16

Sunday 22 May 1983 et seq

Her crushed wrist having been cleaned, her wedding ring having been removed, X-rays having been taken, and dressings having been applied, Chaite is taken to a room off the corridor leading to the orthopaedic ward where an orthopod comes to see her – or rather her wrist.

She – or rather her wrist – is no candidate for microsurgery. There’s nothing to do but wait and see if it’s viable.

Chaite's night is far from comfortable; her left arm elevated, a drip dripping, a miasma of pain. Night turns into day. Chaite is dimly aware of activity around her; her heightened hearing receives squeals, pistol shots, the clangour as of a campanile, people shrieking at the tops of their voices – in reality, they’re just going about their ordinary business in the ordinary way.

Nurses appear and disappear, bedpans slip in and out, she is fed, she exists in a half world where nature seems dead; where there is no proper distinction between day and night; visions constantly change, her dead parents come and see her, in the room the people come and go, murmuring at and about her.

But above all there is the nagging pain, the pain that will not ease for one moment, the pain that first visited, excruciatingly and exquisitely, on Saturday afternoon.

It is Monday morning; apprised by telephone, Mercia is sitting by Chaite’s bed. In comes a young doctor: ‘Good morning ... this is your sister, I understand?’

‘Yes ...?’

‘I’m Dr Bendall, Mr Moreton-Smith’s registrar. I’d like to take a look at her ... Would you mind ...?’

Mercia gives Chaite’s right hand a squeeze, goes out into the corridor, wanders aimlessly up and down, admiring the view from the window – a vast expanse of brickwork. Eventually a nurse appears: ‘Would you like to come back in?’

‘Thank you ... who’s Mr Moreton-Smith?’

‘He’s our orthopaedic consultant. He’s looking after your sister’

Mercia returns to the bedside: ‘How ...’

‘Your sister’s wrist isn’t going to get any better – the bruising’s massive; the blood supply to her hand seems to be very poor. We could wait another twenty-four hours, but I’m afraid there’s probably only one thing we can do’

Mercia thinks she can guess what that is. Can Chaite?

‘Please ... please ...’

Mercia is shocked: ‘Are you sure?’

‘Even if we can save her hand, she’ll not he able to use it. She’ll probably be in constant pain. It’ll be much better if ...’

‘But you think it might improve in the next twenty-four hours?’

Dr Bendall avoids the truth: ‘We’ll have to wait for Mr Moreton-Smith’s opinion’

‘Are you sure ...?’

‘If we are able to save her hand, it’ll be useless to her ... whereas she could have a very useful artificial one ...’

‘But ...’

‘... They can do marvellous things these days ... putting men on the moon ... they can certainly fit your sister up with a new arm ...’

‘Arm?’

‘Well ... hand; it’ll fit on at the elbow, and it’ll be far better than what she’ll have now. Perhaps you could talk to her ...’

He goes out.

‘Chaite?’

‘What?’

‘Can you hear me? Did you hear that?’

‘They’re going to stop the pain’

‘Yes ... yes, that’s what he said’

‘And make it as good as new’

Mercia thinks that Chaite understands more than she does.

The registrar returns: ‘We’ll have to ask her to sign a consent form for the operation’

‘Yes ... yes’

Now Mercia isn't sure: ‘What if she doesn’t understand it?’

‘Then her next of kin will have to sign on her behalf’

‘You mean I’ll have to ...?’

‘Is she married?’

‘Well ...’

‘Then her next of kin will be her husband’

Mercia comes back hurriedly: ‘That’s all theoretical. You do understand it, don’t you, Chaite?’

‘Ye-es’

‘Right. Could you sign here, please ... [why does he shout so?] ... you’d better use your right hand ... [I can’t use the other hand, stupid] ... just here’

‘I’m signing so that you can stop the pain?’

‘Yes’

Liar.

Chaite makes a Chi and a squiggle.

‘You’ve signed with an X – ha-ha’

What the hell’s he laughing at?

‘It’s a Chi – a Greek Chi’

‘Oh, very good ...’

He’s not listening, is he? He nods and leaves the room.

A nurse hovers.

Mercia bends down and kisses Chaite: ‘Bye bye for now... I’ll see you ... later. Good luck’

Mercia can think of nothing else to say. She leaves with tears in her eyes. At the door she turns, but Chaite doesn't seem to be looking. Mercia blows her nose noisily into her handkerchief; leans against the wall of the corridor for support, head a-swim.

‘Come and sit down’

‘Oh ... thank you’

She allows herself to be steered – with her eyes shut – into a staff room with a kitchen unit and institutional easy chairs; she sits.

‘Can I get you a coffee?’

‘Yes please ... black, no sugar’

She hears the kettle being filled, the sound of the coffee jar, the tintinabulation of spoons in mugs.

Her saviour sits down while the kettle boils; she wears a label:

Nione Wood – Occupational Therapist.

 ‘Ny-oh-knee. Have you been visiting?’

‘Yes – my sister Chaite. She’s just signed a thing ... to have her hand ...’

‘Ah yes. It’ll be the best thing. I’ve seen Chaite; I’II be looking after her when she gets her new hand’

‘If it comes to that ...’

The kettle switches itself off; Nione makes coffee; hands Mercia her mug; sits down. Mercia feels that if anyone is going to make things better, it’s Nione. If Mercia were a newly-hatched chick, they’d call it imprinting.

‘Have they explained what they’re going to do?’

‘Well ... just that they’re thinking about amputating Chaite’s hand to stop the pain’

‘It’s not just to stop the pain – even if her wrist healed, it wouldn’t be much use to her. Do you know how it happened?’

‘No ... I just got a phone call from Roy – that’s her husband – and he said that Chaite had had an accident, and told me where she was – here – and said he was going away for a bit. Then he rang off’

‘I see. It happened at home, do you think?’

‘I don’t know. I can’t imagine how it happened ... I just don’t know.

Will they – you – really be able to give her another hand?’

‘Oh yes ... we can give her a hand which’ll enable her to do things ... and it’ll look quite good’

Mercia’s vision of Chaite’s new hand is different from Nione’s – utterly bionic; an almost perfect replacement. Talking about it in such a matter-of-fact and positive way is making her feel better; calming her down; making it a little easier to accept the earth-shattering loss her sister is suffering: ‘Did you know she’s left handed?’

‘What? No. I haven’t got that far. But she’ll easily learn to write with her other hand’

‘She’ll be forced to, won’t she?’

‘Well ... you can write with an artificial hand, but you don’t get the fine control ... what’s her job, by the way? She said something about a saleroom’

‘She looks after James Sellis’s auctions – you know, the auctioneer and estate agent. She really got it going, really’

‘Does she need two hands for that?’

‘No-o-o ... it’s quite supervisory, I think. But they might not want her back’

‘Ah. There’s no reason why they shouldn’t ... she could start back in a couple of months – if she’s strong. If she can take it slowly’

‘Well ... that might take a little longer ... but ... three or four months, perhaps’

‘And when will she be out of here?’

‘Oh ... certainly in a couple of weeks, I’d say’

Nione can see that Mercia is in a more hopeful state than when she found her. She looks at her watch: ‘I’m awfully sorry, but I’ll have to go soon. But we’ll meet again. Who’s going to look after your sister when she’s discharged, by the way?’

‘Well ... I’ve no idea what’s happened to Roy. And Cepha – that’s our other sister – ’s got four young children. I guess it’ll have to be me. I can do it. Luckily, I’ve got time’

Nione rises; so does Mercia. They shake hands squeezingly.

‘Thank you for being so kind. I’m fine now. We’ll meet again’

Nione starts to tidy up as Mercia leaves the room, turning in the doorway with a smile and a thank you.

Mercia decides against going back to see Chaite. She does not know that she’s just missed Chaite passing down the corridor on her way to theatre; Mr Moreton-Smith has decided to operate. Mercia turns towards the lifts. The doors of the lift bearing Chaite upwards close just as Mercia arrives in the vestibule.

Mercia arrives home; immediately rings Cepha:

‘Hello’

‘Oh, Cepha ... [Mercia’s voice trembles] ... I think Chaite’s going to lose her hand’

‘WHAT? Say that again’

‘I said Chaite’s going to lose her hand. They won’t be able to save it, I know they won’t’

‘They can’t do that to her. I won’t let them – what’s the number? I’ll ... soon ...’

‘CEPHA. Don’t be silly. Her hand’s all dead, and so will she be if they don’t ... anyway, she’s in terrible pain, and she’s signed the form’

Mercia sees the scene from above, like a split-screen film – Chaite’s elder and younger sisters holding their telephone receivers, discussing her fate, regardless of the fact that the great Juggernaut Hospital has it all under remorseless and irreversible control.

‘When will she be out again? And where will she go?’

‘Poor little Chaite ... what’ll happen to her?’

‘She could be back at work in a couple of months – Nione says. And they’ll be able to give her a new hand so that she can do things – Nione says’

‘Right. So what’s to be done now?’

‘Well, I’ll ring James Sellis ... And I’ll ring the hospital this evening, and let you know if there’s any news’

‘OK then. Chaite ... I just can’t get over it ...’

They talk a little more; then sever the sororial link.

Now Mercia rings James Sellis: ‘It’s Mercia here – Chaite’s sister’

‘Oh yes? How is she now?’

‘I’m afraid she’s going to lose her hand’

‘Oh ... that is bad news. Poor girl. Is there anything I can do ...?’

‘Well ... I’m not sure ...’

‘When will she be able to come back to work?’

Mercia’s heart leaps: ‘Oh ... Mr Sellis ... you won’t be getting someone else?’

‘Replace Chaite? Impossible – even if ... No, you tell her I want her back just as soon as she’s able to come. That’ll give her something to look forward to’

‘That’s really good news, Mr Sellis. I’ve been talking to the occupational therapist, and she thinks Chaite might be able to get back to you in a couple of months. Perhaps. It all depends’

‘Two months. June, July ... it’s usually quieter in the Summer. We’ll manage until she can ... tell her not to worry. When can we come and see her?’

‘I’m not sure ... I’ll let you know when she’s ready for visitors ... I’ll keep in touch’

‘Thank you, Mercia. Now, is there anything else I can do ...?’

‘Not that I can think of ... Keeping Chaite’s job open is ... If there’s anything else, I’ll certainly ...’

‘Right. Good bye, then – and give Chaite all our best wishes’

‘I will – good bye’

‘Good bye’

Mercia hangs up. Ending a conversation with James Sellis can be very difficult.

Then she forces herself to her desk and tries to concentrate on editing the next chapter of The physical and economic geography of the EEC. But she can’t concentrate, and decides to go for a walk round the common.

Mercia is sitting on a bench on the common watching the children playing on the roundabout and swings. All the time, she is thinking of Chaite; wondering whether there’s a chance that they’ll be able to save her hand; whether perhaps it’s all a bad dream.

Her mind turns to the operation; she has some vague vision of the central figure of Mr Moreton-Smith, surrounded by lesser mortals, crowding round Chaite; everyone and everything swathed in green sterility. The anaesthetist sits, caringly professional; Mr Moreton-Smith calls for various instruments and implements of which she doesn’t like to think; the clink of stainless steel trays and bowls, professional murmurings ... the scene changes to a comic shadow operation, strings of sausages being removed, hammers, pliers, saws ... saws ...

Drain and sutures; gauze and padding; splint and bandages.

The green anaesthetist administers a brachial plexus block:

‘That’ll keep her arm numb for twenty-four hours ...’

Chaite is moved to the recovery room.

Mercia looks at her watch. It’s nearly half-past five; where has the day gone? And tomorrow ... Did Mercia but know it, Chaite has been out of theatre for nearly an hour; is now on her way back to the orthopaedic ward.

Now Mercia feels a great relief on Chaite’s behalf; she believes it’s telepathic, and sees Chaite out of pain and sleeping cherubically, a Mona Lisa smile. Unable to bear the suspense any longer, she trots home and rings the hospital.

‘Orthopaedic Ward, Staff Nurse Potts’

‘It’s – I’m enquiring about Chaite Slatterthwaite – it’s her sister here’

‘Ah ... She’s just arrived back on the ward ... The amputation went well, and she’s comfortable’

‘The WHAT? I thought they hadn’t decided ... They were going to decide tomorrow. If they decided to do it at all’

‘No ... Mr Moreton-Smith had her on his list for this afternoon’

‘Oh ... oh ... When can I see her?’

‘I don’t think I should come to-night ... I should ring tomorrow morning; you ought to be able to come in any time after ten o’clock’

‘Yes, I will. What’s your name again?’

‘Mercia. Thank you, then. Goodbye’

Chaite stirs in the night. A nurse is looking down at her. Chaite looks up. Her left arm feels as though it’s gripped in a vice: ‘These bandages are awfully tight’

The nurse smiles professionally: ‘Don’t worry – it’ll wear off’

‘Seriously, can’t you loosen them a bit?’

‘Not yet. Try to get some more sleep. It’ll get better, I promise you’

Chaite feels too tired to argue. She knows she’s reached some sort of turning point in her life, but can’t quite think what it can be. Somewhere a telephone rings. She hears the nurse moving away. Her whole body feels as though it belongs to someone else; she has no motor control; she can think about moving, but is too weary to put the thoughts into practice. With a superhuman effort, she moves her right hand to explore those tight bandages. The bandaging seems enormous. Now everything springs sharply into focus – ‘like black crenellations against a cloudless sky’ she thinks. Where is her left hand? It couldn’t be ... she wiggles her fingers inside the tight bandage ... No, that’s all right. She drifts off to sleep again.

Tuesday morning; Mercia rings the hospital to find that Chaite has had ‘a comfortable night’ and that she can come in at ten. So at ten o’clock on the dot Mercia emerges from the lift, fearful of what she will see. But she must be strong – she’s Chaite’s sister, and she’s going to look after her when she comes out of here.

Mercia makes her way to the room where Chaite was yesterday; her heart misses a beat, for the occupant of the bed is in traction ... but it’s not Chaite; it’s one of those old ladies with wispy white hair and pale sunken cheeks who seem to exist only in institutions. Mercia tiptoes away; finds a nurse: ‘I’ve come to see my sister – Chaite’

The nurse points: ‘That room there’

It’s a four-bed unit; only one bed is occupied.

Mercia kisses Chaite on the forehead. She is surprised at how small Chaite looks – as though they’ve put her into an enormous bed for a joke.

She can’t help looking at Chaite’s left arm, hugely swathed in padding and bandages, supported on a board ... it looks ... perhaps they’ve been able to save her hand after all.

Chaite wakes.

‘Fine – but the bandages are a bit tight. I’ll be out of here soon’

Mercia doesn’t want to remind Chaite of her condition, but wonders whether the pain has gone with the hand: ‘How do you feel ... in yourself?’

What the hell does that mean?

‘As I said, fine, except that the bandages are a bit tight. I asked the nurse to loosen them, but she said it was best to leave things as they are for the moment’

‘I met Nione Wood yesterday. She’s the occupational therapist who’s going to help you with your new arm’

This means different things to Chaite and Mercia.

‘Good. Perhaps she’ll be able to loosen the bandages – I can wiggle my fingers again now – the pain’s gone’

It dawns on Mercia that Chaite has chosen not to accept what has happened. She’s at a loss for words. Chaite continues: ‘It’s marvellous what they can do these days – I should be back to normal ... very soon’

Mercia gulps: ‘Good ... and I’ve got some good news for you; I spoke to James Sellis yesterday, and he’s looking forward – very forward – to you getting back to work as soon as you can. He’ll probably come and see you this weekend’

‘What day is it today?’

‘Tuesday’

‘Tuesday. How long have I been here?’

You came in on Saturday. This’ll be the ... third day’

‘Oh. Well, I’ll be out tomorrow, I expect. Or the next day. And back to work next week. That’s not too bad’

‘I’m not sure ...’

‘There’s nothing wrong with me, you know – once I get these bandages off’

‘Ah. Well ... er .... would you like to come and stay with me for a bit when you do come out? I’d like to help you ... help you to get really properly better’

Chaite smiles: ‘Thanks – I’d like that ... little sister’

It’s years since she’s called Mercia that.

‘How are you Chaite?’

It’s Cepha.

‘Fine; I’ll be out of here very soon’

‘Well ...’

‘I’m not sure that it’s as easy as that’

‘Nonsense. There’s nothing wrong with me, you know ... once I get these bandages off’

‘Chaite ... they weren’t able to repair your hand’

‘Yes, they’re awfully clever at that sort of thing’

‘Chaite, Humpty, THEY CAN’T PUT YOU TOGETHER AGAIN. I’m afraid you’ve got to face it – YOU’VE LOST YOUR HAND’

‘Don’t be silly; it’s under these bandages’

It’s so easy to be ill in hospital. Chaite loses track of time: eating, dozing, Nione Wood, visitors coming and going, especially Mercia. Doctors and nurses. Curtains drawn round; dressings removed, drain removed; new dressings; drip removed; doctors’ rounds; physiotherapist keeping her shoulder and elbow working. Chaite's body focuses on the time of the next blessed injection; she becomes an instant junkie. Her mind focuses on the routine, trying to eliminate the time until the next spell of relief; she has no cognisance of life before – or after – pain.

It seems to go on for ever, but in reality it’s Friday morning when Chaite awakes and comes to terms with what’s happened.

‘Ah-ah-ah-ow-ow-ow-oo!’

She rings the bell. A nurse comes silently and swiftly.

‘My hand’s gone’

‘Yes ... Mr Moreton-Smith thought it was the best thing’

‘Why didn’t he tell me?’

Defensive nurse: ‘I’m sure Mr Moreton-Smith and Dr Bendall both discussed it with you. And you signed the form’

‘Did they? Did I? Did my sister know?’

‘I ...’

‘I want to see her. I want to see my sister Mercia – when’s she coming?’

‘She’ll be in this afternoon as usual, I expect’

Mercia arrives; is intercepted by the nurse: ‘Your sister’s been asking for you. I think she’s ... sitting up and taking notice to-day’

‘That’s good. Is Nione coming in?'

‘She usually comes round in the mornings, but I’ll give her a ring and see if ...’

She dematerialises; Mercia finds Chaite sitting in a chair by the bed, her bandaged stump propped up on a pillow. She wishes she could think of something to say other than: ‘How are you today?’

Chaite ignores the question: ‘Did you know my hand had gone?’

‘Did we? Did we? Why did you let them do it? How am I going to ...?’

Chaite bursts into tears. Mercia tries not to feel guilty at suppressing information she suspected all along that Chaite had not possessed. Suddenly, Chaite stops crying. She has clanged the past into one of her safe deposit boxes; welded the lid firmly shut.

The registrar arrives: ‘I’m Doctor Bendall, Mr Moreton-Smith’s registrar’

The nurse explains that Mercia is Chaite’s sister, and will be looking after her when she’s discharged from hospital.

It’s almost as though cveryone has forgotten Monday’s conversation.

‘Oh, that’s very good news. Your sister’s coming along fine, just fine. We’ll soon have her back to normal again ... [Will you? How?] ... You can take her over to see my colleague in ALAC next week – staff nurse’ll make an appointment. He’ll fit her up with another arm and she’ll be as good as new’

‘What, next week?’

‘Well ... it’ll take a little longer than that, but he’ll soon have her back to normal. Yes. Is there anything she wants to ask me?’

‘Well ... you’d better ask Chaite that. I think she’s with us’

Chaite can pick up the mockery in Mercia’s voice; it’s lost on Dr Bendall.

‘There are two things’

Dr Bendall turns to Chaite in surprise: ‘Oh? What?’

‘Why’s my arm so short? I thought it was only my wrist that was damaged’

‘Well ... we’re going to fit you up with a new arm’

‘So?’

‘So there’s got to be room for the wrist mechanism in your new arm. You only need a short stump – just enough for the muscles to work. Fourteen centimetres below the elbow, that’s best. You won’t need any more’

‘Oh ...’

‘What’s the other thing you wanted to ask?’

‘Er ... What’s ALAC?’

‘ALAC? Oh ... ALAC ... the Artificial Limb and Appliance Centre. It’s in another building on the site. Your sister will be able to take you over’

Dr Bendall moves away to spread more sweetness, light and misplaced hope. Chaite murmurs: ‘Take me over’

Mercia whispers: ‘It’s a take-over’

On Saturday, Chaite wakes with a palindrome churning in her head; now she’s awake, she can’t quite get it right. She thinks hard ... what is it ... ? A man, a plan, a canal – Panama! That’s it ... Ferdinand de Lesseps ... but why did she have it on the brain ... ?

Something to do with ALAC ... yes ... Alas, alack ... where does it go from there? What is it backwards? CALA, sala. George Augustus Sala? Perhaps it’s a palindrome after all. No, it was a pun ... a lass – Chaite; a lack – Chaite’s hand. She wonders if the staff have seen it that way.

The weekend passes tiringly; the clinical function of the hospital grinds to a halt, to be usurped by streams of visitors bearing flowers, fruit, get-well cards, bottles of squash and the detached concern of those who can get up and walk away whenever they choose.

Chaite receives Mercia (of course), Rupert and Cepha, James Sellis, her assistant Claire, Claire’s assistant Debbie, Charlie the porter and Norman Bland the auctioneer. Her bed area turns into a veritable florist’s shop.

When Mercia visits on Monday, Chaite is about with her stump much more lightly bandaged.

‘Hi’

‘Hi ... I went to the loo all by myself this morning. And washed myself’

‘Well done ... how did you feel?’

‘Woozy ... but I felt jolly proud ... Did you say that you’re going to look after me when I come out? We’ll have to talk about that’

‘When you’re ready. I think we’d better talk to Nione as well – I hope she’ll be coming along soon’

‘Good. And do you know what else?’

‘No?

‘Doctor Bendall ... ‘‘Mr Moreton-Smith’s registrar’’ [they say it together, with giggles] ... says I’m ready for the take-over to ALAC tomorrow ... will you be able to come?’

‘Of course; what time?’

‘The appointment’s at eleven ... it’s a Doctor Meadmore, the Medical Officer. Apparently, he prefers people to visit him rather than him coming to see them’

‘Sounds very important’

‘Yes. Reading between the lines, he sounds very odd. I’m looking very forward to meeting him – as James Sellis would say’

Chaite shows Mercia her attempts at writing right-handed; Mercia is impressed. Chaite does not tell Mercia that she can feel a pain in the hand that isn’t there almost as bad as it’s ever been.

The following morning, Chaite is sitting by the bed; Mercia arrives to take her to ALAC.

‘What’s the time?’

‘Oh ... twenty to’

‘Retter get ready’

A nurse brings a wheelchair: ‘Can I give you a hand?’

‘Yes PLEASE’

Everyone blushes in silence; Chaite sees there’s going to be a lot of this. How can one train oneself not to blush? She’ll have to practice with Mercia. Now she’s in the wheelchair, cradling her stump in her right arm, as it were a lost child.

They make the journey in silence. Chaite realises how vulnerable she is; how weak and institutionalised; her first thought is that she wants to get back to the ward; then it suddenly comes to her that this is the real world; then she longs for her release, for her independence – even if it’s independence with Mercia behind her – as she is now, pushing the chair. There seem to be few people around at eleven o’clock; those that are are hospital oriented; Chaite doesn’t feel stared at.

The doors open automatically as they approach the ALAC building; the huge reception area seems to be empty ... but it’s not – there is a young Asian receptionist in a beautiful sari retrieving something from under the desk. She bobs up like a jill-in-the-box: ‘Good morrning; can l help you?’

‘Yes ... we’ve come to see Dr Meadmore’

‘And yourr name?’

‘Chaite Slatterthwaite’

She consults a list: ‘Eleven o’clock’

‘Yes’

‘Would you wait over there please? Until you hearr yourr name called’

The girls go to the waiting area where two motionless pensioners sit back to back, contemplating the knocked-out carpet tiles.

Chaite and Mercia are trying to work out which limbs might be missing, without success, when the call comes: ‘Miz Slatterthwaite ... [she points] ... Go down the corridorr herre, and you hwill see Dr Meadmorre’s dorr open -- he is expecting you now’

Dr Meadmore sits in a white coat, hairy suit beneath, looking over his half-moon spectacles: ‘Come in – you must be Miss Slatterthwaite – and you are ...?’

‘I’m Chaite; this is my sister, Mercia’

‘Hmm. Unusual names. Unusual names, aren’t they?’

‘We’re used to them’

‘Our eldest sister’s called Cepha. That’s pretty unusual, too ... and there’s Nione ...’

‘Hum. Is Miss Wood a relation too?’

‘No, it’s just an unusual name’

‘Yes. Put her here, please’

Oh, dear – he’s in ‘Does she take sugar?’ mode.

Chaite is now sitting in her wheelchair on Dr Meadmore’s side of the desk at least she’s not on the other side – that would be just too WF Yeames: ‘And when did you last see your arm?’

Mercia deliberately withdraws to an inconspicuous distance.

Dr Meadmore prepares to make notes: ‘Now ... it’s Chaite Slatterthwaite? And her date of birth?’

‘Fifteenth of July nineteen-fifty-eight’

‘So she’s ... twenty-four – twenty-five in July’

Chaite nods. Well ... it all helps to pass the time.

‘And ... [he cocks his head towards Mercia] ... what did she do for a living?’

Mercia refuses to be drawn in.

Chaite refuses to talk in the past tense: ‘I work at Sellis’s ... the auctioneers and estate agents. I’m in charge of all the saleroom activities’

‘Yes ... [how can he find so much to write?] ... And what did this entail?’

‘Well, we have a sale on the third Friday of every month, and I look after the advertising, and cataloguing and arranging the lots as they come in, and on the day make sure that the sale goes smoothly and all the records are kept up to date ...’

‘Do you do all this singlehanded?’

Chaite gulps: ‘No, I’ve got ... [she goes to count with fingers that aren’t there and is doubly confused] ... I’ve got up to four people in the firm to help me – one permanent assistant – that’s Claire – and the others have other jobs except for the run-up to the sale. And there’s the porter, Charlie – and Norman the auctioneer’

Has he stopped listening? He lifts the phone and buzzes for his nurse:

Chaite extends her arm; turns away her head. Mercia peers curiously, seeing for the first time – with a mixture of compassion and revulsion – what has happened to her sister as Dr Meadmore’s nurse removes the bandages so that he can examine the stump: ‘Hmm ... still quite swollen ... but it’s healing nicely ... that’s a good six inches ... one of Moreton-Smith’s best ... Bend ... Straighten ... Any pain?’

Chaite lies: ‘No’

Dr Meadmore produces what passes as a smile: ‘Good ... Right, nurse!’

The nurse re-applies bandages.

There is a sound in the corridor. Dr Meadmore calls: ‘Mr Redman, please ... [enter Mr Redman] ... This is Miss Slatterthwaite ... [an exchange of nods] ... who’ll be needing a new arm. Redman is my arm man. He’ll be fixing you up when the time comes ... Thank you’

Mr Redman leaves.

‘And when will the time come?’

‘Probably another six weeks or so. It depends on the healing process ... now, has anyone explained the options to your sister?’

Mercia keeps silent.

‘What options?’

‘Prosthetic options’

I don’t believe it: ‘As I understand it, I can have a new hand which I can do things with and a lighter one which looks more plausible’

Dr Meadmore smiles broadly, as if rewarding a child: ‘That’s right. You can have an arm with a variety of terminal devices – a cosmetic hand, a functional hand, a split hook ... [this is the ... round window, and this is the ... square window] ... You’ll soon learn how to use it’

‘Oh? And what happens if I don’t?’

‘My dear young lady – I can assure you that you should find little difficulty in using it. But I grant you that many people who are born upper-limb deficient never use a prosthesis’

WHAT?? Chaite catches Mercia’s eye: ‘Oh? Why not?’

‘Because ... they learn not to’

What tortuous reasoning is this?

‘They wouldn’t have to learn not to, would they? Are you suggesting that I should learn not to?’

Dr Meadmore is tetchy: ‘No, I’m suggesting that you’ll have no difficulty’

This could get very hairy; the girls exchange glances again.

To Chaite, it looks like a dolls’ hospital in there: ‘Ha-ha – looks like a dolls’ hospital in there’

‘Yes – very good ... [he extracts a small leg from the tangle] ... Now, this is a leg ...’

From the corner of her eye, Chaite can see Mercia silently shaking. This session with Dr Meadmore is the best medicine she’s had yet.

‘Yes – that’s a leg. I’ve got two of them already. Anyway, that one’s too small. How about an arm?’

‘I’m coming to that ... [Dr Meadmore extracts an equally small arm] ... Here we are; this is the sort of thing we can give you’

He hands it to Chaite; by a huge effort, she avoids stretching out the wrong arm to take it. It seems very hard and unyielding. She lays it on the desk, orients it, and offers it up: ‘It’s a bit small ... like the leg’

Mercia emits a strangled snort.

‘It belonged to one of my patients. You’d have one the – er – proper size. Of course’

‘Of course. How does it work?’

Dr Meadmore reaches for the arm so that he can demonstrate:

‘This is a supracondylar arm of the sort we’ll give you ...’

‘It fits ahove the knuckle?’

‘Knuckle?’

‘Kondylos. It’s Greek for knuckle. And supra is Latin for above. It’s a mixed derivation – like "television". But I assume you’re talking about the condyles of the humerus’

Dr Meadmore’s technique with those who display any knowledge of their own is to ignore them and treat them like the mentally underprivileged; he continues to demonstrate the arm as though nothing has happened, but to Mercia; Mercia is interested in the hardware, even if the presentation leaves something to be desired; she has come to look over Chaite’s shoulder – partly out of pity for Dr Meadmore – and it is to her that he demonstrates: ‘Now, the stump will fit in here ... [I’d never have guessed] ... and this is where the knobs of the funny-bone go ... [you bum!] ... then a simple harness passes over the sound shoulder fitted to this cable attachment ... here. Pulling on the cable opens the terminal device ... like this. When it’s all fixed up, the patient can pull the cable by moving his sound shoulder and pushing his stump forward ... [What if he’s a she, Chaite forbears to ask] ... and then the thumb and these two fingers open ... like this ... [he demonstrates] ... and he can pick things up ... You’ve got quite a grip there ... feel’

‘Yes – it’s very lifelike ... She shouldn’t have any difficulty with one of these’

Fascinated, Mercia retires again. Chaite decides to test the water:

‘It’ll have to be a bit larger than that if it’s going to match this one ... [she holds up her right hand] ... How do you change the hand?’

‘Oh – the hand comes off ... like ... this ... Oh, well, it’s a bit tight ... [he struggles with it using both hands; the girls imagine the one-armed child to whom it must have belonged giving up and throwing it to the dog] ... Anyway, Redman has a whole range of terminal devices the patient can plug in ... but most people settle for two or three – the hand, the split hook which is opened in the same way, and perhaps something else according to the individual’s needs’

Chaite knows what she needs – to turn the clock back a fortnight and start her life again from there.

Dr Meadmore returns to the drawer: ‘Here’s a cosmetic hand – you’ll feel that it’s much lighter’

He passes it to Chaite; she forgets and stretches out the wrong arm; the hand falls to the floor.

‘Ooops ... sorry’

Dr Meadmore stoops and picks it up; returns red-faced and puffing:

‘Ah ... are you ... were you, by any chance ... left handed?’

‘By Jove, Holmes, how did you guess?’

Dr Meadmore takes it crossly: ‘You didn’t tell me – I had to guess’

‘I said I was sorry’

The telephone rings; Dr Meadmore barks: ‘Yes ... mmm ... I’ll be about ... [he looks at his watch irrelevantly] ... five minutes. Mmm. Thank you ... [he turns back to Mercia] ... Well, I hope that’s been helpful to your sister’

‘Extremely helpful, thank you. I expect we’ll meet again’

‘Yes. And if there’s anything else you want to know, just make an appointment. Goodbye’

And so the girls are ushered verbally out.

It’s too much for both of them – the seat, the book-ends, Dr Meadmore and his dolls’ hospital. They howl with laughter for a long, long time.

That interview will keep them going for weeks.

Rupert and Cepha are waiting to talk to Chaite; they’re all sitting in the day-room; Rupert is looking official: ‘Now, I expect you realise that Roy has ... gone away’

Chaite is wanting to shut the compartments in her mind, but: ‘What about Roy?’

‘You don’t have to worry about him any more. He’s not worrying about you’

Chaite took that in: ‘He’s really gone away? For ever?’

‘As far as I can make out. He left this note for you on the television. I read it, of course, because I needed to gather any information which would shed light on the circumstances of the last few days’

Cepha loves her husband dearly, but sometimes wonders if he should have been a lawyer rather than an accountant.

Chaite makes an effort: ‘What does it say?’

‘Just that ... here, you read it’

It is addressed to Chaite, after all.

Chaite reads it. Then: ‘I see. So he’s ... gone away ... [she bursts into tears] ... I wish I could feel something ... anything ... I ought to be sorry, but I’m just ... numb. Roy and my arm ... they seem to have gone away together ... I just can’t ...’

Like most people, Rupert is at a loss when faced with a grief he cannot share:

‘He suggests that you can sell the cottage if you want to. Don’t you want to live there?’

‘No ... NO. I don’t ever want to see it again’

‘What about all your things? Furniture ... books ... ?’

‘There are some things I’d like to keep. But rest can go in one of our sales. Would you mind ... could you look after it for me? I know it’s a bit of an imposition ...’

which might be deemed to be jointly owned. But he does appear to have cleared out the workshop – Roy, that is’

‘Well, it was all his stuff in there’

‘He doesn’t seem to have taken much from the house – except for his clothes. All the drink seems to have gone ... what’s the matter?’

‘Oooh ... terrible pain ... I don’t want to talk any more ... no, I know you’re being very kind but ...’

‘That’s all right – I’ll look after everything for you’

By the end of the second week, Chaite is getting very bored. She has shut her mind to the past, accepted herself as she is now, and wants to get on with the future. She wanders about the ward and the corridors like a lost soul waiting for the pearly gates to open so that it can proceed with the next stage of its existence. She goes to the loo and washes herself more than is necessary, just to practise.

After two-and-a-half weeks, Chaite receives some eagerly-awaited intelligence: ‘Good morning, I’m Dr Bendall, Mr Moreton-Smith’s registrar ... [doesn’t he recognise me yet?] ... how are you today? ... Let’s have a look ... Hmmm, yes ... How are you sleeping? ... Any pain? ... RIGHT! I think we’ll discharge you on Friday’

‘You make me feel like a piece of artillery’

‘What? Oh, ha-ha, very good!’

Chaite experiences a mixture of elation and sadness. In hospital, all your thinking is done for you. It's as near as you can get to the royal jelly.

Outside ...

Mercia’s elation is tempered with trepidation. Will she really be able to cope, as she’s always promised?

Thursday afternoon; enter Nione Wood: ‘I hear you’re going home tomorrow’

‘Yes ... I’m not sure whether to be glad or sorry’

‘I should be glad, if I were you ... if I had a sister like your Mercia’

‘Thanks, I’ll tell her. I know she’s a bit worried ... no, you can tell her yourself – hello Mercia’

‘Afternoon all. What’s she saying now?’

‘She’s saying she wants a sister like you’

‘Oh yes ... what’she want?’

Nione produces a Dycem mat to stop things from slipping about on the table, and some Theraband elastic webbing for Chaite’s stump exercises; they discuss bandaging, and various tasks for Chaite to get her teeth into.

Chaite spends much of the night with her mind churning over and over, rehearsing ways of doing things. She tells no one about the pain in the hand that isn’t there; she tries to shut her mind against it.

Friday comes, and with it Mercia with outdoor clothes for Chaite and cases to carry all the things Chaite has amassed during her three weeks in hospital.

Chaite has been mentally preparing herself to walk down to Mercia’s car, but is glad she hasn’t told anyone because when it comes to the point she realises how weak she really is. She says her good-byes to the staff, and the other patients. Mercia takes her to the lift in a wheelchair. Down they go, and out to the car.

Chaite suddenly realises that she’s in the real world. In hospital, people are not surprised if you’re ill, or heavily bandaged, or enclosed in some grotesque apparatus; in the real world people stare – and even if they don’t, you think they do.

Chaite feels a great revulsion for herself, and for this real world she’s been longing for ... but it passes; as the birds sing, and the sun shines, and Mercia smiles at her lovingly as she helps her into the car, Chaite is righted, and almost looking forward to the challenges to come.

Monday 13 June: V good to be out & about. Amazing how fast motor cars seem to travel. Good weekend; too much TV. Practising writing and M’s word proc. Walk Sun pm, people don’t seem to notice.

Thursday 16 June: Complete bathing and dressing unaided now; deep joy in getting hang of toothpaste!; could be almost back to normal. Eating always easy! Tried M’s electric tin-opener & helped her make cake. NW Tuesday.

therapy she said, but I tht it unnecessary – I didn’t play before! Appt with Dr M a fortnight today.

Tuesday 5 July: Dr M this pm; says stump will be ready for cast in four weeks – possy before, but he’s giving a paper at some international conf in Stockholm – whatever that’s got to do with it. Hope they all enjoy it – perh he’ll take his dolls’ hosp.

Tuesday l2 July: NW again today; typing coming on well; got me using stump for space bar but I don’t really need to.

Sunday 17 July: M took me to disused aerodrome & let me drive car. Not V good at changing gear (!) but don’t see why I shdnt drive an auto. Cd join IAM. Rang Rup – he ‘knows a man’ & will see what he can find. I fancy a mauve Metro. C&R said I can have their granny flat when I’m ready. Whooppee!

Saturday 23 July: Went thru wardrobe with M. I suppose short sleeves are out also anything too tight, NW says, if op cord for new hand is to work comfortably. V sorry to see some things go – sat in garden & let M go to Oxfam alone.

Tuesday 2 August: Saw Mr Redman who’s called John & comes to life without Dr M. Since Dr M didn’t turn up anyway, why the delay? Perh he just wtd to boast he was going to a conf. Grrr! JR spent long time measuring my R hand; I didn’t make obvious rude comment! Then he made plaster cast of stump. Back in 3 weeks. Meanwhile, replica me being made in Nottingham. Feels V odd.

Friday 4 August: Must think about going back to work soon – sure I can cos JS says I can start part time & make my own hours. C&R say granny flat is ready. Big Snag – leaving M. We’ve had a good time – she’s almost as dependent on me as I am on her, but she must get on with her work too. Went shopping for new business outfit with suitable sleeves; found it at Walker’s; assistants all pretended not to notice. Problem: what to do with flappy L sleeve – could tuck it in pocket, but can use stump for some things. Turning back the cuffs seems to be an answer.

Saturday 13 August: M moved me to granny flat today, settled in with load of fungibles & looking fwd to being on my own again – with big sis there if I need. Going to try JS on Mon.

Monday 15 August: Spent weekend practising living alone. Today back to JS. Felt everybody was staring, but no one said anything except nice to see me etc – apart from Debbie who wanted to know all about what it’s like losing an arm – bit of a relief, cos they all wanted to know really. Took most of the day to catch up with what’s going on – sale Fri – saw some of my things on show but pretended they were someone else’s. JS V affable.

Friday 19 August: Sale went well; forced myself to help Charlie so that I cd get used to public appearances; only one mistake reaching with wrong hand but nobody saw (I hope!)

Tuesday 23 August: Back to JR; they’ve moulded a little plastic cup from cast of stump; bent elbow and it slipped on; straightened elbow and it couldn’t fall off – felt funny but now see why it’s called supracondylar & how it works (which had worried me). Now they’ve got to make it into an arm. I’d almost got round to telling them that I wasn’t going to bother, but it’d be silly not to try. NW said you look more natural if you’re wearing an arm cos you move more balanced and fluently, and people don’t notice so much.

Also saw vid of arm wearers doing things & met Cathy (girl who starred in it); she also said most people don’t notice her artificial arm; believe that when I see it, but she should know. They seem to notice me at the moment. She also told me re simple running repairs – can use a G-string (guitar!) for op cord.

Friday 26 August: Got into trouble today from horrible hairy farmer who wanted ‘a hand’ to unload heavy sideboard; the one time when someone might have noticed he didn’t. Charlie came & got me out of it; was quite blunt.

JR got me opening and closing fingers by adjusting tension on the op cord. Gave me split hook and said NW would show me how to fix it on. Got hang of working hand by the time I got down to NW; she was pleased and amazed; she produced board with pegs and shapes for me to try manipulating. Wasn’t all that easy cos I cdn’t see what I was doing (hand got in way) so she showed me how to remove hand and plug in split hook – really yukky but V good for pick and place game & it’s lighter and takes much less force to open (depends how many little rubber bands you put on) so less tiring than hand. Don’t like look of it at all, but I’m going to try it. NW said Dr M is a bit strong on advice – shd take arm off when it gets tiring – get used to it in small doses.

Wednesday 14 September: Back to JS complete with arm. Several customers came into office, but nobody seemed to notice. Arm a bit hot & heavy but heaps better than nothing now. M came round, I cooked evening meal with help of hook. Took quite a long time, M watched but didn’t help.

Friday 16 September: First sale with arm; I made up the book; only people who noticed seemed to be those who remembered from last time – hardly any.

Sunday 18 September: Dream: Roy brought my hand back – was it retribution? Told him where he could go cos I’d got a new one, but still awoke grieving. Went with family to zoo; V good day apart from nagging dream.

Tuesday 20 September: PM with NW; tried typing TD (as they will call them) V helpful, much lighter than hand, even more yukky than hook. Easier to come to terms with it in OT dept where you expect people to be like that. Did blocks exercise again with hand and hook. Long session with NW, spent a lot of time talking about cats and travels in Europe.

Monday 3 October: Arranging today for viewing tomorrow; hook V useful; Charlie said I was ‘Very dextrous’, I said it was more like sinister but finer meaning got lost. Lie in bed thinking of ways of doing things. V good in kitchen now. Seeing NW tomorrow (another cat session?) don’t think there’s much point in going to see her any more; she says I can ring her if I’ve got a problem. Don’t like having to drag M along to give me a lift, except we both enjoy the days out.

Thursday 20 October: Appt for 2nd arm cast 15 Nov. When I’ve got that one they’ll wait a bit until stump has shrunk and then re-do this one. Makes me feel like the Forth Bridge! JS introduced me to Kevin Toker – he met him at a professional din. Thinking of joining the firm – cd be a gd idea – let JS take things a bit easier. KT eligible ...?

* * * * *

Nione Wood goes to her record cards; S ... Slat ... She pulls out the card; takes up her pen; writes: