Sonia

Sonia appeared in the foyer an hour before closing one Wednesday evening. She claimed she was a scrub nurse with ten gold medals for playing football and was the President of the Portuguese Association of Nurses of Anaesthesia, Reanimation and Pain Control.

By way of introduction she presented me with a historical novel about Elizabeth Woodville, wife of King Edward IV and Queen consort of England. Sonia had signed and inscribed the book extensively on the fly-leaf but its spine was barely broken.

“Thank you,” I said. “Have you read it?”

“No,” she replied, “I don’t need to. I know the story already.”

Sonia told me she had come over from Portugal to work in London and then her employment agency had told her about “a lovely little hospital only ten minutes from Gatwick”. Which was how she had ended up living and working in Goring. Sonia said she had recently moved to Brighton because she had found Goring too constricting.

“It is very small”, she explained, “and always the same people.”

She told me that in Goring she had lived with a man who ran a burger van on the seafront. Although he worked at night she would wake him up at 5.15 a.m every morning. When the burger man asked her why she was waking him up at 5.15 a.m every morning she had told him:

“Darling, life starts now.”

She pronounces the word ‘darling’ with a k on the end instead of a g. Like a cold war spy.

All of the above takes up only the first few minutes of our meeting and the entire time she is standing in the office doorway sucking on a diminishing orange Chupa Chup. Within five minutes she’s got her foot on the arm of my chair and is hoisting up her skirt to show me a scar on her knee. She had to have an operation after tearing a ligament and has been signed off work for six weeks. This is week five and she’s “going mad with boredom”.

Sonia holds court, telling one story after another featuring a bewildering cast of characters from Mr. French, the gynaecology cosultant, to Mr. Crowley at the employment agency via Mary Queen of Scots and the Duke of Braganza. She gives me an account of Portuguese colonialism along with her last six years employment history and the names of all her teachers at school and college. She even does all their voices and mannerisms. At one point she has her face inches from mine as she acts out a scene where her physiotherapist is telling her off for ‘not taking it easy’ while her operation heals.

“You’re a force of nature,” I tell her.

“Yes, I know, deal with it,” she says.

I’ll be honest with you. Sonia is my kind of woman. Absolutely mental. If you wanted to introduce someone into your life to shake things up, Sonia would be that person. You’d never get a moment’s peace. Within a year you’d be contemplating suicide. Or murder. If you were that way inclined.

Sonia talks non-stop for half an hour during which time she also introduces me to her ‘mummy’ (“Darling, why didn’t you tell me you were coming home to visit? Everyone will be in church now, I can’t call them.”) and her father (“Don’t become a photographer, you’ll starve. Learn a real profession.” And later, “Why become a nurse? Your tutors say you should become a lawyer.” The young Sonia’s response: “I want to do something physical.” Father: “But why?” Sonia: “Because it’s the only thing they said I could never do.”)

She tells me about some of her patients and one man in particular who told her to go back where she came from.

“He’s not so smart when he’s cut open like a fish,” she says.

At first I think Sonia is an extrovert. Then I think she’s mad. By the end of our time together I’m thinking she’s most likely a bit of both but most of what she’s told me is probably true.

“I’m a very good story teller,” she says, sitting down uninvited.

She is. I had been thinking the same thing myself after realising I wasn’t in any real danger. I suggest to her that she’s one of those people who are too intelligent for their own good, who find most other people frustrating because they’re not as sharp as they are.

“Not at all.” She disagrees, but doesn’t expand, doesn’t skip a beat, starts in on the next story. She explains to me how the Portuguese empire took over the world by marrying members of other royal families:

“Hey, look at this pretty castle! Wouldn’t you love to live in a castle like this? Do you have any sons or daughters?” Apparently Portugal has a lot of pretty castles.

She goes on to tell me the story of a courtier who was having an affair with both the Queen of England and her maid, simultaneously. Sonia pulls the orange Chupa Chup from her mouth and holds it before her.

“This man,” she says, fixing the lollipop with narrowed eyes, “this spy, was in love with the two most important women in England.” And then with a shrug, she plugs him back into her mouth. He would have been no match for Sonia. “What’s between a pair of legs?” she asks me abruptly. “Say the first thing that comes into your head.”

I tell her I’d rather not. She looks satisfied and explains to me how a person’s response to this question determines what kind of personality they have. It’s a test. She informs me that I have passed but won’t elucidate.

After an hour or so I tell Sonia I have to lock up the centre now and as she gets up to leave she asks me how she can become a volunteer here. I’m loathe to just hand her an application form. If it was down to me I’d sign her up in a second and marry her in a heartbeat, but I’m a terrible judge of character. Instead I suggest she comes back when the other manager is on duty. She rejects this idea.

“No. I believe in fate. Fate puts people together. I come back another day. Goodnight, Paul.”

Portugal’s loss is England’s gain, I think watching her away down the path. Long reign Queen Sonia, Portugal’s mad sovereign of the night.