Serious Sweet Page 7

  It’s an outlet.

  D7 – that’s a troubling chord to form. It makes me all thumbs and no fingers.

  Done D9. I can manage that, get into it quite smoothly. Which was worth it. I think. It’s useful. Sounds useful. But putting everything together … the transitions … and by myself … I have a book, but I am by myself …

  I am aware that I’m no good.

  But it is an outlet.

  The traffic did not move.

  His phone started ringing.

  09:36

  IT WASN’T LOST on Meg – the humour of steering herself about from one hospital to another, her semi-regular trips. Although the Hill wasn’t really a hospital and maybe only seemed like one because of her thinking and where she was with her life just at the moment.

  Where she was this morning was a genuine hospital: mall-style food court with a range of options, frequent opportunities for hand sanitising, slick floors that seemed to anticipate the spillage of shaming fluids. There was none of the medical smell she still expected from medical buildings: the disinfectant reek that used to set the scene so unmistakably, used to make the whole of yourself clench, even if you were healthy. Nowadays you walked into any of these places and there was only an aroma of cheap coffee and beyond that perhaps the scent of a low-class office block or a cheap hotel. The overall banality of what you were inhaling made your surroundings seem less professional and therefore more frightening. And then maybe there were traces of something nastier that you didn’t quite catch, not fully, something to do with used bedding and uncontrolled decay.

  And she was frightened – more in her body than her mind, but both communicated, she couldn’t prevent it. Back and forth, they whispered, they bled.

  As she’d climbed the stairs – the lifts here always seemed unclean and were too obviously big enough to contain trolleys, biers, bodies – her muscles had seemed to soften and become unhelpful.

  And then there was the form to sign and the multiple confirmations of her birth-date – as if she might have changed into somebody different from one end of each corridor to the other.

  In the waiting room where she finally paused were the usual telly and posters pledging to do nice things very nicely and threatening that any violence would be met with prosecution. One woman was already there with – it was only a guess – her supporting male partner. A second outpatient sat between uniformed and, most likely, less supportive female warders. It took a moment to notice the second woman was handcuffed to the warder at her left.

  The warders chatted desultorily. They wore cheap and shapeless black pullovers and trousers which were ill-fitting. They reminded Meg of a trip she made once to a number of foreign countries as a student – excursions involving unwise hopes for excitement. Those in authority – their uniforms, their slack pullovers – had seemed scary and shabby and odd in the same way as these guards. The more notorious the regimes, the more their uniforms gave the impression that power was power and was unmistakable, but rested, somehow, with amateurs who’d get things wrong and make a point of not caring about it when they did. The idea of possibly being oppressed by people who didn’t bother to iron their trousers seemed somehow to make the threat of harm more harmful, or just more insulting. It suggested the way that important things worked might not be logical, or civilised.

  Handcuffs in a hospital didn’t seem civilised.

  Fair enough, when it was time for the woman to head off and be examined, Meg watched as the unattached warder hooked out long-distance cuffs – a significant length of heavyish chain there between bracelets. It was tangled and the officer tutted while she sorted it out, shook it like a badly behaved length of washing line.

  Meg made a point of meeting the prisoner’s eye in some effort at empathy. There was a moment of interchange, but it would have been hard to define what passed.

  Solidarity.

  You never know how you’ll end up. You never know, do you, whether you’ll be in civilian clothes and not look like a prisoner, but nevertheless be chained to a stranger who doesn’t talk to you and who will soon probably see you half naked and be watchful in case you try to run away. If you’re honest, you’ll admit how close bad stuff always is to you and even feel it brushing by your cheek.

  Half naked and running away. Imagine.

  The party was summoned – one prisoner and one prison officer – and twenty minutes dawdled by while those left behind – the other warder included – sat and let the telly explore current property values and opportunities for investment. The clock provided was louder than the TV.

  Tick, tick.

  Then there was the noise of doors opening and feet. The pair had been released – at least from the examination room – and sat on the chairs placed out in the hall, chatting now. It would, Meg supposed, be odd not to chat after having done what they had done together. She took the back and forth of it as a sign of civilisation. The prisoner spoke softly about unjust accusations and the officer’s replies were warm with amusement.

  The next woman was called out, leaving her partner (still supportive) to wait behind.

  Nice that he came with her.

  Or weird that he came with her.

  Or suffocating that he came with her.

  That patient took twenty minutes, too, and then reappeared, gathered her man, held his hand. What must have happened to her meanwhile had left no visible trace.

  The TV now spoke about a charity giving support to deserving cases, cancer cases.

  And there was no cause for alarm – neither on screen, nor off.

  Nothing beyond the usual causes for alarm.

  This was no big deal.

  And yet also a big deal, a big unavoidable deal, because Meg’s turn was next.

  Breathe in faith.

  Tick, tick.

  Breathe out fear.

  Tick, tick.

  Doesn’t work.

  ‘Hello, Meg. My name’s Kate.’ That was the nurse. She was cheery, outdoors-looking, Caribbean and clean-handed, neat nails.

  What I would say or do if she looked infectious, I can’t imagine. And she’s not going to touch me, anyway – the gynaecologist will touch me. I am just taking the nurse as a symptom of the regime and being optimistic, that’s the thing. I am not feeling powerless.

  So. The nurse’s name was Kate and Meg’s name was Meg. And Kate’s knowing your name and you knowing hers couldn’t help but involve you in an admission that you were here and that you had to stay and had to go through it all again. You had to walk round and into the room, as if you were volunteering, as if you weren’t a good friend to yourself and wouldn’t dodge this all and run away.

  But at least you knew Kate’s name was Kate.

  And thank God she didn’t call me Margaret. Or Maggie. Being either of them for the whole of this would do me in, it would really.

  ‘You can hang your coat up on the hook there.’ Kate smiling and indicating a hook on the back of the door, as if its availability was great news and it was, indeed, a bit of a departure – you’re used to just piling everything on to the chair. That’s the chair which comes later. Within the track for the drawable curtain, behind which you undress, there always is a waiting chair.

  You don’t remove your coat because you want it round you.

  I don’t want to be here, not today.

  There was another chair in here, over by the desk – in the administrative area of the examination room. This chair came first and so Meg sat down on it and answered questions offered by someone who was probably a student doctor and whose name escaped her when he said it – all long and fluttery and spoken in a gentle accent of some kind – unfamiliar. She couldn’t quite see the whole of his name badge. She guessed that he was perhaps Greek, or else hoped he was Greek for unexplained and irrational reasons.

  A childhood in sunshine, classical inheritance, the roots of European medicine. That could all be an asset for us both. Cheery thoughts. Wherever he’s from I would like him to be cheery. Plea
se.

  And he has clean hands and neat nails. Two tidy-handed people looking after me, both of them possibly used to better weather.

  Breathe in fear.

  No.

  Breathe in faith.

  No.

  No.

  No.

  He asked about her physical regularity and fitness.

  This part left Meg feeling inconsistent and unwell. As usual.

  Then it was time for the nurse, for Kate.

  The nurses were trained to call you by name and bond with you, because what would happen next was degrading and they didn’t want it to upset you. It would upset you, no matter what they said, but they made this effort to improve the theory of your situation. The nurses never asked the questions, not unless they were nurse practitioners.

  Or, really, they just asked the questions that weren’t important enough to be written down.

  Nobody asks the important questions.

  And now it was time to stand and walk to the next chair – the one in the corner, behind the curtain.

  Kate offered, ‘How are you?’

  ‘I’m fine.’ Meg’s voice came out dry and half-swallowed, resentful. ‘Hello.’ Which wasn’t fair on Kate who was being actively kind.

  And this was only Meg’s early-morning-and-get-it-over-with kind of check-up which was no cause for alarm. It shouldn’t be missed, but needn’t make her stressed.

  It’s hardly any kind of a procedure and I don’t have to mind it.

  I do, though, I bloody do. I can’t forgive it.

  Kate ushered Meg over towards the curtain, the chair, still smiling, ‘If you undress below the waist and maybe pop your sweater off, too, because you might get hot. And then you wrap one of those sheets around you before you come out.’

  Meg proceeded as she was told and did not deviate and this was a relief, this lack of choice. She wanted to smile, as if she was happy two women could get each other through something horrible. There was no mirror so she couldn’t tell, but she felt as if her face was mainly looking savage.

  The nurse left her and Meg drew the curtain – although why bother when everyone was going to see everything soon? Why was undressing allowed to be delicate when nakedness incurred an immediate audience?

  Beyond the dull mauve and green of the drapes, Meg could hear that the specialist had arrived. He told his colleagues that he’d needed to take a call and check on something … the something was inaudible. It was of concern.

  Meg bent to remove her shoes, blood distantly roaring in her ears at the unexpected upset. Her body had decided to be nervy and easily unbalanced. This wasn’t her fault. Then her jeans went, then her pants – she folded them on to the chair in a small stack, innermost item closest to the top, as if she might get extra marks for being tidy. There was this sensation of childishness in her fingers which, because she was in an adult situation, made her stomach tick and become wary. She slipped off her sweater as instructed, even though she knew what happened next would make her cold for the rest of the day. Every time, it was the same.

  Still, around her waist with the strange, unwieldy sheet – so white and yet also a bit second-hand-feeling – and then out from behind the curtain she stepped in stockinged feet. It took four five six steps to reach the final chair, the one with the dressing pad laid out ready across what there was of its seat. Then she set her body to the thing, shelved herself, found the foot rests, the knee rests, dealt with the awkwardness of one size not fitting all.

  I would rather not. Today I would rather not. This is not a cause for any drama – but today I would rather not.

  And when this is suggested, you loosen the sheet until it’s opened and simply resting across your outspread lap as a rug might if you were reading at some fireside in some cosy evening on some other day.

  It’s good to imagine that.

  It hides you from yourself, but no one else.

  The gynaecologist appears wordlessly, glove-handed, positions the instrument tray, pats the sheet so it dips, less taut, between your legs and covers you more completely. This seems an automatic gesture. He is either preserving your modesty for another ninety seconds, or would rather not look before he has to, not at you, not there.

  Yet surely he’s used to it. Staring into women. Bored of it.

  I would be glad if he was bored of me as a person, while being interested in me as a condition, my condition.

  He will be exploring me as a doctor does and not as a man does. He will not be touching me as a man does.

  As a man, he is calm and projects a straightforwardness you can find as pleasing as anything would be for the next few minutes, ten minutes, maybe fifteen or twenty at the most. Tick, tick. And it might as well be him as anyone who asks you those last important questions – all of which are repeats of the previous important questions, in case the student hadn’t asked them right – and if you could please move a little further forward and that’s excellent and now he is raising your chair and adjusting your legs so that he can see and see and see.

  I would rather not.

  Through the first insertion – which is undertaken by the student – the nurse stands beside, stands on guard, and sometimes says, ‘You all right?’ And this is a pathetically necessary question, although your answer won’t be written down. There is pain. It is a not manageable pain: it is a racing away and running and lunging pain.

  You say, ‘I’m all right.’Your voice emerging in a state that proves itself untrue.

  And the student comments on the way you are constructed, which is imperfect, and the insertion of the speculum doesn’t quite work and has to be done again. The gynaecologist takes over and you realise that you haven’t been able to check his hands and so you don’t know if they’re clean, or nice, or anything. His face is ruddy, beefy, butcherish and so perhaps his hands are also coarse and to do with meat. And this worries you – as if you could stop him now, or say anything about it, even if you did see and see and see something you don’t like.

  And your eyes are closed, but there is a trickle of ridiculous crying that breaks across your cheek, tilting back into your ears and you remember being a kid and lying in bed and reading a worrying book – some silly book – and having this exact same sensation of prickling, progressing sadness.

  You have cried since. But the tears have taken other directions, or you have perhaps not given them your full attention.

  The gynaecologist tries to open you again. ‘You’re very tense.’

  The procedure isn’t usually this clumsy.

  You feel at fault.

  ‘If you could relax.’

  You grip the armrests as if you are falling and try to breathe at all.

  The crying continues.

  Deep.

  The gynaecologist attempts a factual distraction. ‘It’s from the Greek, you know: kolpos – vagina – and skopos – to look.’ He tries again and manages less badly.

  ‘You tend to the left, you know.’ This in a voice which is almost fond. Bizarrely fond. ‘I am sorry.’

  You hear yourself say, ‘It’s OK.’ And it is not OK – and especially not today – and your lying about it makes this worse and there is a sob.

  Deep.

  He dips his head – balding, that pink tenderness of a balding crown: you should focus on that …

  He looks through the eyepieces of the instrument, equipment, device and there is a video screen that is – at the same time – showing you to the student with the quiet eyes and the long name which might be from the Greek also. The student is trying not to be there and he is almost succeeding – he is ashamed for you. He is, nevertheless, staring at the screen and the shades of pink, the glistening which is you, deep in where no one can normally find you.

  You don’t think it’s unreasonable to want to hide.

  In faith.

  Out fear.

  So-hum.

  So-hum.

  Breathing is supposed to keep you calm, but also it keeps you alive and so you are
not calm, because you are alive and being alive is never calm.

  And you are going back in your mind, going somewhere too close and too certain and too clear, somewhere in a time which should have vanished but hasn’t.

  Something catches – something the man is doing to you – and it makes you flinch.

  ‘Sorry.’ You are aware that he probably doesn’t enjoy causing you pain and are ready to believe this is why his voice sounds irritated when he tells you, ‘Nearly done.’

  ‘Mm hm,’ you tell him back. ‘Mm hm.’

  Mm hm is the opposite of so-hum.

  And it betrays you, your letting go into grief. Even though nobody asks, not one person asks the most important question, or writes anything down, you know that your crying means they can see how you are, who you are. No one says anything and you don’t say anything and still it’s plain that you have been damaged and are still damaged and cannot be fixed.

  The gynaecologist tells you, ‘There is thinning and there are changes: menopausal changes rather than your previous kind. We’ll send off the tests, but it looks clear.’

  And you hear this as an announcement that your last chance to be a woman has already gone.

  But the laser has got rid of the bad change in you, the precancerous change. The tick, tick in your head from the presence of that can now fade … If you really are clear … And you’re nearly done and this is a simple procedure and you’ll walk back out beyond the door and there’ll be a little queue of other women waiting their turn – women for whom this will be nothing and shrugged off and only a mildly inconvenient section of an ordinary day. Or a wonderful day. The rest of this twenty-four hours might be amazing for them. They are outside and sitting and waiting with the loudness of the clock and its tick, tick and it might be tapping away the time between them and forthcoming miracles.

  And there could be miracles for you also. Up ahead and beyond this now which is now. You try to think this.