by John King
It didn’t take long for Ruby to get to work, and she was early, sat on the grass to the right of the main entrance and had her breakfast, sipped her coffee and enjoyed the caffeine straightening things out. The bus stop was next to her, but empty, daisies and ants moving through the grass, stubble on a man’s head, and she dug into the roll, Dilly always loaded them up, thick slices of Cheddar that said so much about the woman, the same quality that let those boys go free. It didn’t matter that she was a nosy parker, a tough woman with her arms crossed, bossing Mick around, because the cheese showed she had a generous spirit, and that was the best quality going. The coffee was a good blend as well, she didn’t have to do that, could’ve got away with a cheaper make. People took what they could get. The roll filled her up, the bun big and chewy, and it made sense that Mick was the same. They were all right those two. The world was full of decent people, every single one of them with a story to tell, things that made you smile, thinking of Dilly’s hard stare and Mick’s scrunched-up face, his dry humour and the way she crumbled when he had a go at her, she’d only ever seen it happen once. He’d been a baker all his life, after doing his national service, the army teaching him a trade. He collected beer mats for a hobby. A funny thing to collect really.
Ruby sat on the grass till it was time to start work, running her hands over the ground, a spider in her palm. When it was time she jumped up, went in through the main entrance and off along the corridors of her life, passageways that had been planned to link certain departments, the quickest route from A to B, connecting expertise, and the place smelt good, clean and efficient, a centre of excellence without a snobby tag, corridors of dedication and selflessness, a job worth doing, a place worth being.
She saw Boxer up ahead, pushing a bed, a nurse next to him carrying a bag. Ruby caught up with them and Boxer smiled when he saw her, falling into step. He was twice her size, a huge man who was kind, generous, maybe naïve, what some people would call slow. He didn’t read too well, and had trouble telling the time, but he’d do anything for you, was well liked by the other porters and the nurses, the people he worked with, the doctors more removed, in their own world. He was strong as well, eased beds and trolleys along that other porters struggled to move, brought the nickname with him, said that’s what he’d been called at school. Ruby felt good about Boxer, and Dawn was helping him with his reading, children’s books he thought were silly at first, till she made him understand it was just a start. Ruby loved Boxer, wanted to hug him right now, squeeze him like a baby. She was showing him how to use a watch, and he nearly had it now, but it was more work for Dawn with the reading, she wasn’t a teacher or anything, just had this heart of gold, even if she was a tart, Ruby smiling to herself, they were always teasing each other.
—You look tired, Ruby, Boxer said. Didn’t you sleep very good last night?
—I slept all right, had a late night, that’s all. I’m fine.
—You’ve been drinking. You shouldn’t drink too much. It’s not good for you.
The nurse on the other side grinned and leant forward to catch the patient’s pillow, the man’s face wet and red and his breathing stuck in congested lungs. Ruby squeezed his shoulder, knew that he was scared, asking God why his life was blocking up inside his chest, he didn’t want to drown in his own spit, and he wasn’t seeing the beauty right now, but they’d get him well, he was in the right place, in safe hands, his pyjama arm damp on her hand, trying to reassure him.
When he walked back down these corridors, discharged and fit and using his own legs, bursting with a new lease of life, he’d see the drawings he was missing now, all sorts of crayon houses and insect people from the children’s ward, mums and dads and boys and girls holding hands, a red boy kicking a blue football, a church full of heads, a ship on the sea and a man on a motorbike, a car with the driver’s neck and head sticking out of the window twice the size of the bonnet, a forest with tiny people sitting on tree stumps, a spider in a web, and then there were the notice-boards with brochures pushing a diet of fresh fruit and vegetables, good hygiene, a sheet on bowel cancer, prevention the key, purple drawing pins nailed into cork, colour photos of broccoli and lettuce and a bowl of cereal, a section on bran.
They passed the doors of the gastroenteritis ward where a man stood still, waiting, just waiting, no slippers on his feet, head bald and pocked with craters, burnt-out meteor showers, staring into Ruby for a second, steam coming off the mug in his hand, a long row of plastic pots filling the ledge leading into the ward, and she could see Davinda behind the man, waved but didn’t catch her eye, the man nodding at Ruby, keeping his dignity best he could in his bare feet, waiting for something to happen inside him. Ruby would see Davinda later on, when they had their break.
When she reached her ward, the next one along, she left Boxer and the others and went in, noticed her legs were stiff. She’d been dancing till two, before that running from the helicopter, and she couldn’t believe that had happened. Maybe she was paranoid taking off, but no, they’d have had her, she did the right thing. She wondered if they’d keep the video, she was sure now she’d been taped, part of an archive on Britain’s most wanted. Maybe they were sending the film to the TV people, turning it into a drama, adding a righteous commentary and creating startling news. It was a joke, the whole thing, but the mornings were busy and last night was in the past, the hospital waking early, same as the army according to some of the men on her ward, the ones old enough to have done national service or fought in the war. They were probably right as well. Morale was important, and you had to have discipline, a routine. Sister was at the other end of the ward, and when Dawn followed Ruby in five minutes late she was glad to see her still down there. Sister was Maureen when she was off duty and game for a laugh, but strict when she was working. It was rosary beads and a crucifix in uniform, the Irish Club when she was out socialising with her husband.
—I had trouble walking in, Dawn said, once she’d settled in, winding Ruby up first thing. I met King Dong last night.
Ruby smiled and got on with the day, fell into the routine, losing herself in jobs she did like clockwork, the thing that kept her going the people, patients as well as staff, stripping a wet bed, the man concerned sitting in the television room and probably feeling ashamed of himself, it was a normal reaction, but she didn’t mind, she’d seen everything in this job, gallons of piss, blood, shit, mucus, pus, it was part of life, didn’t mean much any more, the mechanics of living, it was the people that mattered, the personalities she met, the things they’d done in the past and their plans for the future. She didn’t know much about the bed-wetter, a new arrival, middle-aged and thin, and she worked on the mattress, stains you had when you were a kid, thinking of her bed this morning, the yellow ground in, years old, a bed Dez’s mum gave her when she moved in.
With the bed stripped the wet sheets were forgotten, and she was running her hands over the new ones, crisp and clean, holding a pillow case up to her nose and imagining a line of coke but with a fresher smell, and she had to turn the mattress first, hauling it over, easy-peasy, making it up, the angles straight and creases brushed out, it was a thing you did over and over, cleaning and maintaining standards, caring for people. It was to do with hygiene, but also for morale.
The tea trolley rattled in the hall and Ruby went to the television room, a news programme on a war somewhere, lines of bodies on the ground, stupid wars about nothing, she had no time for any of that, there was enough disease and sadness around without these idiots making more problems, and she told the man in the television room, Colin, that he could go back to bed if he wanted, smiling and moving on quickly so he’d feel it was okay and wouldn’t have to look her in the face, she knew how he’d be feeling, went into the first section as the trolley arrived, voices dipping as she entered.
—Morning, nurse, Percy called.
Ron waved at her, sitting up in bed. He had been in for a while now, but would be going home soon, a proper character with stories
to spare and a twinkle in his eye. She talked with all the patients, but Ron was special. When she had time she sat with him in the TV room and made him tell her stories about Calcutta and Lima and all the places he’d seen when he was in the merchant navy. She really liked Ron, he had a quality about him, like he knew so much but was humble with it. If she had a granddad she’d want him to be like that.
Percy was all right as well, he liked the nurses but wasn’t sleazy, not like that Mr Robinson, or Tinky Winky as Dawn called him, the other two in this section quiet. Warren stuck behind his oxygen mask and only in one day, Mr Hay keeping to himself, more interested in his crossword book than what was going on around him, not rude or anything, a bit superior but no trouble.
—How are you feeling? she asked Percy, holding the thermometer up.
—Not bad. I dreamt about you last night, nurse.
—I hope it wasn’t rude.
—No, it was nothing like that.
She knew he was lying, he’d gone ever so slightly red, but even then it was probably innocent, holding hands, something like that. She’d seen hundreds of Percys over the years, men adjusting to old age and finding their bodies were slowing right down, the responsibilities they had no longer there, that the world had moved on and they had to find a place in it. They’d been raised to block things out, to be strong and ready to fight, it was up to them to take on the world and worry where the money was coming from, raising families, but in their later years they could let this go, if they wanted, if they were able. Women had more to look forward to, got stronger with age. Ruby felt sorry for men. Who’d want to be born a man? They said it was a man’s world but she wasn’t so sure. She was glad she was a woman. She shook the thermometer.
—We were going to the pictures. My girl was there as well, you’ve seen her when she’s come to visit. She brought those flowers over there. Must’ve paid a few bob for them as well. I told her not to bother. Better saving your money. They’re only going to wilt in a few days. But they’re nice flowers. Add some colour.
A bunch of daffodils sat on his bedside table. Ruby remembered his daughter, a worn-out woman with four kids jumping on grand-dad’s bed, worried when they first came in because of his enlarged heart, something that was common enough but still a fright when you didn’t know what was going on, when his face was puffed up and he was losing his temper, losing his marbles the daughter said, laughing and worried. The heart slowed down, didn’t pump the blood fast enough so water seeped out and built up on the lungs, cut down the oxygen reaching the brain.
People just didn’t know what was going on most of the time. Most illnesses were a mystery. Once things were explained they cheered up, specially when Percy started improving, sitting up and eating, cracking jokes that weren’t funny. She could see the relief in the faces of his grandkids, and they brought pictures in, the same drawings that came out of the children’s ward, houses and people, all the colours of the rainbow.
Sometimes she wondered about the doctors, they were well meaning, overworked and stressed, but their social skills weren’t very good. Percy’s girl was told he had heart failure in emergency and it was two days before Ruby explained that it was a term that sounded worse than it was, in the meantime his family stuck with this notion that his heart was no good. A lot of the doctors couldn’t connect with the people they were dealing with, assumed everyone knew what they knew. It was a pressurised job, she wasn’t criticising, but had to smile when Percy lost his temper about it, told one of the doctors off. Some of the nurses got wound up by the doctors, but she didn’t pay much attention. With some of them it was their background, with others tiredness. She didn’t care, life was too short.
—What film did we see?
—We never got to see it. It was one of those adventure films, don’t even know the name, they’re all the same these days, just special effects. We had our popcorn but got lost on the way. The place had ten screens and we didn’t know where it was showing. We were walking for ages and ended up going in a circle.
—Come on then, open wide.
She put the thermometer under his tongue and went over to Warren. He was in his mid-twenties and had trouble breathing, his test results due back this morning when the doctors came round, and she hadn’t spoken to him properly yet, it took a few days, it was the same with all of them, then Warren would have his mask off and be mixing with the others. She saw it every time, how people got together. Some were straight in, laughing and joking, while others took longer. Something formed out of nothing. They were in the same boat. It was nice to see this happen, it didn’t matter what their background or age was, and for the lonely ones it was hard when they had to go home. That was sad. There were some people who never mixed, but not many. Once a patient was out of danger and knew they were going to be okay, it was a chance to have a holiday and recharge their batteries. Waiting outside were responsibilities, the roles they had to play. But beds were in short supply and they were sent on their way.
She loved seeing people get well again, building up their strength, innocence and dependence replaced by the usual masks. She could handle things when the old-timers started playing up as well, they liked it with the tables turned. They were like little boys. The threat of an enema or laxative did wonders for discipline. Talking of which, Dawn had lined Tinky Winky up for an enema this morning. The dirty bastard had slipped his hand up her dress yesterday, almost got inside her pants as well.
—What’s funny? Boxer asked, strolling past.
—Nothing, she said, moving away from Warren and heading towards the room where Mr Wilkins was calling for help.
—Nothing at all.
Mr Wilkins wasn’t heavy and she eased him into his wheelchair, pushed the man over to the toilet. She eased him into the room, locked the door, pulled his trousers down and positioned him on the seat. Mr Wilkins drifted off waiting for his bowels to empty and forgot Ruby was there. She looked away and followed the hand rail, the sweet smell of disinfectant and soap. He was eighty-six and virtually alone in the world, going senile and suffering from lung cancer. He would soon be a baby again, if he didn’t pass away first, going the full circle, totally dependent, his strength withered and a shell left. She never thought like this for more than a second or two. He’d have done things in his life, she just didn’t know what, eighty-six was a good age, and she saw him as a young man, one for the girls, drinking and loving and enjoying a good knees-up, dancing to jazz and all sorts, she’d have to ask Ron what they listened to, what they drank, imagined it was mostly bitter, smoking Woodbines, and drugs were legal back then, cocaine and opium, things like that.
Ron would know, he was eighty-four, two years behind Mr Wilkins but a million times fitter, sharp as they came. Mr Wilkins had a nephew who visited once, but apart from that nothing. Ron had lots of family, there was always different generations coming to see him, he was more like a healthy sixty-five than eighty-four. Maybe it was in the genes, but he had a lot to live for, a rich life, some good years ahead of him. Mr Wilkins’s first name was John, and she imagined Johnny Wilkins charming the girls, making up stories, a young face on old shoulders, hair slicked back, a comb in his pocket, eyes bright, loving and leaving them, till the night he met the girl of his dreams, going in the toffee-maker’s and charming her to the altar.
When Mr Wilkins was finished, Ruby cleaned him up and flushed the toilet, washed her hands and lifted his back into his wheelchair, took him back to bed, made sure he was comfortable. She looked into the misty eyes and saw morphine merging with the Alzheimer’s, wrinkles covering his face, lines sliced into yellowing skin, and he would’ve been a proud man, it was just as well he couldn’t see himself, that the faculties that gave him his pride were gone. Morphine was a good drug, anything that eased the pain had to be good, dealing with the cancer he didn’t even know he had. Maybe senility was a blessing in disguise for some people, they said Alzheimer’s was hardest for the sufferer’s family, but she pushed this away. It was unlike her to
have sad thoughts. It was thinking of Ben that had done it, and she jumped back into her work, soon rushed off her feet, the morning passing quickly in a whizz of showers and bed-baths, breakfast served, the doctors doing their rounds, giving medicine out, the run of duties that meant everything happened right away, the banter she loved, tired by twelve and ready for her dinner.
Ruby passed back through the same corridors, and they were busy now, looking into the chapel as she passed and seeing the back of a teenage boy sitting on his own staring at the carpet, the sound of a child laughing ahead of her, two men swinging her by the arms, and Ruby was knackered, her legs so heavy she wished she could afford a massage, and she was thirsty as well as hungry, nothing better on a hot day than sitting in the sun with a cold pint of lager in her hand. In the canteen she got herself a pie and chips, the coldest can of Coke on offer, a yogurt for dessert. Dawn had nipped off a few minutes earlier and was sitting with Sally, Ruby going over and joining them, the other two having a friendly argument about funding, Davinda arriving right behind Ruby, the four of them taking up the table.