Case study, p.24
Case Study, page 24
My tea had gone cold. I put it to my lips and pretended to drink. I had forgotten to put on my watch, but I glanced down at my wrist, as if to check the time of some future appointment. I was overtaken by a feeling of clumpiness. It was, I felt, out of the question that I would succeed in standing up without upsetting the table and causing a general disturbance. The Nippies would fuss about me. The manager would be summoned and I would be asked to pay for the broken crockery. The front of my skirt would be soaked with cold tea. Outside, passers-by would avert their eyes. The longer I remained, the more ossified I became. I gazed out of the window for as long as I felt I could respectably stay. Mrs Llewelyn did not appear and no further dramas were played out in the telephone box. Eventually, I could bear it no longer. I took my purse from my handbag. It was smeared with marmalade from the toast I had earlier secreted there. I left the correct change in the pewter salver provided for this purpose, calculating that my failure to leave a tip would be attributed to the fact that I was foreign and had no knowledge of the customs here. With a great effort of concentration, I managed to extricate myself from the table without incident. Outside on the pavement, I felt light-headed. I forced myself to walk a few yards, hoping to suggest to anyone observing me that I had a definite purpose in mind. I crossed the road carelessly, half-hoping to be hit by a bus. I imagined the commotion around my body. A young man would kneel by me and grasp my hand, telling me to hold on, that an ambulance was on its way. I would smile weakly, then close my eyes and slip away.
I made my way along the pavement. I got in everyone’s way. The leash of someone’s dog became tangled round my ankle. I wanted to kick the horrible little mutt. The idea of passing several hours in this manner was unbearable. I paused on a bench in the gardens off Randolph Crescent. Presently, a woman of about seventy sat down next to me. She remarked that it was a pleasant morning. It was the sort of banal comment that barely necessitated a response, but I forced my mouth into a smile and said: ‘Yes.’ She clasped her hands on her lap and gazed straight ahead at the bare trees and the backs of the houses. She was wearing a wedding ring, but it was clear that her husband was long gone. I suppose she passed a little time here every day. Perhaps she would sometimes find a companion more talkative than me, and I felt guilty about the inadequacy of my response. I longed to get up and leave, but I did not wish to offend her and I had, in any case, nowhere else to go. After some minutes, she produced a brown paper bag from somewhere inside her coat. From this she began to sow handfuls of breadcrumbs across the pathway. Within seconds, a horde of pigeons besieged us, like urchins scrambling for pennies. They appeared from all directions, as if conjured by The Great Dando. I subtly shifted my feet beneath the bench, not wishing to display my discomfort. The pigeons bustled around self-importantly, turning their heads to the side to eye a crumb before stabbing down on it with their beaks. One particularly tatty specimen remained on the fringes, unable to force her way into the throng. One of her feet was curled beneath her breast, like a withered hand. Her plumage was oily and ragged. I kicked my foot out into the multitude. There was a momentary, indifferent dispersal, before they once again inundated my feet. I turned my face away. The woman observed the scene with disinterest. It did not appear to bring her any pleasure. The birds were merely performing a service for her. After a while, she looked inside the bag, and then held it upside down to empty the remaining contents. There was a final flurry of activity, then the horrid creatures dispersed as swiftly as they arrived. Only the tatty bird with the withered foot remained, pecking vainly at the tarmac. There was nothing left for it.
Yesterday, or perhaps the day before, Mrs Llewelyn knocked softly on my bedroom door. She has lately been treating me with a kindness unmerited by my previous behaviour towards her. I take this as a sign that she knows I am not much longer for this world. When I gave her permission to enter, she told me that Dr Eldridge had called to see me. Of course, he had not ‘called to see me’. He had been summoned, but I nevertheless consented to see him. He left a short interlude before entering, I suppose to allow me time to make myself decent. I propped myself up on my pillows and teased my hair into some semblance of order. I was mortified both by my appearance and by the disorderly state of my room. The air was stale. Dr Eldridge showed no sign of noticing any of this. He took two or three steps inside and asked if I was happy to talk to him for a few minutes. When I agreed, he closed the door behind him. Dr Eldridge has been our family doctor since my parents returned from India. It is quite possible that he was present when I entered the world (a difficult birth, as my mother never failed to remind me), and I expect he will be around when I take my leave of it. In the time I have known him, he appears not to have aged in the slightest. He was wearing what appeared to be the same dark tweed three-piece suit as he was when I was taken to his surgery at the age of five with mumps. I have never been one for running to the doctor at the least excuse. We were brought up to think that illness was a weakness and not something to be indulged. Childhood coughs and colds were dismissed as sniffles, and complaints about other ailments were invariably regarded as malingering. As a result, my acquaintance with Dr Eldridge is negligible. He has, however, a reassuring presence. I expect that if I told him I was thinking of doing away with myself, he would do no more than purse his lips and utter a little tutting sound.
He walked over to the window. ‘Why don’t we get a bit of daylight in here, eh?’ he said, pulling open the curtains.
It surprised me that it was light outside. I had lost all track of time.
He sat down on the edge of bed. ‘Your father tells me you’ve been feeling poorly,’ he said.
I affected not to know what he was talking about. ‘I’ve just been a little tired,’ I replied. ‘I always get this way at my time of the month.’
Dr Eldridge gave a little snort to this. If I had thought to throw him off with mention of women’s troubles, I had not succeeded. ‘Even so, since I’m here I might as well make sure everything’s shipshape, hmm?’
He took my hand and then gently clasped my wrist, his thumb resting on the tendons I would never have the courage to cut. He took the fob watch from the pocket of his waistcoat and waited for the second hand to reach the hour. It was pleasant to feel the touch of his fingers on my skin. I suppressed an urge to grasp his hand in mine. After thirty seconds or so he laid my hand back on the blankets, palm upwards, and gave a little nod to himself. He rummaged in the Gladstone bag at his feet and took out a device with a wide canvas strap, some rubber tubes and a gauge. He told me that he was going to take my blood pressure. He secured the apparatus round my upper arm and pumped it with a little rubber ball until it tightened.
‘Just a little pressure, my dear, nothing to worry about,’ he murmured. He looked at the gauge impassively, before tearing back the Velcro strip that secured the band. He took out his stethoscope and asked me to open my nightdress. My ribs showed through the skin. He inserted the earpieces and placed the diaphragm on my chest. The metal rim was cold. His face was only inches from mine. His cheeks were latticed with broken capillaries. I could feel the warmth of his breath on my ribs. He smelled of tobacco and carbolic soap. His face was as untroubled as if he were listening to a Chopin concerto. My hand lay palm upwards on the blanket, where he had left it. I turned it over and lightly ran the tips of my fingers along the coarse material covering his thigh. He instructed me to take a deep breath. Then, as if waking from a short nap, he leant back.
‘Well, the good news is that you’re still alive,’ he said.
I emitted what probably seemed like a laugh. ‘Can I listen?’ I said.
He turned down the sides of his mouth and raised his eyebrows, tipping his head vaguely to the side. He took the head-set from around his neck and allowed me to put the little speakers in my ears. The sounds of the street outside became muffled. Then he repositioned the diaphragm on my chest. I placed my hand over his, and there it was: my own heart, blithely carrying on as if nothing were amiss. I kept my hand over the doctor’s, listening to the gentle, reassuring rhythm. I loved my little heart then for keeping going; for being oblivious to the worthlessness of its custodian. It deserved better than me.
Dr Eldridge was watching me. I suppose it was usually only children who asked such things of him. I removed the earpieces and handed them to him. I don’t know if he felt that something had passed between us. That has always been my problem. I never know if others are feeling what I am feeling. For him, no doubt, all this was no more than routine. He was carrying out procedures he had performed thousands of times. He packed his equipment carefully into his bag but did not stand up.
‘So this fatigue,’ he said, drawing out the middle syllable as if it were a foreign word he had never heard before. ‘Tell me about this fatigue.’
I did not tell him that when I awoke in the morning (or the afternoon or whenever it might be), I felt the blankets covering me to be so heavy I could not imagine moving them. I did not tell him that every moment of my life up to this point seemed utterly devoid of purpose or meaning, and that I saw no prospect of that ever changing. I did not tell him that while I could (just) imagine the pleasure of feeling the sunshine warm my skin for one last time, I had not the energy to even think of going outside.
Instead, of course, I made light of it. I was just being silly. There was nothing wrong with me. I was a lazy good-for-nothing. I’d be as right as rain (I actually used that idiotic expression) in a day or two. I was sorry, I told him, that he’d been put to the trouble of coming to see me. He assured me that it was no trouble. He looked at me for a few moments with his placid expression. I longed for him to tell me what nonsense I was talking. I longed for him to tell me that I was terribly ill and needed a prolonged confinement. Dr Braithwaite would have seen right through my lies. But Dr Eldridge did not. He pursed his lips and nodded slowly. Then he picked up his bag and stood up.
‘Try to get a bit of exercise,’ he said kindly. ‘Go for a little walk. We all feel a little tired sometimes. But it doesn’t do to lie around in bed all day. And you must eat. You’re much too thin.’
Then he left me. I longed for him to stay. I started sobbing and pushed my face into the pillow to prevent anyone from hearing. Rebecca hissed into my ear: I was pathetic. It was no good crying now. Nobody could hear me.
I imagined my father waiting anxiously downstairs for the prognosis. Dr Eldridge would tell him in a hushed voice that he could find nothing wrong with me, physically at least. He would then ask a series of questions, which Father would answer, embarrassed on my behalf. No, she never goes out. She hardly eats. She hasn’t any friends. After a few minutes I heard the front door click closed and he was gone.
I have decided to visit Dr Braithwaite one last time. It was Rebecca’s idea and I lack the will to resist her. When I awoke this morning, she was in one of her wheedling moods. She could not take any more of this. I might have given up on life, but she had not. It wasn’t fair, she said. I could see her point. It wasn’t fair. Why should she suffer on account of my failings?
She tried to cajole me out of my torpor. I reminded her of all the hateful names she had called me. She apologised. She had spoken only in frustration. I could hardly blame her. Who could put up with being shackled to me?
I pushed aside the blankets and placed my feet on the floor. The carpet felt coarse on my soles. I retrieved my dressing gown, which lay on a crumpled heap by the bed, and put it on. I could smell the sickly odour of my armpits. I walked to the window and drew the curtains. It was raining outside. Well, what did that matter? Rebecca said. A little rain never hurt anyone. She told me to take a bath. On the landing I met Mrs Llewelyn. She looked at me with surprise and then smiled. Rebecca asked her if she would be so good as to run her a bath. They had never met before, but Mrs Llewelyn complied without dissent.
‘I’d be glad to, my dear,’ she said.
I sat on the seat of the lavatory while Mrs Llewelyn ran the water, testing the temperature now and again the way one would for a child. When she turned off the taps, Rebecca thanked her in a manner that made it clear she was no longer required. I undressed and stepped into the bath. I placed a flannel over my face and lay back in the water. It was dark and comforting. I could quite easily have let myself slip under, but Rebecca made me sit up and wash myself. I soaped my armpits and private parts and rinsed them with a flannel. Rebecca liked to be nicely turned out. She would never allow herself to let herself go, the way I had. Nor was there to be any lingering in the warm, soapy water. She ordered me out of the bath and dried me vigorously, making my skin tingle. I imagined Mrs Llewelyn downstairs informing my father that I was up, and decided I should breakfast with him. I pulled on my robe and went downstairs. Father was in his usual place at the head of the table, cracking open his boiled egg.
‘Good morning, dear,’ he said. ‘It’s nice to see you up. Feeling better, are we?’
‘As a matter of fact, we are,’ Rebecca said. Speak for yourself, I thought. ‘Nice weather for ducks,’ she went on.
Father looked at her curiously. He sprinkled a little salt on his egg and started to butter his toast. Rebecca expressed the desire to have an egg of her own. Two eggs, in fact. I myself have never eaten a boiled egg for breakfast, but Father immediately got to his feet and, placing his napkin on his newspaper, went to the door and instructed Mrs Llewelyn to put two more eggs on to boil.
Rebecca, unaware of the difficulty my father and I had maintaining a conversation, had not calculated that the time required for the boiling of the eggs would result in a period of strained silence. This seemed to have no effect on her, however. She first spread a piece of toast with butter, cut it into four triangles and then began eating it in dainty little bites. Father did not appear in the least disconcerted by this uncharacteristic behaviour. Rebecca then asked what plans he had for the day.
‘Plans?’ he said. ‘I expect I have a little correspondence to take care of this morning.’
‘I do think it’s important to keep oneself occupied, don’t you?’ she said. The remark was clearly aimed at me.
Father nodded his agreement. I told Rebecca that if she didn’t behave, I could just as easily take myself back to bed. Before she could protest, Mrs Llewelyn arrived with her eggs. This proved a welcome distraction from making small talk. Rebecca set about the eggs with enthusiasm, skilfully shelling them before mashing them onto two more slices of thickly buttered toast. Clearly, Rebecca was not concerned about her hips. Father looked on in bemusement. She smiled at him and took an enthusiastic bite. Some yolk dribbled down the front of her robe, but she did not appear to notice. I took up a napkin and mopped it up as best I could.
The business of breakfast concluded, we retreated to our room. Rebecca set about choosing an outfit. It was a relief to let her take control of things. She began to berate me for the outmoded nature of my wardrobe, but, realising she was still somewhat in my hands, she checked herself. Instead, she suggested in a chummy tone that we might go shopping together sometime. I replied that I would like that very much. Despite everything, I was flattered that she might wish to befriend me. Perhaps I wasn’t such a ninny after all.
She chose a white blouse and grey tweed suit. I was pleased. This was the same outfit I had chosen for her the first time we visited Braithwaite. She sometimes seemed to forget that without me she would not even exist, but as (for once) we were getting on, it did not seem wise to remind her of this. Were it not for her, I would still be languishing in bed, like the wretched idler I am. I must let her have her head. She was right, too, about Braithwaite. It might be easy to pull the wool over Dr Eldridge’s eyes, but Collins Braithwaite would not be so easily fooled. If I had so far resisted him, it had been solely out of stubbornness. I had the strong feeling that only he could help me and I must submit to whatever course he advised.
I put on my underthings and sat on the stool at my dressing table. I looked at the familiar objects arrayed there: the set of hairbrushes with the cameo motif; the little tin I had bought as a child on holiday in Torquay and in which I kept my hairpins; the chunky little bottle of Chanel No.5 I had formerly worn in the hope that, just once, a man would tell me I smelled nice. I arranged everything precisely before I began. As I patted the powder onto my cheeks, I watched myself disappear. With the addition of a little rouge, Rebecca emerged. She smiled at me and I smiled back. I applied mascara to my lashes and then a red lipstick I had bought especially for her (it was far too daring for me). Rebecca rolled her lips inwards and pouted at the mirror, satisfied with the job I had done. She looked, I must say, quite marvellous.
