WE KNEW, BUT WE DIDN'T KNOW

 

 

CHAPTER TEN—A KEY AND A CLOWDER 

It was a surprisingly mild evening. I was tired, as usual, but I wasn’t hungry. On impulse, I decided to visit the Golds. Their shop would be closed, but I knew they lived in the same building, and maybe they would be happy to see me. When I reached Crinoline Lane, I felt cheered. The street lights here were a rosy amber making passersby look soft and lovely. Some of the stores were still open, but Goldfinger’s was dark and the door was locked. I rang the bell once, twice and in a few moments, Mr. Gold opened the door. He looked worried, but he recognized me almost immediately. “Come in, child. It’s such a pleasure to see you. Hannah and I were about to sit down to dinner. You must join us. I insist!”

I followed him beyond the brocade curtain and up a long, steep flight of wooden stairs. There was an entryway into a golden-brown room. Mr. Gold was quite out of breath when he turned to face me. “Kindly sit down wherever you please. Hannah should be here in a moment.” The walls of this room were painted antique gold and the floor was a scarred dark oak. There were several overstuffed dark velvet armchairs arranged on the outskirts, and a massive dining room table was the centre of attention. It was the colour of polished honey. The aromas were golden. The room was very, very warm, hot actually, and I shrugged off my coat, which looked so shabby in this homey yet radiant setting.

Before I could be seated, Mrs. Gold entered the room with a large silver-coloured tray. On it were two bowls, tureens really, of soup and a basket filled with fragrant rolls. “Ah, company. Excellent. I’ll bring out another bowl of chicken soup.”

“Oh, please don’t go to the trouble, Mrs. Gold. We’re — I’m not allowed to eat meat.”

“And who’s to know if you do?” Mrs. Gold challenged pertly. “I’ll be right back. Franz, show our young guest to the table.”

Mr. Gold fetched a side chair and I approached the table. Silverware was in place on beautifully folded cloth serviettes. The soup smelled exquisite. Mrs. Gold returned with a third bowl. It wasn’t white like the other two, rather a rich cream colour. The liquid was a kind of pale gold, and there were sizable pieces of carrots, celery, potatoes and white chicken meat. “Add rice if you like. I always serve it on the side.”

I had no qualms about tasting the chicken. After all, it was merely one component of the soup. I forewent the rice, but took a large bite out of the soft and still hot dinner roll. Then I brought the soup spoon to my lips and quietly slurped the soup in. The broth, vegetables and chicken tasted delicious and herbal. I had no idea that food could be so complex — so subtle. I felt as though I were the guest in someone else’s beautiful dream.

But then Franz — Mr. Gold — gave a deep, sharp sigh and covered his forehead with his hands. “There is no immunity, dear God. Who would believe it? After so much suffering, so much loss, there is nevertheless no immunity.”

“Franz dear,” his sister chided. “Please, not now. We have a young guest with problems of her own. Let us enjoy this moment, a warm home, filling food and a roof over our heads.”

“But they’re going to take the shop and the flat away from us, Hannah! You haven’t been listening to Lise and Henry. They have offered us a solution, but you refuse to listen!”

“I will listen, Franz. I promise, but now is not the time.” Mrs. Gold turned to me, “You like the soup, dear?”

“It’s wonderful, thank you. I can honestly say it’s the most brilliant thing I’ve ever tasted.”

“It’s also healthy. I’ve always found that a well-made chicken soup tastes like love. And so, tell us about your friend. How is she? Did she like the garnet ring?”

Mr. Gold removed his hands from his forehead and the worried expression on his face had changed to frank curiosity.

“She loved it! She loves it. That’s the reason I came by, to tell you that, and to thank you again for your generosity.” At my own mention of generosity, I felt shame that I had brought nothing to the Golds as a token of my fond appreciation. But I realised that could wait. After all, there was no expiry date on reciprocity.

Both Golds smiled fully. Hannah then stood up with a barely stifled groan and announced, “And now I bring in the main course.”

I stood up and stacked the bowls. “Please let me, Mrs. Gold. And I can help you in the kitchen as well.”

I followed Mrs. Gold into an alarmingly cluttered kitchen. Every surface was covered with plates, pots, pans, utensils, newspaper clipping, fabric remnants, and tin boxes of all shapes and sizes. It was beautiful, nonetheless, at least to my eyes. There was one long, narrow stained-glass window near the chubby refrigerator. There were jewel tulips with peridot-green stems and cherry-pink petals. The background was a pale aquamarine. Of course, at the time, I couldn’t name the jewel tones, but the Golds have since taught me the names of many semi-precious gemstones.

I noticed that Mrs. Gold’s hands were shaking, not violently but persistently. She pointed to a platter containing chunks of dark meat and an assortment of root vegetables. “Be a doll, and take the stew to the dining room. Oh, wait, before you go. Please tell me what you’d care to drink. We have water, apple juice, ginger ale or red wine. The wine is from a homemade recipe which we passed on to Lise and Henry. You know who they are. They came into the shop while you were selecting a ring for your friend. They are brother and sister like us, like Franz and me, I mean. Their parents saved our lives in Germany, but that was long ago. They kept us in hiding for over five years. But that is a story for another day. It’s funny, you know what it said about history, that it repeats itself. It doesn’t do that, not really, but it does recycle elements of itself. So it’s not quite repetition, but it can masquerade as such if one is looking for easy answers.”

 

I wasn’t following Mrs. Gold’s train of thought, but I realised that her back story had something to do with the documentary Miss Veronique had insisted we watch all those years ago, the ghetto documentary. Clones had no religious affiliations, and truth be told, we never thought about God. God was not for us in the same way that families were not for us. We knew there were Christians, Jews, Muslims, Buddhists and more and that there were sub-categories of these religions, but all of these distinctions were of no interest to us. But I had understood when Miss Veronique spoke about the documentary that the Jews had been a viciously persecuted people. Was Miss Veronique trying to demonstrate that the Jews of Nazi occupied Europe and later day clones had something in common?

“I’d love a glass of red wine, Mrs. Gold. It will be a first for me. We can access a kind of low percentage alcoholic wine, but it doesn’t taste good. It has a strongly chemical odour, and it’s very costly.”

I carried the platter into the dining room and Mrs. Gold followed with a garnet-coloured decanter. “Hans, you can also be useful. The glasses and plates, please.”

Hans had deep pouches under his bright blue eyes, but I guessed that he was the older of the siblings. His skin was less loose and he walked with much less difficulty. Of course, his sister was heavyset, whereas he was wiry. I caught myself wondering what they had looked like when they were my age.

I began feasting on the fragrant stew. The pieces of meat were buttery soft and I couldn’t discern a decidedly meaty flavour; it was simply delicious. I had assumed that meat would taste exactly the way it smelled; it did and it didn’t. There was a fair bit of meat juice on my plate and I sopped it up with a second dinner roll. The wine was a little shocking. It was like intricately perfumed vinegar, but I enjoyed the sensation of its coursing down my throat.

“It is very agreeable to have your company,” Mr. Gold said after a few minutes of silence. “My sister and I have been very concerned about a letter we received from the government. We’d heard rumours of these letters, but we were alarmed to receive one. It was about our property, that we had to sell it by the end of next year due to our advanced ages and the fact that we had no children to inherit it.”

I was jolted out of my food and wine trance. The warmth of the room and the enticing flavours had lulled me into a state of sleepy comfort, but now I was wide awake, tense and without appetite. “Go on,” I managed to croak. But Mr. Gold had begun to weep, so his sister took over. “We’d heard about an amendment that would be taking effect concerning persons over the age of 70, but we’d been hearing about it for years and we hadn’t received any calls or enquiries or notifications, so we figured that it applied only to the elderly who were receiving social assistance. But the net widened without our understanding anything about this law, or collection of laws. One could apply for a copy, but the application was costly, and we were assured by our solicitor that we had nothing to worry about.”

It was too much for me to assimilate. It made no sense. “But where are you to live if they take away your home?” I asked.

Hannah continued, “That remains unclear. Apparently there are various options, but the appraisal on our business, building and land is ridiculously low. Our solicitor says that can be contested, but only once the transaction is completed. If we win in court, we can only get a revised evaluation after the sale. It is all very confusing, even Mr. Barret says so, and he has advised us to go a different route.”

“Is there anything, anything at all I can do to help?” As a person, I was worthless, but it occurred to me that I could possibly be of assistance as a messenger.

“Thank you for your kind offer, dear. It is we who would like to help you, but now that may have become very complicated. We’ll see.” Mr. Gold had regained an ounce or two of composure.

“Such a thing happened to our parents in Germany a long time ago.” Mrs. Gold added. “When that period was finally over, our parents were dead. Most of our relatives, also dead. But it all began with unbelievable edicts. Mother and Father reasoned, ‘Now it will stop. If we accept and obey this order, that rule, those new laws, we will be all right.’ But it didn’t stop until a world war put an end to the genocide. And now it begins again.”

I stood up shakily, and began to carry plates, glasses and cutlery to the kitchen. The three of us cleared the table as though in slow motion. My feet and legs felt very heavy and I caught a whiff of my armpits. I smelled sour. I needed a bath.

I saw Mrs. Gold clutching a metal object in her right fist. I knew that she intended to give it to me. “Take this,” she forced the silver-coloured object into my hand. It was a house key without a ring or chain. Just a shiny, new key. “Use it whenever you can. Use it often. We have the beginnings of a plan, but we’re going to act very, very soon. I think we can still help you, but we have to speak with Lise and Henry first. Please come soon, tomorrow if possible or the day after.”

I hugged both of them goodbye and they asked me to let myself out and lock the door behind me. “We want to know if the copy is good, “Mr. Gold said calmly.

The key worked perfectly, which pleased me, but I was assaulted by a sharp, pungent odour of cat piss as I let myself out. The stink had not been there less than two hours earlier. I understood that this was courtesy of one or more male cats. But as I made my way through Crinoline Lane, I noticed a clowder of cats slinking about. They appeared to be strays judging from their skinny bodies and absence of collars. There were adults and kittens, gingers, calicos, grey, tiger-stripes, the whole spectrum, it seemed. Even the ones with pretty faces looked much the worse for wear. Clearly they had been living in the streets for a good while, yet why hadn’t I noticed them before? And another thing. They were all mute, no mewling or caterwauling whatsoever. “Where have they all come from?” I wondered, “and when did they arrive? Do they live around here now or are they just passing through?”

WE KNEW, BUT WE DIDN'T KNOW

 

 

CHAPTER NINE—UNPLEASANTRIES

 

When I reached Kathy’s room, I was in a wonderful state of mind. Everything seemed possible, even her release. She was lying on top of her blanket. Her feet looked so small and helpless in white cotton ankle socks.

I sat down on the bed and took her garnet-ringed hand in mine. “So much seems to be happening, Kathy. It’s as though everything has accelerated. I’m going to be moving into a beautiful, big flat, and I had this idea that perhaps we could live there together.”

“Are you daft, Sophie? I’ll never be allowed to live outside of a donor-recovery centre even if I live long enough to make a final donation. You know the rules.”

“But that’s just it, Kath. The rules seem to be changing so fast that no one is quite able to keep up with them.” 

I showed Kathy my tulip lamp and told her about 329 St. Luke Street and about Joe. “Don’t you think he’s too old for you, Sophie?”

“When you think about it carefully, you’d have to agree that I’m too old for him. After all, he’ll be alive long after I’m completed.”

Kathy looked at me sadly. “It really isn’t fair, is it? For me, the worst part is not having a history, a family tree. That makes us feel like riff-raff, like we’ve done something vile to deserve our function. Having no future is bad, really bad, but having no history is even worse, so much worse.”

“Kathy, I’ve been meaning to ask you. Is there anything you’d love to do, anyone you’d love to see when you regain your strength?”

“Offhand, I’d have to say no, but I’ll think it over and let you know.”

I spent the better part of the day taking care of Kathy, helping her walk to the bathroom, making sure she took her pills on time, watching her sleep. By late afternoon, I was very tired myself and I realised that I lacked the energy, the will to visit the Golds. That would have to wait. My main concern was to square things off with my flat-mates. I didn’t know how they’d take the news.

Before leaving Windmere, I stopped by the cafeteria and bought a chopped egg sandwich, an apple and a half-pint of chocolate drink. Food was far cheaper there than at the local convenience stores.

Afternoon was losing light as I walked back to my flat. I tried to keep my posture straight, but the wind was sharp and my bags kept bumping into my legs. I was cold, tired and bruised by the time I let myself in.

Mike and Lucy were sitting on the futon. I realised that I hadn’t seen them in days. They both looked like they’d been crying.

I set my stuff down on the coffee table and sat down on the floor facing them.

“What’s wrong?”

“Mike’s lost his licence,” Lucy told me in a strangled voice.

“I’m done for, “Mike chimed in. “I have to report for donor service tomorrow morning. We’ve been trying to go into hiding, but our information about that turned out to be all wrong.”

“That’s awful, Mike. I’m so, so sorry. Maybe you can get a deferral or an appeal.”

“Perhaps,” Mike said listlessly but I could tell that he had given up. I didn’t have to ask how Mike had gotten himself into such terrible trouble. I knew. He was an awful slacker, leaving for work late, reporting sick, showing no interest whatsoever in his charges. He hated his work — our work. He found it boring and depressing. He’d received at least two warnings and a written reprimand. He’d even gone to attitude counselling, but that hadn’t helped. Mike’s career as a carer was over, which meant that his service as a donor was about to begin.

“All we can hope for now,” Lucy explained glumly, “is that I’ll be permitted to be Mike’s carer. My case is recovering well, so my assignment should be over in a week or so.”

“I hope you can make that happen, Lucy. The timing is wretched, I know, but I’ve got something to tell you. It’s about our living arrangements. I found a flat, something just for myself. It’s what I want, at least for now, to live on my own. We’d be needing a third flat-mate now that Mike has to move, but if you want to stay here, Lucy, you’ll need to advertise for two.”

Mike didn’t seem to be paying attention to what I was saying, but Lucy looked at me bitterly, “Thanks a bunch, Sophie. It’s nice to know I have friends.”

“That’s not fair,” I defended myself. “You guys hardly paid any attention to me. And I understood that. You had each other and that was everything. But I’ve been really lonely, and I decided that living on my own would be good for me. This hasn’t really worked out. I’ve felt like an interloper.”

Lucy started crying, “I can’t believe this is happening. I feel like I’m in a nightmare.”

“You are, Lucy. We all are,” Mike said and he put his arms around her. I took my lamp and food into my bedroom. “Poor Mike. Stupid Mike,” but I felt only mildly sad. A few days before, I had walked by a young wounded squirrel on my way home from the convenience store. The squirrel didn’t look bloody or mashed in any other, but it wasn’t trying to scamper. It was lying near the pavement, its little eyes alert. I hoped it was merely stunned and that it would be able to save its life. I felt sadder about that helpless squirrel than I did about Mike.

I plugged the tulip lamp into the one free electrical outlet in my room, and it worked. I interpreted that as a good omen. It cast a soft, rosy glow, and made the room look inviting and mysterious. I sat on my bed and ate my sandwich quickly. It tasted so good. The chocolate drink was still cold and it went down my throat like liquid silk. Things were happening, or appeared to be happening, so fast. Everything had accelerated. My routine had definitely been fractured, and my nerves thrummed with energy. I knew I had to be very careful even while making risky choices. But that made no sense. How could I be both prudent and daring? Somehow I had to figure that out.

I needed to have a lie down, but was too untired to undress. My vinyl boots didn’t look half bad in the blushing light; the dents and scuffs looked airbrushed. I had yearned for leather boots for a long time. Leather could get aged and beat up yet manage to look beautiful nonetheless. “Not like human skin,” I thought. Now that the rules seemed to growing soft, if not lax, it occurred to me that I might be able to procure leather and suede items without much ado. I pulled off my boots, which emitted a stench of chemicals and old cheese. I could hear Mike and Lucy crying as though from far, far away. I felt a guilty tinge of relief: at least my moving out was the least of their problems. Compared to tragedy, inconvenience has no bite.

I awoke energized. My eyes, as reflected in the spotty bathroom mirror, looked rested and alert. They were actually shiny in a hard and shrewd way. “Good, “I thought. “From now on, I have to be vigilant and opportunistic.” My outfit from the previous day looked limp and felt a little soggy, but I was in no mood to sort through my meagre collection of shabby clothes. What I was wearing would have to do. I gave my hair a few vigorous brush strokes and noticed a grouping of tangles. I had neither the time nor the patience to comb the knots out, so I gathered my hair into a high ponytail. I was famished, but the kitchen contained very few edible items, so I decided to leave early and have a pleasant breakfast in the Windmere cafeteria.

The other bedroom door was closed. I didn’t know whether Mike and Lucy were still home, but I decided to take the coward’s way out. I might never see Mike again, but I was certain to run into Lucy before I moved out. But truth be told, they meant nothing to me. Who was important? Kathy, of course. Kathy, first and foremost. Then the Golds. Then Joe. Then the absentees: Carla and Miss Veronique. It occurred to me how odd it was that people, I mean real people, took the time to cultivate friendships. If they had parents, siblings, aunts, uncles, cousins and grandparents, how crowded and tiring their emotional lives must be.

I took my sweet time having breakfast in the Windmere cafeteria. I was fiercely hungry but also feverish with things I felt I had to accomplish by Thursday. After my third cranberry muffin and second cup of Ovaltine, I waited for the sole lift to the third floor. A girl was pacing with arms crossed over her narrow chest until the lift arrived. She looked harried. She was chewing on her thin lower lip and drawing blood.

As soon as the lift reached the third floor, she bolted out and ran in the same direction as I was walking. She looked pretty young to be a carer, and I speculated that this was her first case, and that quite possibly the surgery had gone badly. She raced into a room diagonally across from Kathy’s and I heard a shrill voice crying, “You can’t! You mustn’t! She’s only just had the operation last week! I’ll report this.”

I heard a calm male voice respond, but I couldn’t decipher what he was saying. By then I had reached Kathy’s door and I was fearful that the ruckus was distressing her. I hesitated on the threshold of her room as two orderlies wheeled out a wasted-looking girl on a portable hospital bed from the noisy room. The girl’s eyes were glassy and her mouth was open in what looked like a silent scream. The young carer was loping beside the cot, crying and whimpering. “You can’t!” she moaned. “You mustn’t. It’s a mistake. Do you hear me? It’s a mistake.” By then a security guard was restraining her. She tossed her head and her wild eyes caught mine. “They can’t do this. You have to report this. Glenda’s had her operation only last week! They can’t subject her to another so soon. It’s not done this way!”

The security guard was half-guiding, half-dragging the dishevelled girl toward the nursing station. I tried to erase undue stress from my face as I entered Kathy’s room.

She looked aghast. The garnet flashed like a large drop of blood. I shuddered, but said something like, “There must be a perfectly logical explanation. What that young carer said — it can’t be true. I’ll get the real story once things calm down. I promise I will.”

“What if I’m next, Sophie? What if it’s my turn tomorrow or next week or in two weeks? What if there’s been a change in policy, an amendment, and they’re not telling us because they don’t want to spread panic. I’ve got an awful feeling about this. I feel sick to my stomach.”

I embraced Kathy clumsily. With my arms around her frail back, I could feel her delicate bones. She reminded me of a bird. I longed to protect her, but I had no idea how I could. I decided it would be a bad idea, a fatal idea, to complain at the nursing station. That could draw unwanted attention to both Kathy and myself. I needed to bide time.

I withdrew from our bony embrace, and placed my hands very firmly on Kathy’s narrow shoulders. “We both have to act as normal as possible until I understood what just went on across the hall. Are you with me, Kathy?”

“Yes, I’m with you.” Panic had galvanized her. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes looked bright. “Help me get out of bed, please. If I lie around like a lazy little lamb, my next stop could well be the abattoir.”

We both smiled feebly. I pulled Kathy’s arms to help her assume a standing position. Once she was upright, however, I let go and instructed her. “Try to walk on your own. I’ll be right beside you in case you feel faint. Let’s walk to the door and back.”

I expected Kathy to shuffle, but she surprised me. She took long, healthy strides and was at the door in no time. “Let’s walk in the corridor, Sophie. I want to be seen.” We walked back and forth a number of times. I was worried that Kathy would look so strong and recovered that she might be slotted for a subsequent surgery immediately. But I tried to halt the anxiety mechanism that whirred and thrummed like a sewing machine inside my head.

Kathy and I spent a lovely day together. We stuffed our faces with grilled cheese sandwiches and an assortment of muffins in the cafeteria. Back in her room, I French-braided her hair and gave her a manicure and pedicure. I helped her change into a velvet skirt, tights and a long, slouchy sweater. Over that, I placed a Wedgewood blue poncho over her head and we spent a good thirty minutes on her pretty balcony.

“I still dream a lot about Tommy,” she confessed. “It ended so sadly for us. I would have loved to be with him until his completion, but he sent me away. With Ruth, it was different. It was a good ending.”

“Ingersoll was for girls only,” I rejoined. “We knew nothing about boys. It must have been wonderful growing up with boys around.”

“I’ve never really thought about it, Sophie. That’s just how it was. Tommy was always there, and such a misfit he was. The funny thing was that I understood without truly understanding anything at all.”

“What did you understand.”

“I understood that he must have had a reason, a real reason, to throw those temper tantrums. I’m sure that all of us sensed that something was hideously wrong, but we couldn’t identify it. And in her own way, Ruth was the only rebel among us. She dreamed of having a real job, an office job and she told us about it. We were very cruel to her when she did. We were so afraid. She dared to imagine a life with a future and we hated her for that.”

I then told Kathy about the flat and about Joe and about the makeshift little flea market. She asked me, “This Joe chap, do you trust him?”

“I don’t know him, Kathy. I’m hoping I can get to know him and trust him. I suspect that he could help me a lot.”

“With money, you mean or with connections?”

“With information. I hear things. We all hear things but how do we know if it’s misinformation or disinformation until it’s too late? Perhaps he could help me sort through all these rumours and policy reforms.”

“Are you going to tell him about what happened to that girl across the hall?”

“I don’t see how he would know anything about that, Kathy.”

“Well, you never know,” she answered and we both laughed. It felt good. And then it occurred to me that I oughtn’t to tell Kathy about new code flats and attractive men seeing as that part of her life was over and done with. On the other hand, my carer licence would expire in two years, and my life as I knew it would be over too. Oh yes, there would be months spent in post-surgery centres, perhaps even years. But I would only be getting weaker and closer to completion. My biggest fear was having to donate an eye, or even part of one. That horrified me far more than relinquishing a kidney, a lung or part of a liver. It was the facial disfigurement. I’d always been pretty and that had been an advantage. I couldn’t see myself pulling off the pirate-wench look all that successfully.

Seemingly out of nowhere, I asked Kathy, “Why do you suppose some of you were selected to attend Hailsham? I mean, it was head and shoulders better than the other facilities, at least those in Britain.

“I think it was arbitrary, Sophie. The luck of the draw and I do appreciate how lucky we were. But I doubt that there was a specific reason despite what you may have heard.”

“Rumour had it that you lot had quality, high quality, models, that your models were educated volunteers who believed in clone donorship.”

“Well what about you, Sophie? You’re a Class A Carer, and you’re awfully pretty and smart. Don’t you think that your model must’ve been a person of good stock?”

And then I told Kathy about my fantasy parents and how real they had been to me when I was at Ingersoll.

“How do you mean real?”

“When I talked about them to Sylvia and Carla, I could see them so clearly, even their gestures. I could hear their voices. I could smell Mum’s woody perfume and Dad’s fragrant pipe tobacco. And even more embarrassing to admit, I could feel their love.”

“It wasn’t like that for us at Hailsham. We never fantasised about parents and siblings and such. But for a time, I did wonder about who my model was. We all did, Ruth especially. Perhaps that’s because it was awfully boring at the Cottages. We didn’t have much of anything to do. I think, though, once we became carers, we lost interest in that discovery.”

It was a good day despite the harrowing way it had begun. As I was slipping on my buttonless pea-coat, Kathy said, “Promise me you won’t forget to speak to this Joe bloke, Sophie. I really need a little more time, not a lot, but a little, just a little. Maybe he is connected.”

“I’ll do what I can, Kath. Get some sleep. I’ll be back tomorrow, but I won’t have any news for you until Friday. We have to believe that nothing bad is going to happen to you this week, or the next, or the one after that. The centre doesn’t want to incite panic. It’ll be okay for the time being. But it’s best not to ask any questions. If an orderly or nurse says something, fine. If not, mum’s the word.”

Kathy nodded and I walked warily toward the elevator where a cluster of other female carers was waiting. They weren’t conversing. They weren’t even looking at one another. Their eyes were fixed upon the green linoleum flooring. Normally they might be chatting about food or hairstyles. When the door opened, we entered the elevator in silence but surely we were all thinking about the donor’s terror and her carer’s desperate protest earlier that day.

WE KNEW, BUT WE DIDN'T KNOW

 

     CHAPTER EIGHT—IN PRAISE OF REAL GIRLS

And so I wandered around my flat, not exactly bored but listless. Eleanor had awed me, truly. Yet how was it that I never became attached to her, never mourned her when she completed? I saw girls, human girls, strolling together, in cafes, window shopping. They were generally flushed, smiling, happy, clearly enjoying one another’s company. What was friendship like for them? More precisely, what feelings did they have that we lacked?

I awoke late the following morning, Sunday. My windows were so grimy that I could never get them thoroughly clean. They were always filmy and smudged. I had tried a number of various techniques, but nothing had worked properly. Perhaps I could speak with the custodian, Mrs. Dunlap, about hiring a proper window-washer. I would pay.

I dressed carefully. I wanted to pass for a real girl, and I hoped that if I paid enough attention to detail, I could. I knew it was more about the walk and the facial expressions and body language than it was about the clothes themselves. Nevertheless, I hoped to achieve a certain look before I left the flat.

I arranged my long hair in an updo of sorts, a kind of high, messy bun and then I carefully pulled out strands to create an even more casual effect. It looked good, negligently elegant. I then matched a putty-coloured wool skirt with a heather sweater, thick camel-coloured cable patterned tights whose darns were barely visible and tall polyurethane boots that could pass for tan leather. On top of this, I added a shabby pea-coat for warmth. The pea-coat was missing two buttons, so I snipped off the remaining three and pulled out the remaining threads.

My face looked all right, even pretty, if lacklustre. I mixed three shades of lipstick until I achieved a rosy-nude shade, and spent at least five minutes per eye lengthening, thickening and darkening my lashes with jet-black mascara.

As for jewelry, I had none except for the cheapest costume stuff, so I decided to eschew wearing any of it. I was confident that a real girl wouldn’t adorn herself with any of that crap, and I decided to visit the Golds that very same day. I wanted to tell them how much Kathy had appreciated her ring, but I also wanted to buy something for myself. Surely they would be able to guide me.

When I stepped out of my flat, I was buoyed by a new sense of self-esteem. I felt as though I were worth something. I was an excellent carer. My vocation had meaning. And I promised myself that I would do my utmost to locate Carla and, if possible, befriend her. I had other goals as well, but I decided not to write them down. “Don’t leave a paper trail,” I admonished myself and this conspiracy of one made me smile widely.

 

First, I would tell Kathy about the Golds and pay attention to her response. But something urged me to take a diagonal route to Windmere Heights, and I took a street that was unknown to me. Its name was St. Luke. I noticed straight-out that the apartment buildings here were different than most others in the district. Although they looked quite new, they weren’t shoddily constructed. True, they didn’t look posh, but neither did they look cheap. They were a pale red brick which looked almost pink. “Blushing brick,” I thought to myself. They were either three or four storeys tall, and the front doors were large, expansive and painted cherry red, canary yellow, pumpkin orange and many other eye-catching colours. Interestingly, one of them, the cherry one, had a hand-made sign lettered in bright green ink:

Flats To Let

Note: Carers or Seniors

2½, 3½, 4 ½

Apply To Flat # 11

Detailed References Required

 

I couldn’t believe my eyes. Surely there must have been some kind of mistake. I had never heard of a building that rented to both humans and clones. I was certain that was illegal and frankly, I considered it unthinkable. My curiosity was so strong that I approached two men in conversation in the middle of the walkway leading to the glossy red door.

“Excuse me, does either of you know anything about the flats for rent?”

The older man, a tall, lanky blond who looked to be about 45 answered, “Yes, Miss. We both do. We’re partners. We own several properties on this street.”

“Funny, this is the first time I’ve ever been on this street. Your building here is lovely, but the sign really shocked me. How can you rent to carers and seniors alike?”

The younger man, very well-dressed and handsome answered, “We have a permit. It’s a new by-law, a pilot project of sorts. If you rent one of our flats, you’ll be getting in on the ground floor, so to speak. Are you interested in having a look at a 2 ½ or a 3 ½? Unless you have a flatmate. Then, of course, you’d want to see a 4 ½.”

I stood there, arms crossed under my chest and explained, “I have two flat-mates now, and it’s not working out so well. How many months would I have to pay in advance, as a deposit?”

But the younger man turned to the older one and said, “Joe, I have to meet Nancy now. If I’m late, she’ll have my head. Can you take it from here?”

“Certainly, Conrad. Give Nancy my fond regards. Tell her I’m looking forward to seeing her as a ravishing bride.”

Conrad sprinted off. It occurred to me that he was likely younger than I was and that gave me a little jolt. I focused my full attention on Joe, who would have been a good-looking man had has eyes not been so small and closely set. He had a beautiful voice, though — deep and soft.

“So, Miss. I can show you a 2 ½ and a 3 ½ if you’ve the time.”

“I do, thank you.” I could tell by the way that Joe was looking at me that he found me attractive. That kind of sexual recognition happened often enough. But was he the kind of man to let me get under his skin? I didn’t care whether he was married, separated, divorced or single. I had one compulsion only: to get him infatuated with me, to see if it could be done.

“Right, then. Follow me. The lobby was simple and small; it it smelled citrusy. We walked up a flight. Joe was talking affably the whole time. “It’s an interesting borough, really. Very community-oriented. And some of the restaurants are soon going to be dual-service. Once that happens, the shops will follow suit. It least that’s what I’ve heard through the grapevine. As Bob Dylan wrote, ‘The Times They Are A-Changin’. Now, I’m going to show you a 3 ½. It’s very bright and spacious.”

Joe opened the door of apartment 17. It was bright and clean with fresh coats of ivory paint and new parquet floors. On the left of the entrance was a coat closet and just beyond, a living room with three big, spotless windows. To the left of the living room was a bedroom with a tiny, but complete ensuite, which featured a pale blue wash basin and bathtub, and to the right, a kitchen large enough to accommodate a table with at least four chairs. It came equipped with a sparkling white stove and refrigerator, and the floor was sea-green linoleum. “I love it! Everything about it! It’s so new, so fresh, so elegant. How much is it?”

“350 £ a month, heating, electricity and hot water included.”

“And what about a 2 ½?”

“We have two of those, and they’ll both be renting for 280. In those units, the bedroom and living room are combined, but the bathroom is larger. If you can swing the extra 70 £, I recommend the 3 ½. It’s really much better value. That’s if you’re a homebody.”

“I am. A homebody. If I pay you a month in advance by the end of the week, can I move in December?”

“I don’t see why not. But we’ll require at least two references.”

“Not a problem. I have three supervisors, and I trust that they’ll all be willing to vouch for me. Tell me, do you really think you’ll have any seniors living here?”

“Absolutely. It’s really a natural combination of tenancy. Carers can help them in all kinds of practical ways, and they can give you attention and affection. Of course, your lease doesn’t include a clause to that effect, but I’m confident this will take off in a big, big way.”

“Can I come by on Thursday with my deposit? Can I sign the lease then? I can give you the names and telephone numbers of my supervisors right now.”

“Yes, and while you’re at it, you can give me a copy of your identification data.”

I handed Joe my ID card:

Sophie A

Classification: A

Buckinghamshire County

Inception:1965

Certified in 1985

Re-certified in 1990

Hair: Dark Brown

Eyes: Hazel

Donorship Programme Initiatiating Date: January, 1992

 

 

He looked a little shaken. “It says here that you begin to donate in one year.”

“Yes, but with any luck, this can be my last flat.”

“But aren’t you a little young to be ending your career in two years?”

“Not at all. I’m 25. I think I look older than my age, not younger.”

“Well, I’m a lot older than you, Sophie. Maybe that’s why you look like a kid to me. A green lass. A pretty slip of a girl. But what makes you think that you look older than 25?”

“The mirror makes me think that. I think it’s because I don’t eat enough fruits and vegetables, but they’re ever so costly.”

“When we meet on Thursday, let’s say I cook you a proper meal. Why don’t you come ‘round any time after 5 pm? Rap on door # 11. I’ll be there.”

I left the building in a fog of happy disbelief. Just a few doors to the left of 329 St. Luke, my soon-to-be civic address, a flea market was underway in a narrow lane. The items caught my attention because they appeared to be of excellent, vintage quality if not in the best condition. Two heavy-set women, who must have been sisters, were in charge. Their faces were very ruddy and their eyes a bloodshot pale blue. I rummaged through the belts, knick-knacks, down-at-heel leather boots, books, vinyl records and chipped porcelain. A delicate brass lamp had a place of its own perched atop a painted red table. The glass shade was so pretty: tulip-shaped and rosy pink. “Does it work?” I asked the sisters.

“I’m pretty sure it does,” one of them, the older one answered. “But if not, you can bring it back next Sunday. We’re open every Sunday, 52 weeks a year, from 10-1pm, that is. We live right there, you see.” She pointed to a squat ground-level door with descending concrete stairs. Her smile revealed many gaps and a few gold teeth. She had stepped close to me and she smelled like rotten private parts.

“How much?”

“Ten pounds.”

“I’ll give you seven.”

“Eight,” she countered. “Eight and it’s yours. I’ll wrap it up real nice. And the frosted chandelier bulb is included. It’s brand new, just out of the box.”

Surely finding the tulip lamp was a good omen. It was by leaps and bounds my most beautiful possession. And I would soon be living almost next door to the Flea Market sisters. I imagined decorating the entire flat with further gorgeous finds.

WE KNEW BUT WE DIDN'T KNOW

 

 

CHAPTER SEVEN—I WANT TO LIVE;I WANT TO LIVE

I calculated that it was probably okay to return to Kathy’s room. A few nurses entered the waiting room. One of them addressed me tersely, “I’m here to use the vending machine. The ones in the nursing station are out of order.”

“Suit yourself,” I shrugged. My tone was deliberately rude and I stared down that long-nosed nurse. Her eyes were the colour of balsamic vinegar. The vinyl-covered chair-seat made a long, wet farting sound as I lifted my bum to stand up. That made me laugh. The sound of my laughter shocked me. It was so harsh and ugly. I stormed out of the waiting room, muttering “fat, stupid bitches,” but I cautioned myself, “Tone it down, sister. Tone it down. The last thing in the world that you need is a written reprimand.” It occurred to me that a good strategy would be to report the nurses before they reported me. I was almost certain that they weren’t allowed inside a carers’ waiting room even if their vending machines were out of order. And so I pretended there were puppeteer strings pulling my neck upwards, and I walked as briskly as I could to the nursing station.

Only one nurse, a wee mousy one, was seated on a tall stool behind a surprisingly pink counter. She looked up at me and asked, not unkindly, “May I help you?”

“Yes, I’d like to report that three nurses are using the carers’ lounge, and they made me so uncomfortable that I had to leave.”

“How exactly did they make you feel uncomfortable? What did they say or do?”

“They looked at me like I’m a piece of garbage. I’ve read the Recovery Facilities Guidelines Manual. They’re not allowed to use rooms which are for carers only.”

“True, but our vending machines aren’t working. They must have gotten permission from the chief nurse.”

“I’m here to lodge a complaint with the chief nurse.”

“Well, she won’t be in until later this afternoon. Would you like to fill out a complaint form?”

I paused. That might prove to be more trouble than it was worth. It could also backfire. My few minutes of defiance had been spent. I shuffled my feet, conscious of my cheap vinyl shoes with multiple dings.

“No, I haven’t the time. I must get back to my charge, but thank you for your courtesy.” The mouse-nurse looked surprised, but not displeased. She said, “Let me know if it happens again.” But I knew that I wouldn’t.

When I got back to Kathy’s room, she was alone and her eyes were closed. The door had been left open, though. I allowed myself the luxury of admiring her hands, fingers and the gold ring with the garnet gemstone. Only one thing bothered me, well, actually, two things. The gemstone was the same colour as blood. I hadn’t noticed that before. It looked like ice-blood. And what if someone would confiscate or steal her ring? How could I prevent that from happening? I decided to have another chat with mouse-nurse. There was something approachable about her. She hadn’t been friendly toward me, but neither had she been hostile.

What I liked most about Kathy’s ring, no, what I loved about it, was that it looked like something a mother or grandmother would give to a daughter or granddaughter. It looked like a gift of love, and in a way, it was. I wished that somebody had cared enough about me to give me something so valuable, so personal. Of course, I could save up and buy a pretend heirloom for myself, but that wouldn’t be the same. It wouldn’t be the same at all.

Kathy stirred, moaned softly, a bad dream? sleep pain? The kind of pain that seeps into your bones and won't let go? I was feeling pretty useless as her carer, but she was far too weak for walks and even wheeling her onto her Juliet balcony seemed to require more stamina than she had. Watching her listless tosses and turns, I started feeling despondent. I decided to spend some time after my shift at a Sally Ann shop near my flat The place smelled bad, old and slightly rancid, but I had been lucky there with several attractive catches, if one overlooks minor stains and snags.

Before leaving Kathy's room, I did something I hadn't done before. I bent over her pallid face and kissed her on the forehead. I wanted my lips to touch her skin as tenderly as possible: the kiss of a mother, a sister, a friend.

It was raining lightly when I exited the centre. The falling water was warmer than it usually is in late October. For some reason, this cheered me up a bit. I was trying to decide if I should rummage for articles of clothing or decorative items for my flat. These purchases always made me feel a little happy if only for a day or two. I wondered if the good feeling would last longer were the items posh and truly beautiful.

Sally Ann shops are like dollar stores. Everything, every single item, is affordable. I find that solidly comforting. The clientele is mixed. I would say half of the customers are clones and the other half are down and out regulars or old people on a fixed income. The clerks are often young and tattooed with piercings in peculiar places. They aren't nasty, though. If you ask them a question, they generally answer courteously. It's always stuffy, the air stale, and after half an hour, my scalp begins to itch and I need to leave, whether I've found something to take home or not.

I realized that I was hungry, but I didn't feel like a takeaway cheese or egg sandwich. I felt like a proper restaurant meal, but the only restaurant where we were allowed in the neighborhood was most likely jam-packed, and I didn't feel like engaging in chitchat. I didn't want to talk about Kathy, and that was always the main topic of conversation: Who's your charge? How many donations has he done? Is he going to complete next time around? Do you get on? How old is she? Where did she use to board? What does she know about Hailsham?

Carers rarely talk about our own vocations. It's a scary topic. No one wants to think too hard and closely about our careers and when they will end. We know that we won't be carers for the rest of our lives; eventually we'll be the ones lying in the donor beds.

 I don't know what I hoped to find at the Sally Ann shop that particular Saturday but it had to be something out of the ordinary, something especially fetching. I walked around quite aimlessly, noting there were very few customers in the shop and that all of them were elderly. I wondered what it must feel like to grow old, diminished, bent and wrinkled. I had read that in some cultures, old people were greatly respected, but life for the aged was becoming increasingly precarious in the country where I was cloned and raised. Government subsidies were shrinking, and people without private means were being forced to enter completion programmes. Not all of them, of course, but some of them: the handicapped, those with dementia or substance addictions.  Perhaps that is why the elderly were interacting with us clones more and more. We were beginning to have a lot in common, and that made both groups deeply uneasy.

Perhaps I was jealous. I would never have children, grandchildren. I would never travel to another country. I would never have a husband or a proper job. most of these shuffling relics were two-thirds older than I would live to be. Like me, they had no future, but unlike me, they had a past. I left the shop with my hands in my pockets. I tried to walk tall and proud, but I felt so purposeless. Being a carer was something, surely, but wasn't I merely an overseer of death? Wasn't I really biding time until my own number was called?

The thought of returning to my cheap flat was discouraging, but there was really nowhere else to go. I wouldn't have minded returning to Windmere heights and keeping Kathy company, but my pass wasn't valid after 6 pm. I needed something to hold on to, a meaningful task or errand to have in mind, to carry me through the following day. Then I remembered bitterly that the following day was a Sunday, a day off, whatever that was supposed to mean. Off what? Off duty? Off colour? No, better not to overthink, not to think. Walk in the rain, Sophie girl. Fix yourself something tasty when you get home. Find a way to contact Carla, Sophie, Allen, Mr. Steeple, or start with a smaller step, a baby step. Visit Mr. and Mrs. Gold. Win their friendship, for they are old and foreign-born, and perhaps they are just as frightened as you are.

 

A shadow of deep anxiety had intruded into my thoughts, but I couldn't deconstruct it all at once. And my legs and feet were so tired. I had to get home and find a way to eat, unwind and sleep. I promised myself that the following day, Sunday, would be different. And every day after that would be somehow different. Each subsequent day would be distinct. Good or bad. Triumphs or defeats. I had to find a way of living my own life even though I had no practice doing so. I had to find a way to create new meaning.

The flat was empty when I let myself in. It lacked charm and points of interest, but at least it was tidy and clean, and not outright ugly. I didn’t know whether to throw myself onto my narrow bed or find something to eat in the almost equally narrow kitchen. I couldn’t understand why I felt so thoroughly exhausted, as though I had been working and worrying without any sleep for weeks on end.

Hunger trumped fatigue. I shuffled into the kitchen in my shaggy-raggedy house shoes. The hushed sound of the soles on the floor was rather pleasant. The refrigerator was sparsely furbished: a carton of milk, a few hard-boiled eggs, bright orange processed cheese and loaf of sliced white bread. The pantry offered slim pickings as well: a pack of crisps, a jar of Marmite, and a box of social tea biscuits. I decided that a generous stack of biscuits and a pot of tea would suit me fine. If only I had a bottle of contraband wine. Wine, beer and cigarettes were hard to come by for clones, strictly black market business and very costly. And if one were caught, the fines were very stiff and one could even be relocated and reclassified.

A bubble bath might calm my jagged nerves. Of course, I didn’t own any proper bubble bath, but liquid dishwashing soap did the job just fine. I was a twenty-five year-old clone carer and virgin. I didn’t have to be a virgin. It wasn’t against the rules not to be one, but I wanted to fall in love, or if not quite that, something close to it.

I knew quite a bit about Kathy and Tommy. They were almost as famous among British clones as Romeo and Juliet. I recall a conversation I had with Eleanor, a few years back about them:

“Requited love. Wow! Do you suppose they were really and truly in love with each other?”

I bit my lower lip. “Yes, why wouldn’t they have been? They grew up together. They understood each other. They gave each other purpose and courage. But Eleanor, I’ve been wondering about something else. Do you think it’s possible for a human to fall in love with a clone?”

“Anything’s possible, Sophie. I mean, why not? Who knows, maybe there’ve been people who fell in love with clones and hid them away or disguised them and bought them new identities. But the problem with that is what happens if the people fell out of love with the clones? What would happen to them then?”

“Who? The people or the clones?”

“Both.”

“Well, it might not be as bad as we would think. After all, the human would get into serious trouble for harbouring or disguising a clone. That’s a felony. So maybe deals have been struck and they both go their separate ways but promise to never say anything.”

“I’m sure it happens, Eleanor. History gives us examples: white slave-owners fell in love with black slaves. Even Nazis fell in love with Jews.”

“Yes, but Jews and Nazis and blacks and whites are all people, the same species. It’s not really the same with people and clones.

“It is and it isn’t. Look at us and look at them. The only difference is in our clothes and accessories. And even then it’s only when the people have money. When they’re dirt poor or white-trash, they don’t look any different than we do. I’d love to get a male person to fall in love with me. I once had a kind of boyfriend, and he knew the truth about me and he liked me. He liked me a lot. But I was just a teenager. He was young himself and had no position, no power. But what if I could meet someone, someone rich and powerful?”

 “You’re pretty enough, Sophie. You really are.”

“So are you, Eleanor. So are you.” Less than a month later, Eleanor was completed. But if any of us girl clones could have attracted the attentions of a male person, it would have been Eleanor, who seemed to have a genuine personality and joie de vivre. Everything about her asserted, “I want to live, I want to live, I want to live.”

WE KNEW , BUT WE DIDN'T KNOW

 

CHAPTER SIX—OUR FAVOURITE GAME

 

I stuffed the pretty velvet pouch into my shabby coat pocket, the one that didn’t have a hole. While walking, I never met people’s eyes, and this occasion was no exception, but I noticed that I wasn’t looking downward as much as usual. I found myself extremely interested in the activity around me. There were quite a few people out and about. Of course, it was almost noon on Saturday, but it was the easy mix of pedestrians which intrigued me. There were almost as many of us as there were of them, and no one seemed to care one way or the other. It was somehow exhilarating. I felt as though I could be completely myself or anyone else for that matter. There were delicious aromas as well: buttery crepes and breakfast pastries from the bakery, and what smelled like liquid chocolate, caramel, toffee and liquorice from the sweet shop. I felt so hungry that my knees wobbled, but I forced myself to be sensible. After all, food at the Windmill Heights cafeteria was free, and even though it was pretty bland, it wasn’t half bad.

It’s funny, though, how all carers have the same worn down look even when they’re good-looking. I had a slender, supple body, good skin, glossy hair, full lips, big eyes that have been called “tawny,” “honey” and “topaz,” but I know that I always looked poor and unkempt. And it wasn’t just the cheap clothes. It was the posture and the deferential walk. Why couldn’t I walk tall and proud, or sway my hips provocatively or slink like a model pretending to be feral on the catwalk? No one would stop me. There weren’t any rules which dictated how we had to walk, so why did we all walk the same? I decided then and there to alter my walk, but slowly, gradually so that no one would notice until a final transformation had been achieved. That was my first inkling that I had a new project. I was going to reinvent myself. If I couldn’t change my destiny, at least I could change myself. It’s not that I wanted to pass. I merely wanted to turn them on their heads.

I was delighted to see that Kathy looked much improved when I entered her room. She had braided her long hair and was wearing silvery-pink lip gloss.

“You look lovely, Kath. How are you feeling?”

“Surprisingly good, Sophie. For the first time since the operation, I don’t feel as though my guts have been stirred and scooped out of me. Who knows, I might even make it to the fourth.” We were supposed to think that was a big deal, a great accomplishment, to achieve four donations. To us, the only advantage was that it gave us more time, sometimes as much as a year, but usually more like three or four months. Still, three months was a lot better than nothing.

“You’d better!” I used my bully voice.

Kathy smiled, “Oh, really, and why is that?”

“Because I’ve bought you a present. I had it made for you, specifically for you. And I want to look at it for a long, long time.” I plunked my bottom on Kathy’s bed, hands in pockets.

Kathy flushed. She shook her head. “But whatever possessed you to do that, Sophie?” Her eyes looked troubled. I didn’t know how to explain myself. I didn’t know where to begin.

“I don’t know, Kath. I honestly don’t know. It was something I wanted to do more than I’ve ever wanted to do anything, so I did it. Are you ready?”

“Yes, yes! It’s in one of your pockets, isn’t it? I pulled out the velvet pouch, which looked so clean and smooth even though it had been inside my grubby pocket. “Open it,”I instructed in a loud whisper.

Kathy opened the bag and stroked the velvet box as though it were a tiny green kitten. “That too, open that too.” She did. Her gasp was high and clean and sharp. “Oh, Sophie! Honest to God jewelry! Where on earth did you find this? It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen! Will I be able to keep it, to wear it? Won’t they take it away from me?”

“They can’t take it away from you, Kathy. I bought it for you. It’s a gift. It belongs to you. That would be theft. Theft is against the law. Don’t worry about that. Please, just try it on. I’m dying to see it on you.”

Kathy slid the ring up her middle right-hand finger. “It’s perfect.”

“It’s not too loose?” I asked anxiously.

“No, it’s perfect. I feel like Cinderella. You’re my fairy god-sister.” Kathy’s smile was everything I had hoped it would be. “But I wish there were something I could give you.” Kathy added. “Isn’t it pathetic? I’m thirty-four years old and I have nothing to show for it. No cherished mementoes. Except for this ring. But how will you get it back, Sophie, if I complete when you’re not with me?”

Her bleak question startled me. “I’m here to care for you, Kathy. I know we have to take it day by day, but I promise I’ll do everything I can to delay your next donation for as long as possible.”

“You mean my last donation,” Kathy’s tired eyes looked unflinchingly into mine.

I bent my neck so that my face was very close to hers and I whispered. “I’ve heard things, Kathy. I’ve heard about exemplary carers getting exemptions or reprieves. We have to find a sympathetic ear.”

“Oh, Sophie, if that were true, wouldn’t I have been spared my first two donations?”

“Not necessarily. It may not be too late. I have no idea how any of this works, this reprieve process, but I intend to find out.”

At that moment a gaggle of doctors strode into Kathy’s room. The regular attending doctor of the floor was a tall, angular woman with thin hair always bound in a meagre bun. She was flanked by five or six interns, who looked young and nervous. I knew that was my cue to exit and I asked Dr. Underwood when I could return. “Give us thirty minutes,” she told me and then Kathy was surrounded by the coven of white coats. For the first time, I understood how very little time she had left, and I panicked.

I didn’t feel up to taking the elevator to the dingy cafeteria, so I walked to the other end of the third floor. The waiting room was shabby, with dusty fabric plants and two-year-old magazines, but there was really no other place for me to go. I was overcome with this false premonition that I would see Carla and that we would arrange to meet and reminisce, at her flat, not mine, because I imagined that hers would be much nicer. She would look strong and healthy and we would hatch a plan to become flat-mates. The fantasy was so pleasant that I half-believed that she would actually walk into the waiting room and our friendship would resume on the spot.

I passed the time by remembering how Sylvia, Carla and I used to play our family game at Ingersoll. We would stroll on the grounds, our arms linked and describe what our parents would be like if we had parents. Our descriptions never varied; rather, they became more detailed and intricate with each successive telling. These fabrications gave us great comfort.

Sylvia’s “parents” were jolly and garrulous. Amusingly, they both had red hair, so that no one could comment, “Ah, so you get your colouring from your mum (or your dad).” Moreover, she had a clutch of siblings, varying in number from four to six and they were all carrot-tops as well. It was a loud, fun household with lots of kisses and hugs and riotous shenanigans such as pillow fights, tickling sessions, popping corn and toasting marshmallows.

In contrast, Carla was an only child and her parents were reserved and fiercely protective of her. In her home, (a mansion with thirty rooms and stained glass windows) there were rules which had to be followed strictly because Carla had to spend most of her spare time studying to become a doctor. Her father was an oncologist and her mother was a paediatrician. Carla’s bedroom was lined with floor-to-ceiling mahogany bookcases, and her parents bought her dozens of books every month: medical texts, biographies, history books and scientific journals.

And my family? Like Carla, I was an only child. I wanted my parents’ undivided attention. They looked like movie stars: he was a dead-ringer for Robert Redford and she could have passed for Julie Christie’s twin. My parents spoilt me shamelessly. I had two wardrobes filled with expensive clothes that were more suited to a fashion model than to a child (and later adolescent). I was allowed to wear cosmetics starting at the age of thirteen, and my beautiful mother bought me the poshest products: Clinique, Estee Lauder, Lancôme and Shisheido. But best of all, were the birthday cakes and daily treats of doughnuts, ice cream cones, boxes of milk chocolate and home-baked pies, scones, biscuits and tarts.

Our kitchen was a marvel. It was designed to look like an American diner of the 1950’s. We had a booth that could comfortably seat six with a juke box on the Formica table-top. The floor was black and white checker-board linoleum, and an aqua toaster sat plumply on the pale-pink counter-top. It was impossible to feel glum in our kitchen.

And so, Sylvia, Carla and I were loved and wanted by our imaginary parents for quite a few years. Just around the time we turned sixteen, however, we stopped talking about them and soon stopped thinking about them. They had died gentle, natural deaths by the time our years at Ingersoll were finished.