Even Stranger

by Marilyn Messik

  Mid-way through the morning, I could see the Prof was flagging a bit. His disproportionately wide-mouthed face, which I always found rather endearing, was paler and more jowly than usual, although his cheeks were hectically flushed and his eyes bright, I hoped his fever wasn’t heading back for a repeat performance. I suggested, not just for his benefit, I go and get us a couple of hot teas. I’d already lost feeling in both my feet, my hands were going the same way and I’d developed a nasty headache. I thought if I sat still much longer, movement might no longer be an option. But before I had the chance to shift myself, Dorothy had nudged open the study door with one sturdy, size 8, fur-trimmed slipper.

  “Elevenses, for the workers.” she announced cheerfully and bore in three steaming mugs of tea on a tray, a welcome sight. We drank in a comfortably companionable silence and I continued sorting through some of the mail he still hadn’t got around to, while they quietly debated and chuckled at the various titles we’d come up with for Oxford.

  “You OK, Stella?” Professor Lowbell was eyeing me over the half-moon glasses that, oddly enough, made him look more rather than less, frog-faced. “Don’t mind my mentioning, but you’re looking more than a bit peely-wally.” He laughed at my expression, “Scottish nanny,” he explained. I nodded absently. He wasn’t wrong, over the last half hour or so, although I’d been determinedly trying to ignore it, I’d started feeling not that good at all. From being freezing cold, I’d switched to an uncomfortably hot sweatiness all over. Something wasn’t right, and I was pretty sure it was me.

  “Look,” I said, giving in to it and getting to my feet abruptly and, to my alarm, none too steadily, “I’m really sorry, but I actually don’t feel that well at all. Maybe I’m coming down with what you had, there’s a lot of it about. Sorry to let you down, would you mind dreadfully if we left it for now and I popped in again, later in the week?” There was instant fluster of consternation and concern, which was the very last thing I wanted. I was feeling pretty rough and suddenly yearned for nothing so much, as to be home in my own bed.

  The Lowbells unfortunately, as people do, leapt into immediate emergency medical mode and were having none of it. They said I was in no fit state to drive anywhere at the moment and insisted I put my feet up and had another hot drink. I found myself despite protests, firmly ensconced on the study sofa, draped in a dusty beige blanket while Prof Lowbell patted me ineffectually on the arm and Dorothy bustled off, to return with a steaming mug. She’d opted against tea, she said, and gone for honey and lemon as being more helpful under the circs.

  After that, I don’t remember anything much at all, until I woke up, to find two very blue, very lifeless eyes in a bone-white face, inches from mine.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  I shrieked and threw myself violently backwards, although I think what came out was more of a small mewling sound. I also found I couldn’t move very far at all, certainly not as far as I wanted to. It seemed I was lying, in bed, with a sheet and blankets tucked uncomfortably tight around me. I struggled to make some sense of that.

  My head felt as if it was expanding and contracting, none too gently, in and out, in and out, it wasn’t pleasant. With no small effort, I managed to haul out an arm from the tight-tucked blanket. I thought if I could just stop the inning and outing for a moment, I might be able to think a bit straighter. My arm was encased in pristine white cotton, with a frill at the wrist, it wasn’t anything I recognised. I got hand to head and held on for a bit, but it didn’t seem to help. I took it away, to reach out slowly – something was wrong with the way my eyes were focusing – and touch my blue-eyed, silent companion. She was as hard, cold and lifeless as she looked. Not quite life-size, but not far off, I expelled a small breath. Nothing to worry about, just a doll. No idea why we were sharing a bed though.

  Gradually, and it was like wading through treacle, bits and pieces began to fit together to make some sense. I wasn’t well. Everybody said, the wretched flu descended out of nowhere and knocked you for six, although it seemed to have knocked me further than that – and I’d been taken ill at the Lowbell’s – God how embarrassing! Still holding my head, because it didn’t feel, in any way, securely attached to the rest of me, I risked a look around, although even just moving my eyeballs, hurt more than I’d have thought possible.

  The bed, into which I was so firmly tucked, was in an ornately corniced, high ceilinged and elegantly proportioned square room. I could see a mantle-pieced fireplace opposite, with wide, faded tapestries hanging to either side, blowing gently in a slight draught. Turning my head cautiously to one side, there was a door on the far side of the room and on the opposite wall, deep red, full length velvet curtains drawn over the windows. It must have still been daylight, because wintry sunshine was leaking through cracks in the draped material. I had no idea of the time, nor how long I’d been asleep. I lifted my oddly befrilled wrist, but I wasn’t wearing my watch and, for the life of me, didn’t have the strength, or even the urge, to see if it was nearby.

  I felt physically ill and completely mortified that they’d had to look after me. The minimal effort of moving my arm, seemed to have used up any energy reserves I may have had. I felt completely helpless and knew, from the soreness of my eyes when I blinked, I probably had a high temperature. I’d have to get the Lowbells to ring my parents, or perhaps Brenda, certainly someone needed to come and get me, and the sooner the better. I wanted to call out, let them know I was awake, but couldn’t seem to manage much more than a pathetically dry croak, I didn’t even know where, in that rambling house, they might be. I opened up, to see if I could locate them, but my mind was as fogged and weak as everything else.

  “Bit of a pickle, eh?” I muttered under my breath. My companion didn’t comment, and I turned my head away, just a doll, but blooming unnerving nevertheless, must be one of Dorothy’s prized collection; indeed, maybe this was the doll’s bed in the first place and I was the unwelcome addition. I giggled weakly.

  Obviously, one of the Lowbells would put in an appearance sooner or later, until they did, there really didn’t seem to be much I could do. I tried to take a deep breath, but my chest felt tight and sore and everything, including what I was wearing, seemed to be smelling musty, dusty and dry, or maybe that was the temperature talking. I coughed for a bit and then I suppose I must have drifted off.

  I don’t know how much later it was, when I woke up again. I’d been dreaming in vivid technicolour, with full sound effects, the way you do when you’re feverish. Various fairy tale characters had been trooping through my head, but with rather more blood and gore than one would have liked, and certainly not with any happy ever afterings. I was mildly surprised to find myself propped, a little lop-sidedly, against some stacked pillows. Someone was trying to poke a spoon in my mouth. I opened it to speak, they seized the moment, and I found myself swallowing hot tomato soup, which stung my throat, all the way down. I was having quite a problem with my eyelids, which didn’t appear to be operating as normal and certainly not in sync. It seemed a hassle to tackle both of them, so I let the right one stay where it was and concentrated on getting the left open.

  “Well, there you are, my dear!” Dorothy Lowbell was seated on the side of the bed, a tassel-shaded, bedside light shining pinkly on her face. “We thought you should get something down you. Lowbell’s specially made you up some of his tomato and basil soup.” A full spoon advanced purposefully again.

  “I’m so sorry,” I said, “This is dreadful, I’ve put you to so much trouble. What’s the time? Can you ring Brenda at the office, or I’ll give you my home phone number and… ”

  “I’ll do no such thing,” she said firmly, “You’re in no fit state to go anywhere, young lady.” I opened my mouth to say I really would prefer to be at home, and she popped the spoon in swiftly, carefully scooping up a drop or two that didn’t quite make it, then dabbing my lips with a stiffly laundered white napkin. It came away lookin
g bloodied.

  I had another of the white napkins tucked in under my chin, I could feel it scratchy against my neck. I reached out to read her but couldn’t, she was always pretty tightly encompassed and at the moment, my mind felt as wobbly as I did. In fact, I suddenly noticed, the room was circling round me in a slow, stately and thoroughly disconcerting manner. It was making me nauseous, but I did feel, it would be the height of bad manners to throw up the specially made soup. I put a hand out to my right, to rest on the bed and stabilise myself a bit and encountered the rigid arm of my unlikely bed-mate, who I’d completely forgotten was there. I gasped, swallowed soup too quickly and started to choke. Dorothy tutted sympathetically and stood to move me forward a little, so she could pat me firmly on the back.

  “Better?” she asked, when I’d regained breath. I nodded then stopped, because that only made the room move faster. I saw, next to me, my inanimate friend was also propped up against her pillows. Gazing sightlessly ahead, she was wearing a high-necked, white cotton, Victorian style nightdress with long sleeves ending in a frill at her wrist. A familiar frill. I looked down and yes, sure enough, we were identically clad. With her hair, a similar shade to mine and our matching outfits, I was starting to feel like two thirds of the Beverley Sisters.

  “We thought you’d like some company.” Said Dorothy, with satisfaction, and the mattress dipped alarmingly, as she sat down again and smiled happily at me. I nodded my thanks, how thoughtful. Dorothy gently turned my face back towards her, so she could make with the spoon again. But I pulled away.

  “Look,” I said, as firmly as I could, although I really didn’t want to be rude. “This is awfully kind of you, but I should get out of your hair – apart from which, you know what my lot are like, they’ll be sending out search parties if I don’t turn up soon. If I could just use your phone. I made to climb out of the bed, but she tutted again, pushing my legs firmly back into place.

  “Now, Stella, stop that this minute. You’re not nearly well enough to go anywhere, you’re running a nasty, high temperature. We rang the office earlier, to explain what had happened. They agreed it made sense for you to stay here, at least overnight, and Kitty was phoning home, to let them know. Now, if you’ve had enough soup, I think you should lie down again. This is a very nasty do, Lowbell was exceedingly poorly with it, so we don’t want to take chances. You need lots of rest, plenty of fluids, let it run its course, nothing else to be done, I’m afraid.” She whipped out the scratchy napkin, from where it was tucked under my chin, flattened the pillows, and pushed me gently but firmly down again. I didn’t put up any resistance because now, not only was the room still turning, but I seemed to be too. It was most unpleasant. She leaned over to switch off the light. The whole thing was all a bit odd and awkward, but the bed was warm and I couldn’t keep my eyes open any more.

  My dreams were still giving me grief, and when I next surfaced, it was with one of those heart-stopping jerks, that make you feel you’ve jumped right out of your skin. It was dark in the room, no light now showing around the curtains. It felt like the middle of the night. My mouth was dry, stale and stiff, my lips sore and my nose full of the fusty, musky scent of the room. When I felt a bit more like it, I thought, I’d take myself over and open a window, to get some fresh air blowing in.

  I laboriously hoisted myself up on an elbow to see if, by chance, Dorothy had left a glass of water by the bed. Thankfully she had. I drank gratefully, although then realised, I needed the toilet. I couldn’t possibly call out and disturb the Lowbells, I’d just have to pull myself together and find the bathroom on my own. Switching on the bedside light I managed, awkwardly, to wriggle out from under the tightly tucked sheets and blankets – the woman certainly knew how to make a bed. After a bit of fumbling with my feet on the floor, I couldn’t find any sign of my shoes and couldn’t be bothered to look harder. The only good thing at this point seemed to be, I didn’t need a dressing gown, I was more than decently covered in the long broderie anglaise effort. Holding it up, tiptoeing across the room and trying not to tread on anything that creaked, I lacked only night cap and candle to be a dead ringer for Wee Willie Winkie.

  The bedroom door was stuck. I’d turned the ornate gilt handle carefully and quietly, not wanting any noise, but the door wouldn’t budge. OK, this was serious. I really did have to go to the bathroom. I gave up on subtlety. If the doors didn’t work, then the Lowbells had only themselves to blame if they were disturbed in the middle of the night. It seemed an age though, before they eventually pitched up.

  “Stella, my dear girl, what on earth is the matter?” Dorothy, voluminous in pink flannelette, put both hands out to me, as she opened the door and I stumbled towards her. Behind her, in the darkened hall, a paisley-pyjama clad Professor Lowbell looked equally concerned. By this time though, I was pretty much beyond social embarrassment. She put both her arms round me, shooed the Prof back to wherever their bedroom was, and led me a little way along the uncarpeted corridor. Here, lit by a single bulb at ceiling centre, was a cavernous, arctic-chilled, old fashioned, black and white tiled bathroom with a free-standing, chipped enamel bath tub, but more importantly – a large, wooden-seated toilet. The Lowbells obviously didn’t go in a lot for creature comforts, but I was in no position to be picky, I don’t think I’ve been so glad to see anything in my life.

  She tactfully waited for me, having cautioned me not to lock the bathroom door – in case I came over dizzy. As she took me back to my bedroom, I was grateful for the solidity of her. My temperature must have been sky high again, because I felt more lightheaded and befogged than ever, each step was a herculean effort and as we moved across the room, one of my legs buckled under me. If she hadn’t been holding on, I’d have gone down. I was relieved beyond anything, to climb back into that bed and even the rigorous tucking in seemed more comfort than constriction. I was so out of it by then, I think I might even have murmured a greeting to my friend-in-residence, on the other side of the bed. Dorothy was handing me a couple of pills with a glass of water.

  “To bring that temperature down.” I obediently swallowed, handing the glass back to her with murmured thanks. “And this,” she was pouring thick yellow liquid from a bottle into a teaspoon, “Decongestant, it was what the doctor prescribed for Lowbell, lucky we have some left.” I swallowed that too, and suspect I was asleep again before my head hit the pillow.

  Coming slowly back to consciousness, goodness only knows how much later, I can’t say I was feeling much better. The head inning and outing was still occurring, the room hadn’t anchored yet and although the thick velvet curtains were still closed, bright sunlight spiking through, at the sides of the material, was sharp and painful to look at. I turned my head away, the light looked like it was strobing, which only added to the nausea. I wondered when Dorothy would be in with something to eat and drink. I don’t think I was hungry, I just wanted to be looked after.

  I felt sure there was something I ought to be doing, or at least thinking about doing, but the elaborately carved, floral plaster decorations in one corner of the room, caught my eye and my attention. It was so beautiful, so intricately constructed, I simply wanted to look and look. Deep down, way beyond my current reach, a thought, several thoughts actually, were niggling. I tried to drag my concentration from the gorgeously carved flowers, but couldn’t seem to and neither could I pin down my unease. After a moment or two, I gave up. Why bother?

  After a while, no idea how long, the door opened and Dorothy bustled in. The sound of the soles of her slippers, squeaking against the wooden floor as she walked, was disproportionately loud in the otherwise silent room, and when she spoke, I winced. My ears seemed to have gone into overdrive. She noticed and lowered her voice,

  “And how are we this morning?”

  “Not sure about you, but I’ve certainly had better days!” I muttered, probably a little ungraciously. My tongue didn’t feel familiar in any way, it was far too
big for my mouth. She chuckled affectionately and lowered a tray to the bedside table. She’d also brought me a fresh nightgown to change into – still the white Victorian look. I started to apologise again, for all the work I was putting them to, but she waved it away with a hand-flap.

  “I’ve told you, no trouble whatsoever and if you feel up to it, you can have a bath later. Let’s see how you go on, shall we? Now, I’ve brought you some fresh-squeezed orange-juice, lots of vitamin C, do you a world of good.” She helped me sit up and drink, propping the pillows behind me. I was just about to ask, without sounding rude, if friend in the bed, sweet though she was, could be removed, because she was giving me the heebie-jeebies, when there was a knock on the half open door and Professor Lowbell popped his head comically around.

  “Room for a little one?” He enquired, Dorothy waved him in and I smiled at him, at least my brain instructed my mouth to smile, I’m not sure it got through.

  “… and a soft boiled egg, lots of goodness in that.” Dorothy was spoon-ready again. I hate soft-boiled egg, but didn’t have the energy to argue, so let the glutinous stuff slide down without protest. Prof Lowbell meanwhile had made himself comfortable, in the armchair near the fireplace, and was regarding us with a beatific smile.

  “Well, this is all very cosy and comfortable isn’t it?” He said, although cosy and comfortable were certainly not what I was feeling. “Not often lucky enough to have guests, are we Dottie?”

  “Not nearly often enough.” She agreed. The juice and egg had revived me a bit. I sat up a little straighter and made an attempt to gather my scattered wits, not to mention my dignity. As I might have mentioned before, I was all in favour of client contact, but that didn’t mean I wanted to move in with them.