‘Francine Snaith.’
Francine moved closer to the woman as she said it, in an attempt at discretion. The woman had a plastic rectangle pinned to her breast with ‘Nurse Rogers’ written on it. She could now see the entire waiting-room from where she stood. Other stout, white figures moved soundlessly around a neat row of chairs on which six or seven young girls sat like novices. At one end of the room was a large glass window, behind which a man sat. The telephone rang and he answered it.
‘How are you feeling, Francine?’ said the nurse.
‘I’m fine.’
‘Any sickness?’
‘No.’
‘Good girl,’ she said, nodding and writing something on her clipboard. ‘Why don’t you just pop over and have a word with John behind the window there, and then you can sit down with the other girls.’
Francine crossed the waiting-room. All of the girls looked up in unison as she passed and she glanced back at them. Their pale, worn faces were eager with recognition, as if urging some sense of community upon her, and she looked away. She stood at the glass and waited while John spoke on the telephone.
‘Right,’ he said, nodding. ‘OK, that’s fine.’
He was young, with dark ruffled hair and a lean face, and when he sensed Francine standing there he looked up, smiling, and raised a patient finger. She saw that he was handsome, and she felt a wrench of frustration at the disagreeable fact of her presence there, the undisguisable nature of its shame.
‘Sorry about that,’ he said cheerfully, putting down the telephone.
‘It’s OK,’ said Francine softly.
‘Name?’
‘Francine.’
‘Francine, Francine,’ he muttered, looking down at a typed list. ‘Francine Snaith, 110 Mill Lane, Kilburn, London. That you?’
‘Yes.’ She smiled.
‘Well, Francine, we’re running a bit late this morning, but you should be called in about half an hour. All right?’
‘That’s fine.’
Francine leaned on the counter, closer to the glass, and he looked up. An expression of surprise flitted across his face and he looked back down at his page.
‘Let’s see. Right, how will you be getting back to Kilburn?’
She hesitated, unprepared for his question and flattered by the concern it implied.
‘I don’t really know.’ She wondered if he would offer to take her home himself.
‘Oh. Well, we normally recommend that patients take a taxi home afterwards rather than public transport. Could you give me the name of the person who’s coming to collect you?’
Francine was silent. A wave of nausea mounted in her stomach and hovered trembling.
‘Nobody.’
He didn’t say anything for a moment, his pen poised.
‘What about your boyfriend?’ he said finally, without looking up.
‘I don’t have one.’
‘What about this name you gave to your doctor? Ralph Loman, is he not your boyfriend?’
‘No.’
‘Is there a friend you could call?’
‘No.’
He raised his head slowly and looked directly into her eyes. His gaze was evaluating, calculating not her assets but her lack of them. She knew that he felt sorry for her. The small office in which he sat was bright and ordered. He raised a hand to his chin and she saw the mocking glitter of a wedding band on his finger.
‘Nobody at all?’ he said.
‘No,’ she said, hating him.
Janice had been meant to come, but that morning, when Francine had opened the door to her darkened bedroom, Janice had called out from beneath a mound of covers that she didn’t feel like it. Her voice had been irritable, and the room had smelt thick and sour. The night before, the woman who owned the boutique where Janice worked had come to the flat and demanded to speak to her. Francine had heard her shouting behind the closed sitting-room door, her voice interspersed with Janice’s indecipherable murmurs.
‘You’re lucky I’ve decided not to take this any further!’ she had said several times, while Francine sat alone in the kitchen. Finally the door had flown open and the woman had marched past her without saying anything. When she had left, Francine had gone into the sitting-room. Janice was sitting on the sofa, smoking a cigarette.
‘What’s happened?’
‘Silly cow gave me the sack,’ said Janice, sucking in smoke. ‘Silly bitch.’
Francine asked her why, but she wouldn’t say.
‘Doesn’t matter,’ she said. Her face was ugly, abandoned by expression like a room after a party. ‘I’m not worried. I’ve got other sources.’
‘I wish I did,’ said Francine.
Her job at Lancing & Louche had finished a week ago. Lynne had been odd about it, her voice unfriendly on the telephone. When Francine went to the agency to collect her money the receptionist said that Lynne was in a meeting and gave her the cheque herself. She had called once or twice after that, but the receptionist had told her that there wasn’t anything for her, and when Lynne finally called it was to say that she was very sorry but they were going to have to take her off their books.
‘Do you?’ said Janice, suddenly giving her a cool, appraising look; a look which reminded Francine of the looks men usually gave her. Janice looked at her for a long time. It made her nervous. ‘I might be able to help you out,’ she said finally, sending a long finger of smoke towards her.
‘You’d better sit down,’ said John. His manner was disengaged. ‘One of the nurses will let you know when they’re ready.’
Francine turned and saw that the other girls’ eyes were still on her. Their gaze was unembarrassed, knowing. There was an empty chair at the end of their row, but she walked past it and sat on one opposite. Eventually their eyes dropped to their laps, except those of a girl with long red hair who sat directly across from Francine. She was staring at a point above Francine’s head. She looked young, like a child. Francine saw that her face was filled with immediate terror, as if someone was about to attack her. She looked away abruptly, skirting along the row until her eyes fixed on a very fat girl slumped in a chair to her left. The girl’s face was vast and pasty, the bumps of her features resembling the deformities of vegetables, sly potato eyes, a lumpy tuber nose. She sat miserably with her legs apart, her thighs melting over the sides of the chair like warm cheese. Francine stared at her, trying to imagine the coupling which had brought her here, the kisses on her doughy breasts. The thought repelled her. She wondered how someone could have chosen that girl, selected her from others, and felt her own mysteries crumble and spoil.
‘Miss Franklin?’ called a nurse, coming into the waiting area.
The young red-haired girl shot to her feet and Francine was disconcerted to see that large, childish tears were rolling down her cheeks. An older woman whom Francine hadn’t noticed stood up beside her and gently put an arm around her shoulders, whispering something in her ear. Her hair was red too, streaked with grey, and she realized to her amazement that the woman must be her mother. A gorge of jealousy rose to her mouth.
‘Come on, love,’ said the nurse softly, taking her by the hand. ‘Don’t worry, you’ll be fine.’
The girl strained like an animal, resisting her hand, and for the first time Francine felt a bolt of fear fly through her. She gripped her bag, seeing herself quite clearly running from the room, her feet echoing down the empty corridors, out into the car park past impervious porters and sleeping ambulances, melting into the busy pavement along which waiting traffic throbbed. The singularity of her imprisonment erected its swift bars around her and she struggled against them as her thoughts reasoned her back into the room like diplomats. There was no escape from that which ticked like a bomb inside her, that which her enemies had implanted and she was entrusting those around her to remove. She calmed herself with thoughts of the purge which would free her, the gratifying image of Ralph, Stephen, the hungry blockage in her belly, the confusing maelstrom of her past, all of it sucked mechanically from her, leaving her new and gleaming, a vacuum to be filled with delightful, unknown things. She had been told it wouldn’t hurt. It didn’t matter anyway. Her body felt heavy and used, sluggish with nausea and mistakes. She almost looked forward to its cleansing. Afterwards she would begin again.