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From the very first stories written in the early 1970s, Bernard has been a master of
style and technique. Deploying that unflashy art which conceals art which I associate also
with John McGATTEN, WILLIAM TREVOR< GRACE Payley and ALCIE MUNROE.
Collected Stories is a wonderful compendium of Bernard's preoccupations and his development
across 40 years or more of variety. Probably 50 years. What are his preoccupations? Families,
childhood, organised religion, catholicism especially, music and musical form and the
complexity of ordinary lives and ordinary minds. His stories capture the endless variety
of pressures that can shape and fracture a relationship from without or from within.
Health problems. Money problems. Parent and child conflicts. Peer group pressures and
bullying of many different kinds. Unforeseen eruptions of desire. Fear and frustration.
At the same time, more often than not, the relationship evolves and reveals itself as
surprisingly strong and able to survive and continue after a fashion. Or the essence of
the person who we learn about in the story, survives through the burnishing and scarring
of experience. This I think gives a narrative or thematic shape to his novels and stories,
but this sense of a shaking and a straying imposed upon a structure that finally survives
also applies to the form of these literary creations too.
In one published interview, he has described the writer's task in the simplest but most
profound way I think. He says 'Initially the writer visualises and writes it down in words.
And then the reader comes along and reads the words and then visualises what you've
written. It's like converting it back, but it never really ends up in the same place.
It's an approximation'. I cannot think of a more disarmingly understated way of describing
literature than as the enabling of approximate visualisations. So, let us see now what rich
approximations can gift to us in his reading of one or two of his own stories and talking
about his work. Bernard MacLaverty.
Thank you very much for that introduction. I was sitting there saying 'I think he sounds
very interesting'.
I am told as well, I didn't know this, but I was conscious of it coming to Birmingham
that today is the 39th anniversary of the Birmingham bomb or bombings. And I would just
like to say how ashamed at the amount of suffering that caused - the Irish problem - to come
here and to committ such atrocities. I'll say that and the stories that I'm going to
read - I'll probably read two stories if we have time - and the first one is about the
specific roots of that problem. It's a story called 'Walking the dog' and it's a kind of
Aristotelian story. Woah, big word! Which means that it takes as long to read as it
does to happen. So it's about 10 minutes, 10-15 minutes. Such a big book, I don't know
where the hell it is.
'Walking the dog'.
I'm not explaining anything about this. I think this story throws up confusions and
that helps the story - to be confused. Somebody said once, if you're not confused you don't
properly understand the problem of Ireland'.
As he left the house he heard the music for the start of the Nine O’Clock news. At the
top of the cul-de-sac was a paved path which sloped steeply and could be dangerous in icy
weather like this. The snow had melted a little during the day but frozen over again at night.
It had done this for several days now - snowing a bit, melting a bit, freezing a bit. The
walked-over ice crackled as he put his weight on it and he knew he wouldn't go far. He was
exercising the dog- not himself. The animal’s breath was visible on the cold
air as it panted up the short slope onto the main road, straining against the leash. The
dog stopped and lifted his leg against the cement post.
‘Here boy, come on.' He let him off the leash and wrapped the leather
round his hand. The dog galloped away then stopped and turned, not used with the icy
surface. He came back wagging his tail, his big paws
slithering. ‘Daft ***.’
It was a country road lined by hedges and ditches. Beyond the housing estate were green
fields as far as Lisburn. The city had grown out to here within the last couple of years.
As yet there was no footpath. Which meant he had to be extra careful in keeping the
dog under control. Car headlights bobbed over the hill and approached.
‘C’mere!’ He patted his thigh and the dog stood close.
Face the oncoming traffic. As the car passed, the undipped headlights turned the dog's eyes
swimming-pool green. Dark filled in again between the hedges.
The noise of the car took a long time to disappear completely. The dog was now snuffling and
sniffing at everything in the undergrowth – being the hunter.
The man's eyes were dazzled as another car came over the hill.
'C'mere you.' The dog came to him and he rumpled and patted the loose folds of skin around
its neck. He stepped into the ditch and held the dog close by its collar. This time the
car indicated and slowed and stopped just in front of him. The passenger door opened
and a man got out and swung the back door wide open so that nobody could pass on the
inside. One end of a red scarf hung down the guy’s chest, the other had been flicked
up around his mouth and nose. 'Get in,' the guy said.
'What?' 'Get in the *** car.' He was beckoning
with one hand and the other was pointing. Not pointing but aiming a gun at him. Was
this a joke? Maybe a starting pistol. 'Move or I'll blow your *** head off.'
The dog saw the open door and leapt up into the back seat of the car. A voice shouted
from inside, 'Get that hound outa here.'
'Come on. Get in,' said the guy with the gun. 'Nice and slow or
I'll blow your *** head off.' Car headlights were coming from the opposite
direction. The driver shouted to hurry up. The guy with the gun grabbed him by the back
of the neck and pushed his head down and shoved him into the car. And he was in the back seat
beside his dog with the gunman crowding in beside him.
'Get your head down.' He felt a hand at the back of his neck forcing his head down to
his knees. The headlights of the approaching car lit the interior for a moment - enough
to see that the upholstery in front of him was blue - then everything went dark as the
car passed. He could hear his dog panting. He felt a distinct metal hardness - a point
- cold in the nape hair of his neck. 'If you so much as move a muscle I'll kill
you. I will,' said the gunman. His voice sounded as if it was shaking with nerves. ‘Right-oh
driver.' 'What about the dog?' said the driver.
'What about it? It'd run home. Start yapping, maybe. People'd start looking.'
'Aye, mebby.' ‘On you go’
‘There’s something not right about it. Bringing a dog.'
On you *** go.' The car took off, changed gear and cruised
- there seemed to be no hurray about it. ‘We’re from the IRA,' said the gunman.
'Who are you?' There was a silence. He was incapable of answering.
‘What’s your name?' He cleared his throat and made a noise. Then
said, 'John.' ‘John who?’
‘John Shields’ ‘What sort of a name is that?'
It was hard to shrug in the position he was in. He had one foot on either side of the
ridge covering the main drive shaft. They were now in an
area of street lighting and he saw a Juicy Fruit chewing-gum paper under the driver's
seat. What was he playing the detective for? The car would be stolen anyway. His hands
could touch the floor but were around his knees. He still had the dog's lead wrapped
round his fist. ‘Any other names?’
‘What like?’ ‘A middle name.'
The dog had settled and curled up on the seat beside him. There was an occasional bumping
sound as his tail wagged. The gunman wore Doc Martens and stone-washed denims.
‘I said, any other names?’ ‘No.’
‘You’re lying in your teeth. Not even a Confirmation name?'
‘No.’ ‘What school did you go to?’
There was a long pause. ‘It’s none of your business.' There was
a sudden staggering pain in the back of his head and he thought he'd been shot. 'Aww-
for ***'s sake.’ The words had come from him so he couldn't be dead. The *** must
have hit him with the butt of the gun. 'No cheek’, said the gunman. 'This is serious.'
'For ***'s sake, mate - take it easy.' He was shouting and groaning and rubbing the
back of his head. The anger in his voice raised the dog and it began to growl. His fingers
were slippery. The blow must have broken the skin.
'Let me make myself clear,' said the gunman. 'I'll come to it in one. Are you a Protestant
or a Roman Catholic?' There was a long pause. John pretended to
concentrate on the back of his neck. 'That really *** hurt,' he said.
'I'll ask you again. Are you a Protestant or a Roman Catholic?’
'I'm ... I don't believe in any of that crap. I suppose I'm nothing.
'You're a *** *** - if you ask me.' John protected his neck with his hands thinking
he
was going to be hit again. But nothing happened. 'What was your parents?'
'The same. In our house nobody believed in anything.'
The car slowed and went down the gears. The driver indicated and John heard the rhythmic
clinking as it flashed. This must be the Lisburn Road. A main road. This was happening on a
main Belfast road. They'd be heading for the Falls. Some Republican safe house.
The driver spoke over his shoulder. 'Let's hear you saying the alphabet.'
'Are you serious?' 'Yeah - say your abc's for us,' said the gunman.
'This is so *** ridiculous,' said John. He steeled himself for another blow.
'Say it - or I'll kill you.' The gunman's voice was very matter-of-fact now. John knew
the myth that Protestants and Roman Catholics, because of separate schooling, pronounced
the eighth letter of the alphabet differently. But he couldn't remember who said which
'Eh ... bee ... cee, dee, ee ... eff.' He said it very slowly, hoping the right pronunciation
would come to him. He stopped. 'Keep going.'
'Gee .. .'John dropped his voice,'... aitch, haitch ... aye jay kay.’
'We have a real smart Alec here,' said the gunman. The driver spoke again.
‘Stop *** about and ask him if he knows anybody in the IRA who can vouch for him.’
‘Well?’ said the gunman. 'Do you?' There was another long pause. The muzzle of
the gun touched his neck. Pressure was applied to the top bone of his vertebrae.
‘Do you?’ ‘I’m thinking.’
‘It’s not *** Mastermind. Do you know anybody in the Provos?
Answer me now or I'll blow the *** head off you.'
‘No,’ John shouted. 'There's a couple of guys in work who are
Roman Catholic - but there's no way they're Provos.' Where do you work?'
‘The Gas Board.' ‘A meter man?’
‘No, I’m an E.O.’
‘Did you hear that?' said the gunman to the driver.
‘Aye.’ ‘There’s not too many Fenians in
the Gas Board.' ‘Naw,’ said the driver. 'If there are
any they're not E.O. class. I think this is a dud.'
‘John Shields,’ said the gunman. 'Tell us this. What do you think of us?’
‘What do you mean?' ‘What do you think of the IRA? The Provos?'
Catch yourselves on. You have a gun stuck in my neck and you want me to’
‘Naw - it'd be interesting. Nothing'll happen - no matter what you say. Tell us what you
think.' There was silence as the car slowed down and
came to a stop. The reflections from the chrome inside the car became red. Traffic lights.
John heard the beeping of a 'cross now' signal. For the benefit of the blind. Like the pimples
on the pavement. To let them know where they were.
‘Can you say the Hail Mary? To save your bacon?'
‘No – I told you I'm not interested in that kind of thing.'
The driver said, 'I think he's okay.'
'Sure,' said the gunman. 'But he still hasn't told us what he thinks of us.'
John cleared his throat - his voice was trembling. 'I hate the Provos. I hate everything you
stand for.' There was a pause. 'And I hate you for doing this to me.'
'Spoken like a man.' The driver said, 'He's no more a Fenian than I am.'
'Another one of our persuasion.' The gunman sighed with a kind of irritation. The lights
changed from orange to green. The car began to move. John heard the indicator clinking
again and the driver turned off the main road into darkness. The car stopped and the hand
brake was racked on. The gunman said, 'Listen to me. Careful. It's like in the fairy tale.
If you look at us you're dead.' 'You never met us,' said the driver.
'And if you look at the car we'll come back and kill you - no matter what side you're
from. Is that clear? Get out.' John heard the door opening at the gunman's
side. The gunman’s legs disappeared. 'Come on. Keep the head down.' John looked
at his feet and edged his way across the back seat. He bent his head to get out and kept
it at that angle. The gunman put his hands on John's shoulders and turned him away from
the car. There was a tree in front of him. 'Assume the position,' said the gunman. John
placed his hands on the tree and spread his feet. His knees were shaking so much now that
he was afraid of collapsing. 'And keep your head down.’ The tarmac pavement was uneven
where it had been ruptured by the tree’s roots. John found a place for his feet.
The dog's claws scrabbled on the metal sill of the car as it followed him out. It nudged
against his leg and he saw the big eyes up at him. The gunman said,
'Sorry about this, mate.' John saw the gunman's hand reach down and scratch the dog's head.
'Sorry about the thump. But we’re not playing games. She's a nice dog.'
‘It’s not a she.' ‘Okay, okay. Whatever you say.'
The car door closed and the car began reversing- crackling away over the refrozen slush. In
the headlights his shadow was very black against the tree. There was a double and sharp shadow,
one from each headlight. . From the high-pitched whine of its engine
he knew the car was still reversing. It occurred to him that they would not shoot him from
that distance. For what seemed a long time he watched his shadow moving on the tree even
though he kept as still as possible. It was a game he'd played as a child, hiding his
eyes and counting to a hundred. Here I come, away or not. The headlights swung to the trees
lining the other side of the road. His dog was whimpering a bit, wanting
to get on. John risked a glance- moving just his eyes and saw the red glow of the car's
taillights disappearing onto the main road. He recognised where he was. It was the Malone
Road. He leaned his head against the back of his hands. Even his arms were trembling
now. He took deep breaths and put his head back to look up into the branches of the tree.
‘*** me' he said out loud. The sleeve of his anorak had slipped to reveal his watch.
It was ten past nine. He began to unwind the leash from his hand. It left white scars where
it had bitten into his skin. He put his hand to the back of his head. His hair was sticky
with drying blood. ‘Come on boy.' He began to walk towards
the lights of the main road where he knew there was a phone box. But what was the point?
He wouldn't even have been missed yet. The street was so quiet he could hear the
clinking of the dog's identity disk as it padded along beside him.
What we said with Michael was, as a selling point for this book 'Every page is different!'
It's a wonderful idea for a book of fiction.
The reason I read this is I think there's an element in it of story, of one of the world's
greatest storytellers or writers. I love it. I love the fact that it includes a great writer.
'The Clinic'.
It was still dark. He was never up at this time, except occasionally to catch a dawn
flight. He picked up his sample, his papers and the yellow card. The bottle was warm in
his hand. He was about to go out the door when he remembered. Something to read, something
to pass the time. In the room with the book shelf he clicked on the light. The clock on
the mantelpiece told him he was running late. He grabbed a small hardback collection of
Chekhov's short stories and ran. It was mid-November. People's Moscow-white
faces told how cold it was. Breath was visible on the air. The traffic was ten time worse
than he was used to. He turned off into the hospital and got lost a couple of times before
he saw the Diabetic Clinic sign and parked ages away and half hurried, half ran back.
He was breathless going through the door only to find that the place was upstairs. He was
about eight minutes late and apologised. The receptionist shrugged and smiled, as if to
say - think nothing of it. That made him mad too. He had been so uptight trying to get
there on time and now, it seemed, it didn't matter very much. If there was one thing worse
than worrying, it was wasted worrying. He was asked to take a seat.
The waiting room was half full even though it was only twenty to nine. There was a row
of empty seats backing onto the window. He sat down, glad not to be close enough to
anyone to have to start a conversation. A Muslim woman in a black hejab talked to her
mother who was similarly dressed. The language was incom prehensible to him but he was
curious to know what they were talking about. All the men's magazines were about golf or
cars. He picked up Vogue and flicked through it. Beautiful half-naked sophisticated women
clattering with jewellery. But he couldn't concentrate to read any of the text.
His letter lay face up on the chair beside him.
Your family doctor has referred you to the Diabetic Clinic to see if you are diabetic.
To find this out we will need to perform a glucose tolerance test.
He remembered a crazy guy at school who had diabetes - who went into comas. But school
was fifty years ago. Since being given his appointment he'd read up even more frightening
stuff about your eyesight and how you could lose it. And your extremities - how in some
cases they could go gangrenous and have to be lopped off.
His yellow outpatient card said Please bring this card with you when you next attend.
A door at the far end of the waiting room opened and screeched closed. It took about
thirty or forty seconds to close, with its irritating, long, dry squeak. There was a
damping device on the mechanism to make it close more slowly. But no sooner had it closed
fully and the poise stopped than somebody else came through it and began the whole process
over again. 'Collective responsibility is not being taken,' he wanted to yell. If he
had diabetes and had to come back to this God-forsaken place then next time he'd bring
an oil can. Recently in the newspaper he'd read that grumpy old men were more liable
to heart attacks than old men who were not grumpy. He tried to calm down. To degrump.
He took out his Chekhov and looked at the list of contents. Something short. He did
a quick sum, subtracting the page number from the following page number after each story.
It was an old copy and the cheap paper had turned the colour of toast at the edges. The
Vanguard Library edition- translated by the wonderful Constance Garnett. A nurse walked
in and called people by their first names. She came to him.
'Hi, my name is Phil,' she said, 'and that's Myna at reception.' She explained what was
going to happen. He had to drink a whole bottle of Lucozade and then, over the next couple
of hours, every half hour in fact, he had to give both blood and urine samples. He nodded.
He understood. He had grey hair, he was overweight, but he understood.
She took him into the corridor and sat him down in what looked like a wheelchair.
'Did you have any breakfast?' she said. 'A cuppa tea maybe? Some toast?'
'No. The leaflet said to come fasting.' 'Not everybody pays attention to that.'
'What a waste of everybody's time. Do people actually do that?'
'You'd be surprised,' she said. It turned out not to be a wheelchair but a
weighing machine. She calculated something against a chart on the wall.
'Did you bring a sample?' 'Yes.' He rummaged in his pocket and produced
the bottle. It had returned to room temperature. Spring water with a hint of Apple. He handed
it over and the nurse put a label on it. 'It might be a little flavoured,' he said.
'I'm not going to drink it.' She whisked it away into another room. When he was back in
his seat by the window she brought him Lucozade, a plastic glass and four lozenge-shaped paper
tubs. She put a white label with a bar-code on each and wrote a time on the rim with her
biro. He wanted to make terrible jokes about giving urine samples and her name. Phil. Phil
these please. P for Phil. But he realized everybody must do this. He said, 'I hope these
are not for blood.' She laughed. She had a nice face - in her
early forties. 'All at once now,' she said. He poured the
Lucozade into the plastic glass and drank it. Refilled it, drank it. Halfway down he
had stop, his swallow refused to work against the sweet bubbles. Eventually he finished
everything and childishly expected praise. When she left him he tried to concentrate
on his book. A story called 'The Beauties' looked feasible. Subtract one hundred and
seventy-three from one hundred and eighty-three. It'd be hard with all this toing and froing
- all the stabbing and ***. All the people around him talking. He didn't think he'd read
it before. That had happened several times with Turgenev - after fifty pages he'd said,
'I've read this before.' It went down so easily. Nobody gagged on Turgenev.
But Chekhov is Chekhov. He draws you in. He writes as if the thing is happening in front
of your eyes. An unnamed boy of sixteen, maybe Chekhov himself, and his grandfather in a
chaise are travelling through the summer heat and dust of the countryside to Rostov-on
the-Don. They stop to feed their horses at a rich Armenian's and the grandfather talks
endlessly to the owner about farms and feedstuffs and manure. The place is described in minute
detail down to the floors painted with yellow ochre and the flies . . . and more flies.
Then tea is brought in by a barefoot girl of sixteen wearing a white kerchief and when
she turns from the side-board to hand the boy his cup she has the most wonderful face
he has ever seen. He feels a wind blow across his soul.
'The Beauties' had captured him. He knew exactly what Chekhov was talking about. He was there
in that room experiencing the same things. At precisely a minute before a quarter to
the hour he lifted one of his cardboard pee pots and went to the technician's laboratory.
The technician was a woman with long brown hair who smiled at him. She wore a white coat.
Her breast pocket had several biro ink lines descending into it. She explained what she
was about to do. 'You can choose to have it done on four fingers.
Or you can have it done on one finger four times. That's the choice. Four sore fingers
or one very sore finger?' He chose his middle finger and presented it-
almost like an obscene gesture. He looked away, anticipating a scalpel or dagger. There
was a winter tree outside. Without leaves a crow's nest was visible. There was a click
and the stab was amazingly tiny- like the smallest rose thorn in the world. He hardly
felt anything. The technician squeezed his finger and harvested his drop of blood into
a capillary tube the size of a toothpick. When she'd finished she nodded at his cardboard
container. He lifted it and sought out the lavatory.
The sign on the door indicated both men and women. Inside there were adjacent cubicles
and the mother of the woman in the black hejab was coming out of the ladies' bearing her
cardboard pot before her like an offering. He smiled and opened the outer door for her.
Inside the men's lavatory was a poster about 'impotence'. A man sitting on a park bench
with his head in his hands. How did he discover his condition in a public park? Talk to your
doctor, said the words. Conjuring up a sample so soon after the one
in the house took a long time. But eventually he succeeded and left it in the laboratory.
The technician was working near the window. Her long hair was down her back almost to
'Thank you.' The nurse brought him a plastic jug of tap
water and ice. 'You might be able to give blood every time,'
she said, 'but for the other you need to keep drinking this.'
He swirled the jug and poured himself some. It sounded hollow compared to ice against
glass. Sipping he tried to return to the Chekhov. A distant radio was far enough away to be
indistinct but it was still distracting. At the moment the only other sound was of magazine
pages being turned - the kind of magazines which were looked at rather than read - Hello!
and OK. Flick, flick, flick. The nurse, Phil, came in and announced a name.
'Andrew? Andrew Elliot?' A man stood and swaggered forward responding
as if he had just been chosen for a Hollywood audition. In a music-hall kind of American
drawl he said, 'You caalled for me, lady?' Everybody in the waiting room laughed.
He tried to return to the mood of that hot, dusty afternoon in Rostov-on-the-Don but the
smile was still on his face. He couldn't concentrate. He was at that age when things were starting
to go wrong. Knee joints were beginning to scringe. Putting on socks had become a burden.
Pains where there shouldn't be pains. Breathlessness. Occasional dizziness.
An immensely fat woman came in. All her weight seemed to be below her waist. Her thighs and
lower belly bulged as if she'd left her bedding in her tights. Sheets, pillows, duvets. The
lot. After her, an old couple came through the doors, panting after the stairs. They
sank onto chairs, incapable of speech, and sat there mouth breathing. They both had skin
the colour of putty. When he began to read again he found it awkward
to turn the page because, like many people in the waiting room he had a piece of lint
clenched between his chosen finger and his thumb.
The boy in 'The Beauties' when confronted with the girl in the white kerchief feels
himself utterly inferior. Sunburned, dusty and only a child. But that does not stop him
adoring her and having adored her his reaction is one of - sadness. Where does such perfection
fit into the world? He hears the thud of her bare feet on the board floor, she disappears
into a grimy outhouse which is full of the smell of mutton and angry argument. The more
he watches her going about her tasks the more painful becomes his inexplicable sadness.
The first part of the story ends and Chekhov switches to another, similar incident when
he has become a student. Maybe a medical student. This time he is travelling by train.
In the waiting room of the Diabetic Clinic the talk was of medical stuff.
'I have an irregular heartbeat .. .' 'Oh God help ye ...'
'I'm just trying to keep the weight down .. .' 'Does the stick help?'
'It helps the balance .. .' This is all in front of me, he thought.
But despite his age he felt good, felt ridiculously proud he had outlived his father who had died
at the early age of forty-five. He didn't have a problem that would drive him to sit
on a park bench with his head in his hands. So he felt good about that. He looked up at
the clock above the posters. He picked up his pee pot and headed for the laboratory
again. This time when he looked away from the little
machine which drew his blood he saw a crow settling in the branches of the tree outside.
The thinnest of pinpricks and again she milked the blood from his finger into her glass capillary.
the title of his essays at school. He provided another urine sample.
When he sat down again in the waiting room he finished his jug of water and asked for
another. He returned to his book. And as he read, the room gradually disappeared. Somewhere
in southern Russia a train stopped at a small station on a May evening. The sun was setting
and the station buildings threw long shadows. The student gets off to stretch his legs.
He sees the stationmaster's daughter. She, too, is utterly captivating. As she stands
talking to an old lady the youth remembers the Armenian's daughter, the girl with the
white kerchief, and the sadness it brought him. Again he experiences the whoosh of feeling
and tries to analyse it but cannot. Not only was the student, Chekhov, watching this exquisite
woman, she was being watched by almost all the men on the platform, including a ginger
telegraphist with a flat opaque face sitting by his apparatus in the station window. What
chance for someone like him? The stationmaster's daughter wouldn't look at him twice.
He was struck yet again by the power of the word. Here he was- about to be told he had
difficult changes to make to his life and yet by reading words on a page, pictures of
Russia a hundred years ago come into his head. Not only that, but he can share sensations
and emotions with this student character, created by a real man he never met and translated
by a real woman he never met. It was so immediate, the choice of words so delicately accurate,
that they blotted out the reality of the present. He ached now for the stationmaster's daughter
the way the student aches. It's in his blood. He paused and looked at the clock. It was
time again. He gave another blood sample and when providing the urine sample he splashed
the label. He patted it dry with toilet roll and hoped that the technician with the long
hair wouldn't notice. In the waiting room he returned to his book.
Was the story accurate? Abou.t such feelings? Was this not about women as decoration? Neither
woman in the story said anything - showed anything of her inner self - in order to be
attractive. Was this not the worst of Hollywood before Hollywood was ever thought of? Audrey
Hepburn - Julia Roberts - the stationmaster's daughter.
'There's the water you asked for.' 'Oh thanks.'
He poured himself another glass. The water was icy. With his concentration broken he
looked at the posters on the wall. He could barely bring himself to read them. They made
him quake for his future. But he couldn't be that bad - his doctor had referred him
because he was 'borderline'. The poster warnings were for the worst cases. Diabetic retinopathy
- can lead to permanent loss of vision. Blindness. Never to be able to read again. Atherosclerosis
leading to dry gangrene. Wear well-fitting shoes, visit your chiropo dist frequently.
Care for your feet. Or else you'll lose them, was the implication. Jesus. He drained the
glass and poured himself another. The door, which had been silent for a while,
screeched open and a wheelchair was pushed through. A woman in her seventies, wearing
a dressing gown, was being pushed by a younger woman. The screeching door must lead to the
wards. When they came into the waiting area it was obvious the old woman had no legs.
She wore a blue cellular blanket over her lap. She was empty to the floor. The woman
pushing her sat down on a chair in front of her. From their body language they were mother
and daughter. Their talk became entangled with the Chekhov
and he read the same line again and again. He needed silence.
During his final visit to give blood he tried to joke with the technician about there being
no more left in that finger. This time there were two crows perched on either side of the
black nest. In the lavatory he noticed that his last sample was crystal clear. The water
was just going through him. He sat and finished the Chekhov. It was a
wonderful story which ended with the train moving on under a darkening sky, leaving behind
the stationmaster's beautiful daughter. In the departing carriage there is an air of
sadness. The last image is of the figure of the guard coming through the train beginning
to light the candles. The next thing he was aware of was hearing
his name called out by a male voice. He was sitting with his eyes closed, savouring the
ending of the story. He stood. The doctor smiled - he was not wearing a white coat.
He had a checked shirt and was distinctly overweight - straining the buttons. He led
him into an office and looked up after consulting a piece of paper.
'Well I'm pleased to say you don't have diabetes. You have something we call impaired glucose
tolerance- which could well develop into diabetes. You must begin to take some avoiding action
- more exercise, better diet. Talk it over with your GP. I'll write to him with these
results.' 'Thank you.'
As he walked to the head of the stairs he heard the distant door screech for one last
time. He will not have to come back. No need for the oil can. He went out into the November
midday and across the car park. The sun was shining. He looked up at the blue sky criss-crossed
with jet trails. People travelling. Going places, meeting• folk. He thought of those
people he had just left who daren't misplace their outpatient cards. Above him the crows
made a raucous cawing His middle finger felt tender and bruised.
He took out his mobile and phoned his wife, dabbing the keys
with his thumb. He had seen her across a dance floor forty years ago and felt the wind blow
across his soul. She sounded anxious and concerned.
'Well?' 'I'm OK,' he said.