Sipsworth

by Simon Van Booy

Do you have children, Cecil?” “No, Mrs. Cartwright, I can’t say I do. I did have someone, a partner. But . . . you know.” “No, tell me, Cecil.” “They went to Spain.” “They?” “Well . . . he went to Spain, I should say. Ibiza. To live.” Helen locks Cecil in a stare. “How terrible.” “Oh right, yes, well it knocked me for six, I can tell you. I’m used to it now, of course, though am ashamed to admit I’ve looked for him on the internet, and can’t find a thing. Not a sausage.”

“Oh Cecil, people don’t leave each other because of haircuts. It was probably something personal to him, a reason that you’ll never know.”

“Well, you’ve got a good business here. My father would have been proud of everything you’ve done.” “Do you think so?” “He never would have spent so much time with you if he hadn’t seen great promise.”

“If I’m not prepared to eat you,” she whispers to the hole, “then I have no moral basis for eating other animals.” When the corned beef and frozen pies are in a bag with all the other meat products from her kitchen, Helen takes a stainless steel serving spoon and tin opener from the drawer. Goes into the back garden. For the next hour, on her hands and knees, Helen digs a large hole.

As she’s laying the items to rest, Helen considers that what she’s doing could be a sign of some mental condition connected to old age. But people can just bugger off. The only inconvenience for her is that vegetarians live longer, according to a BBC Two documentary she watched last week.

Helen stands to one side and Cecil carries the fish tank into the hall. “Where do you want it?” “On the kitchen counter . . . beside the bread bin. I’ve already made room.” Helen closes the door and follows behind his large frame. A moment after setting down the tank, Cecil notices a small head looking at him from a cardboard box in the sink. “He’s here as my guest, Cecil, so please don’t say anything negative.”

“May I see the garden, Mrs. Cartwright?” As she fiddles with the lock, Cecil says, “I can fix that if you want.” “I won’t be here long enough to appreciate it, but thank you.” “Moving are you?” Helen smiles. “Moving on you might say, once this mouse business is cleared up.”

“As I said, he’s not staying. All this is temporary. I’m about to make arrangements with a shelter for collection. Don’t animals want to be with their own kind?” Cecil rubs his chin. “If ever I was an animal, I don’t remember it.” “I see you as a beaver,” Helen says impulsively. “Very industrious . . . always building.”

She walks Cecil to the door of his white van. “If your father could see us now, Mrs. Cartwright . . . I think he’d be very happy.” Back inside, Helen has to stop in the downstairs loo to blow her nose. Dab the corners of both eyes.

I’d saved his father’s Jaguar, a silver XJS. Had it serviced every six months. A Greek man would come to us early from the garage and drive it away until evening. But David didn’t want it. Wouldn’t even sit in it. Preferred public transport to his own father’s car.” Helen crunches her toast. For the second time this week, she’s eating in the kitchen. “I gave my son a hard time about that bloody car. It’s like he didn’t want to know his own father.”

“Wherever you are, David, I hope you can forgive your old mother for that car business.” She remembers the look on his face after she’d humiliated him for not caring. He had tried to be honest with his mother and she had berated him for it. Helen wipes her eyes with a corner of towel. “My sweet David.” Then, as often happens in moments like this, she can hear her son’s voice coming to her from somewhere far away, urging his mother to forgive herself.

“C’mon, Sips . . .” she says, picking up the pie box. “I’ve got a surprise for you.” She carries it carefully, along with the lemonade cap of water. Once in the fish tank, he climbs out, smelling and touching everything with a left or right paw in case there’s danger. “It’s like your old place, just dry and clean.” But after a few moments, he’s bouncing on top of his blue castle, wanting to come out again.

When the overture begins, Helen lowers his slipper and Sipsworth hops in. She puts it on the cushion next to her, and it’s where he remains, quite contentedly, for most of the first act, with Helen going on about who’s who and why everyone is laughing⁠—or who the girl is that’s been mistakenly kidnapped by the count’s henchmen.

Helen bites her lip. “Wait till the other mice at the shelter hear that you heard Rigoletto at the Royal Opera House with Erin Morley as Gilda. That’s something to be very proud of.”

In bed, Helen’s mind turns to Cecil. What his life must be like in the shop, day after day after day. The loneliness he keeps private. And that moment the man who he believed was the great love of his life explained how he was going to Spain and would not be returning. The life they had known together was at an end, except in memory. Drifting off, Helen sees Cecil in her garden. It’s warm and his shirt is ringed with sweat at the armpits. He’s cutting back the bushes and telling Helen about this and that, flowers and bees and wind.

Waiting for the toast to pop up, Helen is still thinking about Cecil. Specifically the potential for her small garden. Perhaps it wouldn’t be a terrible idea to clear things up a bit, cut back the bushes and trees in readiness for spring.

Helen is surprised to see Sipsworth awake as she approaches the fish tank with her plate of breakfast toast. Perhaps he is adjusting to her sleep cycle so they can spend time together before he leaves? But when she looks in, his chest is heaving in and out. His eyes have narrowed⁠—not in the way he squints after waking up, but with an effort that suggests he is struggling to breathe. “Good god!” Helen exclaims, putting the plate down quickly.

“County Vet Services, how may I help you?” “My animal is having some sort of breathing seizure and needs immediate care.” “I’m sorry to hear that,” the woman says. “What kind of animal and what is its age?” “Mouse. Age unknown.” “Oh I’m very sorry, madam, but we don’t take exotics.” “For god’s sake!” Helen explodes. “How can an animal that inhabits every corner of Britain be exotic?” “I’m deeply sorry, our practice doesn’t see anything smaller than a rabbit.

She is surprised at herself for losing composure. Even when the police explained what happened to her son as he was crossing the road, she had stood there, nodding. One of the officers brewed a pot of tea. Made her sit down and drink it. Her son’s body was at the hospital and at some point she would have to confirm it was him. But she didn’t spill a single drop of tea, not a drop.

Helen does something then that she hasn’t done in years. She stands very still for ten seconds. Breathes. Lets her jaw completely relax. And when the jaw is relaxed, the tongue can go limp. Her hands stop shaking. Her vision sharpens and Helen can feel her mind emerging from the haze of her advanced age, like Excalibur from the lake. It’s as though this sudden emergency after three decades of retirement has sharpened her old skills.

Helen sits next to him on the couch, counting the number of breaths he takes over sixty seconds, and then multiplying it by his tidal volume for the minute ventilation.

It isn’t the first time she has been in a situation like this. And as in theatres of war, while it’s easy to be strong in the moment, the silence later will pull you apart.

“I want you to do your best and breathe,” she commands. “Don’t worry about anything else. Just relax and focus on breathing. I’m going for help.” She takes a small, floral handkerchief from her pocket and puts it into the fish tank. “So you don’t forget me.” It’s a gesture she remembers from a film she saw late one night on BBC One, The English Patient.

“Meadowpark Hospital, quick as you can!” The driver flings his sandwich onto the empty passenger seat and a piece of tomato goes flying. The car lurches violently as he crunches through the gears.

When they approach town, the driver flashes his lights at anyone obeying the speed limit, and⁠—after checking for cars⁠—roars through red lights honking his horn. A moment later, as they’re overtaking a bread van on the wrong side of the road, the rest of his sandwich flops onto the floor. He ignores it.

When they stop hard at the entrance, Helen hands the driver a large note and says, “It’s people like you who won the war.”

“I’m afraid half of these things are controlled substances.” “Yes, yes I know,” Helen says, sliding an old, laminated ID card from her purse. “But I’m a doctor.” The nurse takes the card. Looks at the photo of a woman in her late fifties, then at the person standing before her. “Dr. Helen Cartwright,” Kathy reads aloud. “Head of Pediatric Cardiology, Sydney General Hospital.” “That’s right. Not just an old woman after all.” “Cartwright . . .” Kathy says slowly. “Helen Cartwright . . . why does your name seem familiar?” “The Cartwright Aortic Stem Valve. I invented it in 1983.”

Dr. Jamal stares at her for a moment and Helen can tell that he’s thinking. “Why don’t we go to the staff cafeteria. They have coffee there and we can talk.” “But I’m in a hurry . . .” He leans in, and in a low voice says, “I understand that, Dr. Cartwright, but I need to know more if I’m going to help you.”

“But as it might have some bearing on the prognosis, I should probably mention that he’s quite small.” Dr. Jamal seems suddenly concerned. “Pediatric?” “Smaller . . .” He sits up. “A neonate?” There is panic in his voice now. “No, no, nothing like that. The patient is naturally small because at this moment in time he happens to be a mouse.”

“Well . . .” Dr. Jamal goes on, still looking at his phone. “If it is just a respiratory infection, an antibiotic will clear it up within a few days according to TheDailySqueak.com.” He looks at Helen, touches the sleeve of her coat. “This might seem like a stupid question . . .” “There’s no such thing as stupid questions, Dr. Jamal, only stupid answers.”

“Mice are classified as exotic pets, and the closest surgery is Oxford, and they were closed when I telephoned, with no emergency number on their answer machine.”

Helen looks at her hands. They are shaking. Dr. Jamal cups them in his. “If we can’t take care of our own when the time comes, then what’s the point of it all, eh?”

“Oh, and what’s the name of the patient, Dr. Cartwright?” “Sipsworth,” she says, feeling the pocket where her handkerchief is usually balled up. “Sipsworth Cartwright.”

He turns to Helen. “How old is Sipsworth?” “No idea.” “If you had to guess . . .” “My book says that mice live for about two years, so I would estimate that he’s just over one. He has energy⁠—but there’s also wisdom.”

Dr. Jamal leans in to see the mouse in more detail. “They’re sweet little creatures, aren’t they? Is tachypnea normal? I see his body . . .” “Oh yes,” Helen tells him. “Their hearts beat three hundred to seven hundred times a minute.” “To think that such a tiny muscle can work at such a pace for what, two years?”

“Do you believe in God, Dr. Jamal?”

“Well, I don’t,” Helen says abruptly. “Not that it matters one way or another . . . but it’s organic engineering like this that keeps me guessing about a higher power.”

Helen turns to the young cardiologist. “There should be a golden mouse statue outside every hospital . . . every time we take a pill or get a vaccination it’s all because of mice. Billions must have died over the years in labs, billions! If only people realised,” Helen goes on, “that their loved ones are most likely alive or not in pain because of mice.”

“What about mouse drugs?” “I’m coming to that. The receptionist you called utterly useless on the answer machine will arrive in a few hours on her motorbike with a bag containing a bronchodilator in the form of an oral solution, an oral antibiotic, and several syringes for you to draw and administer the medication to the patient, per os.

Do you have enough money to pay the vet?” Helen nods. “I have nine hundred thousand pounds in the bank.” “Well, I don’t think it’s going to be that much . . . but maybe make the woman a sandwich or something? It’s a fifty-minute ride from Oxford. And give her a tenner for petrol. Do you have a ten-pound note?”

when they are on the step, she says, “You’re a good doctor, Dr. Jamal, not because you’re so clever⁠—but because your first instinct is still to help.”

As she watches Dr. Jamal zoom off in his big car, Helen imagines him as an elderly man with a cane, appearing on the floor of her old cardiology wing at Sydney General⁠—and then the duty nurse calling Helen over in the middle of her morning rounds. Would she have listened to his story? There were times, Helen realises then, that she could probably have been kinder to people.

Now Helen is hovering over a city. It could be Sydney, but she’s not sure. It’s neither cold nor windy, just very still, and down below there are people in offices, on trains, sipping coffee, talking into mobile phones, falling in love, falling out of love, trying on shoes in shops⁠—alive because of an old woman, far away in England, who has recently adopted a mouse, turned vegetarian, broken the law, and gotten a library card . . . as though preparing to start her life all over again.

“You know what your gift to the world is, Sipsworth?” Helen asks him. “It’s that you bring out the best in people.”

Helen peers down at the place where she caught herself. But instead of two plastic traps, conjured by memory to fill the darkness ahead, her eye is drawn to something outside, pressing against the French door, a small figure, a smudge against the falling snow, but plump and grey, with one paw on the glass.