The Temporary

Seventeen

It was better than she’d expected, especially after the long, unnerving walk through a vast catacomb of cavernous, neon-lit corridors in which she had distinctly heard the dungeon sound of dripping, its echo ghostly behind her footsteps. On the way she had come across two or three berobed old women stranded in wheelchairs like spectral, crippled sentries at isolated outposts. She had followed signs to the clinic, pinned intermittently on walls down which green limous streaks ran like eccentric beards, and had finally arrived after what seemed like miles at a newer and more hospitable door made of wood and chrome. She pushed it and entered a hushed and carpeted enclave where telephones quietly chirped and potted plants proudly proclaimed the tiny region’s luxurious independence. Its immediate resemblance to offices in which she had worked, or even the agency where she used to go to collect her cheques and receive news of her next assignment, at first soothed and then disturbed her. She instantly warmed to the superiority of her treatment, but remembering the collapsed and crumpled faces of the corridor’s abandoned residents, their lumpy, useless forms rooted like unattended overflowing bins in concrete wastelands, she wondered at the severity of her own condition that it should elicit such reverence.

‘What name is it, dear?’

She turned and saw a woman standing near her with a clipboard in her hand. She was wearing a white uniform, with a stiff white veil of the same material covering her head. For a moment she thought nervously that the woman was a nun, for the soft, coaching tone of her voice and her ready, pliant face seemed to anticipate tearful confessions.

‘Francine Snaith.’

Francine moved closer to the woman as she said it, in an attempt at discretion. The woman had a plastic rectangle pinned to her breast with ‘Nurse Rogers’ written on it. She could now see the entire waiting-room from where she stood. Other stout, white figures moved soundlessly around a neat row of chairs on which six or seven young girls sat like novices. At one end of the room was a large glass window, behind which a man sat. The telephone rang and he answered it.

‘How are you feeling, Francine?’ said the nurse.

‘I’m fine.’

‘Any sickness?’

‘No.’

‘Good girl,’ she said, nodding and writing something on her clipboard. ‘Why don’t you just pop over and have a word with John behind the window there, and then you can sit down with the other girls.’

Francine crossed the waiting-room. All of the girls looked up in unison as she passed and she glanced back at them. Their pale, worn faces were eager with recognition, as if urging some sense of community upon her, and she looked away. She stood at the glass and waited while John spoke on the telephone.

‘Right,’ he said, nodding. ‘OK, that’s fine.’

He was young, with dark ruffled hair and a lean face, and when he sensed Francine standing there he looked up, smiling, and raised a patient finger. She saw that he was handsome, and she felt a wrench of frustration at the disagreeable fact of her presence there, the undisguisable nature of its shame.

‘Sorry about that,’ he said cheerfully, putting down the telephone.

‘It’s OK,’ said Francine softly.

‘Name?’

‘Francine.’

‘Francine, Francine,’ he muttered, looking down at a typed list. ‘Francine Snaith, 110 Mill Lane, Kilburn, London. That you?’

‘Yes.’ She smiled.

‘Well, Francine, we’re running a bit late this morning, but you should be called in about half an hour. All right?’

‘That’s fine.’

Francine leaned on the counter, closer to the glass, and he looked up. An expression of surprise flitted across his face and he looked back down at his page.

‘Let’s see. Right, how will you be getting back to Kilburn?’

She hesitated, unprepared for his question and flattered by the concern it implied.

‘I don’t really know.’ She wondered if he would offer to take her home himself.

‘Oh. Well, we normally recommend that patients take a taxi home afterwards rather than public transport. Could you give me the name of the person who’s coming to collect you?’

Francine was silent. A wave of nausea mounted in her stomach and hovered trembling.

‘Nobody.’

He didn’t say anything for a moment, his pen poised.

‘What about your boyfriend?’ he said finally, without looking up.

‘I don’t have one.’

‘What about this name you gave to your doctor? Ralph Loman, is he not your boyfriend?’

‘No.’

‘Is there a friend you could call?’

‘No.’

He raised his head slowly and looked directly into her eyes. His gaze was evaluating, calculating not her assets but her lack of them. She knew that he felt sorry for her. The small office in which he sat was bright and ordered. He raised a hand to his chin and she saw the mocking glitter of a wedding band on his finger.

‘Nobody at all?’ he said.

‘No,’ she said, hating him.

Janice had been meant to come, but that morning, when Francine had opened the door to her darkened bedroom, Janice had called out from beneath a mound of covers that she didn’t feel like it. Her voice had been irritable, and the room had smelt thick and sour. The night before, the woman who owned the boutique where Janice worked had come to the flat and demanded to speak to her. Francine had heard her shouting behind the closed sitting-room door, her voice interspersed with Janice’s indecipherable murmurs.

‘You’re lucky I’ve decided not to take this any further!’ she had said several times, while Francine sat alone in the kitchen. Finally the door had flown open and the woman had marched past her without saying anything. When she had left, Francine had gone into the sitting-room. Janice was sitting on the sofa, smoking a cigarette.

‘What’s happened?’

‘Silly cow gave me the sack,’ said Janice, sucking in smoke. ‘Silly bitch.’

Francine asked her why, but she wouldn’t say.

‘Doesn’t matter,’ she said. Her face was ugly, abandoned by expression like a room after a party. ‘I’m not worried. I’ve got other sources.’

‘I wish I did,’ said Francine.

Her job at Lancing & Louche had finished a week ago. Lynne had been odd about it, her voice unfriendly on the telephone. When Francine went to the agency to collect her money the receptionist said that Lynne was in a meeting and gave her the cheque herself. She had called once or twice after that, but the receptionist had told her that there wasn’t anything for her, and when Lynne finally called it was to say that she was very sorry but they were going to have to take her off their books.

‘Do you?’ said Janice, suddenly giving her a cool, appraising look; a look which reminded Francine of the looks men usually gave her. Janice looked at her for a long time. It made her nervous. ‘I might be able to help you out,’ she said finally, sending a long finger of smoke towards her.

‘You’d better sit down,’ said John. His manner was disengaged. ‘One of the nurses will let you know when they’re ready.’

Francine turned and saw that the other girls’ eyes were still on her. Their gaze was unembarrassed, knowing. There was an empty chair at the end of their row, but she walked past it and sat on one opposite. Eventually their eyes dropped to their laps, except those of a girl with long red hair who sat directly across from Francine. She was staring at a point above Francine’s head. She looked young, like a child. Francine saw that her face was filled with immediate terror, as if someone was about to attack her. She looked away abruptly, skirting along the row until her eyes fixed on a very fat girl slumped in a chair to her left. The girl’s face was vast and pasty, the bumps of her features resembling the deformities of vegetables, sly potato eyes, a lumpy tuber nose. She sat miserably with her legs apart, her thighs melting over the sides of the chair like warm cheese. Francine stared at her, trying to imagine the coupling which had brought her here, the kisses on her doughy breasts. The thought repelled her. She wondered how someone could have chosen that girl, selected her from others, and felt her own mysteries crumble and spoil.

‘Miss Franklin?’ called a nurse, coming into the waiting area.

The young red-haired girl shot to her feet and Francine was disconcerted to see that large, childish tears were rolling down her cheeks. An older woman whom Francine hadn’t noticed stood up beside her and gently put an arm around her shoulders, whispering something in her ear. Her hair was red too, streaked with grey, and she realized to her amazement that the woman must be her mother. A gorge of jealousy rose to her mouth.

‘Come on, love,’ said the nurse softly, taking her by the hand. ‘Don’t worry, you’ll be fine.’

The girl strained like an animal, resisting her hand, and for the first time Francine felt a bolt of fear fly through her. She gripped her bag, seeing herself quite clearly running from the room, her feet echoing down the empty corridors, out into the car park past impervious porters and sleeping ambulances, melting into the busy pavement along which waiting traffic throbbed. The singularity of her imprisonment erected its swift bars around her and she struggled against them as her thoughts reasoned her back into the room like diplomats. There was no escape from that which ticked like a bomb inside her, that which her enemies had implanted and she was entrusting those around her to remove. She calmed herself with thoughts of the purge which would free her, the gratifying image of Ralph, Stephen, the hungry blockage in her belly, the confusing maelstrom of her past, all of it sucked mechanically from her, leaving her new and gleaming, a vacuum to be filled with delightful, unknown things. She had been told it wouldn’t hurt. It didn’t matter anyway. Her body felt heavy and used, sluggish with nausea and mistakes. She almost looked forward to its cleansing. Afterwards she would begin again.

A nurse walked past her, her uniform efficient and trustworthy. It wasn’t that bad here, after all. She had wanted a private clinic, of course, but she hadn’t had the money and she couldn’t have asked Ralph. It would have spoiled her plan of telephoning him afterwards to tell him what she had done. She thought of telling him she had gone to a private clinic and making him pay her back. It was the least he could do. She needed money. Anxiety closed around her as she thought of the rent, counting weeks with a beating heart. She hardly had enough to last her until the weekend. She had to get another job. Lynne wouldn’t give her a reference, she’d said as much. Personnel had lodged a complaint. Francine was too unreliable these days, and she had her own reputation to consider. There was something else, Janice’s offer, waiting darkly like a stranger at the door. It made her uncomfortable and she shied from it dimly. She would think about it later. As she shrank from it, it caught her in its ropes and reeled her back, insinuating itself, not discouraged by her firm rejection. Her thoughts were relenting to its persuasions. What else did she have? It might take her weeks to find a job, and then another week’s delay until she was paid. It would only be for a while, a temporary thing, just until she sorted herself out. It was easy, Janice said it was. It wasn’t how you would think. You didn’t have to do anything if you didn’t want to. She knew people, she said, people who would really appreciate Francine. She had laughed at how shocked she was.

‘How else do you think I could afford this?’ she had said, raising her glass to Francine and gesturing at the room.

The door to the waiting-room opened and a man in a bomber jacket came in. He stopped, looking around.

‘Over ’ere, Ian,’ said the fat girl.

He grinned, and Francine watched him hesitantly cross the room, his hands stuffed in his pockets. The other girls shifted up the row to make room for him and he sat down, putting his arm around the fat girl’s shoulders.

‘All right?’ he said, his face close to hers.

‘Yeah,’ she said, patting his knee.

The girls were watching them with silent interest.

‘Couldn’t get off earlier. Barry didn’t turn up for his shift till ten past. Bugger was out on the piss last night.’

‘Was he?’ The girl laughed, her mouth forcing up mountains of flesh on her cheeks. ‘That’s typical, that is.’

‘Miss Snaith?’ The nurse arrived again with her clipboard. ‘Is Miss Snaith here?’

Francine froze for a minute and then stood up.

‘Right, dear, come along with me.’

She led Francine through a swinging door at the other end of the room. Beyond it was a long white ward with military rows of beds along its walls. In one of them, the young girl lay immobile, her red hair streaming like blood across the pillows. Her mother sat beside her, reading a book.

‘I didn’t know I’d have to go to bed,’ said Francine, panic beginning to struggle in her again at the sight of the ward.

‘Oh, it’s not for long,’ said the nurse. ‘We’ve just got to give you a tiny injection, and afterwards you’ll want time to wake up. Just slip your clothes off for me now behind this curtain. There’s a robe hanging beside the bed.’

She manoeuvred Francine into a cubicle and then drew a flowered curtain briskly around her. Francine took off her jacket. She had only been in hospital once before, for her appendix, when she was a child. She remembered her mother stroking her forehead, her father nervous at the foot of the bed, jumping out of the doctor’s way. A sharp consciousness of her loneliness pricked her, and then she felt something else, something heavier. She wished Janice had come, saw her huddled beneath the bedclothes, her voice angry. The thought of not liking Janice made her panic. She needed her. She had said they would do it together. Quickly she took off the rest of her clothes and was surprised by the sight of her body in the white light. It looked mottled and bumpy with gooseflesh, and the purple tunnels of her veins seemed alarmingly close to the skin. She saw the spread of her hips, the pouch of her stomach, and realized that she had put on weight.

‘Knock, knock!’ said the nurse brightly, fiddling with the curtain. ‘Can I come in?’

‘Yes,’ said Francine, putting on the white cotton robe. It came down to her knees and fastened at the back. It looked like something a prisoner might wear, or a patient in a mental hospital.

‘All right? Just pop yourself on the bed.’

The nurse waited until Francine had clumsily mounted the bed and then sat down beside her. She was middle-aged, her face a creased history of smiles.

‘Am I right in thinking you haven’t anyone coming to collect you?’ she said, leaning forward confidentially.

‘Yes.’

‘The father couldn’t come?’

For a moment Francine couldn’t think of who she was talking about, and then realized it was Ralph.

‘He doesn’t know I’m here.’

The words crystallized something in her, a sudden crust forming around her tenderness and then covering it completely. She felt herself harden and glimpsed a person she could be.

‘I see.’ The nurse was impassive, looking at her clipboard. ‘And what arrangements have you made for getting home?’

‘I’ll take the bus.’

‘We usually recommend a taxi for afterwards, dear, just in case you’re not feeling too well. I can arrange one for you if you like.’

‘I don’t have enough money.’

The nurse turned a face full of sympathy towards her and Francine met her eyes, repelling the humiliation she offered. She looked surprised and drew her eyebrows together in an irritated, despairing point.

‘Right, well it’s up to you, of course. We did send you these details, and it’s up to you if you ignore our advice. It’s your decision.’ She stood up. ‘The doctor will be with you in a minute.’

*

The ceiling was rushing over her, its long, luminous tubes speeding and then flashing past as if she were flying. A pair of doors appeared ahead and she narrowed her eyes as the trolley shot towards their grim, closed lips with uncontainable velocity. They flew open just in time, like a fairground ride, and her limp body, warm beneath its blanket, swept through.

‘There in a minute, love,’ said a man’s voice above her.

She wanted it never to end, their fantastical journey, the trundling excitement of motion, the trolley to which she was strapped and secured, tiny now, her thoughts a bowl of bliss. She might stay here for ever, injected and looked after, rushed from place to place in her snug bed by green-clad men with kind faces. She closed her eyes, her body melting with the vibration of wheels, and when the vibration stopped she opened them again. She was in a room where everything was still. A crowd of people stood above her, their faces a ring of masked moons.

‘All right, Francine,’ said a woman’s voice. She couldn’t tell which face it was that spoke. ‘We’re just going to put you to sleep now.’

Someone clasped her fingers. One of the faces leaned towards her, a man’s face, his eyes large and frightening as an owl’s above his mask.

‘Ralph?’

‘Don’t struggle now, Francine. We’re just putting something in your hand.’

She felt a pressure on the back of her hand and seconds later pain filtered through the warm mist of her body. A dark tide of fear lapped at her and suddenly she was alone at its shore. She was alone. Where had everybody gone?

‘Francine?’

Everything would be all right. It would only be temporary, just for a while. There was nothing to worry about. Her cheeks were wet. Was she crying? Why was she crying?

‘Can you count to ten for us, Francine? See if you can count.’

Something unfurled, beat against her lazy walls. A flash of terror mired. Too late.

‘Francine? Come on, one, two—’

‘One … two …’

Ralph’s face, a bitter taste on the tongue of the ravenous dark.