Among Others

Now Daniel’s car, like most cars, like every car in the world apart from maybe Auntie Teg’s little orange Fiat 500, holds four people. Even Auntie Teg’s car, which we call Gamboge Gussie the Galloping Girl—Gussie because the registration number starts GCY—can hold four, it’s just a bit of a squash, especially if any of them are tall. So that was when I realised that they’d come to take me back with them.

“To convalesce,” Daniel said.

It seemed to me that it would have been more use if Daniel had come on a weekday and talked to Dr. Abdul, but it seemed he’d spoken to him on the phone—I wonder who initiated that call? In any case, it seemed as if the school thought it would take me a little while to be back in class, and I’d be better off being nursed at home. Well, that might be the case, for people who have homes. I tried every argument I could think of to stay in school, including a few outright Nice Niece ones, like not wanting to miss the hockey match against St. Felicity’s, but none of them held water.

I found myself being helped down to the car. That sort of help is actually a hindrance. If you ever see someone with a walking stick, that stick, and their arm, are actually a leg. Grabbing it or lifting it or doing anything unasked to the stick and the arm are much the same as if you grabbed a normal person’s leg as they’re walking. I wish more people understood this. A number of girls saw me leaving, and of course Nurse knows, so I expect someone will tell Miss Carroll and she’ll think to tell Greg who will tell the others. “The others,” I say, and I do mean Janine and everyone as well as Wim. But I should admit that mostly I mean Wim. I think I have a bit of a crush on him. And I stupidly left his Zelazny books, which I was saving, in school, so I can’t even read them.

Sunday 20th January 1980

There’s half a gale blowing, and it feels as if it could shake the Old Hall down. It bangs against the windows and creeps through the cracks and whistles down the chimneys. Lying here I can feel the whole house singing with it, as if it were a sailing ship.

I have plenty of books, and Daniel comes up now and then to ask if I want more. I have pillows, and I’m not hooked to a rack. I can hobble to the bathroom. I have a decanter of water, a real decanter with a proper crystal stopper. They bring me meals, which are no worse than school meals. (If there’s magic in the food it’s the magic of the Old Hall going on as it always has without any disturbance, that’s all I can feel.) I have a radio, which plays the news, and the Archers, and Gardeners’ Question Time and, to my surprise and delight, The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy! It’s terrific as a radio play. I suppose I could retune the radio away from Radio 4, which Grampar still calls the Home Service, to Radio 1, which people used to call the Light Programme. The only advantage of this would be annoying the aunts, because Radio 4 might have other unexpected gems like HGttG, whereas all Radio 1 would have would be pop music. Most of the time I just read anyway.

How long am I going to be stuck here?

I hobbled downstairs for supper, which is what they call dinner when it isn’t formally served. It was macaroni cheese, overcooked and on the edge of inedible. They all sat there eating it and making inane remarks, nodding and smiling. I played Nice Niece. Actually I’m longing to talk to Daniel about the possibility of Glasgow at Easter, but I want to do it when there’s no chance of them hearing.

Afterwards, I asked if it would be okay to phone Auntie Teg. They couldn’t very well say no, with Daniel right there, so I called her. She was horrified to hear about the hospital and that she hadn’t known, and didn’t believe that it seemed to have made things worse. She always tries to look on the bright side and find every silver lining, which is very nice sometimes, and there’s nobody in the world better to celebrate with, but isn’t very useful at the moment. She said she’d explain to Grampar why I hadn’t been in touch and give him my love. I hope it doesn’t upset him—but it won’t, she’ll probably say it’s making me better and soon I’ll be running again. I wish it was. Even when my leg isn’t actively hurting there’s a kind of an ache all the time now. I’m sure it’s worse.