Isobel on the Way to the Corner Shop by Amy Witting

had carried her into the cafeteria was now exhausted.
    She surveyed the situation with care. Exit: lighted, visible. One made for it, from table to table. No point in keeping up appearances now. Stairs: one climbed them, thankful for the handrail. Pavement: one followed it, but in which direction? Downward. That was the imperative. She took a few steps away from the lighted doorway, yielded to the invitation of the pavement and lay down.
    She was not left in peace for long. A voice said, ‘You disgusting. You get up from there and go away. You don’t act like this in front of my restaurant, decent place. We don’t want drunks. You get up, you hear? You want me to call the police?’
    She did not answer.
    The voice grew more agitated.
    ‘I tell you. Get up! Is disgusting! Get up and go away!’
    It was the voice that went away, which was a relief.
    Then it returned.
    ‘I tell you, officer, she was staggering drunk in the restaurant. We don’t serve drunks there. Never sell a glass of wine to anyone drinking. A good place, I run a good place, good food and a glass of wine, that’s all. The girl says, she went out staggering, terrible. One glass of wine only in my restaurant. Came in drunk from somewhere else, cashier not notice.’
    A deeper voice said, with contempt, ‘Get up from there. You’re a disgrace. Come on. Move.’
    She did not stir.
    A hand gripped her shoulder and shook it, jerking at the dagger which had lodged itself under her shoulderblade, so that she yelped with pain.
    The hand moved from her shoulder to her forehead, the voice said in pity and astonishment, ‘Why, you’re not drunk. You’re sick!’
    She was lifted then and was leaning against a warm, solid body and discovering that perfect love was rough like serge and smelt of tobacco and sweat. There was an arm around her holding her steady.
    ‘Get her a chair, will you? She’s sick, I tell you.’
    ‘She didn’t get sick here. I don’t want her here.’
    ‘She is sick and the sooner you call an ambulance the sooner we’ll be out of your way. Meanwhile you get her a chair and get to the telephone. If we’re bad for your business, get moving.’
    It was good to hear that contempt turned on the other.
    She was sitting now on a chair in the doorway, still supported by serge and a column of muscle and living flesh and wonderful humanity. The best thing was his saying ‘we’. She could love him for ever for that.
    She whispered, ‘Thank you. Thank you very much.’
    ‘All in the day’s work, love.’ He sounded embarrassed, but tightened his arm about her for a moment. ‘We’ll have you in hospital soon. And here comes the ambulance.’
    The urgent whine of the ambulance was the last thing she heard for some time.
    After that it was darkness.
    Voices began to come through the dark.
    One of them said ‘Isobel Callaghan’, and she thought with relief that she hadn’t lost her handbag. Didn’t they say that it took a surgical operation to separate a woman from her handbag? Her honour is the second last thing to go. It’s a surrogate womb. Some smart-arse had said that once. Why don’t men carry them, then? That comment hadn’t gone down so well.
    She was handled, moved about, rolled over. She didn’t like it.
    ‘Beastly cold,’ she grumbled. That must have been a stethoscope pressing on her bare chest. ‘Beastly cold.’
    They ignored her.
    Somebody said, ‘Better take it per rectum, Sister.’
    What on earth? How dare you?
    ‘Just keep still, will you?’
    She kept still.
    One voice said, ‘I don’t like the sound of it. I don’t like the sound of it at all.’
    She was a parcel. She didn’t mind being a parcel. It was easy.
    Someone was tapping most annoyingly on the bones of her ribcage, one after the other. It was too much. Then somebody rolled her over and the tapping began again on her back. She uttered a sharp protest, which was answered by an odd sound like the clucking of a subterranean fowl.
    ‘What’s she