by Ann Kelley
Why is it I can never find the creature I am looking at in a reference book? They never look the same as they do in photos or illustrations. Are they all new discoveries? I’ll have so many bugs named after me, I’ll be as famous as Darwin.
We’ve run out of mealworms. Mum says they are too expensive, but Mr Robin comes to my hand anyway for wild birdseed. He is perfect, with his scarlet breast and black button eyes. He watches me as I watch him. What do birds think about people? Do they see us as flightless birds, with featherless wings? Or maybe they think our clothes are feathers? They might sit around on trees on the Heath watching us and admiring a red coat or a yellow hat or blue trousers and green shoes as we walk under them. We must be difficult to label: a juvenile, lesser-spotted, white-faced geek; a glossy, red-beaked shopper. I would be a juvenile, blue-capped, red-footed walker. Mum is a moulting magpie. No, that’s cruel. She’s a mature, black-capped female, caring for her one and only sickly fledgling. I’m lucky she hasn’t thrown me out of the nest. Most creatures are pretty cruel when it comes to caring for sickly young, except elephants and some big cats. It’s all part of Nature’s survival of the fittest rule. People are much kinder to their unhealthy offspring, loving them just as much as their healthy babies.
My biopsies are going well, though I hate them. There’s this awful feeling of uneven heart beat when the catheter is in there, which reminds me of how it was BT. No sign of more problems, touch wood. That’s a silly superstition and I’m not superstitious, but anyway it can’t do any harm to touch wood even if it doesn’t do any good.
I feel that the hospital has become the main part of my life – a lifeline. I have more friends there than in the real world. Well, not friends exactly, but people I know and need, expert nurses and medics. Katy and Soo Yung, my transplant nurses; Dolores in physio, who always has a smile for me. She says she looks forward to having me to look after as I always make her laugh. I think it’s the other way round – she makes me laugh. She thinks I always tell her something she doesn’t know. She says I’m a clever clogs. Is that a good thing I wonder, or is she being ironic or sarcastic? It’s another foot expression to add to my list.
My visits to hospital will soon go down to one every two weeks. Twelve weeks after the transplant they go down to monthly visits for six months, then two monthly – which means we’ll have to travel from Cornwall quite often, but it also means I get to see Daddy more often.
I loathe the anti-fungal liquid I have to swallow, against thrush. (Why it’s called thrush?) But apart from the occasional nausea and mood swing I feel stronger every day and my scar is nearly healed. There are only one or two places that are sore and still need dressings. My face is still puffy. I hope the cats recognise me when we go home. But I suppose my smell hasn’t changed and that’s how cats recognise people, as well as by their voice. Charlie always comes running when I call her name. But maybe the drugs I have to take are changing my body smell? When Mum has just applied hand cream or body lotion, Flo will flee from her in disgust. She has a more sensitive nose than the other two cats or she takes offence more than they do.
I’m worried about Mum. She spends more and more time in the bathroom, even in the night, and is very weepy. She can’t still be worrying about evil?
CHAPTER TEN
‘GUSSIE, GUSSIE, HELP! Help me!’
I wake from a dream where Mum’s calling for me and I am stuck in mud and cannot move my legs. I need help but she’s wanting help from me.
It isn’t a dream.
‘I’m coming, I’m coming.’
I open the bathroom door and find her slumped on the tiled floor. Her face is white. I slip on blood and save myself from falling by hanging on to the wash-basin. It jars my chest and hurts my ribs and scar.
‘Get an ambulance, Gussie.’
I don’t know what to do. Help her? Phone first and then help her?
‘You’re bleeding to death!’
‘No, I’m not. Just get an ambulance. Now. Dial 999. Tell them, a haemorrhage.’
I leave her there, naked on the floor, and phone 999. Then I bring two large towels from the airing cupboard and put them around her. I’ve made bloody footprints all over the carpet.
She’s very pale. She keeps fading away, losing consciousness, and I have to shout at her to come back to me.
‘Please don’t die, Mummy, don’t die!’
I hold her cold hand.
I’m covered in blood. I sit on the floor with her and rub her hand in mine to warm her.
She looks bad. I want to get her address book so I can phone Daddy but I can’t leave her in case she dies when I’m not there to hold her.
The doorbell rings.
The ambulance men gently tell me to stay out of the way while they examine Mum.
‘Is she dead? She’s not dead is she?’
‘No, she’s not dead.’
I explain about her fibroids. The blue light flashes through the window. It’s raining hard. I pull on combat trousers, a sweatshirt. I’m still wearing pyjamas underneath. I grab the address book from the hall table – my hands are still covered in blood.
‘You want to come along?’ the tall one asks. They are strapping her onto a stretcher. She is wrapped in blankets, swaddled like a papoose. There’s a mask over her face. It doesn’t look like Mum. It’s someone smaller, older, helpless.
‘I’ll get my coat.’
I put on the parka, cricket cap and scarf. It’s cold. I remember the keys, lock the door and get in the back of the ambulance.
We are at the Accident and Emergency Unit within five minutes and Mummy is whisked away behind a curtain.
Mummy is now having an emergency operation and I am in a waiting room on my own. It has mustard-yellow walls and an acid green floor – enough to make anyone feel ill – and sagging chairs. There’s a pay phone, so I phone Alistair but he’s not answering, so I call Daddy and leave a message. I don’t know what else to do. I am looking in Mum’s address book to see if I can find the friends who came to supper. I only know their first names – Mimi and, and… I’ve forgotten The French Connection’s real name. Can’t find them. I’ve read all the torn and grubby magazines and feel like I need a shower. They allow people to smoke in here; the ashtrays are full; it’s smelly. I think it’s a staff rest room. I suddenly see the convenience of a mobile phone. No one can reach me here, not that it would make any difference, since mobile phones aren’t allowed in hospitals.
I really thought Mum was dying when I found her. All that blood. I’m still shaking. I wish I could wash my hands.
A night duty nurse told me to sit in here and she brought me a cup of tea. It’s off the main Casualty waiting area. She said it would be safer for me here as it’s full of drunks and overdoses in there and ‘the language is not for young ears’.
I had no idea there was so much going on at two in the morning: a bearded man with a broken hand, and his girlfriend, who is looking pissed off and has a black eye; a smelly tramp, with a bloody foot, asleep; a druggy looking girl with a boy with long greasy hair. She has her hand covered by a bloody tea-towel. Another ambulance arrives and a wrapped body is wheeled into another cubicle. Groans and sobs come from behind curtains. Doctors and nurses in bloody gowns rush about looking harassed and exhausted. There’s a lot of shouting and swearing. It’s like Mash without the music and helicopters.
A doctor comes to see me and says I ought to go home and wait, as I can’t see Mum until she’s come round from the anaesthetic. She sends me home in a hospital car. I’ve told her there’ll be someone there to look after me later this morning. It’s not really a lie; Daddy will come when he hears what’s happened. I don’t think she really knew what else to do with me.
The driver sees me unlock the door of Daddy’s flat and switch the light on before he drives off. It’s cold in here; the central heating hasn’t come on yet and I don’t know how to do it. I put the radio on to keep me company, make a cup of hot milk and a hot water bottle. My pyjamas
are covered in blood. I stuff them in the linen basket and find another pair. I have a shower and go to bed. The sky is black and a strong wind rattles the windows and cries in the trees. I don’t like the sounds the building makes – creaking and tapping as if ghosts are about; a eerie whistling through the letter box; a branch scraping against the window. At least I have Rena Wooflie to keep me company. I tell her not to worry, I’m here and she mustn’t be scared. I wish Charlie and Flo and Rambo were purring in my ear and marching on my duvet, vying with each other for the warmest position. I hope Claire isn’t getting flea-bites. An owl shrieks in the dark and I wonder what poor little victim has been caught. A screech owl call is a bad omen. I read that somewhere.
I can’t wait any longer but it’s only 6 a.m. Daddy’s mobile is turned off. I don’t know the Snow Queen’s second name or address or telephone number. I try Alistair on his mobile phone.
‘Gussie, what’s the matter?’
‘Oh Alistair…’ I burst into tears.
Eventually he gets the story from me, but he can’t come. He’s in Bulgaria, at a conference. He’ll be back on Thursday. It’s Monday now.
‘What shall I do?’
‘Can you take all your drugs on your own? Take your temperature? Spirometry?’
‘Yes, I think so. I’ve got a kit. Mum made a chart. It’s in the kitchen. And I’ve got a book to fill in.’ I sound stupid, but I do know what to do. The main thing is to remember to take the 10 o’clocks on an empty stomach. It’s a drag but I’m used to it now. It’s all about habit. Most things in life are about habit. Grandma used to say, if you remember every day to clean your teeth, bath or shower, clean your nails, blow your nose and wash behind your ears, you’ll always be clean and decent without even thinking about it. And if you ask your small children always to say please and thank you and excuse me when they want to get past someone in the way, or they want to talk to someone who is already talking to someone else, they’ll grow up with good manners. And good manners never did any one any harm, Grandma always said.
‘Right. Well carry on and look after yourself, Gussie, I know you can do that. You’re a sensible girl.’ I sniff loudly. ‘I’ll come as soon as I can. Any problems, phone your hospital. Where’s your father?’
‘Don’t know. I tried him last night but he wasn’t answering.’
‘Heavens to Murgatroyd! Did you leave a message?’
‘Yes, I told him Mum was very ill and was having an operation. Oh, Alistair, will she be okay? She won’t die, will she?’
‘Of course not, Gussie, don’t worry about her; she’s in good hands. I’ll phone the hospital in a moment and find out what’s happening. Lots of women her age have to have a hysterectomy. She’ll be fine.’
‘But it was an emergency operation.’
‘Yes, I know, I know. But she’ll be fine. It’s no big deal. Believe me.’
I do believe him, he always sounds so reassuring.
‘Give me your father’s telephone number and I’ll get hold of him. And what’s the neighbour’s name? The old boy upstairs?’
After I put the phone down I burst into tears again, and produce a puddle of self-pity.
I phone the hospital but the line is busy. I phone Claire in Cornwall. She’s horrified I’m on my own.
‘Where’s your father?’
I explain.
She says she will try and get him. I think I ought to wait for someone to phone me now. Daddy wouldn’t have been able to get through to me as I’ve been talking for the last hour.
Ring ring. It’s the front door.
‘Herr Weinberger!’ I burst into tears yet again. What is this? I’m usually quite brave. True Grit is what’s needed in this situation. He heard the ambulance arrive in the night and assumed it was for me. Alistair has phoned him. He invites me to his flat, but I say I must stay by the phone in case Daddy rings.
‘Oh yes, your father. He will come, of course. Oh, Mein Gott, the carpet!’ He has brought some cake that he made himself. It has roasted sunflower seeds on top. ‘I shall stay with you until he comes.’
‘Oh, could you? Thank you.’ When I have stopped blubbing I make us a pot of tea. Mr Robin comes to the patio window and begs for some cake. I open the door, hold the crumbs in my hand, and Mr Robin takes them neatly and eats.
‘He likes your cake, Herr Weinberger,’ I whisper.
‘Call me Willy, my dear. Herr Weinberger makes me feel old.’
I laugh and Mr Robin flies off.
The phone rings.
‘Daddy!’
‘Gussie, I’ll be right there. Give me an hour. Is Willy there?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good. See you ASAP. Ciao.’
I phone the hospital and after an age get put through to the right department. Mummy has had the operation and I can go to see her this evening.
‘How is she?’
‘As well as can be expected.’
What does that mean?
Fay phones and asks if she should come up to London but I explain that Daddy will be here soon. She tells me that my cats are settling in at the Darling’s house, and have already learned not to chase the chickens, as the cockerel has had words with them. They are scared of the rabbits and ducks and stay out of their way too.
Oh I do miss Charlie and need her to cuddle. She always knows when I need sympathy.
The key turns in the front door. ‘Daddy! Oh Daddy!’ He gives me a big hug and when I have recovered myself, Herr Weinberger has gone. ‘Will you stay with me, now, Daddy?’
‘Of course I will, my little honeybun.’
After phoning the hospital, he clears up the bathroom – he says it’s a scene from Chainsaw Massacre. Then he makes up a clean bed for himself on the sofa-bed. He’s washed the bloody footprints from the wooden floor of the hall and has phoned for a cleaner to come to get it off the sitting room carpet. He even starts the washing machine. I had no idea he could be so domesticated.
‘Right, Gussie, I’m taking you out for a coffee.’
‘I don’t drink coffee.’
‘Hot chocolate then.’
‘You’re on. Breakfast at Tiffany’s?’
In the end we have breakfast and lunch – brunch – in a café. This is the longest time I’ve spent with my father since my parents split up. And he hasn’t got a girlfriend with him: he’s all mine. He gets me to tell him about how I feel and how many drugs I have to take each day. I am confident I can manage my own drug regime now and he seems to think I can.
‘How did a girl like you get to be a girl like you?’
He’s Cary Grant and I’m Eva Marie Saint in North by Northwest.
I tell him all about his Cornish family – Aunt Fay, her son Moss, Claire – Moss’s wife, and their children Phaedra, Troy and Gabriel; their home that Moss built, and garden full of livestock and vegetables; Great Aunt Fay’s cabin and her fluffy cat.
‘You must come to Cornwall and meet them Daddy, they are so nice, you’d love them, really you would.’
‘Yes, I’ll get to meet them some time, I’m sure.’
‘How come you didn’t know about your grandfather being a famous photographer?’
‘I dunno, Guss, I’m just not into family history, that’s all. But come to think of it, there’s a load of stuff in a box somewhere. I’ll dig it out.’
‘Stuff? What sort of stuff?’
‘Oh you know, my parents’ stuff. I chucked most of it but there’re a few bits left. We’ll have a look when I remember where I put it.’
‘Can we do it today?’
‘Yeah, yeah, later.’
‘Daddy, will Mum need looking after when she comes out of hospital? Will we have to stay in London? When will we be able to go back to Cornwall?’
‘I haven’t the faintest idea. We’ll find out from the doctors. What’s happening with the boyfriend? Thought he was here.’
‘Alistair?’
‘Yeah, the dour Scot.’
‘What’s dour?’
‘He’ll be back on Thursday. He’s in Bulgaria.’ Why didn’t I defend Alistair? I feel angry with myself and with Daddy. I should have said, ‘If you mean he’s serious and honest and trustworthy, yes, he is straight and he’s kind actually and I think Mummy loves him. And he’s not boring and I like him very much.’ But I said nothing.
Daddy phones the girlfriend and I can’t help overhearing, even though he gets up and walks around. He’s telling her to cool it, and be reasonable. I think she might be jealous. ‘Ciao,’ he says and puts his mobile phone in his pocket. I wish he wouldn’t say ‘Ciao’. It sounds so… so false. He’s not Italian.
‘Daddy, are you going to look for the box of stuff?’
‘I suppose so. It might be in the cupboard under the stairs.’
It is: a dusty cobwebby cardboard box. He hauls it out, wipes it with a damp cloth and we sit on the floor to open it. It’s like Christmas.
Something big and bulky in cotton cloth. Daddy unwraps a large camera – a Rolleiflex.
‘A twin lens reflex, Guss, see – two lenses. Invented in 1928 – German.’
‘Is this what your grandfather used?’
‘I suppose it must be. Don’t remember my old man doing any photography.’
‘So, it’s the famous Amos Hartley Stevens’ camera?’
‘Yep, could be.’
