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Authors: Doris Lessing
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wasn’t crying about her medical treatment, but for reasons he knew about yet wilfully chose to ignore.
So noisy were her tears that a nurse came in and stood staring, but did not know what to do. The husband, Tom, looked gravely at the nurse. This was not a helpless look, far from it: rather, he was saying, There’s no more I can do and now it’s your job.
‘Mildred, I am going now.’ And he disengaged himself, pulling down her arms which instantly flew up again around his neck. He finally got free, laid her back on her pillows, stood up, and said genially (not apologetically, for this was not a man who would easily see a need for apologies, but giving an explanation they were entitled to have), ‘You see, my wife and I have never been separated, not even for one night, not since we were married, not for twenty-five years.’ Hearing this his wife nodded frantically while the tears rained down all over her pretty pinkjacket. Then, seeing him stand upright there, refusing to bend down to her again, she turned her gaze away from him and stared at the wall.
‘I’m going now, dear,’ said Tom, and went out, giving the nurse a look that silently commanded her to take over.
‘Well now, Mrs Grant,’ said the nurse in the cheerful voice of her discipline. She was a girl of about twenty, and she looked tired, and the last thing she needed was an old woman (as she would see it) complaining and carrying on. ‘You’re disturbing all the others, you mustn’t be selfish,’ she attempted, hopefully.
The appeal had no effect, as the ironical faces of the other women showed they had expected. But Mildred Grant was crying less noisily now. ‘Would you like a nice cup of tea?’ No reply. Only gasps and little sniffs. The nurse looked at the others who were all so much older than she was, and went out.
Nine o’clock. Soon they would be expected to sleep. In came a trolley with milky drinks of a sleep-inducing kind. Some of the women were brushing their hair, or putting in rollers, or rubbing cream methodically into their necks and faces. There was a feeling of lull, of marking time: the day shift had gone home and the night staff were coming on.
The old woman-the really old woman, whom the nurses called Granny-remarked brightly, ‘My husband died twenty years ago. I’ve lived by myself for twenty years. We were happy, we were. But I’ve been alone since he died.’
The crying stopped. One or two of the women sent congratulatory smiles and grimaces to the speaker, but then there was a fresh outburst from the abandoned wife.
A sigh from the old woman, a shrug. ‘Some people don’t know their luck,’ she said.
‘No, they don’t,’ said the woman opposite her. Miss Cook. ‘I’ve never had a husband at all. Every time I thought I ‘ad one nice and hooked, he wriggled away!’ She laughed loudly, as she had often done at this brave joke, and glanced quickly at the others to make sure she had made her effect. They were laughing. Miss Cook was a comic. Probably it was this very joke that had set her off on her career of being one, decades ago. She was a large, formidable, red-faced woman of about seventy.
Soon they were all washed, brushed, tidy, and in bed. The night nurse, another fresh young woman, came to look them over. She had heard from the nurses going off duty about the difficult patient, and now she gave the sobbing Mildred Grant a long, dubious inspection, and said, ‘Good night, ladies, good night.’ She seemed as if she might try admonitions or advice, but went out, switching off the light.
It was not dark in the room. The tall yellow lamps that illuminated the hospital car park shone in here. There was a pattern of light and dark on the walls, and the pink of the curtains showed, a subdued but brave note.
Seven women lay tense in their beds, listening to Mildred Grant.
Her bed was near the door. In the two beds beside hers were matrons in the full energies of middle age, who commanded children,
So noisy were her tears that a nurse came in and stood staring, but did not know what to do. The husband, Tom, looked gravely at the nurse. This was not a helpless look, far from it: rather, he was saying, There’s no more I can do and now it’s your job.
‘Mildred, I am going now.’ And he disengaged himself, pulling down her arms which instantly flew up again around his neck. He finally got free, laid her back on her pillows, stood up, and said genially (not apologetically, for this was not a man who would easily see a need for apologies, but giving an explanation they were entitled to have), ‘You see, my wife and I have never been separated, not even for one night, not since we were married, not for twenty-five years.’ Hearing this his wife nodded frantically while the tears rained down all over her pretty pinkjacket. Then, seeing him stand upright there, refusing to bend down to her again, she turned her gaze away from him and stared at the wall.
‘I’m going now, dear,’ said Tom, and went out, giving the nurse a look that silently commanded her to take over.
‘Well now, Mrs Grant,’ said the nurse in the cheerful voice of her discipline. She was a girl of about twenty, and she looked tired, and the last thing she needed was an old woman (as she would see it) complaining and carrying on. ‘You’re disturbing all the others, you mustn’t be selfish,’ she attempted, hopefully.
The appeal had no effect, as the ironical faces of the other women showed they had expected. But Mildred Grant was crying less noisily now. ‘Would you like a nice cup of tea?’ No reply. Only gasps and little sniffs. The nurse looked at the others who were all so much older than she was, and went out.
Nine o’clock. Soon they would be expected to sleep. In came a trolley with milky drinks of a sleep-inducing kind. Some of the women were brushing their hair, or putting in rollers, or rubbing cream methodically into their necks and faces. There was a feeling of lull, of marking time: the day shift had gone home and the night staff were coming on.
The old woman-the really old woman, whom the nurses called Granny-remarked brightly, ‘My husband died twenty years ago. I’ve lived by myself for twenty years. We were happy, we were. But I’ve been alone since he died.’
The crying stopped. One or two of the women sent congratulatory smiles and grimaces to the speaker, but then there was a fresh outburst from the abandoned wife.
A sigh from the old woman, a shrug. ‘Some people don’t know their luck,’ she said.
‘No, they don’t,’ said the woman opposite her. Miss Cook. ‘I’ve never had a husband at all. Every time I thought I ‘ad one nice and hooked, he wriggled away!’ She laughed loudly, as she had often done at this brave joke, and glanced quickly at the others to make sure she had made her effect. They were laughing. Miss Cook was a comic. Probably it was this very joke that had set her off on her career of being one, decades ago. She was a large, formidable, red-faced woman of about seventy.
Soon they were all washed, brushed, tidy, and in bed. The night nurse, another fresh young woman, came to look them over. She had heard from the nurses going off duty about the difficult patient, and now she gave the sobbing Mildred Grant a long, dubious inspection, and said, ‘Good night, ladies, good night.’ She seemed as if she might try admonitions or advice, but went out, switching off the light.
It was not dark in the room. The tall yellow lamps that illuminated the hospital car park shone in here. There was a pattern of light and dark on the walls, and the pink of the curtains showed, a subdued but brave note.
Seven women lay tense in their beds, listening to Mildred Grant.
Her bed was near the door. In the two beds beside hers were matrons in the full energies of middle age, who commanded children,
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