by Jane Asher
He give me one of them sarky smiles then, when I tell him about it. I knew it was doomed as I was telling him – he had that face on him that means he thinks everything I’m saying is rubbish.
‘And where did you hear about this, Stacey? The stapling operations have all sorts of unfortunate side effects and I really wouldn’t recommend them.’
When I told him it was my pen friend in America his smile got so much bigger and sarkier I thought he might burst out laughing. Cunt.
‘Ah, yes – our American friends,’ he said. ‘No, Stacey, you don’t need any of that nonsense. No gadgets or pills or operations. All you need is sensible diet and exercise. Less food, more exercise. Simple!’
It may be simple to you, mate, but it’s the most difficult effing thing in the world to me, I thought. D’you think I’d be sitting in front of you here, after waiting outside with that chair heaving and creaking under my weight and your snotty receptionists looking at me like something that’s been dredged out of the river, if it was simple? I felt like hitting the stupid shit.
‘Do they do it over here?’ I asked. I decided to ignore his smile and his obvious bleeding comments and try at least to get some useful information out of him. ‘Is there anywhere that does it?’
‘I believe there are a couple of hospitals here, Stacey, yes, that do the operation, but, as I say, I really wouldn’t advise it. It’s still relatively untried here, although you’ll find your friend in America will no doubt tell you how wonderful it is and so on. Forget all about it, Stacey, and work a bit harder on your diet. Here – take one of these.’
He pulled a sheet of paper from off a stacking tray thing on his desk. Another of his diet sheets, of course, and I felt like chucking it straight back at him, but I never, ’cos I need him for my pain pills and my mum’s blood pills and all that.
‘So what about the pain in my side, doctor? Only it’s been real bad lately or I wouldn’t have bothered you. I had to go off work and I don’t never do that except when it’s serious. Can you give me something stronger for it?’
Don’t know why I bothered to ask, really, ’cos I know it’s always gonna be the same old stuff about weight and strain and my frame not being designed to hold all the fat it was supporting and that. At least he didn’t get out his pen this time; once he starts drawing them diagrams of joints and stuff I really get pissed off. I’m not stupid, I feel like shouting, I don’t enjoy being like this, I just want you to stop the pain. Don’t give me the bleeding lecture again – I don’t need it.
Anyway, I managed to get myself onto his table with a bit of a struggle and after he’d done his prodding and listening and things he said there was nothing wrong. Apart from the fact my body’s about as wrong as it could be in every other way, of course. But I don’t need you to tell me that, I thought.
‘So you can’t give me nothing stronger for the pain, then, doctor?’ I said once more.
‘Only the same as I always do, Stacey. I really want you to try and get that weight down. I don’t want to put you on any stronger anti-inflammatories as I can’t see it being a short-term measure unless you make an effort. The pain is telling you something important, Stacey, and I want you to listen to it.’
So I’m like, ‘Hello? Do you think I haven’t been listening to it for twenty years or more, doc?’ But I never said it, ’cos there’s no point in getting him all annoyed. I didn’t mention the op again neither, for the same reason. But I can’t get it out of my mind, somehow. It just sounds so right for me, like it did for all them girls in the States. Stateside, as little Andy at work would call it. He sounds really thick when he calls it that; he thinks it makes him sound cool and like the guys on the TV when he says ‘Stateside’ but he doesn’t realise we’re all laughing at him. Poor little sod, he wants so much to be a rock star or a film star or something and he’s about as far from that as it’s possible to be. Kinda like trying to imagine a clam becoming prime minister: just not an effing hope in the world of that guy doing anything with his life except maybe – just maybe – getting out of the back stores and onto shelf-stacking. Maybe.
I’m different though, you see. That’s what really pisses me off: if it wasn’t for this body of mine I coulda done something with my life. I just know it. I’m not like the others: I see things they don’t see. I coulda been someone.
I just can’t get that op out of my mind, like I said. All that stuff Crystal and the others tell me: that could be me. I could get over onto the other side, just the way they done. That other me is just waiting to be let out, I can feel it.
I guess Crystal’s right. I need an angel.
Judy
Perhaps if I hadn’t been so caught up with my little trouble I’d have noticed sooner that something was very wrong with Charlie. I thought at the time that everything was pottering along pretty normally, but now I look back on it I wasn’t seeing things clearly at all. It was a bit like those times I’ve had flu or a bad period or something and didn’t realise until I was better that I hadn’t been myself and hadn’t been handling things or coping properly at all. I think I’d been in a really bad way all through the beginnings of the crisis and ignored the warning signs that I’d now find obvious. I’d almost got to believe that the headaches were real – well, of course they were, if you call having the pain real. But I know perfectly well now why I had them. Or rather why I brought them about. Because that’s what I was doing, I have no doubt about that whatsoever. When I needed a little ‘fix’ from a quick indulgence in the hobby, I’d have a headache. A genuine, painful, one-sided migraine, complete with the flashing lights and the horrible shadowy aftermath, but one that I concocted all the same. It made it so easy to spend time up in the bedroom without anyone questioning it, you see.
You’d think that my problem and having to get through it might have made me more tolerant when I did begin to notice what was happening to Charlie. It didn’t though, not at all. In fact it just made me more angry, because I felt I’d kept mine entirely to myself and hadn’t let it interfere with anyone else’s life – well, not at that stage, anyhow. And I knew that I would in time get myself out of it and I had never accepted that it should be indulged in the way he appeared to be indulging himself in his weird situation. I felt it was possible to come through these things and it seemed to me that he just wasn’t making any real effort. And mine had been going for far longer than his. And did less harm. Apart from financial considerations, it was all between me and the cupboard, so to speak.
In my case – and maybe in Charlie’s as well – I’m never sure about all that ‘cry for help’ theory: why would I have managed to keep it utterly secret for so many years if I’d all the time wanted someone to notice and come to my aid? Because it had been years. From very small beginnings, admittedly, and the growth had been subtle enough for no one to notice and for me to ignore just how much it had taken over, but it had been quite some time. No, I think some of these things are far more complex, and I’ve never found a satisfactory explanation for mine, that’s for sure.
At any rate, whatever the reason, I didn’t see what was going on with Charlie until things were pretty advanced. I blamed everything on his work: his strange silences, his moodiness and his obsessive shopping trips. And then, of course, when things got really bad it was inevitable that my own difficulties would be exposed. What a terrible word – it sounds as if I was to be written up in the News of the World or somewhere. Not that it doesn’t have the perfect ingredients for such treatment.
The evening of the get well card argument was the first time I was consciously aware that something was up. Even when his work was going badly, the old Charlie could always be brought round with a bit of coaxing – certainly by Sally, if not by me – but that night nothing would bring him out of his black mood. I did try. In spite of his strange manner and my own uneasiness, I insisted he came back home with me from the supermarket, complete with wretched scones, which I knew they’d never take back, in any case. I planned to open a
bottle of wine and forget the whole silly business.
It was a miserably strained walk back. I tried all manner of jokes and diversions to jolly him out of his silence, but really didn’t seem to be getting anywhere. I was telling him about some of the other people I’d been working with on my most recent inspection, and I thought I was being quite funny about them, when, a few steps from the front door, he turned and looked at me.
‘Shut up,’ he said, quietly, but horribly seriously.
I would never have dreamt that such a mild and commonly used insult could be so utterly shocking. For a moment I didn’t know how to react, torn between laughing out loud and hitting him.
‘You’re joking,’ I said at last. ‘You’ve got to be joking. I’ve put up with your ludicrous, unpleasant huffiness ever since the ridiculous card business at home; I’ve come out to find you and jollied you along all the way back through one of your tiresome black moods, and now you’re telling me to shut up? Why the hell should we have to put up with your bad temper just because some stupid case is not going the way you want it? I don’t take it out on you when some crappy headmistress plays up on one of my inspections, do I? You’re selfish and –’
‘For God’s sake, shut up, Judy,’ he said again.
This time I felt quite unnerved. He was still looking directly at me, but his eyes seemed strangely unaligned, as if the pupils had got out of synch and were straining away from each other. Funnily enough, something in his expression reminded me of the way I felt when I needed to get to my cupboard. It did shut me up – quite took the wind out of my sails – and I just stood there watching his face and waiting for him to say something.
‘It has absolutely nothing to do with my work. I am going through a situation at the moment which is causing me some anxiety’ (in times of stress, Charlie invariably reverts to talking like a barrister) ‘and I’d be grateful if you’d just leave it alone. It is entirely not your fault, and I’m sorry to be the catalyst for this period of difficulty, but I suggest we carry on as normal – or as near to what we describe as normal – as possible, and I will endeavour to sort myself out.’
I felt quite sorry for him then, although it was a bit like being addressed by an intolerant Martian, in the way he used such odd, formal language without appearing to know what he was saying, but I’d got used to that over the years. I knew it didn’t necessarily mean there was no feeling or emotion lurking underneath the rhetoric.
I tucked my hand into his arm and tried to steer him towards the front door, but he pulled against me and backed away a little.
‘Sorry, Judy,’ he said. ‘I can’t come in just yet.’ He turned and began to walk away, then looked back at me over his shoulder. ‘I have to buy another card.’
At that I did laugh. It was surely an understandable reaction – it would have been bizarre in the extreme to take him seriously. I was quite sure it had to be a joke: a way of making me feel all right about my reaction to the infamous get well card. So even when he moved off again towards Victoria Street I simply chuckled to myself and opened my bag to take out my front door keys. I planned to tell the children that all was well and that we were to prepare ourselves for another card and an evening of good old-fashioned family fun.
Charlie
‘Hi, please could you give this to Stacey? It’s just a get well card. I’d be grateful if you could give it to her as soon as possible. Obviously once she returns to work she’ll be better enough to come back so will presumably be over her flu or whatever it is and the card will be redundant, so if you could get someone to take it to her while she’s ill I’d be grateful.’
I knew I was overtalking and sounded like an idiot but I didn’t care. It was a relief to know I had no choice but to get the card to Stacey: I could see now that it was absolutely the right thing to do, and the risk of Judy and the children finding out was justified by the intensity of my need for Stacey, and the lack of the family’s need for me. Judy was perfectly happy in her world of the children and her work and was merely irritated by me most of the time. When she wasn’t at work or cooking for the kids she was increasingly often shut in her room with one of her headaches, in any case. If I was to be out of the house more it could only be a good thing for the family. Stacey clearly lacked friends, and I lacked Stacey. So for me to contact her was not only sensible but necessary.
I’d walked all the way to our nearest Hallmark to give myself a better choice of card, and had found a wonderful one – very different from the flowery one Judy had commandeered: this was modern, bright and funny, and I could imagine Stacey laughing over it and her wonderful eyes shining with pleasure. I hadn’t hesitated in signing it this time, either, boldly adding under the printed text: Best Wishes for a Speedy Recovery from your Bogof friend – Charles Thornton.
The Chipstead chap – Stacey’s hero, I regretfully remembered – was looking at me suspiciously. I put on my best ‘respectable barrister’ voice and smiled at him. ‘Just a card for a valuable member of your staff. Stacey has been very helpful to me on my shopping trips while my wife has been unwell, and I simply wish to send her a little greeting in thanks.’
I could see that the alien concept of Stacey’s being actively helpful to a customer had quite thrown his smooth assurance for a moment, but the mention of my sick wife had achieved its purpose of allaying any suspicion of my intentions that he might previously have entertained.
‘I’ll see that she gets it, sir,’ he said. ‘I’m sure it’s nothing serious and that Miss Salton will be back with us in a day or two. Very kind of you to take the trouble.’
He smiled silkily and took the card from me, spinning on one heel and executing one of his hip-swivelling shimmies as he unfastened the chain that hung across the empty checkout, swung through to the other side and then looped the chain up again behind him. ‘Brenda!’ he called as he headed for the freezer cabinet. ‘Brenda, dear, can you do me a favour on your way home tonight?’
A dim-looking girl with frizzy brown hair and wearing thick leather gloves straightened up from bending over the frozen food. The lenses of her spectacles were misted with condensation and she held a packet of peas in one hand and pushed the glasses up her nose with the other one. So this is Brenda, I thought. Brenda the messenger, who will be taking the card to Miss Stacey Salton. Well now, Brenda, I muttered quietly to myself, I think you and I may be having a little word before too long. I watched as he handed over the card and said something to the girl that I couldn’t quite hear, then I looked away as he turned and shimmied back across the store towards the delicatessen counter.
I pottered about the store for a while, smiling benignly at Mr Chipstead whenever I glimpsed him across an aisle, placing an object into my basket regularly enough to make my behaviour appear innocuous. I kept an eye on Brenda: she was still dipping in and out of the freezer cabinet, straightening up the piles of fishfingers and beefburgers and adding extra packets from the large canvas-sided wheeled bin at her side. She had stuffed my card into the pocket of her SavaMart overall, and it irritated me to see the edge of the envelope bending into a crease every time she leant over. I strolled casually over and positioned myself next to her, resting my basket on the edge of the cabinet as I peered down at the misty packets. I bent and picked up a packet of frozen pancakes, then smiled at the girl as I held it towards her. ‘Do you have any chicken ones of – oh!’ I broke off in apparent surprise. ‘I see you have the card that Mr Chipstead was very kindly arranging to have taken to Stacey! I do hope it’s not too much of a bother.’
Brenda seemed mystified for a second, then reached into her pocket and grasped the envelope in her thickly gloved hand. I was dismayed to see that, as she looked back at me, a small smile of recognition – no, not smile: more of a smirk – was making the corners of her mouth twitch a little. I had to face the uncomfortable fact that my favouring of Stacey when choosing the checkout on my many recent visits to the store had been noticed even by thick Brenda. ‘Oh, yeah,’ she said, ‘you mean
this? A card, is it?’ She pulled it out of the pocket and looked at it, then back up at me, her thick lips still contorting in their struggle to contain the giggle evidently bubbling behind them. The envelope was not only creased but now dampened from the wet glove. I could see that the edge of the capital ‘S’ was smeared and fuzzy under the girl’s thumb.
For a moment I considered taking the exchange further, perhaps suggesting that I post the card instead, thereby getting Stacey’s address, but I was aware of Mr Chipstead’s lithe figure still moving silently around the store, and caution curbed my impatience. It was also clear that this exchange was to be reported to the other girls (and in all probability to Mr C himself) as soon as I left the store, and from the look of interested amusement on this stupid girl’s face, I could tell that I was still the subject of their gossip. I would have to work hard to appear squeaky clean and of no possible threat to Stacey, although it was hard to believe that they could imagine anyone wanting to violate the depressed, gargantuan pile of flesh that had become the focus of my obsession.
Maybe I was wrong – maybe hordes of fat-loving perverts queued up to make attempts on her cushioned ramparts, and I was simply yet another weirdo fascinated and challenged by the hugeness of this extraordinary girl. Was that me? Was I succumbing to some primitive fantasy triggered by Judy’s busy thinness? No. From the very beginning, from the moment when my awe-inspired examination of Stacey at the checkout had matured into the unexpected and unreasoning desire I now felt for this girl, I knew it was far more than mere physical need that underpinned it. No matter how many others had been in her life, I knew instinctively that I was the only one who had needed her in this way: totally and without criticism. I must tread carefully with this messenger and ignore the impulse to snatch the precious card out of her hand and demand Stacey’s address. I would have to wait a little longer before tracking it down.
