by John King
Ruby loved Ron when he talked like that. He had the innocence of a little boy, still wide-eyed and open to everything, there was no cynicism or bitterness, no cruel edge to his character. He kept going, remembering the good times, Lima Girl a dead cert, she couldn’t remember where the horse was running, he never told her about that one, so instead she imagined him in Peru, falling in love, a one-night romance that lasted a lifetime, and she knew Ron had been a bit of a boy, running away to see the world, he’d been everywhere, probably done everything, yes, he’d seen some beauties in his time, the Siamese before it became Thailand, the girls of South America and Africa, those ports on the Mediterranean, and he loved those Burmese girls in Rangoon, what a place that was, the girls in Manila and Hong Kong, the list went on and on, and he’d realised who he was talking to and looked embarrassed, told Ruby instead how he did his best to find out about the places he saw, the customs and religions. He’d seen the pyramids in Egypt as well as the temples of Pagan, told her that because the Egyptians believed the soul returned to the body after death they preserved it with chemicals and wrapped it up for when it was needed again, and it wasn’t just the pharaohs, though those were the ones you heard about, there were millions of mummies over there, just waiting. And he’d laughed at the look on her face.
He’d been to New Orleans, said there was voodoo over there, all those zombies waiting to come back to life and terrorise the locals, and Ruby didn’t like horror stories, pushed it away, he was only playing with her, and now she was thinking of death and religion, Ron telling her about a huge mosque in Istanbul, the Hindu temples in Bombay, and she laughed remembering how he’d impressed Davinda by knowing the names of the three main Hindu gods, talking about another god who was half-man and half-elephant, and he’d been to Palestine before it became Israel, went to Jerusalem, saw an old Crusader castle, and those places were hot, ten times worse than the hottest day in England, flies and dysentery had an effect, mosquitoes tapping away at your skin, beggars pulling at your legs, and he’d been up to Scandinavia, the girls in Oslo and Stockholm were among the most beautiful he’d ever seen, he kept saying that about everywhere, and there were women from all over working as nurses right here, from England, Ireland, Jamaica, Trinidad, India, Pakistan, Bangladesh, Sri Lanka, the Philippines, Australia, New Zealand, the world was full of beautiful girls but none of them were as beautiful as Ruby, and she’d blushed and told him he was an old charmer, thinking now how there was so much more she wished she’d heard, so many stories that had died with him, she loved his sense of humour when he told her about these places, always playing himself down, but there were more than his navy and work tips, this content look on his face when he circled Hurry Up Harry or Chantelle or Jimmy Jimmy, these were his grandchildren, and he had a few of them as well, and he’d look so happy, say something about a PlayStation game or school team, shake his head, they’d be grown-up soon, time passed so quickly, mumbling for a few seconds, shaking his head, then smiling at Ruby.
She was doing her best but it wasn’t working. The stories were mashing together. The night he spent in Pagan was the way she wanted to remember him. On top of the world, on top of a temple, watching the sun set, then rise again the next day. She finished her cream egg and sucked at the straw stuck in her drink, biting into the plastic. She felt more tears and was looking for a tissue when a hand reached out offering her a hanky. She looked up and saw Mr Jeffreys, someone she’d only spoken to once before.
—Go on, he said, smiling. Plenty more where that came from.
She took the handkerchief and wiped her eyes. She wanted to blow her nose but couldn’t, not in his hanky, with him right there. He sat down and waited. She would take it home and clean it before she gave it back.
—Are you okay? he asked.
Mr Jeffreys had a nice smile, a calmness about him that set her at ease. His skin was very clear, hair neatly groomed. He was a gentleman. It was in his accent and the way he moved, holding back in case he offended her, picking his words very carefully. She could see he was thinking about the meaning, doing his best not to upset her. She liked him.
—I hope I am not intruding … his voice drifted off.
She dabbed at her nose.
—One of the patients on my ward died last night and I’d got to know him a bit. He had this way of looking at things that I loved. For some reason I felt close to him. I don’t know why, I only knew him for three weeks. He was the past in a way, and now he’s gone. My grandparents died when I was young so maybe that’s it. Sometimes you can skip generations, get to like people a lot older.
Mr Jeffreys nodded. She didn’t expect him to be interested, after all he’d never met Ron, but he was genuinely sympathetic.
—What was wrong with him? he asked.
—He had water on his lungs, but was getting better. He was confused when he first came in, rambling away, but he turned round quickly and was going home in a few days. He had a weak heart.
—Was he old?
—Eighty-four.
Mr Jeffreys nodded. He was solemn and respectful, like he didn’t expect someone to die for that reason alone, though it was obvious enough, something she knew and had to accept.
—I know you probably don’t want to hear it, but he did have a good innings. Far better than most people. It may be of little comfort now, but it is well worth remembering. Sometimes in old age death is a release.
She knew all that but it just wasn’t his time, she really believed he was going to go home, and yet what Mr Jeffreys was saying was right, the same as Sally and Dawn were right, it was just her being stupid, getting too attached when she should protect herself. She had to get on with things, life continued and there was always work to do, jobs that would make her think about something else till the reality settled in and she was able to accept what had happened.
Mr Jeffreys sipped at his drink and made a face, the drink too hot. He looked embarrassed, as if he shouldn’t have sat down, but it was nice of him, he didn’t have to do that, it was obvious he was shy, humble like Ron.
—It isn’t wrong to feel upset, you know. Everyone working here is a carer and we would be hardly human if we did not feel sad sometimes. It is just a case of getting it out of your system. If someone is in pain or distress death can be a relief. Or if they are lonely sometimes they welcome death. I have always tried to look at the positive aspects, even if I do not really believe them myself. If you can control the way the mind works then you can create something positive from the negative. Think of all the hundreds of thousands of people doing their best to help others. You can go right back to ancient Egypt and Greece and find the same desire. We have made enormous strides and continue to do so. The one thing we can say for sure is that your patient had the best possible care and attention. Nothing more could have been done for him. That has to be of some consolation.
Ruby nodded, smiled. That’s exactly what she was trying to do, look on the bright side, doing her best to turn a sad occasion into a celebration, that’s all you could do, that’s what she and Mum tried to do when Dad died, and the harder they tried the worse it was, he didn’t live as long as Ron did, died young, when she was a kid, so she hardly knew him, and sitting with Ron was like sitting with a dad she never had, older, but still telling her stories, she’d missed that, and she could remember them crying and crying after the service, Dad was so young, it wasn’t fair, everything coming too early, the clock ticking away, then stopping.
—I best be off. I hope you feel better soon.
She watched Mr Jeffreys move over to another table, sit down with his drink. She felt better than when she’d arrived in the cafeteria and decided to get back to work, and she smiled at Mr Jeffreys as she passed, it was nice how he was sad on her behalf, a thoughtful man, and she walked along listening to what he’d said and forcing herself to look on the bright side and remember how many good people there were around who cared about their fellow human beings, went all the way and dedicated their lives to helping
them.
When it came to health everyone was in the same boat. The country invested billions of pounds in care and research, and the scientists kept going, never stood still or gave up, pushed ahead all the time, there was no more chewing on bits of leather as a saw cut through your arm, and parasites didn’t run wild like they did in the past. Illness wasn’t looked on as a punishment from God, that’s what they used to think, that any illness you had you deserved, and the treatment was a bit more sophisticated than astrology, magic and potions, these days surgeons had laser scalpels and ultrasound blasters and micro-forceps, there was nobody chipping at skulls with bits of sharpened stone to release evil spirits, no Great Plague or Black Death, and she tried to imagine swollen buboes in her neck and under her arms, the door to her flat marked with a cross, and then there was smallpox with its sores and ulcers spreading down the windpipe, this suffocating death wiped out with vaccination, tuberculosis attacking the lungs, that one still existed abroad with occasional outbreaks at home, but nothing like the old days, measles was an illness kids caught but which used to kill millions, and there’d been no outbreak of flu like the one after the First World War when twenty-five million died, though there were always predictions of something stirring in the Far East, getting ready to unleash a whirlwind that would spread across the planet, carried on the wind, and she thought of Ron in Shanghai and Hong Kong, all the sickness he could’ve caught as a young man, when there was no cure, and she was singing ring-a-ring o’ roses, under her breath, a pocket full of posies, thinking of the plague, a-tishoo, a-tishoo, all fall down, and bandages and clean water had replaced boiling oil to treat wounds, and she thought of Alexander Fleming discovering penicillin, how mould had landed on his bacteria and killed it, and she thought about Joseph Lister and antiseptic, Edward Jenner and vaccinations, Marie Curie and Antoine-Henri Becquerel and their part in radiotherapy, attacking cancer cells, and she thought of the scanners and imagers, something simple like an X-ray and how it could pass through muscles and nerves, and she thought of the highly trained professionals who spent years becoming experts in their field, the neurologists, obstetricians, geriatricians, cardiologists, paediatricians, they were all here, the hospital full of learning and caring, and she was racing back up again thinking of the chemicals and techniques that had been developed over the years, the antibiotics and disinfectants, irradiation, so many things she took for granted, she was pushing herself, appreciating running water and electricity and toilets, and to even see a germ someone had to invent a microscope, and they’d planned immunisation programmes, fought back against polio, tetanus, measles, and even something as rare as SCID got attention, kids stuck in a germ-free room when in the old days they’d have died right away, and she could go on and on, but the point was things were always getting better, they were winning, and she felt proud, she really did, it was strange but her spirit soaring.
Ruby wanted to go out and get drunk, celebrate and mourn at the same time, smells reaching her from a passing trolley, apple pie and custard, and the corridor was this massive artery pumping white blood cells along with the heart in the middle, refreshing the parts other beers never reached, she had drink on the brain now, crayon drawings on the walls, getting nearer the ward and fixing a smile to her face, slowing down behind a family carrying flowers, the petals of the roses with a velvet texture, opium-den cushions, and she thought of white doves flapping their wings, thousands of feathers that broke down into smaller units, down and down, Ruby on an up, another trolley stacked with plates, DJ Chromo in her head, him and that Mr Jeffreys, two very different characters but with a similar message, leftover food and green plants lining the short hallway leading on to the ward where Ron had died, dust settled on a windowsill, Sally and Dawn up ahead in their starched uniforms, watches on their chests, ticking, on and on, small chains and long hands, plasma packs and a stethoscope on the reception counter, seeing every pulsating dot of a child’s red-crayon drawing of a sailing ship next to an old man’s empty bed.
Nurse James was a diligent worker and an earnest young woman. She was showing sadness at the death of a patient, but Mr Jeffreys felt that this was excusable. So long as it did not become a habit. She was obviously an emotional person. Perhaps even a little unstable. Yet such lapses had to be expected. She would soon forget the death of Mr Dawes. The acceptance of death was essential to efficient hospital care. If members of staff became attached to every single patient with whom they dealt then the system was doomed. Emotions were natural of course, but a luxury when dealing with sickness on such a large scale. Staff had to remain detached. Had to be strong for the sake of the patients. Yet despite the tears he sensed an air of responsibility about Nurse James and felt that she would quickly come to terms with the loss of Dawes.
Professionalism was required at all levels. Every single job was important. Those less skilled workers such as nurses had to strive for the same efficiency as, say, a surgeon. It was no use cleaners resting on their laurels or porters dithering. What would happen if a consultant allowed emotion to cloud his decisions? Or if he himself let sentiment influence his work. He tapped on the table and watched Nurse James get up to leave the cafeteria. The sound of her shoes was loud as she started on her way back to work, his handkerchief still in her hand. She smiled her thanks as she passed and he felt warm inside, pleased that he could help and offer some sort of comfort.
In a strange way Nurse James was attractive. More so than Nurse Cook for instance, whom he believed was promiscuous. James possessed a modesty too often lacking these days. On the downside was her accent, which, to be blunt, he found a little common, but it did not matter. If he was searching for a partner he would certainly not look within the nursing staff. Different customs and expectations were bound to cause friction. He was not being a snob, merely realistic.
He thought briefly of Mimi, his former partner. They had enjoyed a decade of ordered bliss, two people so well matched that their relationship could almost have been arranged. Ten years was a long time to spend with one person and, perhaps inevitably given their busy work schedules, they had drifted apart. He was the first to admit that his dedication to the health service had been partially to blame, but she was equally culpable with her long hours in the City. Yet the split had been amicable, especially considering the fact that she had left him for one of her colleagues. He had no regrets, although occasionally he missed the companionship, both intellectual and physical. Even so, he had welcomed his new-found freedom. Work was more important to him than anything, even Mimi. Thank God there had been no children involved.
A mother and son sat nearby. The boy in his early teens. He was big for his age, with huge feet. Plastic white training shoes protruded from beneath their table. The lad was sulking. Stuffing chips into his mouth. A fly landed on the table where Mr Jeffreys was sitting and he brushed it away. It flew off, transporting sewage to the fat boy’s plate. Depositing faeces on the crusty ridge of his pie no doubt. He shivered. Felt germs in the air and heard the hacking cough of a man. Nothing was free. Neither dust, nor soil, nor water. The men and women around him carried billions of germs on their skin. The potted plants were breeding grounds for bacteria. Neither animate nor inanimate, viruses were the scum of God’s creation, flooding the planet with measles and influenza. The fly returned to buzz around his head.
He imagined he was in the Maldives. The fly a mosquito, sucking blood and transporting disease, infecting innocent people with malaria and sleeping sickness. He saw fleas. Lice in the hair of babies. Epidemics stirred by freak weather conditions. Germs waiting for their chance to cause havoc. Always waiting. To live. Grow. Reproduce. Die. The same as human beings of course. Yet humans lingered. Measured their lives in years rather than minutes. The boy was chubby-cheeked. Growing. Jeffreys thought of the suffering children. Of rubella. Mumps. Asthma. Chickenpox. Cystic fibrosis. Measles. Tonsillitis. Diphtheria. Their trials were endless, the war unwinnable.
He pictured a GP feeding the boy sugar lumps, the
chubby mouth chomping away, stuffing more chips on the fork. He imagined he was looking into the boy’s eye with an ophthalmoscope and watching the blood vessels pump. Heart beating. The pressure of the blood in his veins. The boy developing into a man with so many problems to face. He thought of the doctors studying sputum. Urine. Pus. Taking blood. Body fluids. So many new diseases lurking. Life an ordeal.
Yet the coffee served here really was appalling. He understood that many people drank instant coffee, but how about those who preferred freshly ground beans? He considered the food on offer. Chips. Reheated pies. White-bread sandwiches. Crisps. Sweets. Nutritionless fizzy drinks that were consumed in vast quantities. This was supposed to be a hospital, for God’s sake. It followed that the food should be full of goodness. A balanced diet would save the health service so much unnecessary work. Instead of carbonated chemicals the children should be drinking freshly squeezed orange juice. Snacking on apples rather than crisps. Instead of pies and chips the masses should be forced to eat grilled fish and lightly cooked leafy green vegetables. Their tastes would soon change. A fresh side salad was far better than a stodgy pudding.