Anthem for Jackson Dawes

by Celia Bryce

  She swallowed. ‘Go on, then.’

  He lay on his back again. There were a few seconds of silence, as if he was preparing himself, gazing into the distance as if another world lay there. ‘There was a famine in the land,’ he began slowly, lowering his voice, making it sound much, much older, deeper, yet lilting like the tune from a song Megan had never heard before. ‘And for months, no rain.’ He raised his eyes as if searching for clouds, praying for rain.

  Where did he get that voice? Making him sound so different – someone from another place, another time. This wasn’t the boy she knew. This was an old man from somewhere back in history. How did he do that?

  ‘Day after day, the sun burn in the cloudless skies.’ Jackson raised his hand to the ceiling, made a sun of it. ‘The grass parch, like a coffee berry.’

  Coffee berry? What was one of those? Like the beans they grind in cafés?

  ‘The trees also parch, and brown, same way, the plants in the trees start to wither away.’ His hand became a tree, dying, shrivelling up, with no water to drink. ‘There was a famine in the land.’ He sat up straight and stopped.

  Megan beamed at him. ‘How d’you do that?’

  Jackson gave her a sheepish smile. ‘Just listen, just copy,’ he answered, in that slow, old way. He went back to his usual voice. ‘I’m trying to sound the way it would in Jamaica, around the fire, at night. No TV, no radio, just stories, under the stars.’ He looked once more at the ceiling as if it were sky, then he grinned and the spell was broken. ‘Mum says that’s how it would’ve been. Probably, anyway. If Jackson T. Dawes was still alive, he would’ve known.’ Jackson let out a small laugh. Wistful almost. ‘Bet he was full of stories.’

  ‘Do you know them off by heart, the ones you tell?’

  ‘Yeah, or I make bits up. As long as it gets to the end. I tell them in a pub near us. Sunday afternoons. They light candles and get it all atmospheric and everything. And there’s these kids who just love listening.’

  ‘Are you not going to finish?’ Wanting to hear him again, wanting the magic of the sound. Feeling like a kid.

  ‘I’m just learning it. It’s hard to keep the accent all the way through a long story.’

  ‘In that case, you have to go,’ Megan said, leaning up on her arm.

  A frown. ‘Why?’

  ‘We’re going to be in trouble if anyone walks in.’

  Jackson’s face lit up. ‘Good. I like trouble.’

  ‘But you’re not going to finish the story,’ she insisted, ‘so there’s no good reason for you to be here, getting into trouble.’

  Jackson sighed. ‘You’re right. None whatsoever, Wig Girl.’ He took a handful of silver hair, pulled it towards him and smiled right into her eyes, so that all she could see were the lights in them, lazy and bright and just for her. Then he dropped his gaze, leaned over so that his head almost touched hers, and brought the hair to his lips, before letting the gleaming strands slowly drift from his fingers.

  ‘I like this,’ he said, picking up some more. ‘Megan Silver, Megan Bright.’

  He was so close she could breathe in the smell of him, the soap, the shower-gel fragrance.

  Just outside, the ward was doing what the ward did. The machines clicking on and off, phones ringing and being answered, babies crying and being shushed, mothers lying tired on their children’s beds, draped gently around them, because they didn’t want to leave them alone. Everything the same as always outside her room, with nurses walking past her open door, too busy to think about what was happening inside.

  ‘We’re going to be in trouble,’ she said at last.

  ‘Again?’ Jackson sighed in a dramatic sort of way, propped himself up on his arm and looked down at her once more. ‘But nobody’s paying any attention,’ he went on. ‘What’s the point of breaking all the rules if no one catches you at it?’

  Megan turned to look at him, at his face, his lips, taking in the smoothness of his head, the gleaming skin, wanting to trail her fingers over him, yet not wanting to in case it would make the dream go away.

  ‘I think something spectacular is called for. So …’ Jackson began to tug at the fastener on his jeans. ‘Now, this is going to bring them running in!’

  ‘What’re you doing?’ Megan shrieked, jumping off the bed. This was no dream. ‘Stop it! Stop it!’

  Jackson burst out laughing. ‘It’s all right, Wig Girl. I’m not that daft. Neither are you.’

  Megan flopped down into her chair and began to laugh till she was almost weak with it. She stopped when she noticed Jackson gazing at her and was caught like a rabbit in the headlights of a car, suspended in the moment, with nothing before, nothing beyond, just waiting, wanting to be trapped for ever in it.

  ‘Another time,’ Jackson said. ‘Another place. And it would be perfect.’

  Megan looked away. Feeling her cheeks burn. Yes. Perfect.

  ‘Got anything to eat? I’m starved.’

  ‘What?’ Megan blinked, confused. Did he never settle, was he never still? Was this all just a joke with him? ‘In there.’

  Jackson made his way around to her locker, but it seemed to take a lot of effort. He stumbled, catching his drip stand on the leg of her bed.

  ‘Watch out!’ Megan cried, as if he was about to fall.

  He gave her a look she’d not seen before, a look which said, Don’t fuss, I’m fine. He began to rummage through her things. ‘No. Nothing here. Never mind; I’m not supposed to have anything to eat, anyway.’

  Megan caught her breath. ‘What?’

  ‘You’re not the only one going for an operation. I’m having one this afternoon.’

  ‘Jackson, stop messing about.’ She tried to sound as if this was just another of his jokes, but when she saw his face, she knew. ‘Are you? Really?’

  ‘Two o’clock.’

  ‘I’d have just let you eat anything you wanted. Why didn’t you say something before?’ He was grinning at her. ‘It’s not funny.’

  ‘Guess what I did this morning before Rooster arrived?’ Megan refused to acknowledge him. He dropped his voice. ‘Found the mortuary. Full of stiffs. All in fridges.’

  ‘You watch too much telly.’

  ‘Have it your own way.’ Jackson glanced at the window and frowned.

  ‘What now?’

  Jackson lowered his voice once more. ‘The sun done gone away, the storm’s coming to the land.’ He grabbed his hat, gestured to the window with it and left.

  Megan glanced at the sky. It was a solid grey slab, full of rain.

  Twelve

  It seemed like hours since Jackson went down for his operation. For a time Megan sat on her bed, trying to draw, but nothing would come. Her mobile chimed. Gemma sent her a whole line of s ready for the next day, and the Twins told her to check out the surgeon. He might be nice.

  They still didn’t know about Jackson. Megan hadn’t told them. She couldn’t decide why, but every time she thought about saying anything, the words just seemed to dry up. Right now, she was glad they didn’t know. The Twins would be sending never-ending texts and she’d have to send never-ending answers.

  Megan checked the time. She listened to some tunes on her iPod. She tried on all her wigs, settling for the silver one again. It didn’t bring Jackson back to the ward any quicker.

  Mum popped in with some cards from various relatives and friends. They went through them together, but Megan couldn’t concentrate, hardly seeing the names, hardly reading the messages. She sent Mum away, ignoring the fact that she hadn’t been there an hour, ignoring the fact that she looked hurt, and wandered down to Jackson’s room, standing there for what seemed like for ever, willing him to come back.

  ‘He’ll be away for quite a bit, Megan.’ Sister Brewster had appeared at her side suddenly, gentle but firm. ‘Come on, now.’

  Her own room was no comfort. Right then she hated it, hated the confinement of it. She listened to the rain as it thundered against the window pane, watched it sheeting down the glas
s, watched great grey puddles, like lakes, grow on the flat roofs.

  Why was everything taking so long? He should have been back before now, shouldn’t he?

  Wandering up and down the corridor later, Megan was aimless as litter. It was a busy day on the ward, with new children coming in, fretful and disoriented, their parents wandering about in a lost, shocked sort of way. Someone new was in Kipper’s bed.

  She needed to escape. ‘Can I go down to the shop? I want to get a magazine,’ she said, marching straight to the Nurses’ Station, which was milling with staff.

  Sister Brewster looked up from the computer in the corner. ‘Of course you can, Megan. Just don’t go wandering off to places you shouldn’t. The operating theatre is strictly out of bounds, as you know, and so is the Recovery Room, which is where Jackson is now.’ She gave her a secretive sort of smile.

  Megan’s eyes filled, but her heart gave a leap of joy. ‘He’s finished?’

  ‘Yes,’ Sister Brewster said, ‘but there’s a while to go yet. Off you go.’

  The shop was on the bottom floor, not far from the main entrance to St Peregrine’s. It was a small place with two or three circular tables. Huddled around one sat a mother and her two children. The woman stared into her cup, hair resting limply on her shoulders, fingernails bitten right down. The children, twin boys, sucked away at bottles of juice, having some kind of battle, nudging at each other with their feet, under the table exchanging sly looks.

  ‘Stop that, now,’ their mother hissed. ‘Or you’ll not get those sweets.’

  A third child lay grizzling in a buggy pushed in beside them. She was sucking at a huge dummy, like Maggie Simpson, her eyes closed, nose wet. Now and then her fist came up to rub at her face, causing it to screw up into an ugly mask.

  As Megan walked past, both boys stopped and gazed at her, wide-eyed. Their mother turned to see why. Megan gave her a grin, shook her head so that the silver wig fanned out around her.

  ‘Don’t stare,’ the mother commanded; words like bullets. ‘Drink your juice.’

  The assistant behind the counter smiled at Megan, eyes crinkling behind thick glasses. A string of pearls sat around her neck, making her look like the Queen. ‘Oooh, I love the silver. Like a Christmas fairy. Where’s your friend?’ she said. ‘He’s not been down today.’

  ‘Having an operation.’

  The assistant’s face fell. ‘Oh, I didn’t know.’ Her cheeks flushed. ‘Poor thing. We’ve missed him. Regular as clockwork, he is.’

  ‘He’s out now,’ Megan rushed on, reassuring her. ‘He’s in Recovery. It won’t be long before he comes back up.’

  The smile returned. ‘That’s good. He’ll be on his feet in no time. Say we’re all asking after him.’ A man arrived at the counter. He was holding a large bag of toffee eclairs and a newspaper. The assistant held out her hand for his money. ‘Can I get those for you, dear? Terrible day, isn’t it? All that rain.’ There was a note of relief in her voice. It seemed that terrible weather was a far safer topic than Jackson being in Recovery.

  Megan made her way past the revolving card stand, the fridge full of fruit snacks and milkshakes, to the rear wall, with its comics, magazines and newspapers. She glanced occasionally through the large windows into the corridor, to see who was outside, knowing that Jackson could be on his way back. He might come past the shop. But he didn’t. Disappointed, she returned to the counter and paid for her magazine.

  ‘Is he not back yet?’ Megan could see that Jackson wasn’t, she could see that his room was empty, but somehow she couldn’t stop herself asking. Maybe they’d put him somewhere else.

  Siobhan grinned. ‘Megan, you’re like a plague with all your questions.’

  ‘So, he’s not back.’

  ‘I promise you’ll be the first to know. But for now you’ll just have to sit and wait.’

  Megan’s mobile hummed. She took it back to her room. ‘Grandad?’

  ‘Just thought I’d give you a ring, see how things are on that ward of yours.’

  His voice was tinny as usual. It was the voice of a frail man, someone who hardly got out of bed because of weakness. Only that wasn’t Grandad at all. He went out every day to the harbour to talk to the fishermen, to watch the seagulls, to make his lists of birds in his little black notebook. Nobody believed he was in his nineties. Today, though, he sounded just a little bit older.

  ‘Is Mrs Lemon there?’ Megan said.

  ‘She’s out at the shops. She says I’m not to get into any trouble while she’s gone. So I rang you. Big day tomorrow, hey?’

  ‘Jackson’s having an operation,’ Megan said, not wanting to talk about having her head cut open, not wanting to worry Grandad, when he was all on his own. ‘He’s been down ages.’

  ‘Oh … well … You’ll see him soon, I’m sure,’ Grandad said. ‘Don’t worry, Pet Lamb. He sounds like a big strong lad. And that Shee-vorn will take care of him, right enough.’

  Rain drummed against the windows, filling the children’s ward with noise. All the lights were on even though it was the middle of the day. Grandad’s voice was buried in the sound and seemed planets away. Megan could see him grasping the phone, like an unexploded bomb, and no Mrs Lemon to keep him right. She should try to get him to ring off. But he was still talking, though his voice was sounding more and more faint.

  ‘I might have to go, Grandad. Jackson’s probably coming back soon.’

  ‘Aye, off you go, see to that lad. Say hello. And look after yourself. We’ll be thinking about you … tomorrow …’

  There was a pause and Megan realised that Grandad was crying, that he couldn’t speak because of it.

  ‘I’ll be fine, Grandad. And soon as I can, I’ll ring you.’

  ‘Pet Lamb,’ he said.

  ‘Put the phone down, Grandad. And fill the kettle for Mrs Lemon coming back. You know how she likes her cup of tea. Tell her I said hello.’

  At last Grandad rang off, but Megan couldn’t settle. She went back to Jackson’s room, sat behind the door, where no one could see her. The place looked huge with no bed in it. All that remained of him was a tissue, which lay crumpled next to his locker. She picked it up and dropped it into the rubbish bin, unable to bear the thought that he might come back to a messy room.

  Megan sat in Jackson’s chair, in the hollow that he’d made, so that it held her, hugging her whole body. She laid her hands on the armrests where his fingers sometimes tapped out a tune, found herself pecking at the wood with her nails. She breathed, slowly and deeply, the air Jackson had breathed that very morning. She could almost feel him there in the room, as if he’d left some part of himself behind, just for her.

  A siren cut through the air. Megan glanced at the window. It was an ambulance, coming in to the Accident and Emergency Department. Jackson had some story about wandering in there one day, and a nurse herding him back out. Megan imagined what would be happening now, pictured a person being carried in on a stretcher, the doctors and nurses flitting about, doing what they do to save a life. The drips, the cardiac monitoring, the blood transfusions, electric-shock treatment. Just like TV.

  When at last she heard them pushing Jackson down the corridor, Megan ran out to see him, pressing back against the wall as he went past. He seemed to be asleep, though a low groan came from him as they swung his bed towards the door.

  ‘Another time, Megan,’ someone said in all the bustle of getting him back into his room, opening both doors, manoeuvring things. ‘Off you go, for now.’

  Later, Megan watched from the doorway as Siobhan moved quietly around Jackson’s bed. Temperature. Pulse. Blood pressure. Fluid charts. Intravenous therapy. She was so familiar with all the words; it was like a new language learned.

  ‘He doesn’t look very well,’ she said, trying not to cry.

  ‘Ach, nobody does after a big operation, Megan. Don’t worry.’

  Jackson was having a transfusion. There was a steady drip, drip of blood from a bag into the see-through chamber, which w
as long like a small, stretched balloon, always half full, always half empty. A giving set, they called it. Each new drop into the chamber pushed another down the see-through tubing into Jackson. Megan watched as one oozed and grew into a small red berry before it fell.

  ‘Will he have some more?’ she asked Siobhan, who was now checking the flow, making marks on a chart.

  ‘I think so,’ the nurse said, smiling. ‘Another unit, I imagine. Well, miss, that’s enough for now. When he wakes up later, you can pop in for a few minutes, so you can.’

  ‘Have I got to wait in my room?’

  ‘Anywhere but here, at the moment. Go on. Off with you!’

  But Siobhan smiled and Megan knew that she wasn’t in trouble, just in the way.

  Later, the ward was quiet. Jackson’s family had left for the night but he was awake, Siobhan told her. ‘You can have five minutes. That’s all. He’s still drowsy.’

  ‘Five minutes,’ Megan promised, making her way quickly to his room, not wanting to waste a second. She stopped in the doorway, not sure if he’d fallen asleep already. The room was lit only from the light above his bed which dropped a halo of gold on to his face.

  ‘Hi.’ Jackson’s voice sounded crusty, but he managed a weak smile.

  ‘Hiya.’ The air was filled with the blinking of a monitor, the click of the drip, and Jackson breathing slowly. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Can’t … feel … anything.’

  ‘Good. That’s good, isn’t it?’

  Jackson made a slight movement of his head, as if it was too heavy to nod or shake.

  ‘Are you too tired? I’ll come back tomorrow. They said I can only stay five minutes.’

  ‘Should’ve told you … something …’ Jackson shifted his hand just a little towards her, as if he didn’t want her to go. His fingers were long and slim, like a musician’s, his palm pale, smooth-looking.