House. Tree. Person.

by Catriona McPherson

  “I’ve got Lars, Marion, and Hinny,” I said. I turned to the other kitchen worker who had taken the seat next to mine. “I’m Ali McGovern, beauty and art therapist.” I stuck my hand out and the woman shook it, her eyes so wide I could see the whites all round, but she said nothing.

  “Thank you, Alison,” said Dr. Ferris, as sour as a pickled lime. “I think I can handle this. This is Alison, everyone. She’s a beautician who’s joining us to do some para-therapeutic work on personal care and some recreational art. And from left to right: Amana is a kitchen assistant, Yvonne is an enrolled nurse. Dick is a registered nurse. They’re both usually on the acute side so you’ll have few dealings with them. Belle and Surraya are registered and enrolled on the open side. Marion is the deputy charge nurse. Lars is the charge nurse. And then there’s Dr. Ferris, who’s deputy director and at the top, of course, me. You should direct all questions to me.”

  “And this is Jed, our trainer and fitness expert,” Dr. F added. “You’ll probably be working quite closely with Jed so you should—”

  “Darling?” said Dr. Ferris. “Perhaps we could start the meeting?”

  Dr. F clamped his lips shut so quickly they actually made a smacking noise and I could see Lars bite his cheeks trying not to laugh. Surraya was wearing a hijab and she put her head on one side so it swung forward hiding her face from the doctors. She looked right at me, crossed her eyes, and mouthed bitch, so I had to bite my cheeks too and couldn’t look at Lars for the rest of the meeting.

  And anyway, there was plenty to do. I scribbled furious notes, cross-referring to my patient list, as the departing night shift rattled off reports of meds and checks and hours.

  “And apart from that I spent the shift sitting with Rosa,” Marion finished up.

  “You did?” said Dr. Ferris, turning a sharp eye on one of the other nurses. One in a dark green uniform. Yvonne, maybe. I would have got them all if she’d let them say their own names.

  “I did,” Marion said. “We can have a review of nursing practice if you like, Doctor.”

  There was a long moment of stillness. Then Dr. Ferris spoke again, in a voice like liquid nitrogen. “Moving along, then. Lars?”

  I had only heard him gossiping and joking so far, but as he laid out the patient plan for the day he was a different man: rattling off the appointments for the “substance dependents,” the one-on-one schedule, the drug regimes and changes. I filled in my list, blocking out who was free when, in amongst it all. My days could be filled four times over. He finished up with the group he called simply “Drew, Posy, Roisin, and the new admission.” I guessed from the vintage of the names that they were teens or twenties and probably the anorexics. “I’ll take Drew for breakfast and lunch today and see if it goes better. If we’re right in thinking it’s gender that’s the problem with the mealtime supervision, I’ll text John and get him in early for tea and supper. Okay, Belle?”

  Belle snorted and shook her head, making that mp-mp-mm noise that only very large black ladies can really make without sounding daft. “Thanks for the kind words, Lars,” she said, in a West-Indian accent that sounded like honey dropping off a spoon into a bowl of cream. “But I think we know it’s not gender!”

  There was a burst of tittering that lasted until Dr. Ferris killed it.

  “Before we degenerate into a book club,” she said, and I saw a couple of people frown as they tried to follow the thread. Book club? “Does anyone have any questions?”

  I put my hand up and heard the tittering break out again.

  “This isn’t a classroom, Alison,” she said.

  I pulled my hand down again. “I’ve got some,” I said. “But I don’t want to waste everyone’s time. Maybe I should just ask you.”

  “Oh?” said Dr. Ferris. “My time not being as valuable as, say, Amana’s.”

  Bitch, mouthed Surraya again, on another hijab swing.

  “Of course not,” I said. “Only you said to bring things to you.”

  “In the meeting, naturally,” said Dr. Ferris.

  “Don’t worry, Ali,” said Dr. F. “What is it you want to know?”

  “Couple of things,” I said. “One, can I group people together willy-nilly? I mean if three patients are all free at the one time, can I get them together for a class or do I have to check that they want to or are allowed to?”

  “That’s a very g—” Dr. F began.

  “Of course you can,” said Dr. Ferris. “You must. There’s no overtime available simply because you try to eke out your work by over-focussing.”

  “Great,” I said. I saw Surraya move her head yet again and it boosted me even though I didn’t look. “And two, is Julia’s dad actually dead?”

  This time the silence was more like a freeze-frame.

  “I beg your pardon?” said Dr. Ferris.

  “Off the back of what you were saying before?” I ploughed on. “About not … what was it … bolstering her confabulations? Well, I kind of didn’t know what to say because I didn’t know if he was dead of natural causes and she just pretends she killed him or if he’s not even dead and she’s confabulating the whole shebang.”

  “Patients’ confidential personal circumstances should have no reason to come up in the course of any of the services you offer,” Dr. Ferris said coldly.

  “He walked out shortly before her admittance,” Dr. F said.

  I was pleased, in a nasty way, to see that she could change colour too. Dr. Ferris was in salmon, coral, and brown today and, as her face turned an angry pink with suppressed annoyance, the scarf and cardi clashed pretty badly.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “Anything else?” said Dr. Ferris.

  I smiled at her. “I know where to find you.”

  And then the nurses and the rest of them started folding the seats that were set out and stashing them on a trolley that Amana the kitchen assistant rolled away.

  “Bloody Nora, Ali!” Lars said, once the office door had been shut smartly at our heels.

  “Bloody Nora, yourself,” I said. “She’s hellish. How long have you worked here? How can you stand it?”

  “It’s a laugh,” said Marion. “It doesn’t get in the way as long as you’re firm. She doesn’t even know she’s doing it.”

  “But what’s she like with the patients?” I said. “I can’t imagine turning to her and telling her all my worries. And her daughter!”

  “The ice princess can’t get frozen by the ice queen,” said Surraya, who was coming along behind us. “It’s a fair fight. Oh hey, good challenge in there, by the way, Marion.”

  “Oh yeah,” I said, remembering. “Why shouldn’t you be sitting with Rosa?”

  “Shift charge nurse should be doing admin and leaving the grunt to the greenies,” Marion said. “But I’ve been here the whole time Rosa’s been in and she knows me.”

  “She’d moan if we were doing it too,” said another one—one of the greenies?—who was walking along arm-in-arm with Surraya. “I’ll never forget her saying it straight out that time when it was old Ted.”

  “Yvonne, isn’t it?” I said, pleased when she nodded.

  “She said,” Yvonne went on, “that sitting by the bedside of an unconscious patient waiting for them to die was a waste of staff resources.” She was watching me carefully but I didn’t have to act my shock.

  “Seriously?” I said. “She reckoned someone in here could just lie there and die alone?”

  Yvonne gave me a smile. I had passed the test. “She said, ‘What is the benefit of this use of a nurse’s time?’”

  “What did you say?” I asked.

  Yvonne drew herself up. “I said, ‘Anyone who has to ask that question probably wouldn’t understand the answer.’ Said it loud and clear … in my head. Nah, I said I’d wait to hear the new protocol from Lars and Marion. That shut her up.”

 
“You know what else I didn’t understand,” I said. We had got to the door of my treatment room now and I stopped with my hand on the handle. “What’s she got against book clubs?”

  “No clue,” said Marion. But Belle, who hadn’t spoken yet, let out a deep chuckle.

  “That was all my fault, sweetness.” I looked around but it seemed that sweetness was me. “Book clubs were in her mind on account of Oprah. Because she was looking at me. Because she can’t look at me and see a nurse. She looks at me and sees B-L-A-C-K.”

  I gave that nervous laugh you give when you don’t know whether you can laugh or not. Then another thought struck me.

  “Is that what’s wrong with the patient too? The one that won’t let you … whatever it is?”

  Now they were all laughing.

  “Lord! No, that’s not the problem with little Miss Drew. She only just came in—six stone and eating tissues—and who does Dr. F get to sit with her at mealtimes and make sure she gets her shake down and keeps it there?” Belle spread her arms and displayed herself. She really was pretty impressive. “Only her worst living nightmare!”

  “You’re a beautiful woman, Belladonna,” said Lars.

  “I’m two beautiful women,” Belle said and sashayed off along the corridor, swinging her hips so hard they shivered, still laughing.

  “Bloody wish I came from somewhere where fat was fabulous,” Yvonne said. “Wait till you see Belle’s husband, Ali. He’s drop-dead gorgeous. And guess what mine got me last Valentine’s Day? A free month’s intro at Ballantyne’s. Bloody gym membership. Bastard.”

  I looked at Lars, wondering if he minded being the only man, listening to women bitch up their husbands all day.

  He read my mind. “It’s training. When I get my hands on another woman I’m gonny be an expert. ‘She’s too thin, love. You’re younger than her too. Let’s go and see the new Jane Austen then get a bottle of wine to take home.’”

  “Hey,” I said, “some men actually like historical drama.”

  “Oh yeah, so they do,” said Lars. “Except no, they don’t. How long have you been married?”

  “Twenty years.”

  “Poor sod. That’s four films and the six-hour BBC thing he’s had to sit through.”

  “Don’t listen to him, Ali,” said Marion. “But don’t make your man watch Jane Austen, eh?”

  I was happy. As I let myself into my room to pick up Sylvie’s slippers and take them to her, planning an art class that would make the boys laugh and help Jo and Harriet smile if I was lucky, the last six months faded. I was wearing my whites again with my hair scraped back and I was joking with my workmates. I was in a big warm clean house, even if I only worked there. There was a master-chart and an integrated schedule, and I was part of it. Even the last three days seemed more like a bad dream now. My husband was a kind man who watched my soppy films, my kid was a good boy who only rolled his eyes because he didn’t know how lucky he was to have me. Yes, at that minute of that day, I was actually feeling happy.

  Eleven

  Sylvie was in bed. I had to fight the thought that she was stuck in bed to keep her feet warm because I’d binned her horrible slippers, but two minutes after I went in, Yvonne came trotting in after me, already talking.

  “Sorry, pet. Big mess over on the acute. Did you think I’d run away and joined the—” Then she saw me. I had taken Sylvie’s hands and held them up as she swung her legs out and got to her feet. We were standing like two dancers about to start a minuet. Me in my whites and Sylvie in a polycotton nightie that fell to mid-calf, washed out and pilled. “How did you get her up?” she said.

  I shrugged. Walking slowly backwards, I started leading Sylvie towards her bathroom door. She was gazing through me about the level of my collar bone but she moved smoothly, no shuffling. She didn’t react when her bare feet left the carpet and hit the bathroom vinyl.

  “Well, I’ve seen everything now,” Yvonne said. “Ali, I don’t suppose you’d get her washed and changed, would you? I’m already dead late.”

  “I’d love to,” I said, and I meant it.

  “On the quiet, like?”

  “My PVG’s through.”

  “Eh?” said Yvonne. “That was quick. No, I mean don’t tell Lars. I’ve got my appraisal coming.”

  “Lars?” I said, taking my eye off Sylvie for the first time and looking over my shoulder.

  “Aye, aye, but he’s not your boss,” Yvonne said. “I’ll swing back. Case you get in a fankle.” But she was already walking away.

  I led Sylvie over to the toilet and pushed on her shoulder until she sank down onto the closed lid. Then I moved close and cradled her head against my stomach, stroking her hair back, trying to work out what to do with her.

  “This is a new one on me too, darlin’,” I said. I thought I could feel her resting against me, but maybe that was the way of it. Maybe she’d slump against any object close enough. I leaned over and felt around at her waist, through the nightie. She wasn’t wearing a nappy so presumably she used the loo. “Upsie,” I said. I held both her hands in one and got her nightie hitched up and her knickers pulled down. Then I opened the lid and guided her down again. “You needed that,” I said, listening to her peeing. “You must have been busting.” When the trickle turned to drops and then to silence, I waited. Then I whirled a big wad of paper off the roll and looked at her. I didn’t fancy my chances of coping with the nightie, the loo roll and Sylvie herself, so I grabbed the hem and said, “Hands up!” Nothing happened. I tugged gently upwards pulling her arms into the tent of fabric. They fell hard when I had got it clear of them but landed harmlessly in her lap.

  She was as pale as a candle, her skin so soft and crumpled it made me think of newspaper after a bonfire, burned away to a billowing grey gossamer, too fragile to touch. And she was thin. Her shoulder bones showed through, and her ribs too. Even her hip bones poked out on either side of the small drooping pouch of her stomach. I needed to speak to that physio; she should be working her muscles. I wondered if she could cope with a swimming pool. If I could lead her around by her hands, neck deep in water, working against the resistance. Or would she sink?

  I ran a basin of hot water and soaked the flannel that was screwed in a knot behind the taps. I soaped it—nasty supermarket liquid soap in a pump bottle, but it would do until I could bring her something better. I started with her face. And when I drew the flannel away to rinse it, what I saw made my heart leap. She had closed her eyes to stop the soap getting in them.

  “You’re still in there somewhere, Sylvie, aren’t you?”

  I rubbed her neck, ears, arms, and hands, everything coming back to me. Rinsing the soap out of hairy armpits was new, but I couldn’t see shaving them without making her uncomfy.

  “Your feet’ll do since they had a major wash yesterday,” I said. “Now what about the fiddly bits?” That’s what I used to say to Angel. A big bath meant hair and back and arms and legs all scrubbed pink. In between times if he wasn’t mucky it was feet, pits, and fiddly bits. But this was a thirty-year-old woman.

  While I was trying to decide, Sylvie started shivering and goose pimples broke out on her arms. “Right,” I said. “That’s that decided.” I took the bathrobe off the back of her bathroom door and wrapped it round her while I brushed her hair and, just to entertain myself more than anything, twisted it into a French plait. I always had scrunchies on my wrists when I was working, ready to scrape clients’ hair out of the way of my products, and I worked one onto the tiny tail of thistledown left at the end of the braid.

  Her wardrobe had day clothes in it, even though I had only ever seen her in night things. Slouchy socks that were easy to pull on and wide linen trousers with elastic waists. She had soft cosy camisoles instead of bras—I couldn’t imagine getting a bra onto her—and a selection of chenille jumpers with wide necks and flared sleeves. Even so, I was panting by the t
ime I had her in her chair.

  “You look fantastic, Sylvie,” I said. The trousers were pink and the jumper was green and pink flecks. I changed the scrunchie for a yellow one to match her socks and put her new slippers on. I took out my phone and snapped a picture. Either of her or of all my hard work, it was hard to say. It was probably against a hundred and fifty regulations, but I wasn’t going to show anyone. It was just for me. She looked about seventeen in the bad light with the flash off. Like a bookish seventeen-year-old who studied for piano exams and didn’t smoke.

  “Is that who you are?” I asked her. “Is that who you were when you came in?”

  She breathed in and out and stared at a spot behind me.

  “Well, what will we do now?” I asked her. “I can’t go till Yvonne’s been back and checked my handiwork. What do you fancy?”

  I didn’t have any of my kit with me, even if I had wanted to make Sylvie sit through any more of my efforts after I’d just learned on the job, washing her. I looked in my bag.

  “Oh, here’s a thought. Draw me something, eh?” I took out my pad of paper and a black marker pen. I thought she could do with all the help she could get, and it was a good size to put in her hand. I printed Sylvie at the top of the sheet and then wrapped her fingers round the pen until she held it in her fist like a kid with a crayon. I put the paper under the tip and held it steady. “Sylvie? Can you draw me a house, a tree, and a person? Can you do that for me?”

  The pen was leaking ink in a spreading blot as she held it pressed against the paper. Then her hand relaxed and it trailed away in faint jags and dots towards the corner.

  “Come on, eh?” I said. “A house. A tree. And a person.” I lifted her hand back into place again. “Come on, Sylvie. You can walk and sit and eat and hold your pee, even when your nurse is late. Come on, sweetheart.”

  The blot spread again, so I grabbed the paper and started to move it away. But as I did so a thick black line started to spool out across the white and—I wasn’t imagining this—Sylvie was watching it. And I wasn’t imagining this either. When the line was three inches long, she took a tighter grip on the pen and pushed it. The line turned a corner and then another and a third until she had made a square. A very small square in the top left-hand corner of the paper, but she had done it.