At first, conversation was awkward. I introduced Daniel to the others, and it was clear nobody knew what to say. Greg even said that maybe they ought to go. Then, fortunately, Daniel said he’d brought my Sign of the Unicorn, and it was a case of deciding who got it first, and we all talked about books until the end of visiting time when the nurse rang the bell and everyone all had to go. I didn’t ask Daniel if he was able to wait for another hour at visiting time tonight, but he evidently didn’t as it has come and gone with no more sign of him. Still, it was very nice of him to spare me his Sunday afternoon.
The books Greg brought are all my this week’s ILL arrivals, which he stamped out to me in my absence without my cards. He was joking that this was a standard library service, but of course it isn’t. Unfortunately, they’re all hardcovers and terribly difficult to read at this angle. I can hold a paperback above my head sideways in one hand, but not a hardback. I have Mary Renault’s Return to Night and I can’t even read it. Still, just looking at the spine on my table is something.
A week would be until Wednesday. That would be three more days of agony and hell.
A nurse comes round and offers me painkillers every four hours. “Only take them if you’re in pain,” she says. How could anybody be hooked up like this and not be in pain? I take them, but they barely take the edge off.
I’m sleeping really badly, weird dreams and waking up often because of the pain and disturbances in the ward. The sleeping pills, which they insist I take, make me fall asleep but don’t make me stay asleep.
Monday 14th January 1980
Last night, or early this morning, my mother tried the night attack again. I woke up and could not move, and I knew she was in the room, hovering above me. It’s never dark in the ward, there’s always a light at the nurses’ station and little lights along the floor, and someone had their reading light on down at the end. There was enough light that I should have been able to see her, but I couldn’t, only feel her presence very strongly. There was so much pain that I couldn’t think what to do. I tried to remember what had worked last time, and of course it was the Litany Against Fear, so I did that, and it worked again. As I calmed down and got control of myself, I could move, as much as I can anyway on the rack, and then she was gone.
How did she know I was here and vulnerable? Why didn’t my protection spell hold? It shouldn’t make any difference where I am.
I saw Dr. Abdul this morning, for the first time since he hooked me into this contraption last Thursday. He poked at my leg, making me scream, dammit, and said I was coming along well. Then he moved off down the ward to his next patient. I am nothing like so confident that I am coming along well. It feels as if it is making everything worse.
I suppose it might feel like that anyway and be working. He’s a doctor. You have to get three As at A Level to even start to train to be a doctor. (Do they have A Levels in Pakistan? I suppose they might, because they used to be British, they were part of British India when Grampar’s grandmother left there. But did they have A Levels then? Nasreen would know, because her father must have done them.) Well anyway, Dr. Abdul would have had to have got the Pakistani equivalent of three As at A Level before he even started training. He’d have to be clever and diligent and know what he was doing. He wouldn’t strap someone to a contraption just for nothing.
Why does the Litany Against Fear work?
Miss Carroll came in at evening visiting time, with books. They’re more Josephine Tey mysteries, which seem just about right, and paperbacks thank goodness. She says she misses me in the library, and that they mentioned my name in Prayers.
Tuesday 15th January 1980
Still on the rack, and feeling really down.
I’m missing book club, and because I know everyone is there, and Miss Carroll came yesterday, I know I won’t get any visitors.
Grampar and Auntie Teg don’t even know I’m here, or they’d have at least sent a card. So how does my mother know? There’s no magic here. There are no fairies, there’s nothing—I thought school was purged and neutral, but it’s nothing to this hell ward.
I’ve read all the Tey. Brat Farrar is especially good. But what is a pit in Dothan? Is it from the Joseph story?
Only one more day on the rack. I’m starting to wonder if sadists could get three As at A Level, but if Dr. Abdul was a sadist he’d come around and gloat more. It’s clear he’s entirely indifferent. He didn’t look at my face at all, and barely even at my leg, it’s just the x-rays that interested him. I’m trying to see this as a good thing. Three As at A Level is starting to seem like a very small thing to hold so much weight of trust.
Wednesday 16th January 1980
They’re not letting me out until Dr. Abdul sees me, and he doesn’t come in until tomorrow.
At afternoon visiting, Wim came. He brought The Dream Master and Isle of the Dead. He came in wearing a leather jacket and looking really awkward, even more awkward than Daniel did. I was suddenly very aware that I was wearing a stupid hospital gown with stains on it where I’d spilled my food (it’s very hard to eat neatly when horizontal) and that my hair hadn’t been washed for more than a week. I felt touched that he’d come all the way out here to see me, even more so than with the others.
“Greg mentioned last night you were here,” he said. “I thought I’d bring these. Though it looks as if you don’t need them.” He gestured to the piles of books on the bedside table.
“I’ve read most of these,” I said.
He raised his eyebrows.
“There is nothing else at all to do in here,” I said.
“Looks pretty grim,” he agreed. “How’s the food?”
“Awful.”
He laughed. “My mother’s one of the cooks here.”
“I’m sure her food at home is much better,” I said.
“No it isn’t,” he said. “She’s not much of a cook. Though she says herself the food here is appalling, so it must be really bad. That’s why I was asking.”
“It’s not all that different from school food,” I said.
“I’d have thought they’d have fed you well at Arlinghurst, from what they’re charging,” he said.
“So would I, but it’s all awful. Spam and custard.”
“I’ve brought you some NASA astronaut ice cream,” he said, and produced a packet from his pocket.
I held it up where I could see it properly. It was black with a picture of a rocket ship and it did claim to be astronaut ice cream, just like that eaten on the Apollo missions. I looked at Wim in awe. “Everyone else brought grapes. Where did you get this?”
He looked a bit shy, if such a thing is possible. “My cousin brought some back from Florida. He brought quite a few packets, this is the last one. It isn’t that nice, it’s more the idea. I was saving it for an appropriate occasion.”
I stopped turning the packet over and looked right at him. “You have a cousin who went to America?”