‘Go away!’ she hissed.
‘Well, I’ll leave you to rest, Mrs Pearson. I’ll be back in half an hour to check your blood pressure again. Please don’t get out of bed.’
No chance of that. The trembling in her legs wouldn’t let her move at all. She tried to console herself by looking at the tag on her wrist. ‘Mrs Pearson/Mr Hughes’ – she and her father bracketed together. She hadn’t seen him yet. He’d be in theatre, knee-deep in blood.
‘It’ll be your blood soon,’ the Monster warned. ‘Gushing all over the floor. Then you’ll need a transfusion, and you’ll get Aids sure as dammit.’
‘You can’t frighten me.’
‘Oh really? Just you wait. Your blood pressure will shoot up even higher. You could have a stroke any minute, finish up as a vegetable.’
‘I like vegetables,’ she said desperately, resorting to visualization (an anti-panic technique) and summoning up carrots, cabbages, aubergines and swedes – giant-sized to crowd the Monster out. She peeled them, chopped them, simmered them in an orgy of distraction.
At that moment Ralph walked back in. ‘Well?’ he said. ‘Are they going to operate?’
‘Yes, if my blood pressure comes down.’
He made a noise between a grunt and a cough, settling himself in the chair. For the last hour or more he had been up and down like a yo-yo. The hospital’s strict no-smoking policy meant if he wanted to indulge he had to go outside and brave the snow. And he did want – his latest attempt to kick the nicotine habit had lasted a mere three days. What with the stress and the exertion, his blood pressure was probably higher than hers by now.
‘He’ll die and you’ll be left a widow.’
‘Go away,’ she snapped.
‘What?’
‘Sorry, darling, I was talking to someone else.’
Ralph glanced uneasily around the empty room, then subsided into his habitual silence.
There was plenty of other noise, though. Footsteps of varying weight and urgency in the corridor outside, the sound of patients’ buzzers, nurses calling to each other and, in the background, the constant drone of traffic, which even the double glazing couldn’t entirely block out. Cars roared past, uncaring, as they had on the A3, and the snow continued to fall remorselessly. Well, did she expect the world to stop just because she was about to have some footling operation?
‘Major surgery. And you know how dangerous anaesthetics can be.’
‘You’re lucky to have an anaesthetic.’ Aunt Agnes had joined the Monster now. ‘Not so long ago people had their limbs chopped off with only alcohol to dull the pain. And they usually died anyway, from shock.’
Ignoring them both, Lorna turned to Ralph. ‘Did you manage to get something to eat?’
‘I’m not hungry.’
‘There you are, you see. He’s sickening already.’
She bit back her retort. You were supposed to speak out to the Monster in a loud, defiant voice, but not at the risk of being classified insane. She wiped the sweat from her forehead. ‘There’s a coffee-bar downstairs.’
‘I know.’
‘You could have bought a sandwich.’
‘Don’t fuss. You’re the one who’s ill, not me.’
‘I’m not ill, Ralph, just …’
‘Who are you kidding? Look at the state you’re in! I doubt you’ll last the night.’
‘You ought to be on your knees, child, thanking God for all this luxury! When I had my hysterectomy I was in a great big noisy ward with …’
Lorna sank back against the pillows. This four-way conversation was exhausting. ‘I’m fine,’ she repeated through gritted teeth, trying to rid herself of the Monster – preferably with Aunt Agnes slung across its shoulder. ‘I’m as calm as a mill-pond, as cool as a cucumber.’ She visualized a mill-pond on which ice-cold cucumbers floated serenely, with the odd tranquil swan gliding past. Deep breaths in, deep breaths out …
‘And yes, Aunt, I am lucky,’ she said sotto voce, squinting through her eyelids. Private hospitals had something in common with country-house hotels: wall-to-wall carpet (hers was tasteful grey); bland, non-threatening non-art (two watercolours of sun-kissed poppy-fields); bowls of flowers in reception; and tropically warm central heating. All that was very pleasant: it was the patients she found unnerving. Walking past their rooms she had caught sight of the occupants – attached to yards of tubing or ominous-looking machines, legs in traction, arms in plaster, drips in veins, bandages on feet. And she kept thinking of the horrors going on in other wards: colostomies, cardiac arrests, heart and liver transplants. Whatever happened, she must cling on tight to her vital organs, in case some passing surgeon needed a donor kidney in a hurry or decided to help himself to her womb or spleen in the interests of research.
Mill-pond, she reminded herself, boarding a cucumber-boat and drifting downstream as she tried to continue counting her blessings. ‘My husband’s still alive; he still has his own liver, heart and kidneys; he can eat and excrete without technological assistance. And he’s not even watching television.’ (Although he was casting furtive glances at the set.)
‘Oh, Lord!’ he said suddenly.
The cucumber-craft capsized as she sat up in alarm. ‘What is it, Ralph? What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing’s wrong. It’s just that I bought you a present and I completely forgot about it.’
‘A present? What for?’
‘Not for anything, just … you know.’ He handed her a Jiffy bag. (Ralph was notorious for never wrapping presents.) Inside was a small padded box.
She opened it. ‘Oh, Ralph …’
‘Put it on.’ He leaned over and fastened the clasp for her. She gazed in awe at the delicate gold-and-diamond bracelet. How had he found the time to go shopping? Or the inclination? Ralph would rather be murdered in cold blood than face a crowded high street in the grip of pre-Christmas hysteria. And where had he got the money? ‘Darling, it’s absolutely beautiful! I feel … quite overcome.’
Ralph frowned in warning. Gratitude embarrassed him. ‘I hoped you’d like it.’
‘Like it? I love it! And it looks terribly expensive.’
The door opened and a nurse came in – a new one again. It was worse than a cocktail party, trying to remember names and faces.
‘Hello, I’m Pat. I’ve come to take your blood pressure.’
Lorna kept her eyes on the bracelet, endowing it with magic powers. Ralph thought her worth all that trouble and expense, which was magic in itself.
‘Good,’ said Pat. ‘It’s gone down considerably. I’ll get a message to Mr Hughes and tell him we can go ahead. And I’ll pop back in ten minutes or so to give you your pre-med.’
No! she wanted to shout. It’s all a dreadful mistake. I’m leaving – now. I was just trying out the facilities. They’re great. Congratulations.
‘Are you comfortable, Mrs Pearson?’
‘Yes … fine.’ Any hint that she was prone to panic and they’d pop back with a strait-jacket.
Ralph stood up. ‘I … think I’ll get a breath of air.’
A lungful of pipe-smoke, he meant, and an excuse to escape before Pat returned with a needle. He hated injections – his own or other people’s – although he would never say so in a thousand years. That was the trouble with fears. Nobody admitted to them.
There was a sudden commotion outside: shouting, running footsteps. An emergency? A death? She concentrated resolutely on the two paintings on her wall: azure sky, white puffy clouds. Below the sky were the poppies, though – Flanders Fields; the Cenotaph.
She was startled by a tap on the door. Perhaps they needed her bed. A crazed gunman was on the loose, and his maimed and bleeding victims were being stretchered in by the score …
‘Hello, Mrs Pearson. It’s good to see you at last. I understand you had a rather gruelling journey.’
She stared. Mr Hughes. Or was it? The pin-stripes were replaced by baggy theatre greens, the elegant calfskin shoes by ugly wooden-soled clogs, and the sil
ver hair was bundled beneath an unflattering nylon cap.
‘I’m glad to hear your blood pressure has stabilized.’ The voice was the same – vintage brandy topped with double cream. But shouldn’t he be in theatre, his clothes bespattered with blood?
‘Could I take a look at your feet?’
Extricating her legs from the covers, she inadvertently revealed the voluminous paper bloomers they had given her to wear. Mortified, she pulled the gown down over her knees. But Mr Hughes was concerned only with her left foot: beyond that one deformed extremity her body didn’t exist for him.
He whisked out a black marker pen and began drawing lines on her toes. ‘I intend to make an incision here. And there. And …’
She tried to block her ears. It was as if the pen were a scalpel and he was already slicing into her flesh.
He continued explaining the procedure, expounding on various risks he had never previously mentioned: she might develop another bunion even after surgery; the second toe was extremely tricky and if it stiffened it might require a further operation; the balance of the foot might change; there could be problems with the arches …
‘So, if you’re happy with what I plan to do …’
Happy? She was delirious. Who would forgo the pleasure of having their foot ripped apart and then cobbled together again, only to be left with it worse than before?
‘If you’d just sign here, Mrs Pearson …’ The black felt-tip had turned into a gold fountain-pen, which he was holding out to her along with the consent form.
‘You’re insane,’ the Monster growled. ‘Signing away your life.’
‘Read it first,’ Aunt Agnes tutted. ‘It’s high time you were more responsible.’
She studied the sea of print. The Os in the osteotomies were expanding into cavernous mouths howling in terror. She closed her eyes. Your father’s here, she told herself. So everything’s all right. He’s the person you love best. He chose your name – a romantic name.
‘Mrs Pearson?
Call me Lorna. Call me your pet, your sweetheart. Stroke my cheek; ruffle my baby hair.
‘Is anything wrong?’
‘N … no …’ Her hand was shaking so much she could barely write. If only she could put a cross instead. A goodnight kiss for Daddy. He was tucking her in, bending over the bed, the dark eyes devoted, loving …
‘Thank you, Mrs Pearson. I’ll see you later then.’
By the time Pat returned with a metal bowl and a syringe, the Monster was crunching her in its jaws, spitting out her pips and rind.
‘Turn over on your side, Mrs Pearson. That’s it. Now, just a little prick …’
A javelin stabbed into her buttock. If she had an unexpected haemorrhage, would someone …?
‘You should feel nice and floaty soon. If you need me, ring the bell.’
I shan’t need you. I’ll be too far gone.
‘Lorna, are you all right?’
‘Absolutely A1! I’m on top of the world.’
‘There’s no need to be sarcastic.’
‘No, I mean it, Ralph. I want to dance. Fancy a quick tango?’
‘Lie still, for Christ’s sake!’ Ralph instructed. ‘It must be the morphine,’ he muttered.
‘Morphine?’
‘In the pre-med.’
‘Really? Well, buy me a load for Christmas then. I want to feel like this all the time.’
‘What happened to your bracelet, by the way?’
‘In its box. You have to take everything off – or out. Nail varnish, jewellery, false teeth …’ She began to laugh. And laugh. ‘Oh, Ralph, I’m so glad we came. I adore it here, don’t you?’
‘Frankly, no.’
‘You are a spoilsport! Why don’t I ring for some tea?’
‘You’re not allowed tea, Lorna.’
‘Yes I am. I’m allowed anything I like. I’ll order buttered scones and crumpets and a big wodge of gooey cake. My word is their command. See, here they come, before I’ve even rung the bell!’
‘Right, Mrs Pearson, we’re ready for you now.’
‘Great!’
‘Lorna?’
‘Yes?’
‘G … good luck.’
She looked at him in surprise. It was clear that he was worried, concerned about her safety perhaps.
‘It’s OK, Ralph. There’s nothing to it. I’ll be back in no time.’
He didn’t seem convinced. And as she was transferred to the trolley-bed he took her hand (in spite of his distaste for displays of emotion) and leaned down close, so that no one else could hear. ‘I love you, Lorna,’ he whispered. ‘And don’t forget: diamonds are for ever.’
Chapter Four
A patch of glaring blue came into focus. Only to disappear. Everything beyond it was shadowy and blurred. The blue loomed again, slowly taking on a shape – the outline of a nurse. The nurse was saying something. Couldn’t hear. Sounds were muffled, jumbled. Couldn’t speak. Teeth chattering too much; body shaking uncontrollably.
Someone holding her hand. She clutched at the person – another blue blur. Two nurses, one each side.
‘Why … am … I … shaking?’ she tried to ask, but the words were lost in the shaking. There was nothing but the shaking. Arms, legs, head, hands, back, all jerking and twitching like a mechanical toy. She prayed for it to stop. That was all she wanted in the world. Any other wish was pointless.
‘Mrs Pearson, can you hear me?’
She nodded, shook her head. It made no difference. Hearing didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except to stop shaking. ‘Stop,’ she told her body, but it didn’t. Couldn’t.
She was aware of another bed. And someone in it – close, yet miles away. The voice was deep. A man’s voice. Could it be her father? Had he died again?
‘Are we dead?’ she asked. ‘In heaven?’
‘No, Mrs Pearson, you’re in the Recovery Room. And you’re perfectly safe.’
‘So … why … am … I …?’ The shaking took over, completing the question for her.
‘It’s a reaction to the anaesthetic. It does sometimes give people the shakes.’
Anaesthetic. She vaguely remembered a needle in her arm. Then nothingness.
‘And you got very cold in theatre, being immobile for so long.’
Yes, cold. Frog-cold. Her teeth were still chattering. But she mustn’t make a fuss. She was lucky to have two nurses to look after her. One was taking her blood pressure again. The other tucked a blanket round her. The blankets were shaking too. And the tube in her arm. Why did she need a tube? Had something gone wrong?
The man beside her was speaking. ‘I feel sick,’ he said. So did she. Waves of nausea were rolling through her body, nudging at her throat.
She shut her eyes, surrendered to the sickness. Surrendered to the shaking. Shaking, shaking, shaking. No relief. No change.
Time passed. Still shaking.
‘We’re going to take you back to your room now, Mrs Pearson. All right?’
No. Not all right. How could she go anywhere like this?
The trolley rattled over bumps. Unsafe. She might fall off. Glaring lights. A corridor. Clanging doors. A lift. Then the room with poppy-fields, blood red. And a familiar voice. Angry.
‘What the hell’s going on? They told me an hour and a half, and she’s been gone four hours.’
‘I’m sorry, Mr Pearson, there was a slight problem in –’
‘A problem? What do you mean? She’s not in danger, is she? Why is she shaking like that, for God’s sake?’
The voices faded.
‘R … Ralph?’
‘He’ll be back in a moment, pet. He’s just outside, talking to the other nurse.’
Pet. Mr Hughes called her Pet. But Mr Hughes was dead.
Another voice. Male again, but cheery: ‘Hold still, Mrs Pearson, we’re going to put you back into bed.’
Hold still? How could she? The shaking wouldn’t stop.
As they moved her from the trolley, she caught sight of her foot.
Bandaged, with the toes sticking out. Wires in the toes, caked with blood. Her lower leg was bruised. Red and purple blotches. She couldn’t feel the leg. Or the foot. Just a sort of numbness.
Someone took her hand. A bigger hand than the nurse’s.
‘I’m here, Lorna.’
Ralph’s voice. She clung to it.
‘Darling, are you all right?’
‘Fine,’ she mouthed. Mustn’t cry. If she cried he’d leave. Like Tom.
‘What time is it?’
‘Ten past two.’
‘In the afternoon?’
‘No, two in the morning. I’m the night nurse, Eileen. I’ve come to top up your drip. How’s the pain?’
‘I can’t feel anything.’
‘Good. Do you need the commode?’
‘Er, yes.’ Her bladder seemed as numb as her leg, but it would be humiliating to have an accident.
The nurse removed the cradle from her leg and helped her to sit up – not easy with a tube in her arm. ‘Careful! Don’t put any weight on that foot.’
She manoeuvred herself on to the commode and somehow managed to pull her bloomers down. Though numb, her left leg felt huge and unwieldy, as if it no longer belonged to her. She sat like an obedient child, trying to perform. But peeing was impossible with an audience. Impossible full stop. ‘I’m sorry, I … don’t think I can.’
With an audible sigh, Eileen helped her back to bed. Resentful of time-wasters no doubt. All the staff seemed perpetually busy and hadn’t time to chat. She wondered if Ralph was asleep. If only she could phone him … But he wouldn’t know what to say, and anyway he needed his sleep. He had looked shattered when he left, and would have had the snow to contend with, and unreliable trains again, most likely. All very well for her, tucked up in the warm, away from demanding clients phoning at all hours. She admired his fortitude. He would never dream of giving way to panic, although from a psychological viewpoint he surely had reason enough. As a child, he had suffered more than she had: an indifferent mother, a pig of a stepfather, no Agnes to provide a home, no security whatever. Nor had his misery ended there. His first wife, Naomi, had developed multiple sclerosis early in the marriage and had become a mental and physical cripple over the next ten years. And even his present life wasn’t exactly a bed of roses, what with the pressure of work, the debts, and a second disabled wife. But his method of coping was to bottle everything up, to use silence as a defence weapon. She had been aware of that from the start, accepted it almost gratefully. It meant they complemented each other: his control counterbalancing her emotional outbursts.
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