But her mind was still full of him as she hurried down the corridors to find Chrissie. She didn’t like it when she had to admit she had failed with someone, had failed entirely to break through their reserve or, in some cases, their distrust of her. She wanted to be seen as decent and fair and eager to help, a safe pair of hands. It hurt when she sensed people were suspicious of her and that clergyman had been very suspicious indeed without cause. When she got to the clinic, she was still troubled, and struggled to concentrate on what she wanted to say to Chrissie when she found her. Finding her proved difficult. The clinic was in semi-darkness, not a light on and no one about. She looked at her watch: 1.25 p.m. Of course, it was much too early, Rita had told her she never arrived before 1.45 even if the occasional patient did. Mrs Hibbert was not going to sit on one of those uncomfortable seats and wait. Instead, she retraced her steps along the thin yellow line, walking very slowly, as though she were patrolling. She turned a corner and hesitated. She had no means of knowing from which direction Chrissie would come. Sporting her Friend of St Mary’s armband, as she did, she could wander into most departments of the hospital at will, but she did not know where Chrissie would be. It was not sensible to leave the clinic, and so she was obliged to return and stand like a sentinel at the door. When, after a few uneasy minutes, she saw Rita approaching, she felt embarrassed.
‘Why, Mrs Hibbert,’ Rita said, ‘what brings . . .’
But Mrs Hibbert interrupted her. ‘I’m looking for Dr Harrison,’ she said. ‘Will she be along soon?’
‘She won’t be along at all,’ Rita said, putting lights on and opening up her cubicle. ‘She’s transferring.’
‘Hospitals?’ asked Mrs Hibbert, reluctant to follow Rita into the clinic. ‘Hospitals?’ she repeated, shouting slightly. She could see Rita shake her head. ‘Jobs,’ she said. ‘Doing training, some research thing.’
‘Are you sure?’ Mrs Hibbert said.
‘Sure as sure. Came in this morning apparently, looking good they say, after her break, and told everyone. She wants to do research, I don’t know what sort or where.’
‘Well,’ Mrs Hibbert said, ‘well, that’s a pity, it’s a shame.’
‘Is it?’ said Rita.
Was it? She left Rita organising herself and made her way back to the entrance hall and her duties. Was it a pity, a shame, a waste, that Chrissie had given up her work in the clinic? She wished that she understood what this ‘research’ was, whether it justified Chrissie’s decision. There was a dull, sad feeling in her mind. She felt let down. Chrissie hadn’t listened to her when she’d tried to help her. She’d ignored her afterwards. And then she’d gone ahead and done what she wanted, taken the easy way out.
*
Here she was, in the entrance hall, back again in front of the glass doors. Consciously, she straightened her back and held her head high, bracing herself against the onslaught – how they surged in, these people. They all wanted attention, they all wanted kindness, they all wanted to be made better – they were full of want. But so was she, though it was her job to conceal this. She stood impassive, rock-solid, as she always did, searching the faces, identifying the weak and fearful. Poor Francis. She found herself saying this over and over in her head, every time she was on duty. He had never set foot in St Mary’s Hospital, or in this town, but nevertheless she could not help thinking of him and how she had failed him. Poor Francis. What had he really wanted? What could she have given him?
There was a woman standing quite still just inside the doors. She was in the way. People had to walk round her, and she was being jostled as the crowds pressed in. A middle-aged woman, slightly overweight, neatly dressed in a spotted skirt and a dark jacket. She looked appalled, as though in front of her was a scene of horror instead of the ordinary jumble of an hospital entrance hall. Mrs Hibbert could see she was holding an appointment card in her hand. A first appointment here, undoubtedly. She couldn’t even get as far as the inquiries desk. Mrs Hibbert found herself sighing, but it was a sigh of something approaching satisfaction: she knew what this woman wanted, she knew what she needed. A calmness came over her, a feeling of peace. Slowly, taking care not to move in any way abruptly, or make any sudden movement of her hands, she walked towards the woman. ‘Can I help you?’ she said, as gently as possible.
Help, that was what was wanted, that was what she had to give, whether it was accepted or not. Knowing this was what gave her strength, and at that moment, approaching the terrified woman, she was full of it. What fools people were to think they could manage on their own.
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Copyright © Margaret Forster 2005
Margaret Forster has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work
First published in Great Britain in 2005 by Chatto & Windus
‘Late Fragment’, from All of Us: The Collected Poems, by Raymond Carver, published by Harvill. © Tess Gallagher.
Reprinted by permission of the Random House Group Ltd and by permission of Tess Gallagher.
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Is There Anything You Want? Page 28
