Black and Blue - Short Story by Margaret Wilde

Black and Blue

 

Her skin was definitely taking on a darker hue. It began with the sides of the nose. She attacked what she took to be blackheads. She scrubbed them with cleansing grains for open pores. She applied refining astringemts. She redoubled her scrupulous facial cleansing night and morning. She tried lemon juice to lighten the colour.

 

The darkening spread slowly, irregularly and ineluctably out from her nose.

 

No-one appeared to notice.

 

Her teeth began to darken too. Light grey became dark grey. Dark grey became black. They loosened somewhat.

 

She took to eating food which required no chewing: mashed potato, potted beef, soft white bread, tinned rice pudding...

 

She avoided smiling, gave up singing, appeared morose as she spoke less and less. Her eyes grew dim, though they often brimmed with tears. She cried herself to sleep night after night.

 

Still no-one drew attention to what she thought was so glaringly obvious. Tact, she supposed. - She consulted her doctor.

 

"You say you noticed a darkening from about six months ago? Well I'm sure it's nothing serious. A bit too much sun, perhaps. - More noticeable to you than to anyone else. - Take one of these tablets an hour before you go to bed. - Come and see me again in about a month." Throughout his monologue the doctor barely looked at her. His gaze and his attention were elsewhere - on his desk? on his prescription pad? on his previous patient? on his imminent lunch?...

 

She consulted a dentist: "Oh well, if it's been going on so long it's probably psychological you know. Have you seen your doctor? What about a psychiatrist?"

 

Were they all mad? Or was she going mad? Surely not. Her face was almost black all over now.

 

She was having a light lunch at work, sharing a table with another woman. She responded monosyllabically to the proffered conversation. - Oh God!  A tooth had finally detached itself! A thin, coal-black, top front tooth plopped into the soup she was eating, and her companion was splashed a little. Murmuring brief, embarrassed excuses, she hurriedly rose and left the table.

 

It was a week to the day after this that her black face fell off, also into the soup.

 

The bones revealed were black too.

 

She could not speak at all now, of course, without lips, and with only a few back teeth; but with her shrunken black-furred tongue she attempted to reply to people who, amazingly, continued to behave as if nothing was amiss.

 

It was the winter that finished her off. Her head was so very cold without the face. Every breath was a chill agony, though she tried to protect the exposed bones by wearing a modified Balaclava helmet.

 

The remaining stumps of teeth were chattering uncontrollably; there was a sudden "Snap!" and her head fell off.

 

It turned out to have been a hereditary problem. What else can you expect when your name is Schwarzkopf?

 

 

Margaret Wilde © 1983

Ariel - Short Story by Margaret Wilde

Ariel

She swung in and out of the sun.

"Look, Daddy," her heart sang. "I'm almost flying!"

From far away the loved voice acknowledged her daring.

"I won't fall,"she called out to the world. "I know how to swing."

"Strewth! - Hey, Missus, these swings is for kids, not pensioners. Geroff!"

Margaret Wilde © 2010

The Luck of the Drawer - Short Story by Margaret Wilde

The Luck of the Drawer

She was placed into a drawer and the drawer was closed. She fell asleep and woke because of a nightmare in which she was placed into a drawer and the drawer closed.

Apart from the feeling of suffocation itself, she also was suffering from claustrophobia. - She explored with her hands. She did remember quite well the structure of a chest of drawers and had made one once for her doll, using empty matchboxes and tiny buttons for the handles. But she was sideways, the only way that she would fit the space. It was very difficult to push sideways towards the back of the chest. She succeeded in getting splinters into her fingertips, but not in opening the drawer.

She shouted for assistance but the sounds were muffled of course and were easy to ignore.

They freed her in the morning.

When they lifted her to put her to bed in the drawer again the next night she fought. She screamed and kicked and punched. Such were the energy and persistence she demonstrated that she won the ‘battle’. They put her to sleep on the sofa instead.

She had learned an invaluable lesson very early in life. Namely, that it is a great deal easier to avoid being shut up in a drawer than it is to escape from it later.

Margaret Wilde © 2010

Of One Who Longed for Flowers - Short Story by Margaret Wilde

“You need no blossoms,” the seducer returned. “There are roses in my little lady’s cheeks.”

“Bring me flowers,” implored the wife. But the mortgage insisted that you can’t eat flowers.

Nobody wasted flowers on the old, blind woman.

They sent a wreath to the corpse.

Margaret Wilde © 2010

OUT ON A LIMB - Short Story by Margaret Wilde

She was in hospital after having had a little operation and was unable as yet to perform little personal tasks like cutting toe-nails. It was unfortunate that the nurse cut off her foot by accident.

As the nurse said: "It was a particularly tough nail. It could have happened to anyone."

They got distinctly cross with her for making a fuss about it. If her feet were so important to her she should have waited till she was home again and able to cut her own toe-nails. Anyway it was done now. No use crying over spilt milk. She must look forward, not back.

Her friends were very kind and helpful. "Never mind," they said. "You’ve got another one. It was only your left one after all. You’ll soon get used to it. Footloose and fancy free, eh?"

She found it difficult to keep her balance. Her many falls damaged her arms, her other foot and the left leg itself, which had to be amputated.

Again she was assured she would soon get used to it. "You’ll soon be hopping around like a two year old."

They were a long time in providing a false leg. She tried to hurry them up, pointing out that if she hadn’t previously had to wait so long for the artificial foot, perhaps she’d have had fewer falls and not have had to have her leg amputated.

"You cripples are all the same! – You just think we’re here for your convenience. You had quite a nice solid artificial foot – a bit heavy perhaps – and you’ve had hardly any wear out of it. – Scandalous waste! – And now you chivvy us for an artificial leg. Wait your turn. You’ll probably only go and fall and break it anyway. I don’t know why you can’t be more careful, so’s you don’t fall. You’d think we’d nothing better to do than to make false limbs for clumsy folk like you."

"But it’s not my fault. It was the Health Service robbed me of my foot and that’s why I lost my leg."

"Back to that again! You’ve got a persecution complex. You ought to see a psychiatrist: always looking for someone to blame. – Well you can’t see one. You’re getting more than your fair share of attention as it is."

"Stir your stumps; and for goodness’ sake learn to stand on your own two feet!"


Margaret Wilde © 1985

Bête noire - Short Story by Margaret Wilde

The young cat was tightrope-walking. That is to say, it was performing the delicate manoeuvre of walking along the balcony rail which was the front boundary of its owners' first floor flat.

The woman in pain, whose ground floor flat nearby afforded a good view of the cat, watched it from her armchair by the window. She had seen it, week after week, hour after hour, going over every inch of its balcony territory, up and down, back and forth, slowly, methodically, seeking to escape and explore further afield. Its bright, inquisitive, searching face would look out through the railings, through the trellis struts, look out onto the wider world denied it, being high above the ground.

The cat in the top floor flat was more fortunate. There was a sloping ledge from its balcony to the roof. This roof led to others, one of which led to the stairs and freedom. Another cat had a cat door at its disposal. Several cats lived on the ground floor and so could come and go.

Miss Smith saw a lot of the free cats. They tried to enter her flat if she left the patio door ajar. She had to make sure it was not open wide enough to admit a cat, since she had difficulty catching them if they got in. They sunned themselves on her verandah. They sharpened their claws on the nearby trees.

Miss Smith thought it must be especially galling for the constrained animal to see other cats enjoying liberty - but perhaps she was being anthropomorphic?

The balcony doors were left slightly open for the cat. It had the run of its 'own' flat. Sometimes she would see it at the bedroom window - looking out - stretching, stretching, stretching up, trying to push open the window.

Once, she had seen it patiently and ingeniously insinuate itself into the hanging basket on the balcony. Having curled itself small enough to fit the hemisphere, using the momentum it had generated in the eventual successful leap into the basket, it had swung to and fro in a wider and wider arc, trying by this means to reach the upper balcony. But it had failed.

She admired the cat. It did not mope, become ill, turn aggressive. It just kept up its efforts, curiosity and hope undimmed. But surely it must have moments of despair and feelings of frustration?

And other people liked the cat. In friendly tones they spoke to the little black and white face as it peered down at them. - Its owners, too, were fond of the cat. They would gather it up into loving arms and take it in from the balcony, cuddling it, offering it comfort while denying it autonomy,

The woman in pain also spoke to the cat - but quietly, since of course it was too far away to hear. She empathised with the fine creature. How closely their suffering matched! - She too was offered comforting words, and they were as inappropriate for her as for the cat.

The cat's zest for living was not yet impaired. How long could it keep on 'keeping on'? She saw it on its 'tightrope', best vantage point for escape if escape were ever to be won.

"Jump!" she whispered softly. "Jump!"

Margaret Wilde © 1999

HIGH FLIER - very short story by Margaret Wilde

HIGH FLIER

He had inherited high intelligence. His conditioning fostered courageous self-reliance, and formal education continued the good work. Among many talents, most acclaimed was his racing prowess.

One day, during an endurance race he halted, sensing an imminent storm.

“Damn those pigeons!” shouted an irate householder, and shot him dead.

Margaret Wilde ©2010

Chacon à son goût - Short Story by Margaret Wilde

Chacon à son goût

"Jane! I thought I’d just call to see if you’d like to come Blustifening with me. The emulsion is much easier to deal with when there are two doing it – and the rabbits don’t get quite so nervous."

"Oh I am so sorry, Sue. It’s my Tenti-fu class tonight. I don’t want to miss it. We’re on to: ‘How to treat a cerebral haemorrhage by lightly stroking the upper lip with the little finger of the left hand.’ It’s really interesting. – By the way, how’s your Shestu progressing?"

"Well I’ve done the stitching and glueing. There’s still the crushed eggshell to add and I haven’t lacquered the raffia border yet. I do hope I’ll get it finished in time for Robert’s birthday. He’s been so depressed since failing the Speculative Paraphysical Metanomenism course you know."

"But he’s still Pliskering, I take it?"

"Of course. He wouldn’t miss that for worlds. As a matter of fact he got a rise at work when he showed them a photocopy of his Proficiency Certificate, Grade 1. They hadn’t a single Pliskerer on the staff before – and you never know when someone will be called upon to deal with an exploding typewriter submerged in diesel oil, do you?

"Now, can I put you down for the Group’s Slide Show on Saturday? You remember, we said we’d each bring colour slides of our latest diplomas, so that the rest of us can see if we fancy them. It’s so important to ensure that they don’t clash with the décor, isn’t it?"

Margaret Wilde © 1986

PANTOMIME - Short Story by Margaret Wilde

PANTOMIME.

Jenny could not sleep, and had not slept for many nights this winter.

The night-wind shook at the doors and walls, seeking some crack or crevice to get into the over-heated house. It howled outside her window. In her mind’s eye she had seen the house shiver and brace itself against the onslaught. She had drawn the bed-clothes higher and shivered sympathetically, though the temperature in the room could not have been less than 70ºF. Her gas bills were always high, her windows and doors always tight-shut, and she might perhaps, at some time, in a facetious moment, have been moved to describe herself as a distinctly chilly mortal.

The icicle slid along the roof overhang, detached itself and leaped smoothly through the closed window of her room. She watched, unamazed, with raw, red, puffy eyes, as it fell to the floor, rolled along and jumped into her bed. Only then did she become alarmed.

“What the hell am I doing?” she said aloud. “Conjuring up icicles! God, what’s to become of me? How can I exist without sleep?”

Fretful, she rose, shrouded herself in a thick, candlewick dressing gown, and plodded to the kitchen to make a cup of tea. Through the kitchen window she surveyed the same cold scene that lived inside her head. It seemed to her that she carried winter around with her.

She sometimes rang the Samaritans for something to do as much as anything. What did you do when night after night you couldn’t sleep and were tired to death?

She dialled their number in an absent-minded sort of way, holding the receiver some way from her ear and only marginally aware of the ringing tone. - Sometimes people said glibly, “Let me know if there’s anything I can do for you, won’t you?” But they wouldn’t appreciate being rung at three in the morning. She had once or twice in desperation over the years rung up friends in the night but they’d never answered, and indeed might not have had sufficient time to answer, because she would ring off, unable to contemplate the futility of the likely conversation: “But what do you expect me to do? It’s not my responsibility! Isn’t there anyone else you can get to help? I’ve got to get my sleep. I can’t manage without sleep. (As if she could!) There must be someone else. I’ve got my family to think of. Why don’t you ring the Samaritans? Why don’t you take some sleeping tablets? Have a milky drink. Look, I must ring off; I’ve got to get my sleep; I’ve a heavy day tomorrow.”

And then talking about her next day: “Do you know, Jenny rang last night in the middle of the night! - I ask you! – No consideration. And then she wonders why we don’t go to see her!”

Ringing the Samaritans was a wearying business. It was always someone different who answered.

“Hello? Yes.” Her voice was low. “I don’t know how to get through the night. I can’t sleep and I’m so cold. – Yes, that’s right. – Yes. My name is Jenny. – Well, no, I’m not upset exactly. I can’t sleep, you see. – Well, really you have to experience it to understand how dreadful it is.”

Hey, this was a good one. The fellow was insisting that she’d feel better if she went out and helped other people! Just who would be out and about in this biting wind, at three in the morning, needing the assistance of a frozen, exhausted, weeping woman, she found impossible to imagine.

Abstractedly she put down the phone. Christmas was the popular time for suicide. But she wasn’t really suicidal, was she? - Just in pain and so very tired and cold.

She was relieved when it was morning, and pleased that there was the phone call to make. – She rang Elaine. - These days she found it difficult to dial. Her fingers were so cold that they often would not move independently and she had to use the whole hand’s clumsy movement to accomplish what formerly she had used one finger for. She’d had to buy a press button phone.

It seemed as though the phone was answered, but it didn’t sound right. A small voice was cross.

“You shouldn’t have done it! Get up at six and then… “

“Elaine! Are you there, Elaine? Is that you?”

Elaine’s voice: “Oh, Jenny. - Yes.”

“Were you talking? Were you talking to somebody? Talking to the cat or something?”

There was a very long, uncomfortable pause, then the tiny, cross voice again: “No more silly phone calls! Auntie Freda will be cross.”

“Elaine! Is there someone with you? We seem to have a crossed line.”

“No. – It’s me. I was talking to myself.”

“But, Elaine, It’s very disturbing. I don’t know whether you’re there or not, or whether the phone’s going wrong.”

“Yes, it is naughty of me. Did Anita get you to ring me? Did she tell you I was going dotty?”

“No, of course not. Don’t be silly. I’m ringing because on your Christmas card you invited me to go to the pantomime with you.”

“Oh, yes. Yes. Shall we go? Would you like to stay the night here afterwards?”

She was not happy about staying the night at Elaine’s but allowed herself to be persuaded. Elaine was certainly in need of company.

They went to the pantomime and were travelling back to Elaine’s in her car. It was nerve-wracking for Jenny. Her companion was behaving so oddly. She was driving very slowly, hands frequently off the wheel, - rubbing her eyes, tugging her hair in distress, banging on the car-roof in anger. She was talking to herself again, and occasionally to Jenny. Fortunately the road was free of traffic.

“Must stop this dreadful behaviour. What will Jenny think? She’ll tell Anita. They’ll talk about you.”

Cold with fear, Jenny pictured the car skidding on the black ice she imagined to be on the road. She closed her eyes, face screwed up tight.

“Jenny! Talk about something happy! Flowers, sunshine, singing, dancing…”

“It’s very difficult, Elaine. I don’t know what to say.” She bore in mind that Anita had been absolutely certain Elaine was OK to drive. But she wasn’t, surely?

“I think perhaps I’d better go home after all, Elaine.”

“No, I’ve got everything ready. – Made the mince pies. – We’ll let the New Year in. – You were always so jolly in the old days. – Must have a better year next year. – It’s been hard, looking after Mummy for so long and not getting out. I’ve got out of touch.”

“Yes, well, now you’ve only yourself to consider, you can get out a bit more, can’t you, dear? - Take up old hobbies. - Do more singing.”

It was a profoundly distressing evening for Jenny. She dreaded nights away from home, away from her comfortable bed, duvet and soft pillow. Knowing she would not sleep. Especially in this bitter cold weather. And Elaine’s behaviour was disturbing, frightening. The tiny, strange voice kept speaking with Elaine’s lips. And unfortunately Elaine seemed to have reconciled herself to behaving strangely.

Nor was she best companion for Elaine, who desperately needed to be cheered up. She wasn’t at all well herself and was so tired and cold and hadn’t energy to be cheerful for two. – Between them they dragged the day to midnight and beyond, and wished each other a Happy New Year.

Her night was a sojourn in an individual frozen Hell. She did not know what to do with her dead, white, stiff, rough-skinned fingers. They were so icy cold that they were agony. She tried them in bed and they stayed cold. She tried them under the pillow and they remained stiff. She put her gloves on and with difficulty wrapped the poor things up, one in her towel and one in her scarf. They did not seem to be part of her. They simply would not get warm. She thought of the hot baths in which she sometimes immersed herself and how strange it felt to be immersed in warm water and yet remain cold. It seemed to defy the laws of physics.

The morning was an improvement. Elaine’s little voice had gone away and she was contrite about frightening Jenny the night before. A civilised and quite cheery breakfast was followed by an uneventful drive back to Jenny’s.

She rang Elaine the next day to thank her for the outing. There was the tiny voice again. She could not get Elaine into proper conversation. Perturbed, she wondered whether Elaine was safe on her own. What would she do when she put down the phone? Would she be all right? – She was still muttering away. Jenny decided to go over there. She would leave the phone off the hook and leave the radio on and hope that Elaine would keep on talking till she got to her. She donned her overcoat, old college scarf and sheepskin mittens, covered her thin hair with a warm bonnet, and trudged out.

She came to where the paths diverged, and stiff with unreflecting weariness, her feet took her along the more familiar one. She reached the house and without acknowledging Anita’s father, who was mowing the lawn, she knocked at the door, staring unseeing at the colourful bedding plants in the planters on the porch. By now she was wondering about the cost of the call. It had taken her so long to get there. Anita answered the door.

She struggled to speak with chilled, cracked lips that had not spoken for a long time. They pressed close to her teeth, and it was a monumental effort to operate mouth and tongue. The slow, husky voice strove for clarity: “What time is it, Anita? – I’m worried about my phone bill.”

“And I’m worried about you, Jenny! Goodness me! High summer and you’re wrapped up as if it was winter! How are you? No-one’s seen you since Elaine’s leaving party and that was months ago. You’re looking rather pale. Are you still having your medication?”

Oh dear. She shivered, teeth chattering. Pain clutched at her breastbone and she stiffened. That icicle was there again. It was on Anita’s face. She lifted a mittened hand and slapped the face to remove it for her.

“How dare you insult me by referring to my medication! Are you trying to say I’m crazy?”

Margaret Wilde © 2007

LEARNED BEHAVIOUR - Short Story by Margaret Wilde

Learned Behaviour

She watched on television the newly-hatched snakes immediately snaking off on urgent snake business and admired their purposefulness. – Just as she admired dogs when, dog-certain, they followed their confident noses to apparent predestinations. She would emulate them. She too would follow instinct not reason.

She ate a second cream bun.

Margaret Wilde © 2007

FACES - Short Story by Margaret Wilde

Faces

It was his face she would recall. His faces. Always.

She had opened the door to him that first time and her heart had lifted at what she saw: the smile, the slightly quizzical lifted eyebrow as he checked that this was the right place, the right person. They had talked for hours that had sped oh so swiftly.

The next face she remembered was his dejected look. She realised she had unintentionally caused it and swiftly remedied that and it never returned.

The first face – his kind, gentle, smiling face - was the most frequent one.

She was frightened when he became cross because his face changed utterly and he ended the conversation and went to his room. Later he drew himself to his full height and stood ramrod-straight so that she had to bend her head back to see the stern, unsmiling look as he made clear his feelings.

Another time his face crumpled up with tiredness and she wondered if he would start crying.

Yes, it was his face she would remember, rather than his final words. - “I am a cold person,” he said. “Don’t touch me! - You have driven me away.”

Margaret Wilde © 2007

FOOTNOTES - Short Story by Margaret Wilde

FOOTNOTES

The driver parked a lorry on her foot. She hadn’t been standing long. She was just, you might say, collecting her thoughts, when the lorry was suddenly there, on her foot. Not the whole foot, let us say at once in the cause of exactitude, but a good deal of it, including all the toes.

She felt pain of course – my goodness yes – but the initial sensation was mixed with astonishment at the unexpectedness of what had happened and with the academic registering of the crunch, crunch of the bones under the weight and motion of the lorry.

Her mouth opened so wide in an involuntary eldritch scream that it felt as if the top of her head had blown off.

Perhaps the lorry driver was rather deaf, and maybe he suffered from visual impairment at times: at any rate he failed to notice her or her screams. He appeared to satisfy himself that the lorry was not an obstruction to other motorists, secured his vehicle and walked away, whistling, with his hands in his pockets.

Her screams were succeeded by tears. She had dropped her shopping bag and handbag and she desperately wanted to lie down as she felt so weak, partly with the pain, partly from the loss of blood and partly at the sight of her blood – running away down a convenient grating. But the very slightest movement increased the agonising discomfort. The problem was temporarily solved by her fainting. When she recovered consciousness she was lying down and felt no desire to get up.

She called for assistance.

“Sorry, dear. It’s nothing to do with me. I don’t live round ‘ere. I’ve only come on a cheap day return.”

A policeman arrived.

“No, Madam, I cannot move the lorry. I do not have the keys. I do not have the owner’s permission and I do not have a Heavy Goods Vehicle licence. Anyway it isn’t causing an obstruction or anything. You shouldn’t have allowed him to drive over your foot. I certainly wouldn’t allow anyone to park on my feet – they’re less important to a woman, of course.”

“He may be back soon. Probably just gone for his lunch. Have you got a library book with you? You could be reading it to pass the time while you’re waiting for him and it’ll take you mind off your foot.”

“Talk sense! I don’t want to take my mind off my foot. I want someone to take the lorry off my foot! Can’t you call the fire-brigade?”

“Oh I can’t call them, Madam. It isn’t a fire. And it might prevent them from dealing with a sudden emergency.”

“But this is an emergency!”

“Now let’s get this into proportion, Madam. It’s only a foot. It’s not like people possibly burning to death in a blazing building, is it? You must see that.”

“GET THE LORRY OFF MY FOOT!”

“Don’t you think you’re being melodramatic, Madam? You’re obsessed with lorries and feet, aren’t you? We did a bit of psychology on our course. I bet you’re a foot fetishist! Go on, admit it!”

“Imbecile! I never normally think of lorries or feet. I can’t think of anything else now that the one is parked on the other.”

He fetched a doctor.

“Give me morphine and get me to hospital, doctor!” Her voice was strident.

“Don’t try to tell me my job, young lady. I make my own diagnoses, thank you. You are clearly hysterical. Here’s a prescription for tranquillisers. Take three a day and you’ll soon see your problems in a different light.”

She died an hour later.

The police officer was reprimanded for his failure to secure an arrest – of the bleeding, that is.

Margaret Wilde © 1985

BLOODY-MINDED - Short Story by Margaret Wilde

BLOODY-MINDED

Of course, my blood’s the wrong size, you know. It keeps slipping down and getting clogged up in my feet.

And then there’s my skin: there’s bits missing. And it’s not the regulation thickness.

You’d think they’d get the basics right, wouldn’t you? They couldn’t organise a booze-up in a brewery.

“I want the standard size blood,” I said. I told ‘em. “I pay my taxes like anybody else.”

“The Complaints Department is on the tenth floor,” she said. “There is no lift. All complaints must be made in triplicate, witnessed by a J.P. and certified by a Commissioner for Oaths. There is a small charge for this service.”

“What’re you on about?” I said. I told ‘er. Made it clear, I did. - And about not getting the normal issue skin. And the bones which have got gaps in. - You can’t let them get away with it, can you?

What did she do? you’re wondering. – Well just then I passed out because of lack of blood to my head. Came to outside the building with a piece of paper pinned on my left shoulder. It was a duplicated standard form J/7938/A/A. It said that my complaint was out of time, and that anyway complaints could only be made between the hours of 8.45a.m. and 9 a.m. and only on the fourth Thursday of the month. Furthermore they’d had no other complaints about faulty bodies; p’r’aps it was really my brain that was faulty, and that was a different department, and not covered by the guarantee in any case.

Margaret Wilde ©1990

SPEECH IMPEDIMENT - Short Story by Margaret Wilde

SPEECH IMPEDIMENT

“Does that hurt?”

Rigid with agony, breathing arrested mid-inspiration, fingers digging into the arms of the chair, thrust skull pinning the headrest, she waited for the end of eternity – waited for the drill to stop. It stopped.

Limp and drained, she breathed again.

“Did that hurt?” he asked impassively.


Margaret Wilde ©2007

BEST FOOT BACKWARD - Short Story by Margaret Wilde

Best Foot Backward.

“What you have to realise, my girl, is that your foot is really there. – The fact that I can’t see it and that you feel the need to wear a platform attached to your ankle is quite immaterial. Your real problem is psychological. Once conquer your obvious but groundless resentment of the surgeon who operated on it and the foot will return, good as new. You need to be open-minded about these matters, you know. We’re learning more and more about the invisibility of physical parts following lack of trust on the patient’s part. It used to be thought, for instance, that if a foot were there it would obviously be visible, but now we realise that this is far too simplistic a view. The mind works in strange ways. We are learning more and more all the time. – Why, only the other day I was reading about this. I could lend you the book. - It would help you a lot.”

“Look, Professor, this is silly. – My foot has been missing for over two years now. I used to fall down constantly without it until someone with a mind uncluttered with psychological hogwash made me the platform. That has enabled me to avoid many of the falls so that I feel somewhat better and can get about a bit and discuss the matter and pursue it.”

“Ah, yes – discussion – that’s right. You need to talk over your imaginary grievance with a psychiatrist – a sympathetic one, of course.”

“No. I have ventilated the issue enough with my friends. I do need to talk with you about the best type of artificial foot to use, since making artificial feet is your speciality.”

“Well I’ve given you ten minutes already. I really do feel that it’s twenty or thirty sessions of an hour or so with a psychiatrist that you need. It’s a lady psychiatrist I have in mind. Alternatively you might prefer to have your leg amputated. That would stop this obsession about a missing foot.”

“Look: I have a list here of other people who have missing feet, hands, etc. after being operated on by that surgeon. None of us is resentful. Many are outraged – including me. But the addition of the pseudo-psychological claptrap to the severe physical problems makes some people too ill to summon the energy to do anything but suffer. And one artificial limb maker rang me anonymously to say that many of the victims have died following particularly bad falls caused by missing feet.

“We only want you to ensure that all of us get the most suitable prosthesis possible and that the matter of the accidentally severed limbs be properly investigated so that others are saved from this distress in the future. We thought that in so physical a matter there could be no mistake but we were wrong. There seems no limit to the credulity of artificial limb makers – or rather, to the lengths to which they will go in covering up negligence.”

“I really cannot listen to talk like this. It is very upsetting for me. I must recommend immediate referral to a psychiatric ward. Totally away from the misguided friends who encourage your delusions, and out of touch of the similarly deluded wretches you mention, you may very easily recover your senses after a few years – by which time it will be too late for you to sue and that surgeon will have retired anyway!”

Margaret Wilde © 2007

TONGUE-TIED - Short Story by Margaret Wilde

TONGUE-TIED

The plaintiff was being extremely irritating. How awkward can you get? Why wouldn’t she give her evidence?

“Speak up, please. The Court hasn’t all day. We have your written statement but we must hear you give your evidence and you must be cross-examined by Counsel.

“This really is too bad: - making those grotesque noises and poking her fingers into her mouth in that disgusting way! I suppose we’re intended to conclude that because she’s got no tongue she can’t speak. Well it won’t do. She’s prejudicing the evidence.

“Her statement says that the dentist cut off her tongue while performing a minor operation in her mouth. Well we’ve only got her word for it, and only in writing at that! The surgeon says there was no tongue in her mouth when he started to operate and of course he is an expert. I feel we ought to accept his clinical judgement on the matter. He would have noticed a tongue if one had been present.

“The heavy bleeding afterwards, despite necessitating a massive blood transfusion, could well have been spontaneous. ‘Nervy’ people often get nosebleeds, and this could well have been something of that sort.

“In view of the stubborn refusal of this lady to give evidence I sentence her to seven days’ imprisonment for contempt of court.

“Case dismissed! Costs against the plaintiff!”

© 1988 Margaret Wilde