their seersucker flying suits and their rainbow-coloured trainers.
“So just let me get a note of this,” her worker said at last. “Lavatories two, bath, shower. Kitchen, lounge, breakfast room, utility, bedrooms four, okay?”
“But I can’t live there. That’s my parents’ house.”
“Well, it does seem to be the most viable option, I’m afraid.”
“I’ll take anything you have to offer.”
“But we couldn’t offer anything, you see, on the basis of what you’ve told us. Not unless they throw you out. And it’s no good colluding on that, we’d have to have proof, and unless you were actually out on the street with the baby, there wouldn’t be anything we could do.”
“I suppose I should have given Manchester as my address. I only had a room in a hall of residence, and I haven’t even got that now, so you’d have had to find somewhere for me.”
“In that case we’d have sent you back to Manchester. We’d give you your fare.”
“It’s impossible, isn’t it?”
The girl shrugged minutely.
“I mean, those women out there, some have got two babies, and they all seem to be pregnant again. Why do they have so many children?”
“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 passed 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-Shine 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 Worship.”
“What?” said Mr. Ryan.
“I said, oh no, Your Worship.”
“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 entitled.”
“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 Sexual Harassment at Work. Poor Mrs. Wilmot, imagine. She ought to sue him.”
“Bloody 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 shift.”
“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 hoarsely. “She’s had
