Her patient rolled her head away and puckered her mouth. Mrs. Anderson lay huddled in the next bed, no movement except for her breathing, in out, in out. Why did she bother, Staff wondered. She never spoke or moved. Neither did Mrs. Sidney, in the bed beyond; nothing at all, except from time to time a peevish flicker of her sunken eyes. The ladies of A Ward were so old, so sick, so far away; they clung to the very fringes of human existence, to the outer edge of whatever could be taken for sentient and separate life. Their shrunken bodies hardly disturbed the sheets, their tiny skulls on the pillows were no bigger than grapefruits. Yet Mrs. Sidney was not so old, really; one in twenty people over sixty-five suffered from senile dementia, and she had been lying in this bed when she should have been a spry old pensioner going off to the shops with a bus pass and a basket on wheels. She’d been on A Ward (Female) for eight years; Staff had been on it for eight weeks. She didn’t know how much longer she’d last. Even C Ward was better, where sixty old ladies sat round the day room, fastened into their highchairs, and chattered at each other, occasionally wept, and sometimes threw things. The A Wards, conveniently, were closer to the mortuary; few left by any other route. But I’ll leave, Staff thought; I’ll get myself to a coronary care unit, where I’ll meet a stressed executive: and soon I’ll be a bride. She dreamed of it, when she dozed on night duty; instead of a train she wore a stiff white sheet, with the monogram of the Area Health Authority in red on a tape by the hem.
“Don’t feed Mrs. Sidney,” she said, looking up. “I want to keep her tidy. She’s expecting visitors tonight.”
She gave up on Mrs. Anderson’s neighbour and dropped the plastic spoon into the bowl. She went to the end of Mrs. Sidney’s bed and stood looking at her. It was plain that she was expecting nothing; except death. After some time had passed, Mrs. Sidney acknowledged her with one serpentine blink. “You know you’re going to be moved, don’t you, Mrs. Sidney? Are you listening? You do know what’s going on?”
Expect a mummy to answer you, Staff thought. Expect Tutankhamun to boogie into the sluice. The old lady stared through her as if her solid bulk were gauze. “Want me to comb her hair?” Mrs. Wilmot said. “Course, perhaps you want the student to do it?”
“I wouldn’t bother,” Staff said. “She’s got so little of it left, and wouldn’t it be just our luck if today’s the day it falls out entirely? You know what relatives are. Still, they’re very good. Second time in eight weeks. They were phoned up about her move. Not that she knows them. Pointless really.”
“Pointless,” Mrs. Wilmot agreed. “Course, walls have ears, don’t they? So she might be able to tell what you say.”
“I do sometimes wonder,” Staff said. “I do sometimes wonder what goes through her head, staring and blinking, blinking and staring all day long. You wonder what goes through any of their heads.”
“Course, you’d think they’d cure them.”
“Oh, there’s no cure.” She’d tell anybody; anybody who came on her ward. “There’s no cure for the march of time. I wonder what her son will say, about moving her. They’ll be here any minute, I expect.”
“Well, I’ll just look in on the gentlemen,” Mrs. Wilmot said. “Seeing as I’m here, seeing as I’m done for now.” She dragged off across the corridor at her usual abject pace, her eyes downcast. “Spread a cheery word,” she said.
Coming upstairs—they were the only visitors around—Colin said to Sylvia, “Could you just give me some idea of what this is about? I come home, pour myself a drink, and you start in on me.”
“Nothing,” Sylvia said, balefully.
“There must be something. I mean, there must be something that set you off.”
A silent car ride lay behind them. He combed through the day’s words and events to find something that could have offended Sylvia, and yet he was conscious that she was not so much offended as sad and puzzled, floundering in a morass of unwelcome thoughts. He knew the signs; he could diagnose them in other people. “Perhaps it’s the prospect of visiting my mother,” he said. “Is it? I’d have come alone.”
Sylvia didn’t answer. She had never let him come alone. When they reached the ward, she said, as she always did, “The smell.” He said, as always, “I expect you get used to it.”
She felt self-conscious, in her outdoor clothes, and in her shoes which made such a noise. Walking down the ward beside Colin was like walking down the aisle; heads turned, to pin you with a judgemental stare, and suddenly you were large and clumsy and you felt your face going red. Here they were at the altar, this shrouded stonelike object. They stopped at the foot of the bed.
“Hello, Mum,” Colin said in a loud voice. There was a sudden little movement from the patients all along the ward, as if they were joined by an electric wire from bed to bed. It subsided; they were still, mute. Mrs. Sidney had not joined the demonstration. Would she blink or would she not, was the question.
Sylvia sighed. “I’ll get us two chairs,” she said. She crossed the ward. She felt that the deaf watched her, that the blind heard her pass; she was an intrusion, a big woman blown in from the outside, her body glowing with its self-conceits. The Staff Nurse came up. It was the one with the overshot jaw, the red-faced woman who’d been here last time.
“How are we?”
“Fine, fine.”
“You know doctor wants to move her?”
“Hardly seems any point.”
“The thing is, off B Ward, they sometimes go home.”
Sylvia’s eyebrows shot up.
“Oh, not in this condition. But if she showed signs, you know…the fact is, they want to close this place down, and anybody they can get out, they will get out; because although we’re having a new geriatric unit at the General, we’re not going to have enough beds.”
“But look at her. She’s not showing signs, is she?”
“No, well, but the doctor must think she is. Course, I’m not saying it could happen. I mean, if she shaped up a bit, started to feed herself, she could go on C Ward. Sit in the day room and watch the telly. It’d be more of a life for her. Know what I mean?”
“But that’s ludicrous,” Sylvia said. “There’s as much chance of her sitting up and watching telly as there is of you winning Miss World.”
“Well, you never know,” the Staff Nurse said rather huffily. “We have to try and hold out some hope, you know. Otherwise we’d all do ourselves in, wouldn’t we? Shall I take those flowers?”
She strode off, stiff-armed, holding the bunch well away from her apron. Sylvia dragged the chairs over to Colin. He was leaning over his mother now, his expression intent. “You know,” he said, “you know, really, I think she might be a bit better. I think there was just a flicker of something, I think I caught it in her eyes as I bent over her.”
“Oh, Colin.” She dumped the chair. “You’ve been saying that for years.”
“I expect you’re right.” He sat down heavily. “But you’re the one who always brings her flowers.”
“It would look so mean if we didn’t. What would they think?”
They conversed in whispers. It would be just like every other visit; they would sit for twenty minutes, a length of time which seemed respectable, and then they would put their chairs back by the wall and walk away, Sylvia first, Colin two paces behind her. At the swing doors they would pause and look back, and find it difficult to distinguish the little hump of bedding that was Mrs. Sidney from all the others in the long silent row.
“Do you think she’ll know if they move her?” Sylvia asked.
“I can’t see how. I mean, she doesn’t seem to notice her surroundings, does she?”
“She used to be in that bed. Over in the corner.”
“Yes. Then she moved two beds up, didn’t she? That was in 1979.”
“Of course, I don’t suppose she had a change of bed really. I expect it’s the same bed, and they just wheel them.”
“Yes, I suppose so.”
They fell silent.
“It would
be a big change,” Colin said, after a while. “Moving down the corridor. Think, I mean, if you’d been on the same spot since 1979. Moving down the corridor would be like me getting a job in Port Stanley.”
“Why Port Stanley?”
“I don’t know—I mean anywhere foreign and a long way off, that would be a big upheaval. Why are you so obtuse? I always have to explain myself.”
“Then why are you so obscure?” Sylvia whispered. “You say things without rhyme or reason. Please don’t start a row in public. You embarrass me.”
“It’s hardly public.” He turned and looked around the ward.
“Don’t stare at them. They’re not all cabbages. Some of them have feelings left.”
“Sorry.” Colin readjusted his gaze, returning it to his knees. Another silence fell. Sylvia looked at her watch.
“Go in a minute, shall we?”
“Okay.” Colin eased back his chair on its rubber feet. Another visit was coming to its close. “I expect she’ll—” He broke off. “Sylvia?” he said. “She moved.”
“What?” Alarmed, Sylvia stood up. “Where? Where did she move?”
“Her hand, I thought…just a twitch.” He had jumped up too and now leaned eagerly over his mother. “Hello, Mum, can you hear me? Are you there?”
“Of course she’s there,” Sylvia said. “What a daft question. Where do you think she is? Hong Kong?”
“Why Hong Kong?” Colin straightened up. The old lady was not even blinking. Her no-colour eyes, which had once been hazel, stared straight at the opposite wall. Her skin had turned to leather, though she had never been the outdoor type; her mouth was only a crack, wide over long-empty gums. Colin thought he could see, buried in the crinkled folds of her neck, a pulse beating; there, just over the top button of her nightdress.
“Well, I should hope so,” said Sylvia, when he pointed this out. “She must have a pulse, mustn’t she?”
“I think she’s excited. I think perhaps she’s heard what we’ve said about moving, and she’s excited.”
“I’m afraid that’s wishful thinking. What is it to get excited about?”
“Perhaps we ought to tell the nurse.” They stood over her for another minute, watching her. “I daresay you’re right,” Colin said at last. “I must have imagined it.”
“Come on.” Sylvia touched his elbow. “Don’t upset yourself.”
He felt almost heartened, at this tender gesture from her. Possibly she did care about his feelings; possibly he was something more to her than a household object, at her disposal. Oh, the relentless optimism of the man! He squeezed her hand. “Why don’t we stop off on the way home? Have a drink, just unwind a bit? It is the end of term.”
“I don’t want to be out when Suzanne gets home, she’ll wonder where we are. I don’t know what she’s coming for, I didn’t expect her till the weekend. She sounded funny on the phone.”
“Oh, she’ll fend for herself,” Colin said, “there’s food in the fridge. It’s probably boyfriend trouble.”
“Could be.”
“You know how it is, first year away from home. She has to learn to stand on her own two feet. I remember when I first went off to university—”
“Shut up!”
“What?”
“Shut up,” Sylvia said. “Stand still. Watch her.” She leaned forward, her eyes fixed on the figure in the bed, her tongue between her teeth; as if she were defusing a bomb. “She did move,” she said quietly. “You were right.”
“Well, thank you,” Colin said. At once his indignation evaporated; sobered and awestruck, he stared at the old lady. Slowly, fractionally, the walnut head was moving; drooping on the chest.
They held their breaths. For a long moment Mrs. Sidney rested, looking up slyly from under her eyelids. You were told I was showing signs, her expression seemed to say. A stiff broken-winged flutter brought her arms to her sides. Knobbled, stick-thin; the wasted muscles remembered leverage. Fraction by fraction she rose upright in the bed.
“Here, Mrs. Wilmot!” the nurse called. “Come and look at this!” She waddled off down the ward in the direction of the men’s block. “Come here, Mrs. Wilmot!”
Sylvia gripped Colin’s hand. Minutes passed by the ward clock. There were times when she seemed to stick, but there were times when, comparatively, she seemed to hurtle. Finally the sheet fell away. Nothing but a nightgown of yellow winceyette held in the old lady’s bones, but her face had become animated, lips twitching, eyes opened wide.
“She’s going to speak,” Colin said excitedly. He dropped Sylvia’s hand and leaned over his mother. Mrs. Sidney’s expression was congested with effort, her jaws moving as if years of chit-chat were banking up in her throat. “Again?” Colin said. “Again, Mum, try again.”
“What did she say?” Sylvia demanded.
“I don’t know.” Colin steadied himself with a hand on the bed. “Something about a house. Bleak House? Buck House? Can’t be, can it?”
“There’s no sense in that, Colin.”
“You want sense as well? Come on, Mum, speak up, try again.”
Here was Nurse, bustling back, the old ward orderly padding behind her. “Can you credit it?” Nurse said. “And I didn’t believe Dr. Furness when he said she was coming to. Mind you, praise where praise is due, Mrs. Wilmot here has spent hours with your mum, just talking to her, like, just tidying out her locker and making her feel she’s wanted. It’s the personal touch, that’s what it is.”
Mrs. Sidney turned her head. “She’s doing great,” the nurse said. “Here’s your son, Mrs. Sidney,” she bawled. “Here’s your son and daughter-in-law. Here’s Mrs. Wilmot. You know Mrs. Wilmot, don’t you?”
In the depth of cloudy irises, something moved; a chance, a stray, a fugitive thought. Her mouth trembled. Gaze kindled. Slow, dilute tears rolled out of her eye. “Colin?” Quivering lips moved around his name.
“Oh, Mum, speak again,” Colin said. His voice cracked with emotion.
“She recognises you,” the nurse said.
“And me,” said the old lady called Wilmot. “She recognises me, don’t you, lovey?”
Mrs. Sidney’s head twisted towards the new voice. She stared. Something darkened behind her eyes, quite suddenly, as if a blind had been pulled down. “She’s gone again,” the nurse said, disappointed. “Stay where you are, though. You never know.”
They stood, frozen, waiting for her to move again. Presently she did so; not speaking, but raising her right hand in a rigid, almost regal, wave.
Over on B Block (Male) Mr. Philip Field sat in a side ward, planning his funeral. He was hesitating, for the tenth time, between “The Lord’s My Shepherd” and “Love Divine, All Loves Excelling.” Was not the latter more often sung at weddings? He couldn’t recall the tune. He’d had a stroke—or so they said—and there was much he couldn’t recall. If only his daughter were here, she might be able to help him out. They could have a singsong. It would be like old times. His wife, who had deserted him years ago, had played the piano.
Isabel might come more, now that she’d moved back to town. But he doubted it. She was sick herself, she said; instead she’d send that wimpish husband of hers. Isabel was a champion at prevarication, at excuses; at giving you what you didn’t want, long after you’d forgotten you’d asked. What good was Ryan? He was a banker, but he didn’t want to talk about banking practice. He said it was all different now. He just sat there fidgeting, cracking his silly jokes. The only money he was interested in was the money his wife’s father was going to leave him.
They disapproved of him, that was it. He was a man who in his time had gone in for a bit of honest fun. With the wife gone, it was a case of having to; he’d had urges. What do you go for nowadays, he asked Ryan, sniggering. Key parties? He wanted the details. Ryan looked po-faced; as if he were turning someone down for a loan.
But he watched his son-in-law watching the young nurses. Ryan was a hypocrite, he decided.
Some days he thought he’d
be leaving this godforsaken place; some days he knew he wouldn’t. Bits of his body—a hand, a leg—seemed to have developed a will of their own. Scraps of memory, detached from their moorings in the far past, floated up to occupy the forefront of his brain. This seemed a bad sign. He was determined to leave his affairs in order; that included the disposition of his remains. After all, he knew Isabel. She couldn’t seem to function these days without a drink inside her; and after she’d had a drink, she would forget what she was doing and lose the undertaker’s number.
Accordingly, he had sent to a selection of funeral directors for their prospectus and terms. He had half-hoped a representative would call. In the United States, they would have called. They knew the meaning of service. Not that he had truck with foreign methods, in general; but he remembered how, in Paris once as a young man, he’d been impressed by the high seriousness of the undertaking business, by the Pompes Funèbres on every street, their windows draped with black velvet and stuck over with specimen Mass cards and plans of family vaults. Ah, Paris…He lay back against his pillow. It was clear that Isabel would not be coming in tonight. He closed his eyes; all in a moment, his fancies passed from the lugubrious to the lubricious. Furtively, he touched himself under the sheet. Nothing doing. But give it time. He’d have something to show the little student nurse, a lovely surprise for her when she came to tuck in his sheets.
Everything was going along nicely when the door opened. He flicked open one eye to appraise his visitor. It was an old woman, an orderly, a downcast and shrunken personage; hardly meat for his fantasies. He gave her no encouragement, merely closed his eyes again, and went on with what he was doing. But she continued to come in, intruding her woebegone form around the door; she stood over the bed, looking down with her lacklustre eyes, and forced him to take notice of her.
“You’re interrupting me,” he told her. “I want to be left alone. If you’re looking for my tray, the male nurse took it.”
She didn’t seem to have heard him. She walked to the foot of the bed and picked up his charts.