On the way back, fantasizing about us eating our lunch together in the staffroom, I realized I’d run out of fags, so popped into Mo’s kiosk. While waiting for my change, which took longer than it should, as Mo was, as always, on the phone and running a one-armed operation, my eyes scanned the papers next to me. ‘Austerity Not Over.’ A picture of an elderly woman being evicted from her council house. Then I noticed the date: 26 July.
I’d forgotten.
I’d never forgotten before.
Panicked, I searched for a card. An array of faded drawings with naff proclamations of happy occasions perched in what appeared to have once been a rotating stand. But lack of space and rack rheumatism meant it could barely swing a centimetre side to side. There was only one for a father. An embossed watercolour of a man playing golf. Happy birthday to the best dad in the world. I paid for it, along with a book of four stamps, and mouthed for Mo to lend me a pen so I could write the same words I always did. Happy birthday, Dad. Love, Constance. Beneath, my number and current address. On the envelope, MR PATRICK LITTLE, written in clear block capitals. A stamp.
Aware time was racing, I hurried back to work via the postbox.
A postman was filling a sack with all the mail. I hovered next to him.
‘Shall I take that, darlin’?’
I hesitated, placed the card in his hand, then swiftly continued down the road.
‘Hello . . . Excuse me, love,’ I could hear him shout. ‘Miss.’
I didn’t stop. But neither did he. ‘Woohoo, miss.’ He whistled. So shrill that I had no choice but to turn.
‘You’ve forgotten to write the address on it, my darlin’,’ he shouted.
I ran back to him. Smiling, rolling my eyes. ‘I’m such an idiot,’ I said, as I took it back. He handed me a pen he’d removed from behind his ear. ‘Oh . . . thank you, but I haven’t even come out with the address.’
We laughed. I thanked him. I continued down Kensington Church Street. Turned off onto the High Street, where there was another postbox.
I dropped in the card.
The air was still clammy, though smatterings of rain offered some comfort. The grey sky merged with buildings. Rain came properly then. Heavy. Umbrellas went up around me like mass flowers in bloom. People ran or stayed still under shop canopies. But I stopped. Stood in the middle of the pavement, raised my head, closed my eyes. It felt good. Well, better. Like it was washing things away. And only I would ever have known it wasn’t just rain that poured down my face.
I remained there for a few seconds. I think. I don’t really know. When I returned to the world, I was so soaked that I pushed back my hair, flat to my head and down my neck like I did in the shower, and ran. Ran like everyone else.
Back at the surgery, my wet blouse was paper-thin, see-through. I stood in reception in what looked like only my bra. Linda was eager to get me out the back. Away from the view of patients, who were somehow all immaculate and dry.
‘But I need to give Dr Stevens his lunch.’
‘Dr Stevens has gone out on house calls. He won’t be coming back today.’
I dried myself in the loo and put on a jumper that a patient had left behind yonks ago. Then I ate my sandwich in the staffroom with Alison, not you. She relayed, word for word, the previous night’s episode of Emmerdale and complained that I’d actually picked up salmon instead of tuna.
After counting down the minutes to home time, when it was nearly five, Dr Harris asked if I’d stay on and do some overtime, to sort through Dr Williams’s paperwork. Reluctantly, I agreed.
Everyone else had gone. Harris remained in his office. I was alone in yours. It spooked me, being in there. The feeling was heightened by the heavy rain. Outside was dark, oppressive. A humongous black cloud hung over West London, like the spaceship in Independence Day. The precursor to an inevitable storm. And storms terrified me.
When little, I’d climb into bed with Mum. She’d tell me God was angry at me for some act of childhood I’d committed that day. I’d cling to her, silently praying for His forgiveness. Not stopping until He’d given it.
Except that last time.
It was different that time.
While shredding documents, I noticed you’d left your jacket behind. It was hanging on the back of the door. Expensive. Soft, muted linen. I wanted to touch it. My eyes fell onto the pockets. More shredding. As the noise drilled, I found myself walking across the room. My fingers gently running down the crinkled cotton. I lifted it to my face. Only for a second. Lemons again. My palm traced its pocket. There was something in there. I craved information about you. I wasn’t going to look. That would have been wrong. My fingertips stroked the top of the opening. Moved slightly inside. Then an almighty thunderclap shook through me. I stepped away from the door. Looked up, apologized to God and returned to the paperwork.
It was almost eight by the time we left. As Harris locked up, I attempted to open a brolly that had been resting in the corner of the stationery cupboard since I started working there. I waited for the offer of a lift. At least to the station. It never came. Because he was a wanker.
We said our goodbyes and walked in opposite directions.
The brolly was about as useful as a child’s skirt on a stick. Dipped at the front, not only did it fail to prevent me from getting wet, it created a guttering effect that directed the water straight into my face. However, a few seconds into the battle, I heard Harris calling. I stopped and turned. There was no way he’d really let me walk in this, and I was overcome with guilt at always thinking he was a wanker.
‘Don’t be late tomorrow – we’ve got a lot of stuff to get through.’
Heading towards the Tube, I tried to ignore the deafening thunder and electric sky. The streets were empty. Practically post-apocalyptic. It wasn’t just the storm. A girl had been attacked nearby a couple of weeks prior and my imagination was in overdrive.
Too nervous to contemplate the cemetery cut-through, I took the longer route to Kensington High Street. Desperate for civilization, I picked up speed, but it was still a ten-minute walk away.
As I passed a row of elongated town houses, a cagouled man appeared at one of the doors with a beautiful greyhound. The dog looked as nervous as I was. The man nodded his head in my direction but didn’t say hello or mention the monsoon. We were still in London, after all.
Although happy to encounter another human, one who didn’t appear to be a rapist or killer, my imagination didn’t quit. Instead, in my head, I played out the following day’s interview with that man. The last person to have seen me alive. I’d cast him as Anthony Hopkins. The policeman was Tom Hardy. I played myself, grey, open-eyed, slit throat. A red rose placed on my chest. The first victim of a serial killer seemed better somehow. The greyhound barked once in the distance, immediately followed by whimpers.
I abandoned the useless brolly in someone’s wheelie bin, then turned into the last side street before the main road, which was darker than the others. The downpour turned biblical. I could barely see ahead, so took shelter under the pillared entrance of the mansion block I was passing.
After flicking rain from my face, hands, hair, I lit a fag and watched the water bounce off the pavement, until a noise louder than the downpour made me jump.
A car was coming to a violent stop on the opposite side of the road. A hundred nails on a blackboard. I wasn’t sure what kind of car it was – I’m not a car person – but even I realized it was beautiful, classic.
Just as I made out the shape of a man and woman through the steamed windows, there was a scream. I shat myself and was about to grab my phone when I realized the woman was screaming the words ‘But I love you, I love you’ over and over. I patted my heart and pulled hard on my fag to soothe myself, then watched the show.
It was mainly angry muffles. No clarity at first other than the odd words such as ‘love’, ‘selfish’ and ‘bastard’ from her. And ‘done’, ‘mental’ and ‘calm down’ from him. This went on for some time until her
explosive ‘You’re such a fucking shit.’ She got out. Her door remained open and light burst from inside, creating silhouettes. I couldn’t see her properly, but she was tall, elegant. She stepped away from the vehicle, then returned to it.
‘I’ve been such a bloody idiot.’ She was crying.
‘Well, go back to him, then. Nothing’s stopping you,’ said the man.
She dipped her head back into the car to shout, ‘I hate you.’ Door slammed. This shocked the rain into lessening.
She was walking up the road then, prouder than her words had made her seem. The rain ruining more and more of her perfect hair. The clip-clop of her heels echoed. Percussion to her whimpers. Whimpers not dissimilar to those of the greyhound.
Does this sound familiar to you?
With the downpour less torrential, I stepped into the open air and took the last pull of my fag before throwing it on the pavement to sizzle to its death. But then came another slam. The man was outside the car now. His arms outstretched on the roof like he was being frisked by an imaginary policeman. His head facing the ground. His body wet.
It was you.
Flustered, I returned to my shelter and watched as you viciously kicked the front wheel, yelling, ‘Fuck,’ before running up the steps and disappearing through a huge black door.
Like you said, so near to work.
I stared up at your building. The lights went on in the first-floor windows. I imagined you in there. Furious. Tearing off your soaked shirt. Thinking of her.
And already I didn’t like it.
For the remainder of the week, whenever my mind wandered towards romantic notions about you, I forced myself to focus on your negatives. From the microscopic particle of spittle that flew from your mouth and landed on my arm when we discussed Mrs Jamison’s scan to the once-white-now-grey crumpled hanky you’d repeatedly pull from your trouser pocket because of your ‘bloody hay fever’. And on the Thursday you gave me the gift of wearing a salmon-pink jumper around your shoulders.
All may have remained that way, had the following not happened on the Friday.
I was gagging for the weekend, even though I knew it would involve a PlayStation tutorial from Dale. Linda had left early for the dentist, and Alison had taken a day’s holiday to climb Mount Snowdon with her rambling club. Both Dr Short and Dr Franco had said their goodbyes a while back. Harris’s last patient had left some time ago, but he was lingering in his office as always, and you were still in with Mr Brown after a peculiarly long time.
Unable to go home until all patients had left, I tidied reception and gathered my belongings for a quick escape. At five twenty, when I was considering popping out for a desperate fag, Mr Brown finally emerged, unresponsive to my smile or small talk. But I soon regretted mumbling ‘Rude’ under my breath as I turned for the stapler, because when I went into his file, I saw the diagnosis for colon cancer. I wonder if he’s still alive.
When I went to your office to ask permission to leave, your head was in your hands. I was unsure if you were angsting over Mr Brown or her. You looked up at me, your smile as phoney as my own.
‘Yes, of course . . . If you’ve done everything Dr Harris wants you to do?’
I nodded.
‘Well then, get off with you. Enjoy the weekend.’
As usual, the first hit of nicotine made everything better. Aside from my cough. Pausing at the top of the steps, I closed my eyes, relished the sensation. My head light with chemicals, I gathered my senses and set off towards the station.
It’s difficult to relay exactly what occurred next, as it happened in simultaneous fast forward and slow motion. I’m unsure if I made a noise. Or swore. But I recall my arms circling the air one moment, then the next my legs buckling beneath me. Immediate pain dispersed through my ankle, and my cheek burned against the abruptly met slab of cold pavement.
Dazed, I looked beyond the bottle top that brushed my lashes as I blinked towards my bag and its scattered contents. Just able to make out my phone, a Tampax and the Crunchy bar I’d searched everywhere for the previous night.
I’m not sure how long I was down, waiting for someone to come to my aid, but no one did, so I pushed myself up to reveal grazed, bloody palms, ingrained with tiny stones and particles of dirt.
A car sped past. My already pounding heart accelerated faster than the vehicle. Several attempts to stand ended in failure. The agony when I tried to put weight on my right foot was unbearable, making me want to chuck. Shock subsiding, tears came.
After hopping towards my bag, and managing, with difficulty, to bend down and retrieve both it and the contents, I turned back, and noticed the culprit. That same bastard bit of pavement I tripped on with Dale.
Gathering my remaining energy, I hopped back towards the steps and levered myself up the flight, the handrail acting as my crutch, then pushed the door open and called out your name. It must have been loud. Perhaps hysterical. As within seconds both you and Dr Harris were standing in front of me.
‘What on earth, girl?’ said Harris.
You placed my arm around your warm neck. Dipped to even our heights. ‘Constance, what the hell has happened?’
‘Did it happen in here?’ said Dr Harris.
I shook my head and gave in to the sobbing. ‘Outside, on the pavement.’
‘OK. Good . . . Well then, there, there . . . you poor girl.’ He turned to you and said, ‘Will you see to her?’ Then disappeared back into his room.
‘Come on. Let’s look at you.’ Cheek to cheek, an uncomfortable tango, you manoeuvred me into your office and lowered me gently onto the patient’s chair. It was strange being in such proximity to you and I was overwhelmingly self-conscious.
‘So, go on. What the hell did you do?’
I attempted to stop crying, though my words remained staccato. ‘I . . . I don’t know . . . My foot, it’s . . . killing me . . . It was . . . the fucking pavement. Sorry.’
‘That’s OK – you can say “fucking”. I don’t mind.’ You smiled. A smile I knew you wanted me to reciprocate, as if you were attempting to pacify a scriking child. I obliged. You pulled tissues from the box on your desk and handed them to me. Until then, I’d been oblivious to the string of snot hanging from my nostrils. I quickly wiped it away, hoping to erase it from both our memories as well as my nose.
It was then you crouched in front of me. Undid my laces with care. Gentle. Slow. You removed the shoe, like a reverse Cinderella, exposing my sock and the hole in its toe (which definitely never happened in Cinderella). Then you peeled that off with precision, making me wince as it disturbed the bruised skin.
I fixated on you the whole time. Concentrated on you concentrating.
‘Oh dear,’ you said.
My stare was broken and I glanced down. My foot was already bluing and looked as though an egg had been inserted under the skin. Tears rose again.
‘Don’t worry – I’ve seen worse.’
Your cold hands cupped my heel. Cold hands, warm heart, Mum would say. My self-consciousness increased. I hadn’t been touched for so long. And it wasn’t just anyone’s touch; it was yours.
Following your commands, I attempted to flex, point and wiggle my toes. None of which I could do successfully. Or at least not without experiencing pain I wasn’t prepared to inflict on myself. You pushed up the bottom of my trouser leg, but it refused to budge past the ankle.
‘You’ll have to take them off,’ you said.
I was convinced I hadn’t outwardly shown my anguish at this request, but you followed with ‘Don’t be silly, Constance. I’m a doctor.’
After turning away, you gathered various items into a steel tray. I undid my zip. Pulled them down. It proved difficult, as I had to remain seated, and accidentally brought my knickers with them before immediately whipping them back up. I sat there. Stretching my shirt as far over my thighs as I could, noticing how your hair was more unkempt at the back, the bottom strands matted with sweat.
You turned back round, with the pr
etence it was a coincidence I’d finished undressing. Once dropped into your chair, you wheeled yourself over.
‘OK . . . let’s see what’s going on here. Can you straighten your leg for me?’
You stretched it towards you, my calf in your hands. The sensation trickled towards my inner thigh. You were unaware of my reddened face as your fingertips pressed my pale flesh, inch by inch, downwards from my knee. With each application of pressure, you asked if it hurt. It didn’t, until you reached my ankle and I made it clear with an almighty ‘Jesus, yes.’ You remained silent, focused. Didn’t make eye contact with me once.
Snapped from your trance, you pushed your hair off your face. ‘OK, I think it’s just bruising and swelling on the knee, but I’m not sure if you’ve broken your foot or not. It could just be a bad sprain and ligament damage, which believe me, can be as painful.’ Your tone was professional. ‘Let’s clean up your cuts and grazes quickly, then get you to hospital for some X-rays.’
‘What? I . . . I really don’t want to go to hospital . . . It’s fine.’ I stood. Then sat again, realizing that I was both half naked and the pain still immense.
‘Sure you are. Look, you’ve got no choice, I’m afraid. You can’t ignore a potentially broken foot.’
‘I . . . I don’t like hospitals.’
You didn’t respond but turned my hands over to expose my damaged palms and placed them on your knees. We were even closer. I could smell coffee on your breath. Your hair draped your eyes as you cleaned my grazes with an astringent wipe. It stung, but I didn’t flinch. Only watched as you cared for me.
‘Can I get a cab on the work account and pay it back? I can’t afford—’
‘Don’t be silly. I’m taking you.’
I went to thank you but couldn’t speak, because without warning, you were pushing my fringe away from my face and touching my cheek. I stopped breathing. Until I realized you were once again cleaning my skin. I wasn’t even aware I was hurt there. The antiseptic was cold. Your lips so close. They dropped open slightly. Urging me to cover them with mine.
If I Can't Have You Page 3
