Despite the bath, I couldn’t sleep. I lay, eyes closed, trying to imagine the long grass with the dark tree above and listened for the movement of the leaves, but still I couldn’t sleep. I tried to make my breathing regular and hypnotic – I’d read about that somewhere – but I could feel myself tensing and knew it was useless. It was like a first night back at school: the unfamiliar bed, hard and cold, and the covers flimsy and unprotective.
I must have been about six. It was a Sunday and I had gone down to breakfast as usual but was told I couldn’t have anything to eat because I was going to have my tonsils out. I knew what that meant. I don’t think I was frightened. I think I just accepted it. It’s funny how grown-ups were always so secretive – nothing was ever discussed or explained. But then, perhaps it was better not to know in advance. If I had had time to think about it then, surely, I would have been a bit scared. Now, all of a sudden, I was to go to hospital with no preparation, no warning. I always talked to Dan and Fleur about everything. We had no secrets from each other.
My father drove me to a big house, took me to a small room and told me to undress. It seemed strange to be undressing in the middle of a Sunday morning, strange to be getting into the neatly starched, cold bed when I was feeling perfectly well. Some other people came into the room and Father gave me a small metal rod with rings running up and down it and told me to count the rings, slowly, out loud. Someone put a red rubber mask over my face and as I counted, my voice became louder, there was a peculiar buzzing in my ears and I spiralled away, out of control, helpless.
I woke up to find a nurse sitting on the bed and a hot sticky rubber sheet covering my chest. I could feel my mouth filling with warm, thick liquid, which I spat into the metal bowl the nurse held in front of me. I was frightened by the blood and I cannot tell you how painful my throat was, searing raw and burning. It was days before I could eat or drink. Years later when I was suffering continually with a lost voice, the specialist who looked at my throat said, ‘My God, who on earth butchered you?’
I thought about all the times I had been in hospital. A tooth had to be cut out and the woman in the bed beside me had a blue rinse, which she told me she had done especially for coming into hospital. She always liked to look her best! To be sure, she didn’t look ill, but then her face was immaculately and heavily made-up. She sat, propped against the pillows, wearing lacy bedjackets, a new one for every day of the week, and gave me a detailed account of her gallstones, which had now been removed and were sitting in a jar, which she rattled towards me victoriously.
I hate hospitals. I am scared of illness now, so I had Dan at home. He was a plump, bald-headed, placid baby with large, enquiring eyes. And Fleur, born six years later, was red, scrawny, with spikes of fine hair. Restless, demanding, determined. She used to lie on her back with one knee folded and her tiny hands behind her head. Dan grew up to be thoughtful, reliable and easy-going; Fleur never stopped talking, couldn’t concentrate on anything for long and either loved or hated with ferocity. I knew I had a very special bond with Dan, but I loved Fleur beyond words. When exhausted, she would crawl into my lap and fall asleep. It was like sheltering a wild animal. It felt very special.
As Dan grew up he tried to hide his adoration for Fleur behind a facade of casual indifference, but he fooled no one, least of all Fleur, who was his shadow. Often at night we would find she had crawled into bed with him. She would wriggle and giggle and hide under the bedclothes. He would get no sleep while she was there and had to be removed kicking and giggling, ‘Just one more cuddle!’ Everything he played, she wanted to join in. At two years old, she would insist on playing ‘Nopoly’, and patiently Dan would give her a house to arrange or let her hand out the money. There were times, of course, when he did things without her; she couldn’t always tag along, nor should she have done. On those occasions, I would have to find something to distract her. When Dan had a party, for instance, I arranged for Fleur to have one too, but in another part of the house, otherwise she would have been continually interfering.
What did they like to eat? This is one of the terrible things. I can’t remember. I can remember general things like roasts and roast potatoes. They always wanted to eat one on the end of a fork before lunch. I could remember the early-morning cups of tea with iced diamond-shaped biscuits, but what in particular did they like? For Christ’s sake, I can’t remember. Tell me why can’t I remember the precious, private little things that only a parent could know! It’s all a blur. Everything is in generalities and I can’t bear it.
And I can’t ask Peter.
I got out of bed, lit a cigarette and opened the door. It was warm and clammy, and the chimneys and roof of the house appeared remote and aloof. I thought, I must be mad to stick myself in a place like this. And then, wryly, But that figures!
The tip of the cigarette glowed and caught the edges of the smoke. I shivered, despite the closeness of the night, and my stomach felt hollow and I decided that perhaps a cup of tea and a biscuit would send me to sleep.