Isobel on the Way to the Corner Shop

by Amy Witting

  ‘Oh, yes. Thank you.’

  ‘Well, you know best. You don’t look all right to me.’

  Though she had not meant to take the bus, it seemed after all not a bad idea. Riding in a bus was better than walking. She could get food at David Jones’ basement just as easily and with less walking.

  When the bus stopped at the top of Market Street, she tried to get up and knew that she was facing calamity. She tried again, succeeded and made her way handhold by handhold to the door, down the steps and into the street, where she stood reeling. She clutched at the shoulder of the man ahead of her and clung. He looked round, startled, then astonished and displeased.

  She muttered, ‘Sorry. Sorry. I slipped.’

  ‘Starting a bit early, aren’t you?’

  That stiffened her spine. She let go and stood steady and measured the distance to what looked like safety, the footpath and the shop windows which would offer support at need. She arrived without stumbling and stood looking through a shop window at the plastic reproduction of a gentleman who had never seen trouble in his life and was now ready to go skiing.

  The main thing was to find shelter. She was abominably exposed, conscious even of her nakedness under the sweater and the slacks which had been adequate for that walk to the corner shop. Somewhere to hide maybe for an hour or two, while she got herself together.

  There was the newsreel theatrette down at the George Street end of Market Street. Just about the same distance from this point as the corner shop from that stop where she had so foolishly taken the bus. That theatrette was the place to sit in a comfortable seat in the dark; a rest there would set her up, she would get the strength to come back to the food basement of David Jones, get her supplies—and then a financially ruinous taxi ride back to the building. The expense couldn’t be helped. Survival was now the aim. Survival without disgrace.

  This was going to take effort. She stared at the gentleman with the skis and willed herself into the image of one of those native women walking gracefully, carrying on her head a pitcher of water—though for Isobel the head itself would be the burden to be held upright.

  Bringing that burden erect caused considerable pain, which was an advantage, another reason to hold it steady. She set off, head up. She used the sidling technique, easier with shop windows she could pretend to be studying, crossed Pitt Street as carefully as a tightrope walker, arrived without disaster at the foyer, fumbled stiff-necked for her change purse, bought her ticket while staring over the head of the ticket seller, and went in.

  The usherette who tore her ticket in half looked at her with suspicion. She maintained her lofty stance.

  Lady, I haven’t touched a drop.

  There were not many patrons in the little theatre. In the dark, she did lurch towards a seat in a back row, hoping that the usherette couldn’t see her. She worked her way along the row and, thankfully, sat down.

  She had to expect a reaction after that effort. It was cool in the theatre. She hadn’t noticed the cold out in the street, but now shudders were running down her body, continuous as rain down a window pane, and she had to bite on her sleeve to keep her teeth from chattering. Her breathing came quick and shallow. In short pants. That was a joke from somewhere: her breath came in short pants. Not a bit funny when it happened to you. She was even sorrier now that she hadn’t put more clothes on.

  She stared at the screen. The sound didn’t mean much. It simply hurt her head. There was a procession, people with banners, shouting, but whether in happiness or anger she could not tell. Probably anger. What could they have to complain about? But after all, there was plenty to complain about. One thing she could be sure of: she wasn’t the only one in trouble in this world. She liked to watch, however. It was good to know that things were still going on.

  There was something wrong with the back of the seat, some projection sticking into her below the right shoulder blade. She couldn’t be bothered to change her seat. She wriggled into a more comfortable position and the pain disappeared.

  Now the people on the screen were in Antarctica watching a lot of penguins waddle down to the sea like odd little manikins, then with a leap transform themselves into creatures of exquisite grace in the sea. A lesson there if she could think of it.

  Then there was a woman launching a ship, having trouble with the champagne bottle, which refused to break. She never did discover if the woman had succeeded at last. She must have dozed off, for she opened her eyes to see the same procession, the multitude of people united in one emotion, whether it was joy or anger.

  The sleep had done her good. She felt quite steady now, quite able to walk out and back to David Jones’ food basement, buy her stores and go home. All problems were solved.

  She got up and walked out into the night.

  She stood in the dark street among the lights that shone from foyers, restaurants, shop windows and tried to make out what had happened. She had slept, not through one session, but through two. The shops were shut and she had still not bought food.

  Why had she got on the bus? She could have sat at the bus stop long enough—she could have stayed longer in the attic practising minimal living and gathering strength…never mind all that. What could she do now to retrieve the situation?

  Get something to eat, take a taxi home and try again tomorrow.

  She walked to the corner, walking well now that it was of no use. Across the road in George Street light was coming from a doorway above which shone the name The Soup Kitchen. That would do.

  Hunger wasn’t a problem. It had been, but it had been balanced by a disgust of almost all food. Now getting food into her stomach was a mechanical act needed for survival. Soup would be easy.

  She crossed the road, shivering in the cold night air, went down a short flight of stairs into a warm, bright room furnished with long tables flanked by benches. It was a cafeteria. There were a few people waiting in a queue at the serving area; she lined up, took a tray, moved along the display cases, ignored salads and desserts, took a bowl of minestrone and a glass of wine, paid at the cash register and walked to a table, quite elated by her competence. What a pity she hadn’t thought to add to her tray one of those plates with a small pack of cracker biscuits and a foil-wrapped wedge of cheese. She could have taken it home; it would have done for the morning meal, till she got to the corner shop next day.

  There were baskets on the tables full of hunks of bread. She took one, ate her soup without difficulty, chewed at a piece of bread and thought she would go back and get the cheese and biscuits. The problem was solved.

  It was with the glass of wine that the muttering began. She did not know that the voice was her own until staring faces located it at her centre. This had happened somewhere before; she could not remember where or when. She felt sorry for the people who were looking at her with such embarrassment. She said punctiliously to the nearest diner, a few places down at the other side of the table, ‘I am not drunk. I am strapped to the black horse of madness.’

  The apology, which had been intended to smooth things over, seemed to have made them worse. The man had turned away. Everyone had turned away.

  But I can’t turn away, she thought. There was the whole terrifying problem in four words. I can’t turn away.

  One thing was certain. She had to get away from here, and at once. Unfortunately, the little spurt of energy which had carried her into the cafeteria was now exhausted.

  She surveyed the situation with care. Exit: lighted, visible. One made for it, from table to table. No point in keeping up appearances now. Stairs: one climbed them, thankful for the handrail. Pavement: one followed it, but in which direction? Downward. That was the imperative. She took a few steps away from the lighted doorway, yielded to the invitation of the pavement and lay down.

  She was not left in peace for long. A voice said, ‘You disgusting. You get up from there and go away. You don’t act like this in front of my restaurant, decent place. We don’t want drunks. You get up, you hear? You want
me to call the police?’

  She did not answer.

  The voice grew more agitated.

  ‘I tell you. Get up! Is disgusting! Get up and go away!’

  It was the voice that went away, which was a relief.

  Then it returned.

  ‘I tell you, officer, she was staggering drunk in the restaurant. We don’t serve drunks there. Never sell a glass of wine to anyone drinking. A good place, I run a good place, good food and a glass of wine, that’s all. The girl says, she went out staggering, terrible. One glass of wine only in my restaurant. Came in drunk from somewhere else, cashier not notice.’

  A deeper voice said, with contempt, ‘Get up from there. You’re a disgrace. Come on. Move.’

  She did not stir.

  A hand gripped her shoulder and shook it, jerking at the dagger which had lodged itself under her shoulderblade, so that she yelped with pain.

  The hand moved from her shoulder to her forehead, the voice said in pity and astonishment, ‘Why, you’re not drunk. You’re sick!’

  She was lifted then and was leaning against a warm, solid body and discovering that perfect love was rough like serge and smelt of tobacco and sweat. There was an arm around her holding her steady.

  ‘Get her a chair, will you? She’s sick, I tell you.’

  ‘She didn’t get sick here. I don’t want her here.’

  ‘She is sick and the sooner you call an ambulance the sooner we’ll be out of your way. Meanwhile you get her a chair and get to the telephone. If we’re bad for your business, get moving.’

  It was good to hear that contempt turned on the other.

  She was sitting now on a chair in the doorway, still supported by serge and a column of muscle and living flesh and wonderful humanity. The best thing was his saying ‘we’. She could love him for ever for that.

  She whispered, ‘Thank you. Thank you very much.’

  ‘All in the day’s work, love.’ He sounded embarrassed, but tightened his arm about her for a moment. ‘We’ll have you in hospital soon. And here comes the ambulance.’

  The urgent whine of the ambulance was the last thing she heard for some time.

  After that it was darkness.

  Voices began to come through the dark.

  One of them said ‘Isobel Callaghan’, and she thought with relief that she hadn’t lost her handbag. Didn’t they say that it took a surgical operation to separate a woman from her handbag? Her honour is the second last thing to go. It’s a surrogate womb. Some smart-arse had said that once. Why don’t men carry them, then? That comment hadn’t gone down so well.

  She was handled, moved about, rolled over. She didn’t like it.

  ‘Beastly cold,’ she grumbled. That must have been a stethoscope pressing on her bare chest. ‘Beastly cold.’

  They ignored her.

  Somebody said, ‘Better take it per rectum, Sister.’

  What on earth? How dare you?

  ‘Just keep still, will you?’

  She kept still.

  One voice said, ‘I don’t like the sound of it. I don’t like the sound of it at all.’

  She was a parcel. She didn’t mind being a parcel. It was easy.

  Someone was tapping most annoyingly on the bones of her ribcage, one after the other. It was too much. Then somebody rolled her over and the tapping began again on her back. She uttered a sharp protest, which was answered by an odd sound like the clucking of a subterranean fowl.

  ‘What’s she mumbling about?’

  ‘Says she isn’t a bloody xylophone, sir.’

  ‘Oh. Well, it’s still no laughing matter.’

  ‘No, sir. Sorry.’

  Then she woke up to morning light and found herself in a little tented room with walls of heavy white cloth. There was a nurse standing beside her bed.

  ‘So you’re with us, are you? About time, too.’

  ‘How long?’

  ‘How long have you been here? Just the neat forty hours. You came in on Wednesday night. If you call that coming in—not under your own steam, I assure you. What were you doing, wandering about town in a high fever?’

  It was too difficult to explain.

  ‘I just thought I had a bit of ’flu.’

  ‘Well, I can’t offer you anything to eat yet. Doctor wants a specimen of your sputum before you take anything by mouth. Want the pan?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  One had to remember that one was only a parcel. Parcels can have no pride.

  ‘Right. And I’ll see about the jar for the sputum.’

  What was sputum? The nurse departed. Something one spat, of course.

  The nurse came back carrying a huge china shoe. She slipped it into the bed and sat Isobel on it and left again. Isobel considered her situation. She was clean and smelt of soap. She was wearing an extraordinary flowing garment of pink cotton which seemed to have no back to it. She investigated and found that it was fastened with tapes at the back from neck to waist. Below the waist it hung free. What an odd arrangement. Very convenient of course for sitting where she was sitting at the moment.

  The nurse came back and set down on the cabinet beside the bed a small screw-top jar still warm and shining from the steriliser.

  Bright and brisk, she said, ‘Finished?’ She removed the pan, peered at the contents and frowned. ‘Doctor says you’re to cough up from as deep as you can and close the jar straight away. Okay? After that I can get you something to eat.’

  If I wasn’t a parcel, thought Isobel, I’d be wondering what this was about. It was all too much trouble.

  Coughing proved difficult, extremely painful and quite exhausting. She spat the small trophy into the jar, closed it as hastily as if she were trapping an insect and lay back on her pillow.

  ‘You finished?’

  The nurse must have been waiting outside.

  ‘Yes.’

  The nurse came in, picked up the jar, saying, ‘Doctor’s waiting for this,’ put it in her pocket and departed.

  She must have pulled a cord as she left, for the curtain walls rolled away and Isobel appeared as it were on centre stage to the sound of a cheer and gentle hand-clapping.

  ‘She made it! She made it!’

  ‘Good on you, kid!’

  There were five other beds in the room, all of them occupied by women who were to Isobel voices rather than faces, though each face was turned towards her with a look of beaming goodwill.

  ‘You were all very quiet,’ she whispered. ‘I didn’t know there was anyone there.’

  ‘We were afraid of disturbing you, love,’ said her neighbour. ‘Sister said this morning you were in a natural sleep and we didn’t want to wake you.’

  ‘That was very kind of you.’

  ‘Did you know what was happening? They had a specialist come in from North Shore last night. Doctor told Sister that you were reacting and it looked like you were coming round.’

  ‘I got bits and pieces,’ she said.

  ‘Well, you better keep quiet for a while. Don’t tire yourself.’

  There was a rumbling noise as a trolley approached, and appeared, pushed by a gangling, fair-haired young man in a white coat.

  ‘Breakfast!’

  He pushed the trolley into the centre of the room and began to distribute bowls of dry cereal.

  He approached then with a large jug of milk and poised it above the bowl on the table which spanned Isobel’s bed.

  She looked at the bowl and shook her head.

  ‘The sooner you eat, the sooner you’re on your feet,’ he said.

  ‘Don’t bully her, Eric. She can’t eat what she doesn’t fancy. What else have you got under those covers?’

  ‘A nice bit of poached egg on toast.’

  ‘Try her on that then. What about a bit of poached egg, love?’

  Eric took away the bowl of cereal and replaced it with a poached egg on toast.

  ‘The first mouthful’s the worst. Give it a go.’

  Isobel, feeling foolish,
like an infant under the eyes of five anxious mothers, tried a mouthful and discovered that she was quite hungry. All the encouragement which accompanied her ingestion of the poached egg was unnecessary. She was relieved when the others withdrew their attention to their own meal.

  Eric went away to distribute other breakfasts, came back to collect the used crockery and to pour tea.

  ‘Milk for you,’ he said to Isobel, handing her a plastic beaker. ‘Seeing you didn’t eat your cereal.’

  ‘Bit of a boss cocky, aren’t you, Eric?’

  ‘Got to look after you all, haven’t I? Now get on with it. I’m off.’

  Isobel drank her milk and set the plastic beaker on the table.

  ‘When they brought you in in your clothes, we thought, God forgive us, that you were drunk. In the DTs, like, because of the way you were talking. But Sister said straight, “Don’t imagine that she’s drunk. She’s wandering a bit because she has a high fever.” How come you were in your clothes?’

  ‘I went out to buy food. I thought I had a touch of ’flu, that’s all. I must have collapsed in the street. They did think I was drunk and somebody sent for a policeman. He sent for the ambulance. I don’t remember much after that.’

  ‘Don’t worry her, Marj. Let her be.’

  Marj nodded amiably.

  In the ensuing silence Isobel slept again.

  When she woke, the curtain was closed and a nurse stood beside the bed holding her sweater and her pants.

  ‘Don’t you have any underwear?’

  ‘I was only going to the corner shop.’

  The nurse raised her eyebrows in astonishment and disapproval.

  ‘You’d better put these on then. You have to go down to X-ray after lunch. Bend forward, will you?’

  She untied the tapes which held the indecent smock in place and hung it on the end of the bed.

  Isobel pulled on pants and sweater, the nurse opened the curtains and departed.

  There were gasps from the sympathetic audience when they saw Isobel dressed in outdoor clothes.

  ‘They’re not going to turn you out? In a bit of a hurry, aren’t they?’

  ‘Heartless, I call it.’

  ‘No. I’m only going down to X-ray after lunch.’