The Cutting Room (24 page)

`I’m sure you all dealt well with the situation. I’m sorry I wasn’t here to deal with it myself. It couldn’t be avoided.’

`Aye.’ His tone told me he doubted it.

`I’m just trying to establish the facts.’

He sighed wearily. `She came out of that office on the

ground floor, eleven o’clock or thereabouts. Maybe she felt

no well and wanted to get help, I don’t know.’

Jimmy James’s hands were linked together on his lap. I

looked at them as he talked. Their skin was too loose. Waxy

folds and puckers, criss-crossed by vulnerable, raised veins.

Some other, larger man’s hands, stolen, husked, wrinkled on

like ill-fitting gloves and topped by chipped, nicotined nails.

When he died I could polish those nails and pass them as

tortoiseshell.

`She had a funny turn in the hallway. Luckily a couple of

the boys were shifting some stuff out the front door. They put a rug over her and called the hospital.’

`She collapsed??

‘It’d be no surprise if she came back in a box.’

`That’s right, Jimmy, look on the bright side.’

`You didn’t see her. I did. She wasn’t an advertisement for

health.’

He took a soiled hanky from his pocket and blew his nose. I wondered if he was thinking of his own mortality.

He looked up at me. `What’ll this do to the sale??

‘I don’t know. It could blow it.’ I banged the heel of my

palm against the seat in frustration, thinking of more than the sale. An opportunity lost. `It depends how bad she is. If she comes to and still wants to go ahead, there’s no reason why

not. She’s of sound mind. If not, I suppose we have to wait

and see. Find out who the next of kin are. Take it from there.

I should have known it was too bloody good to be true. What

hospital is she in?’

`The Infirmary. The ambulance fella said you could phone

later if you want to see how she’s getting on.’

`I’ll do that.’

He shifted from the seat, rubbing his back with his hands as he stood.

`Aye, well, it comes to us all. Anyway, I’ve done my bit.

You coming with us or are you stopping?’

`I’ll stay a while.’

`Please yourself.’ He gave the room one last look. `I dinnae envy you, though. This place gives me the creeps.’

I stood for a moment by the window. Jimmy tottered

down the front steps, ejected Niggle from the passenger seat of the Luton and hauled himself in. I watched as the van

drove on, leaving Niggle on the pavement. The boy ran

after it, shouting, catching up, banging on the doors as it

slowed, then shouting again as it picked up speed. I could

imagine Jimmy James inside, moaning at the driver. Finally

the boys tired of their sport and the van reversed, back

doors opening. Nile’s laughing mates dragged him in and

it disappeared over the hill.

I inspected the first floor. My boots echoed from room to

room, along the hallway, then back again. I fingered the key to the attic, walked to the window and looked out at the

approaching night. Nothing there, just the accusing fingers of branches pitching in the wind, pointing towards the house,

towards the man at the window, me.

Silence.

I wished that I had resealed the envelope and put it back in the box where I had found it. Let some other sod worry about it. Or not worry at all, light a match, touch flame to paper, watch it curl, the image brown, flake into cold ash. I

wondered at my obsession, thought about the girl lying dead

on her pallet and another woman, dead long ago, who I had

tried to help without hope of success. I thought about people I’

knew. Strange to feel more for the dead than for the living.

But then the dead stayed the same, the dead didn’t judge.

They loved you through eternity, even though they couldn’t

put their firms round you and heaven didn’t exist.

When the inspection was complete, I sat on the floor of the

empty bedroom, smoking, looking up at the attic.

I wondered vaguely about calling Derek and inviting him

for a drink. If I did, would he come? If he came, would it be anything more than a drink?

After a while there were no more cigarette papers. I turned

off the lights and walked from the darkness of the house into the dark of the night.

In the Shadow of the Necropolis

A SHADOW HORIZON OF half-tumbled monuments and mausoleums

formed the backdrop to the Royal Infirmary. The

Necropolis. Glasgow’s first `hygienic cemetery’, established in the early nineteenth century, designed to avoid the spread of cholera and a slippage of corpses from ill-dug graves, which had become a city scandal. A convenient stroll across the

Bridge of Sighs from the hospital. John Knox pointed down at us sinners from his vantage point high on the hill, `next only to God’. I gave him a V sign and steered the van into the hospital courtyard.

The Royal Infirmary is a typical Victorian hospital. Seven

glowering, soot-blasted storeys, criss-crossed by perilous fire escapes. Up on the high balconies silhouettes shifted. One

pinpoint red glow, followed by another. Patients, shrouded in dressing gowns, smoking, watching my progress, cursing my

health.

I went into a public toilet and attempted to clean myself

up. A man in a suit lingered at the urinal. He turned before zipping himself away, giving me a could-possibly-be-mistaken-for-carelessness glimpse of his member. I nodded towards

the large vanity mirror covering the wall of the attendant’s booth. A lot of vanity for one small toilet. Two-way glass,

erected for the benefit of a wanking attendant, or idle police. I blotted what dust I could from my suit, washed my face and

left.

I had bought a bunch of cellophaned chrysanthemums in the

hospital shop, but wasn’t sure how appropriate they were. An efficient voice, crackling of starched linen, had asked over the telephone if I was a relative. When I confirmed that, yes, I was a nephew, it had told me that Miss McKindless was `comfortable, but very poorly’.

The voice had told me visiting times, then curtly excused

itself, replacing the receiver before I could inquire what

`comfortable, but poorly’ meant.

Attempts had been made to make the interior of the

hospital look cheerful. The walls of the public area were

lined with bright wallpaper, floral patterns; yellow daisies on blue stripes, blue irises-against yellow gingham, topped, tailed and bisected by decorative borders. The paper wasn’t bearing up well: it edged away from the walls, curling in the heat. The old hospital was breaking through. Asserting its dark self,

pushing away this unsuccessful graft. I joined a tired queue of visitors waiting for the elevator. A jumble of no particular age or class, brought together by disease. We shuffled into the

confinement of the lift, coats and hands brushing, touching for an instant, so close we could smell each other; a taint of

sweat, a sweet whisper of scent. An old man backed onto my

foot and murmured, `Sorry, son.’ He had just visited a

barber. White hairs speckled the back of his collar. Trying

to look smart, to reassure someone - himself? - that he could cope alone. I watched an orange light edge across a row of

numbers. There was a percussive ping and the doors breathed

open. Caught in the frame, a porter and a man in a wheelchair.

The man looked like death. He looked like me.

He smiled and said, `Don’t worry, I’m not in a hurry,’ then

laughed.

The porter laughed with him and doors hissed to. A girl’s

long hair brushed against my lips. People shuffled out in dribs and drabs, at different landings, eyes lowered, afraid that in this building of hard truths and fluorescence too much might be revealed.

I reached the ward and held the door open for a departing

visitor. The shambling figure was vaguely familiar. A shrunken old man, shabby cap pulled low, dark suit that had seen

better days - some time around the 1940s, judging from the

cut. He was struggling with an old-fashioned cardboard case.

It took me a second to place him, then I recognised the

gardener glimpsed at the McKindless house on my first visit.

I introduced myself. `Hello. I think we’re visiting the same person. I’m Rilke, the auctioneer handling Mr McKindless’s

estate.’

He looked confused and I felt sorry for him, wondered how

many friends he had visited in hospital, how many funerals he had attended, each one bringing his own closer. I held out my hand. He gave it a weak shake.

`Grieve, Mr Grieve. I did the garden.’

`How is she??

‘Poorly. Sleeping now.’

His accent came from another era. A less complicated

time. He waved his hand in dismissal and lifted the case with effort. I wondered what was in it.

`Hang on.’ I followed him. `Here, let me give you a hand

with that.’

`It’s no bother.’

He struggled on towards the lift.

`Honestly, if Miss McKindless is asleep there’s no rush. I’ll get this to a taxi for you.’

The lift arrived and I took the case from him, ending the

argument. The visiting-time crowds were cloistered in the

wards. We descended down the floors alone.

`So did you know Mr McKindless long?? ‘A fair time.’

I thought I saw the ghost of a smile.

`How was he to work for??

‘He could be very demanding at times. But that’s all in the

past for me.’

‘Retirement at last?’

He looked well past retirement. Withered and benevolent,

almost as old as Miss McKindless.

`Aye, though to be honest it’s not entirely voluntary.’

His tenacity was admirable.

`Time to concentrate on your own garden, perhaps?? ‘My gardening days are over. I’m retiring in style. There’s a wee nest egg coming to me, then I’m away to the sun. This

climate’s no good for old bones.’

`Good for you.’

I helped him to a taxi, admiring his strength of character,

hoping his nest egg would come through, wondering if I

would ever make old bones.

Back at the ward the duty sister eyed me with suspicion. If

she had been a maitre d’ she would have given me a thin smile

and sent me on my way. I could see her point. The bloodstain had faded to black, but it was a stain nevertheless. Stubborn smudges of dust and stoor still clung to my suit, and my

cowboy boots bore the mud of Steenie’s lane. Add to that the mad look I seemed to be developing around the eyes and I

didn’t blame her one bit.

I identified myself as Miss McKindless’s visiting nephew

and inquired about her health. Sister still looked like she

would prefer me fumigated, stripped and on the operating

table, but she pursed her lips and resisted the temptation.

`She’s not well at all, I’m afraid. A heart attack’s no joke at her age.’ Then, as if she suddenly doubted me. `You are the

next of kin?

I faltered, afraid of giving myself away. `Yes. I suppose I

am. My uncle died recently. Prior to that it would have been him.I

‘I see.’ She made an attempt at a sympathetic expression,

then gave up. `Well, I’ll need you to sign some forms before you go. Just a formality. We have to know who to contact

should there be any need.’

`Do you anticipate need?

The nurse spoke with self-conscious patience. `Your aunt is

a very old lady. She’s had a heart attack, and one is often

followed soon after by a second, so we’ll be keeping a good

eye on her. She’s had a major shock to her system, so don’t be surprised if she rambles a bit. Bear with her and don’t let her see you upset. She’s been sleeping a lot, which is good. Gives the body time to heal itself. If you find her asleep just sit quietly for a while. She’ll no doubt be glad to see you when she wakes up.’

Miss McKindless lay dormant. A negative of the woman I

had met three days ago. Her lips were bloodless; pale and

vanishing. Skin bleached powdery white, except for around

her eyes where a waxy indigo smeared the lids above and

below. A Kabuki player interrupted at make-up. Clear solution meandered through plastic tubing and into her arm. An

inch of tannin-coloured urine gathered in a transparent pouch hanging beneath the bed. The thin body lay still beneath the sheets. The coffin-shaped hump of a neglected grave mound.

Her hands rested on top of the covers. Purple bruises spread beneath the knuckles where someone had tried for blood. She

looked vulnerable, almost transparent. If her cotton nightdress were opened at the breast, her red heart might just be visible, a dark, bloody jewel, still trembling from shock, beating back in time beneath flaking, translucent skin.

The same scene repeated itself around the ward, a timeless

image, recurring over like a distorted mirror-carousel, a

family grouped round a bed. Nativity or death? From a

distance it was hard to tell. I watched them. Normal-looking people. Punters, we called them, thinking ourselves different, better. I tried to imagine myself working in an office,

travelling home to a warm hearth, children, a salary at the

end of the month, pension for old age. It was too difficult; the image refused to appear.

I took a seat and placed the flowers on the cabinet beside

her. It felt strange watching her asleep, intrusive. A lot had happened since the day we met. My last sane day. I wondered