Outside the hospital entrance, I kicked a rubbish bin with frustration. A medic walking towards the door spontaneously sidestepped me with a shocked glance, but didn’t say anything.
We lived in a country where everything worked, trains always ran on time, letters inevitably arrived in the mailbox the day after they had been posted, insurance payouts were implemented without question. And the average Joe who worked as a civil servant or council clerk knew exactly what everyone was doing at any given time in the hierarchical human ladder that made up Switzerland’s complex functioning administration.
But it seemed they had all conspired to defeat me today. Most of all I felt sorry for Manfred, who had somehow slipped through the net to wander, lost in his misery, latching on to me of all people, a confused foreigner who had slipped through the other end of the system.
Two flukes in an otherwise perfect utopia.
I sat in the car and put my hand to my temple. My skin felt hot and my head had begun to pound. The frustration was beginning to build to an indefinable irritation, and I was losing faith in my ability to help Manfred resolve his issues.
Weaving through the trees along the Lorze Gorge, I stumble. The path morphs from packed dirt to cotton wool beneath my feet. I try to speed up, sense someone chasing me. I can’t turn my head. There is a person… someone familiar. The person takes off, spreading great silver wings, flying. It’s an angel. I twist my head, still can’t quite catch the face. A face that is changing… Oh, it’s Manfred. What are we running from together? I turn my head forward again, try to run harder. My feet sink deep into the cushioned softness and I can’t gain purchase on the path. I’m getting nowhere. The next moment I am knocked over, the wind whipped from me, my face pressed down into the spongy earth. I can’t breathe.
Waking out of the nightmare, I was at first confused to find I was looking at the ceiling of our bedroom. A great weight lifted from my chest as I gasped, filling my lungs full of air through an aching throat.
My eyes were smarting and sore, the place behind my sockets pounding to the rhythm of my heart, clumpy boots stepping across my brain. These, at least, were symptoms I recognised. I had a cold.
Simon had already left. I hadn’t heard him. Unusual to have slept through his departure. I was further saddened by the fact that I wouldn’t see him for a few days and that things between us were far from harmonious. I lacked energy, but knew I had to get the boys ready for school. I swung my heavy legs over the edge of the bed and padded to the bathroom. Checking the thermometer, I realised I had a mild fever. Even pressing the monitor to my ear caused discomfort. Every movement made my temples pound.
I winced with pain as I stepped gingerly down the stairs. In the kitchen I filled the kettle and took the cereal packet and two bowls out of the cupboard for the boys. Glancing at the clock on the oven, I saw it was later than I thought and hurried as best I could back upstairs to wake them. Oliver would be cross he hadn’t been woken early enough. He hated to be late for anything, even school. Leon, on the other hand, would be grumpy he had been woken at all.
As I knocked quietly at the boys’ doors, the phone rang. I returned to my bedroom and answered quickly, if only to stop the shrill noise from making my headache worse. I had assumed it would be Simon calling from the airport, making sure the household was up and about. I croaked a greeting.
‘Hello?’
‘You sound not good.’
Manfred. I really couldn’t deal with talking to him just then, and wanted to get him off the line. I should probably have cut him off. But I felt I should say something.
‘I’m not well, Manfred. I have a sore throat and a headache. It hurts to talk. I’m busy getting the boys ready for school. I’m still not sure how you got my numbers, but please, it’s really best you don’t call here.’
‘I could come and care for you. Alice, you must not forget that I owe you my life. It is, how you say, my obligation to you.’
‘Manfred, I…’
‘I can make a good hot soup, a drink. You must take liquids if you are not well. Stay in bed. I can be there in a moment.’
‘Please, Manfred, leave me alone just now!’ My throat burned as I raised my voice. ‘This is not the time. You’re mistaken about my being able to help. Go to see a doctor. Find someone to talk to. I really don’t feel I can help you.’
The phone slipped back into its cradle on a film of sweat. The product of my anxiety rather than my illness. It didn’t take long for guilt to flood in on my frustration and misery.
Leon shuffled along the hallway, pyjamas in disarray and hair in a lopsided wedge only a pillow could design.
‘Is everything okay, Mum? I heard you shouting. You don’t sound like you’re doing too good, you know.’
‘No, I’m not well. I don’t sound like I’m doing too well, Leon. It’s late. You’d better hurry and get ready for school.’
‘She’s not too sick for a grammar lesson,’ he mumbled, shuffling to the bathroom.
I went to check on Oliver. He’d already perceived an edge of tension.
‘It’s okay, Mum, I’m getting up,’ he said with forced cheerfulness. Of the two boys, Oliver was much less inclined to invite conflict. I was grateful.
‘I’ll see you downstairs,’ I said, and went down to the kitchen to prepare myself a tisane.
I was at least relieved to know my silent caller hadn’t been Manfred. There would be no reason for him to suddenly engage in conversation if he’d been the one making all those spooky calls before. But in my wretched state, I would have preferred to have the crackling static of a silent caller than to actually talk to Manfred now.
Then I felt really bad, wondering how harsh I’d sounded on the phone. He hadn’t deserved that. There was always a worry the thread holding him to life was still delicate. Here was a sad human being who had fixed on the idea I could somehow help him.
Even though I’d already told him this was way beyond my psychological capabilities.
JUNE
My influenza lasted six days from start to finish. I had never felt so helpless before. It required superhuman effort to get out of bed for the first three mornings, and as soon as I had packed the kids out of the door, I crawled back to bed with a hot honey-lemon drink and handful of paracetamol. Simon called from London at lunchtime on the first day, sounding sympathetic when I explained I was ill. After our conversation, I pulled the phone wire out of the wall and only plugged it back in when the boys walked through the door after school. The battery in my mobile phone died and I chose not to charge it. I decided I could live without it, despite my earlier conviction that I should run with it in case of an emergency. The only person I truly needed to keep in contact with was Simon, and he could call me on our landline at the end of the day.
Midweek, after the boys had left one morning, the phone next to the bed rang before I’d had a chance to unplug it. I glanced at the caller display. No ID. It could have been Simon. He knew I was ill, would expect me to answer. But I wasn’t sure I wanted to talk to him either. Out of some perverse impulse to punish myself, I stood watching the phone to see how long it would ring. It clanged and jangled around my stuffy head, and when it finally stopped, the roaring silence was almost more disturbing. Long after I had unplugged the wire from the wall, I could still hear the phantom echo of ringing, matching the pulsing of my temple.