stranger What do you do?
me I’m a housewife!
Ivan felt queasy on the flight. The air hostess gave him tonic water.
When we got to Marseille, they’d lost our luggage and I had to give them the hotel address. I felt shy speaking French in front of Ivan.
His face was tripping him. They said they’d deliver our cases in the morning and gave us emergency night packs with a T-shirt, a facecloth and a toothbrush. Are you well enough to drive? I asked. Yup, he said, but you’ll need to navigate. My head’s killing me.
I felt guilty that I couldn’t drive instead of him, but I wasn’t safe not even at home. My head would go numb and I couldn’t process everything you have to process in order to drive safely.
The roadside was a mass of poppies and purple gorse and pink daisies. It’s like driving through a Monet painting, isn’t it? I said, hoping to make him feel better.
When our luggage arrived the next day, I was so happy, it was almost worth the delay. Ivan was still queasy and I got a taste of my own medicine. He wasn’t able to do much and hardly ate. You’re fading away, you must eat more than cherries, I said, skirting my hand over his head, the way you would with a child.
His inertia didn’t bother me for myself. I was happy to stay in Cassis and walk to the nearby creeks or sit in cafes or bob on the pier. I saw insects that looked like blue wasps.
At night we stayed in and watch French television. I could only understand half of it. Ivan kept changing over to football.
The man in the room opposite was Canadian and had a hearing aid. He was on his own. Ivan couldn’t understand why it made me sad. He’s probably having a great time, Ivan said.
By the third day, Ivan felt better and we went to Aix. We sat under plane trees on Cours Mirabeau and read the New York Times and drank coffee. I bought a book of short stories in French and two yellow plates. We stuffed ourselves with moules. You must be feeling better if you can face moules, Mr Cox, I said. You’re sexy, when you speak French, he replied. That night we made love for the first time on our honeymoon. Come here, Helen Coxsackie, he said.
The next day he brought me breakfast back to the room (we’d both skipped it the first couple of days). We’d been planning to go to St Tropez but the guidebook said it was all designer stores and tack so we went to Bormesles-Mimosas instead, a hilltop town. On our way out, I glimpsed the Canadian man in his vest and pants, his door was half open. D’you think I should tell him his door’s open, I said, maybe he doesn’t realise ‘cos he can’t hear? Please don’t spend all day worrying about him, said Ivan. He’s fine.
Bormes-les-Mimosas was beautiful, full of flowers and twisty streets and red-topped houses. We ate cabillaud at a posh seafood restaurant. The drive back was long and we got lost. I hate these bastard green signs with white arrows, said Ivan – they make no fucking sense!
Calm down, I said. We should stop and look at the map.
I was scared we’d have a fight, I wanted the honeymoon to be totally argument-free, and had been rescuing us from even the smallest frictions.
Back at the hotel we lay on the bed, too tired to get undressed.
Let’s just stay in Cassis tomorrow and do nothing, I said.
You’ll need to rest up for Porquerolles anyway.
I know.
Are you sure you’re up to it?
I want to try.
It’s supposed to be stunning.
How long is the ferry? I asked.
About an hour and a half from Toulon. And an hour to get to Toulon from here. We’ll need to be up very early to make it worth it.
I’ll rest completely tomorrow.
I’m feeling hungry again, said Ivan. The cod didn’t exactly fill me up.
It was a bit bland.
I’d never order cod at home, he said, it just sounded better in French.
Everything sounds better in French. You can open the crème de marron if you want. There’s bread.
Crème de what?
Chestnut jam. I got it for Rita, but you can open it. I’ll get more.
He kissed me on his way to the jam.
I watched him unscrew the lid and stick his finger in.
It’s delicious – here, taste it, he said, putting his finger to my lips.
You finger’s bitter, I said.
Crème de marron, said Ivan, exaggerating a French accent and getting crumbs all over the floor as he fished for the bread.
I used to worry they were teaching us the wrong words at school, I said. I remember thinking: How do they really know that poisson is fish and chien is dog? Maybe they’ve got it all wrong and it’s a trick, they’re not really teaching us French after all.
I know what you mean, said Ivan, I used to think the same in chemistry. I thought they were making it all up.
Porquerolles is one of the Îies d’Hyères. It has a stunning landscape of pine glades and remote beaches. The only way to get around is by bike or on foot.
I hadn’t been on a bike for years. I knew that my legs would be ruined the next day but I didn’t want to let Ivan down.
You can stop and rest as soon as you want, he said as we got off the ferry and walked towards the vélos for hire.
There was a hill right at the start.
I’ll never get up this, I said. There’s no way I can pedal. I’ll need to walk.
Lean on your bike, said Ivan, use it like a zimmer.
Don’t make me laugh, I said. I can’t push and laugh at the same time.
He rode on ahead and waited for me at the top.
Get on your bike, wife, he said. It’s nice and flat now.
My legs were burning already. I got on and it all came back so easily. I pedalled along the flat, gathering speed so I could rest my legs, the sun and wind on my face. I can’t believe I’m doing this! I shouted.
Don’t overdo it, he shouted back. He was getting way ahead of me again.
I love this! It’s brilliant! I gasped.
After fifteen minutes I had to stop.
I shouted to Ivan but he couldn’t hear me. Eventually, he turned round and realised I was no longer pedalling. He circled round effortlessly and came back.
We lay down the bikes and found a beautiful cove to ourselves. Ivan unhooked his rucksack.
I’m starving, I said. I need a piece of bread.
I started unpacking the food.
The cheese is melting, I said. It’s oozing out.
Put it in the shade, he said. Behind that rock.
Are you hungry?
I want to see more of the island. I want to keep going.
Okay, I said, but don’t be reckless. I know what you’re like.
Are you sure you’ll be okay on your own?
I’ll be fine, I said, I’ve got the picnic. Have you got water?
Yup.
You should be careful, I said. You won’t realise how strong the sun is when you’re cycling.
I’ll put my hat on. Okay, I’m away.
I watched him disappear, secretly disappointed that he hadn’t stayed a bit longer, but I didn’t want to nag.
I spread out and settled into the cove. This was as good as it got: sun-bathing topless in a pine grove by the sea, French short stories I could understand, and the anticipation of Ivan returning.
I went down to the water and dipped my feet in. It was freezing, but there were beautiful fish. I went back to my spot and lay down, trying to get comfy again on the pebbles. My legs were buzzing and burning inside.
An hour and a half had passed and he wasn’t back, I felt uneasy. I went back down to the water and crouched down, trailing my hand in the waves, trying to ignore the hole that was forming in a perfect day.
Another half hour passed. I was beginning to feel real panic, when he appeared from nowhere saying he had a velo-gubbed arse.
I was worried! I said. I thought something had happened.
Sorry, he said. I lost track of time. He kissed me as he sat down. We should go to one of the
bars in the harbour on the way back and have a drink.
If you want, I said, irked that he was so casual about being late.
Are you going to cycle more? he asked.
Of course not, I need my energy to cycle back, I said, trying not to snap.
There’ll be no yellow jersey for you, Looby.
Those guys must be amazingly fit, I said.
I think they’re the fittest athletes of all. It’s a real endurance test, cycling over mountains.
You should eat something, I said.
I’d kill for a beer.
Do you not worry about my restrictions? I said.
He was rummaging in the backpack. What?
I’m restricted, I said – I couldn’t have come looking for you if something had happened.
But nothing happened – you didn’t have to come looking.
But what if I had?
I don’t spend too much time analysing your potential in emergencies.
I’d be crap.
Probably, he said. Everyone would perish. He lay on his side, propped up by his elbow, eating the rest of the bread and cheese.
You’re very handsome in those sunglasses, I said.
Everyone’s handsome in sunglasses.
That’s not true, some people look worse.
He didn’t answer, he’d turned his attention to Gravity’s Rainbow, his third attempt.
I thought you’d given up on that.
I’m not really taking it in, he said.
I lay perpendicular to him and used his back as a pillow.
I wish you could get a job in the south of France, I said. I definitely have more energy in the sun.
You’ll need to settle for the east of Scotland for another few years with all the Wellcome funding we’re getting.
East of Scotland’s fine, I said. As long as you’re there.
Good.
Anywhere’s fine. I’d go to Japan.
We lazed for another couple of hours. A yacht dropped its anchor and the people on board were drinking and laughing.
I’d love a yacht, said Ivan. Just bugger off at the weekends.
You’d freeze to death on the Tay, I said. You’d need a duffel coat.
He laughed.
We should go, I said. Time to pack up.
I can’t be bothered moving, said Ivan.
If we miss the boat, we’re fucked.
He stood up and yawned.
I’m dreading getting back on my vélo, I said.
You’ll be grand, he said. It’s not that far.
I felt my ear sting, something had buzzed inside. I shook my head as if to rattle it out.
Is it away? said Ivan.
It’s dead, I said, wiping the tiny insect off my finger with a tissue. Why would you fly right into someone’s ear?
That’s their job, said Ivan, that’s what insects do.
I walked over to where the bikes lay. Please don’t ride so far ahead of me this time.
I’ll try not to. It’s quite hard to pedal slowly though.
The ride back seemed shorter – I loved free-wheeling down the hill at the end, but I was glad to get rid of the bike.
We sat in the Bar de la Marine and drank kirs royals while we waited for the ferry.
Let’s toast Jana, I said. She’d love it here.
To Jana, said Ivan.
And Kavi too. I hope they can come to our party.
I hope so, he said. Why are you laughing?
I’m thinking back to Jana and I missing the ferry to Cherbourg. It was hysterical. I remember it like yesterday.
A long time ago, said Ivan.
We were children.
Some of us are still children, he said.
You mean me.
I’m teasing.
And Fizza too, I said. Let’s toast Fizza.
The kir was going to my head.
Back in Cassis, I collapsed into bed. Ivan lifted the sheet back and started kissing my breasts. I’m no good to you, I said. I’ve got vélo-gubbed legs. Don’t worry, he said, I’ll do all the work.
Afterwards, he went out for bread and cheese and olives. We ate on the veranda. Dusk slipped over us and I had a glass of wine.
You feel folded up in velvet when it gets dark here, don’t you?
Yeah, he said.
It’s comforting.
I suppose.
Are you sad about tomorrow? I asked, stroking his wrist.
A bit.
D’you want to be on your own?
I might hike into the big creek. I can’t believe it’s been four years.
Me neither.
She was always very fond of you, he said.
I just wish I’d known her better.
We sat for ages in the warm darkness, not speaking, our arms just touching, each with our own thoughts. I didn’t want it to end.
Before going to sleep, he turned to me and said, Have you removed the insects from your ears?
On the flight home, Ivan was falling asleep before the plane had even taken off. Please don’t sleep ‘til we’re up, I said. I need you to be awake.
It’ll be fine, he said, leaning his head back on my shoulder.
The engines might stall, I said.
They won’t, said Ivan. Read your French book. It’ll be fine.
Epilogue
On 11th January 2002, the Chief Medical Officer’s Working Group produced a long report for the government, saying that ME is real, debilitating and distressing, imposing a substantial burden on patients, families and carers. Doctors were no longer allowed to tell patients they didn’t believe in it.
Three cheers for the Chief Medical Officer! Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!
If we look through the round window, and really strain our eyes, we can see some of the powerful people who didn’t believe in the illness – GPs, psychiatrists, journalists – standing shamefaced in the corner. They are wearing dunce hats and stuttering apologies.
Author’s note: In August 2007, the National Institute of Health and Clinical Excellence (NICE) published guidelines for the management of ME, which – while acknowledging it can be as disabling as MS or lupus – indicate cognitive behaviour therapy (CBT) and graded exercise (GET) as the primary treatment. In doing so, NICE has blatantly disregarded the biomedical model of the illness in favour of the psychosocial model. There has been widespread condemnation of these guidelines and, at the time of writing, the One Click ME Pressure Group is in the process of taking NICE to court.
Acknowledgements
I wish to thank:
My family for their love and support, with special thanks to my mother and step-father for their exceptional kindness and understanding, Pauline for showing me a different way, and my nephews for sparkling. Anne Boyle for always believing. Joanna and Tom Kane for their calmness. Friends near and far: Anna MR, Anne Tice, Anne-Sofie Laegran, Barbara Sabbadini, Cath Duguid, CL, Cheryl Minto, Ciara MacLaverty, Graeme Smith, Graham Spinardi, Helen Boden, Jamie M, Jennifer Murphy, Joanne Limburg, Keith Marrison, Laura Francescangeli, Summera Shaheen, Tess Biddington, Trisha Harbord and Vikram Chaudhary. My very fine blog friends. All those who helped with research, even the tiniest detail. Bernard MacLaverty for his advice. Caroline Smailes for her generosity of spirit. The gem that is The Friday Project, with special thanks to Clare Christian, Clare Weber and Madeleine James. And thanks also to Joanna Chisholm for her valuable input.
The poem by Eeva Kilpi on page vii is from A Treasury of Finnish Love: poems, quotations and proverbs in Swedish, Finnish and English, translated and edited by Börje Vähämäki (New York: Hippocrene Books, 1996). Copyright © 1996, Börje Vähämäki. Reprinted by kind permission.
The eternal problem of the human being is how to structure his waking hours radio quotation on page 110 from the psychiatrist Eric Berne is from his book Games People Play (New York: Grove Press, 1964).
‘thoughts are slow and brown’ on page 181 is taken from Edna St Vincent Millay’s poem ‘Sorrow’. Copyright © 1917, 19
45 by Edna St Vincent Millay. Reprinted by kind permission of Edna St Vincent Millay Society.
About the Author
Nasim Marie Jafry was born in the west of Scotland in 1963 to a Scottish mother and Pakistani father. She has an MA and MSc from Glasgow University, but her studies were severely disrupted when she became ill with ME. She has lived in San Francisco and currently resides in Edinburgh. Her short stories have appeared in various publications. The State Of Me is her first novel. She blogs at http://www.velo-gubbed-legs.blogspot.com.
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Copyright
The Friday Project
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First published by The Friday Project in 2008
Copyright © Nasim Marie Jafry 2008
FIRST EDITION
Nasim Marie Jafry asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
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