Egg Dancing

by Liz Jensen

  By the end of it, she looked shagged out. I felt like offering her some chicken and mushroom cup-a-soup from the machine.

  ‘Oh I couldn’t testify against him,’ I said eventually. ‘We were lovers, you see. We used to do it here on the desk, sometimes.’

  This seemed to be the last straw for the poor psychiatrist. In a strangulated voice, she asked me to excuse her. She had some urgent phone calls to make. Was I, er, considering pressing assault charges? And more words came creaking over the dangerous terrain: sensitive issue, jeopardise the reputation of, already severely embarrassed by, new management, press enquiries, de-toxification of all patients. Regret. We deeply regret. We regret deeply.

  She stood up to shake my hand, but I said, ‘You don’t understand.’ I was enjoying myself for the first time in ages. ‘Dr Stern was a wonderful lover. I had fabulous orgasms.’

  The truth can be a killer.

  She sat down in her chair with a plonk and went white. She told me, shakily that I was free to go, and that the Health Service apologised for the administrative error that had led to my being holed up here on heavy-duty medication for so long.

  But I’m not stupid. I said I wanted that in writing.

  She said, ‘Of course,’ quite coldly, looking at me sideways, and filling out a form.

  And I want my file, Dr Apple Tree, I told her. The one marked ‘Hazel Stevenson’.

  ‘Appleby. But it’s hospital property. And I haven’t studied it all yet.’

  ‘You have no right to,’ I said. ‘As you’ve admitted yourself, I should never have been here. I’m going to destroy that file personally. Or you’ll be hearing more about my orgasms, and in public. My orgasms, Dr Apple Tree, will be on News at Ten. It will be the end of the Manxheath Institute of Challenged Stability.’

  And I took the mustard-yellow file from the shelf right under her nose. I left. When I glanced back through the open door I saw she was slumped in the chair doing some sort of breathing exercise. So off I went.

  This was nothing compared to what I was about to do.

  I’d thought it all through, hadn’t I.

  FIFTEEN

  Time at the Institute had been as long as a piece of string; the two months I’d spent there might as well have been two minutes, or two centuries.

  When I walked out of reception there was a big sky with scutters of clouds, and a west wind bearing the burnt plastic smell of the Cheeseway Works. It evoked a strange nostalgia. Linda and I always used to know when they were mixing the beige. The smell of the plastic dye was different. They usually did beige on Thursdays, but today was Friday, Monica Fletcher had told me, because Friday used to be the day she had her hair done and it always gave her a pang of yearning for the days when the world was normal. I breathed in deeply, re-absorbing the pedal-bins of my past into my blood. But when I exhaled, it was with a new sense of myself – free, and cathartically changed.

  Standing in the porch, I stared at the patch of lawn where I reckoned the greenhouse had stood. It was covered with clumps of daffodils with yellowing leaves and papery flowers past their prime. The grass was lush; it would soon need mowing. Birds pecked for worms, jostled by the wind. There was no trace of the greenhouse – not even a patch of destroyed turf where it had stood. I can’t say I felt anything either way, in the emotion department.

  I walked down the drive and out. At the front gates I swung round suddenly, on impulse, and looked back. The Manxheath Institute of Challenged Stability stood solid as a colossus, surrounded by noble swaying trees. Still nothing registered, except the reflection that, if you had the misfortune to have a friend or relative afflicted by insanity, you’d feel happy they were in there, surrounded by thick walls, sensible lino, and homely settees. And you’d recognise that this place, say what you will of its management practices, would do them proud.

  I walked down the street, past the Pay and Display, and into Jaycote’s Park. One of my few memories of Dad was rooted here, on this very path. He and Linda were throwing a frisbee – Linda with haphazard violence, he with precision and grace. When the man called Dad swung his arm to hurl the plastic disc high into the air I saw a huge hole in the armpit of his purple pullover, showing an orange floral shirt underneath. It was the sixties.

  I reached the children’s play area. There was no one else in sight, so I plonked myself on a tiny merry-go-round. It squeaked as I pushed myself round in a slow arc. I did five circuits, which on a clock, I calculated, is two days and a night, then stopped. The iron was cold.

  Later, after Dad had gone to New Zealand with the woman from the petrol-station, Linda and I used to play here together, in the days when it was just a row of swings, a slide, and a see-saw, Ma over on a far bench with her shopping bags and her Pocket Floral Encyclopedia.

  Me and Linda see-sawing: when Linda was up, I was down. When Linda was down, I was up.

  Linda shrieking, ‘Snot fair! You’re up for longer because I’m heavier than you!’

  Me shrieking back, ‘Tiz fair! The one who’s heavier can decide when to push. You could leave me stuck up here for ever if you wanted.’

  Glamour versus control.

  Ma calling, ‘OK, wee brats, you can stop bickering, ’cos it’s time to go!’

  Now, another slow squeaking circuit on the merry-go-round.

  Control was what I was after now. Look where patio furniture had got me. I would retrace my steps back to the Hopeworth. It could be my base for a week or so, while I firmed up my plans. I’d treat it as a sort of departure lounge – a decompression chamber en route to so-called solid ground. And it was right next to the park where I was sitting. From the merry-go-round I could see the window of the hotel room Billy and I had stayed in when we left Gregory. That’s Gridiron for you. Everything’s within spitting distance of something else.

  The more I thought about the idea, the better I liked it. The Hopeworth’s soothing muzak, laundered napkins, heavy ashtrays, and crisp sheets all stated, ‘The world is a friendly place.’ Adding, ‘And you, Mrs Stevenson, are sane.’

  Suddenly, I decided to change my name.

  ‘Morning, madam,’ chirruped two uniformed receptionists as I sailed in.

  ‘I’m Hazel Sugden,’ I blurted.

  ‘Yes, Miss Sugden,’ said the man with the big hair. ‘We remember you from before.’

  ‘I like the new look,’ said the woman wearing a lot of gold. ‘Been on holiday, then?’

  ‘Sort of,’ I replied. ‘A rest cure.’

  They smiled genially. Unlike the psychiatrists, they didn’t care if I was lying.

  ‘Any calls for me?’ I asked gaily as I could. ‘Under Sugden or Stevenson?’

  Obviously I would never see the world in the same way again.

  ‘No, Miss Sugden, I don’t think there’s anything in the message book as yet,’ said the woman, riffling through. ‘Nope. Jason will show you to your room.’

  As I followed the narrow-hipped Jason to the lifts, I thought: So far, so normal. And no news from Greg. In fact, I wasn’t too worried that he’d find me. With all the incriminating information I had on him, there wasn’t much he could do. When we reached Room 308, double with cot, I tipped Jason, unpacked my suitcase (clothes, shoes, macramé work and forty women’s magazines), showered with mauve shower gel, applied some Bloody Hell lipstick and fought my way into a strangely cut cotton dress I couldn’t remember wearing before, let alone buying.

  Before I went out again, I took a moment to look at my hospital case notes. I have to admit that I blushed with shame and anger when I read them. Among other things, Ishmael had written: ‘A woman of average intelligence, capable of paranoia and neurosis. Mother-fixated, sexually frustrated, poss. de Cleranbault’s syndrome. Depressed. Candidate for Section?’

  That bit was dated the day after he’d taken me to dinner in Mutton Acre and I’d had that dream about us making love which was so real that it had had to be true.

  Downstairs, in the Hopeworth Executive Centre, I photocopied th
e page. I didn’t have any plans for it, except one day, when I had the courage, to do what Linda would do: frame it and hang it on a wall.

  I still haven’t got round to doing this.

  I also photocopied a few other pages from the yellow file I’d taken from Dr Appleby, and wrote a letter to go with it.

  I’d spent quite a lot of time thinking in Manxheath. Thinking, mostly, about how to go about getting some dignity. Linda was keen on self-respect as a concept, and on revenge as a method of acquiring it, and I suppose it was her banging on about human rights that made me think perhaps I was owed some. Once I’d started to think that, it snowballed into a plan, with the help of the book Linda lent me. I’d read it in between TV game shows.

  The book, Ready, Steady, Go For It!, by the American educator Klaus G. Armstrong, turned out to be quite heady stuff.

  ‘Put yourself first,’ he writes. ‘Because your first duty is towards you. Prioritise your needs, e.g.,

  1. Money

  2. Power

  3. Self-fulfilment

  4. Security

  etc. Now focus on that. Run through that list every night before you go to sleep, and tell yourself: I CAN HAVE ANYTHING I WANT.’

  I did what he suggested, focusing particularly on the money because I reckoned most other things would be attainable once I was rich.

  ‘Lay solid plans,’ writes Klaus G. Armstrong, ‘and your fantasies can become reality.’

  His revolutionary ideas, coming when they did, turned out to be quite a godsend.

  It didn’t take long to get the letter ready. It was friendly, firm and businesslike (‘Dear Root’), and it outlined the deal in what I thought was quite eloquent language. Nothing overtly threatening: just the facts of the matter (‘Please find enclosed copies of some relevant pages of the GR218 document’), and a list of pros and cons, to save Root Hooper the trouble of working them out for himself. I don’t know much about business, but I do know, thanks to Klaus G. Armstrong, that if you’re a successful businessman you’ll recognise when some discreet damage limitation is necessary.

  A quarter of a million is nothing to people like Hooper, compared to shame, vilification and a possible jail sentence.

  I explained in my letter that what I was sending him was just a small sample of what was in the file. As he would see, his name featured prominently as a projected sponsor for the experiments my husband had incubated. Experiments which not only by-passed the law, but operated in a different orbit altogether. I was quite prepared, I explained, to tell the whole story to the police. The only thing that would stop me was a great deal of money, in cash. (Sincerely yours, etc.)

  I prepared an envelope for the personal attention of Mr Root Hooper, President, The Hooper Fertility Foundation, wrote ‘Private and Confidential’ on the back, and slipped it into my handbag with the letter.

  ‘The phrase “Why not?” should be your catchword,’ writes Klaus G. Armstrong in his conclusion. ‘So ready, steady, go for it!’

  Later, at the bank, it turned out to be surprisingly easy to withdraw all the money in the ‘Dr and Mrs Stevenson’ account and put it in another bank account in the name of Hazel Sugden. So that was another ten thousand pounds. Well, you need money to start a new life, don’t you.

  Kidnapping my son was no problem, either. I did it by taxi, mid-morning, when I was sure Gregory would be out. The street was quiet. The flowering cherries were in bloom and fallen petals covered the pavement, so that when I stepped out of the taxi my feet sank into a mish-mash of pink snowflakes. There is always something poignant about late spring: it’s the time of year when you may accidentally step on a newly hatched baby bird, toppled from its nest by a cuckoo or kamikazed on its virgin flight. I told the Zippikab driver to wait there while I fetched my son. It had been raining, and the smell of the Cheeseways had been rinsed from the air and replaced by a smell I love: wet tarmac.

  I opened the side gate and trod as quietly as I could down the narrow gravel passageway that leads round the side of the house to the garden. Halfway along, I heard Billy talking to himself in his little piping voice. I couldn’t make out all the words. Then suddenly I clapped eyes on him: a curly-haired, stumpy little shape in muddy yellow wellington boots with frog faces on them. I caught my breath. He was bigger. The sight of his hooded anorak brought a painful lump to my throat. He was trying to stuff an earthworm into the cabin of a toy bulldozer. His face showed deep concentration. I heard him say, ‘You be the driver.’

  Then I caught sight of someone else: behind a line of flapping clothes, an auntyish-looking woman in her fifties was hanging out washing. Briefly distracted, I screwed up my eyes to inspect it, but saw no sign of the satin red knickers with fancy bows and huge whaleboned peek-a-boo bras I imagined Ruby Gonzalez wearing; just Greg’s slightly worn Y-fronts. The nanny-woman stepped out to reach for another pillowcase and I dodged behind a forsythia. Neither Billy nor the nanny-woman, who later turned out to have the absurd name of Mrs Goody, had seen me.

  I waited till she ran out of pegs and as soon as she went off to get more I plunged out through the dwarf conifers and grabbed my little lad by the scruff. He dropped his bulldozer but kept a tight hold of the worm. He started to scream but I slapped my hand over his mouth and kept it there until we were in the street and he recognised me and forced it off to fling his arms round me and cover me in a mixture of saliva and snot. Then we jumped in the Zippikab and whooshed off into town, hugging each other until we nearly choked.

  Over a Big Mac, I got my breath back and sobbed with relief. How he’d grown. He was talking now, proper words.

  ‘I love you, Mummy,’ he said. ‘Mummy, I’m a big boy now. Bigger than a lobster but smaller than a cupboard. Aren’t I?’

  ‘Have you swallowed a junior dictionary?’ I asked through my tears. He was sitting on my lap eating a huge burger, posting french fries into my mouth, and smearing ketchup on his face, and needing his nose wiped, and wanting apple pie, all at once. I loved him so much my heart hurt.

  ‘Ruby’s in an aeroplane. Ruby’s a silly bum-bum, and I’m making her mud soup. Baby too. Daddy went all funny. Chips, Mummy, I want chips as well. Mrs Goody’s a smelly lady. She’s a silly bum-bum as well, but I can kill flies now. I just want my mummy. And chips. One for you and hundreds for Billy.’

  ‘You’re staying with me from now on,’ I told him. ‘You’re going to live with Mummy.’

  ‘For ever and ever?’

  ‘Until you’re about eighteen, I should think.’

  ‘I’m two.’

  ‘Well then. We’ve got plenty of time.’

  ‘Mum.’

  ‘Yes, Billy?’

  ‘D’you know something?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I only wear nappies at night now. Not in daytime.’

  So Mrs Goody can’t have been all bad.

  At the post office, we discovered that Billy’s worm had died in his pocket. It smelt bad, and had dried somewhat. After a moment’s hesitation I agreed to let him put it in the envelope before I sealed it. Billy posted the letter to Root Hooper. I lifted him up to the mouth of the letterbox and we watched the envelope slide down its throat.

  Then we went back to the hotel room and pretended to be stegosauruses until Billy was so exhausted he fell asleep in my arms. I settled him in the cot, dialled Linda’s number, and left a message on her answerphone telling her I was out of Manxheath and off the drugs. She could reach me at the Hopeworth in Room 308, double with cot.

  ‘Give me a call when you’ve accomplished your mission,’ I said. ‘And we’ll celebrate.’

  Linda was cooking something, too.

  Linda was boarding a train bound for the West. She was wearing a loudly patterned scarf fastened by a giant buckle brooch, and carrying a Moses basket containing a sleeping baby. She entered a second-class smoking carriage, and settled herself down as if she wasn’t planning to move from her seat during the three-hour journey. From a large striped nylon bag she hauled the Daily
Mail, some anchovy sandwiches, a thermos of Nescafé, and a bottle of formula milk for the baby. Departure had been delayed slightly, and the man who was seeing her off at the platform hung about near the window, looking gangly and foolish.

  ‘Go away!’ she mouthed, her lips so close to the glass that her breath formed an oval patch of condensation. ‘I’ll see you when I get back.’

  And she gave a small, annoyed wave. Duncan was wearing his dark-blue blazer bearing the British Telecom logo. His arms were too long for its sleeves. He reached on tiptoe to take another look at the baby, and blew it a sad kiss as though it was the last he’d see of her. Which, if all went according to plan, it would be.

  Linda sank back in her seat, lit a cigarette, and heaved out her reading matter. Linda had never shared Ma’s dangerously omnivorous taste in books; she was always strictly a spy thriller and management handbook reader. But today’s reading matter was different. This was more like a work project. Projects have always been Linda’s forte. We are talking about the woman who dreamed up a new kind of Arctic iceberg, clad in shark-proof plastic. We are talking about the woman who decided that a pulverised locust product be incorporated in margarine as a thickening and proteinising agent. We are talking about someone who takes her projects seriously.

  Today’s project is less of a challenge, perhaps, than Fatberg or Protomarg, but it’s fascinating nonetheless. And it begins with some basic research, in the form of a thick brochure and a collection of articles and photo-features organised in a cardboard file, each with text highlighted and colour-coded in marker pen. She lays them neatly on the table in front of her and starts to read methodically. Duncan shrugs his shoulders and begins to shuffle his way up the platform to the exit. Just then the train starts to move, and he turns to wave, but as the carriage slides off, Linda has already entered the extravagant and bizarre new territory of her glossy brochure, and left Gridiron far behind.

  She is in the House of God. The building she once saw in maquette form on the fateful day of her visit to the Holy Hour production offices is now a gleaming reality, thanks to Ron’s wizardry and the tireless voluntary work of born-again carpenters, electricians, engineers and painter-decorators. Certain weddings, those that celebrate a marriage doomed to fail, always feature an extravagantly optimistic multi-tiered wedding-cake, next to which the then-happy couple are photographed. Hazel had one, with ribbons and knobs on. The House of God, reflects Linda, resembles such a cake. It is built largely of a white cement and granite-chip composite called ‘reconstituted stone’. Linda polishes off her sandwiches and unleashes a belch whose odour permeates the carriage. Then she lifts her head to glare accusingly at her fellow-passengers.