Vacant Possession Part 13

"Because for children," the girl said patiently, "you get Points."

Charge Nurse Toynbee was just going off as Poor Mrs. Wilmot reported for duty. "Cheerybye," she said, snuffling. "Have a lovely weekend, won't you?"

"What about you, Mrs. Wilmot? On the razzle?"

"Shouldn't be surprised," she said, wheezing and sniffing, laughing her soundless laugh. "Course with me knees I don't go dancing, but I enjoy meself all the same." She went off down the corridor for her metal bucket and her mop.

Standing in the recess by the patients' bathrooms, near B Ward (Male), she watched Mr. Field's visitors leaving. His daughter looked paler than ever, shocked and wary. Her clothes were disordered; she was wearing a strange red anorak, smeared with oil, that could have belonged to her husband. She strode down the corridor; her husband scurried after her, his expression abject. He too was pale; his eyes seemed unfocused, as if he had been drinking. But it was only just after seven. Mrs. Ryan swept open the firedoors and pa.s.sed through. Her face was set; she was a woman who had been disabused of one monstrosity, only to be presented with another. In the corridor beyond she started to run. Her shoes squealed on the corridor floor. Her husband swore, and broke into a trot. At the other side of the firedoors he stopped. He turned, and looked back through the smeary plastic panel. He hesitated, then began to walk back uncertainly to where the cleaner was standing, a bucket and a bottle of Pine-O-s.h.i.+ne in her hand. "Who are you?" he said.

"Me?" the despondent greyish face looked up at him. "I'm Mrs. Wilmot. I do cleaning."

"Do you know my wife?"

"Your wife? Oh no, Your Wors.h.i.+p."

"What?" said Mr. Ryan.

"I said, oh no, Your Wors.h.i.+p."

"She thought you were watching us. She said there was something familiar about you."

"Familiar?" The old woman looked scared and aggrieved. "I wouldn't be familiar."

"She thought she'd seen you before."

"Yes, course, sir, because I clean here."

"Yes, of course you do. She's got herself worked up, as usual. My apologies."

Mrs. Wilmot blinked; a single rheumy tear began a slow path down her left cheek towards her chin. "Oh, look now, I didn't mean to upset you. I wasn't accusing you of anything."

"You was." Mrs. Wilmot's voice quavered. "Theft, cheating, familiarity. Spying on you. I'll tell the charge nurse. There's tribunals. I'm ent.i.tled."

"Look, no one's accused you of theft, don't be silly." Looking uneasy, Mr. Ryan dug into his pocket and shuffled some small change into the cleaner's palm. "Why don't you...get yourself a cup of tea, or something?"

"Stout's what I have," said Mrs. Wilmot. "Sweet sherry."

"Yes, I see. Please don't upset yourself. Look...here you are."

Mrs. Wilmot bit off a tearful wail. "Brandy Alexandras." Mr. Ryan fled along the corridor after his wife.

"That dirty old Field's son-in-law accused poor Mrs. Wilmot of spying on his wife," said the Night Sister. "He accused her of stealing from his wife's handbag. And being drunk on the ward."

"Honestly," said the student. "She's only just got over her s.e.xual Hara.s.sment at Work. Poor Mrs. Wilmot, imagine. She ought to sue him."

"b.l.o.o.d.y relatives," said Sister, "coming in here once a month and throwing their weight about. Salt of the earth, Poor Mrs. Wilmot. That blasted Field is a menace to womankind, if he pegged out tonight, I wouldn't touch him, I tell you: I'd leave him for the day s.h.i.+ft."

"You do that anyway," the student said, earning a dirty look. "Mrs. Wilmot," she called out, "are you going to help us with the Horlicks?"

Mr. Field, his breathing stertorous, was propped up on a bank of pillows. "Another upset," he said. "Stupid girl, my daughter, always whinging on about something or other, never listens." He coughed hoa.r.s.ely. "She's had another row with that wimp she married, sounds as if he's been getting a bit on the side. I was telling her what I wanted on my headstone, but she wasn't taking it in."

"Here's your Horlicks. Looking forward to dying, are you?"

"If I don't make arrangements, n.o.body will. I was thinking about a verse for the paper." He leaned over to open the drawer of his bedside locker. The Reporter shook a little in his hand. "Here's one I like: We shed a tear although we know Our dad is now at rest; G.o.d wanted him for an angel and He only takes the best."

"You don't really think you're going to die," Muriel said. She stood at the end of the bed, her colourless eyes fixed on his face. "You think you're going to hang around for months, putting your hand up nurses' skirts. You'd do it to your own daughter if she'd let you."

"It's not right," the old man said. "I should have grandchildren to put in a verse for me. My daughter hates me. She wished me in h.e.l.l. That's not right, is it?"

"I could come and see your grave," Muriel said. "Me and my little mite." She approached the old man, peering down at him myopically. "I've got an idea about that. Just the bones of a scheme."

"Or this one," said Mr. Field, ignoring her.

"He went with ne'er a backward glance, And ne'er a complaining sigh: He knows he will see his dear ones again In the heavenly bye-and-bye."

"I'm a changeling," Muriel said. "Did you know that, when you did it with me in the park? I'm not a human thing."

"Whatever's that?" said Mr. Field, coughing. "What's a changeling when it's at home?"

"It's a subst.i.tute. It's what gets left when the human's taken away. It's a dull-brained thing, always squawking and feeding. It's ungrateful. It's a disappointment to its mother."

"How you talk," Mr. Field said, showing his gums. "How about a kiss and cuddle?"

"Don't you laugh. A changeling's nothing to laugh at if you found one in your house. My mother didn't have the wit to drown me. If you throw them in some water you sometimes get your own baby back, but she didn't do that and so she had to put up with me. A changeling's a filthy thing. It's got no imagination."

"Well," Mr. Field said, "it must be an uncommon condition."

"It's not uncommon. You see them on the street. You have to know what to look for, that's all."

"Not much you can do about it, then?"

"A changeling's a cruel thing. It likes its own company. It likes its own kind. I thought if I had my little changeling back, we'd suit very well."

"Oh yes?"

"So I thought," said Muriel, sitting down on the bed, breathing hard, "if I could get a loan of a baby, just an ordinary one, I could try the trick in reverse. Throw in the changeling and get a human; throw in the human, and get a changeling."

"You're touched," Mr. Field said. "I've never heard of this before. It's horrible."

"A changeling can't talk."

"But you can talk. You're talking now."

"I learned it from other people. Everything I know, I learned from other people. I want to give my child a better life. Well, it's natural."

"Your child's dead," Mr. Field said in alarm. "That's what you told me."

"I don't know if changelings do die. Anyway, there's resurrection. Leave that to me to worry about."

"Where are you going to get a baby? You're tapped. You ought to be locked up. I've never heard anything so morbid. Get off my bed. I'll ring for the nurse."

"Nurse won't come. Nurse never comes."

"Look here," Mr. Field said, "you wouldn't do me a mischief, would you?" Suddenly he had turned cold; his eyes were glazing, he trembled a little, and dribbled from the corner of his mouth.

"Save me the trouble," Muriel said indifferently. "Your nose is turning blue, old c.o.c.k. I think your heart's giving out. What does it feel like?" She waited. The room filled with his laboured breathing. "I'll do you a verse," Muriel said. "Our daddy's life is ended, No use to wail and blub, Let's toss him in his coffin, And all go down the pub." Leaning forward, she knitted her fingers into the front of the old man's pyjama jacket. "If G.o.d has called our daddy, We'd better come to terms, By squatting at his graveside, And cheering on the worms."

Mr. Field gaped up at her, his mouth opening slowly. No sound came out. Muriel flung back the bedcovers and with one movement haled him out of bed and onto the floor. He landed with a dull thud, and lay looking up at her, his legs kicking feebly. For a few moments longer his mouth continued to open and shut. Muriel sank her thick neck into her shoulders, a.s.sumed a mournful expression, sniffed once, and walked out of the room, closing the door quietly. When the Night Sister did her rounds, Mr. Field was cooling rapidly: the surgical scissors she had armed herself with were not necessary. She summoned the student to help her heave him back onto the bed, and then left him as she had promised, to be laid out by the early morning s.h.i.+ft.

Mr. Kowalski, too frightened now to keep to any observable routine, had given up his evening s.h.i.+ft at the factory. He spent much of his day sitting fearfully by the stove, compiling his book of idioms. At night he took a turn round the block, keeping his eyes peeled. He was lonely, he said, and hungry for love. These sad nocturnal promenades were his only diversion. Mornings, he dozed off.

A letter came, pushed under the door. There was a rude message from the postman, saying would they please unseal the letter box, having regard to his bad back, who did they think he was, Olga Korbut? Muriel picked it up. It was addressed to one of her, to Lizzie Blank. Good thing Mr. K. didn't see it. He'd have thought it was a letter bomb, or something. She sneaked it off upstairs.

After work that night she went off to Crisp's to get into her Lizzie costume and meet her new beau. If she was a bit late, he wouldn't have to bother about that; she would explain that she worked evenings and had been kept later than usual. She was fresh and spry for dancing, ten-pin bowling, whatever he had in mind; it wasn't as if her work tired her. But would they hit it off? That was the question. Under her wig, under her make-up, she could guarantee that no one would know her from a human being.

But as it worked out, she was very disappointed by the young man from the dating agency. At the pub where he had arranged to meet her, he towered above the other customers; his height was all of six foot seven inches, and his long thin face was as morose as Poor Mrs. Wilmot's. People made remarks as they ordered their round. Muriel thought they should have gone to the Rifle Volunteer, where she was known and known to be dangerous.

"Clyde's my monicker," the giant said. "What I always say is, Clyde's my name, confectionery's my game." He laughed gratingly, but when he looked her over his face fell. "You're not six foot two," he said. "I've been done."

"So?" Her voice was flat. "You want to make something of it?"

You could tell that Clyde was not used to threats. Distressed, he sat over his pale ale, cracking his knuckles in a thoughtful way. "No, I've thought it over, you'll do," he said at last. "I'm not that bothered about the height. What I really wanted was a bird with big knockers but they don't give you a s.p.a.ce for that on the form. Here, I've brought you something." He thrust two enormous fingers into his breast pocket, and produced a shrivelled rosebud, its leaves curling and its head almost severed from the stem. "Single red rose," he said. "It's romantic. My last girl was always hinting for me to buy her one. They think you're mean in the shop. They expect you to have a bunch."

"Who was your last girl?" Lizzie asked. "Somebody from a circus?"

"Now don't take on," Clyde said. "Here, they're calling last orders, and I've hardly wet my whistle. Your round."

In the scramble for last orders, several customers tripped over Clyde's legs. He cursed them horribly. "I may as well tell you now," Lizzie said, "you won't do for me. I like manners."

"I've a good job," Clyde insisted. "Fancy cakes to customers' requirements. I'm highly thought of. Every year I do a b.u.t.ter sculpture for the Rotarians' dinner dance." Lizzie shook her head. "Well, we're not packing it in yet. I've paid out hard-earned money for this introduction. I can see you're just my type. I could really take a fancy to you."

Lizzie was adamant. Clyde's morosity deepened. "Have a heart," he said. "You're the first bird I've really had a chance with. It's not good for me to be rejected, it gives me complexes. I'll follow you," he warned. "I'll track you down. I'm very loyal. You'll never shake me off."

"If you follow me, I'll call a policeman."

"I bet you would," Clyde said. "I bet some of them policemen are customers, eh? If you're not a pro, why do you dress like one, eh? Women like you shouldn't apply to agencies. You could be liable for it, you put down your wrongful employ. You put you was medical, bet you've never been near a hospital in your life. Except down the clap clinic."

"That's where you're wrong," Lizzie Blank said with dignity. "I'm leaving. You can drink my drink if you like."

"Oh, come back," Clyde said. "Come back. I really like you, you know."

But Lizzie swung the door back in his face, and stepped out alone into the street.

It was Sunday teatime. Florence brought her shortbread round; and her thoughts.

"Girls manage," she said. "Girls today are independent. There's no stigma any more."

"n.o.body said there was stigma," Sylvia said levelly. "n.o.body mentioned it. But we've got to think about her future."

"What about the baby?" Florence cried excitedly. "Isn't that ent.i.tled to a future too? It may not be very convenient for you, Sylvia, it may not fit into your plans, but it's a question of the sanct.i.ty of life."

"If you say that phrase once more," Sylvia said, "I'll pick up this shortbread and force it piece by piece down your throat until you choke."

"There's no need for that," Florence said composedly. "I'm ent.i.tled to speak my mind. And it's no good telling me that I don't know Life, Sylvia. We at the DHSS know all about hards.h.i.+p. From behind our counter we see human existence in the raw. You can't tell me anything."

"I can never understand it," Colin said. "You people who are against abortion and euthanasia are always against artificial insemination and surrogate mothers as well. I don't know what your position is. Do you want more people in the world, or don't you?"

"I think you're being just a teeny bit frivolous, Colin," Florence said. "I've nothing at all against artificial insemination. For cows. The point I'm trying to make is that even if this young man doesn't want to marry Suzanne-and she can hardly expect him to up and leave his poor wife-then there's no reason why she shouldn't have the baby and bring it up herself. Lots of people do it. They always have."

"I wish you'd stop discussing me," Suzanne said. "It's my choice and I've made it. Leave me alone. I want to be on my own."

"Do you?" Sylvia said. "I've got news for you. You will be, love-whether you want it or not."

Colin went into the living room. He threw himself into a chair and switched on the TV. His daughter followed him. "Do you know what Jim says now?" she demanded.

"No, but I can see that you're going to tell me."

"He says he's got to stay with Isabel because she's on the point of a nervous breakdown. Her father's just died and she's gone all to pieces about it. She says she wished him dead so she's to blame."

"Her father?" Colin sat up. "What was he called?"

"How do I know? Dad, whenever I ask you for any help all you do is ask the most irrelevant questions. This woman Isabel, I could tell she was mad when I talked to her on the phone."

"You talked to her on the phone? What did you do that for?"

"I thought we might meet and talk things over."

"Did you tell her your name?"

"What do you mean? Of course I did."

"What did she say?"

"Look, don't get all excited, Dad, I know you think it was the wrong thing to do, but put yourself in my shoes. I told you, she sounded crazy. She didn't seem to know what I was talking about."

"Perhaps Jim hadn't told her about you."

"I thought that...but if he hadn't, how would she have known my name at all? It was as if she knew me-do you know what I mean?-in another context entirely."

Colin fell back into his chair and stared at the TV. It was an early evening variety show. To the accompaniment of facetious patter, a magician held up a burning spike and pa.s.sed it slowly through the forearm of his studio volunteer. The audience applauded. The magician withdrew the brand, and held it flickering aloft. The volunteer's face wore a set, worried smile. There was an expectant hush; a roll of drums; and then the magician, with great deliberation, whipped the flame through the air and poked it cleanly through his victim's chest.

CHAPTER 7.