Susie Ryder fiction short story The Beginning of Always
When No One is Looking by Gloria E. Moses, Oil on Linen, 36″ x 24″.
The Beginning of Always
by Susie Ryder
I must confess, I was determined from the off that hydrotherapy wouldn’t help. As soon as Val, my dim-witted physiotherapist had suggested I might benefit from it, I thought, ‘I doubt that Val’, convinced that anything that came out of her mouth was bound to prove ineffective and a waste of time. Just like the physiotherapy I’d endured for the last six Mondays. I say endure, though I’m not sure it’s the right word for something that lasts only ten minutes and is neither painful nor long enough to be tedious.
The physiotherapy I’d had—and I use the term disparagingly—consisted of Val patronizing me: ‘Good girl’ or ‘Steady on, Speedy Gonzales’ were regular expressions, and the latter was used if I managed to lift my arm more than forty-five degrees from my side, or lowered it too quickly.
I was eight weeks post-arthroscopy and, in my naivety, had imagined physiotherapy would involve some hard work, some gentle manipulation of my shoulder, perhaps some massage and certainly a steady improvement over several weeks. None of these appeared to be part of the deal. Val favoured the hands-off approach and claimed that our truncated appointments (eight minutes one time) were necessary in case they elicited a flare.
‘We’ve got to be gentle with you, I don’t want you flaring up,’ she’d say.
I couldn’t help thinking her concern was poorly-concealed laziness. How much more honest to admit, in the vernacular of my young neighbour Sheila, ‘I just can’t be arsed’.
Anyway, this week, as well as the sing-song encouragement to ‘press your arm against the wall as if you’re trying to push it away … come on Della, that’s it, push that wall right away’, Val had suggested that because I’d made little progress, movement-wise, ‘perhaps we should give hydrotherapy a go’.
I couldn’t help thinking Val thought the little progress I’d made was my fault. As if I was willing my shoulder to inflammation and stasis. Keen to shine the spotlight back on her inadequacies, I said, ‘Yes, that’s a good idea. This clearly isn’t helping, and I’m all for trying something a little more … effective.’
I left a beat before ‘effective’, hoping that Val would infer this was aimed at her. If she did, she gave no indication of it, but stood up and smiled in that daft way of hers.
‘Super! Well, let’s go to reception, and we’ll see when Esther can fit you in.’
So Val didn’t do the hydrotherapy then. Well, that was a bonus. Whoever did could only be an improvement.
I left the hospital with an appointment for the following Wednesday, and a warmer than usual goodbye from Val. It occurred to me (with a touch of pique) that Val appeared as pleased as I felt that we were parting ways.
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
Eight weeks prior to my first encounter with Val, I had been admitted to the Bev Parkin Day Unit for an arthroscopy on my right shoulder. There was something vaguely grating about the name. Surely it should be Beverly Parkin. The casual abbreviation irked me, as if we all knew and loved Bev, whoever she was.
My surgeon, Mr. James, was confident the surgery would help with the ‘discomfort’ (or outright bloody pain) I’d been experiencing for the last eighteen months, but he was vague about what the operation would involve.
‘We’ll go in with a tiny camera and trim away some of the tat surrounding your joint.’
I didn’t expect him to explain the operation in impenetrable medicalese, but nor did I feel it was necessary for him to dumb down quite so much. I’m an intelligent woman; a middle-ground explanation would have been more satisfactory. I imagined the term ‘tat’ didn’t crop up in The Lancet on a regular basis.
Anyhow, on the day of the operation, I took a taxi up to the unit at 8.00 am. After checking in at reception, I sat and waited in the dayroom as breakfast television flickered unwatched in a corner.
When the nurse called me through, there was the shadow of a humiliating moment when she noticed I had no one to collect and be with me for the twenty-four hours following my procedure. But she seemed to realise and averted any awkwardness by saying, ‘Oh, that’s right, we’re going to hang on to you overnight, Miss Houghton, just to keep an eye on you.’
She smiled warmly, and so great was the surge of gratitude I felt, tears sprang to my eyes.
Post-op, I drifted in and out of consciousness, and each time I was aware of where I was and the fact that I was lying heavily on my left side. I could hear the nurses banging about—the noise they were making was tremendous. I yearned for quiet, to submerge myself in sleep, but every time I drifted off, I was jolted awake by shrill laughter or a trolley clattering over something. At one point, I opened my eyes and realised there was only a curtain separating me from the voices. Seconds later, the curtain was snapped back and an auxiliary appeared.
‘Y’alright love? Coming to? Could you eat a bit of toast?’
‘I shook my head and said ‘drink’, my voice sounding alien and distant to me.
‘Cup of tea? Alright, sweetheart.’ She disappeared, and shortly after, I heard a different voice say, ‘Shouldn’t she be getting up by now?’
Another voice replied: ‘No, she’s staying in this one. We’ve got to ship her over to C Ward. No one to stay with her overnight, apparently.’
They were talking about me.
‘Oh aye? No one, eh? I reckon they try it on half of ‘em. Get a free meal and a night away.’
There was a hum of recognition and another voice cut in.
‘Yeah, we’re cheaper than Travelodge, and that’s saying sumut!’
More laughter. Humiliation rose up within me like bile.
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
By the time the hydrotherapy appointment came round, I had convinced myself it would be another pointless exercise. I had, however, purchased a new comfort-support swimsuit from M&S. It was navy with a jolly swoosh of turquoise, sweeping up diagonally from the left leg hole across my stomach. I had even tried it on, with much difficulty—my shoulder still felt tender and weak—but if I was going to put myself through yet another ordeal, I didn’t want to worry that the bobbly bathing suit I’d had since Scarborough ’81 was drawing looks.
Not everyone had given in to such self-consciousness. As I entered the hydrotherapy room, I saw a gentleman at the far end of the pool, stepping gingerly into the water. He was wearing trunks of a hue and pattern that screamed 1960s. They were violently orange with angry black squiggles, and they flared unsettlingly at the tops of his thighs. I could only imagine what the poor young physiotherapist, poised three feet below him with an outstretched hand of support, could see.
The man was probably about my age—68—a little older perhaps, but I shuddered surreptitiously at his droopy frame and body. People assume that older people must be attracted to older people, but, in my experience, that is categorically untrue.
A young lady noticed me standing at the door and came forward smiling, proffering a threadbare towel.
‘Hiya. You can get your cozzie on in there,’ she told me, pointing to a changing area.
After changing and folding my clothes up neatly on the chair provided, I ventured from the changing room, around the corner to the pool itself. The young girl who’d greeted me was now at a desk writing busily and didn’t notice me. The temperature of the hydro area was beautifully warm, and any self-consciousness was eclipsed by the wonderful sensation of being wrapped in the fug of this microclimate. The pool itself was approximately eighteen feet by twelve feet. As well as the man in the garish trunks—now thankfully submerged to the shoulders and facing away from me—the physiotherapist herself was in the water, along with another lady, a little older than me perhaps, who was sitting on a short platform which jutted out just below the water’s surface, halfway down the pool.
Spotting me hovering at the pool’s edge, the physiotherapist, a very young, slim girl with boyish blond hair, smiled and greeted me warmly.
‘Miss Houghton?’
‘Yes.’
‘Hello, I’m Esther. Do you want to come round?’
She gestured towards the steps at the end of the pool, and I made my way round the edge carefully.
‘We’ll have a full house once you’re in, won’t we Clare?’ she said, beaming, directing this last comment to the girl at the desk who looked up and nodded.
‘Two shoulders and a knee.’
‘Righto,’ I replied, nodding a hello to the others.
On descending the steps, warm water lapped around my feet, then my calves and then my shoulders. It felt deliciously warm—luxurious and soothing. Perhaps this wouldn’t be so bad.
‘Just get used to the water for a few minutes, Miss Houghton and then we’ll start with some gentle exercises. If you’d like to move down to the far end, past Margaret—just watch the step down halfway along.’
I manoeuvred myself past Margaret’s platform, and she smiled at me—all the time taking deep breaths in and out while trying to extend her knee.
‘I like your swimsuit,’ she said. ‘I nearly bought the same one, and I wish I had now—it looks lovely.’
Not used to a compliment of any kind, I couldn’t think of what to say.
‘Oh … thank you. It’s M&S.’
She nodded, and I instantly wished I’d made a better, more interesting reply.
Tiger Trunks was shoulder deep at the far end and was making a meal of his exercises as far as I could tell. He was clearly ‘the other shoulder’, and I resolved to go through my paces with less fuss.
Esther left me to swill about for a couple of minutes before heading my way with an armband, into which she gave a couple of puffs. I was instructed to hold the armband out in front of me, on the water’s surface, pull it down slowly until my arm was by my side, then allow the armband to pull my arm straight up in front of me and repeat. Despite the armband being virtually flat, the exercise was difficult, and I could feel my shoulder straining with each pull. It felt good, though—tough but strengthening, and I tried to picture my sore joint becoming stronger with each stretch.
Esther made a small adjustment to my posture, telling me to lean forward slightly to extend the stretch that bit further, and I could immediately feel the difference.
‘Super, Miss Houghton! Posture’s everything because it means you’re working the muscle group we want to strengthen.’
I nodded, pleased with the praise and Esther’s lack of condescension.
Esther moved from one patient to the next, making minor corrections and calmly encouraging us. It was wonderful. Each time she returned to me with a new exercise, I concentrated fiercely, keen to be regarded as a hard worker. I pictured them in the office later on:
‘That Miss Houghton, she’s a workhorse,’ Esther would say. Clare would nod: ‘I’ll say!’
There’d be no such praise for the ‘other shoulder’. Esther had already said if he was finding it a bit much, perhaps he’d like to call it a day, but there he was, puffing and grimacing as though he’d stepped on a bear trap. Eventually she’d said, ‘Right Mr. Morris, I’ll get in trouble for wearing you out! Let’s leave it for today, and Clare will get you booked in for next week.’
She moved towards him and unhooked a paddle from his hand.
‘Ooh, alright then,’ he exhaled as if he’d just done a marathon.
As Mr. Morris made his way up to the steps, ‘the knee’, or Margaret as I’d heard her called, caught my eye and rolled her eyes heavenward. I grinned, thrilled with the shared moment. It was like being on the inside of somewhere warm for once, instead of having my nose pressed against cold glass. Eager not to let the moment be an isolated incident, I said, ‘I’m Della. Do you think your knee is improving?’
‘Oh, without a doubt. Nice to meet you. I’m Margaret,’ she replied, not missing a beat with her knee stretches.
She didn’t say anything further, so I said, ‘I’ve had my shoulder done. It’s been fourteen weeks now. I didn’t feel I was making progress, until today, that is.’
‘Esther’s terrific.’ Margaret nodded up the pool, where Esther was nervously watching Mr. Morris ascend the steps. I couldn’t decide if the nerves were caused by fear of him falling or the prospect of seeing up his trunks again. I bet she doesn’t get paid enough.
Margaret and I exchanged information on our operations, our surgeons, our prognosis and so on. She agreed with me about the unnecessary dumbing down of terminology and suggested surgeons were so used to being treated like gods they’d got used to speaking to patients as if they were simple mortals. I nodded furiously, pleased to meet a woman of such good sense. This is a woman I could be friends with, I mused. Such easy conversation. We chatted on, and I was sorry when Esther came down and told us both we ought to leave it for the day. I’d had a good forty minutes, though and could feel it, so I didn’t object.
‘Can you both make next Wednesday?’ Esther asked us, and we said we could.
‘Smashing. Well, there are only 2:30 pm appointments left, so you’ll be in together again next week.’
I could barely disguise my pleasure at this news, and Margaret beamed. Esther can see what I already knew, I thought—she can see the burgeoning friendship budding between us.
Getting changed, I felt positive for the first time in goodness knows how long. My shoulder felt tender but in a way associated with exercise rather than inflammation. The rest of me felt loose-limbed and vital, and I could hardly wait for the following Wednesday.
Just as I was leaving the hydrotherapy room, Esther called over to me.
‘You did really well today, Miss Houghton. You should be very proud of yourself.’
I felt warmth in my face and, over the next week, I discovered I could make this happen at will every time I replayed the compliment in my mind.
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
That week was one of the happiest I could remember in a long time. I felt renewed hope that life still had something more to offer me. I glowed with the sense that I was a woman with places to go, people to meet. An old adage I’d heard came back to me: ‘There are no such things as strangers—just friends you’ve yet to meet’. Clichéd, certainly, but then don’t things become clichés because they’re true? And although Margaret was no longer strictly a stranger, I felt certain she was a friend in the making. I’d ask her casually for a coffee after our session; no doubt that would lead to further plans—lunch in town one day perhaps—a trip to the cinema where we’d agree on a sumptuous costume drama to while away an afternoon. She would insist on being Marg to me—after all, all her friends called her that—and my weeks would become a jostle of things to do, instead of endless stretches of time, punctuated by taking the bin out or dropping my repeat prescription at the surgery.
The following Wednesday, I was awakened early by nervous butterflies fluttering in my stomach. Today’s the day, I thought. It struck me that my nerves were akin to those one gets at the beginning of a relationship; the thrill of yearning for something special to start and knowing on some level that it inevitably will.
I had spent most of the week planning for today, and during that week, my friendship with Margaret, or Marg as I’d been calling her, had, in my mind, come on in leaps and bounds. I’d pictured us having coffee at my favourite café. We’d giggled uncontrollably over Tiger Trunks, and Marg had been thrillingly cutting about him. Reluctant to have our fun curtailed, we had gone on from the café into town (we’d had to get a taxi, of course, because of Marg’s knee, but what’s money when you’re with friends?) I’d helped Marg pick out a new coat, and we’d made plans for the following day, when she’d come to my place for lunch and Scrabble, which had stretched into the evening—we were evenly matched, and I’d been impressed with Marg’s good vocabulary. I only beat her by a cat’s whisker, and she was, of course, gracious about it. Before we knew it, it was 9 pm and Marg had to get home. We’d parted reluctantly, saying goodbye on the doorstep for twenty minutes, simply because we never ran out of things to talk about. Every conversation held a dozen digressions and innumerable opportunities for helpless laughter. Promising one another we’d meet on Saturday, this time in town, for dinner and a show, we said our goodbyes (she called me Dell now) and, as expected, that night too was a riot. I had barely thought about my shoulder all week.
Except none of these things actually happened. And I see now, with some distance and perspective, that this was where things went wrong.
I took a taxi to the hospital that afternoon. Half the sky was covered by gunmetal grey cloud, but where the cloud ended, the sun shone fiercely, and the effect was that the world seemed to glow. The afternoon felt as if it were bursting with possibility.
In my eagerness to be there, I arrived at the physiotherapy reception well before my 2:30 appointment. Val, my ex-therapist, was behind the counter, chatting to the receptionist, and when she spotted me, she looked sour.
‘I’ve a hydro appointment for 2:30 pm,’ I said, ignoring Val, who suddenly beamed, I suspected, just as the penny dropped it wasn’t her I’d come to see.
‘Oh Hi Miss Houghton. Gosh you’re early!’ she chimed, a little too hard on ‘early’ as if there was something absurd about me coming thirty-five minutes before my allocated time. I smiled thinly.
‘Yes, well, I’m finding the hydrotherapy incredibly helpful. Esther is so amazing; I didn’t want to be late.’
I hoped I’d emphasized the ‘so’ enough to convey deep criticism for Val’s own dubious professional skills. Short of adding ‘unlike you, Val’, I couldn’t have been more pointed, but her smile didn’t flicker.
‘Super!’ she said, ‘Well, you’re in very capable hands with Esther.’
I nodded and raised an eyebrow I hoped communicated ‘finally’ before taking a seat in the waiting room. I picked up a copy of Good Housekeeping, all the time keeping an eye on the door for Margaret’s arrival.
Several dog-eared women’s magazines later, and with no sign of Marg, the double doors to the hydro area opened, and Clare, Esther’s assistant, called me through. As I stepped into the pool area, once more I felt the comforting warmth wrap around me, but the pleasure was short-lived as, just at that moment, I noticed Marg ascending the pool steps at the far end as if her session was already over. She was deep in conversation with Esther, who was helping her navigate the steps. I felt a punch of disappointment in my stomach, and I noticed as I got changed that I was shaking. How could I now extend a casual invitation if Marg and I didn’t get the chance to chat? I felt irrationally angry at this turn of events. What had led to Marg’s appointment being altered? How dare anyone do that? I felt livid at the unseen administrator who had seen fit to do this, and I was mulling this over when I came out of the changing room. I must have had a face like thunder, and when I rounded the corner to the pool, I nearly bumped into Margaret, who was coming the other way.
‘Marg!’ I managed and saw her blink in surprise. I was furious with myself, remembering we hadn’t yet got to Marg territory.
‘Oh, hello …’ she replied, hardly seeming to recognise me.
‘I thought we were in together this week, Margaret?’ I said, rather too quickly and desperately, this time using her full name. Seeing her quizzical look, I added, ‘It’s Della’.
‘Oh … yes,’ she said hesitantly. ‘I had to switch my appointment.’
She made to get past me as if this explained everything, but I stood there stubbornly, the swimsuit only partly contributing to my feeling of nakedness.
‘I thought we might go for a coffee afterwards,’ I said, instantly regretting the pleading note in my voice.
Margaret looked surprised.
‘Oh. I’m going away for a few days. That’s why I had to change my appointment.’
I must have looked disappointed because she added, ‘Sorry. Another time, perhaps.’
I nodded and suddenly became aware that our exchange was being watched by Esther and Clare.
Margaret moved past me, and short of grabbing her arms and making her stand in front of me, there was nothing further I could do. I walked over towards Clare, who was standing gormlessly with a towel, presumably for me, and greeted her and Esther, who, I thought, looked a little puzzled.
‘Hi, Miss Houghton. How are you doing this week?’ she asked.
‘Yes, fine,’ I blustered. ‘Felt a real improvement since last week. Really a lot stronger and … better.’
I ran out of words and felt my cheeks burning with humiliation. I’d puffed this day up in my mind, and to have it punctured so unexpectedly seemed unbearably cruel.
As if sensing my upset, Esther laid a gentle hand on my arm.
‘I’m so glad. That’s wonderful to hear.’
I could have cried at her kindness.
I got into the pool and only then noticed that Tiger Trunks was in his usual spot, grimacing through his exercises. We nodded hello, but my smile felt brittle.
Esther had followed me in and held a paddle out to me, explaining the exercise she wanted me to do. I nodded and obediently followed her instructions. I felt grateful for her attention and tried very hard to focus on the exercises. When I was on my third set, Margaret appeared in the doorway to wave a goodbye to Esther and Clare. She glanced my way briefly, but I looked ahead as if the exercises were taking all my focus. And then she was gone.
Esther told me to relax for a few minutes.
‘Just enjoy the sensation of the water around you and imagine it healing you.’
I nodded, staring into the misty blue water.
When the session was over, Clare scanned the diary to make me an appointment for the following Wednesday, and I tried to see when Margaret had hers, but couldn’t. It was Esther who stepped in and threw me a lifeline.
‘Is there any space for Miss Houghton in the lunchtime slot next week?’ she asked Clare. ‘I thought it would be nice to get her in with Margaret again.’
I could have hugged her, but I nodded once, as if it was no big deal either way. It turned out there was a space, and Clare told me I was to come at 12:30 pm the following Wednesday.
After I’d got changed, I called goodbye to Clare and Esther and heard myself sound much cheerier than I had felt throughout the whole session.
As I walked out the hospital entrance, Tiger Trunks was struggling to get his coat on. He spotted me and smiled.
‘Hello! Do you have the same trouble?’ he asked, nodding at his shoulder. ‘Doesn’t do to get old, does it?’ he asked cheerfully, as if it didn’t bother him one bit.
‘Sometimes,’ I replied. ‘Shall I help?’
I held out the side of his jacket that was flapping unhelpfully around him and steadied it whilst he posted his arm through the sleeve.
‘Thanks very much,’ he beamed. ‘We’ve not been introduced. I’m Tony.’
Tony the Tiger. You couldn’t make it up.
He shook my hand, and his handshake was unexpectedly firm and assured.
‘Della,’ I said.
‘Lovely to meet you. Properly, that is. How are you getting on in hydro?’
‘Very well, thank you. You?’
‘Yes, terrific. Hurts like a bugger when I’m there, but I always feel better for it afterwards. Got to push through it, I guess. Use it or lose it, as they say.’
I nodded and said I was heading down to the bus stop. Tony said he was going that way, too. We walked down together, and I asked who’d performed his operation. It turned out we’d had the same surgeon. I repeated Margaret’s line about the arrogance of surgeons and how they are used to being treated like gods, and he frowned.
‘Do you know, the surgeon we had is an expert in his field? He’s the official surgeon for the Olympic team. Imagine that! You and I benefitting from the same surgeon who operates on world-class athletes. And all this on the NHS! I can’t believe how lucky I am.’
He smiled broadly, and I felt petty and mean.
‘I never thought of it like that. I suppose you’re right.’
We had reached the bus stop, and Tony said, ‘Well, this is you. Nice to meet you, Della. Maybe see you next week.’
I nodded, and Tony strode off down towards the town.
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
That following week, I tried very hard not to build up my expectations about Marg as I’d previously done, but it was hard. I’d set a pattern and could while away entire afternoons sitting in my chair in the conservatory, picturing myself and Marg, helpless with giggles as she tried on a hat at a jaunty angle in Atkinson’s department store, or sitting in the warmth of the café in the park, watching the trees sway gently. It was the sort of friendship where silences were comfortable—necessary even, if only as a break from our often-raucous laughter. I found I preferred to lose myself in these reveries, rather than doing anything else.
By the time the following Wednesday came around, I had resolved to give Margaret another chance at friendship. There was so much for us both to gain after all, and, if we spent time together, she’d realise that.
I’d had my hair done on the Tuesday, and aside from making me look smarter, I’d been able to spend a blissful time under the drier pretending to read a magazine when in fact Margaret and I had, on the spur of the moment, caught a train to Skegness and were daring one another to go on the ghost train. Just as we’d agreed to do it if the other would, Daisy, my annoying hairdresser, lifted the dryer hood up.
‘I think yer done, Miss Houghton. Thought you’d nodded off under there!’
I had been peeved at being yanked so unceremoniously back to the real world, but I did at least look smart. I looked, in fact, like a woman whose social engagements included much more than a weekly trip to the hydrotherapy unit of her local hospital.
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
Wednesday came and I resolved not to arrive early. For one, I didn’t want another encounter with Val. Secondly, I had decided to adopt a casual air that conveyed ‘Hydrotherapy? It’s just one more stop on the merry-go-round of activity that is my week.’
At 12:25 pm I walked into the physiotherapy reception (I’d had to dawdle in the WH Smith’s near the main entrance when, despite my best efforts, I arrived at 12:15 pm). There was no sign of Val, and before I could even take a seat, Clare appeared through the double doors and asked me to come through.
The pool was empty, and Esther was writing notes at the far end of the hydro area. Peeved that I’d arrived before Margaret, I got changed, all the time keeping an ear out for her arrival. When I came around the corner into the pool area, both Esther and Clare were leaning against the side of the pool, chatting.
‘Hello, Miss Houghton,’ Esther beamed. ‘Well, can you believe it, you and I seem to have got the pool to ourselves today!’
‘Oh. Lovely!’ I said, hoping it sounded genuine.
‘Yep, we’ve had a cancellation, and as yet, there’s no sign of Margaret. Shall we?’
This last comment was accompanied by a wave at the pool, and I nodded, heading round to the steps. After last week, I didn’t feel I could comment on Margaret being a no-show without sounding angry, so I said nothing but instead concentrated properly on the exercises Esther gave me. For the first time in two weeks, I paid attention to my shoulder. It felt much better; there was no doubt. The change in it was significant, and my range of movement had increased; that was clear. The hydrotherapy was obviously helping, but I also felt that barely having the space to think about it (so all-consuming was my imaginary life with Margaret) had played a part in its improvement.
Esther was complimenting me on my determination when the double doors burst open, and Margaret appeared, puce-faced and full of apologies.
‘Esther! That blasted taxi firm! I told them to collect me from my daughter’s—did they listen? Did they buggery!’
During the ensuing and fulsome explanation that Margaret insisted upon regaling us with, I noticed Esther was in fits of laughter. Both she and Clare had turned away from me to hear these excuses, which were punctuated with their giggles and the occasional admiring, ‘Oh you didn’t say that?’
I felt peeved and ignored. Good thing I can swim, Esther, I thought. I don’t suppose the Health and Safety Executive would approve of this: pensioner left to fend for themselves during poolside gossip session. Now there’s a headline.
After what seemed an interminable time, Margaret limped through to change, and Esther turned back to me with a rhetorical, ‘What is she like?’
I was tempted to answer, ‘Unpunctual and thoughtless?’ Instead, I smiled and cast my eyes heavenward as if we all knew exactly what she was like.
I had a couple more minutes with Esther giving me exercises and suggestions, but her heart was no longer in it. Margaret had interrupted things, and when she appeared again to get in the pool, Esther turned away to help her, still chuckling about Margaret’s non-story. I continued my paddle work, drawing it towards me with my right arm, then pushing away again, creating a mini wave in the pool. Water slapped against the poolside, and I visualized a tsunami sweeping away all the stupidity in the world.
After a while, Esther drifted off to the steps’ end, leaving Margaret and me to our exercises. I pretended mine were all-consuming, but after a couple of minutes, Margaret asked, ‘And how are you, Della?’
‘Hm?’ I pantomimed. ‘Oh, fine, thanks. Yes, really well, actually. You?’
‘Oh, not bad. Up and down, you know? Still, you’ve got to take the good with the bad, haven’t you?’
I nodded. What was this, dial-a-platitude?
As if she’d just remembered something, she said ‘Oh!’ and I looked round.
‘You wanted to go for a cup of tea, didn’t you?’ she asked.
I was taken aback. It made me sound like a child.
‘Er, if you want to. I just thought it might be nice.’
‘Mm,’ she nodded, rubbing her knee. ‘Well, I’ve got twenty minutes or so after we’ve done here. I can’t get my taxi until quarter past two.’
So I was to be slotted in between appointments. Glad you can fit me in, Marg. And yet I didn’t want to lose the opportunity out of petulance.
‘Yes, all right then,’ I said, rather more ungraciously than I meant to. ‘I’ve probably got time for that,’ I added, immediately hoping she didn’t ask where I was heading to after. She didn’t.
We finished up, and I headed off to get dried and changed. When I came out of the changing rooms, Clare handed me a slip of paper with next week’s appointment time on it. I barely glanced at it, keen to make the most of my time with Margaret.
After a couple more minutes, she came out of her cubicle, and we headed off to the WRVS café near the main entrance. Margaret was clearly struggling with her knee, so I suggested she take a seat and I’d fetch the tea. The café was quiet, and when I joined her a few minutes later, she’d struck up a conversation with the woman at the next table. She barely looked up when I put her teacup and saucer down and was midway through a dull story about her grandson Taylor, who was allegedly a ‘horror’ and a ‘terror’, although you’d think from the way she enunciated these words that this was a good thing. There were two free seats at our table, but I chose the one that allowed me to put my back firmly towards the lady at the next table and sipped at my hot tea.
After another minute of inanities, the woman at the neighbouring table said, ‘I’ll let you get back to your friend.’ I nodded briefly over my shoulder to her, as if to say, ‘I’d appreciate that.’
Margaret sipped at her tea and began telling me about her taxi journey all over again. A couple of times, I said, ‘Yes, you said,’ but she continued anyway, and I began to feel resentful. This wasn’t how things were supposed to go. It was a bit of a non-sequitur, admittedly, but eventually I butted in with ‘Do you play Scrabble?’
Margaret looked surprised. ‘Scrabble?’
‘Yes’, I replied. ‘Just wondered if you ever played.’
‘Noooo, I don’t!’ she said, taking a big swallow of her tea. ‘Taylor loves games, but they’re all those computer games, you see? I don’t understand the damn things. He’s forever shooting people and blowing things up. What time is it? I mustn’t miss my taxi.’
Margaret pushed her coat sleeve up to check the time, and I galvanized myself:
‘Do you like costume dramas, Margaret?’
Again, she looked surprised.
‘There’s a new Jane Austen adaptation at the cinema a week on Saturday, and I wondered if you fancied going.’
I felt my face flush.
Margaret tilted her head to one side as if the question required serious consideration.
‘Yes, I don’t mind them. Hm, perhaps. It’ll depend what Joanne’s doing.’
She was gathering her bag and rising from the table.
‘Well, shall we make arrangements next week in hydro then?’ I said, trying to sound casual but also wanting to pin her down.
‘Possibly. I’ll see you then.’
It was too non-committal for my liking, but what could I do, short of arm wrestling her into agreement?
I walked her out to her taxi, hoping I’d get a more definite response, but she was back onto Joanne and Taylor and, considering I’d never met the two of them, they were already getting on my wick. Margaret bade me goodbye, and although I waved her taxi off, she didn’t give me a backward glance.
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
In spite of this inauspicious beginning, I didn’t let it dampen my hopes for a friendship. What sort of friend would I be if I judged too quickly or cruelly? No, I had to forgive Margaret for this and allow things to move at their own pace. With this in mind, and feeling magnanimous, I embarked upon another week of fantasy outings with my new best friend. If I was feeling energetic, I would put us both in a new setting, striking out in a different format and weaving elaborate new ways to illustrate yet another dimension to our rich friendship. If I was tired, I would fall back to the same few comforting tableaux I had already created and imagined a dozen times over, perhaps adding a feather here and there to the picture.
Our imaginary friendship took on new challenges and consequently reaped the benefits: Margaret had a needy neighbour and needed my help in extricating herself from this woman’s demands. We handled it together, tactfully but firmly, and Margaret was indebted to me, she said, for my forthright yet sensitive management. She’d tolerated this woman for years, she said, but had never felt able to cut her loose until she had met me. (We both understood the subtext of this: in truth, our own friendship was so all-encompassing, we didn’t really have time for anyone who impinged upon it.)
One of my favourites was to imagine Margaret saying she’d begun to feel weighed down by Joanne and Taylor, and again I stepped in to smooth things over on her behalf.
‘Your mother needs her space,’ I told an imaginary Joanne (whom I pictured having an unfortunate, dissatisfied face) ‘This is her time now.’ There were tears, of course, but she could see I spoke sense, and gave a nod of recognition as I patted her arm.
Margaret was in awe of my way with people, she said. She felt lighter than she had in years. This lightness manifested itself in her knee, and the two of us were able to take walks up into the park near my house. One afternoon, we sat in the café by the play area, and I told her some of the things that keep me awake at night: the sense I get sometimes of being on life’s sidelines; of feeling like I’m living half a life. The self-imposed pressure I feel to pretend to others that my own life is full and satisfying. I’ve never married or had children, and when I retired from my tedious local government job several years ago, I started to feel the walls pressing in on me. Sometimes at night, I pictured a scene I’d seen in a film years ago: the pages of a calendar flicking past to show the passing of time. My life often feels like that, and every day that flitters past is a blank.
Margaret is taken aback and touched by my candour. At first she just puts her hand on mine, and I can see tears are threatening to spill over onto her lower lashes. Her voice is tight when she says, ‘You will never feel like that again, Dell, I promise.’ She squeezes my hand as I nod and return her tearful smile.
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
The following Wednesday came at last, and once again, I took a taxi up to the hospital. I arrived in good time—early, but not embarrassingly so—and after a few minutes waiting in reception, Esther herself came out and called me through.
‘Miss Houghton! Great to see you! And how are you doing this week?’
In truth, I’d barely thought about my shoulder, which I suppose was a good sign. I smiled and told her I felt great.
‘Super. Super. Let’s get you in and doing then.’
The hydrotherapy room was beautifully warm as usual, and I could see Tony was already in and grimacing. He broke off to smile warmly at me, and I returned his smile, feeling like I could spare a little goodwill.
I changed and headed round to the pool area where Clare was scribbling at her desk. Esther was in the water with Tony, chatting about places to eat locally. There was no sign of Margaret, no doubt she was caught up in taxi-gate part II or just running late. I immersed myself in the warm water and moved my arms gently back and forth, relishing the sensation. Esther drifted over to me with the dreaded armband, and I had another go at the exercise she’d given me in week one. This time, although it was still tough, I could really feel my old strength coming back. My shoulder was much less tender, and the muscle ache I got after a couple of minutes was a healthy ache, borne of proper exercise. I felt a surge of gratitude to Esther.
‘You’ve been such a help, Esther,’ I told her. ‘I’m really grateful for all you’ve done for me.’
Esther smiled warmly and told me she was glad I could feel the benefit.
‘I’d like to echo that,’ Tony said from his side of the pool. ‘You’re always so patient and encouraging.’
Esther blushed and thanked us both for our words.
‘I feel quite overwhelmed!’ she said, grinning.
There was still no sign of Margaret, and keeping the tone upbeat, I said, ‘Do I take it Margaret’s running late today?’ I smiled and rolled my eyes, as if to say ‘typical Margaret’.
‘Oh no,’ Esther replied. ‘She’s been and gone. Margaret was in this morning. In fact, it was her last session—we’ll not be seeing her again. Isn’t that right, Clare?’
Clare was mid-yawn by the poolside, and she nodded and managed a ‘yeah’ at the tail end of her yawn. ‘That was her sixth session, so she’s done and dusted.’
I couldn’t think of anything at all to say, and so I stared into nothingness and kept my arm moving up and down, up and down.
‘You’ve still got a few sessions left with us though, Miss Houghton—same for you, Tone.’
Tony grinned. ‘I’ll stay for as long as you’ll have me. I shall be good as new by the time you lot have done with me!’
Clare and Esther both laughed, and I could tell they both liked Tony. How was it that some people could interact with such ease? I was always ‘Miss Houghton’. He was already ‘Tone’. Even when I had tried in the past to tell people to call me Della, it always sounded disingenuous; like I was granting some big favour, rather than encouraging friendship.
I can barely remember the rest of the session, so consumed was I with thoughts of not seeing Marg again. And the rage. I didn’t feel let down—I felt betrayed. How could she show such little disregard for our friendship? I tried to tell myself that it had been out of her hands—that she, like me, was at the mercy of the NHS appointments system, but I could picture my blood boiling in my veins as it rushed around my body.
As I got changed, I resolved to ask Clare at the desk for Margaret’s phone number. I silently rehearsed my perfectly reasonable and casual request, and when I decided I could no longer stay in the cubicle without drawing attention to myself, I walked out and headed round to the desk. Tony was sitting between the desk and the door, drying his feet and putting his socks and shoes on. He said something and grinned up at me, but it didn’t even register. Despite the warmth of the room, a watery, cold sensation flooded my body as I saw Val, my ex-physio, standing chatting to Esther and Clare. All three of them glanced up as I appeared, but an unsmiling Val continued talking to them, and I was forced to stand there feeling self-conscious and waiting until they had finished.
Clare waved a piece of paper with what was obviously my next appointment on it at me. I took it, and she turned back to Val, who was still in full flow about some staff training they all had to undergo.
I didn’t move away, so Esther held a hand up to Val. ‘Just a sec,’ she said. Val looked peeved.
‘Everything ok?’ she asked.
My hands were shaking, and I was afraid they would notice.
‘Could I trouble you for Margaret’s phone number?’ I asked, smiling politely. ‘I’ve misplaced it, and we’re going to the cinema this weekend.’
Then, feeling more was required, I added, ‘There’s the new Jane Austen on.’
I was aware that this last titbit sounded absurd.
‘We’re not allowed to give out patients’ contact details,’ Val said flatly.
Esther looked uncomfortable. ‘No, no, we’re not, I’m afraid, Miss Houghton. I’m sorry.’ She looked genuinely apologetic.
I ignored Val altogether as if she’d not spoken. ‘Of course. I understand that, Esther. It’s just that I did actually have her phone number—we’re friends—but I can’t for the life of me find it.’ I rolled my eyes as if to say, ‘What am I like?’
‘No can do,’ said Val sourly. ‘We aren’t permitted to pass on patients’ personal details to other patients.’
Again, I ignored Val.
‘But we’re friends,’ I said to Esther, aware of the desperation in my voice. Esther started to say something, but Val cut across her.
‘Well, if you’re friends, I’m sure she’ll get in touch with you.’ Val smiled without humour and looked triumphant.
I felt utterly impotent and humiliated. The rage rose up within me and spewed out into the room:
‘You really are an unpleasant bitch, Val. Oh, and you’re lazy too.’
In the split second before I turned to leave, I saw all three women looking shocked. Clare actually held her hands to her face in a parody of horror, and afterwards, when I pictured this little tableau, they resembled Munch’s The Scream—reimagined threefold. But instead of a warm flood of pride, this memory made me squirm with shame and regret.
Initially, however, for a few glorious minutes at least, I felt a deep sense of satisfaction telling Val exactly what I thought of her. Soon after, though, the realization that I wouldn’t see Marg again struck home, and I felt despairing.
I daren’t stop at the WRVS café for fear of seeing one of the physiotherapy staff, and so I left the hospital and stood outside the main doors, not really knowing where to go. Tears blurred my vision and all at once, everything seemed to close in on me: the loneliness, the frustration, the powerlessness and the certainty that, in other people’s eyes, I must strike a ridiculous figure. I had no way of getting in touch with Marg—that ship had sailed—but my feelings were less about her per se than about my own isolation and inability to hold on to, well, anyone.
I was wrestling with my coat, which I’d managed to get one arm into and trying not to drop my swimming bag when I felt someone touch my arm. I turned and, through the tears, realised, purely from his build, that it was Tony.
‘Della,’ he said gently. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Yes, yes,’ I nodded, looking down at my bag and hoping he wouldn’t see my tears. I felt a new wave of shame as I realised he had witnessed the whole thing.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said for no apparent reason.
He helped me into my coat, and I sniffed shakily, unable to hide my upset.
‘I didn’t think they were terribly kind to you back there,’ he said, looking at me with genuine concern.
I didn’t know what to say, so I just shook my head, and tears spilled onto the arm of my coat. He was still holding my arm, and he gave it a little squeeze.
‘Listen, I could murder a cup of tea, and it would really make my day if you’d join me.’ At this last comment, he smiled and raised his eyebrows, waiting for an answer. I hesitated then nodded, and he looked genuinely pleased.
Taking my arm, he led me out of the hospital concourse as taxis pulled up and dropped off. A seemingly endless production line of patients coming and going. We walked down to Jameson’s, a teashop about two hundred yards from the hospital’s main entrance. Once inside, in the warmth, with a luscious-looking hot chocolate and Tony’s palpable kindness, I felt able to speak.
‘I behaved badly back there. I’m sorry about that.’
Tony shook his head, dismissing this. ‘No, nooo. You were understandably upset about not being able to see your friend. I thought they could have been less … rigid about the rules. It would have been kinder.’
A hint of a smile lit up his eyes.
‘And truth be told, I couldn’t help but admire you, Della—I never liked that Val.’
He grinned openly at this admission, and it made me smile.
There was something about Tony that made me feel safe. I took a deep breath and tentatively made an admission:
‘Well, we weren’t actually proper friends in the true sense,’ I began, searching his eyes for surprise or wariness. I saw neither. ‘But I thought that perhaps we could be.’
Tony nodded as if this made complete sense.
‘I understand. “Remember tonight … for it is the beginning of always.”’
I let the words settle around me and allowed my mind to alight on each one.
‘I like that,’ I said, ‘Who said it?’
‘I don’t remember,’ he smiled, ‘but it always struck a chord with me. Life can be hard, particularly as one gets older. We all need hope, you know? To feel that we’re not just treading water—that this is not all there is until … Do you know what I mean?’
I nodded emphatically. ‘I do.’
Tony and I talked and talked as if we’d known each other for years. He was kind, intelligent, witty and easy company. I felt a stab of shame for not making an effort to get to know him sooner. I’d been so fixated on befriending Margaret, Tony had barely registered with me. And yet here he was—this lovely man, talking to me and laughing at things I said. A scrape of chair behind me made me realise the staff were tidying up, and we were the only customers remaining.
Outside, it was almost dark. The sky had turned darkest navy without us noticing. We helped one another into our coats—the ‘two shoulders’—and as we stepped out into the first glows of streetlight, Tony turned to me.
‘Do you like Scrabble, Della?’
Susie Ryder works as a book editor and English teacher, but writing is her real passion. Susie was recently awarded Highly Commended Runner Up in a short story writing competition judged by Paula Hawkins, and in 2024 she was long-listed for the Mslexia Novel Competition for her first novel, Remains. Susie Ryder lives in South Yorkshire, England, with her husband and young son. Learn more about Susie’s work at her website or reach her at susiejryder@gmail.com.
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