Swimming Upstream (14 page)

Finally, we turned into an ill-lit street and
stopped at a dark and crumbling three-storey town house. Zara pushed open the
gate and propped me up against the porch while she fiddled around trying to get
her key in the lock. As soon as it opened she shot inside and bolted up the stairs.
I hobbled in after her and hauled myself slowly up in the direction she had
gone.

A door opened on the first landing and a head
popped out.

“That you, Clare?” asked a male voice.

''No.'' I paused, and leaned weakly against the
banisters. “I’m Lizzie.” I suddenly felt overwhelmingly tired.

The door widened, casting a shaft of light across
the dingy landing, and the speaker stepped out of the room. He was tall, dark
and completely naked.

“Oh, hello,” he smiled, apologetically and cupped
one hand between his legs. “I thought you were…” He shrugged, grinned and then
held out his spare hand. “I'm Tim.”

“Hello Tim,” I said, and passed out.

I woke with a blinding headache. Zara was sitting up in
bed beside me reading a magazine. Little by little, the rest of the room came
into focus. It looked as if we were in a squat. We were lying on a thick and
lumpy mattress on the floor in the corner next to a window, which was hung with
one drab-looking curtain and a sheet of clear plastic, nailed down at the edges
to keep out the wind. The walls were cracked and the paint was yellow and
chipped. Along one wall was a shelf of books, and below it an old table stacked
high with files and folders, some wooden frames, pieces of canvas and several
murky jam jars full of painted water and brushes. On every spare surface - on
the table, on the mantelpiece above the gas fire, on the floor - were paintings
of flowers. Large bright multi-coloured sunflowers, snow-white water-lilies floating
on a leaf-green pond, and intricate weaves of buttercups and daisies set
against a pink and purple backdrop.

“You're awake,” said Zara. “How d'you feel?”

“I've definitely felt better,” I murmured, resting
my arm over my forehead. My mouth was so dry that I could barely speak. Zara
handed me a glass of water.

“Do you remember what happened?” Zara paused while
I cast my mind back to the night before. The pain in my ankle was beginning to
make itself felt.

I shook my head. “No. At least not after we got
back here.”

“You passed out,” said Zara.

“Ah,” I said, a little embarrassed. “Sorry. Where
did I land?”

“It's a good job Tim was there,” she continued. “You
were standing at the top of the stairs. You'd have gone right down them,
backwards, if he hadn't been there to catch you.”

“God.” I shivered at the thought. “Who's Tim?” I
added. A vague recollection was hovering at the back of my mind. On cue, there
was a knock at the door. It opened, and a dark curly head appeared.

“Hello?”

“Tim, come and meet Lizzie,” said Zara.

“I believe we've already met,” he said, stepping
into the room and smiling broadly at me.

Tim had one of those faces that made you want to
laugh before he'd even said anything. He was grinning widely, the corners of
his mouth seeming almost to touch his ears, and his eyes were big and round and
so dark that you couldn't see his pupils; they looked like cartoon eyes. His
thick eyebrows were arched quizzically and there was a dimple on his chin. He
was very tall, and thin. My memory came flooding back. I was relieved to see he
had clothes on.

“And how's the patient this morning?” he asked me.

“Alive,” I croaked. “Thanks to you.”

“All part of the service,” said Tim. “You should
probably stay where you are today. Get some rest.”

“That would be nice,” I said. But something was
nagging at me. I cast my mind back to the events of the previous day, and sat
up in bed. “Oh my God,” I said. “What time is it? I forgot about the car.” I
scanned the room for my clothes.

“What car?” asked Tim. I explained briefly, about
the police pound, about my ankle, and about how I'd ended up at Bart's.

Zara pushed me gently back down again. “You're
staying right here, and I'm staying with you. Tim will get the car, won't you
Tim?”

I looked at him, uncertainly. “Sure,” he said. “Where
are the keys?”

“In my pocket, I think,” I replied, confused,
unsure where my pocket was. I was unable to believe that I could really lie
back and that everything would be taken care of. Tim went over to Zara's desk
and wrote down my registration number.

“My purse,” I said, sitting up again. “It's in the
car - or at least, I hope it is. You'll have to give them my credit card. If
it's there. Oh God.”

“Stop worrying. I’ll sort it out,” said Tim. “Now
relax. Everything's under control.” He picked my jacket up from a chair that
was tucked under the table, fished the keys out of my pocket, and left.

I lifted the bedclothes, and glanced down at
myself. I was wearing a very tight pink nightdress.

“That's one of mine,” said Zara.

“Oh,” I said, worried. “Who undressed me last
night?”

“Me and Tim,” said Zara, dismissively. “Do you
want a cup of tea?”

She caught my expression, and smiled as she got
up. “Don't worry, he's a nurse,” she said. “He's seen it all before.”

I lay my head back on
the pillow. I supposed that made us about even.

We stayed in bed and talked all day, Zara and I, about the
past, the present and the future. I watched her eyes twinkling as she spoke and
recalled the first time I'd met her, up in the bathroom at Larsen’s house, when
she had told me about the stars talking and we had fallen into the bath. It
seemed such a long time ago. And yet up until now I'd known so little about her
deep down, the things that really mattered. As she moved I noticed for the
first time a scar protruding from the sleeve of her nightdress.

“What's that?” I asked her.

Zara pulled up her sleeve to reveal the shiny
traces of a number of incisions, running horizontally across her left forearm. “I
had a difficult time, she said. When I was six.”

“You did that when you were
six
?”

“My mum couldn’t cope. I got taken into care. I
hated it there. It was awful. The matron was just like the nurse on the Neuro
ward. A bully. It was more a kind of release than an attempt at anything else. Some
way I could let go of what I was feeling.”

I thought back to me at six, and it felt like
there was a connection between me and Zara. That was the age I had been when my
father had died in the road in front of me; it was a misty, scary age, when
everything and nothing made sense.

“I didn't really know what was going on,” said
Zara, reading my thoughts. “Except that I thought I was going to be left there
forever, and I thought it was all my fault because my mum didn’t want me home
again.”

She paused. “That's when I started drawing. I've
got a picture somewhere, of me in bed on the dorm. Just lying there. No-one
else around. It's from a funny angle, too. Looking down, as if looking from the
ceiling.”

Zara turned and looked at me for a moment as if I
were someone else, and then the same anxious frown of the night before shadowed
her forehead. “My mum had me too young,” she said after a pause. “She just
wasn’t ready to have a baby.”

“How awful. What about your dad? Did they visit
you?”

“Yes. At first they did. And I begged them to take
me home. But my mum just got upset, and then she stopped coming. I knew by her
reaction that it was my fault,” Zara continued. “I thought I was evil, and I
thought I'd made my mum crack up. There was nothing to say, but be strong for
her, so that hopefully she'd get better and come and visit me.”

“And did she?”

“Well, no. Not really. She had another two babies,
my brother and sister. But things got a bit better for me. I drew a lot,
everything I was feeling. And one of the staff would bring me flowers, that was
really nice, so I drew them too. That was the happy bit.” She waved at the
walls. “Flowers make me feel happy. Then, when I was nine, I came home.”

“What happened then? Was everything okay?”

“I guess,” said Zara. “But the bond was gone. Me
and my mum. We just never bonded. And that’s why I want that…
dream
of
that. That’s why I just so
need
a baby of my own.”

At around midday Zara put her coat on over her
nightdress and went out to get some lunch. Tim returned in the meantime, and
dropped my keys and my purse onto the bed in front of me.

“How much?” I asked.

“I'll tell you later,” he said. “Right now you're
still in shock. We don't want any relapses.”

“That bad?”

“Put it this way,” he grinned. “Don't go planning
any holidays abroad for a while.”

“Tim,” I called, as he left. He turned at the
door. “Thanks. And thanks for last night as well.”

“You're most welcome,” he said, and then hung his
head in mock-modesty. “I like to think I was kind of responsible, in a way.”

I smiled. “Do you always wander around in the
middle of the night with no clothes on?”

“I thought you were Clare,” he said. “My
girlfriend.”

“Oh. I see.”

“Don't worry,” said
Tim. “You're not the only one. Clare nearly passed out too, the first time she
saw me naked.”

Zara came in with a large wooden tray, which she settled
on my lap before she climbed back into bed beside me. On it was a pot of tea
with a woolly cosy on top that looked a bit like the hat she had been wearing
the night before. Also, there was a piece of cold smoked mackerel wrapped in
tin foil, a jar of pickled herrings, two hard-boiled eggs and a packet of
oatcakes.

“And I’ve got these.” She produced a tin from under
the bed and handed it to me.

I pulled the lid off and smiled. “Fairy cakes. Did
you make these?”

“No...”

I took a bite of cake and began to choke. Zara put
down her cup, and walloped me on the back. A piece of cake flew out of my
mouth.

I stared at the bed. “Zara, this cake is green inside.”

“Ah. Don't eat it.” She snatched the remaining
piece out of my hand, put it back in the tin and put the lid on. “Uncle Silbert
made them,” she said, looking at me apologetically. “I'm sorry. I forgot to
check.”

“Uncle Silbert?” I laughed. “Who's Uncle Silbert?”

“He's not really my uncle, I just call him that.
He's one of my old patients from when I was on the district.” Zara smiled at
the cake tin. “He's seventy-six, and he’s got really bad arthritis, but he
still lives on his own. He can't get out, or do much for himself and I don’t
know what’s happened to his family. He says he has a nephew in Hackney Downs,
but I’ve never seen him.”

“Where did he get his name from?” I asked.

“Oh that,” said Zara. “That was a mistake. He was
supposed to be called Gilbert, but they wrote it down wrong on his birth
certificate. One of those funny G's, you know,” she explained. “He's been
Silbert ever since. I still go and visit him, every Sunday,” she added,
grinning and grabbing the teapot from me as it wobbled and hot tea splashed
over my leg. “And fetch him things from the shops.”

“Where does he live?” I asked, dabbing at my leg
with a tissue.

“In a council block, just off Essex road. Would
you like to go and see him?” She looked up at me, hopefully.

“Sure,” I smiled. “Why not?”

“Oh, that's great,” said Zara, looking pleased. “We
could go tomorrow… if you're feeling okay, that is, and if your ankle's a bit
better.”

I smiled. “Tomorrow
will be absolutely fine.”

Uncle Silbert lived on the twelfth floor of a fourteen
storey tower block. I got out of the lift, which smelt of urine, and clung with
vertigo to the metal railings outside while Zara banged on the door and called
through the letter box.

“Uncle Silbert!”

The wind whistled round my ears. When I looked
over the edge at the street below, I felt sick. After several minutes the door
opened. An old man stood stooped behind a walking frame. He was painfully thin.
I could see he had once been tall, but his back was hunched and his frail bones
were knotted with disease. He shuffled backwards in the narrow hallway and
waved us in.

“Zara. My little angel of mercy.” He spoke softly,
his bright blue eyes shifting keenly between the two of us and finally resting
on me. “And who've you brought with you?”

“Hello,” I said. “I'm Lizzie.”

“Uncle Silbert,” said Zara. “This is an old friend
of mine.”

He looked deeply into my eyes. It was an odd
sensation, a bit like deja vu. He reminded me of someone, but I couldn't think
who.

“Hello, my dear,” he said. “Do come in.”

We followed him slowly down the cold hallway to
the kitchen where one ring on the old gas stove was burning. The flat smelled
of dust and pastry. As we passed by open doors I noticed that two of the rooms
were completely empty, apart from some plastic bin-liners and boxes full of
books, which were pushed up against the walls. In the room next to the kitchen,
I could see a single bed against the wall behind the stove. The rest of the
room was also empty, apart from more bin bags and a cardboard box stuffed full
of what looked like old newspapers.

“I sit in here,” said Uncle Silbert, pointing at a
stool by the stove. “It's warmer.”

He lowered himself into a brown leather armchair
with stuffing coming out of the sides, and proceeded to cough convulsively into
his fist for several minutes. Zara stood beside him, rubbing his back, then
folded a blanket over his lap and put the kettle on.

I sat down and studied his face. It was angular
but gentle, and delicately featured with skin the colour of old icing,
stretched tautly over his high cheekbones and aquiline nose. He had narrow pink
lips and a full head of white hair.

“There's some cake there.” He pointed to a tin on
the table. Zara grinned at me and poured the tea. She passed me a plate and a
cup and saucer and sat down on a stool next to Uncle Silbert. She picked up his
hand and held it in hers. I watched them affectionately and played with my
cake, pushing it around on my plate.