Inchworm E-Book

Ann Kelley

• Herausgeber: Luath Press
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2013

Beschreibung

Gussie is a twelve year old girl from St. Ives in Cornwall. She is passionate about learning, wildlife, poetry, literature, and she wants to be a photographer when she grows up. But her dreams were put on hold as she struggled with a serious heart condition. Now she has got what she needed: a heart and lung transplant. But it isn't working out quite the way she thought. Firstly she has to leave her beloved Cornwall to live in London and in the months following her operation she is unable to do very much except read and adopt a stray kitten, but she could do that when she was sick. She craves adventure and experience beyond her four walls, until, that is, she hits upon a plan - she is going to get her divorced parents to fall in love again. It's not going to be easy, her mum is still dating her doctor boyfriend and despises Gussie's father, who happens to be living with his new girlfriend - the Snow Queen. But Gussie is a determined girl and there is only one thing that could stop her now. REVIEWS 'Not many books around that you can give to anyone of any age and be sure of an appreciative audience, but Kelley does it beautifully in this, the third in the Gussie series, following the well-deserved Costa Category award for The Bower Bird.' SUE BAKER's Personal Choice, PUBLISHING NEWS' A great book.' THE INDEPENDENT 'You have to read it, and it will stay with you forever!' TEEN TITLES BACK COVER I ask for a mirror. My chest is covered in wide tape, so I can't see the clips or incision but I want to see my face, to see if I've changed. Gussie wants to go to school like every other teenage girl and find out what it's like to kiss a boy. But she's just had a heart and lung transplant and she's staying in London to recover from the operation. Between managing her parents' love lives, waiting for her breasts to finally start growing, and trying to hide a destructive kitten in her dad's expensive bachelor pad, Gussie makes friends with another cardio pation int the hospital, and finds out that she can't have everything her heart desires...

Leseprobe

ANN KELLEY is a photographer and prize-winning poet who once nearly played cricket for Cornwall. She has previously published collections of photographs and poems, an audio book of cat stories, and some children’s fiction, including the award-winning Gussie series. She lives with her second husband and several cats on the edge of a cliff in Cornwall where they have survived a flood, a landslip, a lightning strike and the roof blowing off. She runs courses for aspiring poets at her home, writing courses for medics and medical students, and speaks about her poetry therapy work with patients at medical conferences.

The Bower Birdis the sequel toThe Burying Beetle was shorlisted for the Brandford Boase Award and was selected for the WHSmith New Talent Initiative.

The Bower Bird won the 2007 Costa Children's Award and the UK literacy Association Book Award. The Bower Bird also won the 2008 Cornish Literary Guild's Literary Salver.

Other Books in the Gussie Series

The Burying Beetle

The Bower Bird

A Snail’s Broken Shell

Other Books by Ann Kelley, published by Luath Press

Runners

The Light at St Ives

Praise for Inchworm

There are not many books around that you can give to anyone of any age and be sure of an appreciative audience, but Kelley does it beautifully in this, the third in the Gussie series, following the well-deserved Costa Category award for The Bower Bird. Sue Baker, PUBLISHING NEWS

From the first line of this book I was captivated! Gussie is a fantastic heroine – innocent, brave and optimistic at all times. She seems so fragile, a kind soul you can’t help but root for, someone who doesn’t want to be pitied. Never before has a book caused me such appreciation of being healthy and alive. It was engrossing and poetic – it grabs you and won’t let go. There is lots of hidden humour, small clever things that Gussie says that at first you might not notice, but if you read it again, it will give you the giggles… This is definitely one of my top ten books. You have to read it, and it will stay with you forever! TEEN TITLES

Overall, a great book, I certainly wouldn’t mind finding it in my stocking this Christmas. THE INDEPENDENT

… mature, beautifully written. THE IRISH WORLD

She succeeds in underlining the fragility of life but more importantly in celebrating the miraculous beauty of the world around us. INIS

Praise for The Bower Bird

It’s a lovely book – lyrical, funny, full of wisdom. Gussie is such a dear – such a delight and a wonderful character, bright and sharp and strong, never to be pitied for an instant. HELEN DUNMORE

An inspirational tale of youthful spirit in the face of adversity…What makes this book intriguing and brilliant is Gussie’s vitality and high spirits. CORNWALL TODAY

The author as artist evokes people and places with delicacy, humour and truth – a novel of outstanding beauty. THE 2007 COSTA BOOK AWARDS

Praise for The Burying Beetle

Many thanks for sending The Burying Beetle. I started reading it this morning before breakfast and ignored hunger pangs to finish it off in great sadness. It’s quite beautifully done. Sue Baker, PUBLISHING NEWS

This is a special book, the one you come across in a hundred, the one you will read and reread, a slow, savouring, enjoyable novel. Marion Whybrow, ST IVES TIMES & ECHO

Acutely observed, tender, funny and very moving. Michael Foreman

I am going to get this book no matter what. I will have this book. Stephen Perkin, age 14

Obvious comparisons to Mark Haddon… Sue Baker, PUBLISHING NEWS

Watch out for… Grown-ups rushing to borrow their children’s books (again) when The Burying Beetle by Ann Kelley is published. THE HERALD MAGAZINE

…the same clear, direct perspective as Cassandra Mortmain in Dodie Smith’s I Capture the Castle – and she’s in a fairly similar situation too, living in the country with an eccentric parent. PUBLISHING NEWS

There is a delightful joy in words, being alive, and in nature. The storyline is minimal, understated and secondary to the world of thoughts and the imagination. This is a rare and unusual novel. Sophie Smiley, SCHOOL LIBRARIAN JOURNAL

Inchworm

ANN KELLEY

LuathPress Limited

EDINBURGH

www.luath.co.uk

First published 2008

This edition 2009

eBook 2013

ISBN (print): 978-1-906817-12-1

ISBN (eBook): 978-1-909912-50-2

The author’s right to be identified as author of this book under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 has been asserted.

© Ann Kelley 2008

Contents

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Enjoyed The Burying Beetle?

Other Books from Ann Kelley

Many thanks to Bella, Simon, Sonny, Eiofe and Jake Hassett, Dr Kate Dalziel, Lisa Innes, Alan Naftalin, and Chloe Flora Foreman for inspiration, ideas and advice. And all friends and family who made suggestions and let me steal words out of their mouths.

To all organ donors and their families.

Thank you for the gift of hope.

PROLOGUE

The unexamined life is a life not worth living–SOCRATES

ALISTAIR SWERVES TOmiss a huge heap of something in the middle of the road. It’s3a.m., the dead of night, the end of the year.

‘What the…?’

Mum stirs in the front passenger seat. ‘There’s another.’

‘What is it?’

‘Looks like elephant shit,’ I say.

Alistair winds down the window. Mum says, ‘Smells like elephant shit.’

Around the bend we come across them. Trunk to tail, the troupe tiptoe silently through the sleeping London street.

‘A circus?’

‘It’s lucky to see elephants,’ I say. I need all the luck I can get. I am on my way to have a heart and lung transplant.

CHAPTER ONE

Intensive Therapy Unit

MY FIRST THOUGHTSon waking are – Where are my cats? I feel no pain but I do have tubes coming out of every orifice, plus one or two new holes in my chest and other places. My throat is sore and I can’t talk. Mummy is here wearing a hospital gown and surgical mask, though I can still see her tears, and Daddy looks anxiously through the glass door. He can’t come in because he has bugs up his nose.

It’s several days since the transplant. I am pretty drugged up and sleep a lot but everything went well, according to my cardiac surgeon. I have lots of nurses. Someone watches me all the time. It’s like having slaves. They turn me, wash me, change my dressings, take my temperature and blood pressure about a million times a day. There are machines all around me, monitoring all my bodily functions. I have catheters and bags of liquids going in and out of me, but I am now breathing without mechanical assistance. Various drugs are being fed into my veins. I feel sleepy but contented, not worried. The physiotherapist comes to make me cough. She calls me Gorgeous Gussie. She makes me laugh and it hurts.

Daddy strokes my hand. His nose germs have gone. There’s a canula taped onto the back of my hand. He keeps forgetting and knocking it. It stings. I glare at him and he apologises.

Thoughts flutter in my head and out again like a flock of pigeons rising from earth in a panicked bunch, like tickertape: loose sheets of paper snatched by the breeze.

Alistair cannot come into the Intensive Therapy unit, even though he’s a doctor, because he isn’t related. He waves through the window at me, blows kisses and gives the thumbs up sign.

I sleep and I am in a ball of pain. I am everyone who has lived, who is living now, who is going to live, and we are all in pain and this ball of pain is God. I am God. And the pain is everlasting. But with all my strength and power I force the pain into millions of parts, millions of people sharing the ball of pain, and I force the pain into a flat line of time – past, present and future. I am God, and God is everyone, and we all share the pain.

I open my eyes and see nurses, my invention, sharing my pain.

Was it a nightmare? It seems too real; I am still God, I am still in pain, but the pain is less, fading. There is a dreadful stench, like a dead elephant. I dare not close my eyes because I am terrified. It’s then that I remember, I’ve had this dream before. It is only a dream.

Room 3, B Ward

When I can talk again, I ask my nurse, Katy, if she is real. She laughs.

‘I was last time I looked,’ she says.

‘Is there a horrid smell?’

She sniffs. ‘No more than usual,’ She is doing something to myIVline. I suddenly start to cry.

‘Gussie, what is it, darling?’

‘I had a nasty dream. It was awful. And I…’

I’m afraid I blubber.

‘Nightmares are common after transplant, I’m afraid. Lots of people get them. You mustn’t worry, they’ll go away.’

I ask for a mirror. My chest is covered in a wide tape,so I can’t see the clips or incision but I want to see my face, to see if I’ve changed.

I have – I’m pink! Pink cheeks! Pink lips! Normal coloured. Not blue any more. I look normal. I don’t know whose heart and lungs I have inherited. It feels weird, very weird: not quite a robot but someone else’s heart and lungs working inside me, attached to my veins and arteries. Like putting a new engine in a clapped-out car. I was clapped-out, breathless all the time, fainting, and my heart racing like a steam train going through a tunnel. Chest pains, palpitations, nausea, dizziness, exhaustion, headaches, cyanosis, the usual stuff. I can’t wait to try out my new motor. Will I have the donor’s memories or habits? Perhaps I’ll start scratching my bum or tapping my foot. I could blame all my bad habits on my donor! Perhaps I will suddenly crave Brussels sprouts or black olives, perhaps I’ll be able to speak Russian or be mad on motor racing or Manchester United? If my donor was unhappy, will I have her bad memories? I hope she wasn’t allergic to cats; what a terrible thought. At pre-op meetings I was told that I wouldn’t acquire any of a donor’s traits. The heart is a pump and the lungs are bellows: they don’t carry memory. It’s a myth, they said. I won’t suddenly be an expert on quantum mechanics. Shame.

I don’t feel like a different person. My eyes look the same. It’s the same old Gussie staring out of them. Maybe I look a little older. I might start growing now, growing tits and hips and pubic hair. Getting taller. Putting on weight.

‘If I asked the doctors, do you think I could see my old heart and lungs, Mum?’

‘You gruesome little beast, no, I shouldn’t think so.’

‘Oh, why not?’ It would be fascinating to see my old organs, to see the disease I was born with. I hope they are going to keep them to show medical students.

‘Let’s concentrate on looking after the new organs, shall we?’ says one of the nurses, Katy, who has just done a blood test and is now is doing something to myIVlines.

I have the same hallucination as I had before. It’s so scary. I hate it. I’m having an anti-psychosis drug to make the horrors go away.

Mum brings in some music for me, with ear phones. I don’t know what it is, but Alistair sent it. It’s Handel’s Arias for opera or something, very soothing. He said to listen to it when I go to sleep and then the horrors won’t come back.

I sleep and dream I’m running along Porthmeor Beach, with my cats following me. The sky is pink and the sea flat. Suddenly an elephant appears, swimming majestically, then another and another. They form a circle and raise their trumpets and squirt water into the sky, like an illustration in a Babar story. I wake feeling wonderful, sore but happy. I can breathe, fill my new lungs; soon I’ll be able to run along the beach again.

I can’t wait to go home to my cats, my darling Charlie and bossy Flo and scaredy-cat Rambo. To see Brett and my new family: Claire and Moss, Gabriel, Troy and Phaedra, and Fay, my great Aunt Fay. I’ll be able to go to school. I am so grateful to my donor and his/her family. Without them I would not be alive. And suddenly I am in tears for that dead person and her grieving family and friends.

It rains every day but I love the raindrops running down the hospital window, the blurred bones of leafless trees. I love the starlings waddling across the grey grass; a robin’s red breast the only colour in the January landscape, like a still fromDoctor Zhivago, the sky a khaki grey-green; I’m growing fond of the muffled sound of a helicopter landing with someone arriving for a transplant, or maybe the transplant coordinator delivering an icebox with organs in.

Today’s biopsy shows no signs of rejection, no inflammation.

My first walk: I’m helped, of course, but to be vertical and walking is marvellous. I don’t feel as breathless as I didBT(Before Transplant). A whole load of tubes, like a milking machine, accompanies me. The cardiac monitor has been unplugged, so I can move about but I feel woozy and have to get back to my bed, my safe island.

Later I find myself talking to my new heart and lungs as if they are visitors and I want them to feel at home. In fact they are more like adopted children, who will settle down and learn to love me as I learn to live with them, hopefully. Otherwise – disaster! ‘Now I hope you don’t miss your other body too much, though I’m sure you will for a while, until you get used to being inside me. I promise to look after you. I’ll do plenty of exercise and have my teeth checked regularly so I don’t get infections. I’ll eat all the right foods and never eat smoked salmon or unpasteurised cheese.’ (I will have to avoid food poisoning as I am immunosuppressed owing to all the antibiotics etc that I have to take. At the moment I am pumped full of painkillers, Septrin, cyclosporine, all sorts of drugs with long names.)

‘I can’t take you to a foreign country for a year,’ I tell my new organs. ‘I can’t remember why, but that’s all right because we’re going to live in Cornwall, and that’s like a foreign country. It’s got banana trees and palm trees.’ I press my hand against my chest and say, ‘I promise you you’ll love it. I’ll never eat shellfish or blue cheese or rare meat. And no soft eggs.’

Bloody hell, am I going to have to survive on vegetable soup?

If the heart cannot feel why do we say heartfelt? Deep in my heart? Heart throb? Heartache? Heartbroken? Fainthearted? Eat your heart out? Lose my heart to…? Set my heart on doing something? Braveheart? With all my heart? (I am told that because of some surgical procedure I will feel no pain from my new heart, so no heartache then.)

I’ve asked Daddy to lend me a camera – I left mine in Cornwall – so I can record what goes on here in hospital. He gives me one of his own precious cameras – an old Leica. It’s fiddly to load the film but it’s smaller than my Nikkormat and not as heavy. It has to be sprayed with disinfectant before I can use it. Hope it doesn’t harm the works. I make portraits of all the nurses and doctors who come into the room, the cleaner, the physio, my pale-blue room, the machines behind my bed, the view through the window, and Mum. Mum has lots of grey hairs. Shall I tell her? She looks older and anxious, but she’s always looked anxious.

I’m not allowed out of my room yet. It’s like being in prison. But I have mail!

Der Gussie,

How ar yu? I am good. My rabits and duks are good. My cats are good. Zennor is good. She et wun ov Claire’s best shoos. I hope you will get beeter and I will sea yu sooon.

Luv,

Gabriel xx

(He has drawn a picture of his puppy chewing a shoe. It was in the same envelope as Fay’s Get Well Soon card that had a lovely drawing of a tabby cat on it by an artist called Gwen John.)

My dearest Gussie,

I hear you are doing very well and making a good recovery. It will be lovely to see you again – my little great niece! We will have great times when you come home. Do you like the ballet? I can take you if you like, with Phaedra (if she’s not surfing). There’s a good Dutch dance company performing in Truro in the spring. Hopefully you will be back by then. My naughty cat Six-toes killed one of the chicks – the black one. She is banished from the garden now and has to stay indoors. She is very cross as you may imagine.

Get well quickly, my brave little darling, we are all thinking of you,

Lots of love,

Fay xxx

PSClaire, Moss, Phaedra and Troy all send love and kisses.

They had all put messages on the card:

Masses of love, thinking of you, Claire and all the Darlings. xxx

Be good, love Phaedra. xxxxxxxxxx

YAY GUSSIE!!! – Troy x

Looking forward to seeing you soon, lots of love, Moss. xxx

On a home-made card covered in stuck-on silver stars and pink hearts:

Dear Gussie,

I hope you are feeling better. I can’t wait to see you again. When are you coming home to Cornwall?SCHOOL IS HORRIBLE. MY SISTER IS HORRIBLE. I am feeling dark night blue without you.

Can’t wait to see your scar, is it brill?

Love, Bridget xxxxxxx

(Bridget lives in colour, thinks and feels in colour. Not like ordinary people who see red, feel blue, are yellow-bellied. She has an existence made up of an artist’s palette of vivid colours. A weird and interesting child with a purple pain in the neck of a sister, Siobhan, who has her eye on Brett, and anything in trousers.)

Bridget has put a small gold paper star inside the envelope in a separate folded up piece of tissue. When I unfold the tissue there’s a message that says:

To my gold star best friend Gussie. xxxxxxxxxxx

A card with a print of a Matisse bluebird paper cut-out:

Howyadoin Guss?

It’s cold here and there’s lots of rain so we haven’t been birding lately and I can’t use the big telescope. Buddy has flown. He came back once or twice to visit. Made loads of racket so’s I’d go out and see him, but I think he’s truly independent now. Probably joined the large flock up the road. Will you be able to start school when you come back?

Hope you’re not feeling too crook.

Miss you Guss,

Brett x

On the back of a picture postcard showing the harbour, St Ives:

Dear Gussie,

Forgive my poor handwriting. It is because I cannot see very well.

You will be happy to hear that Charlie, Flo and Rambo are all eating well and not moping too much without you. They are getting on quite well with my Shandy, so don’t you worry about them. I am having my eye op soon and the cats will go to the Darlings until you come home.

That’s all for now dear, but I hope you are getting on well and I’ll see you soon,

Love,

Mrs Thomas

It’s strange seeing Daddy after all this time. He looks thinner than I remember and he’s going grey at the front and sides. He’s more handsome than ever, even with his chin all bristly. I make a photo of him, finishing the roll of film.

‘My best side,’ he insists. He brought a huge bunch of red roses but wasn’t allowed to give them to me. Flowers aren’t allowed, or cards. Germs. Mum has to read my cards, then take them away.

Daddy has taken my film to be processed.

Alistair has to go back to Cornwall to work soon, but Mummy will stay in a hospital flat to be close to me. Daddy said she could stay in his flat but she declined. I don’t think he has a girlfriend at the moment, or not one he’s mentioned anyway, but Mum says she’d rather be here so she can be close to me. He’s off on one of his business trips soon and so we can stay at his place for at least a couple of weeks when I get out of hospital. We have to stay near the hospital for three months so the doctors can check on my progress, make sure I don’t reject the organs, and ensure the drugs are working. There are lots of drugs to take, five times a day at first. If you shook me I’d rattle. I’m going to have to be very careful to take them at the same time each day. Mum will take charge of my medicines and has a chart so she can tick them off as I swallow them. My scar is sore, of course, and it will take about a year before it fades. Maybe by the time I’ve grown breasts and can wear a bikini on the beach it won’t be so bad. Or maybe I’ll start a fashion of wearing loads of clothes on the beach, hiding my body completely, The Mystery Girl. Actually, if I wore a one-piece swimsuit you couldn’t see the scar at all. Anyway, I like scars: they’re like badges of honour or medals showing how brave you’ve been, and how experienced in the knocks life gives you.

There’s a quote from someone in one of the hospital leaflets that says about a transplant patient,‘You have traded death for a lifetime of medical management.’

I am allowed to have a bath today. I can’t believe how easy it is to breathe. It makes me realise how ill I felt before the operation. I do exercises to strengthen my heart muscle. I hold up my hands and admire my newly pink fingernails. So lovely! Maybe I’ll stop biting them now. Pink – my favourite colour.

But the best thing is feeling energetic. I can’t believe how well I feel.

There was a little boy onICU– Jordan, he was six – but I didn’t get to know him. His operation wasn’t successful; there were complications and he died last night. The nurses were crying.

There was also a boy of about fourteen, Precious. What an unusual, beautiful name! He’s too hunky to have a name like Precious. It’s no stranger than Bonny, River, Sky or Summer, though, or Hope, Joy or Faith. He had his transplant (heart only) the day after me so he is in a similar state of recovery. We see each other most days in physiotherapy sessions and clinics and support group meetings.

He is from Zimbabwe and his mother is staying in a hospital flat. Precious speaks excellent English in a soft whispering voice. He was born healthy but developed life-threatening heart problems last year and needed a transplant to survive. He has some family in England luckily and was able to wait here for his donor heart. His skin is the colour of treacle toffee and he has a wide-open face and smile. He is a good runner, or used to be, he tells me, and hopes to be again.

I have offered to teach him to play Scrabble. Mum is delighted that I have found a friend. It takes the pressure off her. She spends a lot of time talking to Agnes, his mother. She told my mum that his father, a doctor, is still in Zimbabwe with their two daughters and she worries about them because there are food and fuel shortages there and the people are rioting.

I sleep and dream I am unable to walk or run; I am in a wheelchair, strapped in and cannot move. I cannot breathe. I wake sobbing, relieved.

My cardiac surgeon, Mr Sami is very good looking. He’s Egyptian and is like a Pharaoh, with a hooked nose like my cat Charlie, dark eyes and thick lashes. Mum thinks he’s hunky and she practically salivates whenever he visits me. He’s pleased with my progress.

‘My star patient’, he calls me. I bet he says that to all his patients. There’s usually about six other doctors with him but I don’t know their names.

My fingers and fingernails look normal – not clubbed any more and no longer blue. I’m pink all over!

Mummy reads to me each day fromThe House at Pooh Corner,which is the book I chose to bring with me to hospital,or tells me stories about when I was little or when she was a child. It is one of the compensations of being post-operative. I can’t get enough of it: being read to is my favourite thing in the world. Mum is particularly good at it – reading out loud. She does the voices and really gets into the heart of it. She also likes Winnie the Pooh even though we both know most of the stories off by heart. By heart – what a strange expression. Will my new heart be a good learner?

She’s reading me the first story where Winnie the Pooh is trying to look like a small black cloud to fool the bees, and he rolls in mud and then uses a blue balloon to float up as high as the honeycomb. Oh, you have to read it.