CHAPTER XXX : THE PATIENT AT CHARING CROSS.
Alice finished her Nursing course at the beginning of the schools’ summer vacation and was advised to seek a position at the Charing Cross Hospital in Hammersmith, close to Annie’s interior design college. It was only a few underground stations away from South Kensington and quite convenient to reach from her home. It was the university hospital of the Imperial College School of Medicine and was at the moment in need of staff. She was accepted and started working there almost immediately. She was happy to be finally earning her living although Diana and I never complained that she ever was a burden to us. She also ended her courses at Heatherly and began looking for opportunities to place her paintings for sale. In that she was not at all successful because with the increasing wealth of the populace many more artistically gifted young people chose to enter that field and like authors of books the supply far outpaced the demand. The galleries she contacted did not even ask to see her work. They said they had a problem disposing the work they already had in their showrooms and storage. She was disappointed because dedicated as she was to her hospital work, she was never as passionate about it as her painting. Consequently her painting of canvases dropped considerably especially since her hospital work drained her energy. She also missed the presence of her Heatherly colleagues which were a source of both competition and encouragement. She still spent her weekends in Hove with her parents and granny, who was now more or less permanently bedridden, but there were weekends on which she was on staff duty and remained in London.
At nursing college she was taught to be gentle and kind with the patients but not to get emotionally involved with them because inevitably many would leave after their treatment and a few would die. After a couple of years of being rotated in different departments she was put in charge with other nurses and an experienced head nurse in the cancer ward. Alice worked almost exclusively with patients who had liver cancer, an incurable and potentially fatal condition. She was faced on many occasions with the deaths of people she had cared about but also with others, the lucky ones, who went through liver transplants successfully. About a dozen patients were there at any one time, most of them with liver cancer and a few with cirrhosis of the liver. As a matter of routine the patients were asked if they would like to be placed on a waiting list for a transplant operation. It was not a guaranteed proposition but opportunities did come by and a number of patients survived with the transplants while some others died before their turn came around. Nearly all patients, almost without exception, placed their names on the waiting list. Alice was surprised when a cirrhosis patient refused. He was in an advanced state of the disease and his abdomen was massively swollen by a condition called ascites, which is the retention of fluids in the abdominal cavity. She asked him why not, and he answered roughly, look at me. Can I ever be normal again? If you have the operation, you might, Alice said gently. No, I can’t go through with it, he answered. My life is finished in any case. I have nothing to live for. He turned his large round-faced head away from her indicating that his decision was final and he wanted no more talk. Alice left him but was troubled by his utter and belligerent despair. Something seemed to draw her to this man. After she finished her work before quitting the hospital she went to him. Hello, she said. I have come to talk a little if you like. He smiled. Why? he asked. I don’t know, she replied. Well, okay, talk, he told her. No, she said firmly, you tell me about yourself first.
Nothing worth telling, he said. My wife died eight months ago. I was already diagnosed with the initial stages of cirrhosis and if I am alive today it’s due to her because these last two years she took care of the pub. You see, I inherited it from my father and all the time it was in my hands I drank far too much. I was its best customer. In fact I had become an alcoholic. When I got cirrhosis, my wife sent me to a hospice run by Alcoholics Anonymous and I was cured of my alcoholism but not, of course, of the cirrhosis and after that she never let me step inside the place. Then she had an aggressive intestinal cancer and died in a hurry. Fast, very fast, within a few months. I went back to the pub and saw no reason why not to drink again and here I am. You want me to register for a transplant, love, and I can’t see the slightest reason to do so. It is a fair ending to a wasted life. So now you tell me about yourself. Despite his depressing story, Alice smiled at him. Well, she said, nothing worth telling about my life either. I’m not so sure, he said smiling. The fact that you’re a nurse is enough. You help people, it’s a vocation, it’s important. I never helped anyone in a positive sense in my life. Anyway please go on. Alice began the brief summation of her twenty two years. I was born in Hove and have lived all my life there. Five years ago I passed some “O” Level G.C.E. subjects and enrolled in the nursing college and moved here in London. This is my third year in this hospital. But I’ll tell you a secret that my colleagues here at the hospital don’t know. And please keep it to yourself. He laughed. To whom would I tell? he said. I hardly talk to anyone. You are the first person with whom I exchanged a few words. Very well, Alice said, you more or less congratulated me because of my vocation, because I help sick people. But really that is not my vocation. I believe my vocation is to be an artist. I love painting. I have been drawing and painting since I was very young and I have done two years at the Heatherly art school in Chelsea but so far I have been unable to sell anything I painted. I don’t really know how to go about it. I am happy at the hospital. I earn my daily bread so to speak but if I could get going with my painting I wouldn’t think twice about giving up nursing. The man’s eyes shone and a smile spread on his face. Really? he exclaimed. Please, love, would you bring a few of your paintings for me to look at? Just a few small pieces. Roll them up and I can have a look at them after you finish work. Please, will you do that for me? Alice was puzzled. Why would he want to see her work? An alcoholic publican dying of cirrhosis.
At home that evening she chose three oils. One was from the very first batch when she first started using oil paints. The second was from her first year at Heatherly and the third was a recent painting. This man, the publican, probably had some idea of fine art and by this tricky way she would find out just how much he knew about painting. She rolled and wrapped them up and the next day she went about her rounds and duties as usual. When he saw her he smiled and said, good morning Alice. She was surprised. How did you know my name? she asked. I got it from your colleagues, he said. Did you bring the stuff, love? Yes, she said, I’ll show them to you after I finish work. His bed was in a corner apart from the other patients in the ward. The atmosphere in the ward was always unbearably heavy and the patients hardly talked and socialized with each other. They were suffering and constantly contemplated the termination of their illness one way or another, a transplant operation with all its after effects or death. She came to him at five in the afternoon. The other patients were either dozing or staring vacantly at the ceiling. He smiled at her. Alice unwrapped the canvases and showed him the first one. He looked at it for a moment. You mustn’t be angry if I am frank and critical with you, love, will you? he asked. No, she said. Well, this painting of a pot of flowers is totally amateurish. You need a lot of instruction to improve your technique. Alice smiled with satisfaction. The man obviously knew what he was talking about. She showed him the second canvas which was the view of a garden with a tree and an empty bench. Oh, he exclaimed. Much, much better. I wouldn’t have said the same person painted this. Alice smiled again and showed him the third painting, a slightly larger canvas, which was a depiction of her cousin Michael stretched nonchalantly on the couch at the Fulham flat, the small Egyptian table in front of him and a watercolor picture pinned on the wall behind him. I say, the man said, this is quite extraordinary. Excellent, in fact. The colors, the expression on his face, the conception of the pose, the background, everything. Excellent. You cannot have painted all three of them. Yes I have, Alice said smiling. At different times. The pot of flowers was when I first started painting on my own, the others after my first year at Heatherly and after I finished the course. If many of your paintings are as good as the last one I shall tell you of a gallery owner that may help you. You could mention my name though that might not be much of a recommendation because the man had a rough time with me. Why, asked Alice smiling, did you overcharge him for his drinks? He laughed. It’s a long story, he said. But will you take down his name and go to him sometime when you have the time? His name is Chester Basterfield and the gallery is in Chelsea. Alice jotted down the name, rolled up the canvases and told him she had to go before people started noticing their friendship. Such close association with patients was usually frowned upon by the head nurses. I shall be with you tomorrow afternoon. Yes, love, and thank you ever so much, he said.
Alice was intrigued by this churl of a man who seemed to know so much about painting. The next afternoon she asked him about his strange proficiency in art. He smiled. I was a promising painter myself when I was your age, Alice. Unfortunately, I got involved with a bad crowd and we led a dissolute life and started partying much too often and drinking much too much. We thought we were a terribly clever lot when actually we were a bunch of dumb asses. I stopped painting, Chester gave me up as a bad job, and I had to rely on my father for my living. It doesn’t take much you know to slide downhill, and I eventually lost my interest and my talent. I began working at my father’s pub and continued drinking. Eventually I got married to Sarah but my wife could not control me. I was violent and arrogant. A tough, stupid weakling, that’s what I was. Then my father died and I took over the pub and it was only when I had the first symptoms of cirrhosis that my wife put her foot down and threatened to leave me if I didn’t go to rehabilitation for my alcoholism. She was the only crutch I had left and I followed her advice but when she died I was finished. Alice could not utter a single word of comfort. It would have sounded false. There was simply nothing to say to soothe the futility of his life and its present degradation. She almost understood his desire to die. They talked a little about painting and the well-known European and American painters and she felt his spirit revive somewhat. And then she had to leave. You will come again tomorrow, he almost pleaded. Yes, of course, she said.
Next day they started talking again. He asked her where she lived. In Fulham, she replied. Where exactly? At 73 Fulham Road, Alice said. She saw his face contort with anxiety and go pale. What’s wrong? she asked. Don’t you feel well? What’s your mother’s name? he asked hurriedly, ignoring her questions. He almost choked with agitation, raising his head with a great effort from the pillow with eyes wide open focused on her. Diana, she said. Her name’s Diana, Why? Hey listen, I’ll call the head nurse. There’s something wrong with you, Alice almost panicked. No, no, I’m all right, Alice. ‘Tis memories that choke me. Just let me rest for a moment. I shall be fine. He turned to his side, away from her, and breathed heavily for a while with a kind of wailing sound but soon calmed down and turned to face her again. His eyes were red and she wondered if he had been crying. Sorry, he said, I get these panic attacks sometimes. Tell me, Alice when were you born? Why? Alice asked. You needn’t tell me if you don’t want, he said. February 1971, she said, but why do you ask? Just curious, he answered. She left soon after that peculiar conversation and when she returned the next day he asked her to add his name to the waiting list for transplants. She smiled and said she was very happy that he had taken that decision but, she said, may I ask what made you change your mind? You did, Alice, he said. I have fallen in love with you. Not in any sexual sense. I love you like a daughter. I feel you are the daughter I never had.
The sad part was that as his emotional state improved, as he inched out of his depression and indifference to life, his physical condition continued to deteriorate. The head nurse told Alice that there was not the remotest chance that he would be considered by the doctors’ committee for a transplant even if a healthy liver was available. He would never survive the operation. Alice was disheartened and kept up her afternoon visits and their chats that seemed to pull him out of his misery. I want to get over this ailment for one single reason, he told Alice. I want to help you succeed in the same dream I had long ago and wrecked it. It would be a partial consolation for the useless life I led. Besides Chester, I have other contacts in the art market and I could perhaps get you started to earn your living as a painter. To exercise your art, to live a life fulfilled. With every talk he tried to probe Alice’s life. To learn, to discover all he could about her. He asked her why her parents lived in Hove. Alice told him that as far as she knew, her mother lived in the Fulham flat before she inherited a cottage in Hove from an uncle and that she and Alice’s grandmother decided to go and live there for a calmer lifestyle than London. Both her parents found jobs in Hove and seemed to be quite content there. In successive talks he wanted to know more about her life, her ideals, her boyfriends and her dreams. Their intimacy increased as his life was waning. She knew the end was near and still when he suffered a massive heart attack and died she was shocked and disconsolate. The head nurse scolded her. That should teach you, Alice, not to get intimate with patients, especially patients who are on the verge of death.
At home we were worried to see Alice so depressed. What’s wrong, dear? we asked. She told us that one of her patients died. Surely it wasn’t your fault, Diana said. No, of course not, she answered, and went on to tell us in some detail the circumstances of their friendship, his illness, and its deterioration that caused his death. A bell rang in our brain. What was his name, we asked with one voice. Edgar Mackenzie, she said. Later when we were alone I told a quiet and thoughtful Diana that even a ruffian sometimes shows some decency. He surely guessed that Alice was his daughter but did not even hint that he knew you. He must have worked it out when he asked Alice’s for her date of birth, well, if in his condition he could still remember and calculate those dates. Oh dear, it’s a strange world, my darling Diana, isn’t it? Undoubtedly, there’s some good in the worst of us and some malevolence in the best of us.
Just as the Chinese have certain superstitions about homes and properties and often bring Feng Shui experts to advise them on the layout and balance of energies in their homes, negative and positive, to assure health and good fortune, Annie had a superstition about homes as well. Not as detailed and doctrinaire as Feng Shui but vague and yet convincing in her mind. She believed that having an office, for example, where business thrived, changing it might cause the good luck that came with it to disappear. Similarly, she considered that their happy life and good fortune that they experienced in their first two-bedroom flat during more than two decades of shared life with Omar, was partly due to the positive vibes of the flat. That was the reason she resisted changing their home when Omar decided that he needed one more in keeping with his increasing wealth and position in a company that was flourishing and had attained international repute. The new flat he acquired with a 99-year lease in South Kensington had four bedrooms, two bathrooms, a dining room, an extra-large living room and a spacious kitchen. Annie and he, moved to separate bedrooms. The wild passion they had for each other had cooled considerably, a victim of time and age and diminished additionally by the worries and engagements of their business activities, by the deadening effects of routine weekend lovemaking and reduced sexual energy and desire. Annie was happy to have her own room to escape a symptom that plagues the later stages of many a marriage, snoring. The inevitable result was a gradual alienation of the couple especially of a successful one where both their energies were absorbed outside the home. Alice was amused to hear Annie’s theories on the power of bricks and mortar to influence peoples’ lives and fortunes and teased her about it. It’s true that Annie was rather shaky about her superstition but pointed out that Aunt Agatha died as soon as they moved to their new flat. Alice laughed and asked her if she thought Aunt Agatha was going to live forever. She was over ninety, for heaven’s sake, Alice said, unable to stop laughing. Yes, but it happened on the very day we moved, Annie insisted. It doesn’t mean a thing, Annie, and don’t go about expounding this theory because people will think you are simple, which you are definitely not.
Alice recounted to Annie her involvement with Edgar at the hospital and Annie, of course, understood that Edgar did not reveal his relationship with Diana or the possibility that he might be Alice’s father. It was a close shave and she commiserated with Alice as if she knew nothing about Edgar. The sympathy she showed her was one more of the many reasons that strengthened their intimacy. Despite the fact that Alice was getting more intimate with the eighteen-year-old Michael and acted as a disciplinarian pushing him to study for his “A” Levels, just like her father pushed Omar, her relationship with Annie was that of similarly aged intimate girlfriends. She asked Alice about her boyfriends and sexual experiences and hinted that Omar no longer desired her as he used to and it was she that initiated sex with him because with her the yen was still alive and kicking. She suspected that he had started having extra-marital escapades with the secretaries that circulated in the company’s offices. You know Alice, I have a good mind to put a private detective at his heels, she said laughing, half as a joke and half seriously. In any case I have warned him long ago that I shall not tolerate any gallivanting. I do not need him. I have plenty of money. I still believe it’s this bloody flat that has brought me bad luck. Don’t be ridiculous, Annie said, laughing. And you know something, Alice, Tasos is coming here as the Greek Ambassador. It’s an interesting development, don’t you think? I thought he was dull and he bored you, Alice said. Yes, that was way back then, Annie replied. Now it’s dear old Omar who is dull and bores me like hell. What’s more, Tasos has not stopped loving me. We talk on the phone regularly these days and he begs me to return to him. To our marital bed, ha, ha. I am still married to him, you know. An Ambassador, can you imagine? The glory and the receptions, and listen to this. The Queen will send two horse-driven carriages with liveried footmen and her Head of Protocol to bring him from his residence in Belgravia to the Palace to receive his letters of accreditation. Then he will sit for tea and chat for half an hour with the Queen. I did not think you cared about this nonsense, Alice told the smiling Annie. I don’t, my sweet, but it’s a lot of fun this pomp, isn’t it? In the middle of it I might even find a Lord to fuck me, she said bursting in laughter. Alice laughed as well. I can’t believe it’s you talking, Annie. What the hell, she replied, I have been sensible Annie for too long.