him.
“You women!” the doctor exclaimed. “You all think you’ve got multiple sclerosis! It beats me, why you’re all so keen to be in wheelchairs. Shoes off, please, and step on these scales.”
Al tried to ease her feet out of her sandals. They were stuck, the straps embedded in her flesh. “Sorry, sorry,” she said, bending down to unbuckle them, peel the leather away.
“Come on, come on,” the doctor said. “There are people waiting out there.”
She kicked away her shoes and stepped on the scales. She stared at the paint on the wall, and then, nerving herself, she glanced down. She couldn’t see past herself, to read the figure.
“Oh, dear, oh, dear,” the doctor said. “Get the nurse to test your wee. You’re probably diabetic. I suppose we ought to get your cholesterol checked, though I don’t know why we bother. Be cheaper to send a patrol officer to confiscate your crisps and beer. When did you last have a blood-pressure check?”
She shrugged.
“Sit here,” he said. “Never mind your shoes, we haven’t time for that, you can get back into your shoes when you get outside. Roll up your sleeve.”
Al touched her own warm skin. She was wearing a short-sleeved T-shirt. She hardly liked to draw attention to it. “It is rolled up,” she whispered.
The doctor clasped a band around her arm. His other hand began to pump. “Oh, dear, oh, dear. At this level I would always treat.” He shot a glance upward, at her face. “Thyroid’s probably shot, come to that.”
He turned away and tapped his keyboard. He said, “We don’t seem to have seen you before.”
“That would be right.”
“You’re not registered with two doctors, are you? Because I should have expected a person in your state to be in here twice a week. You’re not moon-lighting? Signed up with another practice? Because if you are, I warn you, the system will catch up with you. You can’t pull that stunt.”
Her head began hurting. The doctor typed. Al fingered her scalp, as if feeling for the lumpy thread of an old scar. I got that somewhere in my past lives, she thought, when I was a labourer in the fields. Years passed like that, back bent, head down. A lifetime, two, three, four. I suppose there’s always a call for labourers.
“Now I’m going to try you on these,” the doctor said. “These are for your blood pressure. Book in with the nurse for a three-month check. These are for your thyroid. One a day. Just one, mind. No point you doubling the dose, Miss—er—Hart, because all that will do is ensure your total endocrine collapse takes place sooner than scheduled. Here you are.”
“Shall I come back?” she asked. “To see you personally? Though not too often?”
“See how it goes,” the doctor said, nodding and sucking his lip. But he was not nodding to her in particular. He was already thinking of the next patient, and as he wiped her from the screen, he erased her from his mind, and a well-drilled cheeriness overtook him. “Oh, yes,” he said, rubbing his fore-head, “Wait, Miss Hart—not depressed at all, are you? We can do a lot for that, you know.”
When Colette saw Al shuffling down the passage into the waiting area, trying to keep her unbuckled sandals on her feet, she threw down her magazine, drew her feet from the table, and leaped up, balancing sweetly like a member of a dance troupe. It’s nice to be lighter! she thought; Al’s diet was working, though not for Al. “Well? So have you got MS?”
“I dunno,” Al said.
“What do you mean, Al, you
“It wasn’t that simple,” Al said.
“What was the doctor like?”
“He was bald and nasty.”
“I see,” Colette said. “Fasten your shoes.”
Al bent at the waist: where her waist would be. “I can’t reach,” she said pitifully. By the reception desk, she put one foot on a vacant chair and bent over. A receptionist tapped the glass.
“Just get in,” Colette said. “In this heat, doing up the other foot will kill you.”
Al heaved herself into her seat, scooping up her left shoe with her toe. “I could have made him a prediction,” she said, “but I didn’t. He says it could be my thyroid.”
“Did he give you a diet plan?”
Al slammed the passenger door. She tried to worm her swollen foot into her shoe. “I’m like an Ugly Sister,” she said. She took out a cologne tissue and fumbled with the sachet. “Ninety-six degrees is too much, in England.”
“Give it here.” Colette snatched the sachet and ripped it open.
“And for some reason, the neighbours seem to think I’m responsible.”
Colette smirked.
Al mopped her forehead. “That doctor, I could see straight through him. His liver’s beyond saving. So I didn’t mention it.”
“Why not?”
“No point. I wanted to do a good action.”
Colette said, “Oh, give over!”
They came to a halt in the drive of number twelve. “You don’t understand,” Al said. “I wanted to do a good action but I never seem to manage it. It’s not enough just to be nice. It’s not enough just to ignore it when people put you down. It’s not enough to be—forbearing. You have to do a good action.”
“Why?”
“To stop Morris coming back.”
“And what makes you think he will?”
“The tape. Him and Aitkenside, talking about pickles. My feet and hands tingling.”
“You didn’t say this was work-related! So we’ve been through this for nothing?”
“You haven’t been through anything. It’s only me had to listen to that stinky old soak criticizing my weight.”
“It can stand criticism.”
“And though I could have made him a prediction, I didn’t. A good action means—I know you don’t understand, so shut up now, Colette, you might learn something. A good action might mean that you sacrificed yourself. Or that you gave your money away.”
“Where did you get this stuff?” Colette said. “Out of RE at school?”
“I never had religious education,” Alison said. “Not after I was thirteen. I was always made to stand in the corridor. That lesson, it would tend to lead to Morris and people trying to materialize. So I got sent out. I don’t seem to feel the lack of it. I know the difference between right and wrong. I’m sure I always did.”
“Will you stop this drivel?” Colette said, wailing. “You never think of me, do you! You don’t seem to realize how I’m fixed! Gavin’s going out with a supermodel!”
A week passed. Al had filled her prescriptions. Her heart now beat slowly, thump, thump, like a lead weight swinging in space. The change was not disagreeable; she felt slower, though, as if her every action and perception were deliberate now, as if she was nobody’s fool. No wonder Colette’s been so spiteful, she thought. Supermodel, eh?
She stood at the front window, looking out over Admiral Drive. A solitary vehicle ploughed to and fro across the children’s playground, turning up mud. The builders had put down asphalt at one stage, but then the surface had seemed to heave and split, and cracks developed, which the neighbours stood wondering at, leaning on the temporary fence; within a week or two weeds were pushing through the hard core, and the men had moved in again to break up what remained with pneumatic drills, dig out the rubble, and reduce it back to bare earth.
Sometimes the neighbours accosted the workmen, shouting at them over the noise of their machines, but none of them got the same story twice. The local press was strangely silent, and their silence was variously
