The State of Me

Ivan had got me a ticket for Daft Friday, the all-night student Christmas ball.

I stayed in bed all day to make sure I could go, even though I knew I couldn’t. I was cloaked in nausea, my head felt inflated with a bicycle pump. My fairy godmother whispered, You shall go to the ball, while the ugly sisters stuck the boot in, Sick people don’t go to balls, you’re going nowhere!

In the middle of the night, while Gail was tempting Ivan in her black cocktail dress, I was dreaming about bluebells: Ivan was an old man in a wheelchair. He was wearing a red leather jockstrap and I was pushing him through the bluebells in the park.

In and out of the dusty bluebells. I am the master! Helen’s getting a bit dull, isn’t she? She was hoping she could go back to France after Christmas and have an affair with one of those young Moroccans, put Ivan in his place, but alas she’s going nowhere!

She’s staying put.

It snowed on New Year’s Day. I liked the way the snow blanked everything out. Ivan and Rez had gone to a friend’s parents’ cottage in Tighnabruaich for a few days. They’d invited me but I couldn’t go. They got in a fight with some neds who called Rez Kunta Kinte, and Ivan ended up in Casualty with a broken nose. They’d been planning to visit me on their way back to Glasgow but the roads were too bad.

Jana had stayed with Jean-Paul over the holidays. She’d phoned me on Hogmanay. Abas keeps asking when you’re coming back, she said. And your Frank Zappa compilation tape got mangled in the tape-recorder. I told her that I had an appointment to see Professor Pivot after the holidays. And Myra’s doing more tests, I said. I’ll write and tell you what’s happening. That reminds me, she said, a letter came for you from the university health centre. I’ll forward it with your other mail.

I didn’t tell her that I’d sent her a poster of The Orange Blind by Cadell, one of the Scottish colourists. I thought she could do with a replacement and I wanted it to be a surprise.

Rita ran me up to Glasgow and waited in the Grosvenor Cafe while I explained my return from France to Professor Pivot, the Head of the French Department. (He was very angular and pivoted along rather than walked.) It was pissing down. We were late because of the slush slowing down the traffic.

I got drenched walking from the car and was dripping all over the professor’s floor. He offered to get me a towel. His head was small compared to the rest of him.

I told him they hadn’t found out what was wrong with me yet but were doing more tests. I hope I can re-do my year abroad next year, I said. I’ve sent this term’s grant cheque back.

You’re young, he said. Take time to think about things. We’ll have another chat next term. You might know what’s wrong by then.

He was so understanding that I was tempted to list my symptoms.

On the way out, I went to look at the noticeboard. I wished it was this time last year and all I had to worry about was an essay on Baudelaire.

The Grosvenor was packed as usual. It smelled of wet coats and smoke mixed with coffee and fried onions. The geology lecturer, who was always on his own, was there.

Rita looked worried. Well, how did it go?

He was really nice, but I was dripping all over his floor.

Can you go back to France next year?

I think so, I said. He was quite vague about things.

Ivan was dropping in before his three o’clock lecture to give me the keys of his flat. I’d hardly stayed with him since coming back from France. We’d only had sex once. Afterwards, I’d cried because I felt so crap and because I felt I was letting him down.

That guy over there’s always in on his own, I said to Rita. It makes me sad, seeing him with his hamburger roll. I always want to invite him over.

You’re being ridiculous, said my mother. He’s probably quite happy eating on his own.

I don’t think so, I said. He doesn’t look happy.

I just ate on my own, and I was perfectly happy!

But you’ve got a husband, you’re not on your own. That guy’s not married.

Here’s Ivan now, said Rita.

The rain was sliding off him. He squashed himself into our booth.

You’re soaked! I said, kissing his cheek. You look like a hamster with your hair clapped round your head like that. I wished Rita wasn’t there so I could kiss him properly, then I felt guilty for wishing she wasn’t there. I squeezed his hand tightly under the table.

How’s your nose? I asked. You said it was squint. It doesn’t look squint.

It’s okay, he said. It wasn’t actually broken.

He’d just sat down when someone tapped me on the shoulder – a mature student from my English tutorial, whose name I could never remember. She had terrible facial hair. I thought it was you! she said. I thought you were in France doing your year abroad.

I was, I said, but I’m home for a while. I’ve been ill.

That’s a shame. Well, I better go, my car’s on a meter, I just thought I’d say hello. I hope you get better soon.

Thanks, I said.

Who was that? asked Rita.

She was in my English tutorial last year. I can never remember her name.

By the way, said Ivan, I got the Ian Dury tickets.

I hope I can come, I said. I’ll be gutted if I can’t.

Rez and his new girlfriend are going. Rez was saying he thinks you should get tested for brucellosis.

What’s brucellosis?

Something you get from milk.

Myra’ll batter me, I said, if I even think of suggesting it. I’m having soup, do you want anything to eat?

Nah, just hot chocolate.

I’ll have another coffee, said Rita.

So what did your Prof say? asked Ivan.

I think he just thinks I’m anxious, but he was so nice about it.

So you’re not chucked off the course?

I don’t think so, I said.

The camp ginger-haired guy came and took my order. He’d fallen off a wall last year when he was drunk, and broken his back, but he was fine now, fully recovered.

He brought the soup straight away. I loved the comfort of being here with the two people who could make everything okay. I wanted this scene to play forever. I didn’t want my soup to finish.

I have to go, said Ivan, I’m really late. He kissed me on the cheek (still shy in front of my mother). I’ll see you later. Here are my keys.

I wanted to be like him, downing hot chocolate and going back to a class.

Normal.

When he’d gone, Rita said she’d have to be making tracks too. Are you sure you’ll be okay?

Yes. I might go to the bookshop. I want to look at French dictionaries.

Could Jana not send yours back?

It’d probably cost less to buy a new one.

My mother frowned. Okay, I’m away. See you tomorrow. We’ll pick you up from the station if you want. And don’t be filling your head with what Rez says. Medical students are known for being neurotic.

She hugged me and left.

I sat there for a while wondering what to do next. Choices were: go and look at dictionaries and pretend to be normal, or go to Ivan’s and lie down.

I chose to pretend.

It was still pissing down. The uni bookshop was only five minutes away but my arms were weak from holding the brolly by the time I got there.

I went straight to the medical section and looked up brucellosis. You got it from unpasteurised milk and dairy products. Symptoms were backache, fever and fatigue. I could easily have it, God knows what I’d eaten in France. I looked up brain tumours too and had worried myself sick before heading round to the French section.

I crouched down to look at the dictionaries. I knelt on the floor and looked up some words I’d written down from Germinal. As I scribbled down the meanings in the back of my chequebook, rain from my umbrella dripped onto a page of the dictionary. I snapped it shut, hoping no one had seen. When I stood up I felt dizzy and my face was going numb.

I wanted something easier to read than Zola. I quickly chose Paroles by Prévert. His poems were simple and quite easy to understand and it was a bargain for £1.50.

I had to get back to Ivan’s flat.

It had finally stopped raining. I bumped into Gail coming up University Avenue, with her wide brown eyes, walking with her feet turned in because she thought it looked sexy. She looked like a knock-kneed foal.

Hi, she said in her fakey voice. I heard you’d come home. I heard you were ill.

I was just up seeing the Head of Department, I said. I’m on my way to Ivan’s now.

What do you think of Ivan’s earring? He really suits it, doesn’t he? It was such a laugh when we did it! Rez was standing by with the cotton wool and TCP for emergencies. He wouldn’t let me do his though.

She could feel me wither – she’d pierced Ivan’s ear, the bitch.

Yeah, he really suits it, I said. He should have got it done properly though. It’s stupid to risk infection.

She gave me her foal eyes and laughed.

I better go, I said. I’m not feeling great.

I better go too. I’m going up to the Stevie building to sign up for an aerobics class. Say hello to Ivan from me.

I will, I said.

I walked to Lawrence Street wishing in spite of my numb head that I’d had eye-liner on when I met her.

Ivan was living in the same flat as last year above Jana’s and my old place. The paint was still peeling off our front door. The Cocteau Twins were playing inside. I could hear laughing. It could’ve been me and Jana a year ago. I climbed one more flight up to Ivan’s.

It was freezing in his flat. I chucked my umbrella in the bath and put the gas fire on in his bedroom. I moved his guitar off the bed (it seemed so bulky) and got under his black and white checked quilt, still dressed. I could smell him on the pillow.

My feet wouldn’t heat up and I felt like I had a brick in my neck. I got up and looked for a pair of Ivan’s socks to put over my own. His room was a tip. There were two driedup oranges on his desk with half the peel bitten off. There would be others he’d forgotten, hidden under his books and clothes. He always ate orange peel when he was studying. I found some socks and put them on and went through to the bathroom to look for Anadin. I put the toilet seat down and looked in the medicine cabinet: one medical rubber glove, a bottle of sandalwood oil and a bottle of pink nail polish. I dabbed some of Ivan’s oil on my wrists then soaked a facecloth in cold water and wrung it out.

I went back to the bed and put the facecloth on my head. I wondered who the nail polish belonged to. I tried conjugating subjunctives and somehow fell asleep.

Ivan woke me when he came home. (When you shut the front door the whole flat shook.) I could hear him taking off his jacket in the hall. He was singing. There was a damp patch on the bed where the facecloth had been.

He came into the bedroom and sat on the bed. You fell asleep with the fire on, he said, ruffling my hair. God, you’ll never guess what the guy who sits next to me in Nucleic Acids’ girlfriend did?

What? I mumbled.

She found out he’d slept with someone else and she threw all his notes in the bath!

The bastard must’ve deserved it.

You sound blocked up? Have you been crying?

My head feels weird. I met Gail. You didn’t tell me she’d pierced your ear.

I know I didn’t. I knew you’d get the wrong end of the stick. That’s why.

Did you shag her when I was ill in France?

Of course not! Please not the third degree about Gail again. D’you want some tea?

Why does she walk like a foal?

What?

Why does Gail walk like a foal? I’m just wondering.

I don’t know what you mean. D’you want some tea or not?

Yeah. I’m getting up. I need a drink of water. My head’s killing me. Have you got any painkillers? I couldn’t find any.

Maybe in the kitchen drawer. I’ll go and look.

He came back through with a faded strip of Disprin and a glass of water. Will these do? he asked.

They look really old. Have they passed their expiry date?

They’ll be fine, just take them.

I sat up and he put his arms round me. His face was cold and he smelled of rain.

I loved being held by this boy in his chunky white fisherman’s sweater. He was forgiven for Gail. I decided not to mention the nail polish.

Someone’s been dabbing my sandalwood, he said.

I love the smell of it, I said. It smells of you.

What d’you want for tea? he asked.

I don’t care. I’m not really hungry.

We could get a takeaway.

He went through to the kitchen and I dissolved the Disprin, stirring it round the glass with my finger. The dregs stuck to the side of the glass when I drank it.

I trudged through after Ivan, utterly happy that he was back from his lecture even though the foal had pierced his ear.

I can’t believe that girl throwing his notes in the bath, he said, shaking his head and dunking a tea bag in a mug.

Sounds like he deserved it, I said. Can I have a mug that’s not chipped, please?

They’re all chipped, he said, spooning the tea bag into the pedal-bin, leaving a trail of brown drips.

Maybe I should throw your notes in the bath.

What, because Gail pierced my ear?!

Yup.

You wouldn’t dare! he said, laughing. He pulled a bright blue menu out of the kitchen drawer. What d’you fancy? Prawn bhuna? Chicken korma? Lamb patia?

I don’t mind. Please don’t read out the whole menu. Can we go back through? It’s freezing in here.

We went back to his bedroom and he put Aztec Camera on. I’ll keep the volume low for your head, he said.

I lay under the quilt, he lay on top. I was cocooned and safe.

So how are you, green eyes? he said.

They’re not green, I said. They’re more grey.

He smiled.

Ivan, you do believe me, don’t you?

What that your eyes are really grey?

No. You believe that I’m ill, don’t you?

Yup.

Are you sure? You don’t think it’s in my head, do you?

Nope.

You did at first though when you were being horrible.

I was worried you were homesick, that’s all. But now I know there’s something really wrong. I just want you to get better. I want things to get back to normal.

Me too. Can you pass up my tea, please?

Your hands are freezing, he said, handing me the mug.

They’re always cold these days, I said. I clasped the tea against me, still lying down, and sipped from the mug, wedging it under my chin.

Watch you don’t spill it on the bed, he said.

I will. This quilt’s horrible, by the way.

I know, my mum gave it to me for Christmas. He picked up the blue menu again. I quite fancy a korma.

Anything you want. I’ll just have a wee bit.

Will we get pakora?

If you want, I said.

Maybe not. It was a bit greasy the last time.

When I got back here and couldn’t sleep, I was thinking about that geology lecturer who’s always in the Grosvenor on his own. I bet he cries himself to sleep at night.

How can you leap from talking about pakora to the geology lecturer?!

He’s got greasy hair, I said. Greasy pakora and greasy hair.

You always do that, he said, leap from one thing to something totally unrelated.

That’s what makes me interesting.

I think I’ll go out for the food now, he said. I’m starving.

Can I stay here?

Yup.

You’re an angel, I said. I put my tea down and leaned over him and kissed his ear. The earring felt spiky and cold.

The front door slammed and the record jumped.

That’s Rez back. I’ll see if he wants anything. Hey, Rez, we’re in here, d’you want a curry?

Rez put his head round the door. Hiya! Is that you hiding in bed, Helen? How are you doing?

Och, hanging in there, I said.

I’d love a curry, he said to Ivan. I’ll come with you.

They left and I stayed in bed for a bit thinking about where I could get a nice mug tree for Ivan.

I got up to set the table. I wanted to be useful. Three forks, a bottle of flat Irn Bru and half a bottle of Black Tower. I put the oven on to warm the plates and read some poems while I waited. Alicante cheered me up even though I thought it was about a lost love.

The flat shook and they were back. Sorry we took so long, said Ivan. The place was mobbed.

Three happy students having dinner round the table: Ivan, Helen and Rez. Can you guess which one has a weird burning feeling in her head/neck/spine that she doesn’t want to mention?!

Yes, that’s right. It’s Helen!

Nab ran me to the station on the night of the Ian Dury concert. All my symptoms were trailing behind me. I’d taken four extra strong Panadol. I took Germinal to read on the train but it didn’t come out of my bag. I watched the raindrops skitter along the train windows like sperm.

I got off at Partick and took the Underground to Hillhead where Ivan was meeting me. I used the escalators. (I’d always used the stairs before.) Ivan was waiting for me in his leather jacket. He was chatting to the guy who was always there selling the Socialist Worker. We waited as long as we could for the rain to stop before making our way up to the union. I was exhausted from standing at the station and got a seat upstairs on the balcony.

Ian Dury was brilliant. He came on stage, writhing and wrapped in tinfoil. He sang Ban The Bomb. Ivan was up the front with his friends. He kept turning round and looking up at me. When they sang Hit Me With Your Rhythm Stick, I thought of Rachel and an experiment we’d done at school in chemistry. Rachel had been trying to write down the lyrics of Rhythm Stick and I’d been trying to write down the experiment. Something about iron ions, something turning Prussian blue. The teacher had sent her to the ‘sin bin’, a solitary chair at the back of the lab and wouldn’t let us sit together for the rest of term. Another time, in physics, we’d pinned crocodile clips all over each other’s backs. The teacher was angry but trying not to laugh. His experiments never worked and we felt sorry for him. All that wasted ticker tape. I felt sad thinking about Rachel. I’d seen her at Christmas but she’d been dismissive of me coming home from France early. We’d been inseparable at school. I’d gone to recorder lessons for three months just because she went, even though I was crap at music and got mouth ulcers. I hated unscrewing the top of the recorder to shake out the saliva.

When they played Sweet Gene Vincent, everyone started to pogo at the fast bit. I looked down on all the jumping, dyed blonde/purple/spiky heads. I was outside all of this. My spine felt like it was being stretched and my hands were numb and tingling.

Ian Dury was glowing with sweat.

After the concert, Ivan’s band friends came back to the flat. I wanted them to go away, I wanted him to myself. They were drunk and slagging off some girl that one of them had had a blind date with. Joe (from London) was saying, You get two kinds of red-head. You get the beautiful Irish kind with pale skin and you get the freaky, red-faced Scottish kind with freckles. This one was FREAKY!

They all thought Joe was so funny. They all laughed like they were choking.

I went to bed and lay awake waiting for Ivan. I could faintly hear the yelping of the Cocteau Twins from downstairs. I wondered if the girls who lived there got carpet burns when they had sex. (The flat was covered throughout with dark brown industrial strength carpet.)

I couldn’t get rid of them, Ivan said when he finally came through. Joe’s got a new song he’s excited about.

Joe’s a wanker, I said. He talks such shite. God, your feet are freezing!

You can warm me up, he said, rubbing his feet against me.

A bundle of mail arrived from Caen, the stuff Jana had forwarded: the blood test results and some Christmas cards. I ripped open the blood test. Now I would have a weapon against Myra, proof that I really was ill! When I read it my heart sank. It said there had been a mix-up at the lab, they’d lost the samples and they wanted to re-do the tests, could I please make an appointment? I read it twice to make sure I’d understood. I screwed it up and threw it across the carpet. Agnes batted it under the table. I had no chance now, I was at Myra’s mercy forever.

The Christmas cards – so pointless in the middle of January – were from people who had no idea I’d come home. All three had pictures of penguins with stupid smiles.

Agnes was curving her paws round the table leg, catching the twist of paper then batting it away again. I binned the penguins, took Agnes upstairs and cried into her.

More tests: a chest x-ray; an ECG; a kidney x-ray; a liver function test; a barium meal and a barium enema (beware the white shit that won’t flush!).

Negative! Myra crowed, as each result came back.

But I’m getting worse. My legs are like jelly. The pain’s burning into my bones. I feel sick all the time. My brain feels inflamed. Why don’t you believe me?

Helen, there is nothing physically wrong with you. If this goes on I think you should see a clinical psychologist. Believe me, I’m the doctor.

(Believe me. Just for a change. I’m the patient.)

It turned out I’d already been tested for brucellosis. Rita, who thought it was a possibility, after all, had asked for me to be tested and was told I already had been.

I had to sign on now that I’d sent my grant back. Officially, I was no longer a student. Officially, I was no longer anything.

The dole office was a grim flat building with bits of grey roughcast falling off. Rita waited for me in the car. It was my first time signing on. There was a man arguing about his claim when I went in. He was saying that it was fucking daylight robbery. He had an Alsatian on a long lead and he’d dressed it in a white T-shirt. The dog’s tongue was hanging out and it was panting.

I waited for my turn and was called to a booth. I recognised the girl behind the glass. She’d been in the year below me at school. Her brother used to scare people in the playground by turning his eyelids inside out.

I explained that I was out of uni for a while.

Are you looking for work? she said.

No, I’m ill. I had to come home from France.

It’s all right for some, swanning off to France, she said. You’ll need a sick note from your doctor if you’re not available for work.

I don’t have a sick note. They don’t know what’s wrong with me yet. (And by the way, your perm’s fucking horrible, it’s growing out and you don’t even suit it.)

Well, if you want any money you’ll need to sign on as available for work, she said, pushing a bundle of blue and white forms under the glass divider.

Since I’d come back from France Rita’d been dragging me out to the park in an attempt to pep me up. You’re getting too peely-wally, she’d say. Just a short walk to get some colour in your cheeks. We’d wrap up and climb the fence and cross the ditch (funny to see your mother jumping a ditch), pass the Michael tree, and I’d be exhausted by the time we reached the castle. We’d sit on the bench and look down at the loch for answers.

One time we went straight to the bench after a bad appointment with Myra. You could drive to the castle and park there.

There were bursts of purple and yellow crocuses all around us.

I love spring flowers, said Rita. They’re so full of hope, the way they push up through the hard ground.

They’re lovely, I said, but you wonder how they can stand the cold. I turned to face her. D’you think I’ll be better by next spring, Mum?

We’re going to get to the bottom of this, pet, she said, putting her arm round me. I promise you. We won’t give up ‘til they’ve found out what’s wrong with you. And as soon as we know, we can start getting you better.