Consider Her Ways (3 page)

It
was a large enough room for three couches, separated by a chest, chair and table for each, to be arranged on either side without an effect of crowding, and the open space in the middle was still big enough to contain several expansive easy-chairs and a central table bearing an intricate flower-arrangement. A not-displeasing scent faintly pervaded the place, and from somewhere came the subdued sound of a string-quartet in a sentimental mood. Five of the bed-couches were already mountainously occupied. Two of my attendant party detached themselves and hurried ahead to turn back the pink satin cover on the sixth.

Faces from all the five other beds were turned towards me. Three of them smiling in welcome, the other two less committal.

‘Hallo, Orchis,' one of them greeted me in a friendly tone. Then, with a touch of concern she added: ‘What's the matter, dear? Did you have a bad time?'

I looked at her. She had a kindly, plumply pretty face, framed by light-brown hair as she lay back against a cushion. The face looked about twenty-three or twenty-four years old. The rest of her was a huge mound of pink satin. I couldn't make any reply, but I did my best to return her smile as we passed.

Our convoy hove to by the empty bed. After some preparation and positioning I was helped into it by all hands, and a cushion was arranged behind my head.

The exertion of my journey from the car had been considerable, and I was thankful to relax. While two of the little women pulled up the coverlet and arranged it over me, another produced a handkerchief and dabbed gently at my cheeks. She encouraged me:

‘There you are, dear. Safely home again now. You'll be quite all right when you've rested a bit. Just try to sleep for a little.'

‘What's the matter with her?' inquired a forthright voice from one of the other beds. ‘Did she make a mess of it?'

The little woman with the handkerchief – she was the one who wore the St Andrew's cross and appeared to be in charge of the operation – turned her head sharply.

‘There's
no need for that tone, Mother Hazel. Of course Mother Orchis had four beautiful babies – didn't you, dear?' she added to me. ‘She's just a bit tired after the journey, that's all.'

‘H'mph,' said the girl addressed, in an unaccommodating tone, but she made no further comment.

A degree of fussing continued. Presently the small woman handed me a glass of something that looked like water, but had unsuspected strength. I spluttered a little at the first taste, but quickly felt the better for it. After a little more tidying and ordering, my retinue departed leaving me propped against my cushion, with the eyes of the five other monstrous women dwelling upon me speculatively.

An awkward silence was broken by the girl who had greeted me as I came in.

‘Where did they send you for your holiday, Orchis?'

‘Holiday?' I asked blankly.

She and the rest stared at me in astonishment.

‘I don't know what you are talking about,' I told them.

They went on staring, stupidly, stolidly.

‘It can't have been much of a holiday,' observed one, obviously puzzled. ‘I'll not forget my last one. They sent me to the sea, and gave me a little car so that I could get about everywhere. Everybody was lovely to us, and there were only six Mothers there, including me. Did you go by the sea, or in the mountains?'

They were determined to be inquisitive, and one would have to make some answer sooner or later. I chose what seemed the simplest way out for the moment.

‘I can't remember,' I said. ‘I can't remember a thing. I seem to have lost my memory altogether.'

That was not very sympathetically received, either.

‘Oh,' said the one who had been addressed as Hazel, with a degree of satisfaction. ‘I thought there was something. And I suppose you can't even remember for certain whether your babies were Grade One this time, Orchis?'

‘Don't
be stupid, Hazel,' one of the others told her. ‘Of course they were Grade One. If they'd not been, Orchis wouldn't be back here now – she'd have been re-rated as a Class Two Mother, and sent to Whitewich.' In a more kindly tone she asked me: ‘When did it happen, Orchis?'

‘I – I don't know,' I said. ‘I can't remember anything before this morning at the hospital. It's all gone entirely.'

‘Hospital!' repeated Hazel, scornfully.

‘She must mean the Centre,' said the other. ‘But do you mean to say you can't even remember
us
, Orchis?'

‘No,' I admitted, shaking my head. ‘I'm sorry, but everything before I came round in the Hosp – in the Centre, is all blank.'

‘That's queer,' Hazel said, in an unsympathetic tone. ‘Do they know?'

One of the others took my part.

‘Of course they're bound to know. I expect they don't think that remembering or not has anything to do with having Grade One babies. And why should it, anyway? But look, Orchis –'

‘Why not let her rest for a bit,' another cut in. ‘I don't suppose she's feeling too good after the Centre, and the journey, and getting in here. I never do myself. Don't take any notice of them, Orchis, dear. You just go to sleep for a bit. You'll probably find it's all quite all right when you wake up.'

I accepted her suggestion gratefully. The whole thing was far too bewildering to cope with at the moment; moreover, I did feel exhausted. I thanked her for her advice, and lay back on my pillow. In so far as the closing of one's eyes can be made ostentatious, I made it so. What was more surprising was that, if one can be said to sleep within an hallucination or a dream, I slept …

In the moment of waking, before opening my eyes, I had a flash of hope that I should find the illusion had spent itself. Unfortunately, it had not. A hand was shaking my shoulder gently, and the first thing that I saw was the face of the little women's leader, close to mine.

In
the way of nurses, she said:

‘There, Mother Orchis, dear. You'll be feeling a lot better after that nice sleep, won't you?'

Beyond her, two more of the small women were carrying a short-legged bed-tray towards me. They set it down so that it bridged me, and was convenient to reach. I stared at the load on it. It was, with no exception, the most enormous and nourishing meal I had ever seen put before one person. The first sight of it revolted me – but then I became aware of a schism within, for it did not revolt the physical form that I occupied: that, in fact, had a watering mouth, and was eager to begin. An inner part of me marvelled in a kind of semi-detachment while the rest consumed two or three fish, a whole chicken, some slices of meat, a pile of vegetables, fruit hidden under mounds of stiff cream, and more than a quart of milk, without any sense of surfeit. Occasional glances showed me that the other ‘Mothers' were dealing just as thoroughly with the contents of their similar trays.

I caught one or two curious looks from them, but they were too seriously occupied to take up their inquisition again at the moment. I wondered how to fend them off later, and it occurred to me that if only I had a book or a magazine I might be able to bury myself effectively, if not very politely, in it.

When the attendants returned I asked the badged one if she could let me have something to read. The effect of such a simple request was astonishing: the two who were removing my tray all but dropped it. The one beside me gaped for an amazed moment before she collected her wits. She looked at me, first with suspicion, and then with concern.

‘Not feeling quite yourself yet, dear?' she suggested.

‘But I am,' I protested. ‘I'm quite all right now.'

The look of concern persisted, however.

‘If I were you I'd try to sleep again,' she advised.

‘But I don't want to. I'd just like to read quietly,' I objected.

She patted my shoulder, a little uncertainly.

‘I'm
afraid you've had an exhausting time, Mother. Never mind, I'm sure it'll pass quite soon.'

I felt impatient. ‘What's wrong with wanting to read?' I demanded.

She smiled a smug, professional-nurse smile.

‘There, there, dear. Just you try to rest a little more. Why, bless me, what on earth would a Mother want with knowing how to read?'

With that she tidied my coverlet, and bustled away, leaving me to the wide-eyed stares of my five companions. Hazel gave a kind of contemptuous snigger; otherwise there was no audible comment for several minutes.

I had reached a stage where the persistence of the hallucination was beginning to wear away my detachment. I could feel that under a little more pressure I should be losing my confidence and starting to doubt its unreality. I did not at all care for its calm continuity. Inconsequent exaggerations and jumps, foolish perspectives, indeed any of the usual dream characteristics would have been reassuring, but, instead, it continued to present obvious nonsense, with an alarming air of conviction and consequence. Effects, for instance, were unmistakably following causes. I began to have an uncomfortable feeling that were one to dig deep enough one might begin to find logical causes for the absurdities, too. The integration was far too good for mental comfort – even the fact that I had enjoyed my meal as if I were fully awake, and was consciously feeling the better for it, encouraged the disturbing quality of reality.

‘Read!' Hazel said suddenly, with a scornful laugh. ‘And write, too, I suppose?'

‘Well, why not?' I retorted.

They all gazed at me more attentively than ever, and then exchanged meaning glances among themselves. Two of them
smiled at one another. I demanded irritably: ‘What on earth's wrong with that? Am I supposed not to be able to read or write, or something?'

One said kindly, soothingly:

‘Orchis, dear. Don't you think it would be better if you were to ask to see the doctor? – Just for a check-up?'

‘No,' I told her flatly. ‘There's nothing wrong with me. I'm just trying to understand. I simply ask for a book, and you all look at me as if I were mad. Why?'

After an awkward pause the same one said humouringly, and almost in the words of the little attendant:

‘Orchis, dear, do try to pull yourself together. What sort of good would reading and writing be to a Mother. How could they help her to have better babies?'

‘There are other things in life besides having babies,' I said, shortly.

If they had been surprised before, they were thunderstruck now. Even Hazel seemed bereft of suitable comment. Their idiotic astonishment exasperated me and made me suddenly sick of the whole nonsensical business. Temporarily, I
did
forget to be the detached observer of a dream.

‘Damn it,' I broke out. ‘What
is
all this rubbish? Orchis! Mother Orchis! – for God's sake! Where am I? Is this some kind of lunatic asylum?'

I stared at them, angrily, loathing the sight of them, wondering if they were all in some spiteful complicity against me. Somehow I was quite convinced in my own mind that whoever, or whatever I was, I was not a mother. I said so, forcibly, and then, to my annoyance, burst into tears.

For lack of anything else to use, I dabbed at my eyes with my sleeve. When I could see clearly again I found that four of them were looking at me with kindly concern. Hazel, however, was not.

‘I said there was something queer about her,' she told the others, triumphantly. ‘She's mad, that's what it is.'

The
one who had been most kindly disposed before, tried again:

‘But, Orchis,
of course
you are a Mother. You're a Class One Mother – with three births registered. Twelve fine Grade One babies, dear. You
can't
have forgotten that!'

For some reason I wept again. I had a feeling that something was trying to break through the blankness in my mind; but I did not know what it was, only that it made me feel intensely miserable.

‘Oh, this is cruel, cruel! Why can't I stop it? Why won't it go away and leave me?' I pleaded. ‘There's a horrible cruel mockery here – but I don't understand it. What's wrong with me? I'm not obsessional – I'm not – I – oh, can't somebody help me …?'

I kept my eyes tight shut for a time, willing with all my mind that the whole hallucination should fade and disappear.

But it did not. When I looked again they were still there, their silly, pretty faces gaping stupidly at me across the revolting mounds of pink satin.

‘I'm going to get out of this,' I said.

It was a tremendous effort to raise myself to a sitting position. I was aware of the rest watching me, wide-eyed, while I made it. I struggled to get my feet round and over the side of the bed, but they were all tangled in the satin coverlet and I could not reach to free them. It was the true, desperate frustration of a dream. I heard my voice pleading: ‘Help me! Oh, Donald, darling, please help me …'

And suddenly, as if the word ‘Donald' had released a spring, something seemed to click in my head. The shutter in my mind opened, not entirely, but enough to let me know who I was. I understood, suddenly, where the cruelty had lain.

I looked at the others again. They were still staring half-bewildered, half-alarmed. I gave up the attempt to move, and lay back on my pillow again.

‘You can't fool me any more,' I told them. ‘I know who I am now.'

‘But,
Mother Orchis –' one began.

‘Stop that,' I snapped at her. I seemed to have swung suddenly out of self-pity into a kind of masochistic callousness. ‘I am
not
a mother,' I said harshly. ‘I am just a woman who, for a short time, had a husband, and who hoped – but only hoped – that she would have babies by him.'

A pause followed that; a rather odd pause, where there should have been at least a murmur. What I had said did not seem to have registered. The faces showed no understanding; they were as uncomprehending as dolls.