Ten minutes into the film, her speech became more sporadic, less lucid, and finally there was silence as she passed out.
To begin with, I thought Brief Encounter was so terrible it was hilarious. The way they talked, the corny expressions. But soon my giggles switched to a blank face, watching intently while mindlessly wolfing crisps and cheese. I hung on every word. Every tiny, tragic moment.
You know that last scene when they’re saying their goodbyes in the buffet? Knowing they wouldn’t see each other again. When he tells her how desperately he loves her?
And she replies with doe-eyed despair that she wants to die.
I turned to my mother, snoring, drunk, alone. Her delicate wrist touching the arm of the empty chair beside her. And for that moment I understood.
‘It’s a bit burnt around the edges.’ Dale had entered carrying in a tray, upon which I could see was a pizza, a glass of Coke and the glistening foil of a Tunnock’s Teacake. After placing the drink on the side cabinet and laying the tray on my duvet, he perched on the bed next to me.
‘Thank you. I like burnt, you know that.’ I carefully knocked off the ash from my fag and pinched the end, saving it for later.
‘What are you watching?’ he said.
‘I wasn’t . . . I was just . . .’ I turned off the TV and lifted a slice of pizza to my mouth, conscious of him hovering over me.
‘I’ll pop a bit more of this on, then, if it’s helping.’ He removed the tube of arnica from his pocket.
‘Oh . . . thank you, but you can leave it on the side – I’ll do it. You don’t want to be touching my horrible foot.’
‘No, it’s OK. You eat your pizza.’
I told myself it was fine. That he wouldn’t take long. That he was only trying to help. While massaging my skin, he talked about Call of Duty and a film he wanted me to watch. I feigned interest. Swallowed the dough with difficulty. Wanting every aspect of what was happening to be over. Then it was, because once again you saved me.
‘Who’s that ringing at this time?’ he said.
‘I don’t know. I don’t recognize the number. But it’s only seven thirty, Dale.’
My heart rate increased tenfold when I heard your voice. Foot aside, I could have skipped around the room. You were enquiring about the sprain, but it was more than that. You wanted me to know you cared.
I must have sounded so flustered. Could you tell? ‘It’s . . . it’s . . . a lot better, thank you. I’ll start walking on it more tomorrow.’ You told me Dr Harris had passed on my number when you’d informed him that I wouldn’t be in for a few days. Hoped I didn’t mind. You had no idea how much I didn’t mind.
I desperately wanted to talk to you longer. And I’m sorry if I came across as rude or ungrateful. I wasn’t. I wasn’t at all. I was so happy, but it was Dale. Lingering. Static. Listening to my every word. As our conversation wrapped up, he put the top back on the tube and stood to leave. I said goodbye to you and ended the call. He stopped at the door, requiring answers.
‘Dr Stevens. Just seeing how my foot is doing.’
‘Oh right. That’s so nice of him. Anyway, at least your headache seems to have lifted. You should eat up before it gets cold,’ he said, and left.
Able to feel my excitement in his absence, I took a bite of pizza and turned the TV back on. And there it was. Taunting me. That scene. The pain of lost love. What it can do.
My thoughts flashed to my mother. Forever haunting me.
I’m going to play Shostakovich’s Symphony No. 5 now. Hopefully, it will help me slip away and erase the image that has invaded my mind once again.
I made it back to work on the Thursday. Off the crutches but sore-footed and limping. I couldn’t bear being cooped up any longer and all I could think about was seeing you.
I got the bus in. It took almost twice as long, but involved less walking, and when I’d envisaged being on the Underground, my breathing shallowed and I imagined being buried alive.
After snagging a window seat with ‘Jan loves cock’ etched in the glass, I watched the other humans, wondering what it was like to be them, not me. And I thought how much Mum would have liked it. Riding a London bus. We always took the bus at home. Smirking, as we telepathically knew we’d both clocked specific people, then talking about them once we’d got off.
Until that day.
When she thought she saw the green suede of his jacket swagger down the street.
Banged her hands against the window. Pushed the people out of the way to get to the exit. Pressing each bell she passed, again and again and again. How the driver wouldn’t stop. And the passengers tutted and cussed until silenced by her screams.
From that day she only looked outwards. Quiet. Watchful. Searching.
I’d arrived only twenty minutes late, though Linda wasn’t quite as impressed with my achievement.
‘Thank you for joining us, Constance. How’s the foot?’
‘It’s like I’m walking on a hundred tiny razor blades. But you know . . . I didn’t want to let you down.’
‘Right . . . Well, thank you.’ She resumed the pretence of reading a document.
‘Hi, Constance.’ Alison waved at me like an overexcited child, sunkissed from her mountain climb. My heart sank. She’d have so much to tell me.
Cranking up the limp, I walked around reception to my seat, surprised by the scent of a new white orchid on the front desk. Why does everything remain the same, day in, day out, but if you’re away for even a short space of time, things are different? Or perhaps we don’t notice change when we’re part of it. I never noticed the change within me.
‘So, what do I need to know?’ I asked Linda.
‘Nothing, really. Dr Harris is in his office. Dr Short is on a house call. Mr Copeland is just waiting to have some blood tests with the nurse. Dr Stevens has a couple of patients booked in, but then he’s off to the Harley Street practice. Alison’s working on this report for . . .’
I tried to appear as if I was still listening, but her words became noiseless and my insides twisted.
When her mouth stopped moving, I said, ‘Why is Dr Stevens going to Harley Street?’
‘Don’t ask me. It’s not my job to know why . . . So you need to go into this file Alison’s working on, then join her in adding all the—’
‘Sorry, Linda. I . . . I need the toilet . . . Sorry.’
When passing your room, a woman with a crusty-nosed child exited. She smiled. I somehow managed to return a warped version, then continued down the corridor with the full intent of going to the ladies’. But I stopped, turned and limped back towards your door.
My knock lacked confidence. When you called me in, I noticed the room contained less of Dr Williams. His certificates had been removed from the wall, exposing rectangles of original crisp white paint. You hadn’t replaced them with yours, which added to my concerns.
‘Constance . . . hey . . . You’re back.’ You finished scribbling in your diary, then put your pen down and looked up at me.
‘Yes . . . well, I didn’t want to let people down.’ I thought perhaps you’d offer me a seat.
‘And how’s the foot?’
‘It’s OK . . . You know . . . still bruised but getting there.’
‘Well, these things take time, unfortunately. Use it, but don’t overdo it.’
‘Yes . . . yes, I will.’
An uncomfortable silence hit.
‘Well, it’s good to have you back.’ You took your pen in hand once more, jiggled it between your fingers.
‘Thank you. So . . . so Linda says you’re going to Harley Street this afternoon?’
‘Yes, they’re struggling without me, apparently.’
‘Right. So you’re going back to work there now?’
‘Oh no . . . At least, I hope not. It’s only for a couple of days, they said.’
I controlled the extended expulsion of air from my lungs. ‘OK . . . That’s nice . . . that you can help them out.’
Once again y
ou scrawled onto the pages. ‘Anyway, I had better get on. I’ve got a patient coming in.’
‘Of course. Sorry. I just wanted to say hello . . . and thank you again for last week. So, thank you, Dr Stevens.’
‘No need to thank me, Constance. I’m a doctor – that’s what I’m supposed to do.’ You spoke down towards your desk, muffling your words.
‘OK, Dr Stevens.’ For the second time I waited for you to correct me. Insist I called you ‘Samuel’. You didn’t. Merely stopped writing and turned. Fixed a smile. But it wasn’t warm like the smiles we’d shared that night. It was a smile that said the conversation was over.
I tried to work as best I could, pasted on a cheerful demeanour, but couldn’t stop going over and over the night of the hospital. The change in you. And I had no choice but to begin a new list of negatives, which started with the rogue wiry nasal hair I’d noticed would poke out when you held your head at certain angles. I reached into my bag for my phone to add this observation to my notes but dropped it back in immediately when surprised by the unusual presence of Dr Harris looming in reception. His face even more humourless than usual.
‘Girls, can I have a word, please?’
Alison and I stopped what we were doing. Linda was already not doing anything to stop.
His tone was softer, quieter than usual. ‘We’ve got a date for the funeral. Three weeks today, 25 August. So, I think it would be right and proper if we all attended and showed our respects.’
‘Of course,’ said Linda, her voice breaking.
Alison echoed her. I mumbled something. I don’t know what. I was only aware of the word ‘funeral’ obsessively repeating in my head. Funeral. Funeral. Funeral. I appeared still, composed, but my hands were shaking behind my back.
‘Now, it’s in Kensal Rise, so that’s easy for us all, and it’s at one o’clock . . . So this is what I propose: we have morning surgery. Last patients should be booked for midday. Then we’ll organize cabs for half twelve . . . Linda, can you arrange this, please?’ She nodded. ‘I should imagine the whole funeral and cremation will be done and dusted, if you’ll excuse the terminology, around one forty-five. Then we’ll go on to the wake, which is at a hotel in Kensington.’
‘Very good, Dr Harris,’ said Linda, jotting the information into a notebook.
‘But . . . and there is a “but”, I’m afraid. Dr Stevens won’t be attending the funeral, as . . . well, he never even met Dr Williams, and I can’t close the surgery. So he’ll be here the whole day as usual. And a nurse, of course. Which means, I’m afraid, one of you will have to return after the service to cover reception in the afternoon. Which sadly means not coming to the wake. Now, I think that—’
‘I’ll do it, Dr Harris.’ I raised my hand like an eager schoolchild. ‘I can forfeit the funeral as well if it makes things easier.’
‘Oh . . . well, that’s very kind, Constance. I was going to suggest . . . as you’ve been here the shortest time . . . but excellent. And no, no, no, I wouldn’t dream of you missing the funeral, don’t you worry. I know Dr Williams was most fond of you.’
The only time, ever, Dr Harris had been nice to me, and he didn’t realize that he wasn’t being nice at all. Regardless, I thanked him for his shitty, misplaced kindness, before he returned to his office, Linda in tow.
Back at my desk, I was unable to concentrate. My mood darkened, stress increased, and I could feel cortisol spreading throughout my body. Your dismissiveness towards me, the fear of attending the funeral, the story Alison was telling me about joining a rambling club with Kevin. And when I thought it couldn’t get any worse, Linda returned and pulled her chair up next to me.
‘Constance, can I have a word?’
I turned towards her, deadpan.
‘Dr Harris is coming in on Saturday to finish these reports and update the database and needs one of us to work for half a day. Now, Alison and I have already spoken . . .’
I looked at Alison, who moved her head nearer to the computer screen, pretending to be oblivious.
‘And we think it’s only fair you did it as you’ve been off this week.’
‘Off sick.’
‘Well, you hurt your foot, yes . . . but it makes it a much longer week for us two . . . and I have my cycling club, you see, on Saturdays, and Alison, well, she’s got to—’
‘Fine. OK, I’ll do it,’ I said, unable to cope with hearing about Alison’s plans for the weekend. And my brain couldn’t even process the words ‘Linda’ and ‘cycling club’ being in the same sentence.
‘Thank you, Constance,’ said Alison. ‘It’s just that Kevin and I are—’
‘It’s no problem, Alison, really.’
A grim atmosphere hung for the next hour. We all intently got on with our work. In silence. The only talking that took place was with patients. This new way of working meant I had at least finished the report, but as I walked over to the printer to collect the sheets, my pulse quickened as I noticed you coming towards the desk.
‘Hello, ladies.’
From the corner of my eye, I could see Linda and Alison greeting you with syrup and giggles. I, however, kept my head down, cool, calm, counting the printed pages.
‘I’m off to Harley Street now for the remainder of the day and won’t be back till Monday. So can you take messages and ring me there if urgent?’
‘Will do, Dr Stevens. See you next week,’ said Linda.
‘Bye, Dr Stevens. Have a nice weekend,’ said Alison.
‘Thank you. You too. Bye. Goodbye, Constance.’ You projected your voice.
I looked up, slow-blinked, deeply unimpressed. ‘Yeah, sorry . . . bye.’ Then immediately returned my eyes to the papers and shuffled them intently, ensuring you understood that I was more interested in the sheets than your departure.
You left, and I was satisfied I’d deflected some of my earlier humiliation back onto you.
Being in the surgery on a Saturday was, frankly, weird and perturbing. It was cold in there. Even smelt different. Five minutes after I’d arrived, Harris plonked a cardboard archive box full of files onto my desk and instructed me to either update the database or erase if they were no longer a patient/dead. Even Call of Duty was preferable to that. The only thing that made it bearable was that as the surgery was closed, I was allowed to listen to the radio.
I came to terms with the fact that the only way through this was to work my bollocks off. Get it done as fast as possible, then escape. So I did. I worked harder than I’d ever done before. Which went totally against my nature. It was made marginally easier with the aid of Frank, Lesley Gore, Aretha . . . The sounds of my childhood. My life. My dad, blurred-faced, playing along on the guitar. Mum dancing in the lounge, laughing. Bending down, holding my tiny hands, wiggling me from side to side.
Despite the crappy work, I enjoyed being there. That parallel world within my mind.
Even Harris seemed impressed with what I’d achieved and told me to have a tea break at eleven. By half twelve I’d done so well I was singing along to Dusty Springfield, finishing off my last file.
Then there was a knock at the door.
I stopped. Confused, I looked towards Dr Harris’s room in case he was expecting someone, but he didn’t emerge. The knocking came again. This time harder, longer.
Presuming someone had got the wrong address, I went over to open it. As I pulled inwards, my free hand automatically shielded my eyes from the blinding sun. And so it took a moment for me to realize that it was you.
‘Oh . . . thank God you’re still here.’ You walked in past me as I opened the door fully.
‘Is everything OK, Dr Stevens?’
It wasn’t the ‘you’ I was familiar with. It was a sweaty, dressed in shorts and damp T-shirt, exposed muscular legs ‘you’.
‘Apart from being a total moron, yes, I’m fine . . . I . . .’ You could barely get your words out. Placed your hands on your hips and leant forward. ‘Sorry . . . stitch . . . I thought I’d do something positive this morni
ng . . . Got up, went for a run. I haven’t run for ages . . . clearly. So I do five miles—’
‘That’s good—’
‘Yes . . . five bloody miles. I make it home . . . thinking I was going to die . . . which, as a doctor, means there was a lot of evidence to back it up—’
‘Do you want some water?’
You nodded, your energy for speaking used up. I hurried to the kitchen, letting the tap flow, so it was cold enough for you.
When I returned, you took it off me and gulped it all. Wiping the excess from your mouth before running your fingers through your wet hair, revived.
‘And so I make it home, barely alive . . . then realize I hadn’t taken my bloody keys with . . . Didn’t have my phone.’ You handed me the empty glass.
‘Oh no . . . Shall I call a locksmith?’
‘No, no. Thank God I always keep a spare in my desk. It’s not the first time I’ve done this: I have form. I’m so bloody lucky that Harris was in today . . . Thank fucking Christ, eh?’ You headed towards your office. I followed you. ‘Why am I such an idiot, Constance?’
‘I don’t know, Dr Stevens.’
I’m sorry for that. I didn’t mean it the way it sounded. Though I don’t think you were listening anyway, as you continued babbling.
‘I asked someone for the time . . . then regardless of the heart attack I was already having, I ran here too, to catch you. Constance . . . can you open up for me? No keys.’ You smiled, but your face flooded with blood and irritation.
Once inside, I was desperate to get back to my computer to finish up, in the hope that we could leave together, but you kept talking. Mainly to yourself, but it felt rude to walk away.
‘Right, well, I’m certain I put it here.’ You scrambled inside the top drawer of your desk. ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake . . . don’t tell me that I— Ah . . . yes . . . Thank you.’ You lifted the two keys that hung from a red plastic fob and kissed them. ‘Sorry . . . Thanks, Constance. Where’s Dr Harris? I’d better pop my head round.’
If I Can't Have You Page 5
