by Amy Witting
She did not feel inclined to explain that it was for want of a pair of knickers that she was wearing outdoor clothes.
At the mention of X-ray the women had fallen silent. One or two of them exchanged glances, then looked hastily away, as if some secret was making them uneasy.
Eric wheeled in the lunch tray, six plates of salad, five of them on thick white china, the sixth on a paper plate. With a grimace of apology, he set the paper plate on Isobel’s table.
Parcels do not ask questions. Isobel accepted the discrimination in silence under the eyes of the other five, in whose faces sadness had replaced unease.
She did not do well with the salad. Eric did not scold. He offered her a cup of tea, which came in a plastic beaker, and said, ‘I’ll be back for you in half an hour. Going to take a nice ride in a wheelchair.’
‘That’ll be fun.’
‘That’s the spirit, kid. Take it as it comes.’
Marj, blonde, bony and high-coloured—no doubt by her own hand—said, ‘Are you on your own, kid? No Mum or Dad? We wondered when nobody came.’
‘That’s right,’ said Isobel. ‘Orphan child.’
She spoke flippantly, without knowing why. It might be in reaction to the solemnity which she sensed now in the air. She could not understand that either. She was still brooding over the humiliation of being without knickers. The best people wore knickers, even on a trip to a corner shop.
When Eric came back, he was pushing a wheelchair. He scooped Isobel out of bed and sat her in the chair with a smile, as if he were taking a small child on a treat.
Someone said, ‘Best of luck, kid.’
This was getting really spooky.
They rolled along a corridor and into a lift which took them down to a basement. She was expected in the basement. Eric called out, ‘Here she is,’ and a voice answered, ‘Right. Wheel her in, Eric. That’ll do, thanks.’
Eric departed.
The speaker was another white coat, a brisk and stringy woman of commanding manner.
‘Strip to the waist, please.’
Isobel had managed to wriggle into her two garments, lying exhausted on her bed after that effort. The upward heave required to take off the sweater was beyond her.
She shook her head.
‘Sorry.’
The brisk woman hesitated. A radiographer left alone with a patient who could not take off her own clothes was, it seemed, a woman with a status problem.
She solved it with a reversal of attitude and came smiling to help as a gesture of friendship rather than a humiliating chore.
‘You shouldn’t be out of bed, but Doctor Hansen wants this as soon as possible, like yesterday. I’ll get you as close as I can to the machine. Right, now? Rest your chin on this ledge, elbows here, lean forward, breathe in, hold, breathe away. There you are, all done.’
She helped Isobel back to the chair and into her sweater.
‘You should have a blanket. Eric!’ She opened the door and called, ‘Eric! Go find a spare blanket, will you? You know you have to wait?’
There was a price to pay for friendship.
‘Is that right? The police picked you up in the street and got an ambulance to bring you in? How come?’
What sort of plausible fiction could she invent to cover her situation? They didn’t give her time to think up a story. It would need to be some story, at that.
‘I just went out to buy food. Things sort of got out of hand.’
‘Didn’t know how sick you were. Wasn’t anyone looking after you?’
Oh, it’s a long story.
She shook her head, looking sad and sensitive.
The woman said no more.
Eric arrived with a blanket.
The radiographer wrapped it round her as a final gesture of friendship and resumed her official manner.
‘Do you know you have to wait for doctor? They’re developing straight away. Doctor Hansen will be down in a minute. You can wait outside till he arrives, I think.’
‘Would somebody mind telling me what this is all about?’ asked Isobel.
The woman looked at her and seemed about to speak, but changed her mind.
‘Doctor will speak to you soon. I’ll just see how Don’s getting on with the developing.’
She disappeared. Eric wheeled Isobel out and they waited. Eric found nothing to say to lighten the atmosphere.
He said at last, with relief, ‘Here comes the doc,’ as a small, dark, rosy-cheeked young man in a white coat came hurrying down the corridor and into the room. Minutes passed. The young man reappeared. ‘Wheel her in, will you, Eric?’
They followed him into the X-ray room, where the radiographer stood holding at arm’s length a dripping X-ray suspended from a frame.
Doctor Hansen looked at it and nodded. He put his hand on Isobel’s shoulder and said, ‘Do you see that whitish blob on your right lung? Between the third rib and the fifth?’
Isobel looked at the white hand-print which had settled itself in her chest, thinking, ‘So that’s it. So there you are.’ The source of it all, the red lightning of rage, the muttering madness, the scream of paranoia—it was like seeing the master criminal revealed, the evil spider in the centre of his web of mischief. The invader. Not I. The enemy within. Something that looked like a baby’s hand-print.
‘Well, we did think at first that you had pneumonia, but…we sent a specimen of your sputum down to the Tuberculosis Clinic and we can’t say definitely till we get the results from them, but meanwhile…Combined with other indications, we can’t ignore the possibility that you have tuberculosis.’
‘I was beginning to get the message.’
‘You mustn’t panic. Even if it does turn out to be tuberculosis, remember that it is curable. It’s not a death sentence any more, you know. Meanwhile, we have to take precautions for the sake of other patients, so we’ll have to isolate you while we’re waiting.’
‘May I ask you for your own opinion?’
‘I don’t think there’s much doubt about the diagnosis.’
‘Thank you.’
‘You’re taking it very calmly.’
However, she was not taking it at all. She was suspended somewhere above reality.
‘What to do with you now is the problem. We don’t have a tuberculosis ward here. A pity,’ he said to the radiographer, ‘that she wasn’t taken to North Shore in the first place.’
‘The Registrar rang them and they said they didn’t have a bed vacant.’
‘If the ambulance had taken her there, they’d have had to find room.’
One was not only a parcel. One was a toxic, undesirable parcel.
‘Room 207 is vacant, isn’t it? Better take her up there, Eric. I’ll fix it with Matron. She can’t go back to the ward, of course.’ Feeling a belated need to recognise Isobel’s humanity, he said, ‘Do you want us to notify anyone? Doctor Manning will ring your parents for you.’
‘No parents.’
‘Ah. Well, if you think of anyone…Well, Room 207, Eric. Better take her there straight away.’
‘Oh, they’re all heart, aren’t they?’ said Eric as he wheeled her away. ‘But Hansen is a very decent sort and they do know their job. The doctor’s right, you know. It’s not what it used to be. They’ve got the drugs to deal with it now.’
‘That’s the first time anyone has said “the doctor” instead of “doctor”.’
‘It gets my goat, too. I feel like telling them sometimes, “There may be only one God, but there sure is more than one doctor.” Well, you can even raise a laugh. That’s the spirit.’
They rode in the lift to the second floor, along the corridor and into a small room bright with the light from a large window.
Here Eric lifted her into an armchair, saying cheerfully, ‘Limp as a wet bath towel, you are. Just remember, kid, when you look at your dinner and you don’t much feel like it, food is muscle. Just say to yourself, “Food is muscle.”’
‘And voice,’ she whispered.
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‘Yes. Voice too. Only don’t use it too much.’
‘Say goodbye for me to the ladies in the ward.’
‘I’ll do that. They were really worried about you. They’ll be sorry about this. I’ll get your things and bring them down.’
‘Find my handbag, will you? I need it. But I don’t need that awful smock.’
‘Got an alternative, love?’
She shook her head.
He went off grinning. Isobel sat on the bed and looked about her.
The diagnosis which had made her a social pariah had brought a great improvement in her material situation. This was a luxury room for one: one bed, an armchair, two straight chairs, a regulation side table, a reading light, a corner door which opened on a closet containing shower and lavatory. Beside the shower and the lavatory there were chrome bars fixed to the wall to provide handholds for the invalid. She made haste to use the lavatory before anyone arrived to forbid that freedom. She was glad of the handhold and glad to lie down on the bed.
She ought to be thinking about her situation. No use. Parcels don’t think. Parcels are not required to think.
Eric came back with her handbag and the smock.
‘Sorry. Sister says it’s only until you can get someone to bring your own things. And you’re to get into bed straight away.’
‘Right.’
‘Well, bear up, kid.’
‘Shall do.’
‘You haven’t really taken it in yet, have you?’ he asked with tenderness which embarrassed him into a hasty departure.
She opened her handbag and considered her resources. A pocket comb, which she put to use at once, with relief—what a pity that she didn’t carry a toothbrush—two handkerchiefs, both crumpled, one soiled, money: four pounds in notes, seven and fivepence, a bankbook with a balance of forty-two pounds ten—but how was she to get to the bank?—the letter from Seminal, fountain pen, notebook, two pencils, pencil sharpener and the key to her room. The key set her thinking. Would she ever see that room again? Certainly, she had no sentimental attachment to it. She tried the pen. It still had ink. Well, she was equipped for something, if not for what lay ahead. She put all the contents back except the comb, which she put on the bedside table, by way of moving in. This is now my territory.
She took off her two garments and entered the smock—one couldn’t say that one put it on—managed with difficulty to tie the tapes and got into bed.
That was, she had to admit, a relief.
A young woman in mufti, a plaid skirt and a scarlet sweater, tapped at the open door and came in. She was carrying a clipboard and a pen. She brought a straight chair to the bed and sat down.
‘Isobel Callaghan? I need a few details for our records. Up till now you’ve been too ill for us to get your admission form filled in.’
While she was prepared to forgive this social lapse, she made it clear that the inconvenience had been serious.
Isobel forbore to apologise.
‘Full name?’
‘Isobel Catherine Callaghan.’
‘Date of birth?’
Isobel supplied it.
‘Religion?’
‘I don’t have a religion.’
‘Look.’ The young woman spoke slowly and firmly. ‘We are filling in a form. I am not asking if you go to church on Sunday. Everyone has a religion.’
‘Is that right?’ Isobel reflected. ‘I think I’ll be a Buddhist. I’ve always liked the idea. You just write OD,’ she said helpfully.
The young woman wrote ‘OD’. Think you’re funny, said her expression.
‘Next of kin?’
Isobel was sorry at once that she had made herself conspicuous in the matter of religion. She said, ‘I’m an orphan,’ in a tone which she hoped would discourage questioning.
That was servile. It did not solve her problem, either. The young woman said, ‘Just give me the name of a close relative.’
Isobel paused. Not Aunt Noelene. Don’t come running to me when you’re in trouble. Well, this was trouble, all right, so she mustn’t go running. Margaret? She could not remember Margaret’s new surname. Bruce Edgar, son of…no use. She tried to visualise that wedding invitation but could get no further.
‘Look, we need this information for your protection,’ said the young woman. ‘There’s no need for you to be obstructive.’
Of course a parcel must have a return address.
‘I’m sorry. I was trying to think.’
She gave the name ‘Margaret Callaghan’ and the address of Whitefields.
She was indeed sorry. The young woman was softened by her apologetic tone.
‘That’s fine then. I have the date of admission.’
She left, mollified.
A nurse brought a cup of tea and biscuits on a paper plate. She asked if it was true that Isobel had collapsed in the street and been brought in in her clothes.
Isobel said yes.
The nurse asked, ‘How come?’
Isobel shook her head and the nurse went away. Doctor Hansen came in, accompanied by a tall, stately woman of disagreeable aspect.
‘Well, here she is, Matron. We’ve come to talk about the future, if you feel up to it. How are you feeling? I know it’s going to take some time to adjust.’
‘I think I’m relieved, really, to know the enemy’s name.’
Ignorance had not been bliss.
‘That’s the idea. Now that we know the enemy, we can fight it.’
He gave her a genuine smile, which was heartening. Matron had no time for niceties of feeling.
‘You must understand, doctor, that we are not equipped to handle the case here. I must insist…’
‘It won’t be for long, Matron. They’ve rung through from the Clinic that Doctor Stannard will be there on Thursday. They’re getting him to drop in.’ He said as an afterthought to Isobel, ‘Doctor Stannard is the medical superintendent of Mornington Sanatorium. We think that it might be the place for you.’
There were limits to passivity even for a parcel. Was nobody going to ask for her consent to this arrangement? No use protesting, since in reality she had no choice, but it would have been nice to be asked.
Matron said, ‘Are there no beds at the Clinic?’
‘No. It is outpatients only.’ His tone suggested that Matron must know that very well. ‘In any case, I cannot take the responsibility of moving her before Doctor Stannard sees her on Thursday.’
‘I have to go home some time,’ said Isobel. ‘I have to give up my room and pack my things.’
‘Can’t you get a friend to do that for you?’
It was Return to Sender again. No religion, no knickers, no next of kin, no friends.
She shook her head.
Doctor Hansen was looking at Matron.
‘I’ll get Mrs Mills to talk to her.’ He turned to Isobel. ‘Mrs Mills is our social worker. She’ll find a volunteer to look after you. One of our wonderful Pink Ladies. Till Thursday then, Matron. And I shall be wanting to talk about a special diet for her.’
Put that in your pipe and smoke it, Matron.
Isobel was beginning to be fond of Doctor Hansen.
‘The best you can do for yourself now,’ he said, ‘is keep quiet, keep warm, eat your food and keep up your spirits. Mrs Mills will be along to see you later. Oh, and a nurse will be along with some tissues. Make sure that you cover your mouth when you cough. That’s about it, I think.’
Isobel nodded and lay back, hoping that there would be no further demands on her attention.
The next visitor was a nurse carrying towels, a box of tissues and a small lidded pan of white enamel. She was wearing a face mask above which she winked at Isobel.
‘Matron’s orders,’ she said in a tone that dismissed them with amused contempt.
She put the tissues and the pan on the bedside table.
‘Cover up each cough and sneeze. Place all used tissues in the receptacle provided. You’re allowed to get up to go to the loo and to have a sho
wer if you feel up to it. If you don’t feel up to it, you can ask for a bed bath, but I wouldn’t if I were you. See how you feel tomorrow, anyhow. I’ll just get your pulse and your temperature and you can settle down till dinner time. You’ve had enough for one day, you poor kid.’
Isobel, sucking obediently at the thermometer and extending her wrist on request, was quite of the same opinion.
She dozed until dinner time. The dinner trolley was wheeled in by another young orderly, less forthcoming than Eric.
‘Doctor says if you can’t manage anything else, eat the icecream. But he wants you to eat the lot.’
She nibbled some ham. It wasn’t so much that she wasn’t hungry. The effort of chewing was just too much. The icecream was a commercial paper tub with a wooden paddle for a spoon. That must be part of the special diet.
To her horror, she began to cry. About the icecream, not about having tuberculosis. It was the small things that affected her most, the humiliation of being helped out of her sweater, the tenderness in Eric’s voice and now a tub of icecream. She would be humiliated enough if anyone saw her crying. What she needed was a visit from Matron. That would be bracing. She mopped her eyes and blew her nose on a tissue, which she put into the enamel pan. Then she finished the icecream. If anyone brought me a toothbrush, I’d break my heart.
There was salt on the tray. She shook some of it into a tissue, thinking she could scrub her teeth with salt on a finger—better than nothing.
However, she didn’t get her teeth cleaned that night. As soon as the young man had taken away the tray, she fell asleep and slept seriously until morning.
*
The hospital woke early. Isobel woke to the sound of trolleys rolling over linoleum and the morning light which came through the large window.
She enquired of her body how it felt. The headache was gone and so were the other pains, even the dagger under the shoulderblade. She was weak, but weakness without pain was a rather enjoyable sensation. She must get up soon and have a shower. It was the familiar problem of accumulating enough strength to perform the task ahead, but how much easier that would be lying comfortably in bed.
She was getting a lot of sympathy she didn’t deserve. People generally expected her to be overcome by the news. They could not know how happy she was to have all horrors assembled under the name of an illness, represented by a baby’s hand-print on her lung. This thing is not I. This thing is visible and can be fought.
