David's Sisters

by Forsyth, Moira;

  ‘I mustn’t, not here. I have to get back – Claire …’

  People did not do this, not in real life, seizing each other so hungrily, the door barely closed, the hallway too narrow, the carpet too hard so that it burned her spine as he moved inside, as she moved with him, unable now to do a thing about it.

  ‘You want to come upstairs?’ he asked, when he was spent, and had recovered a little, holding her tight, his mouth on her throat again, kissing gently.

  ‘No, no, I have to get back.’ She was up and hauling on clothes, coming to her senses. What if Claire had followed her, come to say someone was on the phone, some trivial message? ‘Oh God, I’ve got to get a grip.’ She was flushed, alarmed, and yet still trembling with the pleasure of it, wanting to stay, to reach again the place he’d taken her to last time.

  He sat naked in the narrow hallway, leaning against the coats on their hooks, watching her, amused.

  ‘Come back,’ he said, ‘come back later.’

  ‘I’ll try.’

  She would, of course. He knew that, as he let her go.

  Marion had come to hate the hospital. Till now, she had thought of hospitals as good places, where problems were solved, pain eased, sick people made well. Now, as she approached the rectangular buildings, the acre of car park, the sick feeling in her stomach intensified. This was fear. She was afraid of the hospital. Everywhere, she heard stories of people who came out more ill than they had gone in, or crippled with some new symptom or disability. Why had she never heard these stories before? They could not all be true.

  It was not just being ill that made her afraid. The nurses, the staff who had once been so friendly and sympathetic, did not always seem so now. The first shock was when she went, in the New Year, to have a prosthesis fitted to replace the temporary one. She had to wait a long time, and everyone was very brisk. Except us, the poor Amazon women, Marion thought. We were not brisk. The oddly shaped, soft rubbery moulds she slipped inside her bra cup, trying for size and shape, were comically awkward. When she finally decided on one, the nurse advised her to walk around, to bend down, reach up. ‘All the normal things,’ she said. ‘See how it feels then, dear.’

  Marion resented the ‘dear’, the advice, the door swinging behind the nurse as she left. She wished she had brought Eleanor with her. At least there would be someone to help her make a joke of it. She leaned forward, but perhaps too suddenly, for the prosthesis slid out and bumped softly on the floor.

  ‘Shit!’ Marion said aloud, Marion who never swore, or lost her temper. ‘Oh, shit!’

  ‘What you should do,’ Eleanor said, when Marion told her about this, ‘is get some new bras. See a proper fitter. You must still get fitters in the old-fashioned dress shops, the expensive ones. There are special bras for people like you, aren’t there? Well, get some of these – really pretty ones.’

  ‘That’s the first sensible suggestion I’ve heard,’ Marion said. That’s what I’ll do.’ Eleanor glowed, knowing that for once she had said something useful.

  Marion had bought a book on women’s health, and another on coping with cancer. The first was feminist, cheerful, and very keen on women examining their own vaginas. The other was more clinical and explained everything in greater detail than Marion really wanted, or indeed could take in. However, neither of them, as she pointed out to Eleanor, mentioned how sticky the prosthesis felt next to skin, when you got hot. ‘You sweat behind it, you know. I can’t imagine a whole summer like this.’

  She and Eleanor read through both books, comparing. The one on women’s health had a chapter called ‘Looking after your Breasts’. As if, Eleanor remarked, they were puppies, or house plants. At the end of the encouraging part about self-examination and good diet, a few statistics were lined up.

  ‘One in twelve women contract breast cancer,’ Marion read aloud to Eleanor. Then it says this should put it in perspective.’ They looked at each other in dismay.

  ‘God,’ Eleanor exclaimed, ‘that’s thousands of us, millions.’

  Eleanor, flinging herself from Claire, to Gavin, to Marion, back to Gavin again, veering between excitement and terror, seemed to move through a narrow pass among rocky hills that rose so high on either side they closed off every route except back (which was impossible) or straight ahead (which was dangerous). Every now and then, an avalanche of rocks came tumbling down, with a great roar. So far, not one of them had hit her. This could not last.

  ‘One in twelve,’ she said again, aloud.

  Marion went on reading. ‘Eighty per cent of these women don’t die,’ she told Eleanor.

  ‘Well, I should hope not,’ Eleanor said crossly, ‘with all this bloody treatment they give you.’

  ‘But,’ Marion looked doubtful, ‘it says only seventy per cent will be alive and well five years later. Shouldn’t that be eighty per cent? What happened to the other ten per cent?’ She flicked back a few pages, then gave up and flung the book on the floor. ‘Och, I can’t take it in. I’m so stupid these days.’

  ‘No, you’re not.’ Eleanor wanted to pick the book up and look for herself, but knew Marion had had enough of it. ‘You’ll be fine as soon as the chemotherapy’s over. Halfway through, now, nearly.’

  Marion picked up the book again. The lymph nodes,’ she murmured. ‘I’m lucky about that. Mine don’t seem to be affected.’

  Eleanor had no idea what lymph nodes were, did not really want to know. ‘Don’t read about it any more,’ she advised. I think these books just make it seem worse.’

  ‘You’re right,’ Marion said. ‘Oh, it is nice of you to come and keep me company. I can’t cope with other people just now, and Fergus doesn’t want me to talk about it at all. I mean, he tries to listen, but after a minute or so, he finds something to do. I’ll just check that light you said was flickering … get the coal in … So I leave it. It’s not much fun for you, though, discussing this sort of thing.’

  ‘Don’t be silly – I care about you. I want to be the one you talk to about it.’ She half-rose. ‘Are you tired, though? D’you want me to go now?’

  ‘No, not unless you want to.’ Marion sighed. ‘At least you don’t keep leaning forward the way Lynn does, and Sue and the rest of them.’

  ‘Leaning forward?’

  ‘Like this.’ Marion made an effort, moved in her chair, and leaned towards Eleanor, looking into her eyes intently. ‘Tell me, how are you really?’ she breathed.

  Eleanor laughed. ‘They mean to be sympathetic.’

  ‘I know, that’s what’s so awful. But they can see how I am. Ugly. My hair’s coming out in handfuls – I can’t believe it. Look at me, I’ll be bald, like somebody on Star Trek … from another galaxy.’

  ‘You still look bonny to me,’ Eleanor said. ‘Just too thin.’

  ‘That’s what Fergus says,’ Marion smiled.

  ‘Well, we both love you … even if you had no hair at all, we’d love you.’ But Eleanor felt the touch of fear, of relief, that she did not have to face this herself.

  Going home, she kept pushing her fingers through her own thick bell of dark blonde hair, as if to reassure herself it was still there. I just couldn’t cope with that, she thought. How does she manage? Would Gavin still want her, in that fierce shameless way, if she had thinning hair, was becoming gaunt, listless, as Marion was? Marion, who had been on and off diets for years, always wanting to be thinner than her metabolism dictated. Now her skirts and trousers were loose, and her collar bone pronounced.

  None of this made a difference to Fergus. Eleanor longed to be loved like that. Only Claire loved her so unconditionally, and Claire couldn’t help it; children loved without willing it, loved the most terrible parents. Look at Gavin, still admiring his hopeless father, excusing him even while he joked. In the two weeks since he had come back, they had achieved an intimacy that was surely not just to do with sex. We are in love with each other, that must be what it is, she told herself, looking for signs in him that showed he cared for her, was interested, wanted
to have her around. Yes, this was what being in love was like. It had not been exaggerated, after all, as she used to think, by poets and songwriters.

  She tried not to let Claire see too much of this.

  ‘Oh well,’ Claire sighed, when Eleanor kept disappearing to his house, saying she’d only be half an hour, staying almost two. ‘As long as you like him. He’s quite nice, I suppose.’

  Then one evening, hanging round after tea long enough to have to help with the washing up, she said, ‘Mum – know what?’ , ‘What?’

  ‘I’m going out with somebody.’

  Eleanor stood still for a moment, then carried on scrubbing a casserole dish. ‘Oh, who’s that?’

  ‘Just this boy at school. His name’s Stephen.’

  ‘He’s nice, is he?’

  ‘Really tidy, Mum. Loads of girls fancy him.’

  ‘So … when are you going out with him?’

  ‘Well, you know. I got off with him at the Maryburgh disco. And we’re all going to the Sporty on Friday night. I’m getting the bus with Sarah.’

  ‘To the Sports Centre?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘You know, Claire, it might be an idea if you asked me first.’

  ‘But you’d say yes, wouldn’t you? I wish we didn’t live in the country. Stephen lives in Dingwall, all the rest do except Sarah and me. We’re the only ones who have to get the school bus.’

  ‘Pretty empty bus, then.’

  ‘Mum – you know what I mean. Everybody else goes down the street after school, and I’ve got to get on the boring school bus. Can I go to Auntie Marion’s, and then you could collect me later?’

  ‘No. Marion’s too ill. She’s got enough to cope with at the moment.’

  ‘I wouldn’t be a nuisance or anything. She’s not, like, really ill, is she?’

  What should Eleanor say? ‘It’s the treatment. It’s making her feel pretty sick.’

  ‘Oh. Right.’ Claire turned away and went out.

  Later, Eleanor sat on Gavin’s sofa, curled up beside him, and worried aloud.

  ‘She’s had all the talks at school, and I’ve spoken to her about … boys, you know. She seems keen on this one, and that’s never happened before. There was always just a crowd … they go around together.’

  ‘You think she’s going to have sex, is that it?’

  ‘No! God, I hope not. She’s fourteen, for heaven’s sake.’

  ‘Sauce for the goose,’ he teased, grinning, kissing her ear. They start young, these days.’

  What sort of example am I? Eleanor wondered, lying in Gavin’s bed, knowing she would have to go in a minute, that Claire would be home from Sarah’s, or school, or the disco, or that she’d have to get up and drive to fetch her. She was always leaving Gavin in the flush of warm vulnerability that comes after sex, tender and even a bit sore with the ache of good love-making. Then she had to be dressed, and sensible, a mother, a good woman.

  Everything they did together had an edge of danger to it, like something about to end, that must be made the most of, intense and temporary and full of wishing. Soon he would leave again and she would be alone for at least two weeks. She would go back to her evening class, spend more time with Marion, keep a closer eye on Claire. It was time, anyway, they drew back a bit. He left it later and later to put the condom on, had moved inside her once or twice before he did – and she had let him. The risk was hers as much as his. How could she advise Claire, when she was so foolish herself? No, a break would be all right this time. It was needed. She would relax, start eating properly again. And she would not wait, long for him, think about him all the time. It was exhausting.

  When she went to see Marion the next afternoon, it was not to comfort and cheer her sister, it was to stop herself fretting that Gavin would be gone in a couple of days. She despised herself, knowing this, knowing what she wanted was to have Marion comfort her.

  From an upstairs window, Marion saw Eleanor’s car turn into the drive. She was in Ross’s bedroom, sorting out old clothes, some of which were not even fit for the jumble sale. Her friend Lynn had called in the morning, going the rounds for the school Spring Fair.

  ‘They’ve given me the jumble stall,’ she had said, drinking Marion’s coffee and scattering shortbread crumbs.

  ‘I’ll have a look—’ Marion began.

  ‘It’s OK – I didn’t want you to think I’d missed you out, you know, not bothered telling you about it. Nobody expects you to do anything this time.’ She got up, brushing the last of the crumbs from her skirt. ‘Righty oh. I’ll get on to Sue’s – she said she had masses of Shona’s old things.’

  ‘I’ll go through my wardrobe,’ Marion promised. ‘It’s time I had a clearout. And Ross’s chest of drawers – I haven’t tackled that for ages.’

  This was what she was doing, when she heard Eleanor’s car, but she had not got very far, and had had to sit on the bed anyway, unable to stand for very long. She would save her own wardrobe for later, when she felt better. This was not a good day. For the last twenty minutes, she had done nothing but stare into space, not even listening to the Radio 4 play murmuring on beside her. She had been thinking about her body, and how it seemed less and less familiar, her own.

  She went down with relief to greet her sister.

  ‘You’re not well,’ Eleanor said.

  ‘I’m all right.’

  Eleanor followed her upstairs. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Oh, Lynn was here, about the school fair. She’s organising the jumble stall. You can help me sort through Ross’s stuff – I don’t seem to be getting on very fast.’

  All they did was sit in the bedroom together, surrounded by football and rock star posters, amid a litter of school books, computer disks and chewed pens, while Eleanor talked. Marion, though unable to care very much about anything external just now, was glad to be distracted from herself.

  ‘I wouldn’t worry about Claire having a boyfriend,’ she said. ‘It doesn’t seem to amount to much, at that age.’

  ‘I think it’s more myself I’m worried about, really,’ Eleanor said. ‘Having a boyfriend at my age.’

  ‘Is that what he is?’

  ‘Well, I don’t know what else you could call him.’

  ‘Is it getting serious then?’

  Eleanor reddened. ‘It’s quite … intense.’

  Marion thought with relief of Fergus, and how easy it was when you had been together for years. I would not have the energy, she thought, for all that emotion and uncertainty. Even if I felt well. Eleanor had an edgy beauty just now that Marion could not help but admire, and would almost have envied, had it been possible to feel something so negative for her sister.

  ‘Oh well,’ Eleanor said, ‘we’ll see how things go.’ She looked at Marion’s tired, sad face, Marion who was trying so hard to be helpful, and normal. ‘Come on,’ she said, ‘let’s go downstairs and have a cup of tea. I’ve got an idea.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘I’ll take the girls to Aberdeen at Easter. Gavin will be offshore till the second week of the holidays, so I’ll take them to Pitcairn. We’ll visit the aunts, and shop, and go to the pictures. That would give you a break, wouldn’t it? With just Fergus and Ross here? I’d take Ross too, if he’d come. What do you think?’

  ‘They’d like it,’ Marion said, considering. ‘I think Ross is going to have to work though, with Highers coming up.’

  ‘Would you like it? Would you like to have the house to yourself for a few days?’

  ‘Oh …’ Marion could not make decisions like this any longer. She was afraid to let the children out of her sight, wanted them all at home. And yet, when they were, she was exhausted, and longed for peace. ‘All right,’ she said at last. ‘We’ll ask them.’

  That evening, lying in Gavin’s arms, conscious that soon he would be gone again, Eleanor thought of how going to Pitcairn would help to fill the empty days before he came back. She was doing this for herself, not Marion, and was ashamed to admi
t it.

  ‘What are you thinking about?’ he asked. ‘You’ve got tense again.’

  ‘Have I?’

  ‘Relax, cuddle in. Claire’s at her friend’s, you said, and we’ve got at least another hour.’

  ‘It’s not that.’

  ‘What then?’ He held her tighter. ‘Not sex?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You didn’t come.’

  ‘Well, sometimes I don’t. I thought, after that first time, you know, that was it. I’d made it, made the switch, it would always happen. But it seems to depend on other things too.’ Eleanor nestled closer, tucked one leg between his, stroked his belly, feeling him quiver beneath her touch.

  ‘Want to try again?’

  ‘To tell you the truth, I don’t mind. It doesn’t matter now. It mattered much more when I thought I couldn’t. Now, loving is so … varied, isn’t it? Not just orgasms, big waves. It’s what you give, take from each other, the surprise of it. That’s what makes it so …’

  ‘Wonderful?’

  ‘Well, yes.’

  ‘You do great things for my ego,’ he said, and laughed.

  On the day before he left, a blustery March afternoon, they walked down by the side of the firth together, and watched a pair of swans lead their cygnets in file through grey, glistening water. Where the path was wide enough, he took her hand and walked beside her. At the ruined salmon bothies, they paused and sat on the broad step in front of one of them, turning their collars up against the wind. Above them, a bird of prey hovered, then flapped slowly away.

  ‘Look!’ He showed her. ‘A red kite, I do believe. Amazing. Yes, it is.’

  ‘How can you tell?’

  ‘It had a forked tail. That’s how you tell a kite, even at a distance.’

  ‘Forked?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She buried her face in his jacket, slid her arms round him, pulled tight. ‘You’re my red kite,’ she said, foolish with love.

  ‘One more night,’ he said, ‘then I fly off.’