Isobel on the Way to the Corner Shop (12 page)

‘Yeah. Thought that was it last time. But he said this morning, they’d better take another look. Reckoned he heard a wheeze. Another bronc. Great!’

‘Rotten luck!’

‘That’s what you get for smoking, Eily.’

‘Huh. Two fags a day if I’m lucky.’

‘You could sell your body to science, Eily, and make a packet.’

‘Wouldn’t be much use to me without a body.’

‘That’s right. There’s always a catch.’

‘Who’s that snoring?’

‘Mrs P.’

‘Well, nip over and wake her up. Go on!’

‘Mrs Partridge, wake up! You were snoring, keeping everybody awake.’

‘Come on, Lois. Tell us what you’re going to wear.’

‘I think…pale blue chiffon trimmed with white fox. A floaty cape with fur all round the bottom. So that it swings out when I turn round.’

‘Not much good for dancing.’

‘You take it off when you dance.’

‘Hooky will take it off my shoulders and drop it on a chair, and there I’ll be in my low-cut chiffon dress all ready for dancing. No jewellery. Perhaps one thin diamond bracelet.’

‘I can tell you where you got all that. Out of that old film they put on last month. With what’s her name. Rita Hayworth. Pretty old-fashioned.’

‘The thirties are coming back. Look at the songs. Anyhow I don’t care about fashion. I only care about what suits me.’ She sighed. ‘I hope we don’t have trouble with that waiter again. There’s this Italian waiter who’s so crazy about me he can’t control himself. He keeps hanging about making sheep’s eyes and saying things in Italian and you can see that Hooky doesn’t like it. He doesn’t like to make scenes but he won’t put up with much more of it. I hope he doesn’t do his block, that’s all.’

‘I thought you were going with Bart.’

‘No. Think I’ll stick to my old love. Last time he was looking so nasty at that waiter that I thought we’d better not go there again, but really there’s nothing like the Rococo. Such lovely suppers.’

Other voices joined in the fairy tale.

‘Little meat pies.’

‘Cocktail frankfurts with tomato sauce.’

‘Oyster patties.’

‘Caviar on white bread.’

‘Yuk. You can have that.’

Another voice said sourly, ‘Stewed mince and curried dishcloths.’

‘Don’t remind us! Me, I’d like a nice gin sling.’

‘Is that Mrs P. snoring again? Some people have no consideration. Mrs P., wake up! You were snoring again.’

‘I say, did you hear about Pam? She’s going home.’

‘Going home? Is she cured then?’

‘No. Not cured. Doctor Hook told her they decided not to operate. I met her when I came out of X-ray and she was coming out of the office. She said Doctor Hook was very nice about it, said they thought she’d be more comfortable at home. A local doctor can give her her AP.’

‘How was she taking it?’

‘Looked more puzzled than anything.’

‘The strep didn’t take. They can’t operate if the strep doesn’t take. You get a spread.’

‘Ssh! Little pitchers!’

This was said in a tone of warning.

‘Oh, she’s asleep. Hasn’t stirred.’

‘Poor little sod.’

Isobel, lying still and listening in fascination, and pity for Mrs Partridge, wondered who had inspired their sympathy.

A torch shone in the doorway and a voice taut with anger spoke from behind it.

‘The noise in this ward is disgraceful. It’s the same story every night, singing and carrying on till all hours, then in the morning it’s the devil’s own business getting you awake to take your temperatures. Well, this is just once too often. Doctor Hook will hear of this in the morning and I wouldn’t be surprised if you all went back on B grade.’ The light moved. A small large-eyed, fleshless face stared mildly like an insect caught in its beam. ‘As for you, Lois, Doctor Stannard said he was going to have to put you on silence if you showed no improvement. Keep that in mind. No thought for anyone but yourselves, the lot of you.’ The voice was receding and the torch was lowered.

There was a brief silence, then the talk began again in tones of indignation.

‘Well, I must say! What a lady!’

‘Rotten mean saying that to Lois.’

‘Look what you’ve done with your snoring, Mrs Partridge.’

‘Think she’ll really tell Hooky?’

‘Nah. Back on B grade and who’d be carrying the pans? She wouldn’t risk it.’

‘Well, she’s gone for the night. What about a singsong?’

‘What’ll it be?’

‘“Once in a While”.’

‘Why did I ask? Okay.’

The voices whined sweetly in the dark.

‘Once in a while will you try…to give one little thought to me…Though someone else may be…nearer your heart?…In love’s last dying ember…one spark may remain…If love love still can remember…that spark may burn again…’

Lulled by the sound, Isobel slept.

‘If ever I was to write about this,’ Isobel told herself sometime later, ‘I should call it “Adventures in the Third Person”.’

The singers of the night before had indeed woken sluggish and disgruntled, muttering protests as the thermometers were thrust in their mouths.

‘What about her?’

‘She isn’t staying here. Doctor’s coming to see her later.’

Isobel went back to sleep, or retired rather into her voluntary coma.

A nurse did say, ‘Can you get up?’

She considered the question carefully.

‘I think so.’

‘Well, make up your mind. Can you get to the toilet?’

One of the voices from last night spoke.

‘I’ll give you a hand, kid, if you want to get to the toilet.’

‘Thanks. Very much.’

‘Well, just let me know when you’re ready.’

‘Right.’

That was a weight off her mind. She withdrew again.

Breakfast came and went without her participation.

‘Listen, love. Do you want to go to the bathroom? Doctor’ll be here soon. You ought to freshen up a bit, you know.’

This was Eily, who was threatened with another bronc but retained sympathy for others. She was a tall, strong-boned young woman with heavy black hair which fell to her shoulders. Though she was comely enough, something in her appearance suggested the prizefighter. The long, delicate nose flattened at the bridge, the upper lip full enough to appear swollen, hinted at misfortunes in the boxing ring. Her voice, low-pitched and husky, did not contradict the impression.

‘Got to pretty yourself up for Bart. Where’s your toilet stuff?’

She found it in the duffle bag, took the towel which hung at the end of the bed and led Isobel away to the bathroom.

Isobel used the lavatory, washed her face, and combed her hair.

‘That’s a bit more like it. Come on, I’ll get you back to bed. You don’t want to worry too much about Nurse Piper. Got a permanent case of them, she has.’

A case of what? Isobel did not ask. She clung gratefully to Eily and wondered why she needed another bronc. She appeared strong under Isobel’s clinging arm.

Her bed had been made while she was away. Two young women in white coats and wearing face masks were making beds. Lois and the unfortunate Mrs Partridge sat in cane armchairs by their beds; other patients, like Eily, walked about in dressing gowns or went out to the bathroom.

All was in order before the doctor arrived with Sister Mackenzie.

‘This is Doctor Bartholomew.’

Isobel looked with interest at this partner of Lois’s dream life. He did not seem at all likely to twist anyone’s nose. He was a small, neat man who radiated earnest good will.

He nodded to Isobel, then spoke to Sister Mackenzie.

‘Doctor Stannard wants her to have a day to settle in before she goes to Medical, Sister. Unless there’s something urgent to deal with. Anything to tell us?’ He asked Isobel, who shook her head.

‘Nurse said she slept well, but she didn’t touch breakfast.’

I am an important parcel.

‘She’s to go up to C Ward, Room 5. We won’t disturb her just now. If you’ll send for a chair.’

‘Yes, Doctor.’

‘Sister Connor is expecting her. Right, then.’

He nodded to Isobel, intending reassurance, walked across to Lois’s bed to ask after her health, nodded to Eily and departed with Sister Mackenzie, leaving behind him an awed silence.

‘Well, what was that about?’

‘I don’t know.’

Eily said, ‘You never do know why they do anything. They just tell you what’s going to happen.’

Isobel said, ‘The ambulance was late.’

‘That’s right. Stannard was hopping mad. I heard Sister Mackenzie tell Stinker that she sat up all the way in the front seat with the window open. Lovely.’

Isobel pondered the vision of Doctor Stannard, chieftain of the eagle tribe, hopping with rage. It turned into a kind of war dance in which that elegant gentleman was flourishing a tomahawk. She giggled.

‘What on earth?’ asked her neighbour.

She whispered, ‘Hopping. Stannard,’ and shook her head.

‘Well, you haven’t lost your sense of humour.’

‘Leave her alone. She’s not supposed to be talking.’

The wheelchair arrived, pushed by a nuggety small man and a tall dark young woman, both in white coats, the young woman carrying a blanket over her arm.

‘I’m Diana,’ the young woman said. ‘I’m on C Ward and I’ll be looking after you in the mornings. Room 5, Joe. Get her bag, will you?’

She sat Isobel in the chair, tucked the blanket over her knees, put her bag beside her and they set off, Isobel waving goodbye. There was another journey, along corridors, through two sets of double doors and into the long corridor they had travelled from the dining room the night before. There the journey ended in a small room with two unoccupied beds, each with a cabinet beside it, one close to a large window which looked out on a long verandah and in the background mountains that extended to the horizon.

Diana said, ‘Thank you, Joe.’

She helped Isobel up and Joe departed with the chair. ‘You’re to take the inside bed.’

Isobel subsided on the inside bed. Her suitcase was standing at its foot.

Diana unpacked and stowed her belongings. Her outdoor clothes would remain in the suitcase and be taken to the luggage room.

At the prospect of being parted from her outdoor clothes, Isobel uttered a cry of protest which made Diana laugh.

‘Kind of brings it home to you, doesn’t it? Most people do react that way when you take away their clothes. I did myself. Thinking, now I’m really stuck with it. But you get them back as soon as you make D grade. It’s a great day when you put your shoes back on, I can tell you.’

So Diana, like Max, was a graduate, one who had got used to the place and taken a job in the wards.

In a shallow cupboard that faced the foot of Isobel’s bed, she hung Sara’s rose-coloured dressing gown, then in front of it the dragon coat, over which she had raised her eyebrows without comment. The Turkish slippers were arranged on the cupboard floor, Mrs Delaney’s emergency socks tucked into them. Beside them were the shabby scuffs from her attic room. Perhaps they would be less conspicuous than the slippers, over which Diana had paused a moment too long.

‘Well, that’s it. No Medical today. You’re to take it easy. You didn’t eat your breakfast. Can I get you a glass of milk?’

‘Yes, please.’

Settling in. She was settling in. It was a daunting thought. Diana fetched the milk, set it on the cabinet, said, ‘Anything else you want? If you want the pan, you ring the bell.’

‘Thanks,’ said Isobel, blessing Eily.

‘Right. You’re on your own till I bring your lunch. Doctor’s orders. Sister Connor might be along later, I don’t know.’ It was clear that Diana was perturbed by the thought of Isobel’s solitude. ‘I suppose they know what they’re doing. I’ll be off, then.’

Solitude was no burden. Indeed, it was not absolute solitude for long. People began to pass by the window, some in dressing gowns, some in outdoor clothes. They did not come in, but most as they passed paused to smile and one or two to stand in the doorway and give a thumbs up sign which she found comforting.

The hour passed. The verandah was deserted.

Diana arrived with a lunch tray bearing an omelette, bread and butter, an orange and a glass of milk.

‘Nice to be some people. Make the most of it. It won’t happen every day.’

It became a matter of honour to eat the omelette. She needed no urging to eat the orange.

Diana came to take away the tray, approved of the empty plate and said, ‘I’m off duty now. Sure there’s nothing else you want?’

Isobel shook her head.

Enough for one day.

A trolley rattled in mid afternoon. Someone looked in. She played possum and the person went away.

The evening meal arrived, no longer a special order. She thought about curried dishcloths and stewed mince; this must be the dishcloths. She decided that she had done her duty by her stomach, pushed the plate away and closed her eyes.

A tall woman came in and looked regretfully at Isobel’s plate.

‘Now, darling. You must try to eat, you know. It’s so upsetting for the cook if things go back to the kitchen. You must think about other people’s feelings.’

Like Sister Mackenzie she wore the blue and white striped dress and the starched cap with floating strings which must be the uniform of a sister. She was large bosomed and broad hipped; her round head seemed rather too small for her ample body; her face wore an expression of sweetness which matched her coaxing tone.

‘I had a big lunch. Honestly, I’m not hungry.’

‘Well, eat your bread and butter. You must eat something.’

The tone was as unappetising as the stew, but Isobel did take a mouthful of the stew. It did not improve on acquaintance.

At least this indication of her good intention sent her visitor away.

An orderly arrived and cleared away her dinner without comment.

The same large woman arrived later accompanied by a young Chinese who said with formality, ‘Good evening. I am Doctor Wang. I hope you have had a quiet day.’

‘It took some coaxing to make her eat her dinner, Doctor.’

‘Oh, indeed.’

This matter appeared to be of little interest.

‘I shall be seeing you tomorrow after you have been to Medical. So until then, good evening and sleep well. You have already met Sister Knox, I see, since she persuaded you to eat your dinner.’