Mosaic

I’ve been teaching in the US. The course went well. I flew back yesterday.

I’m walking to an appointment at the fracture clinic. At the entrance to Whittington Park a dirty, smelly, skinny, absolutely wild looking man is attempting to conduct a public prayer meeting. He has buttonholed a passer-by who is nodding tolerantly. Further up the hill I am struck by a tattooed bruiser in a black ‘I heart fistin’’ T-shirt, and a comatose drunk lying flat out, clutching a can. The contents spill onto the pavement. Is he really asleep, or has he passed out dangerously, I wonder, and if so should I do something about it? I am deterred by my terror of vomit, but I’m also afraid he’ll die from lack of public intervention. I’ll be late if I stop, I reason.

*     *     *

The cast comes off. ‘Does this hurt?’ asks the doctor, poking my fractured bone.

‘Yes’ I say.

‘And this?’

‘Yes.’

‘OK. Run along now, and they’ll sort you out with a new one.’

I am half way across the room when realise I am about to pass out. My arm feels – ghastly, sickly, weird…

‘Uh oh’ says a nurse, spotting my faltering steps. ‘We’re in trouble here’ she says to a colleague. ‘Just sit here with your head down, and I’ll bring you a glass of water.’

‘I’m so sorry!’ I say.

‘Don’t worry’, she says ‘it happens all the time.

*     *     *

I pick up my text messages. ‘Lost rag with Claudine’ Matt says. ‘Am furious.’

*     *     *

I am at the bus stop. ‘How did you do that?’ slurs an odd woman in brightly coloured clothing.

‘I fell. Silly me’

‘The woman who attacks people has gone’  she says. Oh dear, I think.

‘Really? How did she attack people.’

‘She gave them black eyes. She knifed them.’

Suddenly I am aware that part of her thinks she caused my injury, and part of her fears that I suspect she caused it. I’m afraid her fear may make her angry.

‘So she’s not around any more?’ I seek reassurance.

Every answer is preceded by an immense delay as if I were on a telephone line to the moon.

‘Yes, they’ve killed her. She is tied down under the house.’

These are metaphorical descriptions of an aspect of her psyche that is currently treated with medication, I tell myself. She’s in a dream state. But is it more sensible to stop now, or to continue the conversation?

Others are gathering at the bus stop.

‘Under the house? Oh dear. How terrible!’ I say playing for time.  Would it have been more appropriate to say ‘Thank goodness for that’ instead, I wonder?

‘I don’t wear these clothes when I am going out’ she says, as we get on the bus.

‘Madwoman’ by Theodore Gericault

Posted under: Mosaic by Emma Biggs