at the hospital, on the instructions of my gynaecologist, Mr Maitland, a short man with a pleated throat and a peppery disposition. I have been perfectly well up until now and I feel that he is simply justifying his existence and all the money my parents are paying him.
I get lost at the hospital, which is old and like a rabbit warren . You can as easily end up in the cancer ward when you have set off to visit an old lady with a broken ankle. I get into a lift. Lifts have never bothered me. Some people walk up six flights of stairs rather than get into an ageing lift, but I have always thought that, if a lift broke down, I would be calm and comforting to those less capable than myself.
It does not happen like this. As soon as the doors close, I realise that I should have turned left, back down the corridor, and I am headed for the wrong department. When the lift shudders to a halt, I am startled. There are six of us inside, two middle-aged women, an older man wearing a battered tweed cap, a smart young Asian woman and a sullen teenage boy. We stand apart from each other, the way people do, trying, in that compacted space, not to touch. When minutes have passed, we glance sideways at each other, our nervous smiles acknowledging that we are there. Only the Asian woman looks as if her self-control lies in being absolutely still. Nobody moves. It is surprising how quiet it is, even though we are trapped in the bowels of a huge and busy hospital.
‘It’ll probably start again in a minute,’ says one of the women. An acrid smell of tobacco clings to the boy’s clothing. I fight rising nausea.
And suddenly I’m up there again, with space beneath me, covered only by the flimsy floor of the lift cage. Don’t be afraid, says my coach’s voice, you haven’t got far to fall. But I know it is a long way down.
‘Shouldn’t we ring for help?’ I say, eyeing the little box on the wall, with the sign about it being for use only in an emergency.Anything to take my mind off throwing up, off my own kind of high altitude sickness.
‘No cause for a fuss,’ says the second woman. Her breasts are like ledges of rock. I can’t turn around properly without bumping into them.
There is a grinding lurch, and the lift slips downwards and stops again. I hear a thin scream that is mine but seems dissociated from me. A more palpable silence ensues.
‘We should all sit down with our knees braced,’ says the man in the tweed cap, after a minute or so. ‘Like in an aeroplane when it’s going to crash.’
I grab the phone, and a telephonist answers. ‘Help us,’ I shout. ‘The lift’s broken down.’
‘Which department?’ She doesn’t sound very interested.
‘I don’t know. How the fuck do I know where I am?’
‘All right, keep your hair on. What department were you heading for?’
‘I’m in the wrong lift, I don’t know.’
‘Are you on your own?’
‘Where are we going?’ I ask the people in the lift.
‘I was on my way to respiratory medicine,’ mumbles the big woman.
I repeat the information to the woman on the telephone. The lift lurches again.
‘Get me out, I’m pregnant.’
‘For God’s sake keep your hair on, you stupid cow.’
I put the phone down, not believing what I have heard. But it is true, this is what she said, and I am stuck here with these expressionless , apparently unmoved people.
I sit down on the floor of the lift, and try to bunch my knees up to my chin. Soon the man in the tweed cap sits down beside me. Glancing up, I see a glint of tears in the eyes of the boy, and am curiously comforted.
‘Sit down beside me,’ I say. The boy squats down, and suddenly , without a hiccup, a stream of vomit gushes out of him over the lift floor. Orange liquid mixed with fish and chips spills round our feet. I stand up again, and hold the side of the lift, gagging in the stench.
I grab the phone and shout down it. ‘I’m the medical superintendent’s daughter,’ I say.
There is a hurried
I get lost at the hospital, which is old and like a rabbit warren . You can as easily end up in the cancer ward when you have set off to visit an old lady with a broken ankle. I get into a lift. Lifts have never bothered me. Some people walk up six flights of stairs rather than get into an ageing lift, but I have always thought that, if a lift broke down, I would be calm and comforting to those less capable than myself.
It does not happen like this. As soon as the doors close, I realise that I should have turned left, back down the corridor, and I am headed for the wrong department. When the lift shudders to a halt, I am startled. There are six of us inside, two middle-aged women, an older man wearing a battered tweed cap, a smart young Asian woman and a sullen teenage boy. We stand apart from each other, the way people do, trying, in that compacted space, not to touch. When minutes have passed, we glance sideways at each other, our nervous smiles acknowledging that we are there. Only the Asian woman looks as if her self-control lies in being absolutely still. Nobody moves. It is surprising how quiet it is, even though we are trapped in the bowels of a huge and busy hospital.
‘It’ll probably start again in a minute,’ says one of the women. An acrid smell of tobacco clings to the boy’s clothing. I fight rising nausea.
And suddenly I’m up there again, with space beneath me, covered only by the flimsy floor of the lift cage. Don’t be afraid, says my coach’s voice, you haven’t got far to fall. But I know it is a long way down.
‘Shouldn’t we ring for help?’ I say, eyeing the little box on the wall, with the sign about it being for use only in an emergency.Anything to take my mind off throwing up, off my own kind of high altitude sickness.
‘No cause for a fuss,’ says the second woman. Her breasts are like ledges of rock. I can’t turn around properly without bumping into them.
There is a grinding lurch, and the lift slips downwards and stops again. I hear a thin scream that is mine but seems dissociated from me. A more palpable silence ensues.
‘We should all sit down with our knees braced,’ says the man in the tweed cap, after a minute or so. ‘Like in an aeroplane when it’s going to crash.’
I grab the phone, and a telephonist answers. ‘Help us,’ I shout. ‘The lift’s broken down.’
‘Which department?’ She doesn’t sound very interested.
‘I don’t know. How the fuck do I know where I am?’
‘All right, keep your hair on. What department were you heading for?’
‘I’m in the wrong lift, I don’t know.’
‘Are you on your own?’
‘Where are we going?’ I ask the people in the lift.
‘I was on my way to respiratory medicine,’ mumbles the big woman.
I repeat the information to the woman on the telephone. The lift lurches again.
‘Get me out, I’m pregnant.’
‘For God’s sake keep your hair on, you stupid cow.’
I put the phone down, not believing what I have heard. But it is true, this is what she said, and I am stuck here with these expressionless , apparently unmoved people.
I sit down on the floor of the lift, and try to bunch my knees up to my chin. Soon the man in the tweed cap sits down beside me. Glancing up, I see a glint of tears in the eyes of the boy, and am curiously comforted.
‘Sit down beside me,’ I say. The boy squats down, and suddenly , without a hiccup, a stream of vomit gushes out of him over the lift floor. Orange liquid mixed with fish and chips spills round our feet. I stand up again, and hold the side of the lift, gagging in the stench.
I grab the phone and shout down it. ‘I’m the medical superintendent’s daughter,’ I say.
There is a hurried
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