Improving the area – by Keith Goh Johnson
ISLAND | ONLINE ONLY
Nerys sent another jewelled fruit cake this year with an invitation to spend the holidays with her in Ullapool. Kind of her to remember me and who knows? One day I might go. They’re tearing down all the tenements in Caledonia Road to build high-rise flats. If they continue with all the other streets there might not be anywhere else to go. Improving the area. One can but laugh.
I made my tea and sat admiring Nerys’ cake. Cartwright and Butler. Made the rest of the flat look very shabby. I positioned it on the windowsill so anyone passing by could see it from the street and I went down myself to make sure. I must have looked a right fool, peering in at my own window. Not that I like to show-off, mind. Going out, I passed the dresser with that letter that came yesterday. A cold shiver ran down my spine. No one likes to get bad news on Christmas day.
Outside, it was freezing cold and not many people out. There may be snow later. But it hardly snows now as much as it did, and what snow there is never lasts. Still, it doesn’t really feel like Christmas without snow.
*
My toe’s healed. Dr Brodie was astonished when he examined it.
Good lord, you’re a fast healer.
Strong bones, I told him. The women on my mother’s side were known for their sturdy frames.
I went on about how it was boring sitting in the shop, not being able to move much. Dr Brodie listened patiently. He’s the new locum doctor, filling in for Dr Montgomery, whose wife just had a baby. Refined man of a certain age, grey hairs around the temples, but his crown was very dark. Made me wonder if he colours his hair. He’s never mentioned a Mrs Brodie.
Do you have time off, Miss Bass?
Well, I said, I do the WI on Thursdays and the shop keeps me busy enough.
Stress can build up without us knowing it. It can influence our health in quite untoward ways. The pursuit of pleasure should be one’s prerogative.
I imagine Dr Brodie pursues pleasure frequently. Summer concerts on the Green, exhibitions at Kelvingrove.
Miss Bass, I sense you are one of those blessed souls that lesser mortals cannot do without, he said. Salt of the earth. I’d like to help you regain your equilibrium.
*
We could only fit in three sessions before he left. Private payments, because the NHS won’t pay for ‘unorthodox’ therapies. Unorthodox, Dr Brodie scoffed contemptuously. They’ve been practising this in India for thousands of years. But he offered me a discount.
He visited India early on in his career to find out where all the energy points were. Chakras, he called them. Mine are all very tightly shut, and he assured me it was his mission to open all my portals. I was beginning to worry our doctor was not quite ‘garden variety’. But the therapy mostly consisted of me sitting on his stool, shoes off, eyes closed. Dr Brodie walked around with his hand above the requisite spots.
Have you ever been to France, Miss Bass?
What a laugh. Though I do have that air of sophistication that has, at times, been mistaken for Continental. I shook my head.
You must; the French can teach us a lot. There’s something indescribable about the place, a je ne sais quoi…
A what?
The French have the right attitude. Work to live, not the other way round. And sex…sex is so complicated for we Britons. We never listen to the needs of our bodies. I do miss France when I’m here in dreary Scotland. But there’s a nice French place in Dumbarton Road that gives me my little fix until I can go again.
He was looking at me. Twinkle in his eye. I did have the impression that his hand lingered for a moment or two longer than it ought’ve, on the back of my neck. Finally, he got out his big prescription pad and started writing my script, manipulating the pen expertly with his slender, tapering fingers.
We should all try to be a little more Gallic. I can bring some records in for you…Juliette Gréco, Françoise Hardy. Pills for your heart, music for your soul.
*
His hand lingered.
I examine myself in the mirror, thinking about it. Come on, Elsie, you’re not that bad. You could have got yourself a doctor in your prime. What do you mean? I’m still in my prime. ‘Fine figure of woman,’ is what they say though what they mean, these days, is matronly. ‘Too fussy,’ they usually add. But there’s nothing wrong about having standards and wanting better things. The Bass family has had roots in Argyll for generations. These days, people come from everywhere. Blacks and Irish and Poles and Jews. No one knows where they’re from. No wonder the council wants to tear this place down.
It's a case of reality falling short of expectations, Dr Brodie said to me at our second visit. Look at the names of the streets. The people who built this place had grander designs for it.
I think about it. Cavendish Street, Abbotsford Place and Eglinton Court. He’s got a point. Elegant names. No one would expect to find run-down tenements filled with immigrants and low-rent criminals. The other day, I passed a woman wiping her baby’s dirty bottom in broad daylight. What a disgrace.
Ol’ Blue Eyes is singing White Christmas on the radio. The BBC plays its programme of seasonal classics. I’ll sit here and listen until it’s time to go to Avril’s for a sing-along. She invites me to the Christmas lunch too, but I never want to intrude.
She’ll be celebrating in her new flat this year. On the twentieth floor. She’s very proud of it. From the balcony you can almost see the Atlantic. But it blows a bluster down below. I can’t imagine living up so high, even if her flat does have a bath and an indoor toilet.
*
Got my hair set before our final appointment. Dr Brodie appraised me and said: You look different, Miss Bass .
Oh, really? I answered, with an off-the-shoulder nonchalance. I don’t know what you mean. I just brushed my hair.
Shall we get to work?
The fact it was our last meeting weighed on me, while he nattered on about his holidays in the Dordogne. He had, of course, forgotten to bring in his Francis Hardy. Still didn’t sound French, to me. Made me think of Laurel and Hardy. And then his hand crept slowly down and circled my breast. One eye opened. I thought maybe he had made a mistake. And then his hand moved across to the other one.
They certainly don’t make women like you anymore, Miss Bass.
But he was already writing my script for my aluminium salts, when I recovered my power of speech.
I’ll miss you, Miss Bass, he said, handing me the script. But one must move on.
I put on my shoes and got up; there didn’t seem much else to do.
But remember, he said, calling out to me as I reached the door. La Guillotine on Dumbarton Road. I’m usually there on Saturdays, around midday. If you’re interested in…opening more portals.
I was in a daze as I left; Mrs Norris, the receptionist, had to say my name twice to get my attention.
You feeling all right, love? she asked, frowning.
Fine, I said, fine.
If you say so. She let out a big sigh. I’m run off my feet with that lot. Everybody wants to see Dr Brodie. She nodded at the waiting room full of middle-aged women. What on earth is he doing in there? Making love to them?
*
I felt a bit foolish after that. The pursuit of pleasure, what drivel. But I kept hearing in my head: Saturday lunch, La Guillotine. Quite inappropriate. And Dumbarton Road is a long way away. Though, I checked the bus routes and the number fifty-six goes right by it. I’m an old hand with the number fifty-six.
The temperature nose-dived when I left for Avril’s at four o’clock, with Nerys’ cake under my arm.
There was singing inside the Britannia. I heard it coming up Cavendish Street. I don’t usually like the Britannia. Far too rough for my liking; the Cumberland Bar is much more my sort. But the singing somehow brought tears to my eyes. Singing the old songs we used to sing. And as if on cue, snowflakes started falling from the sky. I remembered the letter on my dresser. I imagine those families in Caledonia Road got similar ones when it was their time to leave. No argument to brook, really. I can’t imagine living in a flat like Avril’s. Reality falling short of expectations. One can but laugh. ▼
Image: Annie Spratt - Unsplash
If you liked this piece, please share it. And please consider donating or subscribing so that we can keep supporting writers and artists.