by Barbara Pym
‘Do you think I should visit her in hospital?’ Father G. was asking. ‘I easily could—the chaplain there is an old friend. She might feel that as I saw her, found her, as it were…’
‘I don’t know what Marcia would feel. But I’m sure she would like to have a visit,’ said Edwin uncertainly, for he was not at all sure. How could anyone be sure about Marcia?
The next morning Edwin had to break the news to Norman.
‘I should’ve thought a loony bin would have been more to the point than hospital,’ said Norman, in a rough way that might have concealed an obscure emotion. ‘What are we expected to do—send flowers by Interflora—have a whip round in the office?’ He was standing by the window and shook himself like an angry little dog coming out of the water.
‘I’ll get some flowers and take them round—the hospital’s not far from where I live,’ said Edwin soothingly. ‘And I’ll get in touch with Letty.’
Norman fumbled in his trousers pocket and produced a fifty-pence piece. ‘You’d better say they’re from all of us, the flowers. Here’s something towards it.’
‘Thank you. I won’t ask to see her, just leave the flowers,’ Edwin said. It was a relief that the general embarrassment of the situation had not made them burst out laughing, as he had feared. Perhaps there were some things, hospitals especially, that were still sacred.
‘I wouldn’t want to go and see her,’ Norman said. ‘I did go when my brother-in-law, Ken, was in hospital, but then he had nobody and being the blood-tie and that I felt I had to.’
Edwin was about to point out that a brother-in-law wasn’t exactly a blood relation but he thought it best to leave the subject, and if they got to talking about people having nobody it might well be remembered that Marcia also came into that category.
In Mrs Pope’s house the telephone rang just as she and Letty were settling down to watch television. They quite often did this now, and although it had started by Mrs Pope suggesting that Letty might like to watch the news or some improving programme of cultural or scientific interest, there was now hardly an evening when Letty did not come down to watch whatever happened to be on the box, whether it was worthy of attention or not.
‘Oh, bother, who can that be?’ said Mrs Pope, going out into the hall. It’s for you,’ she said accusingly to Letty. People ought not to ring up at such a time.’
Letty went apologetically to the telephone. Of course there was really no suitable time to ring people in the evening now that television had been invented, for with the choice of three programmes one of them was certain to be the one somebody was watching. Even the worst had their adherents and who was to judge what was ‘worst’, the kind of thing that nobody could possibly want to see?
When Letty came back into the room, Mrs Pope looked up expectantly. Letty did not have many telephone calls and never seemed to make any. ‘It was a man’s voice,’ she said encouragingly, ‘so I knew it couldn’t be your friend in the country.’
‘No, it was Edwin Braithwaite.’
‘Oh, Mr Braithwaite,’ Mrs Pope waited for Letty to go on.
‘He was ringing to tell me that Marcia Ivory who used to work in the office had been taken into hospital.’
‘Taken into hospital!’ Mrs Pope’s interest was immediately aroused and Letty had to repeat what Edwin had told her about Marcia’s collapse and the summoning of the ambulance. This led on to further probing from Mrs Pope so that in the end Letty found herself having to recount the history of Marcia’s operation and to supply as many details as she knew.
‘But how did Mr Braithwaite know about it?’ Mrs Pope asked.
‘Apparently he found her, discovered her in a state of collapse in her kitchen.’
‘That doesn’t sound like him,’ Mrs Pope objected.
‘I think he had a clergyman with him—would it be the vicar, perhaps, paying a call?’
‘Yes, I suppose it could be that. But don’t you think it more likely that he and the lady were friends, after all, working together and living so near.. !
Letty found herself unable to comment on this supposition. A relationship between Edwin and Marcia was really going too far. You ought to see her, she thought of saying, but a charitable impulse held her back. One did not make remarks of that kind about a person lying dangerously ill in hospital. And life was in many ways so fantastic that for all Letty knew there might indeed be something between Edwin and Marcia. A married woman—and she must not forget that Mrs Pope was that—might very well be able to detect subtle shades of meaning in a relationship which would be lost on the inexperienced Letty. For of course there had been Mr Pope, no more to Letty than a photograph in Mrs Pope’s sitting room, and it was not for her to probe beyond that patient-looking face in the silver frame. And now the television screen was beginning to claim their full attention.
By a coincidence they were taken into a hospital setting, not in a popular romantic way but as the background for surgical investigation. An operation was in progress, with commentary and informative pictures.
‘Amazing what they can do now,’ said Mrs Pope, in a satisfied tone. ‘But of course your friend won’t be having anything like this.’
‘Oh, no…’ Letty was apologetic ‘I expect she’ll just be lying there.’
‘If we had colour,’ Mrs Pope went on, ‘we should be able to see exactly what the sturgeon was doing. There would be real blood, not tomato ketchup, as I’ve heard they use in these violent films.’
‘I don’t think I should want to see exactly,’ said Letty, turning away from the black and white close-up of a pulsating heart and concentrating on her tapestry.
‘We have to see these things, whether we like it or not,’ Mrs Pope declared, for she had noticed Letty turning away from the screen. ‘No point in shutting your eyes to them.’
Letty wanted to protest—they could just as easily have been watching a Western on the other channel, but they didn’t have to watch that either.
‘Has Mr Braithwaite got colour?’ Mrs Pope asked.
Letty had to admit that she didn’t know, or even whether Edwin had television at all He had never mentioned it, in the same way that he had never given any indication of having any special feeling for Marcia. If anyone had that, it was Norman, she felt, thoroughly confused.
Nineteen
MARCIA HAD ALWAYS appreciated the drama of an ambulance and even wanted to ride in one, but when the time came she was hardly in a position to realize that she was at last achieving this unusual ambition.
‘Unreachable inside a room’ she may have been, yet there was no sense of that little room becoming an everywhere, in the fantasy of an earlier poet No fragment of poetry from long ago lingered in Marcia’s mind as she lay under a red blanket She had been aware of people coming into the house as she sat at the kitchen table, thinking she heard Edwin’s voice and imagining herself back in the office, but where was Norman? She was also half conscious of Janice Brabner fussing around her, seeming to panic a bit. Marcia tried to tell her that she had half a dozen new nighties, never worn, tucked away in a drawer upstairs, and also to explain about the card on the mantelpiece giving her next appointment at out-patients, but she found herself unable to speak. She tried, but no words came. Then she heard Janice going on in her silly way about the nighties, ‘all brand new and never worn’, and that was when she smiled. Of course they were new, specially chosen for this occasion. Already she had moved away from Janice, and soon she would be out of the reach of all social workers trying to make her do things she didn’t want to do, like going down to ‘the Centre’, buying fresh vegetables and taking a holiday.
The only disappointment was that there was no bell ringing on the ambulance, as she had sometimes heard that exciting clamour at lunchtime, when there had been an accident somewhere near the office. It was all very quiet and efficient, the way the ambulance men lifted her up and laid her down and called her ‘dear’, and said she wasn’t much of a weight. But when she found herself at the hospital
there seemed to be a crowd of young doctors round her bed, so they must have thought she was important. Marcia didn’t recognize any of them from the time before—housemen, she supposed, doing their six months on the wards, and perhaps one of them was the Registrar. Two of them examined her, but another couple, who presumably ought to have been attending, seemed to be talking about some dance they were going to or had been to, and that seemed wrong. She was certain that Mr Strong wouldn’t approve of that.
Later, it must have been much later for she was now in a different place altogether and the young doctors had gone, she found herself wondering when she was going to see Mr Strong, and then worrying in case she might not be seeing him at all but some other surgeon or just an ordinary doctor. She must have spoken his name aloud, for the young round-faced nurse who was settling her pillows said, ‘Don’t you worry, Miss Ivory, Mr Strong’ll be round in the morning.’
‘Flowers for you, Miss Ivory! Well, somebody loves you, don’t they?’ It was a loud, bright voice that reminded Marcia rather of Janice, but of course it couldn’t be Janice. ‘Lovely, aren’t they—Chrysanths, and such an unusual shade. Shall I read the card for you, dear? You’ll want to know who they’re from. It says, “Letty, Norman and Edwin, with all good wishes and hopes for a speedy recover)’”. Isn’t that nice!’ In the nurse’s mind Letty and Norman were a married couple with a little boy called Edwin, rather an unusual name, that, as uncommon as the pinky-mauve chrysanthemums.
Marcia smiled but did not comment, and the nurse did not expect her to. Poor soul, she was hardly up to that. Some hopes for a ‘speedy recovery’!
The woman in the next bed looked at Marcia with interest. It livened things up a bit when a new patient came in, but Marcia just lay with her eyes closed so it wouldn’t be much use trying to have a chat with her. Funny that she should have had those flowers when she looked the kind of person who wouldn’t get any, and now two more lots had arrived. The nurse read out the cards again—one from ‘Janice’ (a posy of anemones), and the other (mixed garden flowers) from ‘Priscilla and Nigel—so sorry to hear you’re ill—get well soon’. Well, it didn’t look as if that was likely to happen, judging by her appearance. And when they weighed her she was only six stone.
There was a stir at the end of the ward—Mr Strong was approaching with an entourage of young doctors, and Sister wheeling a filing cabinet of case notes. ‘He’s coming, dear,’ Marcia’s neighbour whispered, but Marcia still lay with closed eyes, apparently unconscious. All the same, she knew that he was taller than the young doctors accompanying him and that he was wearing a green tie.
‘Well, Miss Ivory, we didn’t expect to see you again so soon.’ Mr Strong’s tone was kindly rather than reproachful, but she couldn’t help wondering if she had displeased him in some way, for when she opened her eyes she saw that he was looking down at her, frowning a little. Then he turned to Sister and said something in a low voice.
‘You’ve lost a lot of weight. Haven’t you been looking after yourself properly?’ This time there was a hint of sternness in his voice.
Marcia wanted to tell him that she had never been a big eater but she found it impossible to get out the words.
‘Never mind—don’t try to talk.’ Mr Strong then turned to one of the young doctors. ‘Well, Brian, you’ve got her notes—let’s have your diagnosis.’
Brian, a youth with blond bobbed hair, said something in medical jargon but apparently Mr Strong was not satisfied because he turned to one of the other doctors for his opinion. This young man was even more at a loss than Brian. He mumbled something to the effect that the patient was in ‘a terminal situation’, a euphemism which fortunately meant nothing to Marcia who was conscious only of a flood of words. They were having quite a discussion about her.
‘You’re talking about me,’ she said, almost in a whisper.
‘Yes—you’re certainly the centre of attraction today.’ But Mr Strong said it so nicely, not in a nasty, sarcastic way, as Norman might have done.
If they said “No visitors” then we can’t very well barge in,’ Norman pointed out, as he and Edwin sat in the office finishing their lunch. Jelly babies being in short supply, Edwin offered a packet of liquorice allsorts and Norman selected a brown and black one.
‘I always think of her at coffee time,’ Norman went on, ‘the way she used to make coffee for me.’
‘She used to make it for herself as well, not just for you,’ Edwin corrected him.
‘That’s right—spoil my romantic memories,’ said Norman flippantly. ‘Poor old girl—not even allowed visitors. What did the nurse say when you rang?’
‘She said Miss Ivory was quite comfortable, what they always say.’ His wife Phyllis, on the point of death, had been ‘comfortable’ and perhaps that was one way of putting it. ‘They want her to be kept very quiet, no excitement.’
‘Yes, I suppose seeing us might be that—excitement,’ Norman remarked.
‘Oh, and Sister said how pleased she was with the flowers—such an unusual shade.’
‘Did Marcia say that?’
‘No, I don’t think she did—that’s what Sister thought. I gathered Marcia wasn’t talking much herself. She certainly wasn’t when we found her like that.’
‘She wasn’t much of a talker when she was here,’ Norman mused. ‘I wonder what they’ll do with her now.’
‘Sister didn’t say whether she was to have an operation or anything like that,’ said Edwin. I suppose we’ll just have to wait and see. I’ll keep in touch. By the way, it was a bit awkward. When I called round with the flowers they asked me if I knew whether she had any relatives, who would be her next of kin.’
‘She must have given some name when she had her operation. I think she’s got a distant cousin somewhere, she once said.’
‘Oh, has she?’ Edwin seemed a little embarrassed. I think they wanted somebody on the spot, as it were, so I had to give myself,’ he admitted. ‘I said I was her next of kin.’ Saying the words like that seemed to open up endless possibilities.
‘Sooner you than me!’ said Norman roughly. ‘Goodness knows what you may have let yourself in for.’
‘Oh, I think it will just be a question of keeping in touch and that sort of thing. I felt it was the least I could do.’
‘Let’s hope it won’t tum out to be the most,’ said Norman in a dark tone.
‘No visitors? Has she just had an operation, then?’ Mrs Pope wanted to know.
‘I don’t think so. Just what Sister said, I gather,’ said Letty.
‘Well, we know what that means. You mark my words.’
Letty had realized by now that Mrs Pope’s words invariably did have to be marked. ‘I should like to go and see her,’ she said, but uncertainly, for she did not really want to visit Marcia in hospital, only felt that she ought to want to.
‘You won’t be able to do that,’ said Mrs Pope.
‘I suppose not, as things are at present. I must think of something to send her, apart from flowers.’ But what? she wondered, remembering Marcia as she had last seen her. Toilet water, talcum powder, some really nice soap—these were the things Letty herself would have liked if she had been in hospital, but would Marcia? ‘Perhaps a book,’ she said doubtfully.
‘A book?’ Mrs Pope’s tone rang out scornfully. ‘What would she want with a book if she’s not allowed visitors?’
‘No, perhaps she wouldn’t be able to read,’ Letty admitted. And had Marcia ever read anyway, ever been seen with a book? Her visits to the library had been for quite other purposes. She was the kind of person who would say that she didn’t have time to read—yet hadn’t she once, surprisingly, quoted a tag of poetry, some left-over fragment of her school days that had stuck in her memory? Perhaps a book of poetry, then, a paperback with a pretty cover, nothing modern, of course … Letty toyed with this idea but in the end she decided on a bottle of lavender water, the kind of thing that could be dabbed on the brow of a patient not allowed visitors.
If she’s as bad as I think she is,’ Mrs Pope went on, ‘she won’t notice whether you send her anything or not. And you are a pensioner—don’t forget that.’
‘All the same, I do feel I’d like to send her something,’ Letty said, irritated by Mrs Pope’s attitude. ‘After all, we did work together all those years.’ Two women working together in an office, she thought, even if they didn’t become dose friends, would have a special kind of tie linking them - all the dull routine, the petty grumbles and the shared irritation of the men.
‘I thought it was only two or three years,’ said Mrs Pope. Not a long time.’
‘Yes, but it was an important stage in our lives,’ said Letty, deciding definitely on lavender water.
Lavender. Mr Strong detected the scent of it above the hospital smells. It reminded him of his grandmother, not at all the kind of thing one associated with Miss Ivory, but on the other hand why should he have been surprised that Miss Ivory should smell of lavender? The really surprising thing was that he should have noticed anything at all like that about a patient, but the scent, that powerful evocator of memory, had caught him unaware, and for a brief moment he—consultant surgeon at this eminent London teaching hospital and with a lucrative private practice in Harley Street—was a boy of seven again.
Somebody had been fussing over her, tidying her up because Mr Strong was coming round, and we wanted to look tidy for Mr Strong, didn’t we? There was a cool, wet feeling on her forehead. Somebody—Betty or Letty, was it, on the card?—had sent her this nice lavender water, such a lovely fresh smell, like a country garden. Miss Ivory had a garden, hadn’t she, and did she have lavender in her garden? Marcia hadn’t been able to remember whether she had or not; she only remembered the catmint at the bottom of the garden and how she hadn’t been able to find Snowy’s grave. All that time she had watched him growing cold until the fleas left his body, and now she couldn’t find his grave. It would have been much more to the point if Nigel from next door had helped her to find that rather than fuss about cutting her grass which didn’t really need cutting because she preferred it that way; it kept people out. One afternoon, she couldn’t exactly remember when, she had caught Norman spying on her, hanging about in the road. She regretted now that she hadn’t gone up to him and challenged him, asked him what he thought he was doing, loitering with intent, outside her house. Another time, when she had first gone to work in the office, she had followed him one lunchtime all the way to the British Museum, up the steps and along to that place where they had the mummies, and seen him sitting looking at the mummified animals with a crowd of school children. She had gone away, not knowing what to think … After that she had taken to making him coffee because it seemed silly for them each to get a tin when the big economy size was so much cheaper … But after that? She was confused—nothing seemed to have happened after that. She moved her head restlessly from side to side. She thought she could see the chaplain coming towards her, the hospital chaplain, or was it the trendy vicar from the church at the end of the road? They were both young, with that long hair. No, it was neither; it was Mr Strong’s houseman; his name was Brian. It was nice the way Mr Strong called all the young doctors by their Christian names—Brian and Geoffrey and Tom and Martin, and Jennifer, the only girl among them.
