Alison Moore - He Wants

‘No,’ says Lewis.

‘Barbados is sinking.’ He mentions islands that Lewis has never been to that are already long gone.

They pass a new block of flats hung with a huge banner that says, in capital letters three feet high, ‘LIVE WITH FRIENDS OR ON YOUR OWN’. It sounds to Lewis like a threat, an ultimatum.

Lewis says to Sydney, ‘Do you live on your own?’

‘Yes,’ says Sydney.

When Sydney offers nothing more, Lewis says, ‘Me too. Ruth’s nearby though, and Dad’s in the nursing home. I see him on Sundays. They do activities and he has a nice room. He’s got a CD player so he can play his own music. He wants a copy of Handel’s Messiah — he asked me months ago but I haven’t been into town to get it.’ He has been meaning to go to the HMV that he’s seen where What Everyone Wants used to be before that went into administration. ‘I need to go to HMV,’ he says.

‘The HMV’s gone,’ says Sydney. ‘The sign’s still up but the shop’s been gutted.’

They drive past the old Hovis advert painted on the side of a building, at the end of a terrace. The paint is flaky and faded now but the message that has been there since he was a boy — HOVIS FOR TEA — is still faintly visible.

‘You could order it online,’ says Sydney. Lewis is anxious, though, about buying things online. He is worried that when he has typed in the numbers from his debit card, he will find all the money drained from his account; he will wake up in the morning and his savings will be gone, into the pockets of strangers.

Sydney pulls into the surgery car park and finds a free space. ‘I’ll wait in the car,’ he says.

Lewis climbs out of the passenger seat and heads for the entrance, the automatic doors. Inside, he registers his arrival on the touch screen and takes a seat in the waiting room. He reaches for a magazine before remembering that he does not have his spectacles. The magazine print is too small for him to make out without them. He expects, anyway, that he will soon be called. He looks around at the other waiting patients, and then up at the digital information screen above the reception desk. It says, in huge letters, ‘YOU WILL NOT BE SEEN!!’

They are playing ‘Greensleeves’ on loop, an instrumental version, the same music you hear when you are on hold. The information screen emits a beep from time to time and all heads turn to look, and then someone stands and leaves the waiting area. He finds himself looking expectantly at the screen even when there is no beep.

It says, ‘DO YOU WANT TO STOP?’

He does not like waiting rooms. He does not like these shiny, plastic chairs, the rows of failing bodies, the big, slow clock. He does not like waiting at the dentist’s either, wondering if he is about to lose another tooth. They don’t put you to sleep; they pull them out while you are wide awake.

The walls here are the colour of honey-and-
lemon Strepsils. He once became addicted to Strepsils. He could get through a strip of twelve in an hour when the maximum dosage was one lozenge, dissolved slowly in the mouth, every two to three hours, and no more than twelve in a day. He’d had to hide the empty packaging from Edie — she’d have seen it, the unusual amount of it, in the kitchen bin. Sharing it out between the various household waste baskets would have been equally risky. She would have come to him, holding the recently discarded packets, asking him if his cough had not yet gone. Instead, he put the blister packs and little cardboard boxes in his coat pocket and dropped them into a public bin on his way to work. He tried to wean himself off them, these lozenges that were like sweets but with a little kick, that were yellow with an S on the front, slightly raised so that he could feel it with his tongue. He cut down to half a strip a day and then only a few lozenges and then just one in the morning, but he always went back onto them, especially after a lunchtime shandy. In the end, he bought a tin of lemon drops and whenever he wants a Strepsil he has a lemon drop or a lemon sherbet or a jelly baby instead, although it is not really the same.

‘IF YOU DO NOT HAVE A PRE-BOOKED APPOINTMENT,’ says the digital information screen.

After fifteen minutes, Lewis approaches the reception desk and asks why he has not been called. ‘You’ll be called when it’s your turn,’ says the receptionist.

Lewis tells her how long he has been waiting but he gets no reply. She is holding a phone to her ear although she does not seem to be having a conversation with anyone on the other end. He returns to his seat.

There is a woman sitting opposite him. She is eating Golden Wonder crisps from a family pack and reading a self-help book, one of half a dozen, a pile from the library. Another woman, eyeing these books, says to her, ‘Those should keep you busy!’

‘I love my books,’ says the Golden Wonder woman, as, with a greasy, salted finger, she folds down a corner of her borrowed book.

Lewis looks up at the information screen (‘DO YOU SMOKE?’ it says) and then at the clock. He wonders whether Sydney is still outside in his car, whether he has waited for him. Lewis has been waiting in here for twenty minutes. He thinks he has waited long enough. He wants someone to call his name. They don’t do that any more though. They put the names up on the screen. Lewis wants it to be his turn; he wants to be seen.

There is a beep, and when Lewis looks up he sees his name and a room number displayed. He leaves his uncomfortable, slippery chair and goes off to find the right room.

A nurse is standing at a steel trolley, arranging surgical tools on a steel tray. She tells Lewis where to sit and he sits. He thinks of the school nurse, to whom boys went with trophies of their daring, their derring-do — their sprained ankles, their fractured wrists, their gashes that might require stitches. Lewis never had cause to see the school nurse. He never needed to be taken to Accident and Emergency. He was never the centre of any drama. He has never broken anything or even had a sprain. He has never had stitches. His temperature has never been especially high. Now, though, he is sitting in a chair in the middle of the treatment room, waiting to be seen to. He is going to have an operation, and when he leaves, he will have stitches.

The nurse tucks a paper towel into the collar of Lewis’s shirt. ‘Hopefully there won’t be too much blood,’ she says, tucking in a second sheet as well.

The doctor breezes in. ‘How’s your father?’ he says.

Lewis, thrown by the question, hesitates. He has opened his mouth and is on the verge of replying when the nurse interrupts.

‘He’s getting worse,’ she says.

The doctor, standing behind Lewis, inspects the questionable mole, picks up a syringe and pokes the needle into the site, injecting the anaesthetic.

‘He can’t cope with the stairs any more.’

Lewis is aware of the doctor selecting a scalpel, and that a hole is being made in him, although he can’t feel a thing.

‘He can’t manage the dog.’

He can feel the doctor’s rounded stomach pressing against him, the slight shift and rise and fall of it against his back. He can hear the doctor breathing.

‘It’s too big for him, it’s huge. He expects me to have it but I don’t want it. I’d have it put down.’

‘We always send these things off, just to make sure they’re normal,’ says the doctor, putting the growth, this little bit of Lewis, into a plastic pot for sending away. He looks at Lewis over his spectacles. ‘I trust it will be, but we’ll send it anyway, just to make sure. You’ll only hear from us if there’s anything wrong.’

The nurse cleans some blood from Lewis’s neck and removes the protective paper towels. It seems to be time for him to stand up and leave. At the door, he turns to thank the doctor, who has already left through another door. Lewis says to the nurse, ‘I’ll take your father’s dog,’ and the nurse laughs and turns away to attend to the instruments and the pots.