whole.

  We watch her wander back along the bank: deliberate but unhurried, the pronounced bone and muscles in each shoulder sliding up with every step. When she reaches the trees she stops. Her tail flicks up behind her, a splash of white at its tip. She gives a cursory glance back towards us and, like a spell, she is gone.

  ‘Well,’ says Piet, ‘you couldn’t get a better birthday gift than that. Pretty damn special.’

  I exhale, unaware I’d been holding my breath. I imagine her stalking through the undergrowth, seeking out her quarry. Marking her scent in places I will never know.

  He slips his hand through mine. ‘Magnificent, isn’t she?’

  ‘Yes.’ I stiffen. ‘Absolutely in her prime.’

  We don’t talk much on the way back. It’s still sweltering inside, so Piet drags the mattress out onto the veranda while I light the mosquito coils. We lie on our backs and stare up at the sky. It is something to behold, an African night: a blaze of stars as far as you can see. But despite the stars and the leopard and all the trouble Piet’s gone to, this heaviness in me won’t budge.

  Piet lifts his finger. ‘Orion. Can you see it?’ I don’t respond. ‘Go to the Milky Way, then across.’ I squint up at the night sky like a reluctant child. ‘Look for the three belt stars first: the really bright ones.’ A curl of smoke encircles his hand and floats up into the ether. ‘The Ancient Egyptians believed Osiris descended from those stars. That’s why the pyramids at Giza are aligned to Orion’s Belt.’

  There is no end to Piet’s knowledge, it seems. Normally I’m all ears.

  ‘Got them? Good. Now look for the hunter.’ He traces a shape in the air as a soft breeze rattles the leaves. ‘Follow his arm out to the bow.’

  Out of the morass of stars, a distinct figure appears. I frown. ‘Where did you learn all this stuff?’