Chapter Six

Study – The Role Of Women In “Healing Hands”

…in particular, interesting to note how female characters in the early stages are used as palettes of the of the emotional spectrum, from which the male characters extract a selection and paint their narratives thus – we see this in particular with the weaker male characters, whose mental states appear to fluctuate based on the “personality” of the last female they have been in contact with.

This has given rise to the feminist criticism by scholars such as Ballantyne that women in the novel are used as mere plot devices through which the men assert themselves and mould to. However, though Ballantyne structures her analysis in the form of criticism, it is my belief that this is overly simplistic – there is evidence from the previous work of the author that gender differences are expressed through conflict and interplay between the sexes – the reactions shown in “Healing Hands” are not in any way dismissive or derogatory, and instead serve to enhance the themes of opposed absolutes, of constructed realities. Indeed, some of the female characters seem to react to the men they are around, as exemplified by the dinner scene which we shall examine in most detail first…

…

“And then he picks himself off the ground and starts jabbering off at me about how sorry he is, and how I shouldn’t accuse him of things, and how he’s only an innocent guy like everyone else.”

She rattled the mug a little on the table to make it seem like she was still shaken, though her face bore little of the shock it had the night previous. Not that that mattered, as she cradled the phone with her spare hand.

“Oh, and then he starts going on about some girl or other. You know, as if there’s only one girl in town and everyone knows who she is. I tell you, it was really scary.”

…

Charles cannot imagine being more bored. His eldest sister is effortlessly boring.

“Tell me about it tomorrow? I’ll be over mid-morning. How’s Daniel, anyway? Is he back yet?”

She says something. It is vague and unimportant, like most things that are said on the telephone after the first three minutes of speech. He drifts into autopilot, only waking again at the rising inflection in her speech that indicates a question. He filters the word ‘dinner’ out of it.

“Last night was pleasant, I suppose, Mary sends her regards. Actually, one of Peter’s patients appeared and spooked him. I couldn’t do what he does, you know. It’s a miracle he hasn’t yet gone mad!”

He nods as a woman walks past his desk. She smiles, clutches the folders a little more tightly to her chest, and walks on.

…

The door creeps open slightly and Lilian walks in, laden as usual with another dollop of work.

“Just leave them on the desk, Lily, I’ll have to deal with them later.”

“Of course, sir.”

It was odd – he felt guiltier because he didn’t have any desire for his secretary than he would have if he was having an affair with her. He felt as if he was letting everyone down by not fulfilling the stereotype. Lilian seemed not to mind. It was probably for the best. The door slowly drew shut, and despite his wish to leave them until later, he took the top folder off and withdrew the files to see what had come his way.

Invoices. This wasn’t his department. He picked up the phone and speed-dialled an internal line.

…

Thank Christ. Charles praised an unseen spectre as the call waiting light began to flicker.

“Sorry, sis, but I’ve got a call coming through and I need to take it.”

This was a lie. It could just as well have been catering and he’d have taken the call. He rushed a goodbye and switched over.

“Doeman.”

“Charles? It’s Jack, I think I’ve been given the wrong files again. Invoices from that transfer with Culinary Global?”

“Sure, they’re mine. I’ll come by and pick them up.”

The woman walks back past him, unladen. He watches her slink off towards her antechamber.

…

His eyes warm her back as she closes the door behind herself, but it’s an uncomfortable warmth. The kind you got off a hairdryer if you left it on for too long, or from standing behind a glass window on a hot day. She is reminded yet again what a bad idea it was to ever attach herself to a man. Not that it is of any consequence now. She has fifteen years of work left in her, and only six years worth of care. As she turns around, the only personal item in her office catches her eye – a portrait of a Japanese geisha.

For a moment, she wonders if her superiors would find seppuku an honourable way for her to go. She doubts it. The phone bites the air, and she’s back to the grind again.

…

He knows she is still out there. He still cares.

…

Grey slapped Healing Hands shut, the last words of chapter six still ringing slightly in his mind. Having already read the book through once, foresight prevented things from seeming particularly tense. He took one look at the tired, smoky suit hung on his wardrobe door, and reached for the light. Darkness was kinder.