Isobel on the Way to the Corner Shop (10 page)

‘It’s a whole lot better than someone doing her duty without a smile, I assure you.’

‘I’ll tell that to Sara, the next time she tells me I’m just enjoying myself instead of tackling the serious issues of society. Now I’m making you talk too much and I’ve been told not to. Not another word from you. I’ll unpack for you and be off. Don’t expect me till you see me. I don’t know how long things will take.’

She put Isobel’s nightdress and her two singlets and three pairs of knickers—all, Isobel noticed, newly washed and ironed—into her cabinet, the books of poems on its top, soap, toothbrush and toothpaste into the small bathroom, put her finger to her lips and departed.

Nostalgic about poverty, thought Isobel. How nice to be so rich. But the thought was affectionate, not critical.

‘Well, today’s the day,’ said Bernie on Thursday morning.

Today Isobel’s fate was to be decided—or rather, the decision was to be made official, for it seemed to have been decided already.

After she had put Isobel back to bed, remarking cheerfully that she was getting stronger, she said, ‘I don’t think the great man can be here before eleven. I’ll be in to tidy up later.’

However, it was a strange nurse who arrived before lunch. She nodded briskly, looked about her, set the chairs straight against the wall, put the books of poems and the pocket comb out of sight into drawers, checked the bathroom, sat Isobel upright while she straightened her pillows, stretched the quilt to absolute smoothness and told Isobel firmly to keep it that way and not go wriggling about and disturbing it. There was no doubt that a person of very great importance was expected.

‘You’ll have to wait for your lunch till Doctor’s been.’

Isobel sat up, awed into immobility. Would the great man say with a scowl, ‘There’s a wrinkle in that quilt, nurse’?

No, of course. Only Matron inspired such dread.

A long hour later an orderly arrived carrying a large buff envelope which he laid at the foot of Isobel’s unwrinkled bed. He nodded and left.

She waited again.

At last the party arrived: Doctor Hansen, accompanied as she had expected by Matron, and by a tall, broad-shouldered figure who was quite the handsomest man she had yet seen. Chieftain of the eagle tribe, she thought, though there was nothing beaklike about the straight nose, the firm, beautifully shaped mouth and the quite adequate chin.

‘This is Doctor Stannard, the medical superintendent of Mornington Sanatorium,’ said Doctor Hansen.

Lucky he took to tuberculosis, thought Isobel. You wouldn’t want that one examining your haemorrhoids.

Her nod went unnoticed. Perhaps it had not been required.

She was introduced too. Doctor Stannard acknowledged the introduction by nodding to the X-ray he had taken from the buff envelope and was holding to the light.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes, I see. That bit of clouding in the corner—that’s your machine, is it?’

‘Yes.’ Doctor Hansen was apologetic. ‘Our machine isn’t quite…’

‘We simply aren’t equipped to handle a case of this kind,’ said Matron.

Doctor Stannard was rubbing his exquisite nose between thumb and forefinger as he studied Isobel’s chart.

‘No BSR? No, of course not. Um.’

‘We had to send the specimen down to the Clinic by taxi,’ said Doctor Hansen. He forestalled Matron. ‘I didn’t think it would be safe to move her.’

‘No.’ Doctor Stannard stared at the chart. ‘So I see. Pity it wasn’t North Shore in the first place. How did she get here?’

Matron said coldly, ‘She collapsed in the street and was picked up by the police. The ambulance brought her here. I suppose it was the nearest hospital.’

Indignation forced Isobel’s whisper to a furious croak.

‘I went out to buy food. I was only going to the corner shop. Things just…got out of hand.’

She was panting from the effort of speech. She thought, It was a beautiful moment, beautiful. Never forget that.

‘Such things do occur,’ said Doctor Stannard. His words were for Isobel, but his gaze was on Matron. ‘This isn’t the bubonic plague, Matron.’ His voice was gentle, apologetic and only faintly amused, the voice of a man accustomed to defusing situations. ‘The precautions are few and simple. You’ve had advice from the Clinic about that, I’m told.’

His charm had as much effect on Matron as a sunlit wave washing against a granite crag. It seemed however to be supported by authority, for she made no answer.

‘How to get her up to us is the problem. We have an ambulance coming from North Shore on Tuesday. It can take her as well.’

‘Tuesday?’ asked Matron without enthusiasm.

‘Tuesday. Can’t manage it before. Would you give them a call and let them know you have a passenger for the ambulance? And Peter…’ he looked at his watch. ‘I’m sorry, but I do have this meeting…’

He looked at Isobel and said, ‘At Mornington, we cure people. We’ll cure you. You’re going to get better. Remember that.’

She nodded, the croak of indignation having left her speechless.

Bernie came in with a late lunch of sandwiches and coffee.

‘Coffee’s off the menu for you but I thought you could do with a cup. You’re off to see the Wizard, are you?’

‘Yes. Tuesday.’

‘Was that him I saw walking down the corridor with Doc Hansen? Holy gee, what a looker! I thought Hollywood had come to town!’

Isobel offered her thought about haemorrhoids, which fetched a giggle.

‘You’re a card. Better not be talking. You haven’t got much voice left. I’ll leave you to it.’

One could almost forget Doctor Stannard’s looks at moments: when he managed to convey to Matron that he knew some very nice people who had fallen down in the street and been picked up by the police. Serge, sweat and tobacco in a column of warmth and strength—there was nothing wrong with it, she would never think there was anything wrong with it. And when he had said, ‘You’re going to get better. Remember that!’

The memory encouraged her to tackle a second sandwich.

Doctor Hansen came in to visit, to tell her what a wonderful place Mornington was and what a brilliant doctor Doctor Stannard.

‘I’m sorry he was a bit rushed today. He has a very busy schedule.’

‘I can see that.’

‘Believe me, you couldn’t be in safer hands.’

Isobel nodded and smiled, registering gratitude. She was thinking only that she could keep her luxury accommodation until Tuesday, with the added satisfaction of annoying a very unpleasant woman. This living for the moment was new, not a resolution but a physical change, as if the moment was all she had strength for.

‘How are you getting on with Mrs Delaney?’

‘Love her.’

‘Yes. She’s a very rare person. We’re lucky to have her.’ Doctor Hansen left and Isobel retired to her voluntary coma. Enough for today.

‘So it’s fixed, is it?’ said Mrs Delaney. ‘Off on Tuesday, they tell me.’

Isobel nodded.

‘I’d better hurry up with your shopping, then.’ She took the armchair, set a carrier bag down by her side, rummaged in the handbag for a sheet of paper which she handed to Isobel.

‘Now I’ve packed the dinosaur and these are the things in it, so far. Check it and see if you want anything that’s there.’

‘You didn’t have to worry about the china and the saucepans.’

‘You’ll be setting up for yourself again later.’

How much later? Neither of them lingered over that thought.

‘I’d better store the big case for you. There’s my address and my signature on the back. A kind of receipt, you know. Well, don’t laugh. You never can tell what may happen and you need some kind of evidence that you own the things. Particularly your typewriter. I’ve packed all the manuscripts except one exercise book that seems to have bits and pieces in it. I thought I might put that in the small case. I have a list from the sanatorium. Two pairs of pyjamas, hot water bottle, winter dressing gown, summer dressing gown, slippers…Oh, about the dressing gowns. This is Sara’s old winter gown. The satin is frayed round the cuffs but I’ve darned it in. I hope it will do.’

Sara’s old gown was of rose-coloured wool, trimmed with quilted pale pink satin. Mrs Delaney had darned the cuffs very neatly. Isobel stroked the darned surface with a smile.

‘And here—oh, it’s a bit conspicuous, I’m afraid. Souvenir of Hong Kong. One buys these things because they are there and when you come home you can’t imagine what came over you. But it would do for a summer dressing gown over pyjamas.’

She was holding out for display a long jacket of dark blue cotton, bound and belted in scarlet. Across its back sprawled a magnificent dragon embroidered in brilliant colours.

‘As I said, it does stand out a bit.’

‘I think it’s beautiful.’

‘They call them happy coats. I hope that’s a good sign.’ Overcome by this outburst, Mrs Delaney bent her head to rummage further in the bag.

‘Same with the slippers. If they fit you and you think they’ll do. Don’t try them on now. Wait till you get up to go to the bathroom.’

The slippers were Turkish, with pointed, beaded toes.

Isobel picked one up, slipped it onto her hand and looked at it with admiration.

‘You can always say they were a present. Well, I’m inside my five pounds and I’ll have a bit over for a few little things. Like a pack of solitaire cards. Do you play Patience?’

‘How can I ever pay you back?’

‘You don’t pay it back, my dear. You hand it on. Some day you’ll meet somebody in trouble and that’s the time to think of paying back. And some day, Isobel, you’re going to have a lot to give.’

‘What makes you think that?’

‘Just a feeling I have. Right, if you’re happy with this lot, I’ll finish the shopping and pack the small bag for you. You tuck that list away safely in your bag. I’ll be in with it on Monday so that we can check through but I’ll come to see you off on Tuesday. Keep the slippers to try on. That’s it, then.’

It was lucky that Mrs Delaney was finding it all such fun. That eased the burden of gratitude.

Mrs Delaney arrived on Monday afternoon with Isobel’s suitcase and brought with her, in spite of her cheerful manner, a sense of unease with the approach of the unknown.

‘You didn’t get all this for five pounds,’ said Isobel, observing the two pairs of pyjamas, one frilly, one tailored, the new knickers, the toilet bag with soap and talcum, the pretty handkerchiefs and the Patience cards.

Her own two summer dresses, her blouse and skirt had been washed and ironed and it seemed that the winter coat which Mrs Delaney carried over her arm had been to the cleaners.

‘I shan’t lie about the handkerchiefs and the toilet bag, dear. Everything else. I do think, you know, that you should dump that hairbrush.’

‘It doesn’t do much for my social standing, I agree.’

‘I’ve bought one of those little plastic gadgets that will do instead. Out with the hairbrush.’

She put it into her carrier bag. Even in the waste bin, it would not have done much for Isobel’s social standing.

Out of the carrier bag she brought three paperbacks.

‘You can’t always be reading poetry. These are from home. You can hand them on when you’ve finished them.’

‘Do you do this sort of thing all the time?’ asked Isobel.

‘No, I don’t. I’m not as admirable as the people who turn up every day and do a dreary chore out of the goodness of their hearts. I’m emergency help. Maybe next week or next month they’ll call me in, maybe not for months. But when I’m at it, I do concentrate on the job.’

‘Lucky for me.’

She was already feeling jealous of the unknowns who would claim Mrs Delaney’s attention. This would not do. Charity must not be confused with friendship.

The ambulance was to arrive at two o’clock on Tuesday. Mrs Delaney arrived at twenty past one to help Isobel to dress and to see to the luggage.

‘You had better put a pair of pyjamas in your duffle bag, dear, in case you can’t get at your suitcase.’ Mrs Delaney was in a last-minute fuss which made the situation seem quite domestic. ‘Soap, washer. Have you finished with your toothbrush? Right. Now you pop into the shower and I’ll get out your clothes.’

‘Pop’ was hardly the word, thought Isobel, as she crept to the bathroom supported by Mrs Delaney.

She came out wrapped in her bathtowel and sat with relief on the bed as she dried herself. Modesty was long gone.

‘Isobel, where are your socks?’

‘Socks?’

‘Yes, dear. Those things you put on your feet so you don’t freeze to death. Don’t you have any socks?’

‘Yes. Two pairs of socks. But I wasn’t wearing any socks, I think. You see, I was just…’

‘Going to the corner shop. Yes, I know. Well, I didn’t see them when I packed up. They must be still in the room somewhere and I missed them. If only I’d thought. I could easily have bought socks. Oh, dear. What do we do now?’

‘I could wrap my feet in bandages.’

Mrs Delaney gave her a quick, impatient look which she resented. There was a limit even to Mrs Delaney’s patience.

‘So would I as a last resort. How long do we have?’ She looked at her watch and answered herself. ‘Thirty-five minutes. I just have an idea. I’ll be back.’

Isobel was glad of privacy after all to make her slow way into knickers, slacks and sweater and to lie down for a minute or two to recover some strength.

Mrs Delaney came back with four nylon stockings draped over her arm, her good humour restored.

‘There’s a box of them in our office. One of the Auxiliary collects them to crochet into bath mats. Cuts them into strips.’

‘Are you going to crochet a pair of socks in twenty minutes?’

‘If you keep on like that, I am going to forget that you are a sick girl.’

‘Sorry.’

‘Forgiven.’

Mrs Delaney had taken a pair of scissors from her bag and was cutting the stockings into long socks.

‘You’ll have to put them on, two to each foot. Should give a bit of warmth. Better than nothing. I’ll roll them down and stitch a hem.’

She worked fast, rolling two layers of nylon leg together down to the ankle and stitching a hem.

‘Your Mum would be proud of you,’ said Isobel. ‘Do you carry needle and thread about with you?’