We did have the champagne. A soldier brought it in a pail. It was cold and mostly bubbles. I was feeling cold already and would rather have had hot tea, but he said there wasn’t any. We have tea in the hospital at six o’clock each morning, and three in the afternoon. And you can have it before bedtime instead of Ovaltine. Or any time at all down in the canteen, if you’ve got the money for it.
We didn’t have to pay for the champagne. That was free. Once we get to Las Vegas, everything is free. Las Vegas means the meadows. I like that name. I’ve got a book on it, a guide book from the library. I’ve only reached page twelve. It became a town because it was the only place with water. The mules used to stop there to drink, and eat the grass. A mule is half a horse, Sister said. I hope we see the mules.
I’d like to ride a horse. It would feel a bit like flying, proper flying. That voice in the ceiling told us we were flying at six hundred miles an hour, but I think he got it wrong. We’re hardly moving, just sitting like we do all day at Beechgrove. And everybody’s smoking, just the same as there. Carole’s on her second pack already. She’s nervous, I can tell. She’s listening to the radio. She brought her own, but they wouldn’t let her use it. The plane one’s hidden in the seat and you have to wear headphones so you can’t hear other things. I said “Carole” once or twice, but she didn’t seem to notice. Perhaps she didn’t want to. The nurses are like that, pretending they are deaf.
The bubbles from the champagne keep exploding in my stomach. I need some food to settle them. I’ve read the menu five times over. The food is very special and has long names. You can choose between something something chicken and something in French.
I think I’ll have the chicken. At least it’s English and I know what chicken is. They’ve even got a picture of it on the cover of the menu, a whole roast chicken with a bowl of fruit beside it, so full it’s spilling out – apples, cherries, grapes and some fruits I’ve never seen. The grapes are huge and black and seem to shine. I’ve only eaten grapes once and they were green and tiny. Someone’s son had brought them in as a present for his mother, but she had passed away a week or more before, and he didn’t even know. Nurse Clarke was going to eat them, but an older Irish nurse said it was unlucky to eat corpses’ food, so she gave them to us patients. She was right about the bad luck. Two days after that, they told us we were moving.
We had turkey yesterday. Yesterday was Christmas. I couldn’t enjoy it because I was so scared about this trip.
I can smell the dinner now. It’s coming down the aisle. Two ladies with a shining silver trolley, handing out the trays. Imagine dinner when you’re flying. It must be special if it takes so long to cook. No one else seems hungry. The man beside me is asleep.
“Beef or chicken, Madam?”
“Er … chicken.” No one calls me Madam. It didn’t say beef on the menu. I’d have had it if I’d known. The chicken looks pale and rather ill, not golden-brown at all. I thought we’d get a whole one like the picture, or at least a large piece with a bone. There’s just two tiny slices in a greyish gravy, two small white potatoes and a teaspoonful of peas. They couldn’t fit more on because the plate’s so small. It’s not a plate, but the sort of plastic dish you put your soap in.
Carole’s asked for beef. It doesn’t look French, but more like the stew we have on Tuesdays, except there’s less of it.
I touch her arm again. “We haven’t got a first course.” I was looking forward to it. It was written on the menu, four long words I couldn’t quite spell out. I’ve never had a first course. There’s only meat and pudding in the hospital.
“Yes, we have, silly.” Carole points to another plastic dish. It’s wrapped in that see-through stuff the doctor keeps his dressings in. There’s lettuce at the bottom, just a tiny bit with one slice of tomato. I think I’ll still be hungry.
“Where’s the pudding?”
“There.”
“That’s a cake.”
“No, it’s not, it’s pudding. Strudel Viennese.”
I don’t know what she means. And I can’t see any fruit, not even just an apple. Perhaps they got the picture wrong.
I eat the pudding first. It has wet stuff in it which doesn’t taste of anything, and two small currants. The chicken has gone cold. At least they didn’t mince it, but it isn’t very filling. You can have seconds in the hospital, or fill up with bread and marge.
Carole’s drinking more champagne. I mustn’t drink, or I’ll need to go. I need to go already.
“Excuse me, Sir …” That lady called him Sir, the one who brought his dinner. He smiled at her. He’s muttering at me. I think he’s foreign. I can’t understand the words. His eyes are very small, small and black like the currants in the cake. I can’t get out. No room between his stomach and his tray. “I’m sorry, Sir, but …’
Three toilets in a row. I’ll try the middle one. It’s frightening locked in here. I should have left the door open like they make us do at Beechgrove. I’m trapped in, like a prison. No room to move, no windows. A gust of wind is blowing from the ceiling, very cold. Maybe there’s a hole in the plane and no one knows about it.
They have funny toilets here, metal ones which are noisy when you go. Can they hear outside? There isn’t any chain to pull. I can’t make the taps work, either, or the plug. That’s my face in the mirror there. I don’t look how I thought I did.
It’s hard to stand. The floor keeps moving under me. There are lots of little cupboards with soap and paper towels in. The bars of soap are tiny. Perhaps they can’t afford the large size. I slip one in my pocket. I’ve been in places where there isn’t any soap, even in hospitals where they keep saying “Wash your hands”. I’m not sure about America, but better to be safe. I also find some sanitary towels which are useful if I leak. I don’t have periods any more. They took a lot of things away when I moved to Beechgrove, including my womb.
I daren’t disturb that man again. I think I’ll stay in here. Except you’re not allowed to hang around the toilets. Sister always comes to get you out. People smoke there sometimes. I tried a cigarette myself, just before we left. Carole asked me to. She kept worrying that I’d won the competition, yet never had a smoke. I cried first, then I coughed, but it made Carole happy, and I like it when she’s happy.
“Norah? Are you in there, Norah?”
Someone’s knocking. Sister. I’m not smoking, Sister, honestly, I’m not. I only smoked the once.
I open the door. It’s Carole, come to get me. “Are we there?” I ask her.
“Don’t be daft. We’ve hardly started yet. I was just worried where you’d got to. Are you feeling sick or something?”
“Oh, Carole, look!’
“What?”
“The clouds.”
“What about them?”
We’re flying, yes we’re flying. It’s true. We’re right up in the clouds. They’re so wonderful I must sit down and watch. There are two seats on their own, with no one sitting in them. I climb into the window one, press my face almost to the glass.
Clouds. So close we’re right inside them. Flying clouds. Clouds with wings, great white feathered wings like those Angels in the play. Carole’s right. I do feel sick, sick with happiness. I wish I had more words – words for happiness, words for all the clouds. Clouds like bandages, clouds like semolina. Some are flat and lacy, others thick and padded. Some are torn in strips like we used to tear old sheets for curling-rags and dusters. Except they’re not old, not at all, but very clean and fresh.
I’d like to smell them, touch them, maybe eat a bit of one. I think they’d taste like trifle. Trifle’s very special. We had it yesterday.
I try to open the window so I can lean right out and reach them. It doesn’t seem to open, so I take my glasses off instead. I feel shy without my glasses and things go strange and fuzzy, but I don’t want anything between me and heaven.
There’s an eiderdown! A white cloud eiderdown. I slept on one, just once. It belonged to another girl in Westham Hall, but
she let me borrow it for a quarter of a night. I lay on top of it, not under it. It felt so soft and warm. Clouds must feel like that. I stole just one small feather before I gave it back, pulled it out and kept it, to remind me. Those clouds are full of feathers. I could lie on one for ever, with another one on top of me, pulled right up to my chin; feel the whole world soft and white, instead of hard grey stone.
“Norah …’
“Just a minute.”
“Look, do come back. We haven’t had our coffee.”
I put my glasses on again. My eyes feel weak and dazed from being let out of their cage. “Can’t we have it here? Change our seats?”
“’Course not, stupid. You can’t see the screen from there.”
“Screen?”
“For the movie. You know – like TV. There’s two films, in fact, one starting any minute. Do buck up or we’ll miss that, too. It’s a funny one, they said, quite a hoot.”
“You go.” I turn back to the window. “I like it here.” The clouds have changed again. There are blue bits now, like lakes, between the white, and gold sprinkled on the top. I can’t see the sun, but it must be very close because everything is shining. I knew heaven would be shining. I can feel my body gold inside. I fly.
A hand taps me on the shoulder. It isn’t Carole’s hand. “Will you please return to your seat, Madam. We’re showing the movie now.”
I pretend I haven’t heard. It seems rude to me that people should watch television when they’ve got this close to God.
“I’m sorry, but you’ll have to move. We’re closing all the blinds. And we like to keep those seats free, anyway, so as not to block the exit.”
I slide out of the seat. She sounds sharp like Sister Watkins, so I dare not disobey. She leans over, snaps the blind down. Other hands pull other blinds all along the rows. It’s dark now, really dark. This must be a punishment. I creep back to my seat.
The trays have disappeared, but Carole passes me a plastic bag with something grey coiled in it.
“Go on – put it on. It’s the headset for the movie. Here, I’ll do it for you, if you like.”
I hate things in my ears. At St Joseph’s, they stuffed our ears with cotton wool in winter, so everything was muffled. If we took it out, they slapped us. This isn’t cotton wool, but something harder. I can’t hear at all, just a whispered roar which is different from the plane’s roar. At least it’s not a mask. At least I can still breathe.
I look up at the screen. A small thin man with a moustache is running in and out of rooms and climbing into wardrobes. His lips are moving so I think he must be talking, but I can’t hear any words. Only roar.
I fiddle with the headset and everyone starts laughing – Carole and the fat man, the people next to them, and the whole row in front. I try to laugh myself, but I’m feeling rather scared. The laughs are getting louder, mixed up with the roar. I’m trapped in coils of laughter like barbed wire.
It’s impossible to move. The fat man’s stomach is shaking up and down. Carole’s almost choking. I’ve never heard her laugh before, only cry. The two are not that different.
There’s a boy behind me with a horrid jeering laugh. They laughed like that when I first arrived at Westham, forty years ago. I just stood there in the playground in my St Joseph’s brown school tunic and the brown felt hat with its blue and gold striped ribbon round the brim. I couldn’t see a lot because the hat was too big and came right down on my eyebrows. But I could hear the laughs all round me. There was glass along the walls at Westham Hall, broken glass sticking up from the topmost row of bricks, to stop us climbing out. Those laughs cut like the glass.
It was worse when they stopped, though, because no one said a word. The silence felt cold and thick like dirty snow. I moved my hat a bit. I could see a circle of feet, white plimsolls and black boots, edging slowly closer. I shut my eyes.
“What’s yer name?” someone asked, at last. A boy, I think it was. There were no boys at St Joseph’s.
“N … Norah Too …” I couldn’t get the letters out. They had stuck to my teeth like toffee.
“What?”
“T … Toomey.”
They laughed again, then, louder. Someone snatched my hat off, threw it in a tree. It didn’t matter really. No one wore a uniform at Westham, and they always laughed at hats.
The second film is different. No one laughs at all. There are far more people in it who all look sad and frightened. I can’t hear what they’re saying, but I can see it from their eyes. Some of them are shouting, some crying with no sound. It seems sadder with no sound.
I’m very stiff and cramped. My head is throbbing and there’s a pain all down my back. I’d like to move, stretch my legs, get some light and air, escape from all these people and the smoke. Even in the hospital you can cometimes get away, sit quietly in the library and walk up and down the corridors and think. And you don’t have to watch TV. A lot of patients do, of course, but the set is in another room, so it’s not forced on you, like here.
I’ve never sat so long before, in just one squashed-in seat and doing nothing. We have far more breaks at Beechgrove and we’re allowed to move our chairs. Today is Boxing Day.
I don’t like this low ceiling. I feel I’m all closed in and the world outside has flown away, disappeared for ever. You’re not allowed to speak and Carole has forgotten that I’m here. A baby’s crying just in front. It’s been crying all the way.
I wish the roar would stop, the strange noise in my ears. I wish I could get out. A whole day has passed, at least, and maybe half a night as well. Boxing Day is over. We didn’t have the carol singers, or cold turkey and mince pies. With Beechgrove closing, I may never have a Boxing Day again. You don’t have them in lodgings, or on planes.
Carole’s watch says half past eight, but she said that wasn’t right. It should be dark by now. It is dark in the plane because the blinds are still drawn down, but they pulled them up for just ten or fifteen minutes before the second film, and it was as light and bright as summer. I got up to go number one, so I could see the clouds again. There was a long queue for the toilets (which were dirtier and smelt), so I only had a moment for the clouds. The sun was shining on the white and they were so clean and pure and beautiful, I could have watched them all my life.
I tried to ask permission to be excused the second film, so I could stand there a bit longer. But the lady said we were having drinks first, anyway, and would I go back to my seat please, because they couldn’t get the trolley through if everyone got up.
Carole had a gin. They brought it in a tiny tiny bottle with a plastic tooth-mug full of lumps of ice. I said “Nothing, thank you,” but the soldier gave me a little pack of peanuts with “Enjoy your drink” printed on the wrapper. No one’s ever done that at the hospital. I put it in my pocket with the soap. I was feeling rather hungry, but I didn’t want to open it in case I tore the words.
“Enjoy,” I whisper.
Nice word. They told us to enjoy our flight, but it isn’t very easy. No one talks to you and there’s nothing much to do. We’re still going very slowly, slower than the coach. I wish they’d bring the craft box round. The clever ones do tapestry at Beechgrove, or knit, or make soft toys. I’ve got my big jigsaw. We never sit in silence in the dark.
I try a bit more film. Carole’s frowning, screwing her eyes. It must be something terrible. I still can’t hear, but the man has got a gun now, a gun with silent bullets. Suddenly, I can hear. The screen goes black and a voice comes out of nowhere, a stern voice like the chaplain’s. “Will you kindly fasten your seat belts and keep them fastened. If you are not in your seat, please return to it immediately.”
“That’s the captain,” Carole whispers.
“Where?” I ask. I haven’t seen him yet. He’s the most important person on the plane. Nurse Sanders told me that. I hoped we’d sit right close to him.
“Ssh. Do your seat belt up.”
I clutch her arm, afraid. “What’s happened, then?” I ex
pect the masks will drop now, I won’t be able to put mine on, shan’t be able to breathe. There’s not much air left anyway. Only cigarette smoke. My chest feels tight already.
“Nothing.” Carole shrugs. “Just a bit of turbulence. Who d’you think did it, by the way?”
“What?”
“The murder, silly. Aren’t you watching?”
I glance back at the screen. I think we’re going to crash. The plane is shuddering, plunging down and down. I wonder if the sea is underneath. If it is, I’ll die. I never learnt to swim and you couldn’t float on cushions, whatever Carole said. She told me they had floating cots for babies. I can’t see any cots, so that baby just in front will die as well. It’s screaming even louder.
The people in the film look terrified. Two are dead already. I fumble for my hankie, wipe my face. I’ve been cold all through the journey. Now I’m sweating.
A long time passes. I know I’m still alive when Carole prods my arm.
“Stop fidgeting,” she whispers. She’s very calm herself. I shut my eyes, try to do the exercises they teach in Relaxation. It seems to soothe the plane. It’s quieter now.
I keep my eyes closed anyway, so now it’s dark inside me, as well as in the plane. Last week, we had the Shortest Day, which means it’s dark when you get up and dark again by teatime. It seems odd to block the light out when we get so little of it. It’s summer just outside those blinds, yet we’re sitting here in winter. Perhaps flying’s like the War and light is dangerous. Or perhaps we’re so high up, the sun could burn us.
I wish they had a shop here, so I could buy a bag of crisps. I think they’ve forgotten supper and I’m feeling very empty – empty everywhere, not just in my stomach. The Beechgrove shop is really just a room, not a proper shop with windows or a counter. It’s run by two grand ladies who keep changing all the time, so they never know my name. You can buy bath salts there, and stamps, and bars of chocolate. I’ve never bought a stamp.
Sin City Page 6
