The Stranger She Knew. Rosalind Stopps
He’s in a wheelchair and he’s a bit slumped so I don’t recognise him at first but when I look again I realise that it’s the old man from the room across the corridor from mine. He’s changed. He looks like his head won’t stay up but there’s still something about him, I don’t know what, that gives me the absolute creeps. I’ve got a feeling that I’d like to go over there and slap him, which surprises me because I’m not often the slapping kind. Especially someone who looks so poorly. Bill couldn’t come to the meeting, his carer says, Bill’s been having his physio, what did we miss. She says it in that sarky way, you can tell she’s only saying it to get attention from the other staff. There’s a clucking of ladies, the ambulant ones, and one of them even gets up and goes to fiddle with Bill’s blanket.
I don’t like the look of him, that’s the only way I can say it. Something wrong, something amiss, and I was enjoying myself, he’s one of those people who spoils things, I can tell that. I take my eyes off him, the poorly spoiler man, and look back at my new nearly friend on the next table. She looks at me, looks over at him and makes an, aww face, a shorthand face for, oh, look at him poor fellow. I make the face back, or a version of it anyway. One side of my face still doesn’t move, so I’m surprised that she can interpret it but she does, and when the meeting breaks up she comes over to me, not him.
Hallo, hallo, she says, I haven’t seen you around much in here.
I point in the direction of my room, to show her I mainly stayed there until recently and, strange as it sounds, I think she can understand me.
I don’t blame you, she says, this lot would drive you to drink.
We both laugh as if she had said something much funnier.
Nursery rhymes, would you believe it, she says, and I want to jump out of my chair. It’s so exciting, having a conversation with someone new. If I could manage a word or two I’d be over the moon.
She doesn’t seem to notice, she just trundles on as if it’s absolutely normal, talking to someone who jerks and points and doesn’t say anything recognisable. I suppose it is in here. I can tell she’s educated. She’s got a lovely way with words.
I’m sure they’re not trying to diminish us, she says that, and something about no malice aforethought. I could listen to her all day but I don’t want her to think I’m one of those vegetables, not like the others. I work and work on my tongue and the shapes, that’s what the speech and language therapist told me, concentrate on the shapes before you open your mouth, feel what you’re going to say. I miss the last things she’s saying to me because I’m trying so hard and then it comes out, pops out like my mouth has turned into one of those guns that shoots little pieces of cork.
Proust, I say, and I make a pantomime of reading and point to myself to show her that I’ve read Proust, I’m not like the others. I can see that she is nearly as surprised as I am.
Well done, she says, that’s more than I have.
I’m relieved at that, because it’s a lie, I actually never read Proust so I’m pleased that she won’t be trying to talk to me about the plot. It’s the kind of thing I would like to have done, that’s all. I used to say it when I was young as well, and it’s got me quite a lot of admiration, as well as dropping me into some sticky situations. I tune back in to what she’s saying.
Poor chap, I hear her say, and she’s talking about the chap in the wheelchair who just came in.
He was walking about only last week, she says, he’s had a nasty bout of pneumonia.
I bet he’s faking, I want to say. It’s lucky I can’t. What kind of a heartless bitch would she think I am? Only I mean it, his kind, they lie and they cheat and they are crammed full of fakery. I can tell from his eyes. He’s looking over at us now and she’s preening a bit, my new friend. It would be fun, like being at a Saturday night dance with a mate, if it wasn’t him she was preening for. He looks bad, that’s all I know. He looks like the smell that hits you when you open a packet of chicken that’s way past its sell by date, sour and familiar.
My name’s Jackie, she says, bunching some strands of her dreadlocks up on top of her head and looping them so that they stay there. What room number are you, Miss Proust Reader?
I hold up three fingers on my left hand, twice.
Thirty-three, she says, quick as a flash.
I mime a little clap. I’m still worrying about the stupid Proust thing. I try to be more normal.
May, I try to say, pointing at my chest. I don’t think she understands because she leans over to read the label on my wheelchair.
May, she says, lovely name.
I want to tell her I was born on the day the war ended.
Bye-bye, she says, is it OK if I pop round later? I’m getting tired, all this excitement, I need to go for a lie down.
She does look tired, too, bone tired. It happened quite suddenly. One minute she’s chatting away as if she shouldn’t really be in a place like this, the next she’s like one of those wind up record players when it’s wound down. Speaking more and more slowly. It’s excruciating to watch.
I make a shooing motion to show her that I want her to go back to her room. She looks old, suddenly, maybe even older than me.
Thank you, she says, as if I’ve given her something. Thank you, Miss Room 33 Proust lover.
I feel sorry for the stupidity of my lie. It’s not like I haven’t read other books, I could easily have talked about them instead if I wanted to show off. Or I could have asked her something about herself, that would have been even better. If she gives me another chance, I think, I’ll act like the perfect friend. I’ll act like someone that anyone would be proud to know.
Everyone is dispersing now, there’s a carer helping Jackie, offering an arm, and Agnita comes over to me.
Time to go, she says, shall I escort Madame to her room?
She’s smiling but I know she thinks I’m stuck up. It’s a thing people have always thought about me, Alain pointed it out first, only it’s worse now that I can’t talk. It makes everything I do more important than it needs to be, as though I’m always showing off. I try to think of a jokey way to show her I’m nice underneath. I don’t know why, but my filters seem to have rusted over so instead of sifting through what I might do and choosing, I do the first thing that comes into my head. I make a cap doffing movement with my good hand. Agnita doesn’t look amused.
I’m sure there’s no need for that, she says, I’m trying my best.
So am I, I think, so am I, only I don’t get to go home afterwards like you do. Maybe it’s not so good to fraternise, I think, maybe I was right first time, better to stay in my room and refuse to speak to anyone. Safer.
So she wheels me off, turning the chair round first so I’m facing the correct door. I hate it when they do that, suddenly turn you round without warning. It’s like being on one of those rides at the funfair, the ones that spin you round and round.
Oi, I say. It comes out well, so I can’t help being pleased, even though I hadn’t intended to say anything.
Oh, Agnita says, pardon me m’lady, I’m sure I didn’t mean any disrespect.
She doffs an imaginary cap too, in an exaggerated way. I can see her in the big mirror that hangs over the door. She doesn’t do it for me because she doesn’t realise that I can see her, that’s how I know it’s not a joke. She does it for the other staff and I can see quite a few of them giggling away as if it’s the funniest thing.
I’m embarrassed and sorry for myself. It’s a horrible feeling, being laughed at, and it doesn’t help to know that it’s quite justified. I’ll keep myself to myself from now on, I think, speak to no one and then no one has anything to poke fun at. Probably Jackie won’t want to be my friend anyway. I slump a little in my chair. It’s been a tiring morning, a mixed bag, and I just want to be back in my room.
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