by Dawn French
‘Anyway, hey, some good news for you to put in ears, Katy Perry and Russell Grant split at last! Not good news for marrieds, but good for Katy because Russell Grant a dirty randy wanker my boys say, so she better goin home to the parents who is Christian good people. And David Beckham get voted number one for sexiest man on planet. Hmm. OK, but for me it would be John Nettles. Who would you have? Probably Pat Butcher I think … ?’
Twenty-Five
Jo
Wednesday 10am
Jo is in full voice, and horrifically off-key.
‘… Birthday, dear Silvia, Happy Birthday to yooooo!’
She is holding a bright pink shop-bought Miss Piggy cake with a single candle sticking straight up out of the very pink snout. There is a number crudely scrawled over Miss Piggy’s forehead. ‘60!’ Jo has very obviously added this herself with a blue icing pen.
‘Make a wish darling. I know what mine would be. But it’s not my birthday. Come on, Sissy, summon everything you’ve got. And … blow!’
Jo forms a blowing mouth as if she is expecting Silvia to imitate her, like you do for a small child. Whilst Silvia has been captive and incapacitated, Jo has thought of her as she did when they were kids, as very definitely her younger sister. The baby sister. Something about Silvia being sick and in bed has further confirmed this historic sibling dynamic, and Jo has demonstrated her need to infantilize Silvia over and over again. Jo’s needs are many. The overriding one is the desperate longing to be looked up to. Whilst Silvia is out for the count, Jo can freely fantasize about being the capable elder sister. She blows the candle out.
‘There! All gone!’
Winnie and some of the other nurses on duty are watching this charade through the internal window. Winnie sucks her teeth in ongoing disbelief at Jo’s loud and inappropriate choices.
But worse is to come, as Jo takes a deep cigarette-husky breath and launches into a rousing chorus of, ‘For she’s a jolly good fellow,’ for far too long, ending with an eardrum-wrecking final line of, ‘And sooo say aaall of uuss …’
The noise is beyond horrible. Jo has never been, and will never be, able to sing. She was the kid who was asked to mime at the school speech-day church service. Not only does she lack any tuning as such, she also has no idea about volume control, so all her glaring mistakes are delivered at full throttle. There is no danger of missing them.
The nurses can hear it all through the thick walls of Suite 5, unfortunately for them, and when it is over, they are tangibly relieved and glad to busy themselves with anything other than Silvia for a moment.
Although Jo didn’t organize it this way, it works perfectly for her that they are all so distracted, for Jo has a plan. Today, on her sister’s sixtieth birthday, Jo is going to present her pièce de résistance, her biggest shot yet at waking her poorly sister up. Jo has brought Sgt Craig Lawrence to the hospital.
Craig is sitting next to the nurses’ station, on a plastic chair, in a row of four empty chairs where many many anxious people have perched on the edge, waiting for news of beloveds. Plastic chairs infused with raw dread. Craig is twenty-six and his new uniform is chafing him somewhat. Although he knows he must appear composed, he is anything but. All of this is new to him, in fact, and he is desperate to impress. He is of average height and quite stocky, a man who pays attention to his personal grooming, a metrosexual man, no stranger to a five-blade razor and an expensive moisturizer. His face is tight with squeaky-cleanliness and his dark blond with subtle highlights hair is combed neatly and gelled. His sergeant’s hat is nestled in the crook of his arm. He has been told on many occasions that he is handsome, and he can’t resist believing it. He has pleasing symmetrical features and large blue eyes, a tribute to both his Scottish and Scandinavian parents.
This is his first visit to a hospital as part of his job and he is sweating profusely. He repeatedly wipes his brow and upper lip. He hopes it is discreet. Policemen aren’t supposed to appear nervous. Policemen are in charge. Apparently.
The trolley lady stops on her way past him, and offers him a cup of tea. She doesn’t do this typically, and he is acutely aware of that. It’s the uniform. It elicits respect and a strange form of gratitude. Perhaps a passing policeman has helped the trolley lady in the past, or delivered her drunken grandson home in the back of his police car from a city-centre brawl, or winked at her when she broke ranks and crossed the street during the May Day carnival? Perhaps. Or maybe she simply remembers the old days when she was young and the mere sight of a bobby patrolling the street made you feel safe.
Whatever it is, she has stopped and given him a cuppa with a shop-brand rich tea biscuit on the side to boot, and as a result he feels a tiny bit important. He likes feeling important. It doesn’t happen often. Actually, it doesn’t happen ever …
Craig has heard the caterwauling from Jo inside Suite 5 and knows that in a moment she will pop out to collect him. He swallows his tepid tea in one gulp and tugs his jacket down to prepare.
Jo is busy scoffing a slice of the Miss Piggy cake and licking her fingers. She is using one of the thick grey paper bowls that are stacked on the shelf above Silvia’s monitor, as a plate. Why they are there, she doesn’t know. Is it to do with weeing or puking? she wonders. In which case, they are superfluous since Silvia can do neither unassisted. She describes the cake taste so that Silvia might derive a vicarious pleasure from it.
‘So, first of all, the icing appears brittle but is in fact soft, more like a sugary wrapping really. The cake itself is like a Madeira cake or, no, more like pound cake. Very yellow, very plain, quite moist. Absolutely no attempt at a cheeky layer of jam or confectioner’s custard or cream or anything, which is a tad disappointing, but hey, look at how cheerful the whole Miss Piggy pink face is. DIVINE. One thing I would say though is that, weirdly, when you pop a piece of Miss Piggy cake in your mouth, although you know it’s undeniably cake, you can’t help it darling, you expect to taste bacon. I’m not sure if I’m glad or disappointed not to. Odd.
‘Anyway Sis, it’s lovely and I know you would love it. Fancy a bite? Fancy it enough to open your eyes and sit up? Eh? No? OK. Well listen. Big news, exciting news. I have someone here for you to meet and I don’t mind telling you darling, this guy is going to change your life. He is a policeman hon, but don’t panic, you’ve done nothing wrong. He has something important to tell you, and I think you might want to wake up to hear it, frankly. Hang on.’
Jo goes to the door and pops her head out to beckon Craig in.
He stands up, picks up his black tote bag, and walks into Suite 5. As he enters, Craig has to catch his breath. He has never seen anyone in a coma before. It’s disturbing. Craig falters for a second and stops in his tracks.
Jo has become inured to the shock of it, even after such a short time.
‘Come in. Don’t worry, it’s alright. Think of her as asleep. Now I’m going to stand here …’ Jo positions herself at the internal window, blocking any view into the room from the nurses’ station ‘… you just carry on, as you normally would … but quietly … please … yes?’
‘Of course … just put this down.’
Craig quickly looks around, and goes to the corner of the room where there is a plug point. He puts his bag down, unzips the top and takes out a large ghetto blaster, which he plugs in. He turns the volume way down low, takes a deep breath, puts his hat on, and presses ‘play’. The unmistakable if muted first few bass-slapping bars of Tom Jones’s ‘You Can Leave Your Hat On’ start to sound. Craig swaggers to the side of Silvia’s bed.
‘’Ello ’ello ’ello, I believe there’s been an incident around these parts, and a laydee has been injured. Well love, my name is Sgt Sirloins, and I need to take down a few particulars … right now …’
With that, he turns round, bends over and, in the same alarming movement, he whips off his uniform trousers which are Velcroed at the side. It would have been deft if the Velcro wasn’t so stubborn at the ankles, where the trousers firmly remain joi
ned. He is wearing a black thong and so, were Silvia to wake up at this moment, which thankfully, of course, she doesn’t, her first sight after eight days of unconsciousness, would be of a hairy pimply pale bent-over bum.
Craig quickly straightens up in time to dance to the first lyrics of the song as they start. He gyrates and mimes along.
Baby, take off your coat, real slow.
Baby, take off your shoes, I’ll help
You take off your shoes.
Baby, take off your dress, yes yes yes …
Craig is following the instructions of the song as best he can. He manages to get the jacket off in time and is pleased with that, so he does extra-sexy pursing of his lips, and plenty of hip thrusts. He prefers the music to be louder, as it covers the huffing and puffing he only now realizes he does whilst getting undressed. He’s never noticed that before. Yes, this is definitely slicker and sexier when the music is throbbingly loud.
And when the recipient isn’t in a coma, frankly.
He can’t bring himself to look at her because he fears the pitiful sight of her might cause his penis to get even smaller than it presently is, which is spectacularly small. If he is performing in a club, he can ‘arrange’ his manhood just before he goes on stage so that he presents himself at his optimum state. He hasn’t been able to do that here. Nothing about the hospital atmosphere has helped him in this respect. Even the deferential cup of tea from the trolley lady has failed to make him feel big enough. He has been unable to tap into his necessary fantasy high self-esteem in this bright neon lighting and antiseptic smell. He has no command over his willy whatsoever.
Which is a shame, since his routine now demands that he proffer his front to Silvia to show the full force of his jam-packed black thong with the giant cobra’s head emblazoned on it. It looks best when it’s nice and stretched, but presently the cobra is looking a bit wrinkled and empty. Decidedly unthreatening. You wouldn’t be scared if you met that cobra in a desert. In fact, you might take pity on it and either pet it or club it on the head to mercifully put an end to its misery. Craig prays that Jo doesn’t clock it too much, in case she decides to deduct anything off his wages for his glaring inadequacy.
You can leave your hat on,
You can leave your hat on,
You can leave your hat on …
Unfortunately, as Craig is attempting to leave his hat on but get his shirt and tie off (which he really wants to do soon, because his torso is fairly impressive and may mitigate the effect of his less than perfect penis), he is hampered by the still-attached-to-his-heels trousers. As he has swung round to face Silvia, the pesky trousers are strangling his ankles and preventing him from throwing some of his more impressive moves. He tries to kick out wildly with his feet, but fails, and the overall impression is of someone having a fit, which isn’t sexy. And sexy is what it’s all about.
Frankly, Jo isn’t finding the display particularly sexy, but she is definitely unable to look away as more and more of Craig’s streaky spray-tanned body is revealed. Jo hasn’t been in close quarters with an increasingly naked man like this for some time, and is transfixed. Even the smell of him is fascinating, a sort of zesty lemony sweaty niff, which is presently permeating the room like a determined creeping citrus mist. Maybe the power of that overwhelmingly heady odour alone will jolt Silvia into wakefulness?
Jo, like Craig, longs to turn the music up. This whole exercise seems wrong without loud thudding music. She hasn’t seen anything like this before, but she knows that’s how it should go. She feels ever so slightly disappointed that he has chosen this very obvious music. The Full Monty music. Such a cliché. Silvia wouldn’t approve of this choice. Almost anything else would have been preferable. Jo’s eyes flick frantically between the curious sight of the now naked Craig – naked, that is, save for the thong, the socks and shoes with trousers attached and, of course, the hat – and Silvia, who is fully clothed for bed, and a hundred per cent staunchly disinterested. Not a jot of any reaction on her face. Nothing. Jo realizes that without the aid of loud music, this endeavour is going to go for nothing, and will have been a total waste of time.
Craig is just getting to his dénouement and if anything is going to rouse Silvia, it would be this moment, but not if Silvia can’t hear it. She needs to know her cue to open her eyes if she is going to. It’s fast approaching, and Jo can’t help herself, she lunges towards the ghetto blaster and whacks the volume up to full fat, just as Craig releases the catch on the side of his underwhelming thong to play his ace, and reveal all. As Jo turns back from her crouched position at the controls of the ghetto blaster, Craig is also mid-turn and mid-reveal.
A thrillingly awful moment occurs when Craig’s flaccid penis and Jo’s flushed cheek come into brief contact.
‘Sorry.’
‘Sorry.’
They both shout above the music, awkwardly.
‘You can leave your hat on …’ bellows Tom.
Craig loudly joins in with the last sentiment of the song.
The kerfuffle is tangibly chaotic and Winnie is aware of it, even though she is with a different patient in Suite 8. Once again, she speeds down the ward with a low, stealthy grace. Winnie is an NHS Exocet. Especially when Jo is in the building. Winnie is on high alert. She flings open the door of Suite 5 to see a sight she will forever wish she could forget. A naked man, the colour of an old tangerine, scrambling around under Silvia’s hospital bed, trying to find his hat.
‘Oh dear Lord! Wha’appn ’ere? Jo, what you tinkin? Get dis dyam h’idiot outta here right now. You tink Silvia want dis ya foolishness? Me don’t h’even know de awake Silvia, but me know she don’t. Nobody do! Look ’pon dis stupid ragamuffin, ’im so orange, ’im a fruit! Wa di blouse ’n’ skirt! You in a wholeheapa trouble wid me, Jo. Get ’im gaan!’
Craig frantically tries to gather up his clothes and leave, but the bloody trousers still tugging and lolloping around his ankles torment him and in no time at all, he falls over, like a felled orang-utan, so Tango-ed and lumbering is he.
‘Sorry nurse, I just need to … sorry …’
He flounders about, trying to get up and pack up and get out.
Jo has her head in her hands.
‘Winnie, I’m so sorry. This isn’t what it looks like.’
‘Me no know what it look like, me only know what it is. Disrespectful. Das what. Aks yerself why you bring dis bodderation here? Look ’pon dis chaos!’
To Craig’s further shame, Winnie picks up the cobra thong which has pinged off and is now dangling on the side guard of Silvia’s bed.
‘Bwoy! A wa dis?!’
Craig reaches out tentatively to retrieve the offending article.
‘It’s … um … my thong …’
‘I know is what, ya wutless nasty fool. Pick it up an’ move yu backside before I box yu face. Ya hear mi now?! I’m serious. Gwaan!’
Craig snatches up the thong, and his other clothes. Jo helps to rip off the obstinate ankle-grabbing Velcro trousers, and assists him to scurry off, which he does, bumbling out of the door, holding the pile of clothes in front of his groin to protect his modesty. The nurses at the desk stifle their giggles. As he runs down the corridor frantically searching for the toilet where he can get dressed, he speeds past the trolley lady who looks on aghast, and has many treasured and long-held values about policemen shattered in a nanosecond.
Back in the room, Jo feverishly yanks the plug of the ghetto blaster out of the wall and, thankfully, the wretched music stops. That is, however, the single positive thing that’s happening presently. Winnie is the only person Jo has any real respect for in the hospital, so it is doubly awful that it’s the lovely, honourable, hard-working Winnie who is standing at the door with her hard-working hands on her hips glowering angrily at Jo right now. Jo is immediately catapulted back to her childhood when so often she would be the one on the receiving end of the reprimands from her mother, even if both she and her sister were equally culpable. Silvia was always the favourit
e, seemingly blameless one.
‘Right, sidung ’pon dat chair, sista. Yu better start talkin. Gimme some reasons for dis craziness. C’mon.’
Jo sits on the visitor’s chair.
Winnie pulls up the other visitor’s chair and sits next to her. She is furious with Jo for this ridiculous disruption, but she knows that she won’t get any sense out of Jo unless she is gentle, and anyway, Winnie firmly believes that true strength is found in gentleness. So long as she can keep her tongue under control, that is the preferred route, always, for Winnie. It isn’t what Winnie has witnessed or experienced herself, inside her own family, apart from her mother, but it is what she knows to be right. Winnie’s Christian engine drives her to try and look for the best in other people. She prays that, conversely, this is how others might interact with her, but she fears that life doesn’t always work that way. This all helps Winnie to sit with Jo, in the middle of a hectic shift, and hear her reasons without judging her too harshly.
The two women sit side by side at the foot of Silvia’s bed and their needs dovetail nicely. Winnie’s need to protect Silvia and therefore understand and guide Jo. Jo’s need to succeed in waking up her sister, and to face her more real and profound fears. Stuff she doesn’t like to think about, or talk about. Stuff that makes Jo recognize the awful truth of feeling so much the lesser for so long. Certainly less than Silvia, and for most of the time, less than almost everyone.
Winnie knows in her relatively few and recent dealings with Jo that this is Jo’s truth. All of Jo’s behaviour around Silvia points Winnie towards Jo’s massive want. Winnie reaches over and covers Jo’s hand with hers.
They sit quietly like this for a few moments, snatching a chance to just be. The chaos of the last ten minutes is still ringing in the air of the room, but it gradually quietens into a distant noise, replaced by the more familiar sound of Silvia’s assisted breathing. The room is full of the now. Of the critically ill Silvia. The reality of it is tangible and unavoidable.
