Is There Anything You Want?

by Margaret Forster

  The river path ran out and turned inward as it neared the town, cutting through warehouses and coming out on to the main road. Chrissie turned back, content to retrace her steps, no longer in such a hurry. Of course, she had behaved badly to Aunt Mary, leaving like that, abandoning her without a word of explanation, but guilt couldn’t spoil her sense of elation. She would apologise, and then she would have to try to justify her behaviour. ‘Think about your life,’ Aunt Mary had urged, and that was what she had done. She’d thought, and realised that she was spending it agonising, always fearful that she might make the wrong decision. She was spending it unable to separate women from their diseases, haunted by what they were going through, or about to go through, and which she could not protect them from. She was a hopeless doctor and yet she had no other existence except as a doctor. ‘Think about your life,’ Aunt Mary had said, expecting to fill her with pride at her role, but she wasn’t proud, she was appalled. She’d tried hard enough, for years and years, and now she was not going to try any longer.

  So what would she do? It didn’t seem to bother her. As she sauntered along now, admiring the view of hills in the distance, and passing several people walking dogs, and a lone cyclist, she thought that a decision about what to do could wait. Maybe she could indeed turn to some kind of medical research which involved no direct contact with people, or maybe go into some kind of administration where contact with people would not mean coping with their emotions. She could see herself at a desk in a quiet room, perhaps sifting through material or else writing reports. Or maybe in a laboratory, carefully checking experiments. She was after all a careful person. The important thing, whatever she did, was to remain detached, not to allow herself to be crippled with worry. She wanted a job that started at nine and ended at five and did not go home with her. Aunt Mary would despise this, but then she craved the very intimacy with people’s lives which Chrissie knew she had to free herself from. At this very moment, as she was relishing her walk, Mr Wallis and Ben Cohen and Andrew Fraser were all preparing to begin clinic, and in that clinic would be terrified women praying for news that was more likely not to be good, as they desired, but bad, or at the very best equivocal. Why would anyone in their right mind want to be in the position of power of those doctors? Not I, not I, sang Chrissie to herself.

  She saw Aunt Mary’s note from the front door, even before she got as far as the kitchen. What luck, she thought, what luck not to have to explain eyeball to eyeball. Not that she would have weakened in her resolve, but she was glad not to have to see disappointment and maybe worse in her aunt’s eyes. Her aunt would feel let down and upset. Better to do the telling at a distance. She would ring her, later, when she was back from her stint at the hospital. But now Chrissie had the first day of her freedom to savour and though she did not quite know how she was going to do it, the prospect pleased her. Already, the images in her head were not as troublesome, the faces that had pressed in upon her not as clear. They had crowded in on her for so long, dozens of them, patient after patient with eyes fixed on her beseechingly, looking for what she was rarely able to give, and wearing expressions of barely concealed anxiety with real panic not far away. She’d felt she was stemming a great tide of hopelessness and was being swept away by it herself. So often, so very often, she had wanted to push the patient off the bed and climb on to it herself. She’d wanted to be cared for, she’d wanted someone else to be in control. That had been her mistake. Aunt Mary had shown it to her. She only wanted someone else to be in control because she couldn’t cope with what she was doing, she was wrong for it. It was the work, not herself, which she wanted someone else to control. She could be in charge of herself perfectly easily if she let the work go. If this meant she was a failure, she could accept that.

  There was nothing to do in the house. Aunt Mary had left it immaculate. She’d watched her bustling about and marvelled at the satisfaction the older woman clearly derived from imposing order and from all the cleaning and washing that went with it. It occurred to Chrissie that she could ask her aunt to help her carry out the plans she had outlined for the garden, get her to buy the plants she had mentioned at the garden centre, offering the money to do so, of course. Maybe they would go together, make a day of it, have lunch at a riverside pub, make friends with each other, why not? She would take the initiative. And thinking that she would do this, she thought of other ways in which she could, and should, do the same thing, take the lead for once. She felt pulled back from some catastrophic breakdown – it took her breath away to think how close she’d been to collapse. She stood in her kitchen looking out on to the bare soil borders Aunt Mary had dug over and imagined them full of colour, brimming with flowers. All she had to do was plant them. It made her look forward to the evening and the call she would make to Aunt Mary.

  *

  Arriving home was not quite the exquisite pleasure that Mrs Hibbert had expected it to be. After the light and sparseness of Chrissie’s modem little house, her own seemed dark and cluttered, and much too big. Martin had watered the indoor plants as instructed, but she suddenly didn’t care for them any more and in a fit of irritation banished the two palms to the greenhouse. There hadn’t been much post: a reminder that she had a dental appointment, an invitation to the opening of the new wing of the local public library, and the gas bill. Nothing interesting, though why she expected there to be she couldn’t think.

  She must get a grip. The familiar tiredness after an afternoon at the hospital seemed more enervating than usual, but then it had come at the end of a difficult week, and she had had more demands made of her patience than was normal. It seemed to her that from all sides she had been harassed by patients clamouring for help and no one else had responded to their obvious need except herself. She had actually left early, her head aching and her legs sore. For the first time that she could remember, the hospital had seemed an awful, chaotic place, full of mad people rushing around, and not a place in which to be healed. Everywhere she had turned there was something pitiful to catch her eye and she had been shocked at her own despair. It was only a little after half past six but she decided that the only thing to do was go to bed, straight away. She would have tea and toast – and that was not very sensible, she lectured herself, considering she hadn’t eaten anything else since she’d had tea and toast for breakfast – and then have a hot bath and go to bed. In the morning, she would feel better.

  Martin was coming to do the back hedge again, it would help to talk to him. The telephone rang as she got into her bath. She didn’t answer it. Too much was asked of her, everyone wanted something from her and there was no one to listen to what she might want.

  8

  Soaring

  THE ENTRANCE TO the airfield was difficult to find – Rachel had missed it the first few times – situated as it was behind a thick hedge running along the track marking the foot of the ridge. She was early, deliberately. The gliding club officially opened on Sundays at nine o’clock but it was only eight-thirty. By nine there would already be a queue for the winch and she wanted to be in the air by then. It was a perfect morning for gliding, with just the right amount of wind, just the right scatter of cumulus promising excellent thermals.

  John, her instructor, was already waiting, as keen as she was to be ahead of the crowd. He was a man of few words, which suited her fine. He hadn’t once asked her what she did for a living, or where she lived, or if she had a boyfriend. Greeting Rachel with a mere nod, he watched as she went through the routine inspection of the glider: cockpit, wings, tail, fuselage, all gone over carefully, checked for cracks, holes, dents or bruising. He attached a rope to the glider and gave the thumbs up to the driver of the car, to which the other end was tied. Then she took hold of the nose of the K13 and he took a wing tip and together they balanced the glider as it was pulled gently along. This walk to the launch pad always felt exciting and there were flutters of anticipation in her stomach.

  She put on the slim back parachute, opened the canopy, and settl
ed herself in the front seat while John climbed into the back. The controls had baffled her at first – they’d seemed so much more formidable than those of a car – but now she was familiar with them and able to operate them on her own (though her confidence came from knowing that John had his own set at the back). She zipped up her jacket and pulled her woollen hat down over her ears. It was always cold in the air, no matter how warm the day seemed. Then she gave the signal for the winch to be wound in, and they were off. But the tricky bit, the releasing of the cable at the point when the winch had done its work and no more height could be gained, was still to come. Her heart always raced and her mouth went dry until she’d done it.

  Then came the exhilarating part. They were in the air, cable released, at a little over 1,000 feet, with the whole of the valley before them. The glider flew into the air rising faster than it was sinking down, and she felt the thrilling lift as they soared higher still. It made her gasp, to be so buoyant, but she remembered to correct the angle of the nose so that the glider would not stall. They were coming already to the first turn and she tensed, not yet expert at using the ailerons to bank the wings. Checking that her airspeed was steady, she applied a little rudder to the left, the direction in which she had been instructed to go. It was a beautifully executed turn, making the most of the thermals circling in the air. There was time now to look about, to notice the huddle of sheep on the flank of the hill to the right, and the scarred ground above the river where trees had been felled.

  She forgot about John. He’d said that today he was coming for the ride and didn’t expect to have to do anything – she should just enjoy herself. She thought about what he’d said during her first lesson: she could only stay in the air by her own efforts. She wasn’t depending on an engine but, once airborne, was entirely dependent on making use of what nature had to offer. That was precisely what appealed to her about gliding. The structure and fabric of the glider were between her and the air, but she felt herself attuning to its invisible currents, swaying and lifting and swooping with them. It was like a kind of dance and she gave herself to its rhythms. But she didn’t manage the second turn so well, misjudging the angle, and John had to correct it for her. Annoyed, she concentrated harder and made no more mistakes. She longed to fly on and on, but her time was up, the K13 had another booking, and she had to make the final turn and land. Always, there was that sense of disappointment as the glider wobbled to a standstill – she was greedy for more, more. It would be another six months, quick learner though she was, before she could fly off on her own and make a proper journey.

  For a while, Rachel stayed on the airfield, busy now, watching gliders take off and land. It was extraordinary the way that on the ground they were so ungainly and yet in the air so graceful. In the distance, they were like giant birds, seagulls, swooping above the tiny puffs of clouds. Some soared to great heights and she gazed up at them in envy, longing to be able to do the same, to dip and wheel and skim in the sky. She already knew, even though she had as yet only made circuits of the airfield, how powerful was the psychological effect – she could swear that, while flying, some mysterious current was sweeping through her veins and she fancied that it was a cleansing current, burning up all that was bad as it coursed through her. Excitement, that was all it was, and that edge of danger within it.

  She’d no desire to go home. Sitting in her car she wondered where she could go on this lovely morning. To the sea, maybe, or into the hills, or along the river. The options were generous. Slowly, she began to drive away.

  *

  Morning service over (only seven present), Cecil Maddox went back to the vicarage and changed his clothes. He chose old flannel trousers, a white open-necked shirt, a blue V-necked thin sweater, and a grey linen jacket. He didn’t reckon he would need a jacket but he wanted pockets in which to put his sandwich and his apple, and in any case the warmth of the day might disappear. He made some coffee and poured it into a flask which went into a holder with a strap he could slip over his shoulder. It was only just after midday and he didn’t need to be back until an hour or so before evensong, but as he stepped out of the vicarage and into his car he felt guilty. No reason why he shouldn’t go walking but he felt that in this parish there would be bound to be those who would feel it was unseemly – a vicar ought to be in his study on the Sabbath, reading his Bible.

  He drove rather fast out of the town, noting that everything was shut and that an air of abandonment hung over the place, as though life itself had departed. He’d no idea, once he’d crossed the bridge, which way he would choose to go but he hardly gave the signpost a glance. A car ahead of him took the road to the next town, the bigger one, and another followed the road to the sea, so he chose the empty road, leading he knew not where. After a mile or so, he realised he was heading towards the hills. He shivered slightly, knowing that this meant he would have to climb one of them. It was a sign and he would obey it. Once, while still in his Manchester parish, he had volunteered to help take the boys in the church youth club to this part of the country, to go climbing, even though he’d never climbed a real hill in his life and never wanted to. His services had been declined. There were enough adults going, the youth leader had said, but he had felt that that was not the reason why he had been excluded from the party.

  He had neither map nor guidebook. No need for either. All he was looking for was some very clear path, which he would follow to the top and then descend by. Nothing ambitious. About ten miles along the narrow road, he saw a lay-by and in the middle of it a stile, a strong, ladder-type construction going over a wall. It was bound, he felt, to have a path the other side. There was a car parked there already, which put him off a bit, but he couldn’t see anyone around and concluded it must belong to a farmer who was perhaps inspecting his field and would soon be gone. Climbing the stile, he was gratified to find the kind of path he had been looking for. It cut across the empty field then turned sharply right and disappeared into the wood only to be visible above it, coming out and climbing straight up the slope of the hill. It would do. He was so pleased that he found himself murmuring out loud, ‘God’s in His heaven, all’s right with the world.’ Not true, of course. All was not right, either in his own world or the world at large, but he liked saying it.

  The wood was dense. He hadn’t realised how dark it would be inside, the sun failing to do more than prick through the tightly packed trees. But the path was still easy to follow even when fallen tree-trunks occasionally blocked the way. The sound of his own feet was loud – twigs snapped, stones were disturbed and, though he had always thought of himself as nimble, he felt like an elephant charging through the undergrowth. Once out of the wood, the path became grassy and he no longer advertised his presence with every step. He couldn’t imagine how this path could have become so smooth – it was as though someone had taken a lawn-mower to it – or so even, 2 feet across all the way. There was an unexpected satisfaction in gaining height so rapidly, and a sense of definite achievement in the physical effort involved. He thought that in spite of his sedentary life he must be quite fit because he was hardly out of breath until he reached the last stretch before the summit. Here the path narrowed and became stony, and there was some scrambling to be done but he enjoyed it. And then at last he was on top, where there was a cairn to which he added his own rock, taking pleasure in choosing a stone whiter and rounder than the ones already piled up. It was windy up here, and he was glad he’d kept his jacket on, buttoning it to the neck and turning the collar up.

  Settling himself against the cairn, he ate his cheese sandwich and his apple, and drank half the coffee. Far off, the sea was a stretch of silver light below the dark outline of more hills on the other side. He was looking, he supposed, at an estuary. The first settlers must have come up it – from where he didn’t know, his ignorance shamed him – and then followed the river until they found the valley with its fertile land and the shelter it promised. The scene below was not, he realised, an empty one. Everywhere he l
ooked, he saw the work of man. There was evidence of human endeavour all around, not just in the cottages and farmhouses and barns, but in the stone walls and the roads and the fences and hedges. Arriving, on that first day, he had not been aware of this. A conviction that this was a desolate land to which he had been condemned had filled him, and the loneliness he’d experienced had overwhelmed him. But up here, where truly he was alone, he did not feel lonely. He felt master of himself – it was being down there that made him feel lonely.

  Reluctant to descend, he took his time, pausing often to admire the view. Then, half-way down, before he once more entered the wood, he saw a figure standing by his car. He couldn’t be sure – the distance was still too great – but he thought it was a woman, waiting for him. At once, the contentment he had been feeling vanished. The owner of the other car, almost certainly. But why was she waiting for him? What did she want of him? He immediately felt anxious and suspicious, and wondered if he could delay going down, even hide, until this person grew tired of waiting. But she would have seen him, he was sure that he stood out on the path at this point. And he couldn’t delay indefinitely, with evensong to think about. He had to get back. All the way down through the wood he was rehearsing what he would do and say. He would climb briskly over the stile, a man in a hurry, and rush at once to his car, avoiding eye contact. Maybe he’d shout, ‘Hello! Must dash, lovely day’, so as not to cause offence. He wished he had a clerical collar on so that his status would make it easier to add, if necessary, that he had a church service to take and shouldn’t have been climbing at all. This person would not know him, they were strangers to each other, which might make things less difficult.