Crazy Paving (32 page)

As she sat on the loo, she gazed at the T-shirt hanging directly opposite. It was grey, with purple lettering, the words beneath each other:
Absurdity, Anguish,
Freedom
.

After she had finished going to the toilet and pulled her tights back up, she went over to the T-shirt and, leaning over the bath, peered at the other side. It said,
Paris Post War, Art and
Existentialism 1945–55
. She thought of Helly and smiled, a little sadly.

Upstairs, Julia was folding the paper sheet which had been on the couch. She looked up as Annette came in. ‘How are you feeling?’

Annette nodded. ‘Fine. Tired.’

‘You can expect to feel quite exhausted, that often happens. When you’re in a relaxed state, all sorts of things come out.’

Annette was pulling on her light summer mac. ‘Can I ask you something about the treatment?’

‘Yes of course.’

‘Why did you put needles in my hand?’

Julia put down the folded sheet on the chair and began to move towards the door. ‘Well, you explained that you are still feeling sensations of pain from your missing hand. That is why I
placed needles near to the amputation point, the wrist and elbow. But it’s also possible to treat the remaining hand for pain felt in the one that is missing.’

‘Really?’ said Annette, as they made their way downstairs. ‘You can treat the hand I still have and that will help the one that I don’t have any more?’

They had reached the front door. As Julia opened it, Annette automatically tucked her stump into the pocket of her coat. ‘Will I be able to cut down on the Tegretol? It’s making me
drowsy.’

‘We’ll discuss that in conjunction with the hospital,’ said Julia, ‘but naturally I would hope so.’

‘Thank you,’ said Annette, raising her left hand in farewell and turning to go down the steps and out into the sunlit, tree-lined street.

‘You’re welcome,’ said Julia. ‘Have a good week.’

It was Janey, the physiotherapist, who had mentioned acupuncture. It was sometimes used at the hospital for pain management, although there was no official referral scheme.
Annette liked Janey, a young black woman with large, doughy hands who had never once offered to pity her. The weekly appointments with her were an interim measure while she waited for her referral
to the limb rehabilitation centre at Roehampton. Janey was just one of a group of professionals looking after Annette now. Although she knew they all had other patients, she couldn’t help
thinking of them as her team, her own private entourage. Individually, they had all been wonderful, although nobody in particular seemed to be in charge.

When she told the psychiatrist about going to see Julia she had the feeling that he disapproved, but then he was a bearded man in his fifties. There were no ice-cream colours in his consulting
room on the hospital’s fifth floor, just a dark wooden desk and metal filing cabinet. On top of the filing cabinet was a spider plant that ticked. By the end of her first session, Annette had
worked out that it ticked because there was a clock hidden behind it which Dr Gibson could see but she could not. When she realised this she began to giggle. Dr Gibson had observed her, silently,
which made her giggle even more.

He had come to see her a week after the bombing, at her bedside in the women’s orthopaedic ward. For the first couple of days she had been in a mixed ward with several of the other
Victoria casualties, along with a man who had come off his motorcycle the same day and was bandaged from head to foot like a patient in a
Carry On
film. He was the only thing she could
remember clearly from that time – the only sharp picture. The rest had been a blur; greetings cards by her bedside, her mother crying, a nurse inserting a drip, all of these were vague
hallucinations. Mostly, there had been pain.

The pain had come in several varieties. First, there was the variety which started at her wrist and made its way up her arm where it curled around her brain like an earthworm, burrowing. Then
there had been the type in her shoulder. These were real pains, the doctors told her. But there was also the pain in the fingers that were no longer there. Phantom pain, they said, and gave her a
drug which they said was for epilepsy and would make the phantoms go away.

Because of the pain, she was unconscious when she was first brought into Accident and Emergency that day. She had regained consciousness to find eight or ten people busy around her bed, a nurse
cutting off her clothes. All about her was clatter and commotion, voices calling out, a woman shrieking, footsteps running past. The noises echoed in her head. There was a chemical smell. Although
she was lying flat she felt as if she was reeling. A man gripped her shoulder lightly and bent down close to her ear. ‘You’re in the resuscitation area, St Thomas’ Hospital.
You’re going to be okay. Can you tell us your name?’

She had frowned while the people buzzed round – blurs of white and blue with featureless pink faces, all talking to each other. The reeling sensation seemed to be steadying, locating
somewhere in the region of her right arm, re-defining itself as something more specific. From somewhere both near and distant she heard a voice shouting furiously, ‘I want this corridor kept
clear!’

‘Neurological status?’ said another figure on the other side of the bed. From out of the range of her vision a woman called, ‘Triage!’ and the figure turned away.

‘Who are you?’ she said to the man with his hand on her shoulder.

‘I’m a surgeon,’ he had replied. ‘Can you tell us your name?’

It was only after she was transferred to the women’s orthopaedic ward that the surgeon came to explain about the amputation. He was a broad-shouldered man with ginger
hair and a scattering of freckles across his nose. The freckles made him look boyish but she could tell by his eyes that he was middle-aged. He perched himself on the side of her bed and talked to
her slowly and quietly. She felt overwhelmed with gratitude, not for the kindness but for the information. She still did not know what had happened.

‘You were caught by the second blast,’ he said. ‘As far as we can tell, when you heard the first bomb, the one actually on the concourse, you threw yourself back behind the
pillar, but your hand was still round the corner, holding on.’ The second bomb had been in a suitcase near the entrance. It had been timed and positioned to catch the people running away from
the first bomb. ‘Most of the people who were killed were killed by the second bomb. That was the biggie; the one in the cleaning trolley was just a decoy. You sustained a severe shrapnel
injury . . .’ The freckled surgeon paused.

‘No, carry on,’ said Annette.

‘We’re not sure but it was probably a largish piece of metal. Your hand was crushed against the pillar. Nails and ball bearings were packed around the bomb, that’s what’s
caused most of the injuries but it must have been something a bit bigger in your case. It was a clean amputation and we X-rayed the arm just to make sure there were no other bits of shrapnel. We
amputate very rarely these days. When your hand was crushed you lost the fingers but more importantly the middle of the hand, that’s why we couldn’t save the thumb. If there’s
anything at all we can save, we do.’

‘So I was unlucky.’

The freckled surgeon raised his eyebrows and shrugged slightly. ‘There’s two ways of looking at it. Yes, you were unlucky. On the other hand, if even part of your torso had been
round the corner of the pillar instead of behind it you almost certainly would have been killed. Unlucky and lucky. Both are true, I suppose. It’s up to you to decide which one you want to
choose.’

‘How many people were killed, altogether?’

‘Eleven. It went up to eleven this morning. We don’t think it will rise. There are a lot of badly injured though. A lot of internal injuries. That’s what shrapnel
does.’

They were silent. Then Annette said, ‘Lucky. I suppose I should choose lucky.’ She looked at her arm which was raised slightly in a sling and heavily bandaged. The loss of the hand
was still theoretical, to her. The minor details were more actual – the discomfort in her shoulder, the constipation because she found using a bedpan difficult. The amputation itself was
something she could describe but not feel. Would there be a moment, an all-consuming second, when she would know? Or would it dawn on her gradually, as if the hand was melting away? She blinked.
‘If I give you some names,’ she said to the surgeon, ‘can you find out what’s happened to them?’ The surgeon looked at her. ‘They’re friends of mine. I
meant to ask the nurse yesterday but I felt sick. If I tell you can you write them down and tell her or get someone to find out?’

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘of course.’

Joan had been separated from Annette on the station concourse, when Annette had been swept up by the emergency team. An ambulance woman in squeaky green overalls had taken her
by the elbow and led her, stunned and shaky, to join a group of others waiting just outside the station. The group stood in dazed silence as the more seriously injured were rushed past them on
stretchers. Beyond a rapidly constructed police cordon, sightseers were already gathering. Joan felt herself swaying in very small circles. Eventually the man standing next to her, an Asian
businessman, asked her if she wanted to sit down. The ground felt cold and hard. The rest of the group remained standing. Joan felt silly.

At the hospital she was put in a side room, with a large group who had been asked to wait while the emergencies were dealt with. After some time, an orderly came round with a notepad and pencil
and asked them who they wanted the hospital to contact. Joan shook her head. ‘He’ll be on a shift,’ she said.

‘What about a neighbour?’ the orderly asked.

Joan frowned. ‘Lydia. I suppose she could put a note on the door.’

Finally, she was taken into a cubicle to be examined and they told her what she already knew. Her injuries were light: mild shock, and some bruising from where she had fallen to the ground. She
had been outside the station when the first bomb had gone off and had stopped dead in her tracks, disbelieving. She was still standing there when the second bomb, much closer, had exploded –
and after that the horror had been too loud and visible for doubt.

When the doctor had finished, a young nurse helped her down from the bed on which she had been examined and said, ‘If you need anything to eat or drink there’s the cafeteria round
the corner. Perhaps a nice cup of tea?’

‘I suppose I do feel a bit shaky,’ said Joan, suffering instant guilt because this nurse was probably about to rush off and deal with somebody who was badly hurt. She wanted to ask
about the others but the nurse was leading her out of the cubicle. ‘The waiting room is round to the left, follow the signs for the Lambeth Wing.’ As they made their way past a row of
cubicles, they passed an orderly emerging from behind a curtain. He was wearing plastic gloves and holding a rubbish bag into which he was pushing heavily blood-stained clothing, a brown skirt and
a cream-coloured top. Joan stopped and turned to the nurse. ‘My friends,’ she said. ‘Annette Simon. Helen Rawlins—’ Suddenly, a group pushing a stretcher trolley came
charging down the corridor. A doctor at the front gestured them out of the way and called to the nurse, ‘We need a cubicle . . .’

‘End right,’ the nurse called after them. The group hadn’t paused. The trolley’s wheels rattled frantically. The nurse turned back to Joan and said to her quickly,
‘Round to the left,’ then turned away.

The waiting room was crowded. Nearest to Joan sat a young woman, clothes dishevelled but make-up immaculate, staring at a gauze dressing on her forearm. Next to her were a middle-aged couple,
clutching each other’s hands. Twin boys of around four or five squatted on the floor in front of them, bickering softly, too absorbed in their quarrel to register their parents’ sombre
mood. The only empty seat was at the far end of one row, next to a young man who sat bent over with his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. Next to him was an elderly woman, sobbing
softly. Joan knew she could not wait here.

The cafeteria was also crowded. A queue snaked along the empty glass counters. Most of the food and snacks had gone. I suppose all this has taken them unawares, Joan thought. She asked for a
tea.

She paid at the till, then paused, holding her tea and looking around. The cafeteria was very large but nearly every table was full. Despite the quiet air of tragedy, there was the gentle hubbub
that cafeterias everywhere seemed to make, regardless of geography or circumstance. Floor to ceiling windows afforded a view of the river, towards the golden glories of the Houses of Parliament.
She was reminded of holiday camps that she and Alun had been to – the crowds, the stress. All at once she felt tearful, and very much alone.

To her left was an elderly woman sitting at a small table around which there were two other seats. One had coats and bags piled onto it. The other was empty.

The woman was rather odd looking. She was wearing a green cloth hat with a purple brim and huge owlish glasses. She was looking at Joan. Joan approached, tentatively, and indicated the free
seat. The woman nodded.

As Joan sat, her hand began to shake. The cup of tea rattled in its saucer. The woman jumped to her feet and took the tea from her. ‘Here,’ she said to Joan, ‘you sit down and
make yourself comfortable. You look like you need it.’ Joan nodded. ‘Weird place this, isn’t it?’ the woman continued. ‘Have you seen the gift shop over there? I had a
look through the window. Flan dishes. They sell flan dishes, with primroses on. And St Thomas’ Hospital tea-towels. You here because of . . .’ she waved a hand loosely in the direction
of the Accident and Emergency department. Joan nodded again as she raised her tea to her lips. ‘Me too,’ said the woman and her face became suddenly grim. ‘My granddaughter. My
husband’s gone to find out. They wouldn’t tell us anything. He wouldn’t let me go. He knew I’d raise merry hell.’

The woman buried her face in her hands.

Joan put down her tea, reached out a hand and patted the woman’s arm, awkwardly. ‘I’m sure . . . I’m sure she’ll be . . .’