THE TURMOIL SHE had undergone had brought about an unexpected transformation in Marion. She first noticed the change while standing in front of the mirror in Mother’s bedroom one morning. Lifting off her nightgown, she forced herself to stare directly at her body. Previously, when Marion had, by accident, glimpsed her unclothed figure, she felt ashamed. Today there was instead a flicker of pleasure.
The thighs, though still full and rounded, were no longer huge mounds of chalk-white flesh. Her upper arms and calves were almost slim. Of course the bosom was rather slack, but with the right bra and underclothes, it would look fine. Her body felt entirely different, as though she had taken off a grotesque costume that she had been forced to wear for years. Now she felt lighter, cleaner, smoother, more feminine than she had ever felt before, perhaps someone that a man might want to protect, rather than a big sturdy lump that could fend for itself. Of course she wasn’t beautiful, or not even what anyone else was likely to find attractive, but there was an improvement.
In the month since John’s admission to hospital she had lost a significant amount of weight. She had been so busy cleaning and running to and from the hospital, there was barely time left to eat. And when she did prepare food for herself, she would catch a whiff of that awful sickly smell that now pervaded the house and be unable to swallow more than a mouthful or two.
She went over to Mother’s wardrobe, a structure so large, it almost seemed like a separate building, something old and important like a bank or town hall. Opening the doors, she peered into the darkness. Suspended in a dry cleaning bag was a black long-sleeved dress that Mother had worn years ago for a function at Dad’s Masonic lodge.
Breathing in the smell of old sweat and talcum powder, she put the dress over her head. The cut emphasized her newly formed waist and the curve of her hips. Then she found a pair of earrings made from a yellowish stone carved into large teardrops and clipped them to her ears. The woman she saw in the mirror looked like a stranger, someone who might attend dinner parties and flirt with other women’s husbands while drinking sherry.
The urge to dance overcame her, and she began to move before the mirror, swaying her hips and waving her arms in the air. She felt blissful and free.
“I will never let myself get fat again,” she said out loud. “Not ever.”
Suddenly she became dizzy. Sitting down on Mother’s bed, she pressed her hands against her throbbing temples. It was so hard to cope with the constantly shifting confusion of life. How could she feel a single second’s happiness when so many awful things had happened, after what she had done?
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THE NEXT DAY she was walking down Northport High Street when she stopped outside a hairdresser’s shop called Shears. A huge pair of pink scissors decorated the window. Marion went inside. The walls were painted pale blue, and several potted plants had been placed between the workstations. A smell of flowers and the balmy breeze of hair dryers made her feel as though she had been transported to a tropical island.
The baby-faced receptionist gave Marion a dimpled smile.
“Heelloo there, can I help you?”
“Yes, I want—please—I want you to do something with—this.”
Marion pointed helplessly towards her riotous hair.
After she’d been waiting on one of the leather sofas for just five minutes, a tomboyish young woman called Ruby, with a tattoo down one arm and a pierced nose, came to attend to Marion. Despite her scary appearance, Ruby was softly spoken and treated Marion as though she was a very special and important person. First the terrible hair was washed in warm, fragrant suds. Then Ruby spent what seemed like hours shaping and cutting it. Products were applied that smelled of delicious fruit. Finally, the hair was blow-dried until it transformed into something quite soft and feminine that flattered Marion’s skin tone and the shape of her face in mysterious and wonderful ways. When Ruby had finished, Marion felt sad to leave and wished she could come in every day and enjoy the comforting attention of this pleasant young woman.
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EVERY EVENING MARION took the number 86 bus to the hospital. She began to look forward to the journey, identifying landmarks along the route, like the funny-shaped mosque on Newport Road, a wedding-dress shop with the most beautiful gowns in the window, and Axendale Golf Club, where her father once was a member, though she didn’t think he had ever played. She was sorry not to see the young Polish man again, but she supposed the drivers changed shifts regularly.
Marion became used to finding her way around the sprawling hospital building. John’s ward was close to the canteen, and sometimes she ate her evening meal there. She ignored the large metal containers that were filled with things like lasagna, sausage, chips, and meat pies, all glowing temptingly under orange lights, and instead chose something from the “healthier options” display, like baked potato with tuna or salad.
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JUST BEFORE CHRISTMAS, John was moved to a general ward. The atmosphere was more relaxed here than the intensive care unit, and he got along well with the nurses. To them he was polite and obedient, a model patient. The ward sister, a plump Asian lady in her forties, called him “a real old-fashioned gentleman.” There was a male nurse called Wayne with a high-pitched Scottish accent who made everyone laugh. Some of the things he came out with made Marion think he could be a proper comedian on the TV, and even John chuckled at his gags, though he normally couldn’t stand “queers.”
As nurses were pinning up Christmas decorations around the ward one day in mid-December, John pulled Marion close and whispered in her ear:
“Don’t forget to get a little present for each of the girls. Violetta can’t resist dark chocolate—get her a box of Terry’s All Gold. Alla loves ballet music, perhaps a CD of Swan Lake. And Sonya, anything to do with animals will make her happy.”
On Christmas Day he wore a paper crown while eating turkey dinner in his bed. A group of carol singers from the local Rotary Group came to perform for the patients, and when they sang “Away in a Manger,” Marion noticed John’s dull, gray eyes glitter with tears.
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DAY AFTER DAY she filled black bin bags with clutter and rubbish. When she looked at the teddy bears on her bed, she was reminded of the white bear in the cellar, so she stuffed them all into bags and was surprised not to feel a scrap of emotion as she cast them onto the growing heap in the garden. She cleaned and cleaned, spending hours scrubbing the kitchen, dipping a toothbrush in bleach to remove mold from the bathroom tiles, vacuuming years of fluff from the hall and the bedrooms. Still, no matter what she did, nothing would get rid of that sweet, rotten smell coming from below. It reminded her of those strawberry shoelaces John liked so much, tinged with something vile.
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“I’VE BROUGHT YOUR Scientific American and the Economist and some elderflower cordial,” Marion announced as she arrived at the hospital one January evening. John was sitting in bed eating tinned peaches and ice cream.
“The doctor came round today. She said I should be home by the weekend,” he said, licking ice cream from his lips.