Lanark_ a life in 4 books - Alasdair Gray [152]
He said it again, louder, but it sounded like a lie. Without comfort he found himself condemned to a faith which would never again let him end a prayer by saying, ‘If you exist.’
Again he fired his thoughts through the ceiling.
‘This belief comes from my cowardice, not from your glory. You won it by a torturer’s trick. But you are far from winning my approval. And I will never, never, never, never pray to you again.’
Next day the doctor said, “This has gone on far too long. He should be in hospital. Have you a neighbour with a telephone?”
Ruth and his father helped him dress. The neighbours stood at their doors as the ambulance men carried him downstairs. Mrs. Gilchrist called out glumly, “A fine way to go your holidays, Duncan.”
It was a fresh July morning. He sat clutching the edge of the ambulance bench while Mr. Thaw on the bench opposite grunted and prized at the lock of a suitcase with a propelling pencil. Thaw said, “What’s wrong?”
“The bloody lock’s stuck.”
“I won’t need a case in hospital.”
“Of course you won’t. This is to take away your clothes.”
The frosted glass window was slightly open at the top and he watched the streets of Blackhill through the slit. The sun shone and children shouted. He said, “That was quick.”
“Yes,” said his father, putting the case down. “I can’t help feeling relieved. When Ruth and I are climbing in Zermatt we’ll know you’re being better cared for than you could be at home.”
“I don’t suppose I’ll be in long.”
“If I were you, Duncan, I wouldn’t be too anxious to get out. It might be wise to tell the doctor in charge that there’s nobody to look after you outside. Give them time to discover the fundamental root cause of the trouble.”
“It doesn’t have a fundamental root cause.”
“Don’t make up your mind about that. Modern hospitals have all kinds of resources, and Stobhill is the biggest in Britain. I was in it myself in 1918: a shrapnel wound in the abdomen.
Don’t worry, I’ll make sure you’ve plenty of books. I read a lot in Stobhill, authors I couldnae face now, Carlyle, Darwin, Marx…. Of course I was on my back for five months.” Mr. Thaw looked out of the window a while, then said, “There’s a railway cutting in the grounds which goes to a kind of underground station below the clock tower. The army sent us there in trains. Would you like me to bring you Lenin’s Introduction to Dialectical Materialism?”
“No.”
“That’s shortsighted of you, Duncan. Half the world is governed by that philosophy.”
The ward was so long that the professor and his company took over an hour to inspect the beds on one side and come down the other to where Thaw lay, near the door. The professor was robust and bald. He stood with folded arms and tilted head as if studying a corner of the ceiling. His quiet speech reached patient, staff doctor, sister, staff nurse and medical students equally, though a bright glance at one of them sometimes underlined a remark or question.
“Here we have a pronounced bronchial infection based on a chronic weakness which may be hereditary, since the father’s sister died of it…. You won’t die of it. Nobody dies of asthma unless they’ve a weak heart, and your ticker should keep you running another half century, with ordinary care. There may be a psychological factor—the illness first appeared at the age of six, when the family was split by war.”
“My mother was with us,” said Thaw defensively.
“But the father wasn’t. Note the eczema on scrotum and behind knee and elbow joints. Typical.”
“Has he had skin tests?” asked a student.
“Yes. He reacts violently to all pollens, all hair, fur, feather, meat, fish, milk and every kind of dust. So these can only be irritations. If they were causes he’d have spent his whole life in bed and he frequently gets by without asthma…. Don’t you?”
“Yes,” said Thaw.
“As to treatment: penicillin to reduce the infection, a course of aminophylline suppositories for long-term relief and isoprenaline for temporary relief. Physiotherapy to encourage breath control, that’s quite important if