The Nature of Blood (21 page)

I stand in the middle of a great rush of human activity. It is difficult to
know which way to turn. All around me there is a purposeful haste. Faces are
set, minds focused. People swing luggage carelessly, as though clearing a
path for themselves. I stand with my suitcase. Gerry's letter said come to
England. He said he still wanted to marry me. He could not find Margot, but
he said we could make a new life together. And so I boarded a train that furrowed
its slow way across Europe towards the English Channel. And now I am in London
with Gerry's address and no idea of how to get there. (He could not find Margot,
but I will find her. He invited me to come at my leisure, and so come at my
leisure I have.) I pick up my suitcase and begin to push my way towards the
exit sign. It is evening and the sky is a dirty grey colour. The wind hits
me forcefully and I bend into it. To my right, there are a line of people
waiting for a taxi. I join the line and glance at the piece of paper in my
hand. Gerry's address. I know that everything will be all right once I see
Gerry.

The taxi driver does not say anything to me. We seem to have been driving for
a long time, perhaps too long, but it is difficult for me to judge. These
streets flow carelessly, one into the other. I want London to be a different
place. A happier, brighter place. I am hungry. The driver stops outside a
house that is joined to the houses on both sides of it. Some children play
in the street. Young, dirty children dressed in tatters. I reach into my bag
and pass the driver a note. 'Thanks, love.' There is no change, but I cannot
argue for I do not know if he has cheated me. He looks at me with an invitation
to leave his taxi. To leave his city. To leave his country. I will leave.
I step down from the taxi and close the door. The children stop playing. They
look at me and my suitcase. Number thirty-one. I see the door. A woman walks
by, her scarf flaming in the wind. It is a small house. Gerry did not promise
me a large house. He did not promise me anything on a grand scale. He did
not, in fact, promise. But I have fallen and landed in a place where, despite
the lack of promises, I have come to expect. I walk the three paces to the
door and knock lightly. Gerry? There is no fence, no garden, nothing. This
house opens right on to the street. I do not like this. It is not safe. And
then the door opens. A woman with short blonde hair. A child clings to the
hem of her skirt and looks up at me. She holds a wooden baking spoon in her
hand. Behind her, I see two apples on a small table. I have caught her at
an unfortunate moment. I have to speak This is the wrong house. 'Gerry?' I
ask She takes her time. She looks down to my feet and then up again. 'He's
out.' She pauses. 'What do you want?'

I believe the suitcase caused her to behave coldly towards me. It is one thing
seeing a strange woman on your doorstep. It is another thing seeing a strange
woman with a suitcase. Such a person has come to stay. I imagine these hospital
people think I have come to stay. At their hospital. I fainted. I have no
memory. And now they tell me I am unable to function. (This afternoon, you'll
see the doctor. Then they'll get you a private room.) They cut up my lunch
for me. (Cottage pie and vegetables. Green beans. Sauce. Bread and butter.)
Into the smallest, silliest pieces. They lay my knife and fork to sleep next
to each other. I prefer not to eat. Food that is carved for a child. I am
twenty-one. I look out of the window at the trees. I look out of the window
at the grass. I love nature. England, through this window, is green and happy.
Should I explain to them that I came only because Gerry asked me to come?
(But last night, in the pub, I finally abandoned words.) I still have the
letter. I can show it to them. He asked me to come to England and marry him,
and so I came. But he gave me hope where none existed. (This afternoon, you'll
see the doctor. Then they'll get you a private room.) I wanted nothing more
than to be the source of happiness for somebody. Is that too much to ask?
A sudden burst of rain sends my mind spinning. I still dream.

Margot and I sat together in the park and watched the small children playing
on the grass with their parents. It was late afternoon and the light was beginning
to fade. Beyond the children, and behind a tall screen of trees, was the lake,
whose surface was being gently combed by the wind. Gliding across it slowly,
and with wilful deliberation, were two rowing boats that seemed determined
to be swallowed by the encroaching gloom. I looked again at my sister, who
seemed to have rushed into womanhood and left me behind. The way she spoke,
the manner in which she walked, even the manner in which she sat next to me,
made me feel awkward. (These days, she sat with her legs crossed, one on top
of the other.) We had always shared everything – toys, books and secrets
– but now she was different. She told me things that I didn't know,
which made me realize that there were other things that she knew which I didn't
know. She had secrets. Then one of the small children, a girl with a yellow
bow as big as a bat tied to the top of her hair, fell over and began to cry.
Her mother came rushing towards her, and gathered her up and into her arms,
and the child immediately stopped crying. Margot smiled. How many babies do
you want, Eva? She asked me this question without turning to look at me. I
followed her eyes to the drama on the grass, and then looked beyond this scene
and through the screen of trees to the lake. There was only one rowing boat
left, and it was now limping its way towards the small wooden jetty. Two children,
I said. One boy and one girl. Margot nudged me and began to laugh. You're
so conventional. I want to have three children. Three boys. Or three girls.
Or four, maybe. And once more, without realizing it, Margot had managed to
make me feel stupid. I knew she didn't do this on purpose, but it took all
my strength to stop myself crying. I wanted to tell her that I had thought
about having children. That I knew that a child does not choose his name,
or his parents. That when he enters the world, he finds either a place of
love or a place of hate. I knew that children are either a result of longing
or a mistake. That they need to be given space to live. Margot, I have thought
about these things. But I said nothing. We sat together and watched as the
mothers led their children away. And then, in the distance, as the final boat
nudged up against the jetty, and the park became enveloped in darkness, I
saw the man take the older children and walk them to a large ditch, where
one by one they were thrown into the fire. I listened to their wailing above
the crackling of the flames. Having dispatched the last child, he walked back
to where the infants were huddled with their mothers. One by one, he picked
them up by the legs and smashed them against a brick wall. The pulped corpse
of the infant was then pushed back into the mother's arms to prevent unnecessary
littering. I saw Margot standing with three dead babies in her arms, the blood
flowing freely from their crushed heads. They were boys. Dead boys. Margot!
I cried. Margot! But she did not hear me. She stood with her three dead children
and refused to answer me.

The orderly is standing over me. You want me to call the doctor for you? Lady,
you all right? He is leaning against his broom and looking down at me with
concern. You gotta calm down, girl. This kind of carry on won't do you no
good. It is still afternoon. The tea is cold. They were telling the truth.
I did see the doctor. I am in a private room. I have no idea of how long I
have been asleep. If I talk out loud in my sleep, what language do I speak?
The wooden chair is empty. I move my head slightly so that I can see the orderly's
face. The pillow is wet, my hair lank with sweat. Girl, you need a next pillow.
The man hesitates for a moment. It is only when he puts aside his broom that
I remember that I do not talk. (Last night, in the pub, I finally abandoned
words.) His is a statement, not a question. I soon come back with a next pillow.

Of course, Gerry was at home. Hiding behind the door. Back at the camp, he
had impressed me as a quiet and reasonable man, one who even shared his provisions
with ladies. One morning, he came to me by my wall, where I sat hoping for
sun. He came to me and brought me his army rations: a package containing biscuits,
dried fruit, chewing gum and cigarettes. He never asked me, did you survive
because you slept with a man? (Others asked this question, but not Gerry.)
But of course, Gerry was at home. He emerged from behind the door and said
something to his wife, but I couldn't hear. I looked at him and noticed that
his trousers were thick, with turn-ups at the ankles. Then Gerry stepped from
his house and led me quietly through the streets of London, not offering to
carry my suitcase, not saying anything beyond, 'We'll have a drink, Eva love.'
He cracked a smile. 'There's a nice pub just across from the tube station.'
And so we walked on through the streets of London, neither one of us saying
anything. I moved with the frantic beauty of a late butterfly, but he did
not seem to notice. And then we passed a man who looked at me, then flicked
a cigarette end that quickly arched and then fell to the ground, having described
a tight burning parabola. I feared this kind of sudden dramatic action, and
a chill ran through my body. But Gerry didn't notice. As we walked on, I looked
all about me and decided that I liked these streets which, the cigarette-man
aside, seemed to tolerate my presence. I liked Gerry's London.

'Park yourself in that corner. It's snug over there. I'll get us a drink.'
As he spoke, Gerry fished in his pocket for money. I obeyed his instruction
and sat in the corner on a stool that was covered in balding crushed velvet.
I watched him walk across to the bar, where a large man spoke to him. The
barman was prematurely grey, his hair parted in the middle, and he wore a
jacket and tie. He had the sort of face that belonged to a cigar. Clearly,
appearance counted for much with this man, and I imagined that it was he who
polished the brass pumps and pipes in this pub. Then Gerry looked over to
where I was sitting and he smiled at me. The barman stole a glance. They were
talking about me. I looked down at the table and waited for Gerry to return.
In the ashtray, ashes. 'I got you a gin and tonic.' I looked at his beer.
The glass was impossibly huge. 'Well, drink up then. It will steady your nerves.'
Cubes of ice swilled noisily in the bowl of my glass. The other people were
smoking, sitting in pairs, whispering to each other. It was unacceptably intimate.
'Drink up.' I lifted the glass to my lips, but the smell was overpowering.
And then the taste. It burnt me. 'I can get you something else.' He spoke
with fake enthusiasm. And then there was a deep silence, broken only by the
sound of Gerry drumming a peeling coaster against the edge of the table. "The
wife. Well, I told her you were a bit crackers. I'm sorry, but I had to tell
her something.' Please, Gerry, do not do this to me. Do not be somebody else
now that you are back home. A woman started to play the piano in the corner.
'I think I need another pint. You all right?' The wooden panelling was brown,
the carpet was brown, the wooden tables were brown. I could feel the tingle
of gin and tonic as it coursed through my veins. 'Look, I won't be a minute.'
I watched him go. I don't want to be hurt again. I won't be able to survive
being abandoned again. Not again. Through the window, I saw people snaking
along the evening street. I hid behind the curtain, and I realized that Gerry
had probably said all that he was going to say to me. I watched him now, laughing
with his friend at the bar. No, Gerry. No. Surely you are better than this?

The doctor sits opposite me. In this room, some of the furniture is covered
with white dust sheets. There is a thick rug on the floor and a pair of noisy
radiators against the wall. 'It's bitter outside for this time of the year.'
He notices me looking around his makeshift office. A desk with a solitary
chair in front and one behind, a single bed, and a metal filing cabinet. The
other pieces of furniture are shrouded. Behind the doctor's desk, there is
a small uncurtained window, and on his desk there is a single flower in a
thin vase. I look into this tall man's face. His eyebrows run into each other,
and then his mouth moves strangely, as though he is trying to overcome a yawn.
'We're putting you in your own room.' I look beyond him to the window. It
is early afternoon. Then I hear the sound of feet pounding their way towards
us and a sharp knock and a door opening. I turn around. 'Hello, dear. How
are you?' This woman's manner is too familiar. As she moves, she releases
the scent of a cheap perfume. 'A cup of tea, doctor. Before she settles into
her new room.' She glances from me to the doctor, then back to me. 'Or perhaps
you'd like your tea upstairs after you've finished with the doctor?' The doctor
motions for her to set down the tray, which she does. Then she smiles. 'A
mixture of plain biscuits, with one or two chocolate ones.' The woman hovers.
'I've put clean towels on the chair for your bath. I'll see you up there,
and let me know if you need a top-up.' Only now does the woman turn to leave.

'You know where my office is if you need to speak to me. We just need to examine
you for a few days.' The tea has gone cold. In the useless afternoon light,
I have sat in silence and cast my mind back across the past few years. My
cheeks are tight with dried tears. If only I had a photograph, so that people
could see who I was. Whenever I fell over, they would be able to look into
my bag and see Eva. This hospital worries me. They have dressed me in slippers
and a dressing gown. They have taken my suitcase. They have fed me lunch that
was carved for a child. This tall doctor, with long fingers to match his long
legs. Now he leans back and stretches. Then he stands and walks a few paces.
I expect a less animated gait from a man of his height. But there is a curious
optimism to his movement. Again he sits, this time on the edge of his desk,
his knees forming twin-pointed hillocks on which he now rests his flat palms.
He leans over me. 'You see, one must have patience. It takes time. Last night,
the people in the pub, they were frightened when you started shouting. Do
you remember?' I do not know what in the world he is talking about. 'When
they brought you here, we just gave you something to make you sleep, that's
all. You've been doing very nicely.' Now I feel the doctor's bony hands on
mine. 'Why did you write the letter, Eva? Mr Alston. I mean, Gerry. He has
a wife and child. As you can imagine, this has caused him some difficulties.'
He takes his hands from mine. 'Did you write the letter so that you might
prove something to somebody, is that it?' He does not seem to understand that
I do not talk. Last night, in the pub, I finally abandoned words. 'Ah well,
we'll get Marjorie to brew you some more tea. Then you have a nice hot bath
and take a nap. I think you'll like your new room. We can speak again later.'
I scrutinize this doctor's face, but then I realize that he cannot see, on
my shoulder, the butterfly that I have become.