Книга - The State of Me

The State of Me
Nasim Marie Jafry


A beautifully written debut novel by an exciting author.Curriculum VitaeName: Helen FleetWork Experience: Waitress; Serial volunteerEducation: Four Highers: French (A), English (A), Maths (A), Chemistry (A), 1981; Ordinary Arts degree, MA, 1990; Certificate in Counselling Skills and Theory, 1992Travel: France, Madeira, San Francisco, Rome, Greece. And London.Relationships: Sex with three men: Hadi, Ivan and Fabio. I still love Ivan.Additional Information: I have a mini hi-fi and a pine bookcase, and an expensive leather briefcase (got it in the January sales after Fabio and I had finished) and a suit I haven't worn since my graduation.It's 1983 and 20-year-old university student Helen Fleet should be enjoying the best days of her life, but while all her friends go on to graduate and have careers in London, she is forced to return to her parents' home, bedridden with vile symptoms that doctors can't explain and often don't believe. She is eventually diagnosed with M.E., a cruel illness that she must learn to live with over the next decade. All of her relationships are tested – and changed – by her condition, but Helen's story is so much more than an account of her suffering. At times sad and at times funny, the author skillfully leads the reader through the trials and tribulations of Helen's life, perfectly capturing her unusual experiences as a twenty-something woman living in 80s Scotland with a mystery illness.Based on the author's own experience of ME The State of Me explores the loneliness and chaos of one of the most misunderstood illnesses of our time, but also celebrates the importance of family, friendships, and sexual love.A stunning, eloquent and linguistically perfect debut novel.









The State of Me

Nasim Marie Jafry














Copyright (#ulink_10ebc5bc-212c-5b4a-9f6c-c394d1e19ebd)


The Friday Project

An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers

77–85 Fulham Palace Road

Hammersmith, London W6 8JB



www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)

First published by The Friday Project in 2008



Copyright © Nasim Marie Jafry 2008



FIRST EDITION

Nasim Marie Jafry asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work



A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library



All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.



Source ISBN: 9781906321055

Ebook Edition © JULY 2010 ISBN: 9780007303199

Version: 2014-09-10

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents portrayed in it are either the work of the author’s imagination or, if real, are used fictitiously.




for lizzie




Table of Contents


Cover Page (#u4a86e675-67e5-5f12-ae46-6abf2d00f556)

Title Page (#u0a7678d1-b725-5055-8e4b-3b11e3f7f813)

Copyright (#u5c3cb307-c6d0-5de7-b12a-a6eaa0d18ef0)

Note (#ub2b099a1-a476-5ce0-9de5-6c9a2a7faf6e)

Prologue (#u98092156-7a09-550f-ac3e-1a9346ac7cb2)

Part One (#u631358a9-39bd-5c71-933f-eff432bc3217)

1 A Lime and a Sofa Bed, 1998 (#u1cd8a344-193c-5857-9708-340fbea037c9)

2 Rita and Nab (#u51988769-0d7c-508a-82ae-89630550ccfa)

3 Before (#u5cd78a98-1dc3-5551-8c69-0df31841d107)

4 France (#u75b7219a-4e53-52ba-8750-8437b679c43d)

5 The Trial (#u82d7bfde-bd7b-5934-bc1b-59a6d2aab328)

6 Round Window (#u709f9383-651a-5f00-966c-d8e0b895c083)

7 Marion (#u3401df10-be85-591e-ba1d-b5beb0ca9eda)

8 Bob (#u998a0b7b-0d28-59ee-b947-f766aa222abe)

9 New Blood (#uacfbec13-37e2-54e2-9071-a05699a7f659)

10 Halloween (#u2ecdaa93-9100-5d8a-b2ad-b4366b454094)

11 New Bras (#litres_trial_promo)

12 A Wedding, a Graduation and Ganesh (#litres_trial_promo)

13 India (#litres_trial_promo)

14 Callum (#litres_trial_promo)

15 An Orange Silk Dress (#litres_trial_promo)

16 Madeira (#litres_trial_promo)

Part Two (#litres_trial_promo)

17 FAQs (#litres_trial_promo)

18 Granny Fleet, Peter and Finn (#litres_trial_promo)

19 Bees and Vitamin C (#litres_trial_promo)

20 Wendy and Storm (#litres_trial_promo)

21 MA, ME! (#litres_trial_promo)

22 London (#litres_trial_promo)

23 San Francisco (#litres_trial_promo)

24 Jana (#litres_trial_promo)

25 A Seduction (#litres_trial_promo)

26 Fabio (#litres_trial_promo)

27 A Dream About Cocktail Sticks (#litres_trial_promo)

28 Rome Then Cystitis (#litres_trial_promo)

Part Three (#litres_trial_promo)

29 A Pale Blue Dress (#litres_trial_promo)

30 A Death (#litres_trial_promo)

31 Fizza and a Swollen Eye (#litres_trial_promo)

32 The Silvery Tay (#litres_trial_promo)

33 Pearl (#litres_trial_promo)

34 More Questions (#litres_trial_promo)

35 A Seagull, 1998 (#litres_trial_promo)

36 Vélos and Blue Wasps (#litres_trial_promo)

Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)

Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)




Note (#ulink_923644c3-33d9-5208-9570-dd5edf5e3e65)


Tell me right away if I’m disturbing you, he said as he stepped inside my door, and I’ll leave at once.



You not only disturb me, I said, you shatter my entire existence. Welcome.



Eeva Kilpi

(translated by Börje Vähämäki)




Prologue (#ulink_b180d4eb-0eb7-5e36-8b85-bfd0765b570e)


All you need to know is this: Coxsackie. Coxsuckie. Cock-a-leekie.

Three funny words that sound the same.

Can you guess what they mean?

I’ll tell you: a virus, a sexual act and a kind of soup made from chicken and leeks.



Part One (#ulink_62be5a99-ac49-5590-99f4-0fb37e811d2d)




1 A Lime and a Sofa Bed, 1998 (#ulink_4279f1c4-b7a8-5ded-9d8f-c120095eb596)


WHEN SHE’S FALLING asleep, she rubs her left foot against her right foot. Stop that, he says, you’re like a giant cricket. He deserves an acrobatic lover, a Nadia Comaneci. When she’s got energy, she goes on top as a special treat.



Dragging legs, concentrating on every step, I feel like I’m wading through water. I take a trolley even though I’m only buying a few things. I don’t want to have to carry a basket. I pick up some tea bags. My arms and face are going numb, my bones are burning. I stop the trolley and pretend to look at the coffee. The lights are too bright, there are too many shiny things to look at, too many jars and bottles. I don’t feel real. I abandon the trolley and go to the checkout, picking up a lime on the way.

The woman in front of me places the NEXT CUSTOMER divider between her dog food and my lime. She has a pink pinched face and limpid blue eyes. You can’t see her eyelashes. A mountain of Pedigree Chum edges towards the scanner.

I focus on the lime and hope my legs will last.

I’m wondering how many dogs the pinched woman has, and if her husband loves her without eyelashes, when a shrill voice punctures my head: the voice of the checkout girl. I haven’t realised it’s my turn.

D’you know how much this is? she says, holding up the lime. She’s typed in a code, and PUMPKIN LARGE has come up on the till display.

It’s not a pumpkin, I say. It’s a lime.

She rings for the store manager, who appears from nowhere, brisk and important. He gives the girl the correct code and disappears again in a camp jangle of keys. The girl rings up the lime and I’m free. I go outside and sit on the wall. I feel spectacularly ill.

I make my way home with no shopping. It’s only a five minute walk. I pass the dead seagull folded on the road. It’s been there for three days. It has blood on it.

I reach the house and the smell of fresh paint hits me as I unlock the front door – we’d painted the bathroom last week, my arms left like rags.

I’ll need to call him.

When he answers the phone, I try to sound independent.

I got ill at the supermarket, I say. Can you please get some groceries on the way home?

What do we need?

Pasta, salad, bread. Basics.

I’ll nip home just now. I need to get out of here for a bit anyway.

Can you get some Parmesan too?

Okay.

I’m sorry, I say.

It’s not your fault, he replies.

That seagull’s still there, d’you think I should call the council?

They’ll be closed, he says, it’s after four.

Someone’s moved it into the gutter, at least it’s not in the middle of the road anymore.

Call them tomorrow, he says.

I just feel sorry for it.

See you in a bit, he says.

I imagine him taking off his glasses after he’s hung up, rubbing his eyes and sighing. When he gets home, I’ll tell him I dreamt we had a baby made of lettuce, and he’ll smile and unwind in spite of himself.

Things had been tense last night. Why d’you have to hack the whole head, why can’t you just chop it normally? he’d said, frowning at the mess of skins and garlic cloves on the work-top. I don’t do anything normally, I’d replied – did no one tell you?

I lie down on the couch. I can’t get the seagull out of my head.



Why didn’t you wait for me to come home? he says, handing me a cup of tea. I could’ve done the shopping. You really are your own worst enemy sometimes.

The fridge was bare, I say, I got you a lime for your gin.

I have to go back to work for a couple of hours. I’ll make dinner tonight. You don’t mind eating late, do you?

No, I say, I’m not hungry at all.

He kisses the top of my head as he leaves.

I dreamt we had a baby made of lettuce last night.

Tell me later, he says, I have to go.

I wonder if he’s really gone back to work or if he’s gone to fuck Lucia. I wonder if I’ll have to call in sick tomorrow.



She’d stayed with us before Christmas when her central heating wasn’t working. It was supposed to be for a couple of nights, but two nights had become two weeks. She’d given me a bag of Guatemalan worry dolls. For under your pillow, she’d said.

I know, I said, I’ve had them before.

She went on, girlishly, Tell them your worries before you sleep, and in the morning, they’ll all be gone!

I’m worried you’ll sleep with my boyfriend, I’d said into myself.

She’d slept on the sofa bed in the study. One morning, I’d been woken by loud voices and laughing. I got up. The sofa bed was sticking up in the middle of the floor like a monstrous orange sculpture. It’s stuck, said Lucia, giggling, I don’t know what I’ve done! They’d wrestled with it for a while and finally managed to collapse it and fold it up. Sorry we woke you, Helen, he said. We didn’t want to leave you with it all day.

I’d hated him referring to Lucia and him as ‘we’. I’d watched them go out to the car. I grudged their intimacy, their shared knowledge of genes and proteins. She was beginning to annoy me with her skittishness, her smart coat and boots, so matching and groomed. I’d gone back to bed and tried to sleep more, but I couldn’t settle: they had to go – I felt agitated, just knowing they were there. I’d scooped the tiny Guatemalans from under my pillow and thrown them in the bin, covering them with rubbish so no one else would see them.



NB. Helen’s boyfriend and Lucia work together, their affair, however, may be psychosomatic, it’s causing Helen pain, but it’s not really there! Sometimes she sees them, Lucia, so eager to please in her short skirt and boots, him leaning over to kiss her.

She’s so fucking fragile, Lu, he says, I can’t take it anymore.




2 Rita and Nab (#ulink_6f6d8ef2-336e-56f7-9672-368006b4ca1c)


IT IS MY policy never to ask people what they do. If they want to tell me, that’s fine, but I would never ask. I understand the dread of being asked.




It was the same when I used to go to the post office to cash my sickness benefit – the people behind the counter looked at me suspiciously, especially if I was wearing lipstick.



I am thirty-five, but I still depend on Rita and Nab. Rita works part-time as a librarian. She trained as a nurse and stopped when she had me. Nab’s exotic, he grew up in Greenland. His Danish father taught there. Nab’s a hospital engineer. He’s high up.

They met on holiday in Tenerife: divorced Nab with his son Finn, and divorced Rita with me and my brother Sean. Rita’d used her savings to get a four-star hotel – we’d had a horrible three-star hotel in Alicante two years before, and my granny had spent the first day cleaning her room with Dettol. I still have my Alicante souvenir, a donkey with yellow nylon fur, peeling now, revealing the cheap grey plastic underneath.

Nab hired a car and took us round the island. Sean and I admired the bougainvillea and sheer drops politely. Finn was cool and wore black clogs. He was bored shitless. Volcanic rock didn’t impress him. Nab was easy to love but Rita and I secretly laughed at his Scandinavian Jesus sandals.

My real father Peter had his own dental practice above a butcher’s shop. He had minty breath and slept with his nurses. (A little more suction, please, Denise!) When you went through the close to get to the surgery upstairs, you could smell the meat from the butcher’s delivery entrance. Sometimes there was blood on the ground. There was a fish-tank in the waiting room and the goldfish always had a string of white shit hanging from its tail.

Peter left when I was ten but we still went to him for fillings. I didn’t find the divorce traumatic – I’d never really liked him. The only thing I have in common with him is that we both love raw onion.

Sean is four years younger than me. We grew up on the Bonnie Banks. Our house was right next to the park. You nipped over the fence, jumped the ditch, ran past the Michael tree (a boy called Michael fell off it and died), through the rhododendrons, and you were at the top of a huge grassy hill, Loch Lomond spread out in front of you.

Every spring the park was carpeted with bluebells. We’d pick Rita giant bunches for her birthday, Mother’s Day and Easter. She must’ve been sick of them – they’re not exactly fragrant. In fact, bluebells stink. (Also, they are toxic to deer and cattle.)

And, there is Brian, I depend on him too, for his big wide love, Rita’s youngest brother, brain-damaged at birth, not profoundly, but enough to make him happy.




3 Before (#ulink_ff53e82f-5e39-52aa-8a10-a8e4ac6c21ea)


I HAVEN’T ALWAYS been ill. Once upon a time, I got lots of ‘A’s and played right-inner for the school hockey team. I wasn’t very good but that’s not the point. I loved the clatter of the game and the gorgeous bruises and the orange segments at half-time. I loved the adrenaline at the start, the jamming and locking of sticks when the centre-forwards fought for possession of the ball.

Ground, Stick! Ground, Stick! Ground, Stick! BALL!

We had to wear disgusting maroon hockey skirts. We envied the nearby private school whose uniform was deep lilac and much sexier.

When we left school, my best friend Rachel and I got summer jobs at the Swan Hotel. The staff had to wear tartan. Rachel and I wore mini kilts and flirted with the chefs. The bottle boy was always trying to get Rachel to go down to the cellar with him.

The local speed-boat owners came regularly with their beer bellies and Alsatians. Dogs weren’t allowed, so the Alsatians clipped along the pier, barking at the swans while their owners devoured scampi-in-the-basket washed down by pints of heavy. Coach parties were a nightmare, tea and coffee for eighty. Josie, the woman who made the sandwiches, would test if the bread was defrosted by holding the cold slices against her hairy face. The tourists nibbled on their egg and cress and gazed out at Ben Lomond, blissfully unknowing. When it was quiet, I would sit at the bar, folding napkins, remembering how Peter used to bring us here on Sundays for chicken-in-the-basket. Sean and I would sneak into the ball-room and slide on the polished dance floor. Rita would be staring out at the loch. She hated it when her husband played happy families.

Sometimes, after our shifts, we would go up the park and hide in the rhododendrons and get stoned with the commis chefs. We’d talk rubbish, pissing ourselves laughing amongst the crimson flowers and shiny leaves. One time, we put dope in tea and watched Yellow Submarine at the bar manager’s flat. Nothing for an hour then my elbows were made of cotton and my tongue felt like sawdust. It was a bit scary. I kept saying, I’ve got cotton elbows, but Rachel couldn’t stop laughing.

In my first year at university, I commuted, thought nothing of the mile walk to the train station. Why would I?

I met Hadi, handsome and narcissistic, at the beginning of the second term. He was Libyan and had his own flat and a fat black cat called Blue because she liked the blues. When Hadi had the munchies he would overfeed her, tipping Whiskas onto a saucer, tapping the spoon against the rim to get her attention: Come on, fat lady, come to eat! Hadi hardly ever went to his engineering lectures and got his friends to photocopy their notes for him.

His erection was bent like a banana and he rolled his eyes when he came. I thought this was normal. The third time we had sex he complained about using Durex (‘stupid skins’) and said I should go on the pill. I told him I wouldn’t have sex without a condom because I didn’t know his history. He pouted and accused me of being neurotic and clinical about love. When I finished with him at the end of term, he kicked over the rubber plant I’d got him and called me a prick-tease. I told him I was tired of his moods and tired of him shovelling cat food into Blue. I told him I was tired of his friends always being there skinning up, and tired of listening to J. J. Cale. When I tried to leave the flat, he said he’d kill himself. A couple of weeks later, I saw him with his arm round a girl in the Grosvenor Cafe. I half smiled, but he blanked me.

In my second year, I moved up to Glasgow into a student flat. My flatmate Jana was petite and fragile with a sexy, throaty voice and jet black hair that swung like a curtain. She’d grown up in San Francisco. Her mum was half American Indian and had died of breast cancer when Jana was fifteen. (It’s sad, Jana’d say – she was beautiful but she was bi-polar and she was always going on crazy spending sprees, she got us into a lot of debt.) Jana’s dad was Scottish and her granny lived in Anniesland. Jana had stayed with her when she first came to Glasgow. She loved Glasgow. The first time she’d seen well-fired rolls in Greggs’ bakery she’d taken a photo because she thought they were burnt.

Ivan lived in the flat above. He was studying biochemistry and looked a bit like Adam Ant, but taller and more rugged. Everyone fancied him. We would eye each other up in the Reading Room, the dome-shaped library where you went if you just had a couple of hours and didn’t want the palaver of checking into the main library. The Reading Room echoed with suppressed giggles and shuffled papers and books slammed shut. The librarian was stern and wore salmon pink twin-sets. You could feel her eyes stabbing you when you scraped your chair along the ground or dropped your pen and it echoed. Jana called her the salmon spinster and was always getting thrown out for carrying on.

In Week Eight, I got off with Ivan in the union bar to Love Will Tear Us Apart by Joy Division. I said I loved his blue eyes. He said he loved my green eyes. They’re not really green, I said, they’re more grey. When I told him I was from Balloch, he said he’d camped there once and someone had jumped on his tent. It wasn’t me, I said.

You’ll never guess who’s been sleeping in my bed! I said to Jana the next morning. I told her it was Ivan and she screamed and went to check I was telling the truth. She peeked into my bedroom. He was still sleeping.

I wouldn’t mind doing pelvic thrusts with him, she whispered to me back in the kitchen. Bring him to Rocky Horror. It’s on this Friday.

I’ll see, I said. I want to play hard to get. And by the way, we haven’t done pelvic thrusts yet, we just dibbled and dabbled. (Dibbling and dabbling was Jana’s term for nonpenetrative sex.)

I bet he has a beautiful body, she said.

He does, I said. He’s in the university tennis club. And he’s in a band. And he wears contact lenses. He’s as blind as a bat without them.

So if I climbed into bed with him now, he’d just think it was you? she said.

Don’t even think about it, you cheeky wench!

When she’d gone to her class, I took Ivan tea in bed. Nonchalant and shaking, I asked him about Rocky Horror. Sure, green eyes, he said, peering for the cup. It’s a date.

After that we were joined at the hip.

He was mature. He was twenty-one (I was nineteen). He’d taken a year out after school and worked in America. He’d gone to a private school. His parents lived in Dundee in a huge house overlooking the Tay. His dad was a surgeon and his mum was a part-time English teacher from Dublin. The first time I met her she got tipsy and maudlin. She showed me photos of Ivan’s sister Molly who’d been killed in 1975 when she’d tripped up crossing the road in her flip-flops. Don’t ever have children, Helen, she said. You’ll only lose them if you do.




4 France (#ulink_97d45dcb-cbc8-5b93-ae23-633a11de2242)


IN SEPTEMBER OF our third year, Jana and I went to study in Caen, a town in the north of France. We’d been looking forward to our year abroad all summer.

I’d been to France twice before. The first time was a school trip to Paris, and we all had to wear red cagoules. A black man with broken yellow teeth and bloodshot eyes had tried to put his hand between my legs in the Eiffel Tower lift. I’d screamed and he’d pulled back, but part of me had felt sorry for him because of the Africans in the street selling trinkets that no one wanted. I’d bought a giant packet of paper hankies from one man. The second time was a couple of days in Nice during an inter-railing trip with Rachel. We’d sunbathed topless and felt cosmopolitan. Two sisters from Inverness had latched onto us because we spoke French, but they wouldn’t take their tops off. They said there might be perverts.



Two weeks before we left for Caen, I had a going away/ passing my driving test party. Nab and Rita went up north for the weekend. It was Nab’s birthday.

I was sexy at the party, I didn’t know it would be for the last time. I could’ve walked out of Bananarama with my fuchsia mini dress, gold fishnet tights, pink shoes from Ravel and black chiffon scarf tied in a bow round my hair, which had been back-combed with half a tub of gel; I had heavy arches of pink eye crayon and fuchsia frenzy lipstick.

Ivan came with his new band and his flatmate Rez. He brought me a Matchbox Mini with a red bow round it.

Jana came with her summer fling, Piedro, a morose Portuguese student with bad teeth. He’s not circumcised, said Jana. Things are a bit baggy down there. It creeps me out.

Rachel turned up on her own. She’d gone to St Andrews to do law. We still had our summer jobs at the Swan Hotel but we were drifting apart. She was in with a posh crowd and had changed the way she talked.

Richard from next door came with his Barbie-doll girlfriend, Clare, who worked in his dad’s carpet shop. She kept giving me cold looks as if she knew that he used to touch my breasts when I was helping him with his calculus.

Callum, who used to sniff glue under Balloch bridge, brought his girlfriend, Roquia, an Asian goth who kept running away from home. Callum was now a photographer with the local paper.

Dribs and drabs of hippies and punks turned up. I recognised some of them from school.

Rita had made Sean promise he wouldn’t drink and made me promise that I would confiscate whatever he did try to drink. His friend brought a quarter bottle of Pernod which he later threw up on the hall carpet. They spent the night shrinking empty crisp packets in the oven – you made badges by putting safety pins on the back of the miniature shrunken bags.

Jana and Piedro had sex in the greenhouse. Jana sat on some bulbs and came back into the house with mud on her white jeans. Shit, my good jeans are ruined, she said. D’you think this’ll come out? That guy Callum’s weird. He was watching us having sex. He had his head pressed up against the glass the whole time. And he had a rose between his teeth.

Don’t mind Callum, I said. He’s harmless. Weird but harmless. Are the bulbs okay? Rita will go mad if you’ve ruined them.

She grinned. I had to re-pot them but they’re fine.

Jana, I hope you’re joking! I said.

Later, I found Callum stoned, lying on top of the coats in Sean’s bedroom. Why did you watch my friends having sex in the greenhouse? I asked.

Och, I was just having a laugh, he said. I couldn’t really see much. It was all steamed up.

Jana said you had a rose between your teeth.

I stole it from next door, he said. It just tempted me. Do you mind?

You’re mad, I said. Where’s Roquia got to?

I think she’s in the huff with me for flirting with Rachel. She’s away chatting up your boyfriend to get me back. He’s a handsome boy, by the way. I could shag him myself. Here, d’you fancy a draw? He handed me a soggy joint.

No thanks. (You could never be sure what Callum was smoking. It was probably mixed with dung or something.) I’m away to mingle. Don’t be sick on the coats.

D’you fancy a snog before you go?

Behave yourself, I said.

Has anyone ever told you you’ve got a dancer’s legs?

When the party started to fizzle out, Ivan and his friends got their guitars out. Callum kept requesting Bohemian Rhapsody but they ignored him so he paraded around singing all the parts himself. It’s too operatic for you, he said. That’s your problem, boys. Too fucking operatic.

We got to bed about five and Ivan and I had sex, jammed together in my single bed. He said he’d miss me like hell when I went away. Me too, I said. He hummed my favourite Leonard Cohen song and I fell asleep. The next morning I was up by eleven, opening all the windows and cleaning up. The others would’ve slept all day if I hadn’t woken them.

Piedro had sleeping bag zip marks on his face and was mooching around the kitchen. Sean was pretending that he had a hang-over to act tough – he’d hardly drunk a thing – and said he couldn’t eat anything. He went into the garden to get some air and came back and said the hollyhocks were broken. I went into the front garden to check. It looked like someone had gone over them on a bike. I snapped off the broken flowers and tried to ruffle up the leaves to get rid of the flatness and tyre marks. I knew it was Callum.

Mum’ll go mad, I said. And you can still see a stain where your friend was sick in the hall. You’ll need to put more disinfectant on it.

It’s stinking, said Sean.

I’m glad I’m going away next week, I said. Mum’ll have her stony face for days after this.

I went upstairs to finish hoovering, and Piedro made omelettes for everyone. He wasn’t as glaikit as he looked.

We’d filled six bin bags with rubbish from the party. I hoped the squirrels wouldn’t get them. It was the only thing that made Nab angry, litter strewn in the garden when the squirrels chewed the bags. He was always shouting at them, You bloody rodents with no respect!

I loved the squirrels. I loved the way they’d skite up the trees and along branches and down again.



Diarrhoea the day before we left. Pain like sharp sticks. A heavy headache that hurt my eyes. You’ll be fine, said Rita. It’s just nerves. Drink lots of water so you don’t get dehydrated.



Ivan and Rita and Nab saw us off at Central Station. I was worried the diarrhoea would come back when I was on the train. Rita went off to John Menzies to get me some Pan Drops. Peppermint’s good for you, she said, it’ll settle your stomach. You sound like Granny, I said.

A Polaroid snap of the occasion: me clinging to Ivan. See you at Christmas. I love you. Nab like a wall round me with his polar bear hug. Rita pressing the Pan Drops into my hand. Remember we love you. Phone us when you get there. Ivan whispering in my ear, Don’t shit yourself on the train. My mother wiping a tear away as the train jolts out. Nab’s arm round her. Ivan making a face, trying not to show emotion in front of them.

I was homesick by Preston and wanted to go back. You can’t be serious, said Jana. We are going to have a ball over there, my girl. This time next week you’ll be asking yourself, Who is Ivan anyway?

I doubt it, I said. Did I tell you we’ve agreed that we can kiss other people while I’m away, as long as we tell each other about it?

Jana rolled her eyes.

Won’t you miss Piedro at all? I asked. Won’t you miss his omelettes?

She started to laugh and couldn’t stop. Speaking of Piedro, she said, snorting, how are your skitters?

Poor Piedro. He’ll be pining for you all next term. And since you asked, the skitters seem to have dried up for the time being.

Great, she said. Everything’s just hunky dory. Yes, we are going to have a ball, my girl. A veritable ball!



We stayed overnight in Weymouth at a B&B. I cried in the toilet because I was missing Ivan. I was scared he’d get back with Gail, his ex. She was still after him.

We went out and had fish and chips, and scones with clotted cream. Jana found a hair in her cream. That’s fucking gross, she said. I told her about the time I was wee and we were at a dentist friend’s of Peter’s for dinner and I’d found a hair in my fruit cocktail. I’d been too shy to say anything and had just eaten it. I could feel it in my throat for ages afterwards.

The next morning we missed the ferry to Cherbourg because we slept in. We got to the docks just as the Sealink ferry was floating off. We could have reached out and touched it. Looks like we’ve missed the boat, said Jana. I sent Ivan a postcard. I love you. Jana was scathing.



We got lodgings with a family in Caen. The mother Simone looked like Jeanne Moreau. She warned us that electricity was very expensive and we should never leave the lights on. She had a lock on the phone. Her husband Vincent was a lot older. He’d had a stroke and taken early retirement from his factory job. He shuffled around the house, eating grapes. Their son Jean-Paul had just done his army service and lived in the basement.

That’ll have to go, Jana said, pointing to the poster in our bedroom – Entre Les Trous de la Mémoire, a montage of some anaemic girl and her memories, featuring a cruise ship with symbolic waves; the leaning tower of Pisa; a tree; a pile of books (one of them in flames); a hot air balloon and a mirror. It was horrible but I persuaded Jana to leave it there ‘til we’d ingratiated ourselves a bit more with Simone.

We had to register at la préfecture and get ID cards. Le préfet was like a Peter Sellers character. He glared at us while he stamped our cartes de séjour with a hundred different stamps. We started to giggle and he glimmered us a smile.

We didn’t have any exams and our attendance wasn’t being checked, so there was no incentive for Jana to go to classes. I’d lugged over my huge Collins dictionary and planned to get through everything on next year’s reading list. Jana had started sleeping with Jean-Paul in our third week and preferred to spend her mornings in the basement. She’d roll into the student canteen at lunchtime, boasting that Jean-Paul had asked her to fais-moi la pipe. At first she hadn’t understood what he meant. Jean-Paul grinned. Comme une sucette, like a lollipop.

Louis de Funès, a French comedy actor, had just died, and they were showing all his films. We would sit around the TV, en famille, guffawing at his antics. Vincent would cry and snort with joy. It was the only time he was ever animated.

At the end of September, Abas came to lodge with us. He was from Morocco. He would invite me into his room to eat oranges and help him with his English. He said he was missing his wife. His eyes would fill up and he’d try and sit a bit nearer me on the bed.

In the evenings, we’d go to the Bar de la Fac and eat crepes and get drunk on kir royal with Esther, a student from Cork. Esther was plump and breathless and beautiful. She wanted to lose her virginity before Christmas. Abas was at the top of her list. She thought he was lovely.



One weekend, we went skating. I could skate backwards better than I could skate forwards. I had more control going backwards.

Abas had never skated. He clung to Esther like a toddler, terrified to leave the side of the rink. Jean-Paul and his friend, a lorry driver from Ouistreham, with a thuggish crew-cut, sped round, pissing themselves at Abas every time he fell. I didn’t like the lorry driver and wished someone would skate over his hands.

I had to sit down after twenty minutes because my legs felt weak. I spectated for the rest of the afternoon. The smell of the rink reminded me of learning to skate in Aviemore, Nab skating round effortlessly with his hands clasped behind his back.

I shivered. I felt I was coming down with something.



Nagging pain in spine for last two weeks. Feeling stoned all the time. When I bend down, I feel dizzy.

I’ve only had one letter from Ivan in a month. I’ve written to him every week.

Something isn’t right.

When I go outside, the light hurts my eyes.



Dear Ivan,

I am missing you so much, sweet boy. I think about you all the time and want to kiss you right now. Jana and Abas have gone to Bayeux today but I didn’t feel up to going. I’ve been feeling ill and weird. I might have picked something up in the university canteen. The food is fucking horrible. I’m sure they gave us pigeon last week. They covered it with grated carrots to make it seem healthy. Did I tell you that Simone, the landlady, has arranged a wee party for my birthday? It’s funny, ‘cos she’s really tight-fisted. We’re not allowed to use her real coffee, we have to drink the chicory stuff! We’re scared she finds out we’ve binned that poster she had up in our room. It was really ugly and the drawing pins kept falling out. We’ve also hidden the vase with the plastic flowers behind the wardrobe. We couldn’t stand looking at them anymore. I don’t have much more news, I told you everything in last letter. I’m sending you lots of kisses.

Helen xxx

PS. I am wearing your cosy purple tartan shirt and sandalwood oil. It makes me feel near you. PPS. How’s the band going?



I put the letter in my bedside drawer. I wouldn’t send it ‘til I got a reply to my last two.



One morning during a lecture on Voltaire, it just came over me.

Hot twisting cramps.

I thought I was going to shit myself. I bolted out of the lecture hall and ran to the toilet. I sat there for almost an hour ‘til there was nothing left.

I got the bus home and went to bed. I cried myself to sleep. Jana woke me up rummaging for cigarettes in her bedside cabinet.

There’s something wrong with me, Jana, I said. I almost shat myself today in the Voltaire lecture, and the other weird feelings are getting worse. My head keeps going numb.

She came over and sat on the side of the bed. Maybe it’s hormonal ‘cos you came off the pill. We’ll go to the uni doctor tomorrow.



The next day the university doctor took a urine sample and gave me antibiotics for a urinary tract infection that I knew I didn’t have. He assured me that I didn’t have appendicitis and asked if British people had their appendix on the left side like their cars. He told me to come back in a week if I wasn’t better.

We picked up the prescription and Jana talked me into buying a pink lambswool sweater from Au Printemps that I couldn’t afford. You need something to cheer yourself up, she said.

I felt dizzy in the changing room. The spot-light glared above me. It looks great, said Jana, swooshing the curtain back. You’re so lucky you’ve got breasts.

You’re so lucky you’ve got hips, I replied out of habit.

You’re so lucky you’re tall.

You’re so lucky you don’t feel as if you’re dying.

Is it so bad?

Yes. I want to go home.

I’ll come with you.

No, don’t. I’m just going to go to bed.

She went to the Bar de la Fac to meet some Americans she’d befriended and I went home with the nagging pain circling me and the pink sweater folded preciously in floral tissue paper.



I took the antibiotics anyway, Doctor’s orders! When I went back to see him he said my urine was clear and took some blood. He patted my head and said I looked pale. It’s inside my muscle, I said, pointing to the nagging in my spine. I struggled for the correct French preposition. We’ll know more when we get the blood results, he said. Come back in two weeks.

Later, I lay in the bath, scrunching up my eyes, wishing that when I unscrunched them I could be home with Rita and Nab – like Dorothy clicking her magic slippers.



Ivan phoned in the middle of my party and sang Happy Birthday down the phone. He’d sent a card too.

Simone had bought cheap pate from Carrefour that looked like cat food. Abas had bought a cake with bright green icing. Simone’s eyes lit up when he brought it to the table. She was like a magpie. He had made thick black coffee which he poured ceremoniously into tiny cups. It was almost undrinkable. When Abas wasn’t looking Jean-Paul threw his in the yucca plant. I thought Jana would explode. Esther guzzled the sparkling wine she’d brought and told Abas his coffee was trés bon. He beamed.

Why do you sound so sad? said Ivan.

I’m still feeling ill, I said. I’ve been staying in bed. The pain’s still there and the funny feelings. I’m going back to the doctor’s a week on Tuesday.

Hang in there, he said. You’ll soon be home for Christmas. By the way, I’ve got a surprise for you, I got my ear pierced. We used ice and potatoes. It was agony!

You’re crazy, I said. You should have done it properly. It could get infected. Who’s we?

Rez and me.

Abas had put on his favourite tape, an awful, wailing Middle Eastern woman. (He was always singing along to her in his room, completely out of tune.)

What the hell’s that racket? said Ivan

Abas’s music, I said.

Is Abas deaf?

Ha ha. Very funny.

Tell Abas to change it. It’s shite. He laughed and sent a kiss down the phone before hanging up.

I went back to the party.

Ça va avec ton copain? Simone was blinking and beaming, hungry for details.

Oui, ça va, I said.

I hated Ivan for not believing how bad I felt and I hated him for being happy without me and I hated him for slagging Abas.

I wanted to phone him back and tell him how much I missed him.



Let’s go out tonight. It’ll cheer you up, Jana said, recently emerged from the basement. A couple of the Moroccans are having a party on the campus.

If I could go to a party that meant I was fine, so I forced myself to go just to pretend. I wore my new pink sweater. The hosts had made spicy hamburgers and boiled eggs. I sipped on a kir and tried to blend in with the noise, but it wasn’t working. I wasn’t part of this. I just wanted to lie down.

We got a taxi home. Jana went into the kitchen to get some bottled water. She screamed and jumped back from the fridge. Jesus Christ! Whatever you do, don’t look in the fridge, Helen. Just don’t look!

What is it?! Tell me!

The rabbit’s in the fridge! The bastards have killed their pet rabbit, can you believe it?! She was a bit drunk and kept saying, Pauvre fucking lapin over and over again.

I trudged upstairs and started to pack. The rabbit had decided me, I was going home. I couldn’t wait ‘til the Christmas break. I was going now. I packed everything except my French dictionary and umbrella. My case weighed a ton.



Jana and Abas came to the station with me. Abas, mournful in his blue anorak, tried to kiss me goodbye on the lips. Jana said she didn’t think I should be travelling on my own. I hadn’t told Rita and Nab I was coming back. I didn’t want to worry them. Remember to cancel my doctor’s appointment, I mouthed to her from the train.

On the way to Cherbourg, I thought I was having a heart attack. Chest pains, numb face, pins and needles in my legs. I kept staring at my feet to stay calm. I’d bought these blue desert boots for coming to France. I could see myself two months ago – a young woman in Schuh trying on a mountain of boots: I can never get shoes to fit, I’m not a six or a seven, I’m really a six and a half.

I met a French girl on the ferry. She was starting a job as a nanny in London. When she asked me where I was going, I told her I was going home for Christmas. But it’s only the fifth of December, she said.

I brushed my teeth in a trickle of water and tossed and turned all night in the grey cabin. I slept for two hours and smelled of sweat when I woke.

I called home at half eight in the morning, hoping that Nab would answer. He did.

Nab, I’m in Weymouth, I’m coming home. I’m ill.

Calm and Scandinavian, he said he’d meet me in Glasgow. Nab didn’t judge.

I got a taxi to Seaview, the B&B we’d stayed at on the way out. The landlady recognised me. You’re the ones that missed the boat, she said. Is your friend not with you?

I booked in and hauled my case into room six. She grudgingly made me breakfast. I had just made the deadline. The dining room was empty, just me and the dirty tables. I felt sick and hungry at the same time and forced down some toast and half a glistening sausage.

I got to the toilet just in time. The cramps had come from nowhere, clawing into me. The toilet seat was freezing. I was doubled over, groaning, my head in my hands, my gut in twisted loops. The toilet paper was like the chemical stuff you got at school. I must have used half the box. I was pulling up my jeans when I saw the spider on the ceiling. It was the size of a cup. I scraped my knuckles on the snib in my panic to get out. My jeans were still undone.

Back in the room, I sat on the floor, sucking my knuckles, trying to banish the image of what I’d seen, hoping no one could hear me crying.

I had to get clean.

I gathered up my toiletries and underwear and realised I didn’t have a towel – all I had was the skimpy grey B&B hand-towel. I’d need to use my dressing gown. I locked the room and went along the corridor to the bathroom. The corridor smelled of bacon.

I checked for spiders before going in. The radiator was boiling hot. I piled up my stuff beside it and rinsed the bath with the shower attachment. There was a pubic hair stuck on the side. I imagined Jana’s reaction: Gross me out the door! I climbed in and washed away the ferry and diarrhoea. I washed my hair with soap even though I knew it would give me dandruff.

I felt the cleanest I’d ever felt.

I dried off with my dressing gown and went back to my room, slightly cheered up by clean pants. I went to bed wearing Ivan’s shirt. When I woke up it was four o’clock. I couldn’t be bothered moving but my bladder was nagging me to get up. I pulled on my jeans and went along the corridor. I opened the toilet door, keeping it at arm’s length. I forced myself to look inside. The spider had fucking moved! It was halfway down the wall now, spanned and waiting. I fled to the toilet upstairs, still shuddering at the thought of it looking down on me before.

I went back to the room and made some coffee. There was a tray on top of the dressing-table with two damp sachets of Nescafe and a kettle with a melted handle.

When I stirred in the powdered milk, it floated in clumps on the top. I threw it away. I tried to drink the second cup black, but it was too bitter.

I was feeling hungry again and went to ask the landlady if I could have some toast. She said the kitchen was closed. I told her I wasn’t feeling well. There’s an Indian takeaway round the corner, she said. I asked if she could get rid of the spider in the toilet. She said they were harmless and that they ate flies. There are no flies, I wanted to say. It’s winter.

I trudged back to my room and found half a packet of peanuts at the bottom of my bag. I ate them and lay down again. By six o’clock, I was starving. I got dressed and went round the corner to the Taj Mahal. They were just opening. I thought I could manage some pakora but they didn’t have any. The flock wallpaper and Indian music made me think of Ivan. He loved Indian food. I ended up with chicken biryani and boiled rice and a plastic knife and fork. I went back to Seaview and sat on the bed and ate from the foil trays. I could only eat half of it. I got up and opened the window. The air was cold and sharp. The room was stinking of curry and I’d spilled biryani on the bedspread.

I lay on the bed with my year-abroad boots on, wondering what Ivan would say. I was dying to speak to him but he didn’t have a phone in his flat. I thought of calling his parents but his dad could be a bit gruff and I didn’t know what to say.



I saw Nab before he saw me. I saw him from the window of the train. He was wearing his sheepskin jacket.

He hugged me tightly on the platform and said, You’ve been feeling a bit scruffy, Helen?

Scruffy. Nab’s word for ill.



I scrunch up my eyes. When I open them I am in the bath at home, Rita and Nab in the next room. Safe.




5 The Trial (#ulink_d2067969-4c5e-5ec8-8fb1-254ff6053d01)


I KNEW RITA would think I was pregnant. She’d made me an appointment with Myra Finlay, our family doctor.

Beginning of the trial.

Sitting opposite Myra, I presented my evidence.

She wrote it all down.

You’re not pregnant are you?

I shook my head.

You haven’t been taking drugs over in France?

No, I said.

Are you worried about anything?

I’m worried about what’s wrong with me.

She took some blood and told me to come back in a week. On the way out, I peed into a tube and handed it in at reception. It was still warm.



Results all negative.

It’s common for young women your age to have aches and pains. Being homesick’s a terrible thing. Go back to France and stop worrying.

What about the diarrhoea?

It’s anxiety.

What about the pain in my spine and the pressure in my head?

She smiled weakly and didn’t answer.



I told everyone I’d go back after Christmas, I had to keep up appearances. I was trying to read Zola’s Germinal without my dictionary. There were lots of mining terms that I didn’t understand.

Ivan said, This year abroad’s a great opportunity. Don’t screw it up because you’re missing me. Later, he apologised and said he’d been stressed by his end of term exams. He looked gorgeous with his earring. I’d been too scared to ask if he’d kissed Gail.



Rita took me Christmas shopping and I wandered round John Menzies wondering if I had something wrong with my kidneys. I shopped half-heartedly:

Boxers with red hearts and a sweater for Ivan;

Midnight’s Children for Rita;

Stranglers album for Sean.

I didn’t know what to get Nab. I’d probably go halfers with Sean on a bottle of Glenmorangie. Brian was easy. Whenever you asked him what he wanted for Christmas, he’d beam and say, A big giant selection box.

I helped Rita with the Christmas tree, trying to ignore the expanding headaches and ever-present gnawing in my spine. Our Christmas decorations had become Scandinavian since Nab: glass angels on the tree, wooden trolls under the tree, all white lights, and he’d taught us to curl the ribbons on presents with the edge of the scissors. (Nab’s advent had also brought a Bang & Olufsen hi-fi, a huge chunky Lisa Larson lion, a couple of Greenlandic paintings, a set of orange and black almanacs called Hvem, Hvad, Hvor and duty-free Firkløver chocolate.)

Ivan had got me a ticket for Daft Friday, the all-night student Christmas ball.

I stayed in bed all day to make sure I could go, even though I knew I couldn’t. I was cloaked in nausea, my head felt inflated with a bicycle pump. My fairy godmother whispered, You shall go to the ball, while the ugly sisters stuck the boot in, Sick people don’t go to balls, you’re going nowhere!

In the middle of the night, while Gail was tempting Ivan in her black cocktail dress, I was dreaming about bluebells: Ivan was an old man in a wheelchair. He was wearing a red leather jockstrap and I was pushing him through the bluebells in the park.



In and out of the dusty bluebells. I am the master! Helen’s getting a bit dull, isn’t she? She was hoping she could go back to France after Christmas and have an affair with one of those young Moroccans, put Ivan in his place, but alas she’s going nowhere!

She’s staying put.



It snowed on New Year’s Day. I liked the way the snow blanked everything out. Ivan and Rez had gone to a friend’s parents’ cottage in Tighnabruaich for a few days. They’d invited me but I couldn’t go. They got in a fight with some neds who called Rez Kunta Kinte, and Ivan ended up in Casualty with a broken nose. They’d been planning to visit me on their way back to Glasgow but the roads were too bad.

Jana had stayed with Jean-Paul over the holidays. She’d phoned me on Hogmanay. Abas keeps asking when you’re coming back, she said. And your Frank Zappa compilation tape got mangled in the tape-recorder. I told her that I had an appointment to see Professor Pivot after the holidays. And Myra’s doing more tests, I said. I’ll write and tell you what’s happening. That reminds me, she said, a letter came for you from the university health centre. I’ll forward it with your other mail.

I didn’t tell her that I’d sent her a poster of The Orange Blind by Cadell, one of the Scottish colourists. I thought she could do with a replacement and I wanted it to be a surprise.

Rita ran me up to Glasgow and waited in the Grosvenor Cafe while I explained my return from France to Professor Pivot, the Head of the French Department. (He was very angular and pivoted along rather than walked.) It was pissing down. We were late because of the slush slowing down the traffic.

I got drenched walking from the car and was dripping all over the professor’s floor. He offered to get me a towel. His head was small compared to the rest of him.

I told him they hadn’t found out what was wrong with me yet but were doing more tests. I hope I can re-do my year abroad next year, I said. I’ve sent this term’s grant cheque back.

You’re young, he said. Take time to think about things. We’ll have another chat next term. You might know what’s wrong by then.

He was so understanding that I was tempted to list my symptoms.

On the way out, I went to look at the noticeboard. I wished it was this time last year and all I had to worry about was an essay on Baudelaire.

The Grosvenor was packed as usual. It smelled of wet coats and smoke mixed with coffee and fried onions. The geology lecturer, who was always on his own, was there.

Rita looked worried. Well, how did it go?

He was really nice, but I was dripping all over his floor.

Can you go back to France next year?

I think so, I said. He was quite vague about things.

Ivan was dropping in before his three o’clock lecture to give me the keys of his flat. I’d hardly stayed with him since coming back from France. We’d only had sex once. Afterwards, I’d cried because I felt so crap and because I felt I was letting him down.

That guy over there’s always in on his own, I said to Rita. It makes me sad, seeing him with his hamburger roll. I always want to invite him over.

You’re being ridiculous, said my mother. He’s probably quite happy eating on his own.

I don’t think so, I said. He doesn’t look happy.

I just ate on my own, and I was perfectly happy!

But you’ve got a husband, you’re not on your own. That guy’s not married.

Here’s Ivan now, said Rita.

The rain was sliding off him. He squashed himself into our booth.

You’re soaked! I said, kissing his cheek. You look like a hamster with your hair clapped round your head like that. I wished Rita wasn’t there so I could kiss him properly, then I felt guilty for wishing she wasn’t there. I squeezed his hand tightly under the table.

How’s your nose? I asked. You said it was squint. It doesn’t look squint.

It’s okay, he said. It wasn’t actually broken.

He’d just sat down when someone tapped me on the shoulder – a mature student from my English tutorial, whose name I could never remember. She had terrible facial hair. I thought it was you! she said. I thought you were in France doing your year abroad.

I was, I said, but I’m home for a while. I’ve been ill.

That’s a shame. Well, I better go, my car’s on a meter, I just thought I’d say hello. I hope you get better soon.

Thanks, I said.

Who was that? asked Rita.

She was in my English tutorial last year. I can never remember her name.

By the way, said Ivan, I got the Ian Dury tickets.

I hope I can come, I said. I’ll be gutted if I can’t.

Rez and his new girlfriend are going. Rez was saying he thinks you should get tested for brucellosis.

What’s brucellosis?

Something you get from milk.

Myra’ll batter me, I said, if I even think of suggesting it. I’m having soup, do you want anything to eat?

Nah, just hot chocolate.

I’ll have another coffee, said Rita.

So what did your Prof say? asked Ivan.

I think he just thinks I’m anxious, but he was so nice about it.

So you’re not chucked off the course?

I don’t think so, I said.

The camp ginger-haired guy came and took my order. He’d fallen off a wall last year when he was drunk, and broken his back, but he was fine now, fully recovered.

He brought the soup straight away. I loved the comfort of being here with the two people who could make everything okay. I wanted this scene to play forever. I didn’t want my soup to finish.

I have to go, said Ivan, I’m really late. He kissed me on the cheek (still shy in front of my mother). I’ll see you later. Here are my keys.

I wanted to be like him, downing hot chocolate and going back to a class.

Normal.

When he’d gone, Rita said she’d have to be making tracks too. Are you sure you’ll be okay?

Yes. I might go to the bookshop. I want to look at French dictionaries.

Could Jana not send yours back?

It’d probably cost less to buy a new one.

My mother frowned. Okay, I’m away. See you tomorrow. We’ll pick you up from the station if you want. And don’t be filling your head with what Rez says. Medical students are known for being neurotic.

She hugged me and left.

I sat there for a while wondering what to do next. Choices were: go and look at dictionaries and pretend to be normal, or go to Ivan’s and lie down.

I chose to pretend.

It was still pissing down. The uni bookshop was only five minutes away but my arms were weak from holding the brolly by the time I got there.

I went straight to the medical section and looked up brucellosis. You got it from unpasteurised milk and dairy products. Symptoms were backache, fever and fatigue. I could easily have it, God knows what I’d eaten in France. I looked up brain tumours too and had worried myself sick before heading round to the French section.

I crouched down to look at the dictionaries. I knelt on the floor and looked up some words I’d written down from Germinal. As I scribbled down the meanings in the back of my chequebook, rain from my umbrella dripped onto a page of the dictionary. I snapped it shut, hoping no one had seen. When I stood up I felt dizzy and my face was going numb.

I wanted something easier to read than Zola. I quickly chose Paroles by Prévert. His poems were simple and quite easy to understand and it was a bargain for £1.50.

I had to get back to Ivan’s flat.

It had finally stopped raining. I bumped into Gail coming up University Avenue, with her wide brown eyes, walking with her feet turned in because she thought it looked sexy. She looked like a knock-kneed foal.

Hi, she said in her fakey voice. I heard you’d come home. I heard you were ill.

I was just up seeing the Head of Department, I said. I’m on my way to Ivan’s now.

What do you think of Ivan’s earring? He really suits it, doesn’t he? It was such a laugh when we did it! Rez was standing by with the cotton wool and TCP for emergencies. He wouldn’t let me do his though.

She could feel me wither – she’d pierced Ivan’s ear, the bitch.

Yeah, he really suits it, I said. He should have got it done properly though. It’s stupid to risk infection.

She gave me her foal eyes and laughed.

I better go, I said. I’m not feeling great.

I better go too. I’m going up to the Stevie building to sign up for an aerobics class. Say hello to Ivan from me.

I will, I said.

I walked to Lawrence Street wishing in spite of my numb head that I’d had eye-liner on when I met her.

Ivan was living in the same flat as last year above Jana’s and my old place. The paint was still peeling off our front door. The Cocteau Twins were playing inside. I could hear laughing. It could’ve been me and Jana a year ago. I climbed one more flight up to Ivan’s.

It was freezing in his flat. I chucked my umbrella in the bath and put the gas fire on in his bedroom. I moved his guitar off the bed (it seemed so bulky) and got under his black and white checked quilt, still dressed. I could smell him on the pillow.

My feet wouldn’t heat up and I felt like I had a brick in my neck. I got up and looked for a pair of Ivan’s socks to put over my own. His room was a tip. There were two driedup oranges on his desk with half the peel bitten off. There would be others he’d forgotten, hidden under his books and clothes. He always ate orange peel when he was studying. I found some socks and put them on and went through to the bathroom to look for Anadin. I put the toilet seat down and looked in the medicine cabinet: one medical rubber glove, a bottle of sandalwood oil and a bottle of pink nail polish. I dabbed some of Ivan’s oil on my wrists then soaked a facecloth in cold water and wrung it out.

I went back to the bed and put the facecloth on my head. I wondered who the nail polish belonged to. I tried conjugating subjunctives and somehow fell asleep.

Ivan woke me when he came home. (When you shut the front door the whole flat shook.) I could hear him taking off his jacket in the hall. He was singing. There was a damp patch on the bed where the facecloth had been.

He came into the bedroom and sat on the bed. You fell asleep with the fire on, he said, ruffling my hair. God, you’ll never guess what the guy who sits next to me in Nucleic Acids’ girlfriend did?

What? I mumbled.

She found out he’d slept with someone else and she threw all his notes in the bath!

The bastard must’ve deserved it.

You sound blocked up? Have you been crying?

My head feels weird. I met Gail. You didn’t tell me she’d pierced your ear.

I know I didn’t. I knew you’d get the wrong end of the stick. That’s why.

Did you shag her when I was ill in France?

Of course not! Please not the third degree about Gail again. D’you want some tea?

Why does she walk like a foal?

What?

Why does Gail walk like a foal? I’m just wondering.

I don’t know what you mean. D’you want some tea or not?

Yeah. I’m getting up. I need a drink of water. My head’s killing me. Have you got any painkillers? I couldn’t find any.

Maybe in the kitchen drawer. I’ll go and look.

He came back through with a faded strip of Disprin and a glass of water. Will these do? he asked.

They look really old. Have they passed their expiry date?

They’ll be fine, just take them.

I sat up and he put his arms round me. His face was cold and he smelled of rain.

I loved being held by this boy in his chunky white fisherman’s sweater. He was forgiven for Gail. I decided not to mention the nail polish.

Someone’s been dabbing my sandalwood, he said.

I love the smell of it, I said. It smells of you.

What d’you want for tea? he asked.

I don’t care. I’m not really hungry.

We could get a takeaway.

He went through to the kitchen and I dissolved the Disprin, stirring it round the glass with my finger. The dregs stuck to the side of the glass when I drank it.

I trudged through after Ivan, utterly happy that he was back from his lecture even though the foal had pierced his ear.

I can’t believe that girl throwing his notes in the bath, he said, shaking his head and dunking a tea bag in a mug.

Sounds like he deserved it, I said. Can I have a mug that’s not chipped, please?

They’re all chipped, he said, spooning the tea bag into the pedal-bin, leaving a trail of brown drips.

Maybe I should throw your notes in the bath.

What, because Gail pierced my ear?!

Yup.

You wouldn’t dare! he said, laughing. He pulled a bright blue menu out of the kitchen drawer. What d’you fancy? Prawn bhuna? Chicken korma? Lamb patia?

I don’t mind. Please don’t read out the whole menu. Can we go back through? It’s freezing in here.

We went back to his bedroom and he put Aztec Camera on. I’ll keep the volume low for your head, he said.

I lay under the quilt, he lay on top. I was cocooned and safe.

So how are you, green eyes? he said.

They’re not green, I said. They’re more grey.

He smiled.

Ivan, you do believe me, don’t you?

What that your eyes are really grey?

No. You believe that I’m ill, don’t you?

Yup.

Are you sure? You don’t think it’s in my head, do you?

Nope.

You did at first though when you were being horrible.

I was worried you were homesick, that’s all. But now I know there’s something really wrong. I just want you to get better. I want things to get back to normal.

Me too. Can you pass up my tea, please?

Your hands are freezing, he said, handing me the mug.

They’re always cold these days, I said. I clasped the tea against me, still lying down, and sipped from the mug, wedging it under my chin.

Watch you don’t spill it on the bed, he said.

I will. This quilt’s horrible, by the way.

I know, my mum gave it to me for Christmas. He picked up the blue menu again. I quite fancy a korma.

Anything you want. I’ll just have a wee bit.

Will we get pakora?

If you want, I said.

Maybe not. It was a bit greasy the last time.

When I got back here and couldn’t sleep, I was thinking about that geology lecturer who’s always in the Grosvenor on his own. I bet he cries himself to sleep at night.

How can you leap from talking about pakora to the geology lecturer?!

He’s got greasy hair, I said. Greasy pakora and greasy hair.

You always do that, he said, leap from one thing to something totally unrelated.

That’s what makes me interesting.

I think I’ll go out for the food now, he said. I’m starving.

Can I stay here?

Yup.

You’re an angel, I said. I put my tea down and leaned over him and kissed his ear. The earring felt spiky and cold.

The front door slammed and the record jumped.

That’s Rez back. I’ll see if he wants anything. Hey, Rez, we’re in here, d’you want a curry?

Rez put his head round the door. Hiya! Is that you hiding in bed, Helen? How are you doing?

Och, hanging in there, I said.

I’d love a curry, he said to Ivan. I’ll come with you.

They left and I stayed in bed for a bit thinking about where I could get a nice mug tree for Ivan.

I got up to set the table. I wanted to be useful. Three forks, a bottle of flat Irn Bru and half a bottle of Black Tower. I put the oven on to warm the plates and read some poems while I waited. Alicante cheered me up even though I thought it was about a lost love.

The flat shook and they were back. Sorry we took so long, said Ivan. The place was mobbed.



Three happy students having dinner round the table: Ivan, Helen and Rez. Can you guess which one has a weird burning feeling in her head/neck/spine that she doesn’t want to mention?!

Yes, that’s right. It’s Helen!



Nab ran me to the station on the night of the Ian Dury concert. All my symptoms were trailing behind me. I’d taken four extra strong Panadol. I took Germinal to read on the train but it didn’t come out of my bag. I watched the raindrops skitter along the train windows like sperm.

I got off at Partick and took the Underground to Hillhead where Ivan was meeting me. I used the escalators. (I’d always used the stairs before.) Ivan was waiting for me in his leather jacket. He was chatting to the guy who was always there selling the Socialist Worker. We waited as long as we could for the rain to stop before making our way up to the union. I was exhausted from standing at the station and got a seat upstairs on the balcony.

Ian Dury was brilliant. He came on stage, writhing and wrapped in tinfoil. He sang Ban The Bomb. Ivan was up the front with his friends. He kept turning round and looking up at me. When they sang Hit Me With Your Rhythm Stick, I thought of Rachel and an experiment we’d done at school in chemistry. Rachel had been trying to write down the lyrics of Rhythm Stick and I’d been trying to write down the experiment. Something about iron ions, something turning Prussian blue. The teacher had sent her to the ‘sin bin’, a solitary chair at the back of the lab and wouldn’t let us sit together for the rest of term. Another time, in physics, we’d pinned crocodile clips all over each other’s backs. The teacher was angry but trying not to laugh. His experiments never worked and we felt sorry for him. All that wasted ticker tape. I felt sad thinking about Rachel. I’d seen her at Christmas but she’d been dismissive of me coming home from France early. We’d been inseparable at school. I’d gone to recorder lessons for three months just because she went, even though I was crap at music and got mouth ulcers. I hated unscrewing the top of the recorder to shake out the saliva.

When they played Sweet Gene Vincent, everyone started to pogo at the fast bit. I looked down on all the jumping, dyed blonde/purple/spiky heads. I was outside all of this. My spine felt like it was being stretched and my hands were numb and tingling.

Ian Dury was glowing with sweat.

After the concert, Ivan’s band friends came back to the flat. I wanted them to go away, I wanted him to myself. They were drunk and slagging off some girl that one of them had had a blind date with. Joe (from London) was saying, You get two kinds of red-head. You get the beautiful Irish kind with pale skin and you get the freaky, red-faced Scottish kind with freckles. This one was FREAKY!

They all thought Joe was so funny. They all laughed like they were choking.

I went to bed and lay awake waiting for Ivan. I could faintly hear the yelping of the Cocteau Twins from downstairs. I wondered if the girls who lived there got carpet burns when they had sex. (The flat was covered throughout with dark brown industrial strength carpet.)

I couldn’t get rid of them, Ivan said when he finally came through. Joe’s got a new song he’s excited about.

Joe’s a wanker, I said. He talks such shite. God, your feet are freezing!

You can warm me up, he said, rubbing his feet against me.



A bundle of mail arrived from Caen, the stuff Jana had forwarded: the blood test results and some Christmas cards. I ripped open the blood test. Now I would have a weapon against Myra, proof that I really was ill! When I read it my heart sank. It said there had been a mix-up at the lab, they’d lost the samples and they wanted to re-do the tests, could I please make an appointment? I read it twice to make sure I’d understood. I screwed it up and threw it across the carpet. Agnes batted it under the table. I had no chance now, I was at Myra’s mercy forever.

The Christmas cards – so pointless in the middle of January – were from people who had no idea I’d come home. All three had pictures of penguins with stupid smiles.

Agnes was curving her paws round the table leg, catching the twist of paper then batting it away again. I binned the penguins, took Agnes upstairs and cried into her.



More tests: a chest x-ray; an ECG; a kidney x-ray; a liver function test; a barium meal and a barium enema (beware the white shit that won’t flush!).

Negative! Myra crowed, as each result came back.

But I’m getting worse. My legs are like jelly. The pain’s burning into my bones. I feel sick all the time. My brain feels inflamed. Why don’t you believe me?

Helen, there is nothing physically wrong with you. If this goes on I think you should see a clinical psychologist. Believe me, I’m the doctor.

(Believe me. Just for a change. I’m the patient.)

It turned out I’d already been tested for brucellosis. Rita, who thought it was a possibility, after all, had asked for me to be tested and was told I already had been.



I had to sign on now that I’d sent my grant back. Officially, I was no longer a student. Officially, I was no longer anything.

The dole office was a grim flat building with bits of grey roughcast falling off. Rita waited for me in the car. It was my first time signing on. There was a man arguing about his claim when I went in. He was saying that it was fucking daylight robbery. He had an Alsatian on a long lead and he’d dressed it in a white T-shirt. The dog’s tongue was hanging out and it was panting.

I waited for my turn and was called to a booth. I recognised the girl behind the glass. She’d been in the year below me at school. Her brother used to scare people in the playground by turning his eyelids inside out.

I explained that I was out of uni for a while.

Are you looking for work? she said.

No, I’m ill. I had to come home from France.

It’s all right for some, swanning off to France, she said. You’ll need a sick note from your doctor if you’re not available for work.

I don’t have a sick note. They don’t know what’s wrong with me yet. (And by the way, your perm’s fucking horrible, it’s growing out and you don’t even suit it.)

Well, if you want any money you’ll need to sign on as available for work, she said, pushing a bundle of blue and white forms under the glass divider.



Since I’d come back from France Rita’d been dragging me out to the park in an attempt to pep me up. You’re getting too peely-wally, she’d say. Just a short walk to get some colour in your cheeks. We’d wrap up and climb the fence and cross the ditch (funny to see your mother jumping a ditch), pass the Michael tree, and I’d be exhausted by the time we reached the castle. We’d sit on the bench and look down at the loch for answers.

One time we went straight to the bench after a bad appointment with Myra. You could drive to the castle and park there.

There were bursts of purple and yellow crocuses all around us.

I love spring flowers, said Rita. They’re so full of hope, the way they push up through the hard ground.

They’re lovely, I said, but you wonder how they can stand the cold. I turned to face her. D’you think I’ll be better by next spring, Mum?

We’re going to get to the bottom of this, pet, she said, putting her arm round me. I promise you. We won’t give up ‘til they’ve found out what’s wrong with you. And as soon as we know, we can start getting you better.

I smiled and tried not to cry. Rita tried not to cry and smiled back.

D’you remember when you were small, she said, and you wanted to have your wedding reception at the castle, with cheese sandwiches and a giant pot of tea?

Yeah, and remember the time I put my hand in a hole in the ground over there and it came out covered in wasps?

You were screaming the park down.

And we went to Casualty and a nurse gave me a Jaffa Cake.

It seems like a lifetime ago, she said, sighing. Sean wasn’t even born. I must’ve been pregnant with him.

I just remember being curious about the hole and putting my foot in and when nothing happened I put my hand in, I said.

Maybe you were expecting a wee mole or something.

Maybe – d’you know what the French word for wasp is?

No. We never got to insects at school, she said.

It’s une guêpe, pronounced ‘gep’. I remember the first time I saw it, I thought it was pronounced ‘gweep’ and the French teacher was killing himself.

Gweep’s a nice word, said Rita.

It’s a lovely word.

We stayed there for an hour, both of us drawing comfort from the loch.

I think I need to go home soon, I said. I’m feeling really crap.



Brian was stroking his face with a pussy willow stem and giggling. I like this furry stuff, he said. It’s lovely.

It’s called pussy willow, I said. I got it for Rita for Mother’s Day.

Is it real fur, he said, like Agnes?

No, I laughed. It just feels like it. What did you get your mum for Mother’s Day?

I got her daffodils but I wish I’d got this furry stuff.



Two weeks later, I had a letter from Jana. I could just picture it: Jana, Esther and Abas, all steaming. Music blaring. Every light in the house blazing. Simone coming back from her country-house early, stomping round switching off the lights, calling Jana a slut for seducing her son. Abas hiding in his room.

I had a lump in my throat. Maybe I’d be able to go back after Easter.



Brian phoned on Palm Sunday – he got someone to dial for him, he could read and write but numbers confused him – to say he’d lit a candle and said a prayer for me. He went to Mass with my granny every week. My granny was devout: she’d tutted her way through The Thornbirds, and later boasted that my grandad had never seen her without her nightie on. My grandad went to Mass occasionally, to keep the peace.

Rita stopped going when she was sixteen. Sean and I were never christened, one of the few things Rita and Peter agreed about. They were both atheists.

Brian asked me if I’d be going up to the castle next weekend to roll my egg. I’ll see how I feel, I said.

Valerie’s coming, he said.



I sat on the bench and watched Brian hurtling his eggs down the hill, whooping every time. Valerie had bad circulation and her lips were tinged blue. She rolled her eggs gently, leaving them for Brian to retrieve. I’d painted one happy and one sad. I’d given them to Brian to roll. Valerie came and sat beside me, plumping herself down.

So is Brian your uncle then? she said, linking her arm into mine.

Yes, I said, but I don’t call him Uncle. He’s only six years older than me. More like a big brother really.

I think he’s lovely, she said.

He has his moments, I suppose.

Have you got your flask with you for the picnic?

Yes, I’ve got it in my bag, I said dutifully.

My mum and dad have gone to get the tartan rug from the car.

That’s good.

Did you know I got four Easter eggs and a chocolate rabbit?

That’ll keep you going for a while, I said.

I ate the ears today. My mum says I’ve to share the rest. Did you get many yourself?

I got one from my granny and one from my boyfriend.

That’s nice. Brian’s my boyfriend.

I hope you don’t fight.

Not really. I don’t think so. No we don’t.

I’m glad.

We watched Brian ambling down the hill to collect the eggs.

I think he’s really enjoying himself today, she said. Are you enjoying yourself?

Yes, thanks, I said.

During the picnic, Brian farted and Valerie told him to say ‘Excuse Me’. He denied it was him and went in the huff.

Later, when I was lying on the couch he came over and said, I’m sorry about that thing in the park, Helen.

It’s okay, I said, but it’s polite to say excuse me. You know that.

Excuse me then, he said.

You’re excused.

D’you think Valerie will still want to be my girlfriend?

I’m sure she will.

He sat down and put my feet on his lap. I think I’ll just stroke these big feet of yours, if you don’t mind.

If you want to, I said.

He loved stroking things.




6 Round Window (#ulink_ddf85ccb-1df4-5638-ad39-801f59bddb65)


IF YOU LOOK at yourself through a window, it’s not really you it’s happening to, it’s like watching yourself in a play. Today, 10th May 1984, we’re looking through the round window. Rain’s spitting on the windows of the health centre, Myra’s smiling weakly.

You’ve got a virus called Coxsackie B4, she says. There have been recent sporadic cases in the west of Scotland. It can take a long time to burn itself out. We’ll send you to see a specialist.

She passes me the tissues, her first helpful gesture since the trial began.

I told you I was ill, I say. I’ve been telling you for months and you didn’t believe me! If that locum hadn’t come out to see me, you’d never have done viral studies and you still wouldn’t believe me. He could see I was really ill, he believed me, why couldn’t you?!

I’m sorry, Helen, she replies. We doctors aren’t gods. I was making what I thought was an accurate clinical judgement. Sometimes, we get it wrong. At least we’re on the right track now, aren’t we?

(Yes, Myra, we’re on the right track now, no fucking thanks to you.)

I’m giving you something for the pain and nausea, she says, reaching for her pad. And I’ll give you a sick note for the next three months. Her hands twitch and scribble. She’s like a giant insect.

As I leave her room, I see that a huge rainbow has come out.

Rita’s in the waiting room. She hugs me tightly when I tell her what Myra has said. Everyone’s looking at us, wondering what disease the thin girl has. When we get home, I go back to bed and Rita calls Nab to tell him the news.



Nab looked it up in a book at the hospital. He photocopied page 110 and came home from work early with flowers and strawberry tarts.

Coxsackie, he read out loud at my bedside: an enterovirus first isolated in the town of Coxsackie in New York. Can cause a polio-like illness (without the paralysis) in humans; can cause paralysis and death in young mice.

At least I’m not a young mouse, I said. Nab sat down on the bed and gave me one of his polar bear hugs.

When Sean got in from school, he galloped up the stairs and burst into my room. I hear you’ve got the cock-a-leekie virus! he said.

After tea, Rita called my granny to tell her about the diagnosis. I couldn’t make out everything she said but I heard ‘light at the end of the tunnel’.

The next night, Ivan called me from a payphone in the uni library to see how it had gone with Myra. He said he’d look up enteroviruses and call me back. Half an hour later, he told me that enteroviruses developed in your gut and could affect your muscles and nervous system. I bet I got it when I was working at the Swan Hotel, I said. He started to answer but his money ran out and we got cut off. I waited by the phone, hoping he’d call back but he didn’t.



Shrouded in my pink candlewick dressing gown, crying with pain. Sean’s friends walk past me with embarrassed respect. Square window.



Brian’s coming on Sunday, Rita said to the grey-faced fixture on the couch. That should cheer you up.

He had asked Rita if I was going to die. Don’t worry, he said, she’ll go to heaven and heaven’s lovely. It’s the same as earth but you get less colds.



I heard Brian tramping up the stairs. My granny had already been up. He put his head round the door, beaming. Hello, how’s my favourite niece?! He stood there for a minute before coming over and smothering me in his black mohair arms, planting himself at the side of the bed.

It’s lovely to see you, Brian. I love your jumper.

Your granny knitted it for me. How are you, dear?

Well, you know I’m not very well. I have to stay in bed a lot.

He took my hand. Are you coming downstairs later?

Yeah, maybe I’ll come down for tea, I said.

I’ve got a new girlfriend. Her name’s Moira.

What happened to Valerie? I thought she was your girlfriend.

Valerie’s not well. It’s that heart of hers.

Poor Valerie. So what’s Moira like?

She’s just beautiful, he said, turning round to give Agnes a perfunctory clap on the head. I think I’ll go back downstairs now, if that’s all right with you?

Can you not stay up here for a bit?

I’m sorry, dear, but I don’t want to miss the racing.

He clumped off downstairs and I lay staring at the black strands of mohair and the dent that he’d left in the duvet. Agnes yawned and licked her paws. She jumped off the bed and padded out of the room. Agnes was tired of the sick-bed too.

Clumping feet and padding feet, walking away.

I thought about the unbearable cliche I’d become: an ill young woman with a tortoiseshell cat that sits on her bed throughout her illness.



I decided to go downstairs for ten minutes. I wanted to make the most of us having visitors. I got up and put Ivan’s polo neck on over my pyjamas.

I sat on the living room floor hugging my knees, my back clamped against the radiator. The heat was eating up the pain in my spine.

Don’t sit so near the radiator, Helen, my granny warned from the couch. It’ll dry up your lungs.

My grandad was eating marshmallows and watching the racing. I was jealous of him with no worries, focused on his horse. How are you keeping, dear? he asked. He swivelled round and offered me a sweet. I sank my teeth into the vile pinkness. He cleared his throat and I could hear the hem hem travelling up through his gullet. (When you make that hem hem noise, d’you ever think it’s not really you, but another voice in your head? These are the things you think about when you’ve got a lot of time.)

I asked my grandad what his horse was called.

He didn’t answer.

He’s deaf, said Brian. It’s called Swizzle Stick.

They should name racehorses after illnesses, I said. It’d give ill people a chance to be sporty.

No one was really listening.

You could put your money on Viral Meningitis or Parkinson’s Disease.

That’s a terrible thing to say, said Rita from behind her crossword, but she was laughing.

Brian joined me at the radiator and rested his head against my shoulder. His hair smelled of apple shampoo. My hair smelled of illness.

Come away from that radiator, Brian. It’s bad for your lungs.

Och, Mum! he tutted. He put his arm round me. Are you all right, dear? His breath smelled of mallows.

I think I’ll need to go back upstairs, I said. I feel awful.

D’you want the Observer magazine? said Rita.

No thanks, I said, my head’s too clamped.

I’ll bring tea up if you’re not well enough for the table.

Okay, I said.

I trudged back upstairs, still thinking of names for horses. In years to come, Gulf War Syndrome could be the favourite at Cheltenham.




7 Marion (#ulink_c1df5f90-ec81-5673-879b-feda9371b1bc)


12th June 1984

Dear Jana,

Well, they’ve finally found out what the fuck is wrong with me! I have a weird virus called Coxsackie B4, which is why I’ve been feeling so ill. Apparently it can take a long time to burn itself out. I’m pleased to report that Myra was a bit sheepish. I’m so RELIEVED they’ve found out, but I’m worried ‘cos I’m still getting worse. I have an Aladdin’s Cave of tablets: anti-nausea, muscle relaxants, extra-strong anti-inflammatories. I’m going to see a specialist, just waiting for the appointment – so it doesn’t look like I’ll be coming back to France for the last term after all.

I’ve been helping Sean a bit with his ‘O’ grade revision, though I feel I’m forgetting all my French. I’ve been re-reading Candide. I love Pangloss, he’s a cheeky bastard. Also got some Prévert.

Rita and Nab are being great and Ivan’s been great too but I’m worried that he’ll get fed up with me feeling so crap. I’ve hardly stayed with him recently. He comes here quite a lot but he must be getting so BORED. He was away on a field-trip at Easter. I am, of course, paranoid about the women who went. He got me a giant Lindt egg.

His band’s still on the go, they might be getting a gig at the Halt Bar, which would be brilliant. Other gossip: Rez has a stunning new girlfriend. She’s a Swedish drama student and he’s head over heels. You know how he always goes for blondes. By the way, Ivan saw Piedro in the union. He was wrapped morosely round some poor girl like a stole. (Has she tasted his omelettes, I wonder?)

The highlight of my social life was rolling eggs at Easter with Brian and his girlfriend Valerie who has Down’s Syndrome. She’s a sweetheart and has a smile that would bring you back from the brink of suicide. Brian was showing off like hell as usual. We had a picnic in the park with Valerie’s parents. It was freezing. I went to Brian’s social club about a month ago. They all wanted me to dance but I just didn’t have the energy. One woman wants me to teach her French. She says she’s got a jotter.

What’s your gossip? Still shagging Jean-Paul? Your French must be so good by now. I’m so jealous. Has Esther got into Abas’s pants yet? Have you been skating again? And is Simone still bullying poor wee Vincent?

Write SOON, SOON, SOON!

Lots of love, Helen xxx



Can’t sleep for the clenching pain in my spine and legs. The birds have started. They’re like electronic gadgets set on a timer. They start off one by one and you can’t switch them off: a pigeon, a woodpecker then the din of the crows. I hate them all. I can’t stop thinking about Valerie’s blue lips.

I think she will die soon.



Square window.July 1984

Helen’s having her hair cut today! Rita knows someone from the library whose sister-in-law has her own salon. When Marion offered to come to the house and cut Helen’s hair, Helen couldn’t wait.

She’s been rehearsing the conversation with Marion in her head all week. Can you take about two inches off the bottom and give me a blunt fringe, please?

And now Marion’s late.

Helen’s sitting at the window, waiting and waiting. She’s getting a metallic headache. Marion has Wednesdays off and said she’d be round at two, but it’s half past and she’s not here yet. The terrier across the road’s sitting up at the window like a cuddly toy, its head poking between the vertical blinds.

Mrs Blonski’s coming slowly down the road. She’s wearing pink velvet trousers and silver sandals. She always gets dressed up, even just to go to the bank. As she walks past, she pauses and waves to Helen. She’s blossomed since her husband died. He used to say their Pakistani neighbours were bringing down the value of the houses. Now Mrs Bhatti and Mrs Blonski are best friends. Helen waves back. She’s glad Mr Blonski’s dead. He looked like a rapist.

Agnes appears from nowhere and miaows to be let in. When you open the window, she jumps onto the sill, pulling herself up with her front legs. Sometimes, her back legs buckle and you think she’s going to fall but she makes it. When she jumps up, the terrier starts yapping soundlessly. Helen has just closed the window when Marion draws up in a gold Ford Capri. She gets up to answer the door. Her legs have strange buzzing feelings in them.

Marion is Amazonian, a gust of ‘Hi’s and ‘Sorry I’m late’s. She is plastered in make-up and Opium. You can smell that she smokes. Helen offers her a cup of tea. No thanks, she says, I just had a coffee at my sister’s. Helen gratefully sinks back down into the couch. Marion sits down beside her. Now what would you like done today?

Helen’s palms are sweating. Can you take about two inches off the bottom and give me a blunt fringe, please?

Marion puts her hands through Helen’s hair. Maybe we could layer it through at the top? she suggests. It’s very thick.

I’d rather not. I don’t like my hair layered. I just want it tidied up. It feels like a heavy wig.

Marion seems slightly miffed. D’you think you could wet it for me? It’s easier to cut when it’s so thick. Also, d’you mind putting the cat out? I’m not keen on them.

I’ll just be a minute, says Helen. She scoops Agnes up and puts her out the back. She gets dizzy from bending down too quickly. Sorry, Agnes, she whispers, that scary woman doesn’t want you in the house. I’ll call you as soon as she’s gone, I promise.

She goes into the bathroom and fills the sink. She dips her head in slowly, still dizzy. She has the taste in her mouth that you get before a nosebleed. She doesn’t want layers. She wants to lie down. She wants Marion to go away.

When her hair’s wet enough, she turbans her head and goes back into the lounge. Marion has installed a kitchen chair in the centre of the room. Helen sits down. Marion’s a bit rough when she dries her hair but it’s nice to have her head touched. Helen can smell the nicotine from her fingers.

How long is it since you had it cut? asks Marion.

About three months, says Helen. I went to the Hair Hut but I got such a bad headache when I was there I couldn’t even wait for them to blow-dry it. I had to get a taxi home. It’s great you could come to the house to do it.

How are you keeping now?

To be honest, I feel like I’ve got a new symptom every day. The headaches are awful, like a helmet you can’t take off.

A couple of the women that come into the salon have got it, says Marion. It’s terrible – you’re so young.

Now that they’ve diagnosed the Coxsackie, I’ve to see a neurologist, says Helen. My appointment’s in a month. I was lucky to get one so soon.

Marion doesn’t speak for the rest of the haircut. Helen is relieved that she is exempt from the usual ARE YOU OFF TODAY?/ARE YOU GOING OUT ON SATURDAY NIGHT? (But since you asked, No, I’ve stopped going out and, Yes, I’m actually off every day.)

Helen wonders why Marion’s arms aren’t killing her.

When Marion’s finished drying Helen’s hair, she says, Maybe you can think about going short next time. It’d be less tiring for you to manage.

I’ll think about it says, Helen. How much do I owe you?

A fiver’ll be fine.

Helen goes and gets the money from her wallet. Her wallet’s barely been used. It was a Christmas present from Peter (it came with a matching bag). It still smells of leather. She pays Marion. Thanks very much. It feels much lighter, she says.

I can come back anytime you want. Here’s my number.

When Marion’s gone, Helen can still smell her Opium. She goes to the back door and calls on Agnes. You can come back now, Agnes, it’s safe, Hitler’s gone.

Agnes doesn’t appear. Helen wishes she’d come back in. She lies down on the couch for a bit. She wants to hoover up the hair before Rita gets back. She closes her eyes.




She hears Agnes miaowing to be let in. She gets up to open the window. Come on, she says. Come upstairs with me and keep me company. I’ll give you a mint.

Agnes has quirky tastes for a cat. She loves garlic sausage and if you give her an extra strong Trebor mint she acts like it’s catnip – she licks the mint, puts her head on the floor and tries to somersault. (Agnes dies, by the way – riddled with cancer – but don’t tell Helen, she’s got enough on her plate!)




8 Bob (#ulink_b518de90-26d8-5f58-ae0d-d50591708d7c)


THE SPECIALIST LOOKED like Bob Monkhouse. He had Myra’s letter in front of him. I tried to see what she’d written, if she’d admitted that she’d fucked up until the Coxsackie diagnosis.

You’re very thin, said Bob. Have you got a boyfriend?

Yes, I said, but what’s that got to do with the price of bread? (Into myself.)

He listened as I listed my symptoms: exhaustion, severe muscle pain, weakness, dizziness, skull-crushing headaches, palpitations, stomach cramps, nausea, diarrhoea. (Do you really want me to go on, Bob?)

We’re going to do some tests, he said. The Coxsackie virus can trigger a syndrome called blah-de-blah-de-blah. This may be what you have. We don’t know much about it. We’ll need to do a muscle biopsy and some other tests. Go outside and wait. Thank you. Goodbye.

I went back to Rita in the waiting room. He looks like Bob Monkhouse, I said.

We waited for almost an hour, staring at the plastic orange chairs and the paint peeling off the walls. A junior doctor wearing a polkadot tie appeared. He wasn’t much older than me.

I’m just going to take some blood. Come this way.

Another room. Legs shaking.

He drew my blood, put it into three different tubes and labelled them.

Do you know what’s wrong with me? I asked.

He smiled at me but didn’t answer.



Arched window.Muscle biopsy, early September 1984

I lay on the trolley and gripped the nurse’s hand. The surgeon and student stood over me, green and gowned.

Elegant legs, said the surgeon. We’re going to do a needle biopsy. You’ll just feel a little prick and then some pressure.

I shut my eyes.

He checked the area was numb and cut into my leg. I could feel the blood dripping down the parts that weren’t anaesthetised. Something pressed hard, down to my bone. I gripped tighter onto the nurse.

Hard then nothing.

Well done, Andrew, you’ve just done your first muscle biopsy! the surgeon announced triumphantly.

(Yes, well done, Andrew! A fanfare of trumpets for Andrew, please! I don’t really mind that you used me as a guinea pig.)

The surgeon patted my arm. I’m going to do another one. Nothing to worry about.

More pressure. More skilled.

They gave me those stitches that melt away. I was limping for ages. Andrew’s scar still gets in the way when I’m waxing my legs.

I think he was a virgin.



The yellow outpatient card on the kitchen pin-board had become my social calendar. My next engagement was an EMG – an electromyelogram. A needle attached to an oscilloscope was inserted into the muscle on the back of my arm and I had to move my finger up and down ‘til my arm ached.



It’s the beginning of October 1984, a new term! We’re looking through the round window.

The Junior Honours students are waiting for the Head of Modern Languages to address them. They’ve all done their year abroad. They’re grown up now. But where’s Helen?! We can’t see Helen!

That’s because she’s at home in bed. Or maybe she’s on the couch.

Her symptoms have signed a lease behind her back and moved in permanently. They like living in her muscle tissue. It’s nice and warm there.



Ivan comes to stay some weekends. He studies in the spare room. He writes essays on liposomes and leaves behind half-eaten oranges. It’s his final year.

Jana’s got a new flatmate, Beryl, who’s doing French and English. She’s a busty punk with a harelip, who loves cooking. She’s an amateur opera singer.

She sounds like good fun, I say.

It’s like living with fucking Puccini, Jana replies.



A week before my twenty-first, I was summoned to Bob’s consulting room for the second time. He was expressionless as I sat down on the orange chair.

You have a whole range of abnormalities, he said. Your muscles aren’t producing energy normally.

Why not? I said.

We think you have ME, myalgic encephalomyelitis. It’s a post-viral syndrome, triggered by the Coxsackie virus, in your case. There’s no cure and it can last for five years. We’re doing some clinical trials which we would like you to take part in. We’ll be in touch. Can you ask your mother to come in now?

I came out and Rita went in. Someone had left a DailyRecord on the chair next to mine. I picked it up and looked at the front-page photo of Princess Diana with her six-week-old baby.

When Rita came out of Bob’s room, her eyes were watering.

On the way home in the car, I hoped we’d crash and that I’d be killed instantly and Rita would walk away without a scratch. I kept thinking of the David Bowie song Five Years:…steady drums, louder and louder and louder…high, violiny bit.

Helen has a diagnosis! Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah! She has blah-de-blah-de-blah, it’s official! She’s got Malingerer’s Elbow! She’s chronically fatigued! She’s a yuppie with flu!

Whatever your point of view, she’s fucked.




9 New Blood (#ulink_c47b867e-6609-5dff-ab3a-1a987b64090c)


TERRIFIED. GETTING WORSE. No one can help me. Even my hands feel ill.

Myra’s given me amitriptyline for the muscle pain. Amitriptyline’s really an antidepressant but in low doses acts as an anti-inflammatory. I’m scared it will make me artificially happy. I’ve dried up, I have no saliva and my eyes feel like stones – a side effect of the drug. When I tell Ivan, he says, You’re losing all your juices.



Helen’s twenty-one today. She’s opted for a quiet do. In fact, she’s decided to stay in bed! Let’s join her on this happy day.

Her friends and family have come to her bedside, bearing gifts.

Jana’s given her a red Yves Saint Laurent lipstick. Rita and Nab have given her a compact stereo. Ivan’s given her a dressing gown from Miss Selfridge – a print of white cotton covered in red kisses – and a bottle of Rive Gauche. Sean’s given her Flaubert’s Parrot, Julian Barnes’ new book. Granny and Grandad have given her £25. Brian’s given her a table with squint legs that he made at woodwork. Peter’s sent her a huge basket of Body Shop goodies. She has lots of cards with a dual message: Congratulations on the key of the door! Get well soon!

She thanks everyone politely. Her arms and legs are injected with poison. She doesn’t have the strength to peel an orange.

Rita has made beef stroganoff (the cows haven’t gone mad yet) and fresh cream meringues. Helen has her birthday meal on a tray in bed. She has a sip of champagne. Jana sits with her and makes her put on her new lipstick. Helen feels like a clown, a grotesque invalid wearing bright red lipstick and titanium earrings. She’s had her hair cut short and layered (Marion came round last week).

Jana chats away about her dissertation on Zola and who her flatmates are sleeping with. Helen interrupts her quietly, I wish I was dead, Jana.

When Nab comes up with the meringues, Jana and Helen aren’t saying much.

After the party, Ivan gives Jana a lift back up to Glasgow. They feel so sad and helpless about Helen. They just want her back.

Later, they comfort each other in Jana’s bed.



I can’t take this for another five years. How can you feel so ill and not be dying?



I wish we lived in a house without stairs. Sean gallops up and down them all day, his friends too. I don’t know how they do it.



Christmas passes and she barely notices. She is dipped in nausea. She counts the number of cards they get with penguins – eight.

Ivan stays for a few nights, but he goes back to Dundee for New Year.

Richard’s parents have invited everyone next door for Hogmanay. Helen sags into a red cord bean-bag. She’s wearing her new dress from Miss Selfridge. It has sweeps of purple and beige paisley pattern and a huge forties collar. It goes down to her feet. She has fawn suede boots to match. People keep coming up to her and asking how she is. Clare looks at her with pity.

She feels swallowed up in paisley swirls.

Heather and Archie are there, their neighbours on the other side. Heather is pregnant after two miscarriages. She is thirty-six. She doesn’t care if it’s a girl or a boy. Helen tells her she’d like to knit something for the baby when her arms are less weak.

After the bells, Helen goes straight home. Rita wants to go with her but Helen says she’ll be fine.

At home she lies down on the sofa in the dark and cries her eyes out. Afterwards, she puts the Christmas tree lights on and makes hot chocolate. After the hot chocolate, she lies on the floor and listens to Nana Mouskouri on Nab’s headphones.



Helen’s having one of her conversations. Her face is swollen from crying. She probably won’t mind if we eavesdrop.




Everyone’s hopes are pinned on the plasma exchange. Out with the old, in with the new! Light at the end of the tunnel! Keep your chin up!

February 1985

It was like being hooked up to a dialysis machine. Your plasma was separated from the blood coming out of your right arm, new plasma was spun in, and the blood went back into your left arm. The new plasma was from a Polish donor. The technician told me I had great veins and that I might feel faint during the proceedings.

It took three hours. He told me what Highers his son was doing and what colour of carpets him and his wife were getting for their new house. When it was over he said, That’s you, you’re half Polish now. He handed me a see-through bag of my old plasma. It was the colour of dirty goldfish water. A porter wheeled me back to the ward and delivered me to Bob. I had the bag of old plasma on my lap.

How are you feeling? the game show host asked.

Like a rag doll with a brain tumour, I replied, handing him my old antibodies.

Dinner was a choice of scrambled egg or mince. I forced down some scrambled egg and threw up later in the shower, crouched down on the hospital tiles, crying onto the Pears soap. The sick swirled around the gleaming drain before clogging it up like sawdust. I had to press it down into the holes with my fingers. I didn’t want the other patients to see any traces.

The girl in the next bed was called Fizza. She was a medical student. She also had the mystery illness and was getting new plasma. She’d missed most of her second year. We’d had similar symptoms but she’d been diagnosed more quickly because her dad was a doctor and believed her. I asked her if her dreams were more vivid and violent since she got ill. She said it was like being at the cinema. I told her I was always dreaming I was being chopped up or that I was chopping other people up until there was nothing left of their bones.

We shared a room with another two women. Karen had lupus and Fiona had myasthenia gravis. They were getting new plasma too. Karen’s face looked like it had been finely sand-papered, and Fiona’s right eye drooped. She’d been diagnosed after having her baby. We wondered if we’d all be related after getting our new plasma.

In the evenings, the television room was commandeered by old women wearing slippers with circles of pink fur at the ankles. They had no visitors and watched High Road with watery eyes.

Fizza’s visitors were sad and serene. Her mum wore Asian clothes and sat by the bed knitting her sadness into a bright pink cardigan. The cardigan was to cheer Fizza up. Her wee brother Kashif was well behaved and polite. Her dad was wearing a tweed suit and had sad eyes. He smiled at me and asked how long I’d been ill. I hope the plasmapheresis will help both you young girls, he said. You will be back to your studies in no time!

My visitors seemed rowdy next to Fizza’s.

The first night, Rita chatted with Fizza’s dad about the prevalence of Coxsackie B4 in the west of Scotland while Nab padded around the corridors looking for a nurse to put the Asian lilies in a vase. Ivan had nicknamed me Looby Loo when I said I felt like a rag doll. Sean sat on my bed, moping because the girl he fancied had got off with someone else at the Owners-Occupiers Association disco. Brian gulped his way through the Lucozade.

Fizza’s mum didn’t speak, she just kept knitting. Brian went over and told her that his mum was knitting him a jumper too. His mouth was orange and fuzzy from the Lucozade.

At eight-thirty on the dot, Fizza’s family said goodbye to her quietly in Urdu. Kashif smiled at me shyly as he left.

The nurse had to remind my family it was closing time. Ivan kissed me and said, Bye, Looby. Time to go back in your basket! Brian couldn’t stop laughing. Did you hear what he said to you, Helen? It’s time to go back in your basket! Did you hear him?!

Fizza and Fiona and Karen thought Ivan was gorgeous. The nurses thought the orange lilies were gorgeous, but they were like hallucinations on my bedside cabinet. They were too bright and hurt my head.

On my third afternoon, Jana and Ivan came in with Joe. They’d been out the night before and Joe had got drunk and told Beryl she looked like a haggis. She had wept most of the night. Jana had told me before that the kids in France where she had taught on her year out had slagged her rotten because of her lip. I wished Joe hadn’t come in.

Two minutes after they’d left, Ivan ran back. I miss you, Looby, he said softly. I really miss you. I just wanted to tell you.

He lifted my hand and kissed it.

I wish you could stay, I said, but you better go, the nurses’ll chase you.

He kissed my floppy hand again and left.

I had another two plasma sessions with the man with the new carpets, and Bob had put me on scary immunosuppressants – prednisolone and azathioprine – to reduce the new antibodies I was producing, and huge unswallowable potassium pills. Possible side effects were an increased appetite, a moon face and excess body hair.



Helen can’t get enough to eat. She laps up bowls of cock-a-leekie soup like a greedy cartoon cat (with three slices of bread and butter!). She develops a craving for cream eggs, especially the ones wrapped in green foil. Her face grows round as the steroids circulate in her blood, protecting her new plasma. She thinks of them as minders, even if they are a bit toxic. For the first time in her life, she has acne.

She has to go back to the hospital weekly to have her blood monitored. One time they tell her that her white cell count is dangerously low, a result of the azathioprine therapy. Make sure she doesn’t get a cold, the polkadot boy doctor warns Rita, it could be dangerous. That’s a hell of a responsibility, Rita replies.

They reduce the drugs gradually. Helen can’t stand the texture of chocolate in her mouth anymore or the smell of Pears soap.



The new Polish plasma had done fuck all. Rag doll dragged round the block by an Alsatian, spat out on the carpet.




We were all guilty of cliches.

Have to get worse before you get better.

Tomorrow’s another day.

Light at the end of the tunnel was the favourite, but my symptoms continued to synchronise themselves in a vicious kaleidoscopic pattern and all I could see was black.



I felt afraid on my own and would listen for Rita’s key in the door if I wasn’t sleeping. She had most afternoons off from work. She’d bring me up lunch on the blue tray and tell me the gossip from the library. She’d massage my back and legs with deep heat treatments. I constantly smelled of camphor. My daywear had long ago blurred into nightwear. Sweatshirts and leggings for all occasions. Occasions being:



1 Sleeping. Eating. Having shower. Having bath. Having to sit on toilet to brush teeth ‘cos legs so weak. Having to change hands halfway ‘cos arms so weak.

2 Crying. Wanting to be dead. Praying even though atheist.

3 Waiting for phone calls, visitors, letters.

4 Waiting. Waiting. Waiting.

5 Fantasising about: going to work wearing a suit from Next/being on honeymoon with Ivan/dancing, dancing, dancing/inter-railing/running on the spot in a red tracksuit like the athlete in the Lucozade advert.

6 Looking at photos of other self in other life. Tracing finger over old self, a smiling girl in a hockey team. My hockey stick lay like a corpse in the back of my cupboard, club foot poking through my clothes, reminding me of my frailty. I had tried to throw it out twice, but Nab had brought it back in.

7 Crocheting white squares. I’d started a baby blanket for Heather.

8 Conjugating French verbs when my head wasn’t too skewered, so I didn’t forget.


I listened to the radio a lot. There was one DJ I hated. He was always going parachuting or skiing and he took it all for granted. I liked the shipping forecasts and the fishing news. The price of whiting soothed me. I also liked classical music except when it got trumpety and bombastic – then I wanted to kill the people in the orchestra for being so military and noisy. If I moved the radio diagonally and bent the aerial all the way back, I could get French radio stations at nighttime, hissing and fizzling.

Sean always listened to The Smiths in the mornings. When I asked him to turn it down Rita said I had to cut him some slack.

In the evenings if I felt well enough, I’d go downstairs. I liked the social aspect of being in the living room. On Thursdays, I watched Top of the Pops and wondered where they got the energy to sing and dance.

I started watching wildlife programmes. I could enjoy the images without having to follow the plot (like an old woman in a nursing home, without the pink circles of fur).




At the weekends, I would sit clamped against the radiator or lie on the couch while Sean and his friends watched videos. Sometimes Ivan was there. The highlight of Saturday was watching Blind Date. I would fantasise about being chosen and worried sick about being sent on a date where you had to walk a lot.

Sean said I should write to Jimmy Saville: Dear Jim, Please can you fix it for me to be healthy? I’m twenty-one and live in Scotland.

I could see myself sitting in the television studio, with the medal round my neck, grinning idiotically at the audience. Rita and Nab would run on with tears in their eyes, thanking Jim for the miracle.



Sometimes, after school, Sean brings through the magnetic chess set. He sits on the bed and lays out the pieces. Pawns are always getting lost in the blankets. Helen’s never really liked chess apart from moving the horses in L-shapes. She doesn’t try and Sean wins every game, but it passes the time.



Back to see Bob.

He looked more plastic than ever. I told him how I was feeling.

Chin up, he said. We’re doing another trial in a few months with evening primrose oil.

Goody, goody gumdrops, I said. I can’t wait. (Into myself.)

Afterwards, we went to the hospital canteen. Rita was dying for a cigarette. She’d started smoking again. While she queued for tea, I asked the old man at the next table if he needed help opening his sandwiches. One of his eyes was sewn shut and he had golliwog badges on his lapels.

That’s very good of you, hen, he said.

I opened the cheese and pickled onion sandwich by stabbing the cellophane with the end of a spoon. Thank you very much, hen. You’re very kind, he said.

I liked feeling useful.

Rita came back with tea that was far too strong, and synthetic cream doughnuts. She asked me if I still felt like going to Next.

If you think we can park really near and if I can sit down in the shop, I replied.

I loved shopping with Rita. She was like a dragon slaying away all the junk to get to the bargains. I wanted to buy a dress for Ivan’s graduation. I’d seen a sleeveless polkadot dress in their catalogue.

On the way to Next I kept thinking about the wee man and his golliwog badges.

Imagine him saving up his marmalade labels and sending away for the badges, I said to Rita. He must have had the whole collection on his lapels.

Poor old soul, she replied. He probably lives on his own if he had no one at the hospital with him. It doesn’t bear thinking about, does it?

No, it doesn’t, I said.



Square window.June 1985. Helen’s in the dining room, looking at the birds in the garden.




I wish a plane would crash into the house when everyone’s out. Rita and Nab have got insurance. They’d be okay. I heard Rita crying in the toilet last night.



I love the sun. It burns up the pain in my muscles. I’ve been lying in the garden all week. Brian can’t stand the heat. My God, he says, it’s like Alicante here today. I’ve painted my toenails red.



Back to see Bob.

He wanted me in his evening primrose trial. I should have been honoured – evening primrose oil costs a fortune. Bob explained that it contains an essential fatty acid called GLA that can inhibit inflammation, boost the immune system and improve circulation. Essential fatty acids have to be taken through diet as they are not manufactured in the body. He told me cheerfully that evening primrose oil had helped people with multiple sclerosis and eczema, and gave me a note for the hospital pharmacy. He also gave me a diary to record how I was feeling. I was to go back in a few months.

The pharmacist gave me two huge grey canisters. I opened them in the Red Cross port-a-cabin cafe. They were packed with translucent yellow capsules with a hospital smell. I had to take six a day. I hoped it was the real thing and not the placebo.

When I got home there were postcards came from Jana and Ivan. Jana was in the States, travelling round with an old friend. Ivan was in Greece but wished I was there. I pinned them up beside Sean’s card. He was in Boston for two weeks with Peter.



Rita and Nab had a September weekend dinner party for people Nab worked with. I didn’t feel up to joining them. I came downstairs when they were having coffee and felt like a child, allowed to join the adults as a treat. Heather had brought four-week-old Zoe over. She was scrawny with a rash. I lied and said she was lovely. She squirmed in my arms like a ginger kitten. I was scared I’d drop her. I joked she’d probably be five by the time I’d finished crocheting the blanket. Heather asked how I was and I told her about the yellow capsules.

Can’t get back to sleep for the whistling and warbling and screeching. In a few hours there will be high heels on the pavement going past the house to the train station.

My family will be getting up.

Car doors will be slamming.

People with real lives will be doing real things.




10 Halloween (#ulink_7e81e6a5-544f-5bf5-b661-0d4f74132c00)


WE’RE LOOKING THROUGH the round window. Helen’s been ill for two years now, can you believe it?! How time flies!

Rita and Nab have ordered her a double bed. They think she should have a bigger bed since she spends so much time in it.

Sean’s started Glasgow Uni. He’s studying psychology and politics. He’s staying at home his first year. Helen would miss him so much if he left.

Ivan’s gone back to Dundee to start his MSc.



At Halloween, I dressed up as an invalid and lay on the couch to welcome the other guisers.

Mrs Bhatti’s grandson came round, chaperoned by his mother who had a long Rapunzel plait and too much mascara. She was separated from her husband. The story was he’d stabbed her because she wouldn’t move to Karachi.

The wee boy was wearing a bin bag over his school uniform. He started to recite To A Mouse the minute he was in the door. His voice was shaking and he got quieter and quieter with every word. By the third verse you could barely hear him. Rita told him he’d done enough, he could stop. He looked like he was going to cry.

Brian was in charge of handing out the apples and oranges. When we’d finished clapping, he solemnly gave the wee boy a handful of monkey nuts and said, That was lovely. Would you like an apple too? The wee boy nodded and Brian handed him an apple like it was an Olympic medal. Then he said, Would you like some chocolate? The wee boy nodded and Brian put a handful of mini Mars bars into his plastic bag. He turned to me and said, Have I given him enough?

We’d fallen out earlier because I was leaving the broken shells in the bowl with the rest of the nuts. Don’t do that, Helen! he’d said, painstakingly picking out the old shells. You can’t get the good ones if you do that! But I’d kept doing it and he’d told me to fuck off before locking himself in the bathroom and giving himself a row. When he came out he said he was sorry for ‘squaring’ and he wouldn’t do it again. Where did you hear that word? Rita’d asked him. At my centre, he said. Martin stole Donny’s girlfriend and Donny told him to fuck off. Well, said Rita, Donny’s very rude to use that language and I don’t want to hear it in this house again.

For the rest of the evening his presentation of apples and oranges and mini Mars bars was flawless. Before Rita took him home, he hugged us all and said again he was sorry for squaring.

Ivan was supposed to phone at nine. The last of the guisers had gone and the minutes peeled away, but the phone didn’t ring. By quarter to ten I couldn’t stand it anymore and rang his flat but the phone rang back with the bleak, distant tones you get when you know no one’s going to answer. He was going to a fancy dress party at the Art School. He was dressing up as a wolf. I imagined some art student tart unzipping his costume, My, what a big cock you’ve got…

He was coming at the weekend. I couldn’t wait. I hadn’t seen him for a whole month. The last time he’d visited he’d taken me for a drive up the loch. When we were feeding the swans he’d said, You’re too pretty to be ill.

So if I was ugly, being ill wouldn’t matter?

That’s not what I meant, he said.

A hundred years ago it would have been romantic to be ill, I said – I’d be in a sanatorium in the Alps and I’d sit in a wicker chair and write you heartbreaking letters.

And you’d be spitting up blood in a clean white hanky, and the day you died I wouldn’t get to you in time, and a rosy-cheeked nurse would run across the lawn with tears in her eyes.

And you’d fall in love with the rosy-cheeked nurse whose huge breasts would be bursting out of her crisp uniform.

He’d laughed.

On the way home, we’d gone to the Swan Hotel for tea and biscuits. They’d changed the decor and had new swan-shaped salt and peppers with intertwining necks. I’d looked out leadenly at Ben Lomond, wondering how I’d ever managed to carry such heavy trays back and forward – three summers in a row.

I’d watched Ivan come back from the toilet, weaving between the tables, so lovely and healthy and sure of himself. I could make jokes about Alpine nurses but I could never bring myself to ask him about the other women, the women I was sure he had one night stands with. He didn’t even bother bringing condoms anymore.

I was hardly in a position to object.



When she hears Ivan’s car crunch into the drive she gets up. She doesn’t want to be in bed when he arrives. She’s wearing lipgloss and new leggings. When he comes upstairs she’s sitting on the side of the bed. He opens the door. She gets up and falls into him, leaning on him ‘til her legs tire. She takes his hand and sits down again.

I like you with your glasses, she says. You haven’t worn them for ages. They’re sexy in a geeky way.

I was too knackered to put my lenses in, he says.

D’you like my new bed? she asks. Maybe you can sleep beside me tonight instead of in the spare room.

Maybe, he says.

He looks exhausted.



He’d slept beside me in the new bed and it had been delicious just pressing next to him in the dark. I’d told him how much I’d missed him and asked if he’d missed me.

Yes, but things have been hectic.

I would love things to be hectic, I said. I can’t remember what it feels like.

I know, he said, stroking my hair.

How was the Halloween party?

All right.

Just all right?

Yeah. There was one guy there who was a pain in the arse. He kept saying that his favourite toy when he was wee was a sheep’s neck bone painted green and black. He wouldn’t shut up about it. Typical art student. He wasn’t even dressed up.

What about you, did you enjoy being a wolf? I said.

It was too hot and itchy.

Did you huff and puff and blow any houses down?

No, but I gobbled up Little Red Riding Hood.

Is that why you didn’t phone me?

Don’t be silly! I already told you, I didn’t get away from the lab ‘til after nine. It was hectic.

He kissed my ear.

Don’t be sad, Looby. I missed you, I wished you were there. Honest I did.

I hope so, I said.

It’d taken me ages to fall asleep and he’d woken me up in the middle of the night, sleep-talking. (The plants are coming to get us!) I’d teased him in the morning and told him he’d been moaning about a girl with a red hood.

At Guy Fawkes, Richard’s parents had a firework display for the kids in the back garden. (His wee sister was only nine. His parents’d had a late baby to save their marriage.) I sat on the kitchen step, blanketed in Nab’s sheepskin. The children were writing their names with sparklers. I wrote Ivan’s name and it melted into the air before it was formed. I’d wanted him to come back this weekend, but he was writing an essay on leprosy and armadillos. You shouldn’t have left it ‘til the last minute, I’d said, and then you could’ve come, couldn’t you?

We’re not all like you, you wee swot.

I’m not a wee swot, I said, I just don’t leave things ‘til the last minute. (I knew I was using the present tense. I should’ve been using the past.)

He’d told me to dry my eyes.

From nowhere, I suddenly missed my father: he was holding my arm as I held a sparkler, guiding me to make shimmery zigzags.





Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Получить полную версию книги.


Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/nasim-jafry-marie/the-state-of-me/) на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.