by Amy Witting
There was Billy, who was dying quietly and patiently in Room 12. He would not die there; some day he would be moved discreetly into unknown regions. People did not die on C Ward. There was Wilf, who shared the room with Billy and would one day share his fate. Isobel thought this hard for Wilf, but he was buoyant, humorous, given to teasing Tamara, saying, ‘Don’t come here with your naughty temper. Rum Zwoelf, no!’ opening and shortening the vowel to a wicked mimicry of her accent. Wilf had sent Tamara scudding along the verandah and skidding across the linoleum to Isobel’s bed blazing with rage to say, ‘Thin-skinned what mean?’ Nevertheless it was accepted that Wilf had turned that corner and was on the way downhill.
There were what Isobel thought of as the professionals, Eily and Gladys and others who had been in one hospital after another, who sometimes hopefully went home only to break down and return, recidivists. There were those waiting for a lobectomy like the two young nurses in Room 9. Those were the lucky ones; they would be as good as new. There were those whose future was not yet known: Lance, perhaps, and perhaps Isobel.
I’m going to get better. It’s up to me. I’m not going to die being sweet little Isobel, no.
I’m a self-appointed bastard, she said to herself and felt a little cheered.
When she got back to Room 2 at four o’clock, Val was resting quietly. Doctor Wang must have given her a sedative.
Oh, dear, what must he be thinking of me?
She caught herself up. She must not care what others thought of her, not even Wang.
Next morning Isobel stayed in bed, while Val, still silent and unforgiving, went to visit Gladys.
Doctor Wang came in from the verandah to sit by her bed.
‘Where do you go on your secret excursions?’
She studied him warily.
‘You won’t tell?’
He placed both hands upon his heart in a gesture worthy of Lance.
‘Honour of a schoolboy.’
‘You mean Scout’s honour.’
‘I beg your pardon. I never was a Scout.’
‘I didn’t suppose that you were. I hide in the bathroom and write poetry.’
‘Ah. May I read it?’
‘No. No one can read it yet.’
If he wanted her secrets, he must trade.
‘Is my X-ray getting worse?’
Now less affable, he paused.
‘Let us say that you are not progressing as quickly as we had hoped. But progress is not always steady. There are plateaux.’
‘And reversals?’
He said obliquely, ‘You must trust us. Meanwhile, I think you must give up the poetic excursions.’
Then with a professional nod and a smile, he departed.
That, thought Isobel sourly, was called evasive action.
Eily, who had been lingering by the door, came in a moment later and took the chair by Isobel’s bed.
‘Listen, kid. I’ve been thinking. Val is buddies with Glad. She’s down there this minute moaning about her miseries. You and I get on all right. What about asking Sister Connor if we can switch? You’d keep nit for me if I wanted a fag and I’d cover for you if you went walkabout. Who wouldn’t, in this place?’
‘I’d like that very much.’
‘I’ll go down and talk to them while they’re in a huddle. I can’t see what’s against it if we all agree. The only thing is, I wouldn’t stand for that little bugger being in here all the time.’
‘You’d be doing me a favour if you could keep him out.’
‘Trust me. You let them all get on your back too much.’
Isobel had come to the same conclusion.
She waited hopefully while Eily went to consult with Val and Gladys and was disappointed when on Eily’s return she saw at once from her expression that the suggestion had been rejected.
‘Val squealed at once, “Oh, I must have the bed by the window!” and Gladys said straight away that she couldn’t stand having the bed by the wall, never could.’ Eily sighed. ‘What do they think this is, the bloody Ritz? Fact is, dear, Glad listens to her moaning and encourages her, but she doesn’t want to be stuck with it all day. So there you are.’
Eily too was disappointed. That was comforting.
Eily studied her with an admiring grin.
‘Some day you’ll have to tell me how it’s done. Wang I can understand, but Stannard? Care to have a try for Hook? Bet you two bob to a pound you won’t get him.’
Was this Isobel the siren, the charmer of doctors? What next?
‘Don’t be an ass, Eily. He was just being kind. He’s kind to everyone.’
‘Yeah. But not in the same way. Maybe he thought Val was being a bit of a bitch.’ Eily shook her head. ‘Hasn’t got those green eyes for nothing.’
The hooter sounded; Eily got up and left.
Val came back, still wan from her emotional ordeal and the after-effects of sedatives. She got into bed ignoring Isobel.
That suited Isobel very well.
Lunch arrived. Val did not eat. Sister Connor came, observed Val’s untouched curry and said without much sympathy, ‘Pull yourself together please, Val. You’ll do yourself no good like this.’ Val pushed her plate away and turned her face to the wall. Sister Connor sighed and went away.
Boris was the next arrival.
He said to Isobel, ‘I do not come to chat. I think too much is asked of you. Too many people come to talk, I come to guard. You must rest more. I shall guard your rest, as much as I can. So do not speak, but close your eyes and lie quietly, whenever possible, and I shall help where I can.’
So somehow the news was out that Isobel was in trouble. As usual, it had drifted in the air, through walls and under closed doors. No point in asking how.
‘Boris, you are a dear.’
‘You begin now. I keep the boy away, and any others.’
This was how to do it: lie doggo, breathe easy. She closed her eyes and rested while Boris kept guard in the doorway.
When Lance approached the door, Boris grinned and performed an athletic feat of some distinction, swinging up his legs and sitting in mid-air, with back and boot soles braced against either side of the doorframe, his legs thus forming a barrier in the doorway.
‘Many beatings I received for this back home, since my boots marked the door. I can climb right to the ceiling. Do you want to see me do that?’
Something about Boris, the ease of movement or of manner, conjured the ghost of another man, one of power and authority, his humour made for the braving of danger and the command of men. It was a bleak discovery which filled her with sadness and anger.
‘I want to talk to Izzy.’
‘I am sorry. Isobel is resting. Doctor thinks she must have more rest.’
‘Who said so? Which doctor?’
‘I said so. I am doctor here.’
Boris beamed, imperturbable and immovable.
Val said, with exaggerated concern, ‘Isobel is a special person. She has to have special attention.’
Defeated, Lance went away.
Isobel protested to Boris, ‘I can’t cut him out completely, you know. I’m the only person he has to depend on. I have to give him some attention.’
‘You give him attention when I am not here. Okay? I give up my time so you lie still, rest and get better. You show appreciation of my sacrifice.’
He smiled to show that the sacrifice was not grudged. She smiled in return and closed her eyes.
Next morning Isobel kept to her resolution. When she got back from the bathroom, she drank her tea in silence and lay then with her eyes closed, shutting out the world.
Lance on his early morning visit stood by her bed repeating, ‘You’re not asleep. You’re not asleep. You’re only pretending.’
Bastards get better. That was the new mantra: Bastards get better.
Val said, ‘You mustn’t disturb Isobel. Isobel is resting,’ with a nakedly malicious stress on the name. Other people, one must understand, did not demand special privilege
s.
Bastards get better.
Val was almost ready to make common cause with Lance. Her intervention however served only to send him shuffling away discontented.
Bastard or not, she had to come to an understanding with Lance. For the moment, she had a debt to pay to Boris, and to Frank and perhaps to others. The idea that her welfare was a debt she owed to others was still a novelty and a subject for contemplation. Frank’s journey had acquired mythic status, sharing somehow the nobility of the descent into Hades of Orpheus, though she was no Eurydice.
Tamara and Elaine were subdued. They made the beds in silence, warned perhaps by Sister Connor or made uneasy by the atmosphere in the room.
Boris arrived to do guard duty. Lance approached the door, Boris grinned and swung his legs across the doorway and Lance retreated in anger.
The situation was ridiculous. Isobel realised now that she had reacted too strongly to a hint of danger—that was what being stir-crazy did to you, made you sweat on every detail, tone of voice, slip of the tongue, anything that affected the precious self. No need to overdo it, collapsing in terror over a bit of a setback. Also, Boris was making her conspicuous and quite ridiculous, standing sentry in the doorway shooing people away. ‘Isobel is resting.’
Bastards get better. Silly bastards get better. And death was a possible outcome. No special dispensation for Isobel.
The news that Stannard had threatened her with B grade, joke or not, impressed the usual visitors and sent them away, though it could not discourage Lance.
As soon as Boris left, he arrived to take his usual place on the foot of Isobel’s bed.
‘That old Kraut is nuts about you.’
‘Do you have to be such an ass? He isn’t a Kraut, he isn’t old, and he isn’t nuts about me. He’s a friend, that’s all.’
‘What’s going on, anyhow? Lying there pretending to be asleep, nobody can get a word out of you. Have you got the shits because Stannard said he’d put you on B grade? You said yourself he was joking. Anyone’d think you were dying.’
The noise which came from Val could only be called an audible sneer.
‘Oh, shit you,’ said Lance.
Val got up and walked out by the corridor door to the lavatory, Lance saluting her back with an evil grimace, lifting the corners of his mouth with his thumbs and dragging down the corners of his eyes with his forefingers.
It was comic. She laughed and then was ashamed.
‘You mustn’t do that, Lance. She’s very upset. And I shouldn’t have been getting out of bed, you know. And neither should you.’
‘No business of hers to go peaching,’ said Lance virtuously.
Isobel made haste to take advantage of Val’s absence.
‘I got a scare. It wasn’t Stannard. It was Sister Connor let something slip. I tried Wang but you know what they are. He just clammed up. I think my ray is worse. I’m just playing safe for a while, that’s all. Be a pal, will you?’
‘Bugger,’ said Lance.
He came and knelt beside her, putting his head down beside her pillow.
‘Oh, shit it, Izzy. Shit it all.’
‘Yes,’ she answered. ‘Shit it all.’
He put out his arms and she gathered him in, this time without distaste.
His head was on her shoulder. She stroked his hair, dry and sharp as grass in drought country, she felt the fever burning in him.
Shit it all.
She had gained the right to sleep in the mornings, but at some cost.
Maintaining bastardy was a difficult business.
Fortunately, the next day was Saturday. On Saturday the voice of the race commentator thundered through Mornington, and Ron, who left his laboratory to run a book on the races, literally ran from ward to ward, taking bets and distributing winnings. Val came to life sufficiently to listen to the races, place her bets and even make a small return on her investment. Isobel, who usually found the noise a trial, now found it preferable to the silence which prevailed otherwise.
Bastards get better. But being a bastard takes some getting used to.
On Sunday, Val told Geoff and Pauline that Isobel had a very sullen disposition.
The Sunday visits had been passing peacefully, with instructions from Val about the garden, messages from neighbours and news about their doings collected and relayed by Pauline.
Val had never complained to them about Isobel’s monopoly of Doctor Wang. Perhaps she hadn’t quite known how to put it without admitting that Isobel was a favourite.
Today she was ready to attack.
Since Isobel had seen Val’s terrible reaction to disapproval, she no longer wondered why Geoff and Pauline sat silent and wretched, embarrassed by her comments, yet offering no opposition, two doomed souls caught in Val’s drowning clutch.
At the news that Isobel had a very sullen disposition, they bent their heads in silent dismay.
‘I had to do my duty,’ said Val. ‘Nobody else ever tries to check her. She’s been getting out of bed whenever she pleased. Now I’m the worst in the world for doing my duty, getting nothing but abuse for it. I’ve been so upset by the whole affair that Doctor Wang had to give me a sedative. I don’t think I can go on like this.’
‘You were upset,’ said Isobel, ‘because Sister Connor told you not to wake me up in the mornings.’
‘And why can’t you wake up? Everybody else wakes up. Why can’t you behave like a normal person?’
‘Because I’m not a normal person. I have tuberculosis. Sister Connor explained to you that sleep is part of the cure.’
In some circles, thought Isobel, normal people read books. It’s the people who don’t who aren’t normal. This however could not be said. It would be beyond the bounds of bastardy to draw attention to Val’s wooden leg.
‘Everybody here has tuberculosis. There’s nothing special about you.’
Geoff and Pauline were in Czechoslovakia with Mr Vorocic.
‘Eily offered to change with you so that you could share with Gladys. Why didn’t you take her up on that?’
‘Why should I give up the bed by the window?’
This was delivered in a tone thin and vibrant with fury.
Geoff and Pauline wilted together, their heads drooping like dying lilies.
I can remember this. The tormentors can always surprise you. You think you’ve heard the worst, then worse comes.
She sensed in them a longing for physical contact. They wanted to hold hands. That would be the physical expression of their love, not sex, but the comforting gesture, the physical expression of support and sympathy.
Pauline said, ‘I don’t think you should wake Isobel up, Val, if the sister says it’s wrong.’
Val said patiently, ‘But I shouldn’t have to wake her up. She should just wake up like a normal person.’ She said in a burst of resentment, ‘Of course, it’s Isobel, Isobel all the way. Everything she does is right and everything I do is wrong. I don’t know why these things happen to me.’
She sagged against her pillows, looking wan.
Unfortunately, she was indeed wan, strained, it seemed, beyond endurance.
‘Well, I shan’t be getting out of bed again,’ said Isobel. ‘So you got your way there. And I’m going to sleep in whether you like it or not. Apart from that, what am I doing wrong?’ Being more or less under the protection of Geoff and Pauline, she ventured, ‘We have to share the room and I’d like to get on better with you if I could.’
‘Oh.’ Val shook her head. ‘It’s no use talking to you. You’d never really listen to me.’
Isobel returned to the book she had left in order to defend her character.
This was getting more like family life every minute.
She perceived with astonishment that this time she was the favoured child.
That situation had unexpected disadvantages.
When Sister Connor, still somewhat terse in manner, arrived with the day’s issue of streptomycin, she said to Val, ‘Doctor Stannard is co
ming to talk to you this afternoon.’
At Val’s frightened expression, she said more gently, ‘It’s nothing to worry about. He just wants to have a talk with you. Just make sure that the room is presentable and you’re both in bed as you ought to be.’
With a side glance at unforgiven Isobel, she left them.
‘Well,’ said Val. ‘As if I was ever out of bed.’
Isobel had put out her tongue at Sister Connor’s retreating back, a vulgar gesture of which she was immediately ashamed. That was what having to pull your pants down and being treated like a naughty child did to you. The death of dignity.
‘Oh, don’t worry. That one was meant for me.’
She spoke to Val without malice. This development cancelled all past grievances and disagreements. It was a departure from routine.
Doctor Stannard himself was coming.
Isobel was glad there was nobody to count her pulse beats. This wouldn’t do. He was coming to see Val. The other day’s encounter had been an act of kindness only.
Get yourself together, she said to herself firmly. She could not allow herself to entertain what was understood as a crush on a doctor.
‘I wonder what he wants,’ said Val.
On the verandah there was speculation.
‘It can’t be surgery. If it was surgery, he’d have said so on rounds.’
‘Stannard coming? That’s odd. Must be something special. Maybe a transfer.’
‘You’re not going home, are you? No, it couldn’t be that.’
Going home was good news or bad news.
Val was not in line for bad news.
‘Funny, though, for Stannard to be coming himself.’
‘Ah, but that’s Room 2, dear. Try Room 2 for a doctor.’
This Isobel pretended not to hear.
*
After lunch Diana came to inspect the room for signs of human activity such as the washing of knickers and bras. She plumped up pillows and straightened bed covers, wiped the hand basin and put away toothbrushes and soap dishes.
Lance had been warned and was reminded that if Doctor Stannard himself caught him out of bed the consequences would be serious.
Then they waited.
This reminded Isobel of her first meeting with Stannard at Saint Ursula’s, and set the disobedient pulse jumping again. It wouldn’t do. Wake up to yourself.
