Isobel on the Way to the Corner Shop (6 page)

What about Mr Lynch? Could she crawl down and knock at his door and cry for help?

The thought would have made her laugh if laughter didn’t hurt her head so much.

She had almost had her own lover. It had come close.

That was worse than a slammed door. A slammed door leaves live people behind it. She would write a poem one day, in Robbie’s honour, though he would not know of it: An elegy for lovelight.

Oh, for God’s sake! You’ve got no food and there you lie, thinking about writing a poem. You have to get up, and wash and dress, and what’s more, there’s that bucket to empty.

She hadn’t emptied the bucket for two days. It would be too heavy to carry. That would mean a very careful operation, transferring urine from bucket to po to lighten the load, emptying bucket, returning to transfer urine from po to bucket…

She raised her head and hastily lowered it again to her pillow.

Aspirin. She did have aspirin. Within reach, in her handbag by the bed.

She groped, found the packet, swallowed two tablets dry, and waited.

She had read about an old Marquise who had starved to death in a garret in the Palace of Versailles. Nobody knew she was there.

Three old ladies locked in the lavatory…they were there from Monday to Saturday…The tune droned through her head.

Fear got her to her feet. Not so bad. Never so bad once you got to your feet.

She pulled on pants and sweater and tried to lift the bucket. It was, as she had expected, too heavy to lift. She assembled po, enamel mug and the cloth to cover her nose and mouth against the ammoniac stench, and set to work, moving with care. There was plenty of time. Even after that long lie-in and the retrospective, which had done little to cheer her, it was still only half past eight. Now the po was full and the bucket was manageable. She carried it down to the lavatory, used the lavatory and raised the seat to pour away the contents of the bucket, retching a little because she hadn’t of course worn the protective cloth. Then back to the room, urine from po to bucket—that was the tricky bit, take it easy, plenty of time. Second trip done. Rest a bit.

Rinse bucket and po with water in mug from tap. We’re getting there.

She decided she couldn’t make it to the bathroom. Heat water on gas ring. Soap and washer job at the sink, do the worst spots, armpits, crotch and feet. Pants and sweater again. Shoes.

She was ready to go.

Just down three and a half flights of stairs, then a block and a half to the corner shop. Food, then back to hole up until she was better.

She sat on the edge of the bed for a while, practising minimal existence. This was a technique she had been using to gather the strength to get out of bed: perfectly still, breathing slow and shallow, not thinking, she waited for the moment. It came, she stood up and went out. When she locked the door behind her, she felt that she was at the end of the ordeal, not at its beginning.

The stairs were all right. She held the handrail and descended slowly to the hall.

She paused there. Come on, it was only a block and a half.

As soon as she got into the street, she knew that a block and a half was an impossible distance. There was the bus stop, just a few yards in the other direction. She could make that, working her way along the front of the buildings—without support, she reeled like a drunk—and sit on the seat practising minimal living until she had gathered sufficient reserves to make the journey.

She sidled along to the bus-stop shelter and sat down.

Strength was returning. Soon she would get up and move.

Then a bus came and she got on the bus. She got on the bus because that is what people do at bus stops. She seemed to have forgotten her purpose in being there.

The conductor as he took her fare said, ‘Are you all right, love?’

‘Oh, yes. Thank you.’

‘Well, you know best. You don’t look all right to me.’

Though she had not meant to take the bus, it seemed after all not a bad idea. Riding in a bus was better than walking. She could get food at David Jones’ basement just as easily and with less walking.

When the bus stopped at the top of Market Street, she tried to get up and knew that she was facing calamity. She tried again, succeeded and made her way handhold by handhold to the door, down the steps and into the street, where she stood reeling. She clutched at the shoulder of the man ahead of her and clung. He looked round, startled, then astonished and displeased.

She muttered, ‘Sorry. Sorry. I slipped.’

‘Starting a bit early, aren’t you?’

That stiffened her spine. She let go and stood steady and measured the distance to what looked like safety, the footpath and the shop windows which would offer support at need. She arrived without stumbling and stood looking through a shop window at the plastic reproduction of a gentleman who had never seen trouble in his life and was now ready to go skiing.

The main thing was to find shelter. She was abominably exposed, conscious even of her nakedness under the sweater and the slacks which had been adequate for that walk to the corner shop. Somewhere to hide maybe for an hour or two, while she got herself together.

There was the newsreel theatrette down at the George Street end of Market Street. Just about the same distance from this point as the corner shop from that stop where she had so foolishly taken the bus. That theatrette was the place to sit in a comfortable seat in the dark; a rest there would set her up, she would get the strength to come back to the food basement of David Jones, get her supplies—and then a financially ruinous taxi ride back to the building. The expense couldn’t be helped. Survival was now the aim. Survival without disgrace.

This was going to take effort. She stared at the gentleman with the skis and willed herself into the image of one of those native women walking gracefully, carrying on her head a pitcher of water—though for Isobel the head itself would be the burden to be held upright.

Bringing that burden erect caused considerable pain, which was an advantage, another reason to hold it steady. She set off, head up. She used the sidling technique, easier with shop windows she could pretend to be studying, crossed Pitt Street as carefully as a tightrope walker, arrived without disaster at the foyer, fumbled stiff-necked for her change purse, bought her ticket while staring over the head of the ticket seller, and went in.

The usherette who tore her ticket in half looked at her with suspicion. She maintained her lofty stance.

Lady, I haven’t touched a drop.

There were not many patrons in the little theatre. In the dark, she did lurch towards a seat in a back row, hoping that the usherette couldn’t see her. She worked her way along the row and, thankfully, sat down.

She had to expect a reaction after that effort. It was cool in the theatre. She hadn’t noticed the cold out in the street, but now shudders were running down her body, continuous as rain down a window pane, and she had to bite on her sleeve to keep her teeth from chattering. Her breathing came quick and shallow. In short pants. That was a joke from somewhere: her breath came in short pants. Not a bit funny when it happened to you. She was even sorrier now that she hadn’t put more clothes on.

She stared at the screen. The sound didn’t mean much. It simply hurt her head. There was a procession, people with banners, shouting, but whether in happiness or anger she could not tell. Probably anger. What could they have to complain about? But after all, there was plenty to complain about. One thing she could be sure of: she wasn’t the only one in trouble in this world. She liked to watch, however. It was good to know that things were still going on.

There was something wrong with the back of the seat, some projection sticking into her below the right shoulder blade. She couldn’t be bothered to change her seat. She wriggled into a more comfortable position and the pain disappeared.

Now the people on the screen were in Antarctica watching a lot of penguins waddle down to the sea like odd little manikins, then with a leap transform themselves into creatures of exquisite grace in the sea. A lesson there if she could think of it.

Then there was a woman launching a ship, having trouble with the champagne bottle, which refused to break. She never did discover if the woman had succeeded at last. She must have dozed off, for she opened her eyes to see the same procession, the multitude of people united in one emotion, whether it was joy or anger.

The sleep had done her good. She felt quite steady now, quite able to walk out and back to David Jones’ food basement, buy her stores and go home. All problems were solved.

She got up and walked out into the night.

She stood in the dark street among the lights that shone from foyers, restaurants, shop windows and tried to make out what had happened. She had slept, not through one session, but through two. The shops were shut and she had still not bought food.

Why had she got on the bus? She could have sat at the bus stop long enough—she could have stayed longer in the attic practising minimal living and gathering strength…never mind all that. What could she do now to retrieve the situation?

Get something to eat, take a taxi home and try again tomorrow.

She walked to the corner, walking well now that it was of no use. Across the road in George Street light was coming from a doorway above which shone the name The Soup Kitchen. That would do.

Hunger wasn’t a problem. It had been, but it had been balanced by a disgust of almost all food. Now getting food into her stomach was a mechanical act needed for survival. Soup would be easy.

She crossed the road, shivering in the cold night air, went down a short flight of stairs into a warm, bright room furnished with long tables flanked by benches. It was a cafeteria. There were a few people waiting in a queue at the serving area; she lined up, took a tray, moved along the display cases, ignored salads and desserts, took a bowl of minestrone and a glass of wine, paid at the cash register and walked to a table, quite elated by her competence. What a pity she hadn’t thought to add to her tray one of those plates with a small pack of cracker biscuits and a foil-wrapped wedge of cheese. She could have taken it home; it would have done for the morning meal, till she got to the corner shop next day.

There were baskets on the tables full of hunks of bread. She took one, ate her soup without difficulty, chewed at a piece of bread and thought she would go back and get the cheese and biscuits. The problem was solved.

It was with the glass of wine that the muttering began. She did not know that the voice was her own until staring faces located it at her centre. This had happened somewhere before; she could not remember where or when. She felt sorry for the people who were looking at her with such embarrassment. She said punctiliously to the nearest diner, a few places down at the other side of the table, ‘I am not drunk. I am strapped to the black horse of madness.’

The apology, which had been intended to smooth things over, seemed to have made them worse. The man had turned away. Everyone had turned away.

But I can’t turn away, she thought. There was the whole terrifying problem in four words. I can’t turn away.

One thing was certain. She had to get away from here, and at once. Unfortunately, the little spurt of energy which had carried her into the cafeteria was now exhausted.

She surveyed the situation with care. Exit: lighted, visible. One made for it, from table to table. No point in keeping up appearances now. Stairs: one climbed them, thankful for the handrail. Pavement: one followed it, but in which direction? Downward. That was the imperative. She took a few steps away from the lighted doorway, yielded to the invitation of the pavement and lay down.

She was not left in peace for long. A voice said, ‘You disgusting. You get up from there and go away. You don’t act like this in front of my restaurant, decent place. We don’t want drunks. You get up, you hear? You want me to call the police?’

She did not answer.

The voice grew more agitated.

‘I tell you. Get up! Is disgusting! Get up and go away!’

It was the voice that went away, which was a relief.

Then it returned.

‘I tell you, officer, she was staggering drunk in the restaurant. We don’t serve drunks there. Never sell a glass of wine to anyone drinking. A good place, I run a good place, good food and a glass of wine, that’s all. The girl says, she went out staggering, terrible. One glass of wine only in my restaurant. Came in drunk from somewhere else, cashier not notice.’

A deeper voice said, with contempt, ‘Get up from there. You’re a disgrace. Come on. Move.’

She did not stir.

A hand gripped her shoulder and shook it, jerking at the dagger which had lodged itself under her shoulderblade, so that she yelped with pain.

The hand moved from her shoulder to her forehead, the voice said in pity and astonishment, ‘Why, you’re not drunk. You’re sick!’

She was lifted then and was leaning against a warm, solid body and discovering that perfect love was rough like serge and smelt of tobacco and sweat. There was an arm around her holding her steady.

‘Get her a chair, will you? She’s sick, I tell you.’

‘She didn’t get sick here. I don’t want her here.’

‘She is sick and the sooner you call an ambulance the sooner we’ll be out of your way. Meanwhile you get her a chair and get to the telephone. If we’re bad for your business, get moving.’

It was good to hear that contempt turned on the other.

She was sitting now on a chair in the doorway, still supported by serge and a column of muscle and living flesh and wonderful humanity. The best thing was his saying ‘we’. She could love him for ever for that.

She whispered, ‘Thank you. Thank you very much.’

‘All in the day’s work, love.’ He sounded embarrassed, but tightened his arm about her for a moment. ‘We’ll have you in hospital soon. And here comes the ambulance.’

The urgent whine of the ambulance was the last thing she heard for some time.

After that it was darkness.

Voices began to come through the dark.