conversation. Another woman comes on. ‘Ma’am, I’m sorry,’ says the second telephonist, ‘we’re doing the very best we can.’
I hang up, and begin to sob. The Asian woman takes a Walkman and earphones out of her handbag and puts them over her ears. I wish I had some too.
‘Stop it,’ the big woman says to me. ‘Think of your baby instead of yourself. If you go on like that I’ll have to slap you.’
‘Mother,’ I say. ‘MumMum.’
I SEE HER in another lift, a different hospital, some other time. My father has hit her with the back of his hand and she has fallen and hurt her shoulder. It is the only time I have ever seen him hit her, and I believe, though I have no way of knowing this, that he has never done it again. She has been screaming in incoherent rage, hurling all manner of objects, dinner plates, vases, a half-full bottle of whisky in his direction. He grabs her, holds her, while the boys and I look on. The farmhouse kitchen is splattered with scraps of food, shards of crockery, the rotten water from the vase. When she falls she lies among the mess before slowly rising to her knees.
‘You’ve hurt me, you bastard,’ she says to my father. ‘Take me to the hospital.’ Her arm dangles at her side.
I have to go with them. They try to leave me with my brothers, but I throw myself after my parents as they stumble out to the car.
‘Take me with you, please take me,’ I beg, clinging to my mother’s jersey.
‘I didn’t mean to hurt your Mum,’ says my father. I am lying on the grass of the lawn, beside the car. As my mother drags herself into the car, I seize my moment and tear the door out of her hand, so that I can jump inside too.
At the hospital we ride up in the lift to the X-ray department. My father, still angry, is tense and defensive as my mother cries messily in a loud, whining monotone. Her luxuriant hair is tousled and matted.
‘I fell,’ she says to the examining doctor.
‘Easy, I should think,’ says the doctor. ‘You’re not very steady on your feet now, are you?’
She stares right back at the doctor out of bloodshot eyes. But there is something defiant, even calculated, in her response. ‘No, I’m not, am I?’
‘It’s lucky you were drunk,’ says the doctor. ‘You might have hurt yourself badly, mightn’t you, if you hadn’t had something to relax you.’
A look flashes between the doctor and my father.
‘Give her an aspirin and put her to bed,’ he says.
‘Aren’t you going to do anything for me?’ my mother says, and her eyes are wide with a pleading I cannot interpret, although I guess she was trying to say that she does not want to go home with my father.
‘I’ve got sick people to look after,’ the doctor says coldly.
‘I’m sick,’ she says.
‘You’ll get better,’ he says, and shows us the door. We ride in the lift in a silence broken only by more of my mother’s muffled, hiccuppy weeping.
‘I’m sorry, Glass,’ she says, dull and exhausted. Neither of them looks at me. This is the same woman who imposes control on the chaos of nature. It would be easy to think that the difficulty has gone away.
‘We won’t say any more about this,’ my father says, when we reach home. Michael and Bernard are nowhere to be seen. I agree with my father that I will never tell anyone.
T HE LIFT GRINDS into action again and my fellow prisoners and I are swerved into another steep downwards dive, before we come to a halt. This time the doors open. A knot of people clusters below us. The lift is halfway between floors, which is as far as it will go. Someone has brought a chair for us to climb down on to. I see the dark space of the lift well at our backs as we slide over the lip of the lift floor.
A pert, confident woman, blonde hair piled up on her head, stands holding the chair. I look for kindness in the upturned faces, expecting someone to comfort me, a pregnant woman crawling out of a lift.
‘You’re not the medical
I hang up, and begin to sob. The Asian woman takes a Walkman and earphones out of her handbag and puts them over her ears. I wish I had some too.
‘Stop it,’ the big woman says to me. ‘Think of your baby instead of yourself. If you go on like that I’ll have to slap you.’
‘Mother,’ I say. ‘MumMum.’
I SEE HER in another lift, a different hospital, some other time. My father has hit her with the back of his hand and she has fallen and hurt her shoulder. It is the only time I have ever seen him hit her, and I believe, though I have no way of knowing this, that he has never done it again. She has been screaming in incoherent rage, hurling all manner of objects, dinner plates, vases, a half-full bottle of whisky in his direction. He grabs her, holds her, while the boys and I look on. The farmhouse kitchen is splattered with scraps of food, shards of crockery, the rotten water from the vase. When she falls she lies among the mess before slowly rising to her knees.
‘You’ve hurt me, you bastard,’ she says to my father. ‘Take me to the hospital.’ Her arm dangles at her side.
I have to go with them. They try to leave me with my brothers, but I throw myself after my parents as they stumble out to the car.
‘Take me with you, please take me,’ I beg, clinging to my mother’s jersey.
‘I didn’t mean to hurt your Mum,’ says my father. I am lying on the grass of the lawn, beside the car. As my mother drags herself into the car, I seize my moment and tear the door out of her hand, so that I can jump inside too.
At the hospital we ride up in the lift to the X-ray department. My father, still angry, is tense and defensive as my mother cries messily in a loud, whining monotone. Her luxuriant hair is tousled and matted.
‘I fell,’ she says to the examining doctor.
‘Easy, I should think,’ says the doctor. ‘You’re not very steady on your feet now, are you?’
She stares right back at the doctor out of bloodshot eyes. But there is something defiant, even calculated, in her response. ‘No, I’m not, am I?’
‘It’s lucky you were drunk,’ says the doctor. ‘You might have hurt yourself badly, mightn’t you, if you hadn’t had something to relax you.’
A look flashes between the doctor and my father.
‘Give her an aspirin and put her to bed,’ he says.
‘Aren’t you going to do anything for me?’ my mother says, and her eyes are wide with a pleading I cannot interpret, although I guess she was trying to say that she does not want to go home with my father.
‘I’ve got sick people to look after,’ the doctor says coldly.
‘I’m sick,’ she says.
‘You’ll get better,’ he says, and shows us the door. We ride in the lift in a silence broken only by more of my mother’s muffled, hiccuppy weeping.
‘I’m sorry, Glass,’ she says, dull and exhausted. Neither of them looks at me. This is the same woman who imposes control on the chaos of nature. It would be easy to think that the difficulty has gone away.
‘We won’t say any more about this,’ my father says, when we reach home. Michael and Bernard are nowhere to be seen. I agree with my father that I will never tell anyone.
T HE LIFT GRINDS into action again and my fellow prisoners and I are swerved into another steep downwards dive, before we come to a halt. This time the doors open. A knot of people clusters below us. The lift is halfway between floors, which is as far as it will go. Someone has brought a chair for us to climb down on to. I see the dark space of the lift well at our backs as we slide over the lip of the lift floor.
A pert, confident woman, blonde hair piled up on her head, stands holding the chair. I look for kindness in the upturned faces, expecting someone to comfort me, a pregnant woman crawling out of a lift.
‘You’re not the medical
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