Turn Us Again (10 page)

My father hands the manuscript back to me. “Do you remember that?”

I nod, thinking he was going to tell me how anti-Semitic my mother was.

“She divorced me from my background in her mind. In fact, my Jewishness was a fundamental part of my life, even while I was rejecting it. I told her right from the beginning that we could never marry because I had to marry somebody from the Jewish faith. She never understood how I could reject her on the basis of background. She always thought it should be the other way around — I should be praising Allah — or whoever those Jewish people praised — for catching the interest of somebody like her.”

“It's a bit like how people judge Israel,” I say. “They always expect them to act like a European state, when half the country comes from the Middle East. So instead of praising them that they manage to have the only democracy in the region, they slam them for the way they deal with the Palestinian problem.”

“How is that analogous?”

“Well, Mum saw you as a Cambridge student and ignored your Jewishness.” I falter as my father's brow furrows.

“I was a Cambridge student — the same as all the others! I see myself as an English gentleman, not as a Jew. But at that time, I didn't think I could take the step of marrying a Christian. A step that would cut me off from family and friends and create non-Jewish kids who might not understand certain aspects of their father.”

‘You can say that again,' I thought to myself. I wanted to change the subject. Jewishness had always been a murky area, my father's antenna erect for possible slurs even while he insisted he was an English gentleman. He so wanted to be seen and accepted as an English gent, but his entire way of being was so ... Jewish. Passionate, honest, direct, insecure, aggressive. He'd feel a lot more at home in Israel than he ever did in England. Everybody shouts there.

But I don't say that. Instead, I change the subject. “But you did marry her in the end, despite her prejudice and that of your family.”

“You'll understand why when you get to it.”

“Not because you loved her to distraction?”

My father laughs. “No doubt that was the main reason.”

He soon retires, and I continue to sit by the electric fire in the sitting room, and read.

FIVE

T
he last weeks in Casualty were drawing to a close. Anne was now used to the uncertain nature of the daily workload and no longer panicked when emergencies came in. She still disliked it — mainly because it was impossible to develop close relationships with the patients due to the short time they remained in the ward — but she wasn't frightened any longer. She had found her niche comforting them and minimizing their terror during the few stressful hours they did spend with her.

The last weeks floated by, filled with happiness because life was about to change for the better. A year of obstetrics training that would qualify her as a midwife, and the end of cramped hospital accommodation. Louise, Anne and a couple of other co-workers had decided to find a place together.

Several nurses were finishing their three years of general training at the same time, and a pleasant atmosphere of light-hearted bonhomie permeated the hospital. Whispered consultations about party plans took place in the hallways, that couldn't possibly wait until break-time. The pros and cons of quantity versus quality in the booze department were of particular concern.

One day Anne was finishing her shift when she came across a group of nurses bunched together outside the porter's door. She assumed they were chatting about the party and stuck her head between two shoulders.

“The mail's come in, Smithie, but the porter won't give it to us,” one of the nurses said.

The porter was a grouchy man whose job consisted of sorting the mail and handing it out to the appropriate recipients. The mail was delivered with military punctuality at the same time every day, after the night shift had departed. Today the mail had arrived early, and the porter had already sorted it.

“He's a cantankerous old man with no authority other than his pathetic ability to withhold mail,” complained another nurse.

“It's our mail! It's against the law to keep our personal letters from us.”

At that point the porter emerged from his sanctuary. Catching sight of the group of nurses, he became apoplectic.

“I've told you to go home and you'll get the mail tomorrow! That's the final word, so stop hanging around my office griping.”

They looked at him with fury as he stomped off to have a cigarette.

Judy stepped forward and wiggled the handle of the sanctuary. “Look, it's not even locked. Let's just go in and get them.”

“Of course! Why shouldn't we? It's our property.”

“He's got no right to keep our letters from us.”

Having worked themselves into a fine lather of indignation and righteousness, it became imperative to obtain the letters right away, as the porter's cigarette breaks lasted ten minutes. The question was, who would enter the sanctuary?

“Go on, Smithie. You're the bravest. You've been in trouble before with Matron and it didn't faze you a bit.”

“Remember when Smithie just walked out in the middle of her shift and went home? Matron welcomed her back with open arms! She likes you, Smithie.”

A lusty chorus of ‘Come on Smithie' filled the hallway, and Anne, with a mixture of pleasure at being chosen as leader and real indignation about the letter-withholding, marched into the room and grabbed the mail.

With trembling hands she handed them out to the others. She was disappointed to see there was nothing for her on this auspicious day, even though her mother only wrote once a week.

She forgot the incident as soon as she got to her room. Exhausted, she made a cup of tea and slipped into bed. Exquisite drowsiness overcame her as she sipped, and images of the dream world vied with reality even before she laid her head on the pillow.

Two hours later she was wrenched awake by a pounding on the door.

“Get up! Get dressed! Matron wants to see all of you in her office, now.”

Anne dragged herself out of bed and shuddered into the cold, soiled uniform from her recent shift. She soon found herself standing in a line with other soiled uniforms outside Matron's office. They were the same faces she had been scheming with a few hours before, but the expressions were different. As soon as she joined the line there were mutterings of ‘Smithie's to blame' and ‘Trust Smithie to actually do it.' Bitterness mushroomed in Anne's heart. ‘The cowardice and meanness of these people,' she thought. ‘How could I have let my stupid colleagues convince me that stealing letters was the right thing to do?'

When Matron's door opened ominously, Smithie was pushed forward, “You go in first. You're the one who did it.”

One of them even said, “And don't try denying it either. There are enough witnesses to tell the truth.”

Smithie entered the office, heavy with betrayal and disgust.

Matron looked at her exhausted face. “Were you the ring leader in this sorry affair?”

“I was the one who took the letters from the porter's office, Matron. I don't think he has a right to keep our letters from us for no good reason.”

“Who are you to dictate the porter's job, or moralize about rights when you don't know the meaning of the word? There are things that happen at certain times. It's not a question of rights. What if one of your patients decided it was his right to receive his pills earlier than the time you distribute them?”

Anne closed her eyes as Matron berated her. Through her fog of weariness, misery jabbed into her brain. She hated her job, she hated her co-workers, who were supposed to be her friends but had deceived her, and she hated Matron. She plucked her nurse's badge off her uniform and hurled it on the ground, where it fell with a little plop in the sudden silence.

Matron stood up, walked around the desk and picked the badge off the floor. She approached Anne until she stood less than a foot in front of her. Anne wasn't sure if she was going to slap her, scream at her, or push her out of the room. She did none of those things. She plucked a fold of Anne's uniform between her fingers and pinned the badge back on. Then she walked back to her desk without a word and started rummaging in one of her drawers.

“I showed a letter to the board of governors last week, from one of your patients on the cancer ward. It said how wonderful you were and how you had transformed his stay in the hospital and given him something to look forward to. I cannot throw you out after showing such a letter to the board. You are dismissed.”

Walking back along the line of nurses with her head held high, she ignored their hissed questions about Matron's mood and what she had said to her. Later, she heard that Matron had yelled at each one of them, saying she knew they had egged Nurse Anne on and they should be ashamed of themselves for letting her take the rap.

The house was on a quiet street in Cambridge, close to all the best pubs and the river. Her bedroom was delightful, with rush matting on the floor and old Russian prints on the walls. The first night Anne slept there, she lay in bed looking around the little room filled with her simple possessions, feeling peaceful. ‘This is mine,' she said to herself, ‘I can do whatever I want in this room.' The years of sharing rooms had been stressful, despite Anne's love of society. The role she felt obliged to fulfill in every relationship was exhausting. Even with Louise, she could not be wholly unselfconscious. She would exchange pleasantries when she didn't feel like it, talk when she was exhausted. She was happiest when they had opposing shifts, and she could be sure of some time by herself in their room, in order to recharge her energies. A room to herself in this sweet house felt wonderful.

I love this house passionately,
she wrote in her diary
.
It has worked its way into my heart in the strangest manner. My first home away from home. I feel content every time I enter my room and close the door behind me. No more co-habiting with treacherous co-workers; now I choose the people I live with. My beloved Louise of course, and Lavinia and Greta. Lavinia is harmless, and will neither add to nor oppose any plans of ours. As for Greta, she was more Louise
'
s choice than mine. I can handle sharp-tongued Greta
.

The living room of the new house soon became a pre-pub meeting place, as well as a comfortable drop-in for a chat, where a cup of tea and a sympathetic ear were usually available. The house hummed with visitors — nurses, relatives, Cambridge students. This suited Anne well. Even when she was ensconced in her little room she could hear the hub-bub below and marvel how she had helped to create this pleasant oasis in the midst of life's stress. Indeed, in her heart she felt that she had created it almost single-handedly. The free, open-door feeling was produced by the quantity of visitors, many of whom were coming to see her. Sam was the most frequent, wedging his large bulk into one of the straight-backed chairs most evenings, sitting and chatting with whoever cared to listen. He even dropped in when Anne was at work, so pleasant was the atmosphere in the little house. He looked so bemused when Anne accused him of loving the house more than he loved her that she felt ashamed of her pettiness.

He had been cool for a day or two following his accusation that she was a liar. Anne was cross at his coolness, since it undermined her ability to be cool towards him. She was determined to maintain coolness after he began to wax warm again, but his method of reconciliation was too endearing. He leapt through the window of her room and folded her in his arms for a kiss. At first she had felt choked and couldn't speak or even look at him, not knowing whether to laugh or cry. “Sam, my joy!”

All was happiness. Sam bombarded her with food stuffs, which was the greatest sign of love he knew. The weather stayed warm, and they went punting on the river almost every day, looking for the perfect place for a picnic. Sam lovingly prepared little baskets with luscious meat and egg sandwiches, oranges and chocolate, rounded off with cigarettes and bottles of beer and cider. Afterwards they would lie side by side in the sun, replete. Anne wanted to remember this time.

We punted up the river and found a field of buttercups, where we lay and soused ourselves in the warmth and laughed and quarrelled. I stripped to my brassiere and Sam to his curly skin and we lay for hours. Sam said to me, ‘Why won't you let me make love to you darling? I want to make love to you every night.' He wants the maximum out of me — sweet capitulation.

They say one recognizes happy times when they are past, but I know this is a happy time. I must concentrate on it and appreciate it; never take it for granted. I love my Sam, my house, my life, my work. Midwifery — the only area of nursing which is joyful. It won't matter how many times I see new life pushing through the legs of another human being, birth will always astound and humble me.

The first time they saw Philip again Anne felt a moment's embarrassment. She told herself she was feeling it for Sam — he must feel foolish in the presence of the two people who had witnessed his atrocious behaviour. But Sam didn't show any evidence of embarrassment, waxing even more jolly in Philip's company.

Once Anne met Philip by himself, sauntering down the street in front of her house. He asked her if she'd like a drink, and she accepted with alacrity, feeling flattered.

Several hours later, she entered the sitting room to find Louise sitting by the fire, looking towards the door. Anne flopped in the chair opposite her and removed her hat with a laugh. “I've just been a bit naughty.”

“How could you be naughty with Sam's best friend?”

“Why do women always blame women? Why don't you ask how Sam's best friend could be naughty with me?”

Louise sighed, “Because he's rotten and corrupt and I expect it of him. What happened?”

“Rotten and corrupt? You don't even know him. Why do you say that?”

“I just feel it. He exudes over-confidence and smarminess. Are you going to tell me what happened or not?”

But Anne wasn't going to tell her now. The disapproving look in Louise's eye offended her. “Am I engaged to Sam, then? You're the one who is always reminding me that he has no intention of marrying me. If that's the case, shouldn't I keep my options open?”

“You might break off with Sam first, since he loves you, and you might avoid viewing his best friend as an option.”

“First it was violent nasty Jewish Sam and now it's poor besotted Sam. It was only a pleasant evening. By ‘naughty' I meant that we were together without Sam, and he didn't know about it. Whatever you thought, shame on you.”

Anne rushed up to her cherished sanctuary, where she could lock the door and keep all intruders out, and began to weep into her pillow.

I went dancing and drinking with Philip. Sam hates dancing and has ceased to make any effort to accompany me on the dance floor. Philip wanted me to read a thesis he had written, so after the dance we went to a quiet pub which served cider and scotch eggs with brisket sandwiches. Philip lectured me about Goethe and the wonders contained in Faust while I read his thesis, and then we had a kiss, a very little kiss because we were drunk. He started fumbling at my top button. His plump, self-satisfied fingers so nauseated me I told him he was wounding my soul and he asked me why. I did nothing wrong. I am not full of sadness or joy. In fact, I long to have a deep intense relationship with Sam and love him to the exclusion of all others.