wireless in his studio rather than sprawling in the garden to sunbathe. And when her fingertips touched Geenie’s hand
at dinnertime, while passing the salt or the water jug, they were cool and dry. Wherever she went, Diana seldom left a mark.
But one night Geenie heard a groaning quite different from her mother’s usual nocturnal noises, and she knew it must be coming
from Diana’s room.
The noise sounded like a ‘whoa’, as if Diana were riding an out-of-control horse. Geenie imagined the creature bucking in
Diana’s bed, trampling the mattress so the girl flew in the air, rolling the sheets to rags at her feet.
When Geenie found her, Diana’s room was lit a blue-grey by the moon, and she could see the sheet was stuck to the girl’s stomach
like a wet curtain. Diana’s nightgown was wrapped around her thighs. A strip of dark hair clung to her forehead, and she made
the noise again, a long and wavering whoooah .
Geenie stood in the doorway, watching the other girl’s nightmare. Her own nightgown was dry and heavy, the lace prickly at
her neck. Diana thrashed again. She was trying, Geenie realised, to speak: her mouth was working frantically, the muscles
around her eyes quivering, but no sound – other than the whoa noise, which happened once more – would come out.
She’d have to go in and rescue her friend from this damp hell.
She stole into Diana’s bedroom. Sitting on the edge of the bed, she put a hand on Diana’s ankle. It was very hot, but not
wet. The sweat had yet to reach all the way down there. Slowly, Geenie applied a gentle pressure to the ankle. She wasn’t
sure if this was the right thing to do, but she’d heard Jimmy say that waking sleepwalkers was dangerous, so she thought this
careful, doctorly approach was best. Doctors always sat on the edge of a bed and applied gentle pressure. That’s what they
did when Jimmy broke his ankle falling from his horse, before his operation, and that’s what they did when she herself had
caught pneumonia after he’d died.
She decided she should work her way up: a touch on the ankle, the knee, the side, the wrist. There would be no sudden moves
or noises.
Very slowly, she began to increase the pressure on Diana’s ankle, staring at her damp face all the while. The girl’s nose
twitched and her arm swung out and above her head so suddenly that Geenie ducked. But there was no whoa . Geenie put a hand on Diana’s other ankle and gently squeezed there, too. As she increased the pressure, the girl stopped
thrashing and her face fell still. Diana’s eyes half opened, showing flickering whites, which made Geenie start back and release
her grip. She wondered how she could explain her presence on the edge of the other girl’s bed. But then Diana turned, gave
a long sigh, and began to breathe easily.
Geenie sat on the bed, looking at the side of Diana’s calm face in the moonlight, until her toes felt frozen together and
her back was stiff.
. . . .
Every night after that, Geenie lay awake in her own double bed waiting for the whoa . She’d never slept in a small bed (her mother didn’t believe in them) and for as long as she could remember she’d spent hours
trying out different positions on the wide mattress before sleep. There was room for four Geenies in that bed. The headboard
was a complicated grid of iron, twisted and hammered into swirls, from which her mother had hung a few pairs of old earrings
which rattled each time Geenie moved. The hoops clanked, the drops clacked. Her eiderdown was lilac silk and stained in one
corner with a banana-shaped blob of ink. Geenie didn’t remember where that had come from.
She thought of the mattress as something like the huge map of the world which Jimmy had kept on his study wall. Each of its
corners, its dips and lumps, were countries in which she could try to sleep. The far left was rocky terrain, with good breezes:
ideal for hot nights. The mid-right
at dinnertime, while passing the salt or the water jug, they were cool and dry. Wherever she went, Diana seldom left a mark.
But one night Geenie heard a groaning quite different from her mother’s usual nocturnal noises, and she knew it must be coming
from Diana’s room.
The noise sounded like a ‘whoa’, as if Diana were riding an out-of-control horse. Geenie imagined the creature bucking in
Diana’s bed, trampling the mattress so the girl flew in the air, rolling the sheets to rags at her feet.
When Geenie found her, Diana’s room was lit a blue-grey by the moon, and she could see the sheet was stuck to the girl’s stomach
like a wet curtain. Diana’s nightgown was wrapped around her thighs. A strip of dark hair clung to her forehead, and she made
the noise again, a long and wavering whoooah .
Geenie stood in the doorway, watching the other girl’s nightmare. Her own nightgown was dry and heavy, the lace prickly at
her neck. Diana thrashed again. She was trying, Geenie realised, to speak: her mouth was working frantically, the muscles
around her eyes quivering, but no sound – other than the whoa noise, which happened once more – would come out.
She’d have to go in and rescue her friend from this damp hell.
She stole into Diana’s bedroom. Sitting on the edge of the bed, she put a hand on Diana’s ankle. It was very hot, but not
wet. The sweat had yet to reach all the way down there. Slowly, Geenie applied a gentle pressure to the ankle. She wasn’t
sure if this was the right thing to do, but she’d heard Jimmy say that waking sleepwalkers was dangerous, so she thought this
careful, doctorly approach was best. Doctors always sat on the edge of a bed and applied gentle pressure. That’s what they
did when Jimmy broke his ankle falling from his horse, before his operation, and that’s what they did when she herself had
caught pneumonia after he’d died.
She decided she should work her way up: a touch on the ankle, the knee, the side, the wrist. There would be no sudden moves
or noises.
Very slowly, she began to increase the pressure on Diana’s ankle, staring at her damp face all the while. The girl’s nose
twitched and her arm swung out and above her head so suddenly that Geenie ducked. But there was no whoa . Geenie put a hand on Diana’s other ankle and gently squeezed there, too. As she increased the pressure, the girl stopped
thrashing and her face fell still. Diana’s eyes half opened, showing flickering whites, which made Geenie start back and release
her grip. She wondered how she could explain her presence on the edge of the other girl’s bed. But then Diana turned, gave
a long sigh, and began to breathe easily.
Geenie sat on the bed, looking at the side of Diana’s calm face in the moonlight, until her toes felt frozen together and
her back was stiff.
. . . .
Every night after that, Geenie lay awake in her own double bed waiting for the whoa . She’d never slept in a small bed (her mother didn’t believe in them) and for as long as she could remember she’d spent hours
trying out different positions on the wide mattress before sleep. There was room for four Geenies in that bed. The headboard
was a complicated grid of iron, twisted and hammered into swirls, from which her mother had hung a few pairs of old earrings
which rattled each time Geenie moved. The hoops clanked, the drops clacked. Her eiderdown was lilac silk and stained in one
corner with a banana-shaped blob of ink. Geenie didn’t remember where that had come from.
She thought of the mattress as something like the huge map of the world which Jimmy had kept on his study wall. Each of its
corners, its dips and lumps, were countries in which she could try to sleep. The far left was rocky terrain, with good breezes:
ideal for hot nights. The mid-right
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