Is There Anything You Want? (33 page)

She didn't fall asleep but staring so intently at the vicar she felt she'd hypnotised herself and had to shake her head to clear it. The service over, the Rev. Maddox strode to the door, looking neither to right nor left, and positioned himself there dutifully. The first week, he hadn't done this. He'd stayed at the altar till everyone had left. But he'd been tactfully told that the custom at St James's, and surely at most churches, was for the vicar to bid farewell at the door to each and every one of the congregation, saying a few appropriate words every time he shook, a hand. The trouble was that though he had thereafter followed this custom, he had difficulty finding any words at all. His awkwardness made his congregation feel awkward and they were coming to dread the mumbling which ensued, and had started rushing out with unseemly haste so that the handshakes had already become perfunctory. Ida didn't hurry. She wanted to be last out so that she could study the effect that seeing Lucy's sister had on the Rev. Maddox. But she saw, as she stepped into the aisle, that Lucy had not attended the service. She knew all eight of the people ahead of her and none of them were Lucy and Janet. Her disappointment made her gasp ‘Oh!', and Dot, in front of her,
said, ‘Ida?', and she had to pretend to cough. But as she made her way behind Dot to the door, she clung on to the fact that even if Lucy and Janet had not shown up she still knew about the vicar's nervous breakdown and she meant to let him know that she knew. She held herself back a little, giving Dot, who followed on after the Teasdales (only the father shook hands) plenty of time. She could hear Dot twittering on about Adam's birthday and the special roast cooking at home, and then she had scuttled off. Ida moved slowly forward, consciously trying to look dignified.

He flushed dark red. There was no mistaking it – red from the neck up. He could hardly get out the words, ‘Nice to see you, Mrs Yates, how are you this fine morning?' Ida had intended to be magnificently cool and remote, but she couldn't manage it. ‘Never mind me, Vicar,' she said, with what she hoped was unmistakable emphasis, ‘how are
you
? Well, I hope?' She was going to add ‘Quite recovered, I trust', but didn't. He had his hand sticking out but she hadn't yet taken it. She took it now, and squeezed it. Her hand was strong, her grip firm. She held his hand until he had to free it, with difficulty. For once, he was meeting her stare, but his eyes didn't have in them the expression she had expected and looked for. They were sad eyes. ‘Quite well, thank you,' he said, very quietly. ‘Good,' Ida said. Something was slipping away from her, all that lovely power she'd felt, and she wanted it back. ‘Good,' she repeated, ‘because I heard you haven't been well.' He raised his eyebrows, and Ida knew this meant that he wasn't surprised, that he was well aware the whole parish had known he hadn't been well, which was why he had taken up his position so late. He seemed to be pondering how to respond, and she was not going to help him. ‘A friend,' Ida said, ‘in Manchester . . .' and then it was her turn to blush. ‘Ah,' he said, ‘I see,' and he nodded. There was nothing she could do but nod back, and say good morning, and walk away, but she couldn't walk as quickly as she wanted to because her legs were stiff. She felt suddenly dreadfully ashamed, and then resentful that she had to acknowledge this – it wasn't fair, it wasn't how things should have turned out. All she'd been
looking for was for
him
to have been made ashamed of how he had treated her.

Martin was still digging. ‘Good service?' he said, cheerily. She didn't answer. She felt ill.

THE WEEKEND OVER,
Rachel was, as ever, perfectly happy to be going to work, even though she loved the Sunday gliding lessons. She liked her office. It was small but not cramped, and it faced south so that it got any sun going, and she'd made it a pleasant place, with David Hockney reproduction prints on the walls and always a jug of flowers on her desk, natural-looking flowers, not stiff stems, lilac in May, scented stock later on. Mr MacAllister had let her choose the carpet five years ago when all the offices were being refurbished and she'd chosen a self-coloured jade green which looked pretty. The one easy chair, for clients to sit on, was covered in a green and white material, tiny white daisies on a green background. Her office, she considered, was a soothing place, a surprise to visitors, and it contrasted markedly with the austere atmosphere of the rest of the building. Walking up the dark staircase with its panelled walls and dark grey carpet, Rachel looked forward to the burst of light as she entered her own room.

Miriam, the young work-experience girl, niece of one of the partners, came in. ‘Good weekend?' she said. Rachel said, yes, very enjoyable. ‘What were you up to, then?' Miriam asked, in that old-fashioned chatty way, which was somehow disconcerting in one so young. Rachel smiled. Miriam amused her. She was the only one in the building who had any curiosity about other people. It had been so easy, three years ago, to take a month off work to cover her operation and treatment, and
pretend she was going on holiday. If Miriam had been there, she would never have got away with it – there would have been questions about where she'd gone, questions about what the weather had been like. Without Miriam, there had been no questions. A couple of colleagues had said, ‘Good holiday?' and not stayed for an answer. No one had noticed that she was pale and didn't look as though she'd had a holiday at all, and she had felt relieved. There had been no need to invent any holiday history.

She told Miriam she was learning to fly a glider, a piece of information received with intense interest which then had to be curbed – Miriam would talk for hours, if encouraged. She was such a bouncy sort of girl, her very walk was jumpy, and Mr MacAllister himself was reported to have complained that the floors of the old building could not stand much more of Miriam's elephantine movements. Once she'd bounced out, Rachel worked steadily all morning, and then at lunchtime she walked into the town centre to buy a sandwich and take it to eat at her desk. On the way back, she met the only other woman solicitor in the practice, Judith Holmes. ‘Keeping well?' Judith asked, and ‘Lovely day, isn't it?' and then ‘I must rush, bye.' She rushed. Rachel followed slowly behind, thinking about how people so often asked if others were well without seeming to appreciate what a difficult and complicated question it was. Sitting in her office again, eating her sandwich and looking out of the window over the tops of the chestnut trees, she wondered if she was really, as she'd replied to Judith, keeping well.

How could she know? She'd always been well until she was told she was not well. She'd been superbly fit and healthy until she was pronounced disease-ridden. And she had had to accept and believe the verdict without, to her, any proof. Doctors had the proof. They'd explained, they'd drawn diagrams, they'd produced pathology results, they'd given her leaflets to read, but none of it had made sense. She'd felt absolutely fine until they started giving her treatment and then she'd felt ill. So, how did she know, when the Judiths so lightly inquired, if she was keeping well? She might be, she might not be. It was important, she'd been told, to be optimistic and have a positive outlook.
Why? They didn't seem to know, beyond having some theory that cancer might be either caused or encouraged by a fatalistic attitude. Such rubbish. She only had to think of many optimistic, strong women who had succumbed to the disease, to know there could be no truth in it. This hint that a patient could influence the progress of her cancer by her mental and emotional approach to it made her angry.

All she felt she could do was eat well, take exercise, stay calm. And it was as she was reminding herself of this that she felt a stab of pain, just a little stab, gone in a second. Cautiously, she put the wrapping from her sandwich into the waste-paper basket. Probably indigestion, probably she'd eaten too fast (but she knew she hadn't). Sitting down again, this time back on the swivel chair behind her desk, she composed herself and took deep breaths. Fine, she was fine. But she remained quite still for a good few minutes before reaching for the folder in front of her. No pain at all. Starting to read the papers in the folder, she had to force her mind to concentrate. She succeeded. Fifteen minutes later, clear of anxiety, she bent to the right to open a drawer. This time, several quick, sharp, fleeting pains all along her breastbone. No mistaking them. Her whole body tightened, her right arm quite rigid, with her hand gripping the drawer handle. It took an effort to straighten up and sit back in her chair. Her heart was racing and she felt not so much dizzy as vague, as though she were not really present. She slipped her hand into her shirt and felt along the bone, pressing lightly with her fingers. Nothing. No lumps or bumps, no pain.

The thing to do was be sensible. Await events, see what happened next, keep track, note down what was taking place. Drawing a pad of paper towards her, she carefully wrote down the date in the left-hand corner and then the times. ‘1.47 p.m.', she wrote, ‘small stab of pain, while eating a prawn sandwich in office.' Was the prawn information necessary? Or the place where she'd eaten it? How absurd it looked, written down. ‘2.05 p.m.', she wrote underneath, ‘three or four stabs of pain while opening drawer.' She'd been stretching. Could the pain be muscular? But she hadn't been stretching the time before. No, rule out muscular. Miriam charged in, carrying mail. ‘Hi again,
Rachel,' she said, dumping the mail on the desk, and then ‘Ooh, you've gone all white, are you all right, Rachel, are you all right, shall I . . .' ‘I'm fine,' Rachel said, ‘just the sandwich I had was a bit odd-tasting,' and she gestured towards the bin, desperate to provide evidence. ‘Maybe you'll sick it up?' Miriam suggested, hopefully. ‘Maybe, but I don't think so. I'm fine, really, just a bit queasy, it will pass. Thank you, Miriam.'

It had passed. No more pains all afternoon. At home, she took the sheet of paper she'd made her solemn little notes on and put it in the folder which held all her hospital details and her clinic card. She was remembering now what Mr Wallis had said when she'd pressed him to tell her what to look out for, what signs there might be that the cancer was active. One of the things he'd told her was that the pain with cancer was constant once it started. Her stabs of pain had not been constant. They'd come, they'd gone. Surely that was a good sign? But then perhaps she hadn't understood properly what Mr Wallis had said. She would have to ask him again, and then he would think her neurotic. Well, she was. Cancer had made her neurotic about her own body. How could she possibly have gone travelling with George, as he'd wanted her to, three years ago, so far away from medical help if she'd needed it? Illness, George had said, was a luxury a traveller such as himself could not afford. Pompous, she'd called him. Maybe, by not going with George, she'd saved her own life. Maybe, by being alert, she was saving it now.

But the business of monitoring the workings of her body was exhausting. Every day, there was some trivial ache or pain or some difference somewhere which might mean something sinister. Her throat would be sore in a way it had never been sore before, or she'd develop an ulcer on her gums she had never had before, or she'd suddenly find swallowing difficult, or she'd start coughing and hear a strange wheeze – the list was varied and endless. Always, she controlled her terror and awaited events. These things cleared up, settled down, but only for other things to take their place. Her body had become a tyrant, demanding and receiving full-time attention. Years of hardly knowing how it worked had been replaced by a horrible awareness of its most minute tickings – she could easily have presented
herself at her GP's or the hospital clinic every single day. But she hadn't.

She wasn't going to go to either of them now. The piece of paper was put away, another victory gained. She saw, as she slipped it into the folder, the letter which had come from the counselling service at St Mary's. They'd asked if she would like to attend a group meeting of women who had breast cancer, to share experiences with each other which they all might find mutually helpful. She hadn't been able to imagine anything worse, and nor did she want a one-to-one session, also on offer. She was on her own with this thing, and had to deal with it alone. Talking about it wouldn't help her, not even, if it had been possible, talking to George, though she had often, in the past three years, wished he was with her. Every time she looked at the first date on her clinic card, stuck at the front of the folder, she was struck by the neatness: 2 p.m., Thursday, 9 April 2000, the day George left. She'd said goodbye in the morning, not even telling him about the lump or the appointment, and then she'd gone to St Mary's. Those who liked to think stress caused cancer would be triumphant, but she rejected this thinking. She had to, or otherwise it would happen again. She was a survivor, and intended to go on being a survivor, and to that end she had to keep her mind clear of all conspiracy theories. Control, of herself, was essential.

Only once had she lost it. She could hardly bear to remember the consequences, what she had put herself through. It had been a pain then. In her hip, her right hip. It had never crossed her mind that this might be suspicious. A pain in her hip seemed almost a pleasure to go to see her GP about. She'd been quite relaxed, and eloquent describing it. ‘It's when I walk,' she'd said, ‘I get this sharp pain, it shoots from my right hip down the front of my thigh, and it's so searing, I have to stop and rest. Do you think I've pulled a muscle or torn a nerve or something?' No, her GP didn't. He thought it might be sciatica, though he explained that in that case the pain would run down the back, not the front of the leg. But then he said, ‘In view of your history,' he thought she should have an X-ray. She hadn't understood at first. ‘My history?' she'd echoed. He'd emphasised that it was
unlikely that this hip pain had anything to do with her recent medical history, but it was best to be sure. She went for the X-ray in a state of such agitation she could hardly keep still for it to be done. How she had continued to work she could not imagine. And then, even worse, the bone scan following the X-ray result. Going into that tomb-like room, surely all black, black everywhere, and yet she knew it could not be, of course it couldn't, wasn't, the walls were white, the low ceiling white, only the machine was black, a huge, round iron-black thing which travelled slowly along her body as she lay there, weak and already dying. It came very low over her head, throbbing as it went, and she'd begun to sweat, the claustrophobia intense, the desire to jump up and scream almost unbearable. But she did bear it. She kept still, as instructed. There seemed to be no one there but herself, no sound louder than the sinister hum of the machine. When it finished its eerie progress down her body, a technician appeared. ‘You can get down now,' she said. But she hadn't been able to for a minute. ‘It's over,' the technician said, impatiently, and still she hadn't moved, the effort of levering herself off the bed so enormous she had to force herself to swing her legs down first and test their strength before the rest of her body could follow.