Memoirs of a Woman Doctor (2 page)

My grandmother’s chatter broke off as she looked at my chest. I saw her diseased old eyes scrutinizing the two sprouting buds and evaluating them. Then she whispered something to my mother and I heard my mother saying to me, ‘Put on your cream dress and go and say hello to your father’s guest in the sitting-room.’

I caught a whiff of conspiracy in the air. I was used to meeting most of my father’s friends and bringing them coffee. Sometimes I sat with them and heard my father telling them how well I was doing at school. This always made me feel elated and I thought that since my father had acknowledged my intelligence he would extricate me from the depressing world of women, reeking of onions and marriage.

But why the cream dress? It was new and I hated it. It had a strange gather at the front which made my breasts look larger. My mother looked at me inquiringly and asked, ‘Where’s your cream dress?’

‘I won’t wear it,’ I replied angrily.

She noticed the stirrings of rebellion in my eyes and said regretfully, ‘Smooth down your eyebrows then.’

I didn’t look at her, and before opening the sitting-room door I ruffled up my eyebrows with my fingers.

I greeted my father’s friend and sat down. I saw a strange, frightening face and eyes examining me relentlessly as my grandmother’s had done shortly before.

‘She’s first in her group at primary school this year,’ said my father.

I didn’t notice any admiration in the man’s eyes at these words but I saw his inquiring glances roaming all over my body before coming to rest on my chest. Scared, I stood up and ran out of the room as if a devil was after me. My mother and grandmother met me eagerly at the door and asked in unison, ‘What did you do?’

I let out a single cry in their faces and ran to my room, slamming the door behind me. Then I went over to the mirror and stared at my chest. I hated them, these two protrusions, these two lumps of flesh which were determining my future! How I wished I could cut them off with a sharp knife! But I couldn’t. All I could do was hide them by flattening them with a tight corset.

The heavy long hair I carried around everywhere on my head held me up in the morning, got in my way in the bath and made my neck burning hot in the summer. Why wasn’t it short and free like my brother’s? His didn’t weigh his head down or hinder his activities. But it was my mother who controlled my life, my future and my body right down to every strand of my hair. Why? Because she’d given birth to me? But why did that give her some special merit? She went about her normal life like any other woman and conceived me involuntarily in a random moment of pleasure. I’d arrived without her knowing or choosing me, and without my choosing her. We’d been thrust arbitrarily on one another as mother and daughter. Could any human being love someone who’d been forced upon them? And if my mother loved me instinctively in spite of herself, what credit did that do her? Did it make her any better than a cat which sometimes loves its kittens and at other times devours them? I sometimes thought the harsh way she treated me hurt me more than if she’d eaten me! If she really loved me and wanted my happiness above her own, then why did her demands and desires always work against my happiness? How could she possibly love me when she put chains on my arms and legs and round my neck every day?

For the first time in my life I left the flat without asking my mother’s permission. My heart was pounding as I went down the street, though my provocative act had given me a certain strength. As I walked, a sign caught my eye: ‘Ladies’ Hairdresser’. I had only a second’s hesitation before going in.

I watched the long tresses squirm in the jaws of the sharp scissors and then fall to the ground. Were these what my mother called a woman’s crowning glory? Could a woman’s crown fall shattered to the ground like this because of one moment of determination? I was filled with a great contempt for womankind: I had seen with my own eyes that women believe in worthless trivia. This contempt gave me added strength. I walked back home with a firm step and stood squarely in front of my mother with my newly cropped hair.

My mother gave a shrill cry and slapped my face hard. Then she hit me again and again while I stood where I was as if rooted to the spot. My challenging of authority had turned me into an immovable force, my victory over my mother had transformed me into a solid mass, unaffected by the assault. My mother’s hand struck my face and then drew back each time, as if it had hit a granite boulder.

Why didn’t I cry? I usually burst into tears at the slightest snub or the gentlest of slaps. But the tears didn’t come. My eyes stayed open, looking into my mother’s eyes boldly and firmly. She went on slapping me for a while, then collapsed back on to the sofa, repeating in bewilderment, ‘You must have gone mad!’

I felt sorry for her when I saw her features crumbling in helpless defeat. I had a strong urge to hug and kiss her and break down and cry in her arms, and say to her, ‘It’s not good for me always to do as you say.’

But I took my eyes away from hers so she wouldn’t realize I’d witnessed her defeat, and ran off to my room. I looked in the mirror and smiled at my short hair, the light of victory in my eyes.

For the first time in my life I understood the meaning of victory; fear led only to defeat, and victory demanded courage. My fear of my mother had vanished; that great aura which had made me terrified of her had fallen away. I realized that she was just an ordinary woman. The slaps she delivered were the strongest thing about her but they no longer scared me — because they didn’t hurt any more.

I hated our flat except for the room where my books were. I loved school except for the home economics period. I loved all the days of the week except Friday.

I took part in all school activities and joined the drama society, the debating society, the athletics club, and the music and art clubs. Even that wasn’t enough for me so I got together with some friends and we set up a society that I called the Friendship Club. Why, I’m not sure, except that deep down inside I had an overwhelming longing for companionship, for profound, all-embracing companionship with no strings attached, for vast groups of people to be with me, talk to me, listen to me and soar up to the heavens with me.

It seemed to me that whatever heights I reached, I wouldn’t be content, the flame burning within me wouldn’t be extinguished. I began to hate the repetitiveness and similarity of lessons: I would read the material once and once only — to go over it again would stifle me, kill me. I wanted something new, new… all the time.

I wasn’t aware of him at first when he came into my room where I sat reading and stood beside me. Then he said, ‘Don’t you want to relax for a bit?’

I’d been reading for ages and felt tired so I smiled and said, ‘I’d like to go for a walk in the fresh air.’

‘Put on your coat and let’s go.’

I quickly pulled on my coat and ran to catch up with him. I was on the point of slipping my hand into his and running along together as we used to do when we were children. But then I caught his eye and suddenly remembered how many years it had been since I had last played like a child, years during which my legs had forgotten how to run and become used to moving slowly like grown-ups’ legs. I put my hand in my coat pocket and walked slowly at his side.

‘You’ve grown,’ he said.

‘So have you.’

‘Do you remember when we used to play together?’

‘You always beat me when we had races.’

‘You always won at marbles.’

We laughed uproariously. The air flooded into my chest and invigorated me, making me feel as if I was recapturing something denied to me in my over-regimented childhood.

‘I bet I’d win if we had a race now.’

‘No, I’ll beat you,’ I said confidently.

‘Let’s see.’

We marked out a line on the ground and stood side by side. He shouted, ‘One… two… three…’ and we shot forward. I was about to reach the goal first when he grabbed my clothes from behind. I stumbled and fell and he fell beside me. Still panting, I looked up at him and saw him staring at me in a funny way which made the blood rush to my cheeks. I watched his arm reach out in the direction of my waist and he whispered in a rough voice, ‘I’m going to kiss you.’

I was convulsed by a strange and violent trembling. For a moment which passed like lightning through my feelings, I wished he would stretch out his arm further and hold me tight, but then this odd secret desire was transformed into a wild fury.

My anger only made him more persistent and he held on to me with an iron grip. I don’t know where I got the strength, but I threw off his arm and it flailed in the air while I brought my hand down hard across his face.

I turned over and over in bed in utter confusion. Strange sensations swept through me and images flashed before my eyes. One of them lodged itself in front of me and wouldn’t go away: my cousin lying on the ground beside me, his arm nearly round my waist and his strange glances boring into my head. I closed my eyes and was borne along by my fantasy in which his arms moved tightly round me and his lips pressed firmly down on mine.

I buried my head under the covers, unable to believe that I’d slapped him with the hand I was now picturing quivering in his. I pulled the covers tightly over my head to shut out my strange dream but it crept back, so I put the pillow over my head and pressed it down as hard as I could to suffocate the stubborn ghost, until sleep finally overtook me.