Double Vision
by Michael Watson
Rubella can be a nasty complaint in an adult: it affects the brain
and causes double vision. I caught it only a fortnight after starting
my new job as a design engineer. When the doctor asked about my
working conditions and I told him that there were several young
females in the office, he insisted that I stay at home. Rubella,
he explained, is contagious and can have tragic effects on the unborn
child. It was really embarrassing to have to phone the boss to say
I needed sick leave so soon after joining the team. I heard him
mutter and someone laugh. Big joke.
'Home' was another problem. I was lodging with my widowed aunt while
looking for a place to rent. She wasn't keen on putting me up but
admitted that there were jobs I could do in her pottery studio.
We did a deal: I moved into the back bedroom of her cottage - a
cramped chintzy dormer totally unsuitable for a six foot four prop
forward - and in return I sorted the decrepit wiring in her studio.
She was busy on her exhibits for a craft fair and had persuaded
a student named Rachel to help at weekends. Auntie had taken on
far too much for a woman in her seventies.
When I relayed the doctor's diagnosis, she went ape.
"Rubella? Oh, my God. You'll have to stay in your room, David
- I can't risk Rachel catching it. For one, we've to get the pots
ready and for another I wouldn't be surprised if she's been careless.
That can't all be puppy fat. The birth rate in her college is a
disgrace - like rabbits . ."
"But Auntie, I've still got to finish checking the wiring …"
I protested.
"Never mind that. You're to stay upstairs until the doctor
can swear you're not infectious."
The pills he prescribed for my fever knocked me sideways. When the
sunlight woke me mid-afternoon on that May Friday, my first impression
was of the beauty of the lilacs and viburnams in the garden. A robin
sang below the window. In the paddock there was a Cleveland Bay
mare and her foal. It was a pretty scene…
"Pretty? Viburnams? Cleveland Bay?" I muttered. 'Pretty'
is not a word I use a lot and I know bugger all about horses. And
what's a viburnam? I'm a chartered mechanical engineer - I design
transmission systems for rally cars. They're not 'pretty'; prettiness
is not a quality that comes to mind when you have to put five hundred
BHP through a gearbox. Karen, my girlfriend, might be called 'pretty'
by her mother but to me she's just a good looker - in the page 3
sense.
So why should I suddenly start saying things are 'pretty'? Am I
delirious?
The mare moved away, the foal teetered on unsure lanky legs. How
sweet, I thought: motherhood is wonderful. The foal splayed its
legs as it reached to suck at the mare's nipple. I had an urge to
go to the horses, to stroke the mare's head as she suckled her foal
- but I knew I couldn't. I had to stay in my room - my lovely room
scented by the lilac sprays that had been put beside the dressing-table
mirror…
I frowned: I hadn't noticed the flowers before. The vase shimmered
and went out of focus. The forecast double vision had taken over.
It was then that I saw the hand.
I have ginger hair - a lot of it everywhere, as giggling Karen tells
people after a third vodka. The backs of my hands look like an orang-utan's.
I held one up. It began to change shape: it peeled backwards and
blurred. From my wrist arose a second hand which was hairless and
had long pointed fingers - it was a woman's hand.
I blinked. The vision disappeared and things returned to sharp focus.
So I could force myself out of delirium by sheer will-power. The
horses in the field munched grass as before and, when I thought
about it, I remembered that the lilac sprays had been brought in
by my aunt at lunch-time. I hadn't been deluded for long.
I glanced at the clock. My aunt had promised to wake me at four
with a cup of tea. It was past four.
Many old people are careless of time, but I find broken promises
extremely irritating. I'm never late for anything - a reason why
I got my new job.
|
