Think about something nice, one of my foster parents would say when I couldn’t sleep, or on nights when I woke up sweating, sobbing, screaming. Trite advice, but occasionally effective. So I thought about Pilot the dog.
I suppose I must have slept—it seems impossible that I wouldn’t have dropped off for at least a moment or two—but it didn’t feel like it. Sundays are dead days. I try to sleep as long as possible to pass the time (an old prison trick, apparently—thank you for the tip, Mummy) but on summer mornings, it can be difficult. When the phone rang just after ten, I’d been up for hours. I’d cleaned the bathroom and washed the kitchen floor, taken out the recycling and arranged all the tins in the cupboard so that the labels were facing forward in zetabetical order. I’d polished both pairs of shoes. I’d read the newspaper and completed all the crosswords and puzzles.
I cleared my throat before I spoke, realizing that I hadn’t uttered a word for almost twelve hours, back when I told the taxi driver where to drop me off. That’s actually quite good, for me—usually, I don’t speak from the point at which I state my destination to the bus driver on Friday night, right through until I greet his colleague on Monday morning.
“Eleanor?” It was Raymond, of course.
“Yes, this is she,” I said, quite curtly. For goodness’ sake, who did he expect? He coughed extravagantly: filthy smoker.
“Erm, right. I just wanted to let you know that I’m going in to see Sammy again today—wondered if you wanted to come with me?”
“Why?” I said.
He paused for quite a while—strange. It was hardly a difficult question.
“Well . . . I phoned the hospital and he’s much better—he’s awake—and he’s been moved into the general medical ward. I thought . . . I suppose I thought it’d be nice if he met us, in case he had any questions about what happened to him.”
I wasn’t thinking very quickly and had no time to consider the ramifications. Before I quite knew what had happened, we had arranged to meet at the hospital that afternoon. I hung up and looked at the clock on the living room wall, above the fireplace (it’s one I got in the Red Cross shop: electric blue circular frame, Power Rangers; adds a kind of rakish joie de vivre to the living room, I’ve always thought). I had several hours until the rendezvous.
I decided to take my time getting ready, and looked cautiously at myself in the mirror while the shower warmed up. Could I ever become a musician’s muse? I wondered. What was a muse, anyway? I was familiar with the classical allusion, of course, but, in modern-day, practical terms, a muse seemed simply to be an attractive woman whom the artist wanted to sleep with.
I thought about all those paintings: voluptuous maidens reclining in curvaceous splendor, waiflike ballerinas with huge limpid eyes, drowned beauties in clinging white gowns surrounded by floating blossoms. I was neither curvaceous nor waiflike. I was normal-sized and normal-faced (on one side, anyway). Did men ever look in the mirror, I wondered, and find themselves wanting in deeply fundamental ways? When they opened a newspaper or watched a film, were they presented with nothing but exceptionally handsome young men, and did this make them feel intimidated, inferior, because they were not as young, not as handsome? Did they then read newspaper articles ridiculing those same handsome men if they gained weight or wore something unflattering?
These were, of course, rhetorical questions.
I looked at myself again. I was healthy and my body was strong. I had a brain that worked fine, and a voice, albeit an unmelodious one; smoke inhalation all those years ago had damaged my vocal cords irreparably. I had hair, ears, eyes and a mouth. I was a human woman, no more and no less.
Even the circus freak side of my face—my damaged half—was better than the alternative, which would have meant death by fire. I didn’t burn to ashes. I emerged from the flames like a little phoenix. I ran my fingers over the scar tissue, caressing the contours. I didn’t burn, Mummy, I thought. I walked through the fire and I lived.
There are scars on my heart, just as thick, as disfiguring as those on my face. I know they’re there. I hope some undamaged tissue remains, a patch through which love can come in and flow out. I hope.
9
Raymond was waiting outside the front door of the hospital. I saw him bend down to light the cigarette of a woman in a wheelchair—she’d brought her drip out with her, on wheels, so that she could destroy her health at the same time as taxpayers’ money was being used to try and restore it. Raymond chatted to her as she smoked, puffing away himself. He leaned forward and said something and the woman laughed, a harridan’s cackle that ended in a prolonged bout of coughing. I approached with caution, fearing the noxious cloud might envelop me to deleterious effect. He spotted me coming, stubbed out his cigarette then ambled toward me. He was wearing a pair of denim trousers which were slung unpleasantly low around his buttocks; when his back was turned I saw an unwelcome inch of underpant—a ghastly imperial purple—and white skin covered in freckles, reminding me of a giraffe’s hide.
“Hiya, Eleanor,” he said, rubbing his hands on the front of his thighs as though to clean them. “How’re you doing today?”
Horrifically, he leaned forward as though to embrace me. I stepped back, but not before I’d had a chance to smell the cigarette smoke and another odor, something unpleasantly chemical and pungent. I suspected it was an inexpensive brand of gentleman’s cologne.
“Good afternoon, Raymond,” I said. “Shall we go inside?”
We took the lift to Ward 7. Raymond recounted the events of the previous evening to me at tedious length; he and his friends had apparently “pulled a late one,” whatever that meant, completing a mission on Grand Theft Auto and then playing poker. I wasn’t sure why he was telling me this. I certainly hadn’t asked. He finally finished speaking and then inquired about my evening.
“I conducted some research,” I said, not wishing to sully the experience by recounting it to Raymond.
“Look!” I said. “Ward 7!” Like a child or a small pet, he was easily distracted, and we took turns to use the alcohol hand rub before we went in. Safety first, although my poor ravaged skin had barely recovered from the previous dermatological onslaught.
Sammy was in the last bed nearest to the window, reading the Sunday Post. He glared at us over the top of his spectacles as we approached; his demeanor was not friendly. Raymond cleared his throat.
“Hi there, Mr. Thom,” he said. “I’m Raymond, and this is Eleanor.” I nodded at the old man. Raymond kept talking. “We, eh, we found you when you had your funny turn, and I went with you in the ambulance to hospital. We wanted to come by today and say hello, see how you were doing . . .”
I leaned forward and extended my hand. Sammy stared at it.
“Eh?” he said. “Who did you say you were?” He looked quite perturbed, and not a little aggressive. Raymond started to explain again, but Sammy held up his hand, palm facing forward, to silence him. Given that he was wearing candy-striped pajamas and his white hair was as fluffy and spiky as a baby pigeon’s, he nevertheless cut a surprisingly assertive figure.
“Now hold on, wait a minute,” he said, and leaned toward his bedside cabinet, grabbing something from the shelf. I took an involuntary step back—who knew what he might be about to pull out of there? He inserted something into his ear and fiddled about for a moment, a high-pitched squeal emitting from that side of his head. It stopped, and he smiled.
“Right then,” he said, “that’s better. Now the dog can see the rabbit, eh? So, what’s the story with you pair—church, is it? Or are you trying to rent me a telly again? I don’t want one, son—I’ve already told your pals. There’s no way I’m paying good money just to lie here and watch all that shite! Fatties doing ballroom dancing, grown men baking cakes, for the love of God!”
Raymond cleared his throat again and repeated his introduction, while I leaned forward and shook Sammy’s hand. His exp
ression changed instantly and he beamed at us both.
“Oh, so it was you pair, was it? I kept asking the nurses who it was that had saved my life—“Who brought me in?” I said. “How did I get here?”—but they couldn’t tell me. Have a seat, come on, sit down next to me and tell me all about yourselves. I can’t thank you enough for what you did, I really can’t.” He nodded, and then his face became very serious. “All you hear these days is that everything’s going to hell in a handcart, how everybody’s a pedophile or a crook, and it’s not true. You forget that the world is full of ordinary decent people like yourselves, Good Samaritans who’ll stop and help a soul in need. Just wait till the family meet you! They’ll be over the moon, so they will.”
He leaned back on his pillows, tired out from the effort of talking. Raymond fetched me a plastic seat, then another for himself.
“How are you feeling, then, Mr. Thom?” Raymond asked him. “Did you have a good night?”
“Call me Sammy, son—there’s no need to stand on ceremony. I’m doing fine, thanks; I’ll be right as rain in no time. You and your wife here saved my life, though, no two ways about it.”
I felt Raymond shift in his chair, and I leaned forward.
“Mr. Thom,” I said.
He raised his eyebrows, then waggled them at me in quite a disconcerting way. “Sammy,” I said, correcting myself, and he nodded at me.
“I’m afraid I have to clarify a couple of factual inaccuracies,” I said. “Firstly, we did not save your life. Credit for that must go to the Ambulance Service, whose staff, although somewhat brusque, did what was necessary to stabilize your condition whilst they brought you here. The medical team at the hospital, including the anesthetist and the orthopedic surgeon who operated on your hip, alongside the many other health-care professionals who have carried out your postoperative care—it is they who saved you, if anyone did. Raymond and I merely summoned assistance and kept you company until such time as the National Health Service took responsibility.”
“Aye, God bless the NHS, right enough,” said Raymond, interrupting rudely. I gave him one of my sternest looks.
“Furthermore,” I continued, “I should clarify posthaste that Raymond and myself are merely coworkers. We are most certainly not married to one another.” I stared hard at Sammy, making sure that he was in no doubt. Sammy looked at Raymond. Raymond looked at Sammy. There was a silence which, to me, seemed slightly awkward. Raymond sat forward in his chair.
“So, eh, where do you live then, Sammy? What were you up to the other day when you had your accident?” he asked.
Sammy smiled at him.
“I’m local, son—born and bred,” he said. “I always get my bits and pieces from the shops on a Friday. I’d been feeling a bit funny that morning, right enough, but I thought it was just my angina. Never expected to find myself in here!”
He took a toffee from a large bag on his lap, then offered them to us. Raymond took one; I declined. The thought of malleable confectionery, warmed to body temperature on Sammy’s groin (albeit encased in flannel pajamas and a blanket) was repellent.
Both Sammy and Raymond were audible masticators. While they chomped, I looked at my hands, noticing that they looked raw, almost burned, but glad of the fact that the alcohol rub had removed the germs and bacteria which lurked everywhere in the hospital. And, presumably, on me.
“What about you two—did you have far to come today?” Sammy asked. “Separately, I mean,” he added quickly, looking at me.
“I live on the South Side,” Raymond said, “and Eleanor’s . . . you’re in the West End, aren’t you?” I nodded, not wishing to disclose my place of residence any more precisely. Sammy asked about work, and I let Raymond tell him, being content to observe. Sammy looked rather vulnerable, as people are wont to do when they are wearing pajamas in public, but he was younger than I’d originally thought—not more than seventy, I’d guess—with remarkably dark blue eyes.
“I don’t know anything about graphic design,” Sammy said. “It sounds very fancy. I was a postman all my days. I got out at the right time, though; I can live on my pension, so long as I’m careful. It’s all changed now—I’m glad I’m not there anymore. All the messing about they’ve done with it. In my day, it was a proper public service . . .”
Raymond was nodding. “That’s right,” he said. “Remember when you used to get your post before you left the house in the morning, and there was a lunchtime delivery too? It comes in the middle of the afternoon now, if it comes at all . . .”
I have to admit, I was finding the post office chat somewhat tedious.
“How long are you likely to be in here, Sammy?” I said. “I only ask because the chances of contracting a postoperative infection are significantly increased for longer-stay patients—gastroenteritis, Staphylococcus aureus, Clostridium difficile—”
Raymond interrupted me again. “Aye,” he said, “and I bet the food’s rank as well, eh, Sammy?”
Sammy laughed. “You’re not wrong there, son,” he said. “You want to see what they served up for lunch today. Supposed to be Irish stew . . . looked more like Pedigree Chum. Smelled like it too.”
Raymond smiled. “Can we get you anything, Sammy? We could nip to the shop downstairs, or else pop back later in the week, bring stuff in, if you need it?”
Raymond looked at me for confirmation and I nodded. I had no reason to dismiss the suggestion. It was actually quite a pleasant feeling, thinking that I might be able to help an elderly person who was suffering due to inadequate nutrition. I started to think about what to bring him, types of food that could be transported without mishap. I wondered if Sammy might enjoy some cold pasta and pesto; I could make a double portion for supper one evening and bring the leftovers to him the next day in a Tupperware tub. I did not own any Tupperware, having had no need of it until this point. I could go to a department store to purchase some. That seemed to be the sort of thing that a woman of my age and social circumstances might do. Exciting!
“Ach, son, that’s awful kind of you,” Sammy said, deflating my sense of purpose somewhat, “but there’s really no need. The family are in here every day, twice a day.” He said this last part with evident pride. “I can’t even finish half the stuff they bring. There’s just so much of it! I end up having to give most of it away,” he said, indicating the other men on the ward with an imperious wave of his hand.
“What constitutes your family?” I asked, slightly surprised by this revelation. “I had assumed you were single and childless, like us.”
Raymond shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
“I’m a widower, Eleanor,” Sammy said. “Jean died five years ago—cancer. Took her quick, in the end.” He paused and sat up straighter. “I’ve two sons and a daughter. Keith’s my eldest, married with two wee ones. They’re cheeky monkeys, those boys,” he said, his eyes crinkling. “Gary’s my other son; Gary and Michelle—they’re not married, but they live together. That seems to be the way of it these days. And Laura, my youngest . . . well, God knows about Laura. Divorced twice by the age of thirty-five, can you believe it? She’s got her own wee business, a nice house and a car . . . she just can’t seem to find a good man. Or when she does find one, she can’t hang on to him.”
I found this interesting. “I’d counsel your daughter not to worry,” I said, with confidence. “In my recent experience, the perfect man appears when you’re least expecting it. Fate throws him into your path, and then providence ensures that you will end up together.” Raymond made a strange sound, something between a cough and a sneeze.
Sammy smiled kindly at me. “Is that right? Well, you can tell her yourself, hen,” he said. “They’ll all be here soon.”
A nurse walked past as he said this and had clearly overheard. She was grossly overweight and was wearing rather attractive white plastic clogs teamed with striking black-and-yellow-striped socks—her feet lo
oked like big fat wasps. I made a mental note to ask her where she’d purchased them before we left.
“There’s a maximum of three visitors to a bed,” she said, “and we’re strictly enforcing that rule today, I’m afraid.” She didn’t look afraid. Raymond stood up.
“We’ll go, and let your family visit, Sammy,” he said. I stood up too; it seemed appropriate.
“No rush, no rush now,” Sammy said.
“Shall we return later in the week?” I asked. “Is there a magazine or a periodical you’d like us to bring?”
“Eleanor, it’s like I said—you two saved my life, we’re family now. Come and visit anytime you like. I’d love to see you, hen,” Sammy said. His eyes were damp, like periwinkles in seawater. I held out my hand again and instead of shaking it, he clasped both of mine in his. Normally I would be horrified, but he surprised me. His hands were large and warm, like an animal’s paws, and mine felt small and fragile inside them. His fingernails were quite long and gnarly, and there were curly gray hairs on the backs of his hands, running all the way up and under his pajama sleeves.
“Eleanor, listen,” he said, staring me in the eye and gripping my hands tightly, “thanks again, lass. Thanks for taking care of me and bringing in my shopping.” I found that I didn’t want to remove my hands from the warmth and strength of his. Raymond coughed, his lungs no doubt reacting to the absence of carcinogens over the last half hour or so.