The Night Following (25 page)

“Hi. Just off?”he said.

I nodded. He nodded back. “People often do find it difficult,”he said rather nicely. “I mean after.”

“After what?”I said, and he blushed.

The elevator arrived and we traveled down. At the bottom he asked for my telephone number. Three days later he took me out for a drink and talked about himself. As I listened, I was thinking that even if burdened he looked, in the way doctors can, becalmed by responsibility. Despite the junior-doctor pallor and slumped shoulders, he exuded enough certainty about life to deal with whatever might be waiting for me “after,”beyond the ward; he had a forward-going force that I knew I lacked. And he seemed an intrepid person—indeed the very practice of medicine was to me intrepid in itself: all those intimate, dreadful incursions into other people’s bodies, how did he ever
dare
? When he said that he intended to specialize in anesthesia, I knew he wouldn’t let me feel a thing. It was the most seductive promise he could have made, to keep me benumbed.

What did I offer in return? Nothing really, of any visible value, perhaps nothing at all beyond my self as a prepared and willing surface for the marital textures of stasis and familiarity, an implicit pledge that I would spring no surprises. Two years later I entered marriage gratefully. It was like stepping into a clean white room whose door Jeremy held open and then closed quietly behind us.

For most of the rest of that night I drifted through Arthur’s house. Eventually I lay down on the sofa and drew in a long, stifling breath that made me wonder if I was taking in water rather than air, and indeed if I should not prefer to be drowning rather than falling asleep. It seemed that I was staring into dark water from a raft, alive but not quite rescued, and afloat slightly reluctantly. My eyes began to sting. I wanted Arthur with me.

   It seemed to Evelyn that Grace hardly spoke to her anymore. They had never found it easy to communicate but for the past four months, since Uncle Les had been in and out of hospital, first with a collapsed lung and pneumonia and then with what the doctors called “complications,”it had got worse. She could sense Grace turning away from her whenever she came into a room, she could feel how wide a berth she was given whenever she got up from her chair. If Grace was in the kitchen and Evelyn entered, Grace would leave. If Evelyn was there, Grace wouldn’t come in. It was if she could not have borne so much as an accidental brush of her mother’s hand. Evelyn longed for her hand to be touched, or to be allowed the lightest caress of her daughter’s hair or her shoulder. It would have helped her to “see”her, perhaps.

But it was many years since they had embraced each other. That was fair enough, there was no call for grown women to go around hugging and kissing each other all day, but Evelyn and her Mam had occasionally given each other a peck and a pat and it had probably done them good. But Grace had never been that kind of child.

Evelyn sighed and put down her knitting. Uncle Les looked forward to their weekly visits to him in hospital on Wednesdays, the shop’s half-day, and Grace should have shut up below and come up by now. If they had a quick early dinner they could make it to the half-past-one bus and that meant an hour and a quarter with him before all visitors had to leave at half past three. If they missed the bus going, they had barely half an hour. But more and more often Grace would slip away after shutting the shop and not come up for her dinner until it was past quarter to one. When Evelyn had asked her where she got to, all she would say was she hadn’t noticed the time. Any further questions were met with a sullen silence, not that Evelyn really needed to ask any; the smell of cigarette smoke and strong drink on her were explanation enough.

The other thing that worried Evelyn constantly was Grace’s attitude to Uncle Les. When he had first been taken ill, Grace had made it clear she didn’t care. He’s as tough as an old boot, that one. Don’t let him fool you, he’ll see you buried, she had said harshly. It was only after that first month, when he suddenly relapsed and then deteriorated, that she had begun to take any interest in how he was, wanting to know from day to day if he was out of danger or not. For about three weeks it had seemed to matter to her whether he lived or died. But then when he had been declared on the mend but facing a long, slow recovery, she lost interest again.

In fact, for the past four or five visits, she had spent at the most a few minutes at the bedside, keeping her coat on and refusing to sit down, before announcing that she was off for a walk and would come back for Evelyn at the end of the visiting hour. It was a blessing that Uncle Les had been too ill to take offense, but he was getting stronger now and Evelyn did not want him upset by Grace’s attitude. Grace just didn’t seem to recognize how much they owed to Uncle Les, and how much they still relied on his goodwill.

Just then she heard Grace’s solid tread on the stairs. Evelyn sighed again, got up, and went to the kitchen. There were potatoes to mash, and with a bit of luck the sausages in the oven wouldn’t be burnt quite to cinders.

On the bus, Evelyn squeezed into the window seat and Grace planted herself beside her, breathing hard. She sounded hot and heavy, but it was only May and there was a cool, fresh wind. Grace pulled in her breath and held it. Evelyn felt the tension in her and reached out to place a hand on her arm.

“Are you all right, love?”she said. “You sound a bit puffed.”

“I’m all right,”Grace said, shifting away from Evelyn’s touch. “Indigestion.”

“I’m not surprised,”Evelyn said with a forced chuckle. “By the time you were sat down to your dinner you’d barely five minutes to eat it.”

Grace had no reply to that and they traveled on in silence. The bus dropped them at the hospital gates. It was at least another five minutes’brisk walk across the hospital grounds and down several echoing corridors to the Respiratory Diseases ward. Evelyn knew better than to take Grace’s arm so as usual she kept at her side by concentrating on the sound of Grace’s feet, waving her white stick to and froahead of her as she went. Today, Grace’s loud breathing mixed with the sound of her footfall. Her indigestion did seem to be troublesome. Maybe this would teach her not to cut it so fine on Wednesdays in future. Evelyn was about to suggest that she really needed to give herself a bit longer to digest her meal when Grace stopped dead.

Evelyn was alarmed. “Grace, what’s up? Are you all right?”

There was silence for a moment. “Aye, stop fussing, it’ll pass,”Grace growled. From the direction of her voice Evelyn knew she was either crouching on the ground or doubled over. “It’s just a stitch in my side.”

Sure enough after a short while Grace said brightly, “Come on, then. Let’s get it over with.”

“Oh, Grace, you are unkind about your uncle,”Evelyn murmured. But she was pleased that Grace sounded more like herself, even if it had to be a rather short-tempered self.

They reached the ward after the usual squeaky walk along the polished linoleum floors and brick-lined corridors. When they got to the bedside Grace muttered that Uncle Les was asleep. She almost pushed her mother into a chair and said she would be back at half past three. Evelyn opened her mouth to protest, but changed her mind. It might not be such a bad idea if Grace took herself off, since she was clearly in a nasty mood. She didn’t quite trust her not to make a scene and that was the last thing anyone wanted, especially around sick folk lying in a hospital ward.

After a minute or two, Uncle Les woke up. Evelyn knitted away, addressing remarks to him, which he answered sleepily. She was quite content not to have to make too much conversation, and she wondered to herself how many more Wednesday visits would be required. She noticed that his voice sounded stronger and he hardly coughed at all. There had been mention of a convalescent home in the countryside for a month’s recuperation, which would certainly be a difficult journey for her and Grace by bus.

When Uncle Les drifted off to sleep again she tap-tapped her way with her white stick to the end of the ward where, as she expected, a nurse came out and greeted her. Yes, she confirmed, Doctor was very pleased with Mr. Hibbert and fully expected that another week should see him strong enough to leave hospital. A spell of convalescence in a well-run establishment such as the Maud Braddock Memorial Home for Invalids would be just the thing. A few more weeks of fresh air and not overdoing things would put him properly back on his feet. Evelyn nodded and turned to go back, waving her stick in front of her.

“I’m just due to do my rounds,”the nurse said. “Here’s my arm, if you’ll allow me?”

Without waiting for a reply she took Evelyn’s arm and tucked it cozily under her own, and led her slowly back up the ward. As they went, she spoke in a gentle voice to Evelyn about the flowers placed here and there. Mr. Crowe had orange chrysanthemums, but the lovely scent came from the simple lilies of the valley in a little vase on Mr. McIntyre’s bedside table. His wife had brought them from the garden. Evelyn squeezed the nurse’s arm.

“I had lilies of the valley for my wedding posy. Over twenty years ago. Oh, I can see that posy now! Lovely, it was.”

The nurse murmured sympathetically.

“Aye, and the wallflowers in the gardens out yonder,”Evelyn went on, “they’ve a grand smell, too. I walked past them from the gate.”

“Yes, I saw they were out. Lovely colors.”

“Aye, they’re bonny-lookin’. As I remember.”She turned and smiled at the nurse, her eyes brimming with tears.

“Oh, dear, I am sorry!”the young nurse said. “I’m so thoughtless. Only with you coming every Wednesday, I got to thinking if
I
couldn’t see, what I’d want would be somebody letting me know what there
was
to see. Then I might sort of see it in my head. Only maybe it’s not like that at all. Oh, I’m ever so sorry if I’ve offended—”

“Nay! Nay, go on with you! You’ve got it spot-on. I’m not used to it, that’s all, somebody thinking about it that way. My Grace, now, she…”Evelyn fished her handkerchief from her sleeve and wiped her eyes. “She’s just not a big talker, I sup pose. Well, thank you, lass,”she said. “Thank you ever so.”

They had arrived back at Uncle Les’s bed and the nurse helped Evelyn back into her chair. “You’re right welcome. You’ve another fifteen minutes,”she said. “We’ll miss you when Mr. Hibbert goes.”

Evelyn beamed. Then the nurse leaned in close and whispered in her ear. “Sister was saying your smile lights up the whole ward. You’re an inspiration, you are. Take care now.”

It seemed impossible to Evelyn that she might inspire anyone, but she went on smiling at the compliment, and turned her attention again to entertaining Uncle Les with snippets of news.

When Grace arrived back sullenly at a quarter to four, Evelyn was waiting for her under the porch of the entrance to the ward. It had begun to rain. Grace marched back to the bus stop so fast that Evelyn had to call out to her to slow down. Not a word was exchanged on the journey home. On the bus, Evelyn pondered the words of the nurse, wondering about the sympathy that had come from the young woman so naturally, as if she were filled with it and it overflowed. Where did it all come from? She knew it was wrong of her, but she couldn’t help hoping that even a little of something similar was lodging somewhere deep in Grace’s heart, and would come out one day. Then she immediately felt guilty. The nurse probably had a mother waiting at home ready to notice that her young daughter looked tired or troubled, or had done her hair a new way, or had a new glow about her. It wasn’t Grace’s fault.

   Sleep came in the end. It always does. It’s not sleep itself that’s the problem, it’s when you sleep; Arthur and I both knew well enough by now how determined people were to prevent us from sleeping at times it was inconvenient to them. But of course they couldn’t stop us any more than we could stop the dreams that came when we did.

That first night alone and waiting for him, I had a dream that began in water, dark water flickering with iridescent, darting fish, though on reflection it might have been a dark sky alive with butterflies. Whether air or water it was warm, and in it my breath softened and slowed and I swam or floated toward a bumpy-looking ledge that turned out to be the distant line between a lake and a sky just beginning to blaze with light; as I came nearer, the horizon split against the rising dome of the sun.

The dream woke me as if a torch had been shone into my eyes. I got up to get a drink of water and I stood in the kitchen listening to the kind of low noise all kitchens make, not really a sound at all. Every kitchen’s undercurrents are the same and different, and kitchens smell the same and different. Here it was milky, sweetish. I wandered out to the back garden. The fresh air rushed at me and I plonked myself down on the terrace steps. It was so cold and lovely.

I was shivering. I was in need of food, too, I realized; my stomach began to grumble. Though I knew I should go in and get warm and find something to eat, I went on sitting there, looking up at the sky. I wondered what it would be like to be in a house near running water and surrounded by mountains so that every night would be filled with flows and echoes. I could hear the emptiness up there, and it made me think of flying, not with great flapping wings but in the way the gift of flight is bestowed in a dream or by magic, when the wind streams under you and you soar without effort simply because you have been granted the belief that you can. I closed my eyes and felt myself flying close to the top of a hillside invisible in the dark but there all the same, rising from a gleaming stretch of water.

Before it grew light, and now thinking practically of Arthur’s return, I went back upstairs. I chose quickly from the closet, not taking time to assess its contents carefully. The clothes were obvious, anyway: sensible, not ugly but certainly not alluring or attractive. There was something so habitual and plain about them it seemed impossible they had ever been bought new, or chosen at all, never mind with pleasure; it was difficult to discern anything in them that would cause them to be selected from among others. I put on olive green slacks, a cream sweater, and some slip-on shoes. I looked like nobody, or anybody. I didn’t mind. For years I had been heading the same way myself, toward a capitulation to the expectation that women past a certain age dress only for weather, convenience, and disguise. It was obvious to me that it had been decades since Arthur had either been asked for or offered an opinion of Ruth’s appearance.