The Girls from See Saw Lane (24 page)

I
hardly slept
that night and the next day, I felt exhausted. I went to work but my heart wasn't in it. I hid myself away in the stockroom, tidying the boxes and the shelves. I wanted to be alone, without anyone talking to me. I needed to think.

Sally realised that I needed to be somewhere quiet. I didn't want to talk to people about lipstick and eyeshadow. I didn't want to look over at the sweet counter and remember Mary making funny faces at me over the pick and mix. Sally let me be alone with my thoughts and when anyone else came in to fetch something, they didn't bother me either.

At eleven o'clock Sally put her head round the door and called me into the staffroom. She told me to sit down at a table and brought me a cup of coffee.

‘Is Mary going to be all right?' she asked, putting the coffee on the table.

‘I hope so,' I said, ‘but I don't really know, no one knows much yet.'

‘Is she allowed visitors at the hospital?'

‘Yes.'

‘What time's visiting?'

‘Two till three and then this evening.'

‘When were you planning to go?'

‘I haven't planned anything.' I picked up my coffee cup and blew across the surface. I hadn't looked Sally straight in the eye. I was afraid she might see something in my expression, some badness.

Sally stirred her own coffee. ‘Why don't you go to see her this afternoon?'

‘Could I?'

‘We're hardly run off our feet. You'll feel better once you've seen her.'

‘Thanks,' I said, ‘you're probably right.'

She smiled. ‘It's difficult, isn't it, when somebody you care about is in trouble? The closer you are to a person, sometimes, the harder it is to know what to do for the best. But for now I guess the only thing you can do is be there for her.'

‘Yes,' I said.

‘Do you fancy a Club biscuit?'

‘No thanks, Sally. I'm fine.'

I spent the rest of the morning helping the lads in the stockroom, but by twelve o'clock I couldn't stay any longer. The smell of frying fish wafting down from the canteen was making me feel sick. I felt as if I had a stomach full of frogs.

I caught the bus to the hospital. I sat on the top deck and looked out of the window. When the bus stopped I climbed down the steps, jumped off and walked towards the building. I was far too early for visiting hours but I hadn't wanted to go home. I hadn't wanted to face Mum again.

I sat on a bench in the hospital garden and watched a grey squirrel ferreting round amongst the fallen leaves at the base of a beautiful chestnut tree. I had a tight feeling in my chest, I tried to breathe through it, but I knew it wouldn't go away until I could admit to myself that what I had done to Mary was wrong. I closed my eyes, looked into my heart and didn't like what I found there. It wasn't only that Ralph and me had kissed, it was that I had wanted more, I had expected more, like they both owed it to me. On top of all that I had judged her, just like Mum said I had, and I had done it in the cruellest of ways; I had done it to make myself look good in Ralph's eyes. I hadn't been there for Mary when she needed me most. I should have been more concerned that she was tired all the time, instead of just deciding that she was lazy. I shouldn't have cleaned the flat all the time making Mary feel useless. I should have sat with her and listened to her worries and fears. What did it really matter if the flat was a tip? I had been a bad friend and I was ashamed of myself; now all I wanted was the chance to make it up to her.

The squirrel must have sensed I was there and abruptly stopped what he was doing, he stared at me and then he turned and raced up the tree, disappearing into its branches. I sat on the bench until it was time for me go in. Once again I queued with the other people outside the doors, only this time it wasn't the maternity hospital, it was the Royal Sussex County, a large forbidding-looking building. I had to walk miles and miles through long corridors with brown lino on the floor. The corridors were lit by bare bulbs and every so often I'd come to a junction and there'd be another ward, but the ward Mary was in was right at the very end.

It was a nice, bright ward, much smaller than maternity, but it was quiet, too quiet, and the women in the beds weren't rosy, milky new mothers, but pale, exhausted creatures like people from another planet. Their visitors looked as washed-out as they were, and the nurses who tended them walked softly and spoke gently. The smell was awful. There was the normal odour of polish and disinfectant, but beneath that was the scent of something unfamiliar and frightening; a sweet smell that stung the back of my throat. It made me feel panicky.

Mary was in a bed at the furthest end of the ward. She seemed to have shrunk. Had all the blood bled from her, I wondered. Was this all that was left?

All the things I'd been feeling that morning – the guilt, the shame, the fear and the embarrassment, they all vanished. All I felt was a rush of love for Mary. All I wanted was for her to be back to herself again, for her to be well.

She turned her head towards me. Her face was ashen, her lips dry, her skin a palish grey colour and I realised then that she wasn't just tired; she was ill.

‘Hi,' I said. I sat down on the chair beside the bed and smiled at her. She smiled back. Her lips moved but she did not make a sound. I reached out and took hold of her hand. It was tiny and cool, like a fragile little creature.

‘Are you all right?' I asked. She blinked slowly and tried to speak, but I could see that the effort was too much for her.

‘Oh, Mary…' I said. I felt a little pressure from the tips of her fingers on my hand.

She swallowed, and winced, and then her lips made the shape of the words: ‘I'm scared.'

‘I know,' I said. ‘I'm scared too but you're in the best place now, with people to look after you. They'll have you better in no time.'

‘I'm so tired, Dottie, I feel as if I could sleep for a hundred years.'

‘Like Sleeping Beauty?' I said, smiling.

‘I'm not sure about the beauty bit.'

‘You look okay to me,' I said.

‘You would say that,' she said softly, so softly that I could barely hear her.

I took a deep breath and from somewhere deep down inside me I found some strength. I leaned closer to Mary, and I made myself smile as if everything was going to be fine, and I looked right into her eyes and I said: ‘It's okay, Mary, because whatever happens from now on, it will happen to us together, just like always.'

‘Just like always,' she whispered and then she closed her eyes.

I sat by the bed watching her, now and then her eyelids flickered and I wasn't sure if she was asleep or just resting, and as I sat there, I realised that this girl lying on the bed beside me was the most important person in my life. She always had been. I heard a bell go off in the distance, alerting everyone to the fact that visiting time was over. I leaned across the bed and kissed her cheek, ‘I'll be back,' I said.

Mary didn't open her eyes but she smiled and said, ‘You'd better.'

T
he next weeks
went by in a blur. I stood behind the cosmetics counter in Woolworths and I talked to the customers as I normally did. I recommended the right colour lipsticks to go with their outfits and chatted about the weather, the news, the Beatles, Marianne Faithfull. I liked being busy; it meant I didn't have time to think about Mary or Ralph. After work, I walked home through the streets, through the estate and everything was the same but everything was different. At home I sat at the table with my brother and my parents and I ate my dinner and then I went upstairs to my room and I lay on my bed and I stared at the ceiling.

I
actually missed Rita
. I missed having her there to talk to me. I wondered about going round to see her, but I didn't.

When I thought about Mary, I tried to be positive.

So she was in hospital having tests. So what? That was a
good
thing wasn't it. That was what doctors and hospitals were for. That was the whole point of them, so that when people were ill they went to the hospital and the doctors found out what was wrong and made them better.

And it wasn't like Mary was a sickly person to start with; Mary had never been ill. She was the least ill person I had ever known. She hardly ever even caught colds. So how could she be seriously ill now? It was probably just some kind of deficiency or something. Maybe having the baby had depleted her, somehow. It was bound to be something that was easy to fix,
bound
to be.

Visiting times in the evening were from six until eight, so I started to go to the hospital straight from work, and on my days off I went in the afternoon. Sometimes she would be sleeping and I would pull a chair up close to the bed and just hold her hand for an hour. At other times her bed would be empty when I arrived and the nurse would tell me that Mary was having tests, and then I would stand at the window watching the world go by, until she was brought back into the room in a wheelchair. Nothing much else happened until two weeks later when the test results came back.

Mary had leukaemia.

I
met
Steve in a cafe on the seafront. It was a lovely day. A warm breeze fluttered the flags strung between the old lamp posts that ran the whole length of the promenade. When you have always lived in one place, you don't always notice how beautiful things are because they are things that you have looked at for the whole of your life. Since Mary had got ill, my senses seemed to have heightened. I looked at things in a different way. Maybe I appreciated everything more, maybe I just appreciated being young and healthy on this beautiful sunny day in the town where I had grown up.

Now as I looked at the intricate designs on the ancient structures, I thought that they were quite beautiful. They were the colour of the sea, a kind of washed-out green, peeling in parts where the salty sea air had battered them over the years.

I think Steve knew what I was going to say to him, I thought he looked a bit sad as he sat down at the table. I had already ordered two coffees, putting a saucer on top of his cup to keep it warm. This wasn't a cafe I had ever been to before and the coffee was more froth than coffee.

Steve lifted the saucer off the cup. ‘I haven't seen you in a while,' he said. ‘Is everything alright?'

‘My friend is sick.'

‘Oh, I'm sorry.'

‘So I can't see you any more.'

‘You can't see me because your friend is sick?'

How could I explain to him how I was feeling? How there was no room for him, in this life of mine that had narrowed down to a young girl in a hospital bed.

I took a sip of froth, Steve pointed to my upper lip. I wiped the froth away with the back of my hand.

He reached across the table and touched my arm. ‘It's okay,' he said. ‘You don't have to explain, I can see you're really upset.'

‘I'm sorry.'

‘Can I send the odd post card from Butlins?'

‘I'd like that,' I said.

O
utside the hospital
, life carried on as normal. Spring slowly turned into summer. The days began earlier and finished later, the air grew warmer, the flowers in the gardens of the houses on the estate came into bud, the men began to cut their lawns. Inside the hospital, nothing seemed to change. The faces were different, but nothing else; not the smells, not the temperature, not the awful sense of hopelessness. Every day I hoped for some good news, for something better, something to look forward to. And at last, one day, something
was
different. For the first time in a long time, the nurse at the desk smiled at me, not a sad, pitying smile, but a big grin.

‘Go on through,' she said. ‘Mary's been waiting for you.'

I ran through the ward and when I reached the room, Mary wasn't in the bed but sitting in a chair by the window. The light was falling on her face, and when she turned to smile at me I realised how small she was, and how fragile, like a bird. Her skin was stretched over her bones as if she were made of something precious and delicate. But she was sitting up, and smiling. I lay the flowers I had bought on the bed, and then I leant down and kissed her cool cheek.

‘Look at you!' I said.

‘Yes, look at me! Sitting in a chair today, and if I have my way I'll be roller-skating tomorrow.'

I laughed and pulled up the other chair so that I was sitting opposite her, our knees touching.

‘Are you feeling better?' I asked.

She nodded. ‘They gave me a transfusion and they did a good job. I feel like a ten-year-old again. I was even hungry this morning. I haven't felt hungry in ages. I had two pieces of toast and some scrambled egg.'

‘Maybe the blood came from some big handsome man with a big appetite.'

‘Maybe. Our mum's had all my brothers giving blood. She said if they were going to fill me up with blood, she'd rather keep it in the family. I told her they gave me Pickles blood to keep her happy, although when they fetch a packet out the fridge it doesn't have the donor's name on.'

I smiled. ‘I don't care where it came from, it's just lovely to see you out of bed.'

‘I really hope this is the start of me getting better,' said Mary. ‘If they can keep giving me new blood, and I can keep eating and doing a bit more each day, there's no reason why I shouldn't be well enough to come home soon, is there?'

I hoped that was true. I hoped that was true with every inch of me. I took Mary's hand and held it and for a few moments we sat in silence, both of us planning the things we would do together when Mary recovered enough to leave hospital. 

‘What would you like to do first?' I asked.

‘I think I'd like to go on to the pier and eat an ice cream,' said Mary. ‘Not a cornet but one of those blocks of ice cream that you eat between two wafers. They're the nicest.'

‘Okay,' I said. ‘We'll do that first.'

‘And then I'd like to go dancing. I'd like you and me to dress up really nice and have our hair put up and go out on the town.'

‘We could wear false eyelashes.'

Mary giggled. ‘Yes, definitely. And I'd like to have the last dance, the one that counts, with Elton. I'd like to know what it feels like to be in his arms again. I'd like him to hold me close and look into my eyes and perhaps kiss me.'

I rolled my eyes.

‘What?'

‘He'd have a job looking into your eyes, he's a foot taller than you.'

We were both laughing when Mary's laugh turned into a horrible cough. I gently rubbed her back until it passed. Her eyes went all watery and pink and we both remembered that she was still very ill. For a while we sat quietly. Mary closed her eyes and leant her head back against the chair. I covered her over with a crocheted blanket her mum had left for her. A nurse brought me a cup of milky tea and I sipped it, trying not to make a noise with the cup and saucer. Mary, suddenly, opened her eyes and looked at me again.

‘I'm glad you're here,' she said.

‘Where else would I be?'

‘I can hardly remember a time when you haven't been here for me.' 

I could hardly look at Mary, because it wasn't true. When Mary needed me most, I wasn't there at all. When Mary needed me most, I was kissing her husband. I am a bad friend, but I will make it up to her. She's all that matters now.

She sighed. ‘Would you mind helping me back into bed? If we're going to go dancing I'm going to need my beauty sleep.'

‘Too right,' I said.

I helped her out of the chair and into the bed, lifting her legs up for her, covering her over like a little child. 

‘Do you want a drink or anything?'

She shook her head, rested back into the pillow.

I sat back in the chair and watched Mary breathing; her breath was shallow and sounded sort of bubbly. It was so quiet that the noise seemed to fill the little room, and although part of me wished I was anywhere but here in this hospital, it was only there that I felt truly at peace, because as long as I could see her chest rising and falling I knew she was still with me. Some people had loads of friends, like the girls in the sack factory, and some people didn't have any, like my sister Rita, but I had always had Mary and I knew that if she left me I would be lost.

I stroked Mary's forehead very gently until she closed her eyes.

It was warm and peaceful in Mary's hospital room. A bee was buzzing at the window, trying to find its way out. I stood up and went to help it, guiding it to freedom with the magazine. It spiralled away without a care in the world. It seemed so wrong that a little insect could leave, but Mary couldn't. She couldn't go anywhere.

I sat down again and the cushion of the chair made a little
whoosh
noise beneath me. I rested my cheek on my hand and I closed my eyes.

M
rs Pickles came
into Woolworths to buy more nappies for Peggy. She said she couldn't be doing with washing and drying the dozen she had, not with having to fit in all the visits to the hospital and still looking after the baby.

I said: ‘How was Mary today? She looked lots better last time I saw her.'

Mrs Pickles rummaged in her purse. ‘She has good days and bad days, love,' she said.

That was all we said about Mary. After that Mrs Pickles stood in front of the cosmetics counter with the pram beside her and a bundle of new nappies tucked under her arm and carried on telling me how difficult it was to keep on top of the laundry and I stood beside the counter and listened and sympathised.

We were all the same. None of us told the truth – that what was upsetting us was that Mary was so ill. Instead we complained about little things: the buses always being late, barking dogs, the unseasonal heat, the nappies soaking in the bucket.

Peggy was in the pram, fussing. She was sitting now, propped up against the pillows. I wanted to pick her up, but I didn't think I should. It wouldn't have felt right. I looked at her though. I looked at her nuzzling at her fist with her mouth, and her hand all wet where she had been trying to suck it, and I noticed how she had rubbed away the hair at the back of her head so there was a bald patch, and I saw that her eyelashes were growing, and that she was bigger than she had been the last time I saw her. I had missed seeing her.

‘She's a good girl,' said Mrs Pickles. ‘She's no bother, that one.'

We smiled at Peggy and, delighted by the attention, she grinned a wide, gummy grin back up at us.

On my next day off, I went to the corner shop and bought a bag of pear drops for Mary, and a magazine. It was good for me not to have to rush for once. I knew I'd be able to sit with Mary for longer than usual and, even if she was sleeping, we'd be together.

I didn't really expect her to be interested in the magazine, but it seemed wrong to turn up with nothing. And if she was sleeping, at least I could look at it.

When I reached the ward that day Mary wasn't in her bed. She was sitting in the day room at the end of the ward wearing a pink dressing gown and fluffy slippers, looking out over the garden. Perhaps she was going to get better after all.

I skipped into the room and hugged her. And she felt thin and fragile beneath the winceyette gown, as if her bones were not joined together, but she had a colour to her cheeks and her eyes were bright, like they used to be.

‘You're looking better,' I said.

‘I'm feeling better,' said Mary. She looked at the paper bag in my hand. ‘Please don't tell me you brought me grapes. People keep buying me grapes and I keep throwing them away. I never want to see another grape as long as I live.'

‘I bought you pear drops,' I said.

‘Good,' said Mary. She smiled at me and I smiled at her.

‘So what's new?' I said.

‘My pills,' said Mary. ‘They're trying me on some new ones.'

‘They seem to be working.'

Mary nodded. ‘The doctor said they've got high hopes for them. They might turn out to be some kind of…'

‘What?'

I sat down in the chair next to hers. She looked up at me and her eyes were bright and shining.

‘Some kind of cure, they don't really know because they're so new and everything, but they've been using them in America and the results have been, oh what was the word they used?'

‘Miraculous?' I asked hopefully.

‘No,' Mary shook her head. ‘Promising. They said the results were promising. But that's good, isn't it? That's a lot better than nothing!'

‘It is!' I said. ‘It's fabulous!'

My heart was beating more strongly than it had for weeks. I hadn't let myself think about a future since Mary became ill, because I could not bear to think of a life without her. For the first time since her diagnosis, I felt hope. It pulsed through me, in my veins. I allowed myself to imagine Mary might get better. This awful illness of hers might not be all that was left for her. It might be the beginning of a new stage in her life.

‘So it's not the end of Mary Pickles yet!' Mary said. ‘Watch out Brighton, I'll be back before you know it!'

There was something about the bright way she said this, something that made me think she did not quite believe it herself.

‘You have to be positive, Mary,' I said. ‘For Peggy's sake. For mine.'

‘Yes,' Mary said, but she did not look at me.

I followed her gaze through the window. There was a very small but pretty garden beyond. A nurse was pushing the handles of a wheelchair. A very old man was wrapped up in blankets inside the chair. Beside them was a little girl picking daisies from the lawn. She had beautiful, strawberry blonde hair, just like Peggy's. I glanced across at Mary, and she shot me back a too-bright smile. I felt something break deep inside me.

Mary sniffed and wiped her nose with her forefinger.

‘You'll never guess who's in here too!' she said.

‘Who?'

‘Louise Morgan! You remember Louise? She was at school with us. She was always being sick!'

‘What's wrong with her this time?'

‘No she's not a patient, she's a nurse!'

‘That figures,' I said, ‘she's had all that experience of hospitals.'

‘It was nice to see her again,' said Mary. ‘We were talking about old times. She told me…'

‘What?'

‘That you were always very kind to her.'

I laughed. ‘I barely remember her.'

‘You were nice to everyone.'

Mary picked at her fingernails. ‘I'm sorry, Dottie. I'm sorry I hurt you.'

I shook my head.

I reached over and took hold of her hand. ‘It doesn't matter any more,' I said and it didn't. All that mattered now was Mary.