Then she came back to herself, and to Mr Imrie; but she could still feel the horn. She thought it had pinned her to the couch. She heard her own voice, talking nonsense, and Mr Imrie giving a chuckle.
'Bulls? Oh, no. Not in Cricklewood, my dear.'
He held a bowl to her face, and she was sick.
He gave her a handkerchief to wipe her lips with, and helped her to sit upright. The towel had gone from beneath her hips. His sleeves were rolled back down, his cuffs neatly fastened, the links in place; his brow was flushed, with a faint sheen of perspiration on it. Everything-the smells of the room, the arrangement of things-seemed subtly different to her; she had a sense of time having given a sort of lurch, while her back was turned-as if she'd been playing at 'Grandmother's Footsteps'… On the floor there was a single shilling-sized spot of scarlet, but apart from that, nothing nasty to see. The zinc pail had been moved a little further away and covered over.
She swung her legs over the side of the couch, and the pain in her stomach and her back turned into a dragging internal ache; she became aware, too, of smaller, separate discomforts: a soreness between her legs, and a tenderness, as if she'd been kicked, in the flesh of her belly. Mr Imrie said that he'd put a wad of gauze inside her, to take up the blood; and he'd left, beside her on the couch, an ordinary sanitary towel and belt… Seeing that, she grew embarassed all over again, and tried too quickly to put on the belt and fasten the loops. He saw how she fumbled, and thought she was still dazed from the gas, and came and helped her.
When she began to dress, she realised how weak she was; she thought she could feel, too, where blood had gathered between her buttocks and was starting to grow sticky. The idea made her nervous. She asked if she could go to the lavatory, and he led her down the passage and showed her where it was. She sat, and felt for the ends of the plug of gauze-afraid of it; afraid that it might disappear inside her. When she peed, she felt stung. The ache in her womb and muscles was awful. Only a little blood showed on the toilet paper, however, and that made her realise that the moistness between her buttocks must just have been water: that Mr Imrie must have washed her, with a cloth or a sponge. She didn't like the idea. She still had the faintly frightening sense of having fallen or been plucked from time: of things having made a jump, with which she hadn't yet caught up…
'Now,' said Mr Imrie, when she went back into his surgery, 'you should anticipate a little bleeding, perhaps for a day or two. Don't be worried by that, that's perfectly normal. I should stay in bed, if I were you. Get your husband to spoil you a little…' He advised her to drink stout; and gave her two or three more sanitary towels, and a tub of aspirins for the pain. Then he took her back out to Reggie.
'Christ,' said Reggie, standing up, alarmed, putting out a cigarette. 'You look awful!'
She began to cry.
'There, now,' said Mr Imrie, coming in behind her. 'I've told Mrs Harrison to expect a little weakness, for twenty-four hours or so. You might telephone me, if you've any anxiety. I do ask you not to leave messages, however… Any fainting, of course; any serious bleeding; any vomiting, fitting, anything like that, you must call your doctor. But that's very unlikely. Very unlikely indeed. And needless to say, if a doctor were to be involved, you wouldn't feel it necessary to mention-' Again he spread his hands. 'Well, I'm sure you understand.'
Reggie looked rather wildly at him, and didn't answer. 'Are you OK?' he asked Viv.
'I think so,' she said, still crying.
'Christ,' he said, again. And then, to Mr Imrie: 'Is she supposed to look like this?'
'A little weakness, as I said. The slightly advanced nature of the pregnancy made things a shade more complicated, that's all. Just bear in mind, about the vomiting and the fits-'
Reggie swallowed. He put on his coat, and then helped Viv to put on hers. She leaned on his arm. It was ten to nine… They all went out into the hall-Mr Imrie closing the door of the waiting-room and then stepping nimbly across the hall to close the other door, to the surgery. He put off the light, unlatched the front door, but only opened it a little-just enough for him to peer out into the street.
'Ah,' he said. 'The moon is still rather bright. I wonder-' He turned to Viv. 'Would you mind very much, Mrs Harrison, just holding your handkerchief across your face, like this?' He put his hand to his mouth. 'That's right. It gives the impression, you see, that you've come for some ordinary dental work; which, after all, is not uncommon… I'm thinking of my neighbours. The war gives people such suspicious ideas. Thank you, so much.'
He pulled the door wide, and they left him. Viv kept the handkerchief across her mouth for a minute or two, then let her hand fall. The cloth, like the piece of paper Reggie had taken from his pocket on the way, seemed almost luminous in the moonlight; but she looked at the cloudless sky now and felt too weak and sore and miserable to be frightened… She began, instead, to grow very cold. She thought she could feel the plug of gauze inside her, slipping out of its place. The edges of the sanitary towel chafed her thighs. She leaned more heavily on Reggie's arm. But she wouldn't speak to him. 'All right?' he kept saying. 'OK? Good girl.' Then, when they'd gone a hundred yards or so, he broke out with, 'That shyster! Christ, what a thing to spring on us! All that stuff about the extra ten quid. He knew he'd got us over a barrel. Christ, what a bloody jew! I ought to have stood my ground a bit harder. For two pins-'
'Shut up!' she said at last, unable to bear it.
'No, but honestly, Viv. What a racket.'
He grumbled on. At Cricklewood Broadway they waited for ten or fifteen minutes, then picked up a cab. They were going to a place Reggie had got the use of-a flat, somewhere right in the middle of town. He had the address they wanted, on another piece of paper. The driver knew the street, but said that some of the roads were up, he had to take them a roundabout route… Reggie heard that, and gave a snort. Viv could feel him thinking, That's a nice trick, as well. The cab went slowly, and she held herself in a state of miserable tension all the way. When she thought the driver wasn't looking, she opened the tub of aspirin and took three: chewing them up, swallowing and swallowing to get them down. From time to time she slipped a hand beneath herself-afraid that the gauze and the sanitary towel might not be working after all.
She didn't look at the house, when they reached it; she never knew exactly where it was-though she remembered, later, having crossed Hyde Park, and thought that it must have been in some street in Belgravia. It had a porch with pillars, she remembered that, for Reggie had to get the key to the flat they were borrowing from an old lady in the basement, and while he ran down the steps and knocked on the door she closed her eyes and leaned against one of the pillars, and put her hands flat against her stomach to try and warm herself up. Her needs and wants had shrunk, condensed: she could think only of finding a place to be private and still, to be warm. She heard Reggie's voice. He was joking with the lady, in a strained kind of way: 'That's right… I should say so, too… Isn't it?' Come on, she thought. He reappeared, puffing, cursing, and they went inside.