Pens, Papers and Lovers
by 
Turgid_Prose
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Posted: 18 February 2007 Word Count: 8672 Summary: Chapter one |
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Content Warning
This piece and/or subsequent comments may contain strong language.
This piece and/or subsequent comments may contain strong language.
Pens, Papers and Lovers
Prologue
’Her penetrating soul soared like an eagle through the young woman’s body on waves of a whisky fuelled sky. She took just one drag of a cigarette and let the ash fall into the glass ashtray on the bedside table in the peach coloured room, which seemed bizarre and oddly placed in the chamber of her memory. The older woman smiled warmly before gently pushing her companion, whom she liked to address as ’The Younger’, onto her back. She smiled. She enjoyed watching The Younger’s body sink into the soft paisley cotton bed linen ’ it reminded her of how pure The Younger was and how much she needed protecting from the outside world.
’The Younger returned the smile with a small kiss but her lover resisted. It was a new game, a new lesson. The Younger spread her arms out to touch two corners of the bed. It was very hot and she needed to cool down so the teacher dipped her index finger in a glass of ice-filled water and traced it over The Younger’s lips. The Younger lapped up the water like a dog, her tongue protruding outward and taking in the full length of her teacher’s finger.
’It mattered not that the two women were cultures apart - one language united them - the language of the unseen and innocent Christian flesh, unblemished like that of a baby.’
’Her heart was a white pillow, gentle and light yet easily dangerous for those who were not strong enough to defend themselves against suffocation. But that did not matter, not at this moment anyway. The Younger moved closer to her teacher’s body, the waistline in particular, and outlined it with her tongue, gently tracing every single pinprick of soft white skin, carefully avoiding Ms Jane’s beautiful moles, each different in size and colour but all unusually large. She turned her teacher onto her back and pounced, spread eagled. She moved closer up her teacher’s body, to the ribs, to the abdominal area and finally to the succulent, beautiful fountains of love.’
’You really should stipulate rather than state, my dear Brontë.’ Emily Jane referred to Anna’s style of writing and watched her student type furiously. ’And I’m not entirely sure what you mean by ’Her heart was a white pillow, gentle and light yet easily dangerous for those who were not strong enough to defend themselves against suffocation.’. It doesn’t make sense. How can a heart be suffocating?’
’It’s an analogy.’ Anna answered, slightly offended. ’It means that the older woman is very beautiful and strong but she has the power to trap the younger woman and become over-bearing. The younger woman could be suffocated by the older woman’s affections.’
’I see.’ Mrs Jane smiled. ’I think that you should try to find a way to make this clear, or use a different analogy, as it doesn’t quite read well.’
’Okay.’ Anna paused, tying hard not to show her disappointment but obviously failing miserably. ’I’ll do that.’
’Anna, I am simply offering you advice, that’s all. You can choose whether or not to take it.’ Emily took her eyes off of Anna’s somewhat contorted face. ’May I?’ Not waiting for an answer, Emily leafed through the pages of Anna’s manuscript and without taking her eyes off the size 12-font words she continued her rather derisive comments.
’And your principle characters? I note throughout the rest of the book that you use names for them yet at the beginning you have not introduced them. It is essential that you are clear to your readers. Come on, Anna, you can do better than this. You are a second year degree student, not a high-school senior.’
’I thought by not naming the characters, at least in the first bit anyway, that it would create mystery.’ Anna replied, ignoring the last of her teacher’s comments.
’Or confusion.’
’Well, Kerouac never started with names and neither does Sarah Waters.’
’I would check your facts, Brontë.’ This time Emily did look up. ’And,’ she added with raised eyebrows as she flipped through the remaining pages of Anna’s prose, ’you need to keep all characters anonymous, or at least use fictional names that could not possibly be related to anyone you know if you are basing your characters on real life experiences.’
’No.’ Anna answered from her desk. ’Real life feelings, yes, but not experiences.’
Emily smiled. ’Some say it is one and the same.’
’Who?’ Anna retorted.
’Well, my husband for one!’ Emily laughed and tossed her shoulder-length brown-grey hair haphazardly over her brown cardigan covered shoulders.
It was funny, Anna thought, that in the two years she had been under Mrs Jane’s tutelage on Oxford University’s Creative Writing degree, Mrs Jane had only ever worn three outfits: in the winter and at times when it was cold she would dress in thick khaki boot-cut trousers that she bought from Argentina, her homeland, a striped shirt (one of the many that she had) and a brown cardigan draped over her shoulders, the sleeves just about reaching her tiny breasts in a dress code that was common to all academics, Anna believed, and that was in some way very sexy. In the summer Emily would wear wide-leg grey ’Oxford Bags’ and, again, a shirt. In fact, if it were not for her big blue eyes and perfectly proportioned nose, Emily Jane would not have been that attractive. She was too thin and carried about her a strong smell of garlic and onions.
’But why do you think that real life experiences and real life feelings are the same, Mrs Jane?’ Anna pressed but Emily refused to give her an answer.
’My opinion doesn’t matter. Anna, much as your book is titillating to say the least, it appears imbued with your own desires, and perhaps they are some that you have not yet expressed in reality. I feel that in some sense you are using this story to resolve your own emotional issues.’ Emily paused, realising that she had to be careful to not upset her most conscientious yet also most unstable student. ’At present your writing is tumescent. If you aim to write in such a bombastic fashion you should specify your grandiloquent turgid prose as an intentional style of writing.’
’Well I don’t see that I’m bombastic.’ Anna retorted. ’Besides, name me one person who writes turgid prose.’
’Anna, I’m not trying to offend you. My only interest in you is to bring you out of this class with a fantastic degree because you are good and certainly capable of it.’
Anna’s hurt brewed a little more. ’Name me one person, please, Mrs Jane.’
’Virginia Woolf.’
The answer was quick and unexpected. Anna had assumed that her answer would have been negative, a ’stop talking and get on with your work’ answer and now she was at a loss as to what to say.
’And please,’ Emily continued, ’call me Emily. Everyone else does.’
’Sorry Mrs Jane. Oh, I mean, Emily.’ But it just didn’t feel right calling her teacher by her first name, especially as it removed some of the enigma that was Ms Jane.
’Right!’ Emily returned to the front of the class and addressed her eagerly awaiting students. ’Differing views of masculinity and femininity in Victorian and modern texts. That is our topic for debate today and I would like all of you to participate this time.’
Emily sat down in the front row of desks, next to Anna, whose heart beat fiercely, and addressed the class with her back to them.
’Seeing as Anna, or Brontë as I have called her, seems to have a lot to say today, she will start the proceedings for debate.’
Anna had no choice but to comply. From the daunting position at the front of the class she chose to look at the back of the room instead of allowing her eyes to rest on Mrs Jane, but found herself face to face with her arch enemy, Lucy Stewart, a butch lesbian with army-cropped red hair and who had held an obvious vendetta against Anna from the start of year one.
’Uh,’ Anna began as an embarrassing heat crept up her neck. ’Virginia Woolf. She was plagued with depression but perhaps that in itself made her desirable and strong to both men and women. She explored all of the areas in the topic for debate. Some would say that she was prepossessed with a desire to explore her own identity either as a man or a woman, like in ’Orlando’. And others would say’’
’That she was gay and didn’t have the guts to come out of the closet so she tried to do it through fiction.’ Lucy interrupted.
’Well no, I don’t think it was that. Yeah, she was bi-sexual but her books aren’t based on that.’
’No?’ Lucy started. ’What about bloody Mrs Dalloway?’
’What about her?’ Anna feigned ignorance.
’Woolf based Mrs Dalloway on her lover, Madge Vaughan.’
’Yes, she was a member of the Bloomsbury Group.’ Emily spoke up, feeling tension rising from the two archenemies in her class. ’And quite a prolific member too. That is where Madge and Virginia met.’
A small period of silence ensued until it was interrupted by Karen Hitoshi, a Japanese / American transfer student.
’What is the Bloomsbury Group?’
Upon posing the question the class allowed a collective gasp of incredulity slip out. Anna felt sorry for Karen. Not everyone had a specifically strong and sound background in feminist literature, especially the classics.
’They were a group of mostly gay Bohemian artists who met together regularly in London but the war kind of put an end to that in 1905.’ Anna answered.
’Which war?’ Karen asked suddenly. It was random and took some time for the class to understand what it was that she was referring to. When the class had some time to think, their shock erupted into something audibly above murmuring. Even Emily was incredulous.
’Karen! Surely you know that! Come on!’ Emily added in a tone that told everyone how disappointed she was. ’It was before the Great War. You should know this Karen; you should have read around your subject before starting this degree.’
Karen was silent.
’Carry on, Anna.’ Emily turned back to the front of the classroom and Karen turned her rather red face away from the class to the back wall.
’I don’t know what to say.’ Anna was honest.
’Well, maybe someone else has something to say.’ Feeling a need to keep the silence going, curious as to what her class would do next and exactly how capable they were of a non-emotional debate, Emily leant against her desk once more and folded her arms. Her demeanour was strong, dominating and somewhat masculine inside her fragile feminine frame. At last it was Lucy who spoke.
’I still maintain that Woolf was lucky. She had a lucky break an’ got the chance to come out through the book. Ain't it quaint?’ She added with a smirk across her putrid pale face to the rest of the class, some of whom laughed.
’People see passion differently.’ Anna continued. ’I think that by writing ’Orlando’ Woolf was exploring what it would be like to be a man with the insight of a woman. And perhaps you’re almost right. Maybe she did want to express her feelings but out of frustration at not being able to be fully physical with Madge. Maybe this was explored through ’Orlando’. That’s why the character kept changing throughout the book ’ Orlando couldn’t have the strength of man without the heart and sensitivity of woman. But woman couldn’t have the respect of strength that a man has without the physicality of man. So I think that your assumption that Woolf wrote simply to ’come out’ is, well, a little claustrophobic to say the least. Madge was exploring feelings of a dilemma, not homo-sexuality.’
’Good point.’ Feeling intellectually satisfied, Emily clapped her applause, which did not go down well with Lucy who decided to throw a barrage of filthy warning looks at Anna. But Anna was happy all the same and no amount of threatening looks affected her.
’Okay. Does anyone else want to take Anna’s place?’ Emily addressed the silent class but no one volunteered, perhaps because they were too intimidated by Anna and too frightened of Lucy to express a conflicting opinion.
’Sit down, Anna.’ Emily smiled at her student and took Anna’s place at the front of the class. ’Who can tell me if they think Woolf was one of the first feminists?’
’She was.’ Someone stated quietly from the back of the room.
’Really?’ Anna argued. ’I thought that Charlotte facts, Brontë was the first feminist.’
’Yeah and we all know why you think that.’ Lucy sneered.
’Why?’ Anna asked and regretted her question as soon as she had said it.
’Hello my dear Brontë. Love you, dear Brontë.’ Lucy imitated. ’Remind you of anyone?’ This time she looked at Emily who became slightly flushed.
’All right, that’s enough.’ Emily spoke. ’This isn’t what I meant by debate, Lucy. Carry on, Anna.’ She smiled, emphasising the name. ’Go back to Woolf.’
’Going back to Wolf, she hated the term, ’feminist’. She felt that it made her appear obsessed with women’s rights when she wasn’t.’
’And where is your backing for this, Brontë?’ Emily asked. An undertone of laughter rumbled throughout the class as Emily used her nickname for Anna once more.
’Wikipedia for one!’ Anna laughed, referring to the popular encyclopaedic website and the rest of the class laughed openly this time.
’Actually’, Emily began as the laughter died down, ’Anna is correct. Woolf liked to call herself a humanist, perhaps one of the earliest radicals of her time in reference to what we understand constitutes the term ’humanist’ today.’
’But’ she was gay.’ Lucy stated with the intention of a question.
’She was both.’ Anna replied, feeling as though she was co-teaching the session. ’She was married but had affairs with women. Hey, power to the woman, power to the woman!’ Anna laughed but no one joined her. ’Besides,’ she added quietly, ’I don’t see anything wrong with being both.’
’No, no, nothing wrong at all other than having your cake and eating it.’ Lucy retorted before Emily took control once more.
’Okay, we’re discussing literature, not sexuality girls.’
’The two have a close relationship with each other.’ Anna pushed.
’Correct, Anna.’ Emily held her gaze with Anna’s. ’But not today and not in my class.’ It was a strange feeling but Anna was sure Emily was uncomfortable with the subject. Still, her gut instincts were usually wrong.
’We’ve argued about feminine sexuality, now what about masculinity? I would like you all to discuss it amongst yourselves.’
’Um, Mrs Jane?’ Anna held up her hand as everyone formed into groups to discuss. One girl attempted to form a group with Anna but she rejected her, stating that Anna herself was too crazy to hold a rational discussion. The nerd found a fellow nerd and the two set about talking immediately.
’Yes?’ By this time, Emily had sat at her desk with numerous papers.
’I don’t have a group.’
The social outcast, as Emily believed Anna to be, looked so helpless that Emily couldn’t help but help her.
’Okay. Let’s talk about masculinity.’
’No, I want to ask you again what you meant by saying that there was no difference between feelings and actuality. You know, earlier on when you were reading my manuscript.’
Surprisingly, Emily did not object to the question.
’Who said that I think that? Did I say that? I didn’t.’
’But I thought, because you said that feelings and reality are one in the same’’ Anna broke off.
’I never said that. I said that my husband said that! You see, Anna, you take too much for granted sometimes.’ Emily smiled warmly.
’That’s because she doesn’t listen to others so she never gets to understand what the intention is behind the person who’s fucking talking.’ Lucy shouted from the back of the room.
Emily paused, looking at Lucy with contempt, her arms folded.
’Yet again, Lucy, as always please don’t swear in my class.’ Emily sighed.
’It’s freedom of expression, ain’t it?’
’Yes, but there’s a line between being free and making a point.’
’If you want to make a dig at me why do you have to hide at the back?’ Anna retorted, carefully not gracing Lucy with her eye contact. Emily returned to her desk, too weary to play referee to her students.
’Because I won’t grace you with my presence at your highness’s desk. Besides, I think that my opinion is shared and so far no one is speaking out.’ Lucy served hardball. ’But,’ she got up, ’if you insist’’ The scraping of her chair sounded fast and angry. Anna looked pleadingly at Emily as Lucy’s heavy Doc Martin boots sounded closer and closer but Emily did nothing.
’I said you don’t listen to others.’ Lucy pulled up a chair to Anna’s desk, sat on it the wrong way around with her legs draped either side of the back of the seat and her arms on the top of the chair, folded.
’What do you mean? Listen to whom?’
’To anyone!’ Lucy exploded. ’Emily’s right. You make assumptions on what people say because you don’t listen to the end of their sentences.’
’Well I don’t know that I said that exactly.’ Emily murmured but Lucy carried on regardless, enjoying the attention and trembling with excitement at a good argument.
’No, mate, it’s true.’ Lucy nodded to Emily before turning evil eyes on Anna. ’You only listen to half of the sentence before going off into your own bloody selfish world and then you make an assumption that’s completely incorrect and far fetched to boot.’
Anna paused before fighting back but couldn’t think of any defence lines. Instead, her usual excuse came out. ’Are you going to let her talk to me like this, Mrs Jane?’ For now, Anna was the victim and Emily was her heroin.
’Well I’m afraid she’s right, Anna. And it is okay to accept constructive criticism but, Lucy, not all of what you said is constructive. Now, although listening and responding is somewhat relevant to this class it is not dominant so please, if you will, return to your seat, Lucy.’
Lucy paused before leaving, perhaps in order to reinstate her point. Eventually she gave up and rather superciliously finished off her criticism with, ’I rest my case’ before picking up her chair and returning to the back of the room. The remainder of the class watched but did not offer any comment.
’Ms Jane fought for the honour of her loved one, The Younger. Boadicea charged forth, spear in hand, to defend The Younger’s reputation and ultimately her life. But The Younger’s chest was already bleeding, pierced from the witch’s sharp fingernail and as she gasped in a helpless breath, ’my lover,’ Ms Jane flew like a phoenix to her loved one’s side, crying silent tears over the love that barely had a chance to grow.
’The two women tilted their faces toward each other, a rose upon blemished flesh settling into the soft, warm and wet abyss of its stem. The two women sank their bodies into each other, first slowly then hard and pushing, hungry, starving and yearning for passion. The Younger tasted blood as her heroine sank her teeth into her bottom lip, pulling hard then softly suckling like a lamb. The Younger’s body gave way and as the blood seeped out of her heart her body compensated with moisture and with the fast rhythm of the heartbeat until finally her countess lifted her in her arms and held her to her chest.’
’Well, that’s all for today.’ Mrs Jane returned to the front of the class and leaned her thin body against her antique mahogany desk as though she was too tired to be bothered. ’Remember to hand in your essays to the English department administrator, not me. If you hand them in directly to me they will not be marked.’
’Her swan-like neck and graceful ballerina body glided in between wooden coffins that were the implements used to prove one’s ability and thirst for knowledge but which squandered creativity.
’Come here,’ Ms Jane commanded The Younger woman, thirteen years her junior. The Younger hopelessly obeyed in the same way that she would always obey her mistress. As she walked further toward the desk where her true love stood, naked to the soul but clothed to the eye, the younger woman noticed Ms Jane’s hands. They were slender, long and nimble with short nails, perfect for what she had planned. They were soft to the touch, especially soft when Ms Jane gently stroked the younger woman’s cheek. The latter unwillingly allowed a sigh to escape her open mouth’’
’Are you still at it?’ Rachel, Anna’s good friend and roommate could not understand why, at twelve ’o’ clock on a sunny afternoon and on a Sunday, the Good Lord’s day of rest, Anna was sitting in the darkest room of the college residence with an old, rusty typewriter and hastily screwing up the piece of paper on which she had only minutes ago been typing so feverishly.
’Yeah, sorry. Could you come back later?’ The look on Rachel’s face made Anna feel awful but this had to be done.
’Okay.’ Rachel said with one leg outside of the door. ’Well maybe we can meet for lunch around two?’
’Yeah that would be good. Shall we meet at Gordons?’ The mention of perhaps the cheapest Greasy Spoon in Oxford seemed to cheer Rachel up and, confirming the arrangements, she literally bounced out of the room, almost falling into several first years on their way to the student union bar for an early afternoon tipple.
’The room darkened to a low, romantic pitch. Ms Jane slowly inclined her head, her heavy eyelids dropping and revealing a pair of eyelashes as dark as ebony, as thick as tobacco - Ms Jane had no need for eye make up. Her mop of greying curly brown hair tilted into her face and as she took one long finger to her eyes to brush it away, she allowed her porcelain-like fingers to lock around The Younger’s own coarse, rough fingers. It was as though everything that had been wrong in the younger woman’s life was eclipsed by Ms Jane’s soft hands, soft face, and soft soul as she came further and further towards The Younger woman until their noses were practically touching.’
Chapter One
’Gordons’ was a quaint café that owed its name to a small fat and bald man who was never seen without his blue striped apron and white chef trousers. He was approaching retirement age, having worked in his father’s café as a young boy since 1956. Gordon was a lovely man and very sociable. He often came out of the kitchen to talk to the university students who had always formed the largest population of the café’s customers since it had opened. However, although the café was so renowned for its cheap food that it was advertised all over the student union notice board and mentioned often during ’Fresher’s week’, the food was unhealthy, fattening and for those who ate meat (which did not include Anna and Rachel) was sometimes undercooked.
’You’re late.’ Rachel was already seated and sipping a thick black coffee that had one too many teaspoons of instant "Kenco" in it. There was another coffee on the opposite side of the table, untouched. ’Your coffee’s getting cold.’ Rachel nodded to Anna and then to the half-full (as was customary at ’Gordon’s’) cup.
’Sorry, I got held up with’’
’The book?’ Rachel raised her eyebrows superciliously. ’Yeah, I guessed. Anyway, sit down. Your coffee’s getting cold.’ She said again.
’Thank you.’ Anna sipped her own black coffee and watched her friend’s pale blue eyes stare at the table next to her, her freckled face contorted with worry.
’Gordon seems to be losing it in his old age.’ Rachel nodded to someone’s abandoned plate of raw steak and gingerly pushed it away with the tip of her finger so that it balanced precariously on the edge of the table.
’Uck!’ Anna exclaimed, sharing the same expression of repugnance that Rachel had. ’I hate meat and I think I’m beginning to hate meat eaters! How can they eat that stuff and still have self respect?’
’I don't know.’ It was a pointless conversation.
The two women were silent for a while, Anna trying to admire the view of cars and bicycles moving past, probably in a rush to get to family functions, and Rachel twisting one of her many tightly curled black locks of hair (which was the longest that Anna had ever seen, stretching to the bottom of Rachel’s back).
’It must cost you a fortune to look after your hair.’ Anna blurted, and put a finger to her lip, pensively, as she had seen Mrs Jane do on numerous occasions.
’What?’ Rachel smiled. ’You’re very random, Anna.’
’Well we'd finished the minimal conversation about meat and meat eaters. I think that we've exhausted that one to death in the last term.’
’True. Well, my hair. Yes, I do spend a lot. Do you think I should get it cut?’
’When was the last time you had it done?’
’When I was thirteen. So, six years ago.’ She laughed but her laugh was short-lived and it wasn’t long before her true feelings came out.
’Anna, what is it with you lately with all this small talk? Something's going on, isn't it?’ Rachel leant forward, her body language attempting to be comforting and supportive but failing because her hair was dipping into her coffee. Anna ignored it.
’What do you mean?’
’Hold on.’ Rachel got up and took her coffee cup to the bar. ’I need another coffee.’ It was very typical of Rachel to interrupt herself mid thought.
’Okay, you hound.’ Anna joked and couldn’t help but watch the tight jeaned and mini-red-top covered body of her best friend command wolf whistles from the nearest tables and stares from those who either wanted to be with her or look like her.
’So, I mean,’ Rachel began as she put her coffee on the table and almost spilt it (this was a common problem with Rachel, for she was very, very clumsy), ’you’ve been distracted since the beginning of term.’
’Have I?’ Anna asked absent-mindedly.
’Yes. I don’t know what it is. It’s not your parents, surely? They can’t bother you from this far away can they?’ Rachel was now incredulous as the networking in her mind began to run wild with stories and possibilities.
’No, no. Goodness no. I am attracted to someone, that’s all.’
’Ooo what’s her name?’
’Can’t say.’
’Well if you can’t say then it must be serious. And don’t worry ’ I’m not offended by your not telling me. But Anna, surely she’s not worth putting you through this torture?’
’Torture? What torture?’ Anna laughed. ’I’m just distracted, that’s all. You are too melodramatic, sweetie.’ She smiled then added, ’But I love you for it.’
’Well thank you, my magnanimous friend.’ Rachel took a mock-bow. ’Besides, you can’t be a drama student without having some of the drama inherent in your personality.’
’Touché!’
’Hello ladies.’ Gordon wiped a pair of greasy hands on his apron and smiled broadly. ’How are you two today?’
’Very well thanks.’ Anna replied. ’And you?’
’Oh I’m okay but business is slow.’ He pulled a chair up to the table and sat down in preparation for his monologue. Rachel and Anna attempted to listen and smile sympathetically at the appropriate points. ’And I can’t seem to remember certain recipes that my father taught me before he died. And some of those blasted students are too darn loud! At least the business is good enough to keep me in trousers for a while.’ Gordon, having finished his impromptu speech, stood up and subconsciously wiped his hands on his apron once more. ’Anyway,’ he concluded, ’can I take your order?’
’Oh, some of those lovely hash browns and a fried egg.’ Rachel sighed reluctantly ’ she really did find the food too unhealthy but she was willing to support Gordon all the way and if that meant eating greasy food, so be it. ’And Gordon,’ she called after him, ’if there is anything that we can do, please, just ask.’
’Well, uh, well, that’s very kind, very kind.’ Gordon could not look at Rachel and turned his head away. ’You know, you remind me of my own daughter. Thank you.’
’Well that’s a turn up for the books.’ Anna said once Gordon was safely out of hearing range and in the kitchen. ’Fancy him having a daughter!’ And this was enough to take her mind off the book and the impending kiss between Ms Jane and herself that was shortly to fill the empty void in her mind, or so she believed.
’Yes, it’s sad, isn’t’?’ Rachel looked angrily at her best friend. ’Anna, you’ve gone again! Can’t you for one minute think of something outside of yourself and your attraction?’
’Sorry. Yes, it is very sad. Maybe we should get in touch with his daughter somehow, you know, get her to help Gordon out?’
’No, I think we need to talk to Gordon first and find out more about her. For all we know they could have fallen out years ago.’
As their food arrived and Rachel tucked into her fattening hash browns (which looked like excrement), a sudden realisation hit Anna. She used to be so compassionate and yet the only thought in her head was a mass of blue eyes, greying brown hair and soft, lilting Argentine tones. The book that Anna was writing was starting to write itself ’ streams and streams of words falling on top of each other, completely lacking structure and variety yet so tantalizing that the fantasy, in her mind, was enough to sell the book. Anna was attracted to both the book and its subject and it was becoming an obsession. Even when she was out with her best friend, struggling over her father-like figure’s failing mental health, she found herself bouncing back on a flotilla of heart-shaped ship sails to the book and the impending writing class which was due to take place first thing Monday morning.
’Ah, I see that you finally made the characters less obvious. Good idea.’ Mrs Jane pulled up a chair next to Anna and read over a few pages.
’Thank you.’ Anna replied, nervously and did her best to stop the sensation of red heat that was steadily climbing up her neck and into her cheeks.
’Don't thank me yet, Brontë.’ Mrs Jane smiled. ’You may not wish to thank me when I've finished with you.’ Oh yes, yes I definitely will. Oh what are you going to do to me? Tell me. ’You see, your book, beautiful, passionate and creative as it seems, and here I really do want to let you know that your use of metaphor is starting to develop nicely, your book still lacks emotional intelligence. Your book, quite frankly, Anna, is too over the top. You need to bring it and its principle character back down to earth.’
It was as though Anna had been struck in the stomach. Her pulse moved up to her throat as she tried to fight back tears but to no avail.
’Why?’ Anna finally managed in between incoherent and infantile gulps. ’I thought you liked it.’
’I do, well, some bits of it. But whether I like the book or not hardly matters does it?’
’Well it does to me.’ There. The first clue was out.
’It shouldn't, Anna.’ Emily said with a knowing and perhaps worried look clouding over her face. ’You are addressing this book to the wider public and your aim is to appeal to all audiences. If your target audience is accustomed to the emotionally indulged teen-drama style of your writing then you have nothing to worry about but so far you have little that resembles a plot. Come on, Anna. You are better than this. It is very difficult to base a book entirely on emotions, let alone for such emotions to write the book itself.’
Continuing in the vein of melodramatic writing, Anna stood up and pushed her chair away, gathering her papers in a haphazard state in her arms. Manipulatively, she allowed her tears to flow freely now, streaking her white face with red blotches as she held her breath like a child who feels that if they stop breathing they can squeeze out that little extra tear, the one that will make all the difference, the one that will force mummy to give in to the child’s desires.
’Oh, Anna.’ Emily leant over her student’s desk and lightly touched Anna's hand. ’I didn't mean to offend you but you don’t need to cry about it. Now, you are doing well. I particularly enjoyed the emotional resonance between your subject and her mother. It seems that you have a good point of reference and you have been able to successfully detach yourself from any emotions involved. Well done.’
But Anna was no longer thinking about her book - her book was nothing but a few pages of dreams.
’Thank you.’
’You're welcome.’ Emily got up. ’And see your doctor about your PMT.’ Emily's warm smile, which stretched from corner to corner of her mouth, assured Anna that it was a joke.
The noise of the clock ticking was extremely distracting for those who were anxious to get out of class. Emily continued to pace around the classroom and seemed to be at a loss as to what to say or do. It seemed obvious that she hadn't planned the session but something else was wrong. Emily sighed a lot more and leant on the table.
’Ah, I think the class should be dismissed.’ Emily swooned and in that moment Anna was suddenly the rescuer, the saviour, Queen Boadicea on her very own quest. Onward march!
’Anna!’ Lucy yelled at the weirdo who was in closes proximity to help their teacher. ’Get a move on, girl! I need your help.’ As she spoke, Lucy was trying to support Emily who was finding it difficult to stand up straight. Lucy was becoming the saviour, the one whom Ms Jane leaned on and the one whom her very own love would remember for the rest of her life as the one who saved her!
’Mrs Jane!’ Anna took hold of Emily's spare arm and placed it limply around her own shoulder. ’Mrs Jane, hold on, we'll get you to a desk.’
But Mrs Jane was now slithering her limp body half way onto the floor and half way onto the desk in a lame attempt to collapse with dignity.
’Mrs Jane, are you alright?’ Someone stupidly shouted from the gathering crowd of students and staff from nearby classes.
’No. No, I'm not.’ Emily looked up at Lucy. ’Please, get my bag, will you?’
Lucy obeyed, skidding half way across the floor in her rush to find the rucksack in which Emily seemed to keep her worldly belongings.
’Here.’ She threw it quite haphazardly in Emily's direction.
’My insulin.’ Emily's voice was now just a gasp and she slowly injected into her thigh, almost breathing a sigh of relief. But then shock registered in her face. Her eyes enlarged, bulbous and turgid as though she was struggling for breath. Someone in the distance cried out and ran into the corridor to call the nurse and an ambulance but none of this registered with Anna. Everything was a slow motion intake of breath, a breath that was held in anticipation coupled with fear. Finally giving up her fight, Emily allowed herself to slide onto the floor, her strength giving way like a deer that has just been caught by its predator and gives one last struggle. She turned her increasingly blood-drained face to Anna and in an instant Emily looked like a vampire, her look so pleading and helpless that Anna found herself stepping back into several students. In the same moment that the paramedics burst through the ancient doors of the classroom, Emily's eyes closed with terrible finality and Anna found herself coming out of her trance only to see the nightmare that perhaps, in her mind, she created.
Chapter two
’Ms Jane faded into a heap on the floor. Her weak heart beat twice in its final attempts to resurrect some of the love that she shared with The Younger, her lover.
’Anna’, she pleaded in a helpless hiss of seductive, perfume-filled steam reaching over the waves of bystanders ignorantly gawping at the spectacle before them. She held an outstretched arm in yearning and leant toward Anna. ’My love, I never told you, my love’’ but her words faded as her eyes closed.
’We’ll have to take her in.’ As the paramedic ruthlessly lifted the beautiful, delicate swan off the floor the young lover held onto her lover, to the very tips of her fingers as the paramedics lifted her off, silent as the grave.’
*
Mr Gandhi of Wessex Pharmaceuticals loved his wife dearly. Although it had been an arranged marriage of sorts (after all, Nadir Gandhi had the opportunity to decide whether or not he chose Mia Patel or Nadia Iyer) never a day passed when he did not melt at Mia’s smiling face on the pillow next to him. In forty-eight years the couple were never separated and always shared a bed together. Perhaps it was because Mr Gandhi had done well for himself that he commanded the respect of Mia, or maybe she was simply hopelessly attracted to his rugged good looks. Either way, the couple were strong. Their first test of strength, companionship and fidelity came when Mia was still under twenty years old and the couple had just married. It was the same age-old story of trying for a baby because one had to expand the whole family, the family name and the family business. After all, you couldn’t have a name like Gandhi and not have anyone to pass it on to. The work line had to keep going, as it had done for generations. Doctors put Mia’s infertility down to stress and encouraged the couple to keep trying, saying that the birth of a child was for Mr and Mrs Gandhi only, not for the whole brood of Gandhi elders. But the doctors didn’t understand. They knew nothing of the importance of raising a minority family, which ultimately would push for globalisation and equal rights. Baby Gandhi would stand up as a healthy young worker, one who was strong, fit and fine, one who was beautiful and one who would carry the family name into a new generation where, perhaps, it (and the family) would be greater accepted by society.
’IVF?’ Mia had turned to her husband, trying to hide the tears about to stream from her eyes but not succeeding. ’Nadir, I have not been a good wife to you. I am so, so sorry.’
In that moment Nadir Gandhi allowed his roots to slip by the wayside. His mind and resolve were as strong as a rock that slowly chipped away at itself and remoulded into a supportive arc over his wife’s tiny shoulders. Gandhi, the man, proudly held his beer mug but sipped tea.
After three and a half years of trying Mr and Mrs Gandhi were ready to give up until Mia missed her period. They skated on wings of hope to the GP where he tested Mia and confirmed that she was pregnant. The Gandhi and Patel families held a four-day celebration and prayed constantly that Mia would give birth to a healthy baby boy. Grandparents, parents, aunts, uncles, cousins, second, third and fourth cousins and family friends set up camp in the Gandhi’s living room. All manner of food (usually saved for Diwali though not quite as many as were produced at Diwali) formed a great spread in front of Mia’s bulging tummy. Orange scented candles floated in water next to Jalebi, sweet potato and shakkapare. But after much dancing, eating, praying and general merry-making Mia was exhausted. It was when she collapsed onto the bed and couldn’t quite get up that Nadir became worried.
On the day after the families left the Gandhi’s marriage was to be tested yet again. Upon leaving the bathroom after her usual bout of morning sickness, Mia’s face was bloodstained. Nadir had never seen his wife’s blood before. Whenever she had that time of the month Mia would cover herself so well in her pyjamas that Nadir had never sensed that she was on a period. In fact he only knew when she told him, ’no sex tonight, dear. Not for another five to eight days.’ At the site of his wife’s blood for the first time Gandhi stepped back and fell into a black pit at the bottom of which was a script saying in big bold letters: Your wife is not perfect. Suddenly, as though salvation was shedding a kind light on him, Nadir was pulled back up out of the black hole.
’You idiot!’ Mia’s voice came over loud and clear as she held him by the scruff of his polo-t-shirt. ’You stupid man! I am here bleeding and you pass out! You big strong man you. Huh. Big man. Take me to the hospital! Now!!’
The hospital was white and clean. Mia’s bed was in a small cubicle so that she had adequate privacy. Her once pale blue sari was now stained with blotches of red, as she continued to regurgitate blood.
’Please! Please, my wife?’ Mr Gandhi eagerly pulled an attending doctor into the cubicle, for Nadir himself was not allowed to see his wife examined in such an exposing way. In his head he kept thinking about the shop and secretly hoped that by Wednesday, two days time, Mia would be back on her feet again so that he could return to work, if there was a shop left if his nephew, Jessie, had anything to do with it. Nadir could just picture Jessie sitting in the shop now, eating chewing gum and sitting with his grubby trainers up on the counter and exposing his jeans that had scruffy holes in them, slits and tares that were supposed to be a fashion statement; some statement.
’Mr Gandhi?’ The attending closed the curtains of Mia’s cubicle behind him. He was carrying an x-ray plate.
’Please!’ Nadir clasped the doctor’s arm. ’Please, the baby?’ He paused, his eyes seemed to be frozen in a panicked, watery stare.
’My name is Doctor Matthews. I am the attending here and I will do my best to look after your wife.’
’I don’t bloody care what your name is. I just want to know that the baby is going to be fine.’ Nadir thought to himself.
’We need to discuss your wife’s condition.’ Doctor Matthews continued. ’We have cleaned Mrs Ghandi so that she is comfortable and she has stopped bleeding now. Would you like to see her?’
Mr Gandhi did not answer but simply pushed through the curtains and into his wife’s cubicle. The two embraced as though they had not seen each other in a decade while Mr Matthews, who was quite accustomed to this sort of behaviour, looked down at his feet until his patient broke away from her husband.
’Mr and Mrs Gandhi, I’m afraid I have some bad news.’
Mia did not believe Doctor Matthews at first. She continually pointed to her little belly, saying, ’but I have a swollen belly. My periods have stopped. Surely I’m pregnant? You’ve made a mistake.’ But the x-rays showed no mistake.
Mia started chemotherapy the following week, and it was discovered that the cancer was quite advanced. But it wasn’t the pain of losing a womb to cancer, the physical pain of the cancer itself that kept Mia up all night with her tears, which soon turned to wailing. It was the pain of losing a child, her boy. It was the pain of knowing that she was probably going to be left infertile after all of her treatment. Mia did not care if she died ’ she was not afraid of death and never had been ’ but now, as her husband lay snoring beside her with his arms locked tightly around her rib cage she found herself longing for the soft, ruby blanket of death to wrap its arms around her and rock her to a permanent sleep. Mia’s clinical depression was slowly ebbing nearer and nearer toward her. It reminded her of the sea coming to get her and how, as a child, her brother and she would run toward the sea and then run away from it as soon as they could to avoid getting wet. Her mother would run with them. She’d tease them by pulling them closer toward the sea but she would always protect her children and they would seldom become wet unless it was of their own accord. But now, as the sea of depression lapped at Mia’s feet, she found she had nowhere to run.
After a year Mr Gandhi was back at work and Mia was in remission. This meant that, finally, she could start medication to treat her depression which was balancing precariously on the cusp between the clinical and the manic.
Jessie had helped out at the chemists and was actually turning out to be worthy of the Gandhi name. He was a hard worker, as was his father and his father’s father, all of whom were Gandhis. Together with Nadir Jessie’s father had helped Wessex Pharmaceuticals become what it was today. Wessex Pharmaceuticals were considered by many to be of the highest standard. Hospitals and general practices often used the company because not only were they good, well trusted, but they were also cheap. At the age of sixty-seven Mr Gandhi was close to retiring but he couldn’t bare the thought of it. After all, what would be left? What would his life be if he did not have Wessex Pharmaceuticals to go to every morning at eight-thirty am? He could see himself sitting at home reading the paper or making bhajis with his Mina and losing all of the respect and credibility of a strong man in the workforce who had just two days sick leave in five years! Gone with the job. Just like that. Mr Gandhi snapped his fingers together to get rid of his daydream.
’Mr Gandhi?’ Two sinister looking men walked into the chemists. Nadir’s face fell in a dead weight as the blood drained out of it.
’Jessie,’ Nadir turned around to the young man serving a customer next to him, ’go out the back.’ For Nadir was slightly afraid of the two heavies edging nearer to him and Jessie knew to trust his elder.
’Gentlemen, how may I help you?’ Nadir tried to smile but his anxiety caught up with him and instead he greeted D.I. James and Inspector Morton with sour disdain as they entered his rather plush office in Oxford Street, London.
’D.I. James and this is Inspector Morton.’ They flashed their badges. ’I expect you’ve heard the news about the near fatal insulin mix up with a young woman in Oxford recently?’ D.I. James did not even grant Mr Gandhi with a simple ’hello’, let alone an introduction as to what he was doing there.
’I had heard something, yes. Terrible news.’ Nadir noticed an elderly woman looking across at him suspiciously. ’The newspapers said that it was a mixture of sugar and water. Terrible for some diabetics!’
’Yes. Well the woman is now resting in hospital but this matter does have to be investigated.’
’I see.’
’Mr Gandhi. Do you know of Mrs Emily Jane?’
’No. Should I?’
’Mrs Jane is the victim. Your company are the providers of her insulin so either someone who works for you knows her and had a vendetta against her or the insulin contained some unusual elements.’
’Mr James,’ Nadir began, ’I can assure you that I personally check each of the drugs as they are packaged and all insulin contained insulin. Let me look at my records.’ As Nadir pushed through the books Jessie crept out from the back to serve another customer. His look said that it was okay, he understood and there was no need for him to hide. Mr Gandhi returned.
’Ah yes, Mrs Emily Jane. We gave her exactly what her doctor had prescribed her, which was a repeat prescription of one hundred units per millilitre of Humalog Lispro injected insulin with ten millilitre vials. She also requested a pen. It is written here, in the book.’ Nadir turned a large A4 book around to show the detectives.
’Mr Gandhi, it is with the pen that she was’ poisoned, if you like.’ Inspector Morton was never good when choosing his words.
’No I don’t like.’ Mr Gandhi shuddered.
Jessie continued to look from Nadir to the two inspectors, to his customer (whom he was presently giving the wrong change to). At one point Inspector Morton caught Jessie’s worried expression but the latter quickly looked away.
’How long has your boy been working for you, Mr Gandhi?’ It was D.I. James, the man with eyes in the back of his head, who spoke.
’He is hardly ’my boy’, Mr James.’
The fact that the simpleton in front of him couldn’t understand English and address him by his full title was really starting to infuriate D.I. James. After all if foreigners , to be politically correct these days, were moving to this country the least they could do was learn the language.
’It’s D.I. James. Stands for Detective Inspector.’
’You think I don’t know that?’ Nadir shuddered with anger at Mr James’s assumption that not only did Nadir have something to do with this poor woman’s death but that also he himself couldn’t speak the English language when in actual fact it wasn’t that he couldn’t speak it, it was that he knew languages and titles, where he came from, were based on respect. So far Mr James had not earned the respect that could boost him up to be addressed as Detective Inspector.
’I am aware of this.’ Mr Gandhi half complied.
D.I. James paused. ’Your boy?’ He prompted for the doddering old fool.
’Jessie. Jessie is fine. He’s innocent and he is an honest, hard worker. He has been with me all of the time. He’s never been on his own.’ Mr Ghandi told his first lie.
’Well we’ll have to interview him too.’
’Not in my chemists. You’ve taken up enough time and you are taking away my customers with your stories and aspersions.’
’In that case, Mr Gandhi, would you mind accompanying us down to the station where we can discuss this in a little more, uh, privacy?’ D.I. James knew that he had him now. There was no counter top to protect the old man, that man so sarcastic and bold as brass behind his counter top. Well let’s see how he fares under a dark light and an interview room.
’If it is what it will take to clear my name’’ Nadir began to gather his things. ’Jessie! Look after the shop for a bit.’
’How long?’ Jessie looked worried.
’How long, gentlemen?’ Nadir addressed the inspectors.
’An hour or so. No longer than an hour.’ Inspector Morton earnestly replied.
As the shop bell ruthlessly pounced on the wood of the white door Jessie sighed to himself. This was all one huge mistake.
Prologue
’Her penetrating soul soared like an eagle through the young woman’s body on waves of a whisky fuelled sky. She took just one drag of a cigarette and let the ash fall into the glass ashtray on the bedside table in the peach coloured room, which seemed bizarre and oddly placed in the chamber of her memory. The older woman smiled warmly before gently pushing her companion, whom she liked to address as ’The Younger’, onto her back. She smiled. She enjoyed watching The Younger’s body sink into the soft paisley cotton bed linen ’ it reminded her of how pure The Younger was and how much she needed protecting from the outside world.
’The Younger returned the smile with a small kiss but her lover resisted. It was a new game, a new lesson. The Younger spread her arms out to touch two corners of the bed. It was very hot and she needed to cool down so the teacher dipped her index finger in a glass of ice-filled water and traced it over The Younger’s lips. The Younger lapped up the water like a dog, her tongue protruding outward and taking in the full length of her teacher’s finger.
’It mattered not that the two women were cultures apart - one language united them - the language of the unseen and innocent Christian flesh, unblemished like that of a baby.’
’Her heart was a white pillow, gentle and light yet easily dangerous for those who were not strong enough to defend themselves against suffocation. But that did not matter, not at this moment anyway. The Younger moved closer to her teacher’s body, the waistline in particular, and outlined it with her tongue, gently tracing every single pinprick of soft white skin, carefully avoiding Ms Jane’s beautiful moles, each different in size and colour but all unusually large. She turned her teacher onto her back and pounced, spread eagled. She moved closer up her teacher’s body, to the ribs, to the abdominal area and finally to the succulent, beautiful fountains of love.’
’You really should stipulate rather than state, my dear Brontë.’ Emily Jane referred to Anna’s style of writing and watched her student type furiously. ’And I’m not entirely sure what you mean by ’Her heart was a white pillow, gentle and light yet easily dangerous for those who were not strong enough to defend themselves against suffocation.’. It doesn’t make sense. How can a heart be suffocating?’
’It’s an analogy.’ Anna answered, slightly offended. ’It means that the older woman is very beautiful and strong but she has the power to trap the younger woman and become over-bearing. The younger woman could be suffocated by the older woman’s affections.’
’I see.’ Mrs Jane smiled. ’I think that you should try to find a way to make this clear, or use a different analogy, as it doesn’t quite read well.’
’Okay.’ Anna paused, tying hard not to show her disappointment but obviously failing miserably. ’I’ll do that.’
’Anna, I am simply offering you advice, that’s all. You can choose whether or not to take it.’ Emily took her eyes off of Anna’s somewhat contorted face. ’May I?’ Not waiting for an answer, Emily leafed through the pages of Anna’s manuscript and without taking her eyes off the size 12-font words she continued her rather derisive comments.
’And your principle characters? I note throughout the rest of the book that you use names for them yet at the beginning you have not introduced them. It is essential that you are clear to your readers. Come on, Anna, you can do better than this. You are a second year degree student, not a high-school senior.’
’I thought by not naming the characters, at least in the first bit anyway, that it would create mystery.’ Anna replied, ignoring the last of her teacher’s comments.
’Or confusion.’
’Well, Kerouac never started with names and neither does Sarah Waters.’
’I would check your facts, Brontë.’ This time Emily did look up. ’And,’ she added with raised eyebrows as she flipped through the remaining pages of Anna’s prose, ’you need to keep all characters anonymous, or at least use fictional names that could not possibly be related to anyone you know if you are basing your characters on real life experiences.’
’No.’ Anna answered from her desk. ’Real life feelings, yes, but not experiences.’
Emily smiled. ’Some say it is one and the same.’
’Who?’ Anna retorted.
’Well, my husband for one!’ Emily laughed and tossed her shoulder-length brown-grey hair haphazardly over her brown cardigan covered shoulders.
It was funny, Anna thought, that in the two years she had been under Mrs Jane’s tutelage on Oxford University’s Creative Writing degree, Mrs Jane had only ever worn three outfits: in the winter and at times when it was cold she would dress in thick khaki boot-cut trousers that she bought from Argentina, her homeland, a striped shirt (one of the many that she had) and a brown cardigan draped over her shoulders, the sleeves just about reaching her tiny breasts in a dress code that was common to all academics, Anna believed, and that was in some way very sexy. In the summer Emily would wear wide-leg grey ’Oxford Bags’ and, again, a shirt. In fact, if it were not for her big blue eyes and perfectly proportioned nose, Emily Jane would not have been that attractive. She was too thin and carried about her a strong smell of garlic and onions.
’But why do you think that real life experiences and real life feelings are the same, Mrs Jane?’ Anna pressed but Emily refused to give her an answer.
’My opinion doesn’t matter. Anna, much as your book is titillating to say the least, it appears imbued with your own desires, and perhaps they are some that you have not yet expressed in reality. I feel that in some sense you are using this story to resolve your own emotional issues.’ Emily paused, realising that she had to be careful to not upset her most conscientious yet also most unstable student. ’At present your writing is tumescent. If you aim to write in such a bombastic fashion you should specify your grandiloquent turgid prose as an intentional style of writing.’
’Well I don’t see that I’m bombastic.’ Anna retorted. ’Besides, name me one person who writes turgid prose.’
’Anna, I’m not trying to offend you. My only interest in you is to bring you out of this class with a fantastic degree because you are good and certainly capable of it.’
Anna’s hurt brewed a little more. ’Name me one person, please, Mrs Jane.’
’Virginia Woolf.’
The answer was quick and unexpected. Anna had assumed that her answer would have been negative, a ’stop talking and get on with your work’ answer and now she was at a loss as to what to say.
’And please,’ Emily continued, ’call me Emily. Everyone else does.’
’Sorry Mrs Jane. Oh, I mean, Emily.’ But it just didn’t feel right calling her teacher by her first name, especially as it removed some of the enigma that was Ms Jane.
’Right!’ Emily returned to the front of the class and addressed her eagerly awaiting students. ’Differing views of masculinity and femininity in Victorian and modern texts. That is our topic for debate today and I would like all of you to participate this time.’
Emily sat down in the front row of desks, next to Anna, whose heart beat fiercely, and addressed the class with her back to them.
’Seeing as Anna, or Brontë as I have called her, seems to have a lot to say today, she will start the proceedings for debate.’
Anna had no choice but to comply. From the daunting position at the front of the class she chose to look at the back of the room instead of allowing her eyes to rest on Mrs Jane, but found herself face to face with her arch enemy, Lucy Stewart, a butch lesbian with army-cropped red hair and who had held an obvious vendetta against Anna from the start of year one.
’Uh,’ Anna began as an embarrassing heat crept up her neck. ’Virginia Woolf. She was plagued with depression but perhaps that in itself made her desirable and strong to both men and women. She explored all of the areas in the topic for debate. Some would say that she was prepossessed with a desire to explore her own identity either as a man or a woman, like in ’Orlando’. And others would say’’
’That she was gay and didn’t have the guts to come out of the closet so she tried to do it through fiction.’ Lucy interrupted.
’Well no, I don’t think it was that. Yeah, she was bi-sexual but her books aren’t based on that.’
’No?’ Lucy started. ’What about bloody Mrs Dalloway?’
’What about her?’ Anna feigned ignorance.
’Woolf based Mrs Dalloway on her lover, Madge Vaughan.’
’Yes, she was a member of the Bloomsbury Group.’ Emily spoke up, feeling tension rising from the two archenemies in her class. ’And quite a prolific member too. That is where Madge and Virginia met.’
A small period of silence ensued until it was interrupted by Karen Hitoshi, a Japanese / American transfer student.
’What is the Bloomsbury Group?’
Upon posing the question the class allowed a collective gasp of incredulity slip out. Anna felt sorry for Karen. Not everyone had a specifically strong and sound background in feminist literature, especially the classics.
’They were a group of mostly gay Bohemian artists who met together regularly in London but the war kind of put an end to that in 1905.’ Anna answered.
’Which war?’ Karen asked suddenly. It was random and took some time for the class to understand what it was that she was referring to. When the class had some time to think, their shock erupted into something audibly above murmuring. Even Emily was incredulous.
’Karen! Surely you know that! Come on!’ Emily added in a tone that told everyone how disappointed she was. ’It was before the Great War. You should know this Karen; you should have read around your subject before starting this degree.’
Karen was silent.
’Carry on, Anna.’ Emily turned back to the front of the classroom and Karen turned her rather red face away from the class to the back wall.
’I don’t know what to say.’ Anna was honest.
’Well, maybe someone else has something to say.’ Feeling a need to keep the silence going, curious as to what her class would do next and exactly how capable they were of a non-emotional debate, Emily leant against her desk once more and folded her arms. Her demeanour was strong, dominating and somewhat masculine inside her fragile feminine frame. At last it was Lucy who spoke.
’I still maintain that Woolf was lucky. She had a lucky break an’ got the chance to come out through the book. Ain't it quaint?’ She added with a smirk across her putrid pale face to the rest of the class, some of whom laughed.
’People see passion differently.’ Anna continued. ’I think that by writing ’Orlando’ Woolf was exploring what it would be like to be a man with the insight of a woman. And perhaps you’re almost right. Maybe she did want to express her feelings but out of frustration at not being able to be fully physical with Madge. Maybe this was explored through ’Orlando’. That’s why the character kept changing throughout the book ’ Orlando couldn’t have the strength of man without the heart and sensitivity of woman. But woman couldn’t have the respect of strength that a man has without the physicality of man. So I think that your assumption that Woolf wrote simply to ’come out’ is, well, a little claustrophobic to say the least. Madge was exploring feelings of a dilemma, not homo-sexuality.’
’Good point.’ Feeling intellectually satisfied, Emily clapped her applause, which did not go down well with Lucy who decided to throw a barrage of filthy warning looks at Anna. But Anna was happy all the same and no amount of threatening looks affected her.
’Okay. Does anyone else want to take Anna’s place?’ Emily addressed the silent class but no one volunteered, perhaps because they were too intimidated by Anna and too frightened of Lucy to express a conflicting opinion.
’Sit down, Anna.’ Emily smiled at her student and took Anna’s place at the front of the class. ’Who can tell me if they think Woolf was one of the first feminists?’
’She was.’ Someone stated quietly from the back of the room.
’Really?’ Anna argued. ’I thought that Charlotte facts, Brontë was the first feminist.’
’Yeah and we all know why you think that.’ Lucy sneered.
’Why?’ Anna asked and regretted her question as soon as she had said it.
’Hello my dear Brontë. Love you, dear Brontë.’ Lucy imitated. ’Remind you of anyone?’ This time she looked at Emily who became slightly flushed.
’All right, that’s enough.’ Emily spoke. ’This isn’t what I meant by debate, Lucy. Carry on, Anna.’ She smiled, emphasising the name. ’Go back to Woolf.’
’Going back to Wolf, she hated the term, ’feminist’. She felt that it made her appear obsessed with women’s rights when she wasn’t.’
’And where is your backing for this, Brontë?’ Emily asked. An undertone of laughter rumbled throughout the class as Emily used her nickname for Anna once more.
’Wikipedia for one!’ Anna laughed, referring to the popular encyclopaedic website and the rest of the class laughed openly this time.
’Actually’, Emily began as the laughter died down, ’Anna is correct. Woolf liked to call herself a humanist, perhaps one of the earliest radicals of her time in reference to what we understand constitutes the term ’humanist’ today.’
’But’ she was gay.’ Lucy stated with the intention of a question.
’She was both.’ Anna replied, feeling as though she was co-teaching the session. ’She was married but had affairs with women. Hey, power to the woman, power to the woman!’ Anna laughed but no one joined her. ’Besides,’ she added quietly, ’I don’t see anything wrong with being both.’
’No, no, nothing wrong at all other than having your cake and eating it.’ Lucy retorted before Emily took control once more.
’Okay, we’re discussing literature, not sexuality girls.’
’The two have a close relationship with each other.’ Anna pushed.
’Correct, Anna.’ Emily held her gaze with Anna’s. ’But not today and not in my class.’ It was a strange feeling but Anna was sure Emily was uncomfortable with the subject. Still, her gut instincts were usually wrong.
’We’ve argued about feminine sexuality, now what about masculinity? I would like you all to discuss it amongst yourselves.’
’Um, Mrs Jane?’ Anna held up her hand as everyone formed into groups to discuss. One girl attempted to form a group with Anna but she rejected her, stating that Anna herself was too crazy to hold a rational discussion. The nerd found a fellow nerd and the two set about talking immediately.
’Yes?’ By this time, Emily had sat at her desk with numerous papers.
’I don’t have a group.’
The social outcast, as Emily believed Anna to be, looked so helpless that Emily couldn’t help but help her.
’Okay. Let’s talk about masculinity.’
’No, I want to ask you again what you meant by saying that there was no difference between feelings and actuality. You know, earlier on when you were reading my manuscript.’
Surprisingly, Emily did not object to the question.
’Who said that I think that? Did I say that? I didn’t.’
’But I thought, because you said that feelings and reality are one in the same’’ Anna broke off.
’I never said that. I said that my husband said that! You see, Anna, you take too much for granted sometimes.’ Emily smiled warmly.
’That’s because she doesn’t listen to others so she never gets to understand what the intention is behind the person who’s fucking talking.’ Lucy shouted from the back of the room.
Emily paused, looking at Lucy with contempt, her arms folded.
’Yet again, Lucy, as always please don’t swear in my class.’ Emily sighed.
’It’s freedom of expression, ain’t it?’
’Yes, but there’s a line between being free and making a point.’
’If you want to make a dig at me why do you have to hide at the back?’ Anna retorted, carefully not gracing Lucy with her eye contact. Emily returned to her desk, too weary to play referee to her students.
’Because I won’t grace you with my presence at your highness’s desk. Besides, I think that my opinion is shared and so far no one is speaking out.’ Lucy served hardball. ’But,’ she got up, ’if you insist’’ The scraping of her chair sounded fast and angry. Anna looked pleadingly at Emily as Lucy’s heavy Doc Martin boots sounded closer and closer but Emily did nothing.
’I said you don’t listen to others.’ Lucy pulled up a chair to Anna’s desk, sat on it the wrong way around with her legs draped either side of the back of the seat and her arms on the top of the chair, folded.
’What do you mean? Listen to whom?’
’To anyone!’ Lucy exploded. ’Emily’s right. You make assumptions on what people say because you don’t listen to the end of their sentences.’
’Well I don’t know that I said that exactly.’ Emily murmured but Lucy carried on regardless, enjoying the attention and trembling with excitement at a good argument.
’No, mate, it’s true.’ Lucy nodded to Emily before turning evil eyes on Anna. ’You only listen to half of the sentence before going off into your own bloody selfish world and then you make an assumption that’s completely incorrect and far fetched to boot.’
Anna paused before fighting back but couldn’t think of any defence lines. Instead, her usual excuse came out. ’Are you going to let her talk to me like this, Mrs Jane?’ For now, Anna was the victim and Emily was her heroin.
’Well I’m afraid she’s right, Anna. And it is okay to accept constructive criticism but, Lucy, not all of what you said is constructive. Now, although listening and responding is somewhat relevant to this class it is not dominant so please, if you will, return to your seat, Lucy.’
Lucy paused before leaving, perhaps in order to reinstate her point. Eventually she gave up and rather superciliously finished off her criticism with, ’I rest my case’ before picking up her chair and returning to the back of the room. The remainder of the class watched but did not offer any comment.
’Ms Jane fought for the honour of her loved one, The Younger. Boadicea charged forth, spear in hand, to defend The Younger’s reputation and ultimately her life. But The Younger’s chest was already bleeding, pierced from the witch’s sharp fingernail and as she gasped in a helpless breath, ’my lover,’ Ms Jane flew like a phoenix to her loved one’s side, crying silent tears over the love that barely had a chance to grow.
’The two women tilted their faces toward each other, a rose upon blemished flesh settling into the soft, warm and wet abyss of its stem. The two women sank their bodies into each other, first slowly then hard and pushing, hungry, starving and yearning for passion. The Younger tasted blood as her heroine sank her teeth into her bottom lip, pulling hard then softly suckling like a lamb. The Younger’s body gave way and as the blood seeped out of her heart her body compensated with moisture and with the fast rhythm of the heartbeat until finally her countess lifted her in her arms and held her to her chest.’
’Well, that’s all for today.’ Mrs Jane returned to the front of the class and leaned her thin body against her antique mahogany desk as though she was too tired to be bothered. ’Remember to hand in your essays to the English department administrator, not me. If you hand them in directly to me they will not be marked.’
’Her swan-like neck and graceful ballerina body glided in between wooden coffins that were the implements used to prove one’s ability and thirst for knowledge but which squandered creativity.
’Come here,’ Ms Jane commanded The Younger woman, thirteen years her junior. The Younger hopelessly obeyed in the same way that she would always obey her mistress. As she walked further toward the desk where her true love stood, naked to the soul but clothed to the eye, the younger woman noticed Ms Jane’s hands. They were slender, long and nimble with short nails, perfect for what she had planned. They were soft to the touch, especially soft when Ms Jane gently stroked the younger woman’s cheek. The latter unwillingly allowed a sigh to escape her open mouth’’
’Are you still at it?’ Rachel, Anna’s good friend and roommate could not understand why, at twelve ’o’ clock on a sunny afternoon and on a Sunday, the Good Lord’s day of rest, Anna was sitting in the darkest room of the college residence with an old, rusty typewriter and hastily screwing up the piece of paper on which she had only minutes ago been typing so feverishly.
’Yeah, sorry. Could you come back later?’ The look on Rachel’s face made Anna feel awful but this had to be done.
’Okay.’ Rachel said with one leg outside of the door. ’Well maybe we can meet for lunch around two?’
’Yeah that would be good. Shall we meet at Gordons?’ The mention of perhaps the cheapest Greasy Spoon in Oxford seemed to cheer Rachel up and, confirming the arrangements, she literally bounced out of the room, almost falling into several first years on their way to the student union bar for an early afternoon tipple.
’The room darkened to a low, romantic pitch. Ms Jane slowly inclined her head, her heavy eyelids dropping and revealing a pair of eyelashes as dark as ebony, as thick as tobacco - Ms Jane had no need for eye make up. Her mop of greying curly brown hair tilted into her face and as she took one long finger to her eyes to brush it away, she allowed her porcelain-like fingers to lock around The Younger’s own coarse, rough fingers. It was as though everything that had been wrong in the younger woman’s life was eclipsed by Ms Jane’s soft hands, soft face, and soft soul as she came further and further towards The Younger woman until their noses were practically touching.’
Chapter One
’Gordons’ was a quaint café that owed its name to a small fat and bald man who was never seen without his blue striped apron and white chef trousers. He was approaching retirement age, having worked in his father’s café as a young boy since 1956. Gordon was a lovely man and very sociable. He often came out of the kitchen to talk to the university students who had always formed the largest population of the café’s customers since it had opened. However, although the café was so renowned for its cheap food that it was advertised all over the student union notice board and mentioned often during ’Fresher’s week’, the food was unhealthy, fattening and for those who ate meat (which did not include Anna and Rachel) was sometimes undercooked.
’You’re late.’ Rachel was already seated and sipping a thick black coffee that had one too many teaspoons of instant "Kenco" in it. There was another coffee on the opposite side of the table, untouched. ’Your coffee’s getting cold.’ Rachel nodded to Anna and then to the half-full (as was customary at ’Gordon’s’) cup.
’Sorry, I got held up with’’
’The book?’ Rachel raised her eyebrows superciliously. ’Yeah, I guessed. Anyway, sit down. Your coffee’s getting cold.’ She said again.
’Thank you.’ Anna sipped her own black coffee and watched her friend’s pale blue eyes stare at the table next to her, her freckled face contorted with worry.
’Gordon seems to be losing it in his old age.’ Rachel nodded to someone’s abandoned plate of raw steak and gingerly pushed it away with the tip of her finger so that it balanced precariously on the edge of the table.
’Uck!’ Anna exclaimed, sharing the same expression of repugnance that Rachel had. ’I hate meat and I think I’m beginning to hate meat eaters! How can they eat that stuff and still have self respect?’
’I don't know.’ It was a pointless conversation.
The two women were silent for a while, Anna trying to admire the view of cars and bicycles moving past, probably in a rush to get to family functions, and Rachel twisting one of her many tightly curled black locks of hair (which was the longest that Anna had ever seen, stretching to the bottom of Rachel’s back).
’It must cost you a fortune to look after your hair.’ Anna blurted, and put a finger to her lip, pensively, as she had seen Mrs Jane do on numerous occasions.
’What?’ Rachel smiled. ’You’re very random, Anna.’
’Well we'd finished the minimal conversation about meat and meat eaters. I think that we've exhausted that one to death in the last term.’
’True. Well, my hair. Yes, I do spend a lot. Do you think I should get it cut?’
’When was the last time you had it done?’
’When I was thirteen. So, six years ago.’ She laughed but her laugh was short-lived and it wasn’t long before her true feelings came out.
’Anna, what is it with you lately with all this small talk? Something's going on, isn't it?’ Rachel leant forward, her body language attempting to be comforting and supportive but failing because her hair was dipping into her coffee. Anna ignored it.
’What do you mean?’
’Hold on.’ Rachel got up and took her coffee cup to the bar. ’I need another coffee.’ It was very typical of Rachel to interrupt herself mid thought.
’Okay, you hound.’ Anna joked and couldn’t help but watch the tight jeaned and mini-red-top covered body of her best friend command wolf whistles from the nearest tables and stares from those who either wanted to be with her or look like her.
’So, I mean,’ Rachel began as she put her coffee on the table and almost spilt it (this was a common problem with Rachel, for she was very, very clumsy), ’you’ve been distracted since the beginning of term.’
’Have I?’ Anna asked absent-mindedly.
’Yes. I don’t know what it is. It’s not your parents, surely? They can’t bother you from this far away can they?’ Rachel was now incredulous as the networking in her mind began to run wild with stories and possibilities.
’No, no. Goodness no. I am attracted to someone, that’s all.’
’Ooo what’s her name?’
’Can’t say.’
’Well if you can’t say then it must be serious. And don’t worry ’ I’m not offended by your not telling me. But Anna, surely she’s not worth putting you through this torture?’
’Torture? What torture?’ Anna laughed. ’I’m just distracted, that’s all. You are too melodramatic, sweetie.’ She smiled then added, ’But I love you for it.’
’Well thank you, my magnanimous friend.’ Rachel took a mock-bow. ’Besides, you can’t be a drama student without having some of the drama inherent in your personality.’
’Touché!’
’Hello ladies.’ Gordon wiped a pair of greasy hands on his apron and smiled broadly. ’How are you two today?’
’Very well thanks.’ Anna replied. ’And you?’
’Oh I’m okay but business is slow.’ He pulled a chair up to the table and sat down in preparation for his monologue. Rachel and Anna attempted to listen and smile sympathetically at the appropriate points. ’And I can’t seem to remember certain recipes that my father taught me before he died. And some of those blasted students are too darn loud! At least the business is good enough to keep me in trousers for a while.’ Gordon, having finished his impromptu speech, stood up and subconsciously wiped his hands on his apron once more. ’Anyway,’ he concluded, ’can I take your order?’
’Oh, some of those lovely hash browns and a fried egg.’ Rachel sighed reluctantly ’ she really did find the food too unhealthy but she was willing to support Gordon all the way and if that meant eating greasy food, so be it. ’And Gordon,’ she called after him, ’if there is anything that we can do, please, just ask.’
’Well, uh, well, that’s very kind, very kind.’ Gordon could not look at Rachel and turned his head away. ’You know, you remind me of my own daughter. Thank you.’
’Well that’s a turn up for the books.’ Anna said once Gordon was safely out of hearing range and in the kitchen. ’Fancy him having a daughter!’ And this was enough to take her mind off the book and the impending kiss between Ms Jane and herself that was shortly to fill the empty void in her mind, or so she believed.
’Yes, it’s sad, isn’t’?’ Rachel looked angrily at her best friend. ’Anna, you’ve gone again! Can’t you for one minute think of something outside of yourself and your attraction?’
’Sorry. Yes, it is very sad. Maybe we should get in touch with his daughter somehow, you know, get her to help Gordon out?’
’No, I think we need to talk to Gordon first and find out more about her. For all we know they could have fallen out years ago.’
As their food arrived and Rachel tucked into her fattening hash browns (which looked like excrement), a sudden realisation hit Anna. She used to be so compassionate and yet the only thought in her head was a mass of blue eyes, greying brown hair and soft, lilting Argentine tones. The book that Anna was writing was starting to write itself ’ streams and streams of words falling on top of each other, completely lacking structure and variety yet so tantalizing that the fantasy, in her mind, was enough to sell the book. Anna was attracted to both the book and its subject and it was becoming an obsession. Even when she was out with her best friend, struggling over her father-like figure’s failing mental health, she found herself bouncing back on a flotilla of heart-shaped ship sails to the book and the impending writing class which was due to take place first thing Monday morning.
’Ah, I see that you finally made the characters less obvious. Good idea.’ Mrs Jane pulled up a chair next to Anna and read over a few pages.
’Thank you.’ Anna replied, nervously and did her best to stop the sensation of red heat that was steadily climbing up her neck and into her cheeks.
’Don't thank me yet, Brontë.’ Mrs Jane smiled. ’You may not wish to thank me when I've finished with you.’ Oh yes, yes I definitely will. Oh what are you going to do to me? Tell me. ’You see, your book, beautiful, passionate and creative as it seems, and here I really do want to let you know that your use of metaphor is starting to develop nicely, your book still lacks emotional intelligence. Your book, quite frankly, Anna, is too over the top. You need to bring it and its principle character back down to earth.’
It was as though Anna had been struck in the stomach. Her pulse moved up to her throat as she tried to fight back tears but to no avail.
’Why?’ Anna finally managed in between incoherent and infantile gulps. ’I thought you liked it.’
’I do, well, some bits of it. But whether I like the book or not hardly matters does it?’
’Well it does to me.’ There. The first clue was out.
’It shouldn't, Anna.’ Emily said with a knowing and perhaps worried look clouding over her face. ’You are addressing this book to the wider public and your aim is to appeal to all audiences. If your target audience is accustomed to the emotionally indulged teen-drama style of your writing then you have nothing to worry about but so far you have little that resembles a plot. Come on, Anna. You are better than this. It is very difficult to base a book entirely on emotions, let alone for such emotions to write the book itself.’
Continuing in the vein of melodramatic writing, Anna stood up and pushed her chair away, gathering her papers in a haphazard state in her arms. Manipulatively, she allowed her tears to flow freely now, streaking her white face with red blotches as she held her breath like a child who feels that if they stop breathing they can squeeze out that little extra tear, the one that will make all the difference, the one that will force mummy to give in to the child’s desires.
’Oh, Anna.’ Emily leant over her student’s desk and lightly touched Anna's hand. ’I didn't mean to offend you but you don’t need to cry about it. Now, you are doing well. I particularly enjoyed the emotional resonance between your subject and her mother. It seems that you have a good point of reference and you have been able to successfully detach yourself from any emotions involved. Well done.’
But Anna was no longer thinking about her book - her book was nothing but a few pages of dreams.
’Thank you.’
’You're welcome.’ Emily got up. ’And see your doctor about your PMT.’ Emily's warm smile, which stretched from corner to corner of her mouth, assured Anna that it was a joke.
The noise of the clock ticking was extremely distracting for those who were anxious to get out of class. Emily continued to pace around the classroom and seemed to be at a loss as to what to say or do. It seemed obvious that she hadn't planned the session but something else was wrong. Emily sighed a lot more and leant on the table.
’Ah, I think the class should be dismissed.’ Emily swooned and in that moment Anna was suddenly the rescuer, the saviour, Queen Boadicea on her very own quest. Onward march!
’Anna!’ Lucy yelled at the weirdo who was in closes proximity to help their teacher. ’Get a move on, girl! I need your help.’ As she spoke, Lucy was trying to support Emily who was finding it difficult to stand up straight. Lucy was becoming the saviour, the one whom Ms Jane leaned on and the one whom her very own love would remember for the rest of her life as the one who saved her!
’Mrs Jane!’ Anna took hold of Emily's spare arm and placed it limply around her own shoulder. ’Mrs Jane, hold on, we'll get you to a desk.’
But Mrs Jane was now slithering her limp body half way onto the floor and half way onto the desk in a lame attempt to collapse with dignity.
’Mrs Jane, are you alright?’ Someone stupidly shouted from the gathering crowd of students and staff from nearby classes.
’No. No, I'm not.’ Emily looked up at Lucy. ’Please, get my bag, will you?’
Lucy obeyed, skidding half way across the floor in her rush to find the rucksack in which Emily seemed to keep her worldly belongings.
’Here.’ She threw it quite haphazardly in Emily's direction.
’My insulin.’ Emily's voice was now just a gasp and she slowly injected into her thigh, almost breathing a sigh of relief. But then shock registered in her face. Her eyes enlarged, bulbous and turgid as though she was struggling for breath. Someone in the distance cried out and ran into the corridor to call the nurse and an ambulance but none of this registered with Anna. Everything was a slow motion intake of breath, a breath that was held in anticipation coupled with fear. Finally giving up her fight, Emily allowed herself to slide onto the floor, her strength giving way like a deer that has just been caught by its predator and gives one last struggle. She turned her increasingly blood-drained face to Anna and in an instant Emily looked like a vampire, her look so pleading and helpless that Anna found herself stepping back into several students. In the same moment that the paramedics burst through the ancient doors of the classroom, Emily's eyes closed with terrible finality and Anna found herself coming out of her trance only to see the nightmare that perhaps, in her mind, she created.
Chapter two
’Ms Jane faded into a heap on the floor. Her weak heart beat twice in its final attempts to resurrect some of the love that she shared with The Younger, her lover.
’Anna’, she pleaded in a helpless hiss of seductive, perfume-filled steam reaching over the waves of bystanders ignorantly gawping at the spectacle before them. She held an outstretched arm in yearning and leant toward Anna. ’My love, I never told you, my love’’ but her words faded as her eyes closed.
’We’ll have to take her in.’ As the paramedic ruthlessly lifted the beautiful, delicate swan off the floor the young lover held onto her lover, to the very tips of her fingers as the paramedics lifted her off, silent as the grave.’
*
Mr Gandhi of Wessex Pharmaceuticals loved his wife dearly. Although it had been an arranged marriage of sorts (after all, Nadir Gandhi had the opportunity to decide whether or not he chose Mia Patel or Nadia Iyer) never a day passed when he did not melt at Mia’s smiling face on the pillow next to him. In forty-eight years the couple were never separated and always shared a bed together. Perhaps it was because Mr Gandhi had done well for himself that he commanded the respect of Mia, or maybe she was simply hopelessly attracted to his rugged good looks. Either way, the couple were strong. Their first test of strength, companionship and fidelity came when Mia was still under twenty years old and the couple had just married. It was the same age-old story of trying for a baby because one had to expand the whole family, the family name and the family business. After all, you couldn’t have a name like Gandhi and not have anyone to pass it on to. The work line had to keep going, as it had done for generations. Doctors put Mia’s infertility down to stress and encouraged the couple to keep trying, saying that the birth of a child was for Mr and Mrs Gandhi only, not for the whole brood of Gandhi elders. But the doctors didn’t understand. They knew nothing of the importance of raising a minority family, which ultimately would push for globalisation and equal rights. Baby Gandhi would stand up as a healthy young worker, one who was strong, fit and fine, one who was beautiful and one who would carry the family name into a new generation where, perhaps, it (and the family) would be greater accepted by society.
’IVF?’ Mia had turned to her husband, trying to hide the tears about to stream from her eyes but not succeeding. ’Nadir, I have not been a good wife to you. I am so, so sorry.’
In that moment Nadir Gandhi allowed his roots to slip by the wayside. His mind and resolve were as strong as a rock that slowly chipped away at itself and remoulded into a supportive arc over his wife’s tiny shoulders. Gandhi, the man, proudly held his beer mug but sipped tea.
After three and a half years of trying Mr and Mrs Gandhi were ready to give up until Mia missed her period. They skated on wings of hope to the GP where he tested Mia and confirmed that she was pregnant. The Gandhi and Patel families held a four-day celebration and prayed constantly that Mia would give birth to a healthy baby boy. Grandparents, parents, aunts, uncles, cousins, second, third and fourth cousins and family friends set up camp in the Gandhi’s living room. All manner of food (usually saved for Diwali though not quite as many as were produced at Diwali) formed a great spread in front of Mia’s bulging tummy. Orange scented candles floated in water next to Jalebi, sweet potato and shakkapare. But after much dancing, eating, praying and general merry-making Mia was exhausted. It was when she collapsed onto the bed and couldn’t quite get up that Nadir became worried.
On the day after the families left the Gandhi’s marriage was to be tested yet again. Upon leaving the bathroom after her usual bout of morning sickness, Mia’s face was bloodstained. Nadir had never seen his wife’s blood before. Whenever she had that time of the month Mia would cover herself so well in her pyjamas that Nadir had never sensed that she was on a period. In fact he only knew when she told him, ’no sex tonight, dear. Not for another five to eight days.’ At the site of his wife’s blood for the first time Gandhi stepped back and fell into a black pit at the bottom of which was a script saying in big bold letters: Your wife is not perfect. Suddenly, as though salvation was shedding a kind light on him, Nadir was pulled back up out of the black hole.
’You idiot!’ Mia’s voice came over loud and clear as she held him by the scruff of his polo-t-shirt. ’You stupid man! I am here bleeding and you pass out! You big strong man you. Huh. Big man. Take me to the hospital! Now!!’
The hospital was white and clean. Mia’s bed was in a small cubicle so that she had adequate privacy. Her once pale blue sari was now stained with blotches of red, as she continued to regurgitate blood.
’Please! Please, my wife?’ Mr Gandhi eagerly pulled an attending doctor into the cubicle, for Nadir himself was not allowed to see his wife examined in such an exposing way. In his head he kept thinking about the shop and secretly hoped that by Wednesday, two days time, Mia would be back on her feet again so that he could return to work, if there was a shop left if his nephew, Jessie, had anything to do with it. Nadir could just picture Jessie sitting in the shop now, eating chewing gum and sitting with his grubby trainers up on the counter and exposing his jeans that had scruffy holes in them, slits and tares that were supposed to be a fashion statement; some statement.
’Mr Gandhi?’ The attending closed the curtains of Mia’s cubicle behind him. He was carrying an x-ray plate.
’Please!’ Nadir clasped the doctor’s arm. ’Please, the baby?’ He paused, his eyes seemed to be frozen in a panicked, watery stare.
’My name is Doctor Matthews. I am the attending here and I will do my best to look after your wife.’
’I don’t bloody care what your name is. I just want to know that the baby is going to be fine.’ Nadir thought to himself.
’We need to discuss your wife’s condition.’ Doctor Matthews continued. ’We have cleaned Mrs Ghandi so that she is comfortable and she has stopped bleeding now. Would you like to see her?’
Mr Gandhi did not answer but simply pushed through the curtains and into his wife’s cubicle. The two embraced as though they had not seen each other in a decade while Mr Matthews, who was quite accustomed to this sort of behaviour, looked down at his feet until his patient broke away from her husband.
’Mr and Mrs Gandhi, I’m afraid I have some bad news.’
Mia did not believe Doctor Matthews at first. She continually pointed to her little belly, saying, ’but I have a swollen belly. My periods have stopped. Surely I’m pregnant? You’ve made a mistake.’ But the x-rays showed no mistake.
Mia started chemotherapy the following week, and it was discovered that the cancer was quite advanced. But it wasn’t the pain of losing a womb to cancer, the physical pain of the cancer itself that kept Mia up all night with her tears, which soon turned to wailing. It was the pain of losing a child, her boy. It was the pain of knowing that she was probably going to be left infertile after all of her treatment. Mia did not care if she died ’ she was not afraid of death and never had been ’ but now, as her husband lay snoring beside her with his arms locked tightly around her rib cage she found herself longing for the soft, ruby blanket of death to wrap its arms around her and rock her to a permanent sleep. Mia’s clinical depression was slowly ebbing nearer and nearer toward her. It reminded her of the sea coming to get her and how, as a child, her brother and she would run toward the sea and then run away from it as soon as they could to avoid getting wet. Her mother would run with them. She’d tease them by pulling them closer toward the sea but she would always protect her children and they would seldom become wet unless it was of their own accord. But now, as the sea of depression lapped at Mia’s feet, she found she had nowhere to run.
After a year Mr Gandhi was back at work and Mia was in remission. This meant that, finally, she could start medication to treat her depression which was balancing precariously on the cusp between the clinical and the manic.
Jessie had helped out at the chemists and was actually turning out to be worthy of the Gandhi name. He was a hard worker, as was his father and his father’s father, all of whom were Gandhis. Together with Nadir Jessie’s father had helped Wessex Pharmaceuticals become what it was today. Wessex Pharmaceuticals were considered by many to be of the highest standard. Hospitals and general practices often used the company because not only were they good, well trusted, but they were also cheap. At the age of sixty-seven Mr Gandhi was close to retiring but he couldn’t bare the thought of it. After all, what would be left? What would his life be if he did not have Wessex Pharmaceuticals to go to every morning at eight-thirty am? He could see himself sitting at home reading the paper or making bhajis with his Mina and losing all of the respect and credibility of a strong man in the workforce who had just two days sick leave in five years! Gone with the job. Just like that. Mr Gandhi snapped his fingers together to get rid of his daydream.
’Mr Gandhi?’ Two sinister looking men walked into the chemists. Nadir’s face fell in a dead weight as the blood drained out of it.
’Jessie,’ Nadir turned around to the young man serving a customer next to him, ’go out the back.’ For Nadir was slightly afraid of the two heavies edging nearer to him and Jessie knew to trust his elder.
’Gentlemen, how may I help you?’ Nadir tried to smile but his anxiety caught up with him and instead he greeted D.I. James and Inspector Morton with sour disdain as they entered his rather plush office in Oxford Street, London.
’D.I. James and this is Inspector Morton.’ They flashed their badges. ’I expect you’ve heard the news about the near fatal insulin mix up with a young woman in Oxford recently?’ D.I. James did not even grant Mr Gandhi with a simple ’hello’, let alone an introduction as to what he was doing there.
’I had heard something, yes. Terrible news.’ Nadir noticed an elderly woman looking across at him suspiciously. ’The newspapers said that it was a mixture of sugar and water. Terrible for some diabetics!’
’Yes. Well the woman is now resting in hospital but this matter does have to be investigated.’
’I see.’
’Mr Gandhi. Do you know of Mrs Emily Jane?’
’No. Should I?’
’Mrs Jane is the victim. Your company are the providers of her insulin so either someone who works for you knows her and had a vendetta against her or the insulin contained some unusual elements.’
’Mr James,’ Nadir began, ’I can assure you that I personally check each of the drugs as they are packaged and all insulin contained insulin. Let me look at my records.’ As Nadir pushed through the books Jessie crept out from the back to serve another customer. His look said that it was okay, he understood and there was no need for him to hide. Mr Gandhi returned.
’Ah yes, Mrs Emily Jane. We gave her exactly what her doctor had prescribed her, which was a repeat prescription of one hundred units per millilitre of Humalog Lispro injected insulin with ten millilitre vials. She also requested a pen. It is written here, in the book.’ Nadir turned a large A4 book around to show the detectives.
’Mr Gandhi, it is with the pen that she was’ poisoned, if you like.’ Inspector Morton was never good when choosing his words.
’No I don’t like.’ Mr Gandhi shuddered.
Jessie continued to look from Nadir to the two inspectors, to his customer (whom he was presently giving the wrong change to). At one point Inspector Morton caught Jessie’s worried expression but the latter quickly looked away.
’How long has your boy been working for you, Mr Gandhi?’ It was D.I. James, the man with eyes in the back of his head, who spoke.
’He is hardly ’my boy’, Mr James.’
The fact that the simpleton in front of him couldn’t understand English and address him by his full title was really starting to infuriate D.I. James. After all if foreigners , to be politically correct these days, were moving to this country the least they could do was learn the language.
’It’s D.I. James. Stands for Detective Inspector.’
’You think I don’t know that?’ Nadir shuddered with anger at Mr James’s assumption that not only did Nadir have something to do with this poor woman’s death but that also he himself couldn’t speak the English language when in actual fact it wasn’t that he couldn’t speak it, it was that he knew languages and titles, where he came from, were based on respect. So far Mr James had not earned the respect that could boost him up to be addressed as Detective Inspector.
’I am aware of this.’ Mr Gandhi half complied.
D.I. James paused. ’Your boy?’ He prompted for the doddering old fool.
’Jessie. Jessie is fine. He’s innocent and he is an honest, hard worker. He has been with me all of the time. He’s never been on his own.’ Mr Ghandi told his first lie.
’Well we’ll have to interview him too.’
’Not in my chemists. You’ve taken up enough time and you are taking away my customers with your stories and aspersions.’
’In that case, Mr Gandhi, would you mind accompanying us down to the station where we can discuss this in a little more, uh, privacy?’ D.I. James knew that he had him now. There was no counter top to protect the old man, that man so sarcastic and bold as brass behind his counter top. Well let’s see how he fares under a dark light and an interview room.
’If it is what it will take to clear my name’’ Nadir began to gather his things. ’Jessie! Look after the shop for a bit.’
’How long?’ Jessie looked worried.
’How long, gentlemen?’ Nadir addressed the inspectors.
’An hour or so. No longer than an hour.’ Inspector Morton earnestly replied.
As the shop bell ruthlessly pounced on the wood of the white door Jessie sighed to himself. This was all one huge mistake.
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