Yeah, he really suits it, I said. He should have got it done properly though. It’s stupid to risk infection.
She gave me her foal eyes and laughed.
I better go, I said. I’m not feeling great.
I better go too. I’m going up to the Stevie building to sign up for an aerobics class. Say hello to Ivan from me.
I will, I said.
I walked to Lawrence Street wishing in spite of my numb head that I’d had eye-liner on when I met her.
Ivan was living in the same flat as last year above Jana’s and my old place. The paint was still peeling off our front door. The Cocteau Twins were playing inside. I could hear laughing. It could’ve been me and Jana a year ago. I climbed one more flight up to Ivan’s.
It was freezing in his flat. I chucked my umbrella in the bath and put the gas fire on in his bedroom. I moved his guitar off the bed (it seemed so bulky) and got under his black and white checked quilt, still dressed. I could smell him on the pillow.
My feet wouldn’t heat up and I felt like I had a brick in my neck. I got up and looked for a pair of Ivan’s socks to put over my own. His room was a tip. There were two driedup oranges on his desk with half the peel bitten off. There would be others he’d forgotten, hidden under his books and clothes. He always ate orange peel when he was studying. I found some socks and put them on and went through to the bathroom to look for Anadin. I put the toilet seat down and looked in the medicine cabinet: one medical rubber glove, a bottle of sandalwood oil and a bottle of pink nail polish. I dabbed some of Ivan’s oil on my wrists then soaked a facecloth in cold water and wrung it out.
I went back to the bed and put the facecloth on my head. I wondered who the nail polish belonged to. I tried conjugating subjunctives and somehow fell asleep.
Ivan woke me when he came home. (When you shut the front door the whole flat shook.) I could hear him taking off his jacket in the hall. He was singing. There was a damp patch on the bed where the facecloth had been.
He came into the bedroom and sat on the bed. You fell asleep with the fire on, he said, ruffling my hair. God, you’ll never guess what the guy who sits next to me in Nucleic Acids’ girlfriend did?
What? I mumbled.
She found out he’d slept with someone else and she threw all his notes in the bath!
The bastard must’ve deserved it.
You sound blocked up? Have you been crying?
My head feels weird. I met Gail. You didn’t tell me she’d pierced your ear.
I know I didn’t. I knew you’d get the wrong end of the stick. That’s why.
Did you shag her when I was ill in France?
Of course not! Please not the third degree about Gail again. D’you want some tea?
Why does she walk like a foal?
What?
Why does Gail walk like a foal? I’m just wondering.
I don’t know what you mean. D’you want some tea or not?
Yeah. I’m getting up. I need a drink of water. My head’s killing me. Have you got any painkillers? I couldn’t find any.
Maybe in the kitchen drawer. I’ll go and look.
He came back through with a faded strip of Disprin and a glass of water. Will these do? he asked.
They look really old. Have they passed their expiry date?
They’ll be fine, just take them.
I sat up and he put his arms round me. His face was cold and he smelled of rain.
I loved being held by this boy in his chunky white fisherman’s sweater. He was forgiven for Gail. I decided not to mention the nail polish.
Someone’s been dabbing my sandalwood, he said.
I love the smell of it, I said. It smells of you.
What d’you want for tea? he asked.
I don’t care. I’m not really hungry.
We could get a takeaway.
He went through to the kitchen and I dissolved the Disprin, stirring it round the glass with my finger. The dregs stuck to the side of the glass when I drank it.
I trudged through after Ivan, utterly happy that he was back from his lecture even though the foal had pierced his ear.
I can’t believe that girl throwing his notes in the bath, he said, shaking his head and dunking a tea bag in a mug.
Sounds like he deserved it, I said. Can I have a mug that’s not chipped, please?
They’re all chipped, he said, spooning the tea bag into the pedal-bin, leaving a trail of brown drips.
Maybe I should throw your notes in the bath.
What, because Gail pierced my ear?!
Yup.
You wouldn’t dare! he said, laughing. He pulled a bright blue menu out of the kitchen drawer. What d’you fancy? Prawn bhuna? Chicken korma? Lamb patia?
I don’t mind. Please don’t read out the whole menu. Can we go back through? It’s freezing in here.
We went back to his bedroom and he put Aztec Camera on. I’ll keep the volume low for your head, he said.
I lay under the quilt, he lay on top. I was cocooned and safe.
So how are you, green eyes? he said.
They’re not green, I said. They’re more grey.
He smiled.
Ivan, you do believe me, don’t you?
What that your eyes are really grey?
No. You believe that I’m ill, don’t you?
Yup.
Are you sure? You don’t think it’s in my head, do you?
Nope.
You did at first though when you were being horrible.
I was worried you were homesick, that’s all. But now I know there’s something really wrong. I just want you to get better. I want things to get back to normal.
Me too. Can you pass up my tea, please?
Your hands are freezing, he said, handing me the mug.
They’re always cold these days, I said. I clasped the tea against me, still lying down, and sipped from the mug, wedging it under my chin.
Watch you don’t spill it on the bed, he said.
I will. This quilt’s horrible, by the way.
I know, my mum gave it to me for Christmas. He picked up the blue menu again. I quite fancy a korma.
Anything you want. I’ll just have a wee bit.
Will we get pakora?
If you want, I said.
Maybe not. It was a bit greasy the last time.
When I got back here and couldn’t sleep, I was thinking about that geology lecturer who’s always in the Grosvenor on his own. I bet he cries himself to sleep at night.
How can you leap from talking about pakora to the geology lecturer?!
He’s got greasy hair, I said. Greasy pakora and greasy hair.
You always do that, he said, leap from one thing to something totally unrelated.
That’s what makes me interesting.
I think I’ll go out for the food now, he said. I’m starving.
Can I stay here?
Yup.
You’re an angel, I said. I put my tea down and leaned over him and kissed his ear. The earring felt spiky and cold.
The front door slammed and the record jumped.
That’s Rez back. I’ll see if he wants anything. Hey, Rez, we’re in here, d’you want a curry?
Rez put his head round the door. Hiya! Is that you hiding in bed, Helen? How are you doing?
Och, hanging in there, I said.
I’d love a curry, he said to Ivan. I’ll come with you.
They left and I stayed in bed for a bit thinking about where I could get a nice mug tree for Ivan.
I got up to set the table. I wanted to be useful. Three forks, a bottle of flat Irn Bru and half a bottle of Black Tower. I put the oven on to warm the plates and read some poems while I waited. Alicante cheered me up even though I thought it was about a lost love.
The flat shook and they were back. Sorry we took so long, said Ivan. The place was mobbed.
Three happy students having dinner round the table: Ivan, Helen and Rez. Can you guess which one has a weird burning feel
ing in her head/neck/spine that she doesn’t want to mention?!
Yes, that’s right. It’s Helen!
Nab ran me to the station on the night of the Ian Dury concert. All my symptoms were trailing behind me. I’d taken four extra strong Panadol. I took Germinal to read on the train but it didn’t come out of my bag. I watched the raindrops skitter along the train windows like sperm.
I got off at Partick and took the Underground to Hillhead where Ivan was meeting me. I used the escalators. (I’d always used the stairs before.) Ivan was waiting for me in his leather jacket. He was chatting to the guy who was always there selling the Socialist Worker. We waited as long as we could for the rain to stop before making our way up to the union. I was exhausted from standing at the station and got a seat upstairs on the balcony.
Ian Dury was brilliant. He came on stage, writhing and wrapped in tinfoil. He sang Ban The Bomb. Ivan was up the front with his friends. He kept turning round and looking up at me. When they sang Hit Me With Your Rhythm Stick, I thought of Rachel and an experiment we’d done at school in chemistry. Rachel had been trying to write down the lyrics of Rhythm Stick and I’d been trying to write down the experiment. Something about iron ions, something turning Prussian blue. The teacher had sent her to the ‘sin bin’, a solitary chair at the back of the lab and wouldn’t let us sit together for the rest of term. Another time, in physics, we’d pinned crocodile clips all over each other’s backs. The teacher was angry but trying not to laugh. His experiments never worked and we felt sorry for him. All that wasted ticker tape. I felt sad thinking about Rachel. I’d seen her at Christmas but she’d been dismissive of me coming home from France early. We’d been inseparable at school. I’d gone to recorder lessons for three months just because she went, even though I was crap at music and got mouth ulcers. I hated unscrewing the top of the recorder to shake out the saliva.
When they played Sweet Gene Vincent, everyone started to pogo at the fast bit. I looked down on all the jumping, dyed blonde/purple/spiky heads. I was outside all of this. My spine felt like it was being stretched and my hands were numb and tingling.
Ian Dury was glowing with sweat.
After the concert, Ivan’s band friends came back to the flat. I wanted them to go away, I wanted him to myself. They were drunk and slagging off some girl that one of them had had a blind date with. Joe (from London) was saying, You get two kinds of red-head. You get the beautiful Irish kind with pale skin and you get the freaky, red-faced Scottish kind with freckles. This one was FREAKY!
They all thought Joe was so funny. They all laughed like they were choking.
I went to bed and lay awake waiting for Ivan. I could faintly hear the yelping of the Cocteau Twins from downstairs. I wondered if the girls who lived there got carpet burns when they had sex. (The flat was covered throughout with dark brown industrial strength carpet.)
I couldn’t get rid of them, Ivan said when he finally came through. Joe’s got a new song he’s excited about.
Joe’s a wanker, I said. He talks such shite. God, your feet are freezing!
You can warm me up, he said, rubbing his feet against me.
A bundle of mail arrived from Caen, the stuff Jana had forwarded: the blood test results and some Christmas cards. I ripped open the blood test. Now I would have a weapon against Myra, proof that I really was ill! When I read it my heart sank. It said there had been a mix-up at the lab, they’d lost the samples and they wanted to re-do the tests, could I please make an appointment? I read it twice to make sure I’d understood. I screwed it up and threw it across the carpet. Agnes batted it under the table. I had no chance now, I was at Myra’s mercy forever.
The Christmas cards – so pointless in the middle of January – were from people who had no idea I’d come home. All three had pictures of penguins with stupid smiles.
Agnes was curving her paws round the table leg, catching the twist of paper then batting it away again. I binned the penguins, took Agnes upstairs and cried into her.
More tests: a chest x-ray; an ECG; a kidney x-ray; a liver function test; a barium meal and a barium enema (beware the white shit that won’t flush!).
Negative! Myra crowed, as each result came back.
But I’m getting worse. My legs are like jelly. The pain’s burning into my bones. I feel sick all the time. My brain feels inflamed. Why don’t you believe me?
Helen, there is nothing physically wrong with you. If this goes on I think you should see a clinical psychologist. Believe me, I’m the doctor.
(Believe me. Just for a change. I’m the patient.)
It turned out I’d already been tested for brucellosis. Rita, who thought it was a possibility, after all, had asked for me to be tested and was told I already had been.
I had to sign on now that I’d sent my grant back. Officially, I was no longer a student. Officially, I was no longer anything.
The dole office was a grim flat building with bits of grey roughcast falling off. Rita waited for me in the car. It was my first time signing on. There was a man arguing about his claim when I went in. He was saying that it was fucking daylight robbery. He had an Alsatian on a long lead and he’d dressed it in a white T-shirt. The dog’s tongue was hanging out and it was panting.
I waited for my turn and was called to a booth. I recognised the girl behind the glass. She’d been in the year below me at school. Her brother used to scare people in the playground by turning his eyelids inside out.
I explained that I was out of uni for a while.
Are you looking for work? she said.
No, I’m ill. I had to come home from France.
It’s all right for some, swanning off to France, she said. You’ll need a sick note from your doctor if you’re not available for work.
I don’t have a sick note. They don’t know what’s wrong with me yet. (And by the way, your perm’s fucking horrible, it’s growing out and you don’t even suit it.)
Well, if you want any money you’ll need to sign on as available for work, she said, pushing a bundle of blue and white forms under the glass divider.
Since I’d come back from France Rita’d been dragging me out to the park in an attempt to pep me up. You’re getting too peely-wally, she’d say. Just a short walk to get some colour in your cheeks. We’d wrap up and climb the fence and cross the ditch (funny to see your mother jumping a ditch), pass the Michael tree, and I’d be exhausted by the time we reached the castle. We’d sit on the bench and look down at the loch for answers.
One time we went straight to the bench after a bad appointment with Myra. You could drive to the castle and park there.
There were bursts of purple and yellow crocuses all around us.
I love spring flowers, said Rita. They’re so full of hope, the way they push up through the hard ground.
They’re lovely, I said, but you wonder how they can stand the cold. I turned to face her. D’you think I’ll be better by next spring, Mum?
We’re going to get to the bottom of this, pet, she said, putting her arm round me. I promise you. We won’t give up ‘til they’ve found out what’s wrong with you. And as soon as we know, we can start getting you better.
I smiled and tried not to cry. Rita tried not to cry and smiled back.
D’you remember when you were small, she said, and you wanted to have your wedding reception at the castle, with cheese sandwiches and a giant pot of tea?
Yeah, and remember the time I put my hand in a hole in the ground over there and it came out covered in wasps?
You were screaming the park down.
And we went to Casualty and a nurse gave me a Jaffa Cake.
It seems like a lifetime ago, she said, sighing. Sean wasn’t even born. I must’ve been pregnant with him.
I just remember being curious about the hole and putting my foot in and when nothing happened I put my hand in, I said.
Maybe you were expecting a wee mole or something.
Maybe – d’you know what the French word for wasp is?
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No. We never got to insects at school, she said.
It’s une guêpe, pronounced ‘gep’. I remember the first time I saw it, I thought it was pronounced ‘gweep’ and the French teacher was killing himself.
Gweep’s a nice word, said Rita.
It’s a lovely word.
We stayed there for an hour, both of us drawing comfort from the loch.
I think I need to go home soon, I said. I’m feeling really crap.
Brian was stroking his face with a pussy willow stem and giggling. I like this furry stuff, he said. It’s lovely.
It’s called pussy willow, I said. I got it for Rita for Mother’s Day.
Is it real fur, he said, like Agnes?
No, I laughed. It just feels like it. What did you get your mum for Mother’s Day?
I got her daffodils but I wish I’d got this furry stuff.
Two weeks later, I had a letter from Jana. I could just picture it: Jana, Esther and Abas, all steaming. Music blaring. Every light in the house blazing. Simone coming back from her country-house early, stomping round switching off the lights, calling Jana a slut for seducing her son. Abas hiding in his room.
I had a lump in my throat. Maybe I’d be able to go back after Easter.
Brian phoned on Palm Sunday – he got someone to dial for him, he could read and write but numbers confused him – to say he’d lit a candle and said a prayer for me. He went to Mass with my granny every week. My granny was devout: she’d tutted her way through The Thornbirds, and later boasted that my grandad had never seen her without her nightie on. My grandad went to Mass occasionally, to keep the peace.
Rita stopped going when she was sixteen. Sean and I were never christened, one of the few things Rita and Peter agreed about. They were both atheists.
Brian asked me if I’d be going up to the castle next weekend to roll my egg. I’ll see how I feel, I said.
Valerie’s coming, he said.
I sat on the bench and watched Brian hurtling his eggs down the hill, whooping every time. Valerie had bad circulation and her lips were tinged blue. She rolled her eggs gently, leaving them for Brian to retrieve. I’d painted one happy and one sad. I’d given them to Brian to roll. Valerie came and sat beside me, plumping herself down.
The State of Me Page 4
