Is There Anything You Want? Read Free

claustrophobic in there, not so much like a horse trapped in a horse-box. She goes into cubicle three and snibs the door. There are two parts to the cubicle. This first section reminds her of the changing cubicles at the swimming baths when she was a child, with its shelf-like seat at the back and the wooden pegs above to hang clothes on. She takes her clothes off and hangs them up. She’s dressed today with this stripping in mind. Nothing that takes time to undo. A sweater which pulls over her head, a pair of trousers with an easy zip and no buttons, slip-on shoes. The floor feels cold to her bare feet, but she welcomes the chill. The floor doesn’t look too clean, though. She will probably pick up a verruca. She puts on the blue cotton gown provided. At least that is clean. As usual, the Velcro fastenings have come adrift. Two ripped off, one not sticking, only one working. She clutches the gown round her and opens the other door which leads into the examination cubicle.
    There is a bed against the wall, with a sheet of thick, coarse paper spread along the length of it. She climbs on to the bed, and stares at the curtain drawn across the end. The curtain used to be blue with tiny white dots on it. She used to try to count the dots. Impossible task, though once she got to 350. She thinks it was 350. Perhaps she cheated. Perhaps she wasn’t seeing the dots distinctly at all, such was her fear. But now the curtain is pink. They changed it two years ago. A very pale pink with grey squiggles running vertically down its length. It is rather soothing to follow each squiggle up and down. Better than dots. It’s thinner material. Not quite transparent, but she can see shadows through it. Nurses, doctors. Consulting notes, fetching things. The ceiling was painted when the curtain was changed. Not white. It’s a cream colour. Magnolia, maybe. A deeper shade than the walls. She knows the walls are not proper walls. Just hardboard. There is talking going on next door but she can’t quite distinguish the words. Some woman rabbiting on to a nurse. Sheherself doesn’t talk to the nurses, beyond saying thank you and that yes, she is quite comfortable. And she is. Very comfortable. She could fall asleep if it were not for her pounding heart. Her face feels flushed. She wonders if it is. How strange she must look, with a bright red face above a pearly white body. Harry once said that, he said her skin was beautiful, pearly white. Pearls aren’t actually white. She’d said that to him.
    The curtain is pulled back so suddenly that she jumps. ‘Hello, Mrs Green, how are you? I’m Dr Fraser.’ He isn’t the consultant, nor the registrar. She knows that is a good thing. They only look at the serious cases. Once, she was serious. She always saw the consultant. Then they down-graded her and for several years she saw the registrar. And now she doesn’t quite know who looks her over. The lowest of the low, probably, except they are all qualified, there are no students in this clinic. This doctor is the hearty sort. Looks like a rugby player. Ruddy face, thick buttery yellow hair. She takes an instant dislike to him. She loathes heartiness. She doesn’t want her doctors to be jolly. She prefers them quiet and serious, like Mr Wallis himself. This one is smiling in an inane sort of way. He will want to be chummy. He does. Stuff about the weather, stuff about the lunch he’d just had. She doesn’t respond, just smiles, vaguely. He asks a couple of standard questions, about how she is feeling, and then he says let’s have a look at you, then. She lets the robe fall open. Here come his hands, big hands, here come his fingers, thick fingers. She braces herself. They all examine differently. Mr Wallis has such a light, delicate touch. He never prods, just seems to let his fingers glide over her body, smoothing it down, soothing it. His touch is so gentle it almost tickles. She guesses