Rachel Cusk - The Temporary

‘Nobody at all?’ he said.

‘No,’ she said, hating him.

Janice had been meant to come, but that morning, when Francine had opened the door to her darkened bedroom, Janice had called out from beneath a mound of covers that she didn’t feel like it. Her voice had been irritable, and the room had smelt thick and sour. The night before, the woman who owned the boutique where Janice worked had come to the flat and demanded to speak to her. Francine had heard her shouting behind the closed sitting-room door, her voice interspersed with Janice’s indecipherable murmurs.

‘You’re lucky I’ve decided not to take this any further!’ she had said several times, while Francine sat alone in the kitchen. Finally the door had flown open and the woman had marched past her without saying anything. When she had left, Francine had gone into the sitting-room. Janice was sitting on the sofa, smoking a cigarette.

‘What’s happened?’

‘Silly cow gave me the sack,’ said Janice, sucking in smoke. ‘Silly bitch.’

Francine asked her why, but she wouldn’t say.

‘Doesn’t matter,’ she said. Her face was ugly, abandoned by expression like a room after a party. ‘I’m not worried. I’ve got other sources.’

‘I wish I did,’ said Francine.

Her job at Lancing & Louche had finished a week ago. Lynne had been odd about it, her voice unfriendly on the telephone. When Francine went to the agency to collect her money the receptionist said that Lynne was in a meeting and gave her the cheque herself. She had called once or twice after that, but the receptionist had told her that there wasn’t anything for her, and when Lynne finally called it was to say that she was very sorry but they were going to have to take her off their books.

‘Do you?’ said Janice, suddenly giving her a cool, appraising look; a look which reminded Francine of the looks men usually gave her. Janice looked at her for a long time. It made her nervous. ‘I might be able to help you out,’ she said finally, sending a long finger of smoke towards her.

‘You’d better sit down,’ said John. His manner was disengaged. ‘One of the nurses will let you know when they’re ready.’

Francine turned and saw that the other girls’ eyes were still on her. Their gaze was unembarrassed, knowing. There was an empty chair at the end of their row, but she walked past it and sat on one opposite. Eventually their eyes dropped to their laps, except those of a girl with long red hair who sat directly across from Francine. She was staring at a point above Francine’s head. She looked young, like a child. Francine saw that her face was filled with immediate terror, as if someone was about to attack her. She looked away abruptly, skirting along the row until her eyes fixed on a very fat girl slumped in a chair to her left. The girl’s face was vast and pasty, the bumps of her features resembling the deformities of vegetables, sly potato eyes, a lumpy tuber nose. She sat miserably with her legs apart, her thighs melting over the sides of the chair like warm cheese. Francine stared at her, trying to imagine the coupling which had brought her here, the kisses on her doughy breasts. The thought repelled her. She wondered how someone could have chosen that girl, selected her from others, and felt her own mysteries crumble and spoil.

‘Miss Franklin?’ called a nurse, coming into the waiting area.

The young red-haired girl shot to her feet and Francine was disconcerted to see that large, childish tears were rolling down her cheeks. An older woman whom Francine hadn’t noticed stood up beside her and gently put an arm around her shoulders, whispering something in her ear. Her hair was red too, streaked with grey, and she realized to her amazement that the woman must be her mother. A gorge of jealousy rose to her mouth.

‘Come on, love,’ said the nurse softly, taking her by the hand. ‘Don’t worry, you’ll be fine.’

The girl strained like an animal, resisting her hand, and for the first time Francine felt a bolt of fear fly through her. She gripped her bag, seeing herself quite clearly running from the room, her feet echoing down the empty corridors, out into the car park past impervious porters and sleeping ambulances, melting into the busy pavement along which waiting traffic throbbed. The singularity of her imprisonment erected its swift bars around her and she struggled against them as her thoughts reasoned her back into the room like diplomats. There was no escape from that which ticked like a bomb inside her, that which her enemies had implanted and she was entrusting those around her to remove. She calmed herself with thoughts of the purge which would free her, the gratifying image of Ralph, Stephen, the hungry blockage in her belly, the confusing maelstrom of her past, all of it sucked mechanically from her, leaving her new and gleaming, a vacuum to be filled with delightful, unknown things. She had been told it wouldn’t hurt. It didn’t matter anyway. Her body felt heavy and used, sluggish with nausea and mistakes. She almost looked forward to its cleansing. Afterwards she would begin again.

A nurse walked past her, her uniform efficient and trustworthy. It wasn’t that bad here, after all. She had wanted a private clinic, of course, but she hadn’t had the money and she couldn’t have asked Ralph. It would have spoiled her plan of telephoning him afterwards to tell him what she had done. She thought of telling him she had gone to a private clinic and making him pay her back. It was the least he could do. She needed money. Anxiety closed around her as she thought of the rent, counting weeks with a beating heart. She hardly had enough to last her until the weekend. She had to get another job. Lynne wouldn’t give her a reference, she’d said as much. Personnel had lodged a complaint. Francine was too unreliable these days, and she had her own reputation to consider. There was something else, Janice’s offer, waiting darkly like a stranger at the door. It made her uncomfortable and she shied from it dimly. She would think about it later. As she shrank from it, it caught her in its ropes and reeled her back, insinuating itself, not discouraged by her firm rejection. Her thoughts were relenting to its persuasions. What else did she have? It might take her weeks to find a job, and then another week’s delay until she was paid. It would only be for a while, a temporary thing, just until she sorted herself out. It was easy, Janice said it was. It wasn’t how you would think. You didn’t have to do anything if you didn’t want to. She knew people, she said, people who would really appreciate Francine. She had laughed at how shocked she was.

‘How else do you think I could afford this?’ she had said, raising her glass to Francine and gesturing at the room.

The door to the waiting-room opened and a man in a bomber jacket came in. He stopped, looking around.

‘Over ’ere, Ian,’ said the fat girl.

He grinned, and Francine watched him hesitantly cross the room, his hands stuffed in his pockets. The other girls shifted up the row to make room for him and he sat down, putting his arm around the fat girl’s shoulders.

‘All right?’ he said, his face close to hers.

‘Yeah,’ she said, patting his knee.

The girls were watching them with silent interest.

‘Couldn’t get off earlier. Barry didn’t turn up for his shift till ten past. Bugger was out on the piss last night.’

‘Was he?’ The girl laughed, her mouth forcing up mountains of flesh on her cheeks. ‘That’s typical, that is.’

‘Miss Snaith?’ The nurse arrived again with her clipboard. ‘Is Miss Snaith here?’

Francine froze for a minute and then stood up.

‘Right, dear, come along with me.’

She led Francine through a swinging door at the other end of the room. Beyond it was a long white ward with military rows of beds along its walls. In one of them, the young girl lay immobile, her red hair streaming like blood across the pillows. Her mother sat beside her, reading a book.