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.
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
