Swimming Upstream

10

I woke with a blinding headache. Zara was sitting up in bed beside me reading a magazine. Little by little, the rest of the room came into focus. It looked as if we were in a squat. We were lying on a thick and lumpy mattress on the floor in the corner next to a window, which was hung with one drab-looking curtain and a sheet of clear plastic, nailed down at the edges to keep out the wind. The walls were cracked and the paint was yellow and chipped. Along one wall was a shelf of books, and below it an old table stacked high with files and folders, some wooden frames, pieces of canvas and several murky jam jars full of painted water and brushes. On every spare surface - on the table, on the mantelpiece above the gas fire, on the floor - were paintings of flowers. Large bright multi-coloured sunflowers, snow-white water-lilies floating on a leaf-green pond, and intricate weaves of buttercups and daisies set against a pink and purple backdrop.

“You're awake,” said Zara. “How d'you feel?”

“I've definitely felt better,” I murmured, resting my arm over my forehead. My mouth was so dry that I could barely speak. Zara handed me a glass of water.

“Do you remember what happened?” Zara paused while I cast my mind back to the night before. The pain in my ankle was beginning to make itself felt.

I shook my head. “No. At least not after we got back here.”

“You passed out,” said Zara.

“Ah,” I said, a little embarrassed. “Sorry. Where did I land?”

“It's a good job Tim was there,” she continued. “You were standing at the top of the stairs. You'd have gone right down them, backwards, if he hadn't been there to catch you.”

“God.” I shivered at the thought. “Who's Tim?” I added. A vague recollection was hovering at the back of my mind. On cue, there was a knock at the door. It opened, and a dark curly head appeared.

“Hello?”

“Tim, come and meet Lizzie,” said Zara.

“I believe we've already met,” he said, stepping into the room and smiling broadly at me.

Tim had one of those faces that made you want to laugh before he'd even said anything. He was grinning widely, the corners of his mouth seeming almost to touch his ears, and his eyes were big and round and so dark that you couldn't see his pupils; they looked like cartoon eyes. His thick eyebrows were arched quizzically and there was a dimple on his chin. He was very tall, and thin. My memory came flooding back. I was relieved to see he had clothes on.

“And how's the patient this morning?” he asked me.

“Alive,” I croaked. “Thanks to you.”

“All part of the service,” said Tim. “You should probably stay where you are today. Get some rest.”

“That would be nice,” I said. But something was nagging at me. I cast my mind back to the events of the previous day, and sat up in bed. “Oh my God,” I said. “What time is it? I forgot about the car.” I scanned the room for my clothes.

“What car?” asked Tim. I explained briefly, about the police pound, about my ankle, and about how I'd ended up at Bart's.

Zara pushed me gently back down again. “You're staying right here, and I'm staying with you. Tim will get the car, won't you Tim?”

I looked at him, uncertainly. “Sure,” he said. “Where are the keys?”

“In my pocket, I think,” I replied, confused, unsure where my pocket was. I was unable to believe that I could really lie back and that everything would be taken care of. Tim went over to Zara's desk and wrote down my registration number.

“My purse,” I said, sitting up again. “It's in the car - or at least, I hope it is. You'll have to give them my credit card. If it's there. Oh God.”

“Stop worrying. I’ll sort it out,” said Tim. “Now relax. Everything's under control.” He picked my jacket up from a chair that was tucked under the table, fished the keys out of my pocket, and left.

I lifted the bedclothes, and glanced down at myself. I was wearing a very tight pink nightdress.

“That's one of mine,” said Zara.

“Oh,” I said, worried. “Who undressed me last night?”

“Me and Tim,” said Zara, dismissively. “Do you want a cup of tea?”

She caught my expression, and smiled as she got up. “Don't worry, he's a nurse,” she said. “He's seen it all before.”

I lay my head back on the pillow. I supposed that made us about even.

We stayed in bed and talked all day, Zara and I, about the past, the present and the future. I watched her eyes twinkling as she spoke and recalled the first time I'd met her, up in the bathroom at Larsen’s house, when she had told me about the stars talking and we had fallen into the bath. It seemed such a long time ago. And yet up until now I'd known so little about her deep down, the things that really mattered. As she moved I noticed for the first time a scar protruding from the sleeve of her nightdress.

“What's that?” I asked her.

Zara pulled up her sleeve to reveal the shiny traces of a number of incisions, running horizontally across her left forearm. “I had a difficult time, she said. When I was six.”

“You did that when you were six?”

“My mum couldn’t cope. I got taken into care. I hated it there. It was awful. The matron was just like the nurse on the Neuro ward. A bully. It was more a kind of release than an attempt at anything else. Some way I could let go of what I was feeling.”

I thought back to me at six, and it felt like there was a connection between me and Zara. That was the age I had been when my father had died in the road in front of me; it was a misty, scary age, when everything and nothing made sense.

“I didn't really know what was going on,” said Zara, reading my thoughts. “Except that I thought I was going to be left there forever, and I thought it was all my fault because my mum didn’t want me home again.”

She paused. “That's when I started drawing. I've got a picture somewhere, of me in bed on the dorm. Just lying there. No-one else around. It's from a funny angle, too. Looking down, as if looking from the ceiling.”

Zara turned and looked at me for a moment as if I were someone else, and then the same anxious frown of the night before shadowed her forehead. “My mum had me too young,” she said after a pause. “She just wasn’t ready to have a baby.”

“How awful. What about your dad? Did they visit you?”

“Yes. At first they did. And I begged them to take me home. But my mum just got upset, and then she stopped coming. I knew by her reaction that it was my fault,” Zara continued. “I thought I was evil, and I thought I'd made my mum crack up. There was nothing to say, but be strong for her, so that hopefully she'd get better and come and visit me.”

“And did she?”

“Well, no. Not really. She had another two babies, my brother and sister. But things got a bit better for me. I drew a lot, everything I was feeling. And one of the staff would bring me flowers, that was really nice, so I drew them too. That was the happy bit.” She waved at the walls. “Flowers make me feel happy. Then, when I was nine, I came home.”

“What happened then? Was everything okay?”

“I guess,” said Zara. “But the bond was gone. Me and my mum. We just never bonded. And that’s why I want that… dream of that. That’s why I just so need a baby of my own.”

At around midday Zara put her coat on over her nightdress and went out to get some lunch. Tim returned in the meantime, and dropped my keys and my purse onto the bed in front of me.

“How much?” I asked.

“I'll tell you later,” he said. “Right now you're still in shock. We don't want any relapses.”

“That bad?”

“Put it this way,” he grinned. “Don't go planning any holidays abroad for a while.”

“Tim,” I called, as he left. He turned at the door. “Thanks. And thanks for last night as well.”

“You're most welcome,” he said, and then hung his head in mock-modesty. “I like to think I was kind of responsible, in a way.”

I smiled. “Do you always wander around in the middle of the night with no clothes on?”

“I thought you were Clare,” he said. “My girlfriend.”

“Oh. I see.”

“Don't worry,” said Tim. “You're not the only one. Clare nearly passed out too, the first time she saw me naked.”

Zara came in with a large wooden tray, which she settled on my lap before she climbed back into bed beside me. On it was a pot of tea with a woolly cosy on top that looked a bit like the hat she had been wearing the night before. Also, there was a piece of cold smoked mackerel wrapped in tin foil, a jar of pickled herrings, two hard-boiled eggs and a packet of oatcakes.

“And I’ve got these.” She produced a tin from under the bed and handed it to me.

I pulled the lid off and smiled. “Fairy cakes. Did you make these?”

“No...”

I took a bite of cake and began to choke. Zara put down her cup, and walloped me on the back. A piece of cake flew out of my mouth.

I stared at the bed. “Zara, this cake is green inside.”

“Ah. Don't eat it.” She snatched the remaining piece out of my hand, put it back in the tin and put the lid on. “Uncle Silbert made them,” she said, looking at me apologetically. “I'm sorry. I forgot to check.”

“Uncle Silbert?” I laughed. “Who's Uncle Silbert?”

“He's not really my uncle, I just call him that. He's one of my old patients from when I was on the district.” Zara smiled at the cake tin. “He's seventy-six, and he’s got really bad arthritis, but he still lives on his own. He can't get out, or do much for himself and I don’t know what’s happened to his family. He says he has a nephew in Hackney Downs, but I’ve never seen him.”

“Where did he get his name from?” I asked.

“Oh that,” said Zara. “That was a mistake. He was supposed to be called Gilbert, but they wrote it down wrong on his birth certificate. One of those funny G's, you know,” she explained. “He's been Silbert ever since. I still go and visit him, every Sunday,” she added, grinning and grabbing the teapot from me as it wobbled and hot tea splashed over my leg. “And fetch him things from the shops.”

“Where does he live?” I asked, dabbing at my leg with a tissue.

“In a council block, just off Essex road. Would you like to go and see him?” She looked up at me, hopefully.

“Sure,” I smiled. “Why not?”

“Oh, that's great,” said Zara, looking pleased. “We could go tomorrow… if you're feeling okay, that is, and if your ankle's a bit better.”

I smiled. “Tomorrow will be absolutely fine.”

Uncle Silbert lived on the twelfth floor of a fourteen storey tower block. I got out of the lift, which smelt of urine, and clung with vertigo to the metal railings outside while Zara banged on the door and called through the letter box.

“Uncle Silbert!”

The wind whistled round my ears. When I looked over the edge at the street below, I felt sick. After several minutes the door opened. An old man stood stooped behind a walking frame. He was painfully thin. I could see he had once been tall, but his back was hunched and his frail bones were knotted with disease. He shuffled backwards in the narrow hallway and waved us in.

“Zara. My little angel of mercy.” He spoke softly, his bright blue eyes shifting keenly between the two of us and finally resting on me. “And who've you brought with you?”

“Hello,” I said. “I'm Lizzie.”

“Uncle Silbert,” said Zara. “This is an old friend of mine.”

He looked deeply into my eyes. It was an odd sensation, a bit like deja vu. He reminded me of someone, but I couldn't think who.

“Hello, my dear,” he said. “Do come in.”

We followed him slowly down the cold hallway to the kitchen where one ring on the old gas stove was burning. The flat smelled of dust and pastry. As we passed by open doors I noticed that two of the rooms were completely empty, apart from some plastic bin-liners and boxes full of books, which were pushed up against the walls. In the room next to the kitchen, I could see a single bed against the wall behind the stove. The rest of the room was also empty, apart from more bin bags and a cardboard box stuffed full of what looked like old newspapers.

“I sit in here,” said Uncle Silbert, pointing at a stool by the stove. “It's warmer.”

He lowered himself into a brown leather armchair with stuffing coming out of the sides, and proceeded to cough convulsively into his fist for several minutes. Zara stood beside him, rubbing his back, then folded a blanket over his lap and put the kettle on.

I sat down and studied his face. It was angular but gentle, and delicately featured with skin the colour of old icing, stretched tautly over his high cheekbones and aquiline nose. He had narrow pink lips and a full head of white hair.

“There's some cake there.” He pointed to a tin on the table. Zara grinned at me and poured the tea. She passed me a plate and a cup and saucer and sat down on a stool next to Uncle Silbert. She picked up his hand and held it in hers. I watched them affectionately and played with my cake, pushing it around on my plate.

“So, are you a nurse too?” Uncle Silbert asked me.

“She's a journalist,” said Zara.

“A journalist,” he repeated. “Very interesting. Well, it's nice of you to come,” he said, patting the hand that held his, but looking at me. “I don't get many visitors.”

“What about your family?” I asked.

“All gone away.” He didn't elaborate. He sat and nodded silently for a few minutes, smiling.

“The nurse visits you every day, though, doesn't she?” asked Zara.

He nodded.

“And she helps you with your bath, and brings your medication.”

He nodded again, and looked a little embarrassed. I smiled at him sympathetically.

“Can't bath on my own,” he said to me. His voice was soft, and throaty. I had to strain my ears to hear him. “Dignity,” he said, “is a luxury afforded to the fit and well.”

“I'm sorry,” I said.

He shrugged his shoulders, and smiled at me. “Oh it hardly matters anymore. You get used to it, like everything else. But I'm a proud man,” he added, turning to me again and fixing his blue eyes once more on mine.

I know you, I thought suddenly. He continued to stare at me. I felt confused, light headed.

“You shouldn't be living like this,” Zara was saying. “You should be somewhere you can be taken care of properly.”

“I can manage,” Uncle Silbert protested. “I won't be a burden to anyone ...”

“A burden.” Zara sniffed, and looked at me. “This man fought in the war, you know, risked his neck flying across Europe for four years, and parachuted into France with the Normandy landings. Ended up in the military hospital with shrapnel wounds in his back, arms and chest and took home the George Cross...”

Uncle Silbert was still looking into my eyes. I could have sworn he was saying something.

“…a pride that must never die,” finished Zara, theatrically and gazed ironically around the kitchen, and through the doorway into the bare hallway. She started as if she'd said something wrong, stood up and left the room.

“Why is everything all packed up in bags?” I asked.

“Oh, to make things easier,” said Uncle Silbert.

I stared at him, lost for words. I thought about the shrapnel wounds. He looked so noble, so distinguished - and yet so vulnerable. I couldn't bear for him to say anymore. He continued to look into my eyes, then leaned forward and passed me his handkerchief.

“Are you in a lot of pain?” I wiped my eyes, embarrassed.

“Pain? Of course. But then so are you,” he added. I looked down at my ankle, and started to protest.

“Not that.” He stopped me, and tapped his chest. “I'm talking about in here.”

I began to wonder if we were really having this conversation out loud.

“Maybe I am,” I said slowly. “But yours is different. Worse.”

“Possibly. Possibly not.” He lifted his hands. “Who's to say whose pain is greater, or lesser than anyone else's? We are all unique beings and pain... we must try to empathise; but never measure.”

Zara had come back from the loo and was standing in the doorway.

“So how do you bear it, then?” My voice sounded strangled.

“You get by,” he said, looking from me to Zara. “With a little help from your friends.”

It seemed very bright outside. We took the lift down to the street below in silence. Zara took my arm and we hobbled down the road to the car. I was feeling very tired. Everything felt strange, as if we were in a dream together.

“Isn't he lovely?” said Zara eventually.

“The best,” I agreed. “I'd like to see him again.”

“Oh, you can. You will. He liked you very much.”

“His eyes,” I said. “What was it about his eyes? They reminded me of someone, but I can't think who.”

“Did you ever go to Sunday School?” asked Zara.

“Yes ...”

“Remember those pictures of Jesus?”

“Yes, that's it! The same solemn, gentle face, and the deep blue eyes ...”

“Although of course Jesus would have been dark,” she added. “With black curly hair and brown eyes.”

“Like Tim,” I suggested, and we both cracked up laughing at the image.

I drove Zara home and we sat in the car outside talking for a bit. I really didn't want to say goodbye to her. Eventually, I put my arms round her and kissed her cheek. She hugged me and stroked my back.

“Call me,” she said. “And make it soon.”