Fay Weldon - Novel 23 by Rhode Island Blues (v1.1) Page A

conspiracy,’ said Felicity. ‘No-one’s going to make us
ill on purpose.’
                 ‘Aren’t
they?’
                 Felicity
had taken morning coffee in the Ascension Room as soon as she was able. She
felt the need of company. She’d joined Dr Bronstein and a Miss Clara Craft at
their table. Both smiled agreeably at her, and put down their magazines. Miss
Craft, who turned out to be a correspondent for The Post back in the thirties, and who had trouble with her sight,
had been flicking through the latest copy of Vogue. She wore a good deal of make-up haphazardly applied, and
her sparse hair was arranged in little plaits, which hung here and there from
her scalp. Her back was noticeably bowed. Felicity concluded that like so many
women who did not choose to thwart the natural processes, Clara took no hormone
replacement therapy. Dr Bronstein was smartly presented and was reading Harpers , albeit with a magnifying glass.
Nurse Dawn had lingered, hovered, and done her best to overhear.
                 Dr
Bronstein’s eyes were rheumy like a spaniel’s. They dripped moisture, and made
him seem in constant need of sympathy. Nurse Dawn resented this. Nor did she
like the Doctor’s choice of reading matter which to her was impenetrable but
under the terms of residency was provided free. Magazines surely meant Time or Newsweek. Vogue was acceptable, though absurd in Clara Craft’s
case. Miss Felicity had taken on herself to read Vanity Fair , which was bad enough, the articles being so long, but
at least, unlike Harpers , had a few
pretty girls and advertisements to break up the text.
     
                 * * *
     
                ‘Most of us will arrive here
exhausted, ’ said Felicity, ‘and in culture shock from the winding
down of our days. Our immune systems are low. It’s not surprising we get ill.
Or perhaps it’s suddenly eating three meals a day, of good natural food. I’ve
been living out of packets for the past five years. ’
                 She
was well aware Nurse Dawn was listening, under the pretence of tidying up a
bowl of flowers. She was stripping away yellowed leaves and faded blooms and
putting them in a little bag for removal. She took her time.
                 ‘Natural ? 5 asked Dr Bronstein. ‘I hope I didn’t hear you
say natural. It’s an illusion to believe that because something is natural,
it’s good for us. Nature doesn’t care whether we live or die. Nature’s only
purpose is to get us to procreative age in one piece, by whatever slipshod
manner she can contrive. Once we’re past that she has no interest in us at all.
We live by our ingenuity, not by her will. It behoves us oldsters to treat
nature as enemy not friend.’
                 ‘Man’s
ingenuity!’ interjected Clara Craft. ‘I must tell you, Miss Felicity, I was
present when the great airship Flindenburg caught fire as it landed. That was
in 1937. One of the most spectacular tragedies of the decade. I was one of those little figures running away from the flames in the newsreel.
Flow I escaped with my life I’ll never know.’
                 Nurse
Dawn, having heard all about the Flindenburg disaster too many times before,
and finding herself bored even as an eavesdropper - to whom most things are
fascinating by virtue of the secrecy attached - left the room. Miss Felicity -
forget Clara’s adventures, which were already being repeated, like a stuck
record - found herself glad to be in the company of a man who used the word behove in ordinary speech. Such words
had certainly not been in Joy’s vocabulary. Felicity could see her horizons
expanding. Once you could lose the sense that age was the most important thing
about the old: that the passage of years wiped out individuality and that you
were old yourself, just like everyone else around, all was not gloomy. Clara
fell suddenly asleep. Vogue dropped
to the ground and