The Life Situation

by Rosemary Friedman

  “Only when I’m with you. It’s as if they did not exist. Have never existed.”

  “Cuckoo-cloud land.”

  He smiled.

  “What are you smiling at?”

  “Occasionally, just occasionally you betray your origins. It doesn’t happen very often. ‘Cuckoo-cloud land’. I like it.”

  “It’s what my mother always called it. What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. It’s perfect.”

  “Tell me?”

  “No.”

  “I insist.”

  “You can go on insisting.”

  “I shall make you.”

  “Try!”

  She put down her tea cup and hurled herself at him. He pulled apart the two sides of the negligée so that her naked body fell against him.

  “Oh Oscar.”

  He held her tightly.

  “Marie-Céleste.”

  It was almost dark when he got home. He felt exhausted, relaxed and happy all at once. He whistled as he leaped up the steps.

  He took out his key but before he had a chance to use it the door opened and Araminta, a purple feather boa slung around her neck, was framed in the doorway.

  “You again!”

  “You poor lamb!” she said dramatically, holding out both hands.

  “What on earth are you talking about? Where is everybody?”

  “Come inside and sit down.” She took hold of his arms, pulling him.

  “Take it easy. Why do I have to sit down?” He grew suspicious. “Is anything wrong?”

  “I’ll pour you a brandy.”

  He put his hands on her shoulders and shook her. “Look now, Araminta, this is my house and my family. I don’t know what you’re doing here or what you’re talking about so kindly expain; pronto!”

  She dropped the melodramatics.

  “It’s Daisy,” she said, her voice quivering slightly despite her apparent composure. “It’s Rosy’s dancing day and they just couldn’t leave you a note so they got me and your wife is there now…”

  “Where?”

  “At the hospital.”

  “What hospital?”

  “I was just going to tell you.” She was almost in tears. “It started at school and she had this terrible pain and Miss Jupp got your wife and we came home in a taxi. I carried her books. We tried and tried to ring the doctor but there was no answer and Daisy was screaming the place down and I thought she was going to…then when we couldn’t get the doctor the ambulance came with its bell ringing and everyone in the street…”

  He shook her. “Which hospital? What’s the matter?”

  “St George’s. I don’t know. Your wife said to come straight away.”

  He hurled himself down the steps, ricking his ankle, and into the car. His hands trembled as he fumbled with the ignition. He did a clumsy three point turn, mounting the pavement recklessly. Every car he passed flashed lights at him angrily. He realized that he’d forgotten to put his on.

  It was rush hour and he decided to avoid the main roads. Every side street was solid with traffic. It started to rain and he turned on the windscreen wipers…we tried and tried to ring the doctor but there was no answer and Daisy was screaming the place down…will you love me when I grow fat and hideous… come into the bedroom…come into the bedroom…it was then that the telephone had started to ring. ‘Let it ring,’ he’d said, no that wasn’t right. ‘Leave it. They can always phone someone else or get the police…’ What a damned stupid thing to say, as if the police could do anything. My daughter died M’lud while I was f— the doctor. But Daisy wasn’t dead. The long crawl. Every light was red. When there was a green the driver in front left his car to adjust his windscreen wipers, huddled against the rain, he waved cheerfully to Oscar as he got back into his car by which time the lights were again red. He tried to ignore the zebra crossings. On one a woman with a dozen small children waited tentatively with her pram; she thanked him politely. On another a blind man held his white stick in the air. It simply could not be true. A building lorry turned in the road; there was an accident at a bollard, reducing the traffic to single file; he found himself behind a learner…why the bloody hell did they have to learn at this time of the night on busy roads…he waved his arm importantly, indicating a left turn…bloody well get on with it then if you’re going to f— well turn. In town the traffic was solid, people standing abortively in the wet gutters waiting for taxis. A traffic warden with fat legs stepped into the road in front of him, motioning him to stop while a flurry of pedestrians crossed. He wondered if he should ask for a police escort. No journey had ever taken so long. If Daisy died…it was probably something she had eaten. What had they had for dinner the night before? Roast lamb; he had never heard of anyone getting food poisoning from roast lamb. Hamburgers or sausages, yes, even fish fingers…but roast lamb! You never know what rubbish they gave them to eat at school but then the whole class, the whole school would have…not just Daisy…of course she was a great dramatist, they all were at nine, a proper little actress, exaggerated everything. He remembered when she’d been stung by a wasp in the summer the noise had been heard to the end of the street as if she’d been murdered, screamed and screamed, probably nothing at all. Araminta dramatized even more, squeezing everything possible out of every situation; it was his fault of course for being with Marie-Céleste, his punishment had arrived swiftly but surely; you have a punishing conscience Dr Adler said, what ever you do or say there will be retribution you wait for it expect it load yourself with guilt for which you punish yourself become depressed…

  There was a tap on his windscreen. He lowered the window and a policeman put his head through.

  “Didn’t you see the red light, sir?”

  Sir. Always polite. Did they call you Sir when you’d just murdered someone, wiping the blood off your hands with a towel? Excuse me, Sir, I wondered whether you realized you just killed…

  “Amber.”

  “No, sir. The light was red as you approached the white line.” He reached for his top pocket. A car behind hooted. “If you’d just pull into the side there, sir.”

  “Look, officer…” They always liked it if you called them officer. Silly little pip-squeak, couldn’t have been more than nineteen, twenty at most.

  “Over to the side there, sir, by the lamp-post…” He was already walking off, slowly, they never hurried, not even when there had been an accident, part of their training. Keep calm and everyone will keep calm. Panic was infectious. He wondered what would happen if he drove on, explained afterwards… obstructing the police in their duty…really make them angry…couldn’t afford an endorsement…better stop and explain…he pulled into the side of the road, his heart pounding from frustration that wasn’t any good either, didn’t want to precipitate a coronary from aggression; there’d been a programme on the television where they linked drivers to ECG machines and changes were quite clearly visible particularly in men, he was a candidate anyway according to the programme, never took any exercise to speak of; afterwards he’d decided to get one of those static bicycles and knock up a few miles each day, hadn’t bothered of course then smoking and three spoons of sugar in his coffee and milk and butter and eggs and the fat off the meat he’d be lucky if he saw fifty…

  “Now, sir…” the policeman said. “Have you got your driving licence on you?” He straightened up and signalled the traffic to pass on behind them.

  Oscar got out of the car. He had no raincoat. The policeman, notebook in hand, waited patiently beside him.

  Oscar took a deep breath. “Look, officer, I’m terribly sorry about the lights if I did cross them but my daughter is extremely ill and I’m trying to get to St George’s hospital. It’s already taken me three quarters of an hour from Hampstead…”

  “I’m sorry to hear that, sir. I won’t keep you any longer than necessary. If you could just show me your driving licence and insurance certificate.”

  “Look, I haven’t got anything on me, I’ll bring it round t
o the police station in the morning. Just let me get on…”

  He was writing in his notebook. “Does the car belong to you, sir?” Silly young c—. “Yes, it does,” Oscar shouted, “and I’m bloody well going to the hospital and if anything happens to my daughter because of you…”

  He got into the car and slammed the door. The policeman put his head through the window and handed him a slip of paper. “Report here, please, sir, with all the necessary documents within thirty-six hours. I’m charging you with dangerous driving…”

  “I’ve explained,” Oscar said. “I’m trying…” Oh what the bloody hell. He hadn’t even noticed the bloody light. He was soaked to the skin. He pulled out into the traffic causing the driver behind to slam on his brakes and flash him angrily. Might as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb. Give a dog a bad name… He gritted his teeth and drove dangerously, cutting in and out of the steaming traffic.

  He was wet both with rain and with sweat by the time he pulled up in front of the hospital. He got out of the car and slammed the door in one fluid motion. A man with a peaked cap appeared.

  “You can’t park there,” he said. “Can’t you see the sign ‘Ambulances Only’? It’s writ big enough. Car park’s round to your…”

  “F— you!” Oscar said and ran towards where it said ‘Out Patients’. Inside there was an enquiry desk. An Indian girl with long black hair and a red caste mark above her nose was writing laboriously.

  “Look, my daughter’s been admitted urgently. Where do I find her?”

  She finished her word.

  “You want the Casualty Department.” She pointed her biro. “Outside, first turning on the left, second entrance. You’ll see the notice, ‘Casualty’.”

  He didn’t want to go outside again to where he had left his car. There must be a way through the hospital. He made for X-Ray and Pathology.

  “Not that way, please…” the girl called.

  He ran along the corridors until he was well away from the entrance through which he had come. When he’d gone far enough he tapped a white coat on the back. A black face, serious in glasses, turned to him.

  “My daughter’s been admitted urgently,” he panted. “I’m trying to find out where she’d be.”

  “Why don’t you try Casualty…?”

  “I would if I could find it.”

  “You’ll have to go back to Out Patients…”

  “Is there no other way?”

  “Terribly sorry. It’s a separate building, you see. Up here are only the wards and if you don’t know…”

  He ducked past his car with his head down and his collar up, inventing a limp at the same time as he ran to avoid recognition. In Casualty he stopped the first nurse he saw.

  “I wonder if you could help me find my daughter…”

  “I’m sorry. I’m from Haematology. Why don’t you find Sister Casualty?”

  “I’d like to. Where is she?”

  She smiled at him. “She’ll be around, somewhere.” She hurried off with a rustle of apron.

  It took him another ten minutes to find Karen. She was waiting in a small alcove in which there were two armchairs, two upright chairs and a table with three magazines, off a polished corridor.

  She was standing up and threw herself at him.

  “Thank God. Where have you been?”

  “Where is she? Where’s Daisy?”

  Karen, who had been dry-eyed, let the tears flow. “She’s in the operating theatre. She’s been there for hours. I’ve been going crazy. They rang me from school and I brought her home and tried to get Marie-Céleste. The phone rang and rang. It wasn’t on transfer or anything. I checked with the operator. I kept ringing for at least half an hour then Daisy was screaming the place down so I called an ambulance, at least Araminta did, she’s absolutely marvellous in an emergency. They didn’t want to come without a doctor’s letter and all that but I said I’d sue them if they didn’t come immediately and they came and Daisy didn’t stop screaming all the way and the ambulance man said she wasn’t putting it on, her pulse was very thin and rapid but he couldn’t give her anything because it seemed to be her abdomen. They’ve been absolutely wonderful here. The casualty officer was about twelve but the consultant happened to be in the wards and he saw her almost immediately and said take her up to the theatre and before I knew she was on a trolley and whipped away…he thinks she’s perforated her appendix.”

  “She’ll be all right…?”

  “He said so. Not to worry and all that, but they can be very tricky.” She looked at her watch. “I can’t imagine how it can take so long. Everyone’s been very kind and Sister brought me a cup of tea but I didn’t know where you were and Araminta offered to stay…”

  Oscar held her close. “I’m here now.”

  “You’re soaking.”

  “It’s raining. Cats and dogs.”

  “I don’t know why she didn’t answer the phone!”

  “Poor darling,” Oscar said

  If Daisy dies I’ll never see Marie-Céleste again.

  Thirteen

  When she came back from the operating theatre after what seemed a lifetime she had no more colour than the sheet which covered her. There were bottles suspended above her bed around which there were screens, and tubes going into her arm and nose. Could this pale, still child be Daisy, his Daisy, who pranced round the house making more noise than a dozen children, more mess than fifty? Had he ever been angry with her, shouted at her, called her a nuisance? Nurses fussed round, told him to go away. They drew a chair up for Karen. He retired to the alcove which seemed to have become his home, needing a drink. His clothes had dried on him and he felt chilled. The surgeon came to talk to him about peritonitis and sepsis and nick of time. He deliberately turned the screw.

  “What would have happened if we’d waited?”

  The answer was technical and non-committal, doing little to reassure him.

  “She’ll be all right now though?”

  “The next twenty-four hours will be critical. There was some circulatory collapse and we have to watch her blood pressure. Should be OK though, Mr…?”

  “John. Oscar John.”

  “Oscar John the…?”

  Oscar nodded.

  His attitude changed. He wasn’t very old. Tall and boffinish with glasses. Oscar always imagined surgeons as superior beings masked and gowned, cutting up, actually cutting up people. He was always surprised when they turned out to look much like anyone else.

  “I always read your books; on holiday. Death in Zagreb was the last one. I always marvel how you think up the plots and manage that neat twist just before the end…” He rattled on, having quite forgotten about Daisy who was just another job, conscientiously carried out, in the day’s work. He was saying something.

  “I’m sorry?” Oscar said.

  “I was asking if you had another in the pipeline?”

  “Death on the Riviera. Should be out at the beginning of next year,” Oscar said, wishing he could feel more convinced. “I’ll send you a copy.”

  “Signed?”

  He was like a small child.

  “Of course.”

  “Marvellous. Absolutely marvellous. Must rush; tickets for Aida. Missed the first act but at least I’ll get in at the interval. Wifie will be waiting.”

  “About Daisy?”

  “Daisy?”

  “Her appendix.”

  “Not to worry.”

  “The doctor didn’t come straight away. Do you think it would have made any difference?”

  “These things happen. Rushed off their feet, GPs. Health Service a bit rickety. In good hands now…not to worry…” He patted Oscar on the shoulder, his job already done, his mind at Covent Garden. Callous lot. Didn’t really care for the patient, not really.

  Behind the screens he found Marie-Céleste. She was wearing her fur coat and snakeskin shoes and was almost as pale as Daisy. She didn’t look at him.

  “How…?”

  “I left
the number with Araminta,” Karen said. “Told her to keep phoning. Marie-Céleste was out on an urgent visit this afternoon and forgot to transfer the phone to the call service. She came at once. She’s terribly upset.”

  I’ll bet she is. Oscar wanted to put his arm round her, to comfort her.

  Karen said quietly to him: “Take her outside and tell her she’s not to blame. She looks terrible.”

  In the alcove Oscar said: “It was my fault, darling. I wouldn’t let you answer the phone.”

  “It was not for you to say. I was entirely to blame. I lost my head. I don’t know what you do to me. Oscar…?”

  “Yes.”

  “I think we shouldn’t see each other.”

  He nodded miserably, understanding. “Daisy will be all right, though?”

  “The anaesthetist is coming down and the houseman seems to know his job, I’ve had a word with him. Apparently it was a near thing in the theatre. I’m sorry. Terribly sorry.”

  “My God, you’re not blaming yourself?”

  She nodded.

  “If it’s anyone’s fault…”

  She took off her coat. “I’ll stay for a while. Why don’t you take Karen out and give her something to eat?”

  “Do you think…?”

  “No. I just want to stay. It’s the least I can do…”

  “You don’t have to.”

  “I want to.”

  When they came back, having ordered but not eaten steak and chips in a nearby café, Daisy was moaning and vomiting and calling for Mummy. Marie-Céleste was holding her hand.

  “She’s coming round from the anaesthetic,” she said. “They always make this noise. Her pulse is stronger. She’s going to be fine.”

  He could not believe it. He thought of televised funerals in Northern Ireland where the coffins were child sized, the women howling with grief. He stayed on in the alcove and Night Sister brought him cups of tea. Karen went home to Rosy. From time to time he tip-toed into the ward. Sometimes Daisy lay still, too still, and he became frightened and whispered to the nurse who sat beneath the lamplight at the end of the ward. Sometimes she rambled on deliriously about things unintelligible. He held her hand impotently. It was a Daisy he did not recognize.