top of the stairs but now made their way quietly down, their eyes big and round. No one enjoyed their meat pudding that night.
9
Margaret
Margaret had stopped eating. She was getting thinner and thinner and deep black rings appeared underneath her eyes. Mum was beside herself with worry.
‘Come on now, have a drop of tomato soup just for me.’ Margaret turned her head away. Nothing anyone offered her could tempt her to eat. She was six years old but looked about four as she began to shrink and disappear before us. Her eyes, always big, now took on the appearance of dark brown saucers set in her bleached white face. Her hair had always been much darker than mine, and this seemed to exaggerate her sunken features.
Mum took her to see Dr Stanton. We sat in the crowded waiting room with its cream-coloured, sterile walls. The chairs were hard and were lined up close together in rows so that there wasn’t enough room to move between them easily without having to push past people. I kept close to Mum but noticed one of the girls from my class at school just across the other side of the room with her mum. She had a big handkerchief held to her nose and kept coughing. We seemed to be there for ages when at last the voice that had been calling the patients one by one suddenly called out ‘Margaret Stevens’, so Mum got up and we walked towards the doctor’s room. As we passed by the girl from my class, she said in a loud voice, ‘Why is your sister called Margaret Stevens instead of Margaret Coates?’
As Mum pulled me forward, I turned and whispered, ‘That’s our special doctor’s name.’
I thought everyone had a special name they used just for when they visited the doctor’s; that was what Mum had told us. I wondered why this girl looked at me in such a quizzical manner.
Mum knocked on the door and we went into the room where the doctor sat smoking a cigarette.
‘Now then, what’s the matter with you, young lady, worrying your Mummy like this?’
Margaret just stared down at the floor. She attempted to bury her head in Mum’s ample bosom but Mum turned her back towards the doctor again so he could examine her.
‘Well young lady, you look fine to me.’ The doctor smiled at Mum. ‘I think she just needs fattening up!’
‘But she won’t eat, Doctor. She just turns her nose up at everything I give her.’
‘Well let’s give her a tonic and some Senokot granules in case she’s constipated – that can sometimes affect children in this way. If she’s not any better by next week bring her back.’ We left the surgery and walked slowly home.
Margaret wasn’t any better next week. Mum had duly cajoled and encouraged her to take the Senokot granules, which had to be mixed with water to make a muddy brown liquid drink. As Margaret would try to swallow it down she would retch and splutter. It was awful to watch and quite often I would hide away with my eyes screwed shut and my hands over my ears so that I didn’t have to listen.
Today Mum had bought a special ‘variety pack’ of cereals to tempt her. This was made up of eight individual packs and was, Mum said, very expensive. Margaret pecked at a bowl of Ricicles, but she didn’t really eat very much at all. I sat opposite her at the square wooden table, eating my cereal with enthusiasm, scraping up the last of the milk with my spoon. The kitchen wasn’t a large room but it was stuffed with furniture. Apart from the big old wooden table there was a settee and three armchairs: one for Aunty, one for Mum and one for Pat. They had wooden arms and legs and there was a huge, ornate sideboard across one corner. Fitted carpets were still considered a luxury and our kitchen floor was covered in oil cloth, which was a bit like linoleum or vinyl flooring. I was always fascinated by the multitude of tiny circular indentations that were made by the stilettos my older sisters wore, and would sometimes trace their shape with my fingers. There was also a big
9
Margaret
Margaret had stopped eating. She was getting thinner and thinner and deep black rings appeared underneath her eyes. Mum was beside herself with worry.
‘Come on now, have a drop of tomato soup just for me.’ Margaret turned her head away. Nothing anyone offered her could tempt her to eat. She was six years old but looked about four as she began to shrink and disappear before us. Her eyes, always big, now took on the appearance of dark brown saucers set in her bleached white face. Her hair had always been much darker than mine, and this seemed to exaggerate her sunken features.
Mum took her to see Dr Stanton. We sat in the crowded waiting room with its cream-coloured, sterile walls. The chairs were hard and were lined up close together in rows so that there wasn’t enough room to move between them easily without having to push past people. I kept close to Mum but noticed one of the girls from my class at school just across the other side of the room with her mum. She had a big handkerchief held to her nose and kept coughing. We seemed to be there for ages when at last the voice that had been calling the patients one by one suddenly called out ‘Margaret Stevens’, so Mum got up and we walked towards the doctor’s room. As we passed by the girl from my class, she said in a loud voice, ‘Why is your sister called Margaret Stevens instead of Margaret Coates?’
As Mum pulled me forward, I turned and whispered, ‘That’s our special doctor’s name.’
I thought everyone had a special name they used just for when they visited the doctor’s; that was what Mum had told us. I wondered why this girl looked at me in such a quizzical manner.
Mum knocked on the door and we went into the room where the doctor sat smoking a cigarette.
‘Now then, what’s the matter with you, young lady, worrying your Mummy like this?’
Margaret just stared down at the floor. She attempted to bury her head in Mum’s ample bosom but Mum turned her back towards the doctor again so he could examine her.
‘Well young lady, you look fine to me.’ The doctor smiled at Mum. ‘I think she just needs fattening up!’
‘But she won’t eat, Doctor. She just turns her nose up at everything I give her.’
‘Well let’s give her a tonic and some Senokot granules in case she’s constipated – that can sometimes affect children in this way. If she’s not any better by next week bring her back.’ We left the surgery and walked slowly home.
Margaret wasn’t any better next week. Mum had duly cajoled and encouraged her to take the Senokot granules, which had to be mixed with water to make a muddy brown liquid drink. As Margaret would try to swallow it down she would retch and splutter. It was awful to watch and quite often I would hide away with my eyes screwed shut and my hands over my ears so that I didn’t have to listen.
Today Mum had bought a special ‘variety pack’ of cereals to tempt her. This was made up of eight individual packs and was, Mum said, very expensive. Margaret pecked at a bowl of Ricicles, but she didn’t really eat very much at all. I sat opposite her at the square wooden table, eating my cereal with enthusiasm, scraping up the last of the milk with my spoon. The kitchen wasn’t a large room but it was stuffed with furniture. Apart from the big old wooden table there was a settee and three armchairs: one for Aunty, one for Mum and one for Pat. They had wooden arms and legs and there was a huge, ornate sideboard across one corner. Fitted carpets were still considered a luxury and our kitchen floor was covered in oil cloth, which was a bit like linoleum or vinyl flooring. I was always fascinated by the multitude of tiny circular indentations that were made by the stilettos my older sisters wore, and would sometimes trace their shape with my fingers. There was also a big
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