The State of Me

I smiled and tried not to cry. Rita tried not to cry and smiled back.

D’you remember when you were small, she said, and you wanted to have your wedding reception at the castle, with cheese sandwiches and a giant pot of tea?

Yeah, and remember the time I put my hand in a hole in the ground over there and it came out covered in wasps?

You were screaming the park down.

And we went to Casualty and a nurse gave me a Jaffa Cake.

It seems like a lifetime ago, she said, sighing. Sean wasn’t even born. I must’ve been pregnant with him.

I just remember being curious about the hole and putting my foot in and when nothing happened I put my hand in, I said.

Maybe you were expecting a wee mole or something.

Maybe – d’you know what the French word for wasp is?

No. We never got to insects at school, she said.

It’s une guêpe, pronounced ‘gep’. I remember the first time I saw it, I thought it was pronounced ‘gweep’ and the French teacher was killing himself.

Gweep’s a nice word, said Rita.

It’s a lovely word.

We stayed there for an hour, both of us drawing comfort from the loch.

I think I need to go home soon, I said. I’m feeling really crap.

Brian was stroking his face with a pussy willow stem and giggling. I like this furry stuff, he said. It’s lovely.

It’s called pussy willow, I said. I got it for Rita for Mother’s Day.

Is it real fur, he said, like Agnes?

No, I laughed. It just feels like it. What did you get your mum for Mother’s Day?

I got her daffodils but I wish I’d got this furry stuff.

Two weeks later, I had a letter from Jana. I could just picture it: Jana, Esther and Abas, all steaming. Music blaring. Every light in the house blazing. Simone coming back from her country-house early, stomping round switching off the lights, calling Jana a slut for seducing her son. Abas hiding in his room.

I had a lump in my throat. Maybe I’d be able to go back after Easter.

Brian phoned on Palm Sunday – he got someone to dial for him, he could read and write but numbers confused him – to say he’d lit a candle and said a prayer for me. He went to Mass with my granny every week. My granny was devout: she’d tutted her way through The Thornbirds, and later boasted that my grandad had never seen her without her nightie on. My grandad went to Mass occasionally, to keep the peace.

Rita stopped going when she was sixteen. Sean and I were never christened, one of the few things Rita and Peter agreed about. They were both atheists.

Brian asked me if I’d be going up to the castle next weekend to roll my egg. I’ll see how I feel, I said.

Valerie’s coming, he said.

I sat on the bench and watched Brian hurtling his eggs down the hill, whooping every time. Valerie had bad circulation and her lips were tinged blue. She rolled her eggs gently, leaving them for Brian to retrieve. I’d painted one happy and one sad. I’d given them to Brian to roll. Valerie came and sat beside me, plumping herself down.

So is Brian your uncle then? she said, linking her arm into mine.

Yes, I said, but I don’t call him Uncle. He’s only six years older than me. More like a big brother really.

I think he’s lovely, she said.

He has his moments, I suppose.

Have you got your flask with you for the picnic?

Yes, I’ve got it in my bag, I said dutifully.

My mum and dad have gone to get the tartan rug from the car.

That’s good.

Did you know I got four Easter eggs and a chocolate rabbit?

That’ll keep you going for a while, I said.

I ate the ears today. My mum says I’ve to share the rest. Did you get many yourself?

I got one from my granny and one from my boyfriend.

That’s nice. Brian’s my boyfriend.

I hope you don’t fight.

Not really. I don’t think so. No we don’t.

I’m glad.

We watched Brian ambling down the hill to collect the eggs.

I think he’s really enjoying himself today, she said. Are you enjoying yourself?

Yes, thanks, I said.

During the picnic, Brian farted and Valerie told him to say ‘Excuse Me’. He denied it was him and went in the huff.

Later, when I was lying on the couch he came over and said, I’m sorry about that thing in the park, Helen.

It’s okay, I said, but it’s polite to say excuse me. You know that.

Excuse me then, he said.

You’re excused.

D’you think Valerie will still want to be my girlfriend?

I’m sure she will.

He sat down and put my feet on his lap. I think I’ll just stroke these big feet of yours, if you don’t mind.

If you want to, I said.

He loved stroking things.

6 Round Window

IF YOU LOOK at yourself through a window, it’s not really you it’s happening to, it’s like watching yourself in a play. Today, 10th May 1984, we’re looking through the round window. Rain’s spitting on the windows of the health centre, Myra’s smiling weakly.

You’ve got a virus called Coxsackie B4, she says. There have been recent sporadic cases in the west of Scotland. It can take a long time to burn itself out. We’ll send you to see a specialist.

She passes me the tissues, her first helpful gesture since the trial began.

I told you I was ill, I say. I’ve been telling you for months and you didn’t believe me! If that locum hadn’t come out to see me, you’d never have done viral studies and you still wouldn’t believe me. He could see I was really ill, he believed me, why couldn’t you?!

I’m sorry, Helen, she replies. We doctors aren’t gods. I was making what I thought was an accurate clinical judgement. Sometimes, we get it wrong. At least we’re on the right track now, aren’t we?

(Yes, Myra, we’re on the right track now, no fucking thanks to you.)

I’m giving you something for the pain and nausea, she says, reaching for her pad. And I’ll give you a sick note for the next three months. Her hands twitch and scribble. She’s like a giant insect.

As I leave her room, I see that a huge rainbow has come out.

Rita’s in the waiting room. She hugs me tightly when I tell her what Myra has said. Everyone’s looking at us, wondering what disease the thin girl has. When we get home, I go back to bed and Rita calls Nab to tell him the news.

Nab looked it up in a book at the hospital. He photocopied page 110 and came home from work early with flowers and strawberry tarts.

Coxsackie, he read out loud at my bedside: an enterovirus first isolated in the town of Coxsackie in New York. Can cause a polio-like illness (without the paralysis) in humans; can cause paralysis and death in young mice.

At least I’m not a young mouse, I said. Nab sat down on the bed and gave me one of his polar bear hugs.

When Sean got in from school, he galloped up the stairs and burst into my room. I hear you’ve got the cock-a-leekie virus! he said.

After tea, Rita called my granny to tell her about the diagnosis. I couldn’t make out everything she said but I heard ‘light at the end of the tunnel’.

The next night, Ivan called me from a payphone in the uni library to see how it had gone with Myra. He said he’d look up enteroviruses and call me back. Half an hour later, he told me that enteroviruses developed in your gut and could affect your muscles and nervous system. I bet I got it when I was working at the Swan Hotel, I said. He started to answer but his money ran out and we got cut off. I waited by the phone, hoping he’d call back but he didn’t.

Shrouded in my pink candlewick dressing gown, crying with pain. Sean’s friends walk past me with embarrassed respect. Square window.

Brian’s coming on Sunday, Rita said to the grey-faced fixture on the couch. That should cheer you up.

He had asked Rita if I was going to die. Don’t worry, he said, she’ll go to heaven and heaven’s lovely. It’s the same as earth but you get less colds.

I heard Brian tramping up the stairs. My granny had already been up. He put his head round the door, beaming. Hello, how’s my favourite niece?! He stood there for a minute before coming over and smothering me in his black mohair arms, planting himself at the side of the bed.

It’s lovely to see you, Brian. I love your jumper.

Your granny knitted it for me. How are you, dear?

Well, you know I’m not very well. I have to stay in bed a lot.

He took my hand. Are you coming downstairs later?

Yeah, maybe I’ll come down for tea, I said.

I’ve got a new girlfriend. Her name’s Moira.

What happened to Valerie? I thought she was your girlfriend.

Valerie’s not well. It’s that heart of hers.

Poor Valerie. So what’s Moira like?

She’s just beautiful, he said, turning round to give Agnes a perfunctory clap on the head. I think I’ll go back downstairs now, if that’s all right with you?

Can you not stay up here for a bit?

I’m sorry, dear, but I don’t want to miss the racing.

He clumped off downstairs and I lay staring at the black strands of mohair and the dent that he’d left in the duvet. Agnes yawned and licked her paws. She jumped off the bed and padded out of the room. Agnes was tired of the sick-bed too.

Clumping feet and padding feet, walking away.

I thought about the unbearable cliche I’d become: an ill young woman with a tortoiseshell cat that sits on her bed throughout her illness.

I decided to go downstairs for ten minutes. I wanted to make the most of us having visitors. I got up and put Ivan’s polo neck on over my pyjamas.

I sat on the living room floor hugging my knees, my back clamped against the radiator. The heat was eating up the pain in my spine.

Don’t sit so near the radiator, Helen, my granny warned from the couch. It’ll dry up your lungs.

My grandad was eating marshmallows and watching the racing. I was jealous of him with no worries, focused on his horse. How are you keeping, dear? he asked. He swivelled round and offered me a sweet. I sank my teeth into the vile pinkness. He cleared his throat and I could hear the hem hem travelling up through his gullet. (When you make that hem hem noise, d’you ever think it’s not really you, but another voice in your head? These are the things you think about when you’ve got a lot of time.)

I asked my grandad what his horse was called.

He didn’t answer.

He’s deaf, said Brian. It’s called Swizzle Stick.

They should name racehorses after illnesses, I said. It’d give ill people a chance to be sporty.

No one was really listening.

You could put your money on Viral Meningitis or Parkinson’s Disease.

That’s a terrible thing to say, said Rita from behind her crossword, but she was laughing.

Brian joined me at the radiator and rested his head against my shoulder. His hair smelled of apple shampoo. My hair smelled of illness.

Come away from that radiator, Brian. It’s bad for your lungs.

Och, Mum! he tutted. He put his arm round me. Are you all right, dear? His breath smelled of mallows.

I think I’ll need to go back upstairs, I said. I feel awful.

D’you want the Observer magazine? said Rita.

No thanks, I said, my head’s too clamped.

I’ll bring tea up if you’re not well enough for the table.

Okay, I said.

I trudged back upstairs, still thinking of names for horses. In years to come, Gulf War Syndrome could be the favourite at Cheltenham.

7 Marion

12th June 1984

Dear Jana,

Well, they’ve finally found out what the fuck is wrong with me! I have a weird virus called Coxsackie B4, which is why I’ve been feeling so ill. Apparently it can take a long time to burn itself out. I’m pleased to report that Myra was a bit sheepish. I’m so RELIEVED they’ve found out, but I’m worried ‘cos I’m still getting worse. I have an Aladdin’s Cave of tablets: anti-nausea, muscle relaxants, extra-strong anti-inflammatories. I’m going to see a specialist, just waiting for the appointment – so it doesn’t look like I’ll be coming back to France for the last term after all.

I’ve been helping Sean a bit with his ‘O’ grade revision, though I feel I’m forgetting all my French. I’ve been re-reading Candide. I love Pangloss, he’s a cheeky bastard. Also got some Prévert.

Rita and Nab are being great and Ivan’s been great too but I’m worried that he’ll get fed up with me feeling so crap. I’ve hardly stayed with him recently. He comes here quite a lot but he must be getting so BORED. He was away on a field-trip at Easter. I am, of course, paranoid about the women who went. He got me a giant Lindt egg.

His band’s still on the go, they might be getting a gig at the Halt Bar, which would be brilliant. Other gossip: Rez has a stunning new girlfriend. She’s a Swedish drama student and he’s head over heels. You know how he always goes for blondes. By the way, Ivan saw Piedro in the union. He was wrapped morosely round some poor girl like a stole. (Has she tasted his omelettes, I wonder?)

The highlight of my social life was rolling eggs at Easter with Brian and his girlfriend Valerie who has Down’s Syndrome. She’s a sweetheart and has a smile that would bring you back from the brink of suicide. Brian was showing off like hell as usual. We had a picnic in the park with Valerie’s parents. It was freezing. I went to Brian’s social club about a month ago. They all wanted me to dance but I just didn’t have the energy. One woman wants me to teach her French. She says she’s got a jotter.

What’s your gossip? Still shagging Jean-Paul? Your French must be so good by now. I’m so jealous. Has Esther got into Abas’s pants yet? Have you been skating again? And is Simone still bullying poor wee Vincent?

Write SOON, SOON, SOON!

Lots of love, Helen xxx

Can’t sleep for the clenching pain in my spine and legs. The birds have started. They’re like electronic gadgets set on a timer. They start off one by one and you can’t switch them off: a pigeon, a woodpecker then the din of the crows. I hate them all. I can’t stop thinking about Valerie’s blue lips.

I think she will die soon.

Square window. July 1984

Helen’s having her hair cut today! Rita knows someone from the library whose sister-in-law has her own salon. When Marion offered to come to the house and cut Helen’s hair, Helen couldn’t wait.

She’s been rehearsing the conversation with Marion in her head all week. Can you take about two inches off the bottom and give me a blunt fringe, please?

And now Marion’s late.

Helen’s sitting at the window, waiting and waiting. She’s getting a metallic headache. Marion has Wednesdays off and said she’d be round at two, but it’s half past and she’s not here yet. The terrier across the road’s sitting up at the window like a cuddly toy, its head poking between the vertical blinds.

Mrs Blonski’s coming slowly down the road. She’s wearing pink velvet trousers and silver sandals. She always gets dressed up, even just to go to the bank. As she walks past, she pauses and waves to Helen. She’s blossomed since her husband died. He used to say their Pakistani neighbours were bringing down the value of the houses. Now Mrs Bhatti and Mrs Blonski are best friends. Helen waves back. She’s glad Mr Blonski’s dead. He looked like a rapist.

Agnes appears from nowhere and miaows to be let in. When you open the window, she jumps onto the sill, pulling herself up with her front legs. Sometimes, her back legs buckle and you think she’s going to fall but she makes it. When she jumps up, the terrier starts yapping soundlessly. Helen has just closed the window when Marion draws up in a gold Ford Capri. She gets up to answer the door. Her legs have strange buzzing feelings in them.

Marion is Amazonian, a gust of ‘Hi’s and ‘Sorry I’m late’s. She is plastered in make-up and Opium. You can smell that she smokes. Helen offers her a cup of tea. No thanks, she says, I just had a coffee at my sister’s. Helen gratefully sinks back down into the couch. Marion sits down beside her. Now what would you like done today?

Helen’s palms are sweating. Can you take about two inches off the bottom and give me a blunt fringe, please?

Marion puts her hands through Helen’s hair. Maybe we could layer it through at the top? she suggests. It’s very thick.

I’d rather not. I don’t like my hair layered. I just want it tidied up. It feels like a heavy wig.

Marion seems slightly miffed. D’you think you could wet it for me? It’s easier to cut when it’s so thick. Also, d’you mind putting the cat out? I’m not keen on them.

I’ll just be a minute, says Helen. She scoops Agnes up and puts her out the back. She gets dizzy from bending down too quickly. Sorry, Agnes, she whispers, that scary woman doesn’t want you in the house. I’ll call you as soon as she’s gone, I promise.

She goes into the bathroom and fills the sink. She dips her head in slowly, still dizzy. She has the taste in her mouth that you get before a nosebleed. She doesn’t want layers. She wants to lie down. She wants Marion to go away.

When her hair’s wet enough, she turbans her head and goes back into the lounge. Marion has installed a kitchen chair in the centre of the room. Helen sits down. Marion’s a bit rough when she dries her hair but it’s nice to have her head touched. Helen can smell the nicotine from her fingers.

How long is it since you had it cut? asks Marion.

About three months, says Helen. I went to the Hair Hut but I got such a bad headache when I was there I couldn’t even wait for them to blow-dry it. I had to get a taxi home. It’s great you could come to the house to do it.

How are you keeping now?

To be honest, I feel like I’ve got a new symptom every day. The headaches are awful, like a helmet you can’t take off.

A couple of the women that come into the salon have got it, says Marion. It’s terrible – you’re so young.

Now that they’ve diagnosed the Coxsackie, I’ve to see a neurologist, says Helen. My appointment’s in a month. I was lucky to get one so soon.

Marion doesn’t speak for the rest of the haircut. Helen is relieved that she is exempt from the usual ARE YOU OFF TODAY?/ARE YOU GOING OUT ON SATURDAY NIGHT? (But since you asked, No, I’ve stopped going out and, Yes, I’m actually off every day.)

Helen wonders why Marion’s arms aren’t killing her.

When Marion’s finished drying Helen’s hair, she says, Maybe you can think about going short next time. It’d be less tiring for you to manage.

I’ll think about it says, Helen. How much do I owe you?

A fiver’ll be fine.

Helen goes and gets the money from her wallet. Her wallet’s barely been used. It was a Christmas present from Peter (it came with a matching bag). It still smells of leather. She pays Marion. Thanks very much. It feels much lighter, she says.

I can come back anytime you want. Here’s my number.

When Marion’s gone, Helen can still smell her Opium. She goes to the back door and calls on Agnes. You can come back now, Agnes, it’s safe, Hitler’s gone.

Agnes doesn’t appear. Helen wishes she’d come back in. She lies down on the couch for a bit. She wants to hoover up the hair before Rita gets back. She closes her eyes.

stranger What did you do today? helen I got my hair cut in the living room and hoovered up the hair with the dust-buster.

She hears Agnes miaowing to be let in. She gets up to open the window. Come on, she says. Come upstairs with me and keep me company. I’ll give you a mint.

Agnes has quirky tastes for a cat. She loves garlic sausage and if you give her an extra strong Trebor mint she acts like it’s catnip – she licks the mint, puts her head on the floor and tries to somersault. (Agnes dies, by the way – riddled with cancer – but don’t tell Helen, she’s got enough on her plate!)

8 Bob

THE SPECIALIST LOOKED like Bob Monkhouse. He had Myra’s letter in front of him. I tried to see what she’d written, if she’d admitted that she’d fucked up until the Coxsackie diagnosis.

You’re very thin, said Bob. Have you got a boyfriend?

Yes, I said, but what’s that got to do with the price of bread? (Into myself.)

He listened as I listed my symptoms: exhaustion, severe muscle pain, weakness, dizziness, skull-crushing headaches, palpitations, stomach cramps, nausea, diarrhoea. (Do you really want me to go on, Bob?)

We’re going to do some tests, he said. The Coxsackie virus can trigger a syndrome called blah-de-blah-de-blah. This may be what you have. We don’t know much about it. We’ll need to do a muscle biopsy and some other tests. Go outside and wait. Thank you. Goodbye.

I went back to Rita in the waiting room. He looks like Bob Monkhouse, I said.

We waited for almost an hour, staring at the plastic orange chairs and the paint peeling off the walls. A junior doctor wearing a polkadot tie appeared. He wasn’t much older than me.

I’m just going to take some blood. Come this way.

Another room. Legs shaking.

He drew my blood, put it into three different tubes and labelled them.

Do you know what’s wrong with me? I asked.

He smiled at me but didn’t answer.

Arched window. Muscle biopsy, early September 1984

I lay on the trolley and gripped the nurse’s hand. The surgeon and student stood over me, green and gowned.

Elegant legs, said the surgeon. We’re going to do a needle biopsy. You’ll just feel a little prick and then some pressure.

I shut my eyes.

He checked the area was numb and cut into my leg. I could feel the blood dripping down the parts that weren’t anaesthetised. Something pressed hard, down to my bone. I gripped tighter onto the nurse.

Hard then nothing.

Well done, Andrew, you’ve just done your first muscle biopsy! the surgeon announced triumphantly.

(Yes, well done, Andrew! A fanfare of trumpets for Andrew, please! I don’t really mind that you used me as a guinea pig.)

The surgeon patted my arm. I’m going to do another one. Nothing to worry about.

More pressure. More skilled.

They gave me those stitches that melt away. I was limping for ages. Andrew’s scar still gets in the way when I’m waxing my legs.

I think he was a virgin.

The yellow outpatient card on the kitchen pin-board had become my social calendar. My next engagement was an EMG – an electromyelogram. A needle attached to an oscilloscope was inserted into the muscle on the back of my arm and I had to move my finger up and down ‘til my arm ached.

It’s the beginning of October 1984, a new term! We’re looking through the round window.

The Junior Honours students are waiting for the Head of Modern Languages to address them. They’ve all done their year abroad. They’re grown up now. But where’s Helen?! We can’t see Helen!

That’s because she’s at home in bed. Or maybe she’s on the couch.

Her symptoms have signed a lease behind her back and moved in permanently. They like living in her muscle tissue. It’s nice and warm there.

Ivan comes to stay some weekends. He studies in the spare room. He writes essays on liposomes and leaves behind half-eaten oranges. It’s his final year.

Jana’s got a new flatmate, Beryl, who’s doing French and English. She’s a busty punk with a harelip, who loves cooking. She’s an amateur opera singer.

She sounds like good fun, I say.