Sally (27 page)

She still felt feverish and could bear no more clothing next to her skin than a pure cotton vest, knickers and Aunt Celia's hand-knitted cashmere shawl. She teetered around the flat chanting ‘Feed a cold and starve a fever' but thought perhaps it was ‘Starve a cold and feed a fever' and was at once in a dither, convinced that if she put into practice the wrong permutation, the spots would surely wreak vengeance. What was she to do? The solution lay in the cashmere shawl.

‘Hello?'

‘Aunty Celia? Guess who!'

‘Sally? Gracious, what a treat, how are you, my wee one? Everything okey-dokey?'

‘Yes, yes. No, actually. I have
chicken
pox.'

‘Poor bairn. You must be feeling rotten. Have you a fever?'

‘Yes.'

‘Starve it!'

It seemed trite to delineate the coincidence so Sally received the advice graciously and said, yes, she was strong enough for a little chat.

‘I'm wearing your lovely shawl.'

‘Ach, it must be threadbare! I made it moons ago, for your sixteenth birthday, no? I shall start a new one for you, if you like. It will be finished by May the nineteenth. How old this year? Twenty-four, is it?'

‘Sorry, Aunty, twenty-six actually.'

‘Eeh, tish! You're a well and truly grown-up lassie. Maybe another shawl won't suit your fashion taste?'

‘I'd love another shawl, but this one's just fine.'

‘A woman can never have too many hand-knitted shawls, she should have one draped on the back of every chair in her house!' Celia declared with aplomb. ‘I have some lovely yarn, there was a craft fair at the Town Hall in Tobermory. It's a linen-silk mix, so soft. A lovely sort of mauve. Does that sound nice? Does that tickle your fancy?'

‘Yes, Aunt Celia, I think I should love it. I love mauve,' Sally lied kindly.

They bade each other farewell with a promise to lessen the gap between calls. Feeling hungry but keen to starve her fever, Sally took a nap instead. She dreamt that Celia came to see her in her lunch-break at school. She had bustled into the staff-room and called over to her, ‘Sal, my lassie,' for Aunt Celia was the only other person from whom Sally welcomed the abbreviation. She had brought the shawl, it was vast and very mauve. She wrapped it around Sally's shoulders and then went to teach Class Five rounders. Sally watched from the window, breathing in deeply (in the dream and out) the unmistakable aroma of an Aunt Celia hand-knit.

It is now tea-time. Reluctantly, Sally has gone to the mirror to check the spot situation. The pox has shown no mercy and has rooted out the last patches of clear skin to inhabit; behind her left era, above her right eyelid and under her armpits where they are particularly painful. Feeling ravenous, fed up and not so feverish, Sally has retrieved a bumper block of milk chocolate from the fridge, taken the phone off the hook, put a Genesis tape on low and clambered into bed armed with a clutch of old diaries and photo albums. She is soon lost in adventures of old; painted in retrospect with a tint of rose and a hint of sepia.

Where's the chocolate?

It is under your pillow.

Ah, Scotland. Mull. Heather and dampness, the light, the water, the clarity. Tobermory: those pretty, brave little harbour-side houses, candy colours yet not at all twee. Look, you and Aunt Celia throwing the frisbee on the sweep of soft sand at Calgary Bay. Whose is that shadow, who is taking the picture? Must be Uncle Angus, the late Uncle Angus, gruff with whisky but always on for a reel.

Does she miss Angus, whom one only ever heard her call ‘LoveLove'? It was so lovely to speak to her today. It's been so long. It must be a good two years since I last saw her.

Sally feels like having a day-dream, she wants to transport herself to Mull. Trying hard to look at nothing in particular, she finds her eyes continually stray to her mottled limbs. Mull remains far away. Take another album, Sally, another piece of chocolate. Let Phil Collins's nighttime voice be a certain calamine.

Oh, look! Sally aged nine and in a tutu. And here! Sally aged thirteen, in a tutu and on points. And here is Sally aged sixteen, tutu, pointes and taking a graceful curtsey. Look at the make-up, the impeccable bun, those sinewy arms! Remember how elated you felt? Do you really miss the bleeding toes, the straining tendons, the pulled muscles, the damaged joints?

No, but I miss the poise and energy.

Don't dwell, Sal. Turn the page. Giggle at your brown and beige childhood wardrobe from the seventies, cringe at the ra-ra skirts and stretch jeans you wore with pride during your teenage years. Lose yourself again in University days. Here, a batch of photographs of friends and cohorts at Bristol: living it up at faculty balls, looking tired but cool in shabby student houses, looking dapper in mortar-boards and fur-trimmed gowns at graduation.

Where's my diary? Where's the corresponding text? Oh, this is fun! I'm right back there – chicken pox? What chicken pox! The present is unpleasant, the future is a burden, but the past is safe so back I go!

Oh, yes! Remember that first week at University? How timid I was! Every one seemed so worldly and bright, they all seemed to play so hard and work so hard too! Look here!

You did go, remember? And twisted your ankle but were too embarrassed to mention it so you grimaced your way through the rambles and tried to blot it out with a good sup of ale, which tasted foul but was the thing to do in the evenings.

Flipping in and out of the years, Sally dips in and out of the events in her life, as if she is chattering with someone she knows well and has not seen for years. She reminisces about drunken weekends in Devon, she rereads about hectic holidays on Greek islands, she remembers flatmates she would rather forget, she ponders on the whereabouts of friends not seen for years. The memories are fond and fun. Fun until one word assaults her eyes: Jamie.

Shuddering involuntarily, Sally has snapped shut the book and sits very still, eating chocolate distractedly. Come, come, Sally, the past is safe, the past has passed. Open the book, face the pages, face the past. Read out loud if it helps. A small voice filters through the room, reading flatly from pages written three years previously.

‘“I have to get out of this relationship, if you can call it that. Jamie frightens me but what frightens me more is my inability to say: ‘Stop. Go away.' He hit me again and I apologized.
I
actually apologized. Why on earth did I do that? He accepted my apology – ungraciously of course – and sulked all evening. Predictably, we had sex later. Or at least he did. I didn't want to but I didn't dare say so. And my arm hurt throughout; it's still bruised today. When he climaxes he's like an animal, really base and vulgar. I can't wait to get to the loo; we use condoms but I have to pee him away.

‘“He broke my little teapot, the one James bought for me before my finals. I said to him, ‘Be careful.' He said, ‘Why?' I said, ‘Because it's precious to me.' He said, ‘Why?' I told him and he slowly lifted it above his head and let it topple. It fell at my feet. The spout scuttled across the floor, a chip of china from the lid fell through the side of my shoe. I felt sure I was about to cry but I bit it back. Jamie laughed at me. I hated him for it. I hate him. Then he went all soft and said that it shouldn't mean anything to me now, I am with him now. I wish I wasn't. How do I get out of it? Where's my strength?”'

I got out of it when he broke my nose. I covered him with blood. I was unconscious and woke and was sick and he thought I was seriously damaged so he called an ambulance and told them I'd fallen down the stairs even though I was living in a ground-floor flat.

It was that lovely nurse … what was her name?

‘
Sister Watts. I'll never forget.

She sat on your bed. He had visited with flowers and charm: there had not been a peep from you.

Sister Watts sat with me and just said, ‘You owe him nothing. You don't have to stay. You're far too precious. You owe it to yourself. Leave him.'

So you left! Brave girl!'

I severed all contact. I moved to Highgate. I have no idea where he is. It's been a good three years. I don't live in fear. It's as if it happened to someone else. I rarely think of him.

Time has softened his blows, healed the wounds and faded the scars.

They are still there, you know.

We know.

I want Richard.

Call him.

‘Richie?'

‘My dotty spotty angel! My darling dalmatian! How
are
you?'

‘Don't ask. I'm very contagious. I can't go to school for two weeks. Oh, and I fainted too and wound up in hospital. But I think you know that.'

‘Do you have any calamine?'

‘No. But I'm not very itchy.'

‘Yet – that is. You will be. And you MUSTN'T SCRATCH.'

‘I know, I know, or I WILL SCAR.'

‘What say you that I pop to an all-night chemist and buy you some calamine?'

‘But I'm CON-TA-GIOUS.'

‘You are certainly that! I caught the Sally bug long ago and I just can't shake it off.'

The definitive pregnant pause filled the room and broke the flow.

‘Sal?' Richard enquired quietly.

‘I'm sorry I called,' she faltered. ‘I shouldn't've – called, that is. I … er. You see, I haven't really thought about, you know,
It
,' she mumbled.

‘Hush! Of course you haven't,' Richard chided gently.

‘You've hardly been
compos mentis
! Listen to me, Sal, I'm offering calamine. No strings attached – promise. I'll just slip it through the letter box. You can even pay me, if it makes you feel easier.'

Half an hour later Sally hovers by the letter box. She is starting to itch. Itchy feet, itchy everything. She hears the purr of the Alfa Romeo, Richard's assertive footsteps. Should she hide, open the door, peep through the curtain – what? The adrenalin is churning and her heart is heavy. She watches as the lid of the letter box flips up. She can hear Richard clearing his throat.

‘Richie?' she whispers quickly. Crouching down, they can look eye to eye. They are shadows and the encounter has a dreamlike quality. They are latter-day Pyramus and Thisbe and the letter box serves as the chink in the wall. However, this is no midwinter night's dream, this is the here and now. Sally has chicken pox and Richard is sitting on his heels outside her front door, trying to keep his balance.

‘You don't look too bad at all!' His voice is as lovely as the cool night air whispering through to her. ‘Not too bad at all.'

So Sally puts the light on and crouches down again. Richard now has spots before his eyes. Desperate to think of something diplomatic to say, he decides on, ‘Oh.'

Sally hastily switches the light off, buttons her spots away and slips back into the safe shadows. A bulky paper bag is jostled through the letter box. Richard's knees ache like mad, cramp threatens in his calves but he daren't tell her. Spots and all, he just wants to be near for as long as he can.

‘Thank you,' she whispers.

‘Don't worry about anything, Sal. Just get yourself better.'

In the ease of his voice, the kindness of his words, she can see his smile and it fills her head with a delicious lightness.

‘Thank you,' she says again.

There is silence among the shadows. Neither he nor she wants to go, yet they do not know how best to stay. Richard pokes his index finger through the letter box as far as he can, grazing his knuckles though he neither feels it nor cares. Tentatively, Sally meets his finger with the very tip of one of hers.

For a sweet but all too short moment, they touch.

T
he itching set in and took hold with such force as to render Sally utterly at its mercy. She had never known anything like it. It was infuriating, it was excruciating, it frequently took her to the verge of tears. It was unbearable. In her exasperation, expletives spewed forth and she spat with venom words she had spent her adult life trying to avoid. Calamine soothed but only in the cool cloud of the initial application. Once dry, and it dried all too quickly, its flakiness merely added to the overall itchiness. Sally's bed-linen and clothes were peppered with salmon pink blotches, and great clods of the dried lotion were welded to her hair. During the day, only enormous self-discipline and sheer determination, coupled with viciously clenched teeth and unbridled execration, prevented her scratching for England. Night, however, was different; even going to bed wearing mittens was little guard against the dreaded sleep-scratching. Though she detested the itching and hated the spots, she loathed herself more for having scratched – albeit in her sleep. Her chest and arms suffered the most, the tops of the pocks scratched off and a stinging pus released which dried a hundred times more itchy.

I'm going to scar, I'm going to scar
, Sally thought wearily. Short of tying her hands behind her back on going to bed, there seemed to be no solution.

Sally was in a foul mood. Well-wishers would phone throughout the day to say
there, there
and to warn DON'T SCRATCH or YOU WILL SCAR. Lacking the humour to accept such advice graciously, she decided to leave the phone off the hook. Even a batch of another thirty cards from Class Five failed to lift her spirits. The children had found prodigious artistic outlet in Miss Lomax's predicament and by the end of the week, red crayons were a rare commodity in the art room. The figure of Miss Lomax was treated to a liberal and energetic dousing of red dots. The noise of thirty crayons rapping down to create them caused Mr Bernard, who was trying to teach Maths next door, to pull Miss Lewis to one side, begging her to change to collage instead. Ultimately, the cards were of little comfort; even Marcus's card, with another classic rhyme and signed
Marcus (xx)
, could not coax a smile from Miss Lomax.