Grave Misgivings

by Caroline Wood

  There are only a few further requirements that we have to meet, and if all is well, we will be given dates for our surgery. The main thing now, seems to be this film about the new clinics. It appears to have taken on a much more significant role than it had before. I expect the doctors have had their legal team onto it, to make sure it is all above board and that they will come out of it well. I have discussed it with my counsellor, telling her some of my fears about how I would be portrayed. In fact I used the white-haired man as an example, gaining, I hope, some points for my non-existent compassion and concern. I put it to the counsellor that the film might make him seem self-indulgent, attention-seeking, unbalanced even. In the usual way of counsellors, she gave no direct reply and simply asked me how I would feel about that. I could hardly admit that I would be in partial agreement. I moved to the general agenda of the film then and asked how she thought we would all be shown. Might it, for example, endorse the popular misunderstanding of our condition, showing us as no more than people with extreme forms of hypochondria? Would it try to make us look shallow, by focussing on what the largely ignorant general public see as unnecessary, expensive and wasteful use of resources? There is, of course, that common and uninformed argument about how some old lady could be having hip surgery instead of me having this ‘healthy’ limb removed. Again the counsellor gave no direct opinion; that is not their role. All she did say was that the film would be partly about the new clinics; how the dedicated team of medics were trying to help this growing need. It will also look at some of the candidates – both the successful ones like myself, and those that had been excluded. How some of them had lost everything – money, jobs and families in their quest for this treatment.

  Although I’m not altogether happy about it, I have agreed to be in the film. I am looking at it in an educational context, and can only hope that the doctors will not allow anything untoward. That is highly unlikely, of course, because they will want to come out of this well. The two other men seem keen to be part of it. I doubt that either of them has given it as much thought as I have. I can imagine the white-haired man using his well-worn medical terminology to the camera, seeing himself as some sort of expert on his own condition. And the finger man will probably over dramatise the way he has to keep his hand as far away from his body as possible. I have concerns that these two may damage our cause and make us appear pathetic. I shall try to compensate for this by letting people see the reality of living with this monstrous condition. They can film my everyday activities, demonstrating how hard it is to live with that dreadful thing strapped up behind me, and how emotionally draining it can be to be confronted by the hostility and ridicule of those around you, including those who were once friends.

  We’ve lost another one from the programme. Not a candidate this time; it was the top man. I still haven’t met him and will never need to now, of course. The limb has been removed. One of the other surgeons carried out the operation. It took two hours, although he joked to me before I went under, that he was just fitting it in before his lunch and an afternoon of golf. He had been called in from one of the overseas clinics at the last moment, apparently. You would never know it, of course; these surgeon types are very calm and do not tend to flap in a crisis. I am happier than I can say with the job he has done. He made his incision high up on my thigh, and I am left with a very pleasing flap of my own skin, neatly folded under and beautifully stitched. The scar should be quite lovely when it is fully healed. I couldn’t be more satisfied with the result and have no pangs about it not being done by the big man himself. This foreign chap is just as good, in my opinion. And thank God he was willing to step in at short notice when the big man was taken off by the police. He’ll be accused of fraud, I expect – there is serious money involved in this business. After all, they are dealing with people’s lives here. Or it could be some sour-grape accusation by a failed candidate; something vindictive. But he is a man of integrity and I have every confidence that he will come out of this with his reputation intact, and will go on to disprove his detractors. There are, after all, many more vulnerable and needy people out there, desperate, and willing to pay for his services

  * Suspicious Nature *

  He hadn’t been the back way since the summer. It took longer that way, he’d timed it once – there was a seven minute difference, and that mattered when you were in a hurry. But today, Samuel Bleet wasn’t in a hurry. He was now officially retired, and had the one thing he’d wanted for years – time. ‘Might as well take the scenic route,’ he told himself as he unlocked the shed and wheeled out his old black bicycle, ‘now I’ve got the time to appreciate it.'

  He gave the tyres a quick check, steered the heavy bicycle through his garden gate and eased himself up onto the worn leather saddle. He’d had the same bicycle since he’d been a lad and it had never let him down. A drop of oil here, a bit of tightening up with a spanner there, and the bicycle just kept going. Much the same as Samuel himself did. Approaching his mid-seventies, he was still fit and active.

  The morning was clear and bright and not too warm – just right for his cycle ride into town. Samuel pedalled at a steady pace, watching the hedges and fields as he passed. The blackberries had finished, apart from an odd late one here and there. Most of them were withered and brown, and looked like they’d blow away in a strong breeze. Agnes would have picked them long before they’d got to this stage. She would have had them lined up in jars on the pantry shelf by now. There was still plenty of her jam left, and every day he had some with a slice of bread for his tea. They’d always joked about how she made so much that it would outlive her. Samuel never thought it would actually happen.

  A pheasant suddenly ran across his path, flapping its wings, shrieking and chortling. Samuel was as startled as the bird although pheasants were part of the landscape, always running along the lanes and across the fields. He stopped and watched as the large, cumbersome bird finally got itself into flight, still making a racket as it flew away. It sounded bad-tempered. Samuel smiled, imagined he was being cursed and sworn at in pheasant language.

  ‘I’ll get the paper,’ Samuel said to himself, ‘and a few bits of shopping, then I’ll give that garden a good old tidy when I get back.’ He whistled part of a tune he’d been repeating for years. He no longer knew what it was or how the rest of it went. His plans for the garden had occupied his thoughts for the past few days – he’d neglected it since Agnes had passed on. There was never time to fit it in, with his job in the mornings and visits to Agnes every afternoon. He’d managed the basics, had cut the grass and done some pruning. It wasn’t overgrown now, but it needed some proper attention.

  His job at the farm shop had meant an early start in the mornings. He worked in the stores, and didn’t see many of the other workers. They were busy inside serving customers, while Samuel stayed out the back, sweeping up, stacking boxes and moving crates. It was his job to open up in the morning, and then help the lorry drivers to unload the potatoes, cabbages, apples or whatever they were delivering. He used to get all the containers in the shop stocked up with fresh fruit and vegetables before any of the other workers arrived. After that, he’d spend the rest of the morning keeping busy and out of the way. He preferred to keep his distance from other people. The lorry drivers were all right – they didn’t expect you to make conversation. But some people didn’t know when to stop talking, usually about them, and Samuel couldn’t wait to get away.

  As he started up the hill to the common, Samuel thought he caught a faint whiff of wood-smoke. He pedalled harder to keep his momentum, past a small herd of white cows that looked at him with mild curiosity. Cottages and farms scattered the area, radiating out from the sparsely-populated core of the small village where Samuel lived. Except for the London couple, who had bought one of the tiny cottages to use at weekends, everyone had lived here for years. But it was neither buildings nor people that dominated the area; it was the vast sky, stretched over acres of flat farmland and open fields. Here and th
ere, trees made black shapes against the pale blue, their branches set at permanent windswept angles.

  Having always lived on the edge of the village, Samuel and Agnes hadn’t seen much of the locals. They’d kept themselves to themselves, chatting away non-stop to each other when Agnes had been alive. Alone now, Samuel talked mostly to himself. He’d give a friendly nod to people as he passed on his bicycle, and they would wave back. He shared a few words with the man in the ironmongers whenever he called in, and chatted to the woman in the post office, but otherwise he preferred his own company. He was rarely disturbed by visitors.

  When he’d retired three weeks ago, the farm shop staff had given him a little party to say goodbye. He had hardly recognized anyone there – all the workers from the shop and the garden centre came along – he didn’t really know any of them. They clapped after the manager had made a speech, smiled and wished him well. When he got home and read the card, there were some nice comments written in it, but he knew they wouldn’t give him another thought now he’d gone. And he wouldn’t think of them either. He wasn’t unkind or uncaring about them. He knew they had got their working lives to be getting on with, had got their retirement parties yet to come. And now he’d got all this time to use up. He planned to keep himself busy and look after the cottage and its garden. Agnes had loved their garden, so he wanted to keep it nice for her. He thought of her all the time; and sometimes still talked to her.

  At the top of the hill, Samuel got off his bike for a few minutes; he was breathing quite hard but not struggling, and was pleased with himself for getting all the way up. It wasn’t a steep hill, more of a long slope. There weren’t any real hills – you could see for miles across the open landscape. He kept perfectly still as a hare flashed across the lane, right in front of him, and into the field opposite. There, it stopped and stood up on its hind legs, like a statue.

  ‘Beautiful creature,’ Samuel said under his breath. The hare sniffed the air, held its position for a few more seconds then took off again, bolting away over the field of stubble and out of sight as if it had evaporated.

  Samuel got back on his bicycle and headed towards the common. This was one of his favourite places. He’d often picked mushrooms up here on Sunday mornings but stopped when the wealthy, weekender couple started appearing. They’d been so pleased with themselves, trampling all over new mushrooms. They picked more than they could eat and left nothing for others that might come along.

  ‘Isn’t this quaint?’ the man had said to Samuel. He was well-groomed, and his long, waxed coat and clean Wellington boots looked far too warm and bulky for the weather. He’d worn a hat as well, with braided leather round the rim. ‘Just like it used to be years ago,’ he went on, ‘people living off the land and everything.’

  ‘Some of us still do,’ Samuel said as he’d left.

  He shook his head now, as he drew closer to the common. ‘It sticks in my craw,’ he said. ‘Folk like that pushing in where they don’t belong and waving their money about all over the place. Then they try and live like they own the place once a week.’ He sighed and looked across at the area where the mushrooms grew. ‘I don’t know why they can’t make do with one house, like the rest of us. You can only sleep in one bed at a time. There’s young folk round here that could make that place a real home instead of these two playing house in it.’

  He looked up again. There was smoke coming from behind a hedge near the curve in the lane. ‘I knew I could smell something burning,’ he said, and headed towards the thin line of smoke that drifted straight upwards. It obviously wasn’t a big fire. As he reached the bend, Samuel noticed a car parked on the grass verge, tucked in close to the hedge. It was some sort of sports car – black and shiny with wire wheels and a rounded, expensive shape. ‘What’s a car like that doing round here?’ Samuel said. He stopped his bicycle, stood astride it and stared at the car, trying to see what make it was. ‘Should have brought my glasses,’ he said. ‘Agnes was always telling me to keep them in my pocket.’ He laughed at the thought and tried to imagine what she would have made of this sight – this racing car on the edge of the common. ‘They’re a bit late for blackberries, aren’t they love?’ he said, and started to lower the bicycle to the ground so he could investigate the fire. Still holding one handlebar, Samuel suddenly realised he was looking at a man’s face through a gap in the hedge. The face didn’t look friendly.

  The combination of the unlikely car, the smoke and now this hostile expression staring back at him was enough to bring Samuel to an instant decision. He got back on his bicycle too quickly and wobbled to a halt a few yards further on. From here, the man behind the hedge came into full view and as Samuel put his foot on the ground to steady himself, he saw a second man. They were both smartly dressed; one of them wore a tie and the second man had sunglasses on. They stood still with their arms crossed, a few feet away from a small, smouldering fire. They looked in Samuel’s direction for several seconds, not moving, not speaking, until he pushed himself away again, concentrating hard to keep his balance. His shoulders were tense as he left the strange scene behind; he expected the men to run after him or throw something. He knew he had interrupted whatever they were doing, knew he’d surprised them and that they weren’t happy about it.

  ‘Don’t know what they were up to,’ he said once he was far enough away, ‘but they’re not from round here, I know that much. And that car … folk round here don’t have cars like that. Not unless they’re more of them rich weekender types, come up here to buy all the properties.’ He did something out of character then; spat his distaste into the grass verge.

  When he reached the town, Samuel leaned his bicycle against the post office wall and walked past the library towards the grocery store. It was market day but the few stalls that pitched up week after week didn’t interest him – the rows of cheap skirts, jumpers and trousers swaying in the breeze; garish packs of sweets, crisps and biscuits in frayed cardboard boxes, and that young, bored-looking woman who sat making jewellery out of glass beads.

  ‘Not like it used to be years ago,’ he said. ‘Could get some lovely fresh fruit and veg here – fish as well, if you came early enough.’ He picked up a plastic shopping basket as the glass door of the grocery store slid open to let him in. ‘Still, folk have got to make a living the best way they can, I suppose,’ he said. A middle-aged woman looked at him and smiled. ‘I’ve got to stop talking to myself – they’ll be locking me up,’ he said and smiled back. He whistled softly as he made his way round the narrow aisles, looking for the few items he needed – cheese, a small loaf of bread, two tins of soup he knew Agnes wouldn’t have approved of, and a packet of tea. All the time, he thought about the men, the car and the fire.

  Waiting in the short queue, he wondered again about what he’d seen. ‘Probably something and nothing,’ he said, and then remembered he was talking to himself again. But the ancient, frail-looking man in front of him didn’t respond; Samuel noticed the hearing aid tucked behind his ear, so he carried on muttering to himself. ‘Just a couple of lads, up to a bit of mischief, I expect.’He thought about the things he’d done as a boy – building tree houses with his mates; stealing apples from the orchard; and bonfires – they’d had bonfires as well. It was nothing new. He placed his shopping on the conveyer belt and put the piece of plastic behind it so the next person could unload their things. He always remembered to do this now, after the time when a young woman had glared at him, snatched the bar and banged it down on the belt.

  ‘Thanks very much,’ she’d snapped in a sarcastic tone. That had been Samuel’s introduction to the aggressive art of shopping. He packed his shopping into his old, crumpled carrier bag and paid the man at the till.

  ‘Bit old for bonfires, though, I’d have thought,’ he said as he left the shop. ‘But then, it’s hard to judge these days.’ He walked to the newsagents, three doors away, feeling for loose change in his trouser pocket. ‘They had that car as well … what would two smart lads like that be do
ing in the middle of nowhere, setting light to something?’

  On the pavement outside the newsagents, a metal stand held its usual bold announcement of the latest local news. Dismembered Body Found. Police search for missing hands. Samuel shook his head as he went inside to buy his paper. ‘Terrible business,’ he said to himself.

  With the carrier bag swinging on his handlebars, Samuel set off home. ‘Best if I go back the quick way, I suppose,’ he said. A tractor came towards him and Samuel stopped close to the kerb to let it pass. The driver held up his hand in thanks. ‘If those lads see me again, they might think I’m interfering,’ he said. ‘And I’m not as young as I was.’ He lifted his feet off the pedals and freewheeled down a dip in the road, the way he had as a child. At the bottom, a fork towards the common gave him his last chance to decide. Without knowing why, Samuel let his bicycle drift to the left, onto the lane leading back to the common. He whistled for a while, thought again about what he’d seen and decided that he’d got carried away about nothing. ‘Couple of townies, playing at being boy scouts again, that’s probably all it was.’

  He saw the smoke, spiralling lazily beyond the trees. The car had gone though. Samuel unhooked his carrier bag and laid the bicycle on the grass. He found his way through a clearing in the hedge and walked towards the fire. It was a small mound, tightly packed, and only the edges had burned. ‘Not much use at making fires, are you lads?’ he said to himself. He moved closer, picked up a half-scorched stick and dug at the ashes. Bits of wood lay nearby, and branches and twigs were still glowing and giving off the sweet smell of wood smoke. Underneath that though, was a smell that Samuel hadn’t noticed earlier. ‘That was one of them barbecues,’ he said. ‘That’s what they were up to.’