by Amy Witting
Her bed had been made while she was away. Two young women in white coats and wearing face masks were making beds. Lois and the unfortunate Mrs Partridge sat in cane armchairs by their beds; other patients, like Eily, walked about in dressing gowns or went out to the bathroom.
All was in order before the doctor arrived with Sister Mackenzie.
‘This is Doctor Bartholomew.’
Isobel looked with interest at this partner of Lois’s dream life. He did not seem at all likely to twist anyone’s nose. He was a small, neat man who radiated earnest good will.
He nodded to Isobel, then spoke to Sister Mackenzie.
‘Doctor Stannard wants her to have a day to settle in before she goes to Medical, Sister. Unless there’s something urgent to deal with. Anything to tell us?’ He asked Isobel, who shook her head.
‘Nurse said she slept well, but she didn’t touch breakfast.’
I am an important parcel.
‘She’s to go up to C Ward, Room 5. We won’t disturb her just now. If you’ll send for a chair.’
‘Yes, Doctor.’
‘Sister Connor is expecting her. Right, then.’
He nodded to Isobel, intending reassurance, walked across to Lois’s bed to ask after her health, nodded to Eily and departed with Sister Mackenzie, leaving behind him an awed silence.
‘Well, what was that about?’
‘I don’t know.’
Eily said, ‘You never do know why they do anything. They just tell you what’s going to happen.’
Isobel said, ‘The ambulance was late.’
‘That’s right. Stannard was hopping mad. I heard Sister Mackenzie tell Stinker that she sat up all the way in the front seat with the window open. Lovely.’
Isobel pondered the vision of Doctor Stannard, chieftain of the eagle tribe, hopping with rage. It turned into a kind of war dance in which that elegant gentleman was flourishing a tomahawk. She giggled.
‘What on earth?’ asked her neighbour.
She whispered, ‘Hopping. Stannard,’ and shook her head.
‘Well, you haven’t lost your sense of humour.’
‘Leave her alone. She’s not supposed to be talking.’
The wheelchair arrived, pushed by a nuggety small man and a tall dark young woman, both in white coats, the young woman carrying a blanket over her arm.
‘I’m Diana,’ the young woman said. ‘I’m on C Ward and I’ll be looking after you in the mornings. Room 5, Joe. Get her bag, will you?’
She sat Isobel in the chair, tucked the blanket over her knees, put her bag beside her and they set off, Isobel waving goodbye. There was another journey, along corridors, through two sets of double doors and into the long corridor they had travelled from the dining room the night before. There the journey ended in a small room with two unoccupied beds, each with a cabinet beside it, one close to a large window which looked out on a long verandah and in the background mountains that extended to the horizon.
Diana said, ‘Thank you, Joe.’
She helped Isobel up and Joe departed with the chair. ‘You’re to take the inside bed.’
Isobel subsided on the inside bed. Her suitcase was standing at its foot.
Diana unpacked and stowed her belongings. Her outdoor clothes would remain in the suitcase and be taken to the luggage room.
At the prospect of being parted from her outdoor clothes, Isobel uttered a cry of protest which made Diana laugh.
‘Kind of brings it home to you, doesn’t it? Most people do react that way when you take away their clothes. I did myself. Thinking, now I’m really stuck with it. But you get them back as soon as you make D grade. It’s a great day when you put your shoes back on, I can tell you.’
So Diana, like Max, was a graduate, one who had got used to the place and taken a job in the wards.
In a shallow cupboard that faced the foot of Isobel’s bed, she hung Sara’s rose-coloured dressing gown, then in front of it the dragon coat, over which she had raised her eyebrows without comment. The Turkish slippers were arranged on the cupboard floor, Mrs Delaney’s emergency socks tucked into them. Beside them were the shabby scuffs from her attic room. Perhaps they would be less conspicuous than the slippers, over which Diana had paused a moment too long.
‘Well, that’s it. No Medical today. You’re to take it easy. You didn’t eat your breakfast. Can I get you a glass of milk?’
‘Yes, please.’
Settling in. She was settling in. It was a daunting thought. Diana fetched the milk, set it on the cabinet, said, ‘Anything else you want? If you want the pan, you ring the bell.’
‘Thanks,’ said Isobel, blessing Eily.
‘Right. You’re on your own till I bring your lunch. Doctor’s orders. Sister Connor might be along later, I don’t know.’ It was clear that Diana was perturbed by the thought of Isobel’s solitude. ‘I suppose they know what they’re doing. I’ll be off, then.’
Solitude was no burden. Indeed, it was not absolute solitude for long. People began to pass by the window, some in dressing gowns, some in outdoor clothes. They did not come in, but most as they passed paused to smile and one or two to stand in the doorway and give a thumbs up sign which she found comforting.
The hour passed. The verandah was deserted.
Diana arrived with a lunch tray bearing an omelette, bread and butter, an orange and a glass of milk.
‘Nice to be some people. Make the most of it. It won’t happen every day.’
It became a matter of honour to eat the omelette. She needed no urging to eat the orange.
Diana came to take away the tray, approved of the empty plate and said, ‘I’m off duty now. Sure there’s nothing else you want?’
Isobel shook her head.
Enough for one day.
A trolley rattled in mid afternoon. Someone looked in. She played possum and the person went away.
The evening meal arrived, no longer a special order. She thought about curried dishcloths and stewed mince; this must be the dishcloths. She decided that she had done her duty by her stomach, pushed the plate away and closed her eyes.
A tall woman came in and looked regretfully at Isobel’s plate.
‘Now, darling. You must try to eat, you know. It’s so upsetting for the cook if things go back to the kitchen. You must think about other people’s feelings.’
Like Sister Mackenzie she wore the blue and white striped dress and the starched cap with floating strings which must be the uniform of a sister. She was large bosomed and broad hipped; her round head seemed rather too small for her ample body; her face wore an expression of sweetness which matched her coaxing tone.
‘I had a big lunch. Honestly, I’m not hungry.’
‘Well, eat your bread and butter. You must eat something.’
The tone was as unappetising as the stew, but Isobel did take a mouthful of the stew. It did not improve on acquaintance.
At least this indication of her good intention sent her visitor away.
An orderly arrived and cleared away her dinner without comment.
The same large woman arrived later accompanied by a young Chinese who said with formality, ‘Good evening. I am Doctor Wang. I hope you have had a quiet day.’
‘It took some coaxing to make her eat her dinner, Doctor.’
‘Oh, indeed.’
This matter appeared to be of little interest.
‘I shall be seeing you tomorrow after you have been to Medical. So until then, good evening and sleep well. You have already met Sister Knox, I see, since she persuaded you to eat your dinner.’
He nodded and they moved on.
His face had been quite expressionless, yet he left Isobel with the reassuring impression that he thought Sister Knox ridiculous. She wondered how he had conveyed that, but was too tired to wonder long.
A nurse came in and asked if she wanted the pan.
Yes, she did.
The nurse brought a basin for washing and a glass of water to help her clean her teeth.
That was the last ordeal. Lights out and sleep.
The day began with a thermometer thrust into her mouth and a hand clasping her wrist to count her pulse beats.
She opened her eyes and seeing Diana smiled at the sight of the familiar face.
‘Hi.’
‘Well, you’re brighter this morning. Sleep well?’
This could be answered only with a nod, since Isobel was sucking a thermometer.
Diana released her wrist, made a note on a chart, withdrew the thermometer and removed herself to the doorway to read it in the morning light.
She shook down the thermometer with an expert flick Isobel could never master and set it in a glass of water cloudy with disinfectant which stood on a shelf above the wash basin.
‘You’re supposed to buy your own thermometer. Sister will tell you about that. You’re to go up to Medical today. How do you feel?’
Isobel tested her extremities and decided that she was languid but mobile.
‘He says the sooner you start treatment the better. So if you can make the effort…’
There was no need to ask who he was. The one who knew all and promised that she would get better.
‘It’ll be all right.’
‘You’d better eat your breakfast. Morning tea will be along in a minute.’ She took Isobel’s handbag from the cabinet. ‘You’d better put this in the pocket next to the wall.’
The pocket was one of the pair which hung like saddle bags on either side of the bed, and were formed by a fold at each end of a wide strip of material which passed under the mattress. Isobel thrust her handbag into the hidden pocket.
When Diana had left, Isobel pondered the ethics of a trip to the bathroom which she had noted on the journey by wheelchair. It was almost opposite.
If she was well enough to go to Medical, she must be well enough to go to the bathroom. The trick was to do things before anyone had thought to stop you.
She got up to fetch the rose-coloured dressing gown and the scuffs and was pleased to find herself much stronger, even with a reserve of strength which would take her to the bathroom and back without difficulty or at least without disaster.
The corridor was deserted and the lavatory was vacant, though the bathroom door was shut and she could hear running water.
She went back to bed triumphant, the lavatory problem solved for the present.
A trolley rolled to the door and Max looked in. ‘Cup of tea?’
‘Yes, please.’
‘You’re looking a bit brighter this morning. Had a good night?’
She nodded, still wishing to save breath whenever possible.
He poured her a mug of milkless, sugarless tea, her preference, grinned and moved on, saying, ‘I’ll be back with breakfast in an hour. Keep you busy round here.’
There were sounds, voices, doors opening and shutting. She drank her tea and drowsed.
People gathered in the corridor outside. There was some talk, some clatter of dishes. Max brought in a tray with cereal drowned in milk, a bowl of sugar, a boiled egg and bread and butter.
‘Get around that lot. No excuses.’
She got around that lot, slowly, with perseverance. Max returned for the tray and grinned approval. ‘That’s a good girl. Nice clean plate.’
She found that she did not resent this return to childhood. In her present uneasy situation, any word of approval was welcome.
After breakfast, two young women in white coats and wearing face masks appeared. One was small, exquisitely modelled, with bright blond hair braided around her neat head. Above the mask grey eyes beamed at Isobel.
‘I Tamara. She Elaine. We come to make bed. Out, please.’
She fetched Isobel’s dressing gown from the chair where she had dropped it. Isobel got up, put it on and sat in the chair as seemed to be required of her.
‘We no talk to you. Not allowed. Is too tiring.’
Behind her mask, her taller, less striking companion must be smiling apologetically.
‘She means it’s too tiring for you, you know. We were told not to ask you questions or get you talking. You can ask us, of course, if you want anything.’
Isobel nodded.
The two women did however talk to each other. ‘That very nice fellow you with Saturday. Why no marry, eh?’
‘I don’t like him in that way.’
Elaine was coy, embarrassed. Her embarrassment did not deter Tamara.
‘What way? What you mean. What way you no like?’
Her English was heavily accented, but ready and confident. It seemed that, having adapted the language to her purposes, she meant to give it no further consideration. Elaboration was for others; euphemism had no place.
‘Oh, you know. I mean…not to go to bed with.’
‘Huh.’ Tamara shrugged her shoulders. ‘Go to bed!’ She tossed a sheet with contemptuous ease. ‘Anyone can go to bed. Is easy.’
Elaine giggled shyly.
Isobel pondered the proposition.
Was that true? Funny. She had, she supposed, found it easy enough. That is what most people would say of her. An easy lay. Yet she sympathised with Elaine rather than with Tamara. She had never been an easy lay for anyone she liked. That was unthinkable.
She didn’t suppose that Tamara, who even in a face mask was extremely beautiful, would have been an easy lay. Perhaps she thought going to bed was easy because it was to her an aspect of devotion.
Elaine’s appearance suggested a rag doll that had been left out in the rain; bright, damp blue eyes below plucked eyebrows and a fuzz of brown curls added to the impression of softness which extended to her figure, slight as it was.
She helped Isobel back into her orderly bed with firm, economical movements at variance with her appearance, and the two departed, leaving her waiting for the next event.
This was the appearance of Diana, pushing a trolley, carrying on its upper tray a basin, a jug and towels, on the lower the hated china shoe.
Isobel eyed it with distaste.
‘I went to the bathroom this morning.’
‘Well, you shouldn’t have. You’re on B grade. If you want the pan you ring the bell there.’ She reflected. ‘Just make sure you don’t get caught, that’s all.’
Not getting caught proved to be a principal feature of life at Mornington.
Isobel decided to take the risk. She could go back so far to infancy but no further. Being sat on a potty was too much. Diana closed the verandah door and pulled down the window blind.
‘Listen, kid. Don’t crack hardy. You’re here to get better. Okay, a trip to the bathroom, I suppose, but remember, the more you rest, the sooner you get better. Come on. Pyjamas. Down as far as possible, up as far as possible. You can look after “possible” yourself.’
‘Well, that’s a mercy.’
Isobel rolled over onto the towel Diana had spread on the bed.
What an extraordinary experience it was to be washed by somebody else. The surrender of responsibility was restful, but made one vulnerable. She was thankful for Diana’s professional detachment as she soaped, rinsed and dried the body that Isobel had handed over to her care.
‘You weren’t washed at all yesterday. Don’t bother to mention that to Sister Connor.’
Not being caught went both ways, it seemed.
‘I wouldn’t dream of it.’
‘There you are, then. Clean pyjamas. I’ll send these to the laundry. Best to wear pants under your pyjamas. It cuts down on the washing. You’ll do your own washing on C grade.’
‘When will that be?’
‘When the gods decide.’ She pulled up the blind and opened the door. ‘There you are, all ready for Medical. You might as well sit up.’
She fetched Isobel’s dressing gown, put it on her and paused over the slippers.
‘Do you think they are peculiar?’
‘Better than those scuffs, dear. No, really, I think they are cute. And I just love that dragon coat. Where did you get it?’
‘It was a present from Hong Kong.’
Truth at one remove.
Ten minutes later, a small, trim woman of straightforward gaze and reassuring aspect came in and introduced herself as Sister Connor.
‘I’m sorry I couldn’t get to see you yesterday. I had a busy day. How are you feeling? Are you up to going to Medical? The sooner the doctors have the information, the sooner the treatment can start.’
Isobel had been nodding assent.
‘Right. Max is outside with the chair. Here she is, Max!’
Isobel took her seat, they took another journey, this time back to the block where she had come in by the front door, into a large laboratory where Doctor Bartholomew was waiting, in company with a burly, dark-haired individual whose face seemed to be set in a permanent sneer.
This was Doctor Hook, Lois’s dream lover.
Isobel supposed at first that the sneer was an accident of the flesh, like Eily’s boxing past, but she learnt in time that Doctor Hook despised all sufferers from tuberculosis. At worst, they were doing it on purpose; at best, they had only themselves to blame. It seemed that he had chosen to specialise in the illness as an outlet for his inborn misanthropy. His abrupt manners and his brusque commands earned him great respect as a doctor. It was generally agreed that Hook knew what he was doing. Otherwise why would such an unpleasant character ever be given employment?
Lois’s choice of Hook as a lover paid tribute to the absurdity of dream as well as to its autonomy. Handsome Stannard wouldn’t be a safe subject for dreaming, but it did make it easier to endure Hook’s snappish commands to strip to the waist when one thought of him turning his bad temper on an amorous waiter. How frustrating that he would never know of it.
She stripped to the waist, had her chest measured, first relaxed and then expanded. The difference was noted by Doctor Hook, while Doctor Bartholomew, who appeared to be in a state of constant apology for his colleague’s bad manners, said nervously that her lung expansion was very satisfactory. Isobel reflected that it had often got its owner into trouble.
Then came the X-ray and what she thought of as the new mantra: Strip to the waist, please. Chin, elbows, lean forward, breathe in, hold, breathe away. It did indeed become familiar as a mantra.
In the laboratory she struck trouble. A young man trying to draw blood from her fingertip grew irritable.
