The cul de sac prompt at Phoenix Writers’ Group a few weeks ago brought up a vivid recollection of being ill as a child; specifically being ill with pneumonia. The story grew, and for some unknown reason a doppelganger, ‘Hyde’ character appeared entangled in my protagonist’s head and narrative. Avenues and cul de sacs are a good setting for the use of an unreliable narrator. As I mentioned in a previous post, Joanna Cannon’s The Trouble with Goats and Sheep makes superb use of the claustrophobic community of an Avenue, where bigotry bubbles along quite nicely, thank you very much. Another is the brilliant novel Spies by Michael Frayn which I will explore in another post. Hee’s my tale. Perhaps I am being a little optimistic to label it chapter one?
Church Close.
Chapter One: Fever.
“Pneumonia again Fran. I’m afraid this time you might be home for several weeks. I’ll call by each day until you’re on a better road .Promise.” Dr Campbell returned his stethoscope to his brown bag. He clicked the gold, monogrammed fastening and stared at my mother’s painted feet.
No one spoke, and then Mother said thank you and something else I’d didn’t hear because I’d given up listening. My head felt really warm and I resented Dr Campbell talking about roads whenever he mentioned illness. Better roads, tough roads, clear roads, unmade roads. His car always looked dusty too, probably because he lived on a farm near the railway station. So his road wasn’t even a road, it was a dirt track.
I manoeuvred the wet flannel across my eyes. Now he disappeared. And so did his bag. Good riddance.
Beneath my flannel I considered the mystery of Dr Campbell’s second wife, who owned a name nearly the same as mine, except she came from France and I didn’t. Apparently, the Campbell’s walked a lot with their three dogs. People claimed they chatted in French: collected things together; even held hands. His shoes always looked perfect though. Mum said that the state of a man’s shoes told you everything you ever needed to know to about him. I wondered if that rule applied to children too. Mind you, I’d never seen Dr Campbell’s children because they were much older than me; very very clever and all studied at the famous music school in Manchester where they wore uniforms down to their feet. They adored Manchester according to Dr Campbell’s receptionist. That was why they never came home.
We only visited Manchester about three times a year and usually met my grandma in Kendal Milnes. Sometimes my brother rode the escalator backwards and mum got angry and then we all ate sandwiches and shared cake in the cafe for a treat.
Cake. I altered the flannel again. My room reappeared. So did he.
Mother asked Dr Campbell about my new prescription. She looked very pretty and touched her forehead in her most worried way. “Our Ford Anglia is in the garage today for her mot. I could walk up to the village but… ”
I supposed Dr Campbell watched Ivanhoe like me, because he intervened very gallantly, ” Don’t worry Margaret. I can drop by with Fran’s prescription after surgery.” He patted my bedpost. “You’re used to my face by now aren’t you Fran?’
So he knew my mother’s first name. And used it. I wondered why mother looked so pleased. I nearly growled. Instead, I assumed my most sickly, grateful expression and nodded. Dr Campbell might think he was clever, but he couldn’t read my mind. He didn’t know about my secret weapon, my other half. I named my other Mr Hyde because I worshipped Robert Louis Stevenson and he had been sickly too. For some reason, my Mr Hyde half always hung about when Dr Campbell visited. He seethed away, raging to speak, just beneath the surface of my pale skin. Now when I heard Dr Campbell actually using my mother’s name, I felt as if Mr Hyde might leap out and smash him right on his polite, well combed, ever-so-handsome head.
But no one could read my mind. Or detect a trace of my Mr Hyde. Flannels were very handy things.
I noticed Dr Campbell was pretending to cough, looking around the walls of my room for inspiration. Mother’s hand rested on the door, but I could tell she was reluctant to open it. Luckily Dr Campbell discovered my Wanted poster of Tiger who had gone missing the week before. Dr Campbell’s fingers twitched. He twisted the ring on his little finger. Bad sign.
“Any news of your Poor Tiger?”
“No” I said. “Nothing at all. “ The nothing felt horribly huge, so I stared at the window. Nothing there either. February looked as pale and savage as me. I didn’t want to cry so I yawned.
“I hope he turns up soon.”
“He is a she,’’ Dr Campbell.’’
“Quite. My mistake. Of course.”
Hurrah. Only I didn’t say that out loud. Then I heard this other voice. (‘’Neatly done Fran. That skewered him didn’t it?’’) It was Hyde. Hyde liked to celebrate my victories. His voice sounded similar to mine except deeper, meaner and more certain. I was never sure who was the ventriloquist, me or him. That’s why I imagined him speaking in brackets. (‘’Speak up Fran, tell the teacher the answer.’’) Just so we didn’t get too confused about where I ended and he began. I was a shy child, so on the rare occasions when I dared look in the mirror, my friend Hyde borrowed at least one of my eyes and stared back: his eyes smoky, mine just blue.( ‘’It’s the rage Fran. It’s the fire’’).
The air in my room smelt tainted with Lipton disinfectant and the ghastly pink medicine that never left my bedside table. The bottle had even managed to stain my new Biggles’ book sent by my class. Biggles ‘ Sophwith Camel on the cover looked definitely doomed. I wanted to read and find out, get away from everything, but these adults persisted in checking my pillows, taking my temperature and then asking how I felt. Surely they could guess?
It didn’t need much imagination or intelligence to see that Illness had taken control of my life. It had colonised my body, my head, even my bedroom. Yet despite everything, including my vile pink medicine, I liked the word colonised. It reminded me that I was clever and special, rather than sweaty and weak. When I improved, I would mention the word to grandma. Mr Hyde was a fan of my grandma. I could tell.
My flannel needed icing again. I turned my face to my zoo wallpaper , feeling rather like Napoleon on Elba or that other island, and wished I could go back to school. It might be weeks before I announced the word colonised loudly in class. I missed Mrs Coates. She understood me. I had no doubts that my arch rival, Damien Reynolds, would benefit hugely by my absence. His mother had sent my mother a letter with her sincere regrets about my illness and Tiger’s disappearance. She wrote in biro because she ran the post office. Why do adults take lying so seriously? I imagined her writing at the back of the post office, surrounded by ink stamps yet still selecting a cheap plastic biro. I gave the letter to my brother to burn on our fire when no one was looking, and then he brought me more Vicks to inhale, which made me feel tons better.
I sipped another table spoon of the pink poison. No gain without pain. Thank you Dr Campbell.
Another new flannel revived me. I didn’t know who brought it. I lie. I could detect the doctor’s cologne. Obviously French. It mingled dangerously with the violet scent of mother’s Christmas present from my godmother. No wonder my temperature ran so high.
Oh yes, now I remembered. I really wanted to watch Blue Peter today, but our stupid television was downstairs. They were making houses for birds in your garden, so they wouldn’t freeze or get eaten by natural enemies like Tiger. Two days ago, Barbara had pushed a card through my door with uneven big letters saying GET WElL In time for BLuE PeT er. (Aunty Joan took the Radio Times). Barbara had even pencilled a mouse with stripes to cheer me up. It didn’t. But I liked being reminded about Blue Peter and having a friend on the close. A ‘close’ friend my brother called her, and laughed.
“Cats can go away for weeks on end, can’t they doctor?” Mother looked hopefully into the space above Dr Campbell’s head.
Why did she do that? He wasn’t God.
‘And Tiger likes to hunt. To go on the prowl. She has such an independent spirit doesn’t she Fran? ”
Mother smiled at the soundless GP and awaited his reply, for his male wisdom.
Dr Campbell adjusted the pockets on his jacket, unsure, yet flattered, thinking.
In despair and because Mr Hyde was uncoiling, I feigned sleep so they would have to leave my room, even if Blue Peter began without me. I watched them both leave beneath my damp eye lashes, very blurry they looked too. Then I did fall asleep and dreamed of my pretend uncle Roger digging a muddy hole by the side of his shed. He kept looking over his shoulder whilst he dug and then put something in it that I couldn’t quite see, no matter how hard I looked. Even Mr Hyde couldn’t tell me what Uncle Roger buried. Strange.
I woke up to see my brother Christopher dressed in purple velvet trousers and a white jumper. Wearing some very shiny shoes. I didn’t know he could manage laces.
‘I’m going to Wendy Smith’s party. I’m taking your gift. They want me to sing before the cake, but most definitely after the trifle. ‘
‘Poor you ‘ I said.’ Bring me something back on a stick. Don’t kiss anyone either, and keep an eye out for Tiger. ‘
‘Ok ‘said my brother and skipped off downstairs. He ran back a moment later with the news that Wendy’s dad hated cats. “And he throws stones and sleeps all day in a vest.”
“I know “I said.” Now go away and play.”
Dr Campbell called back later with some red medicine that tasted far nicer than the pink.
Someone smiled and I suppose it might have been me. The good child likes to peep out occasionally.
”It’s new” he said without realizing how simple he sounded. “We like our antibiotics to work together. Just be patient Fran. And be brave too if you can. ”
Dr Campbell thanked mother for his cup of tea. He drank it in a China mug for some reason.
I knew my mother adored Dr Campbell. He came from another planet, as far as her heart was concerned. Mother patted my hand to prompt a further show of gratitude for the red medicine. So I tried to look as brave and noble as my hero Ivanhoe. This didn’t work very well as my admiration had slipped a bit, especially after Ivanhoe swooned all over Rowena and deserted poor Rebecca, who had once saved his life. My Mr Hyde whispered that I could rewrite the ending, but I took no notice. I’m too young to be a revolutionary.
Before I fell ill, I had asked my mother about the injustice of Ivanhoe’s heart. Mine felt broken and betrayed and my name wasn’t even Rebecca.
‘Rowena is blonde’ said my mother practically and I couldn’t argue with that. I just felt something was deep down wrong about Ivanhoe, so I crossed him off my Easter present list and asked for more Biggles or a book token or even the real , unabridged Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde. After all, I was growing up fast and who knew when I might need them?
Janet Lewison 2017.
