A Gift to You

by Patricia Scanlan

  ‘Jayziz, he’s a grumpy ould fuck, Kate,’ he hears her say to the nurse, who laughs.

  The nerve of them laughing at him. He seethes, stepping into the shower. The absolute nerve!

  The slow bubble of resentment simmers for the rest of the day. When the tea lady comes with his lunch, he keeps his head in his paper and merely grunts when she lays down his tray. He has no difficulty maintaining an air of froideur when the nurse comes to take his blood pressure again several hours later. He remains mute, staring out the window onto the spring-adorned grounds below. An apple tree, voluptuous with pink and white buds bursting into bloom, soothes his troubled spirit. When the nurse has gone, taking all her accouterments with her, the Judge exhales and lets some of the tension release from his body.

  ‘A grumpy ould fuck,’ the tea lady had called him. And she had pitied him because she had seen his dignity in tatters. To her, he was just an old man, with all the problems that come with aging. Not a judge in his wig and gown, feared and respected in equal measure. Those symbols, that he has taken such pride in, were merely props that he has hidden behind for many, many years. And now here in this alien place, they have been stripped away and he is revealed in all his frailty. Another elderly patient that has to be attended to in this small, pleasant, airy room where status is of no importance.

  ‘Will you be having a cup of tea tonight? You don’t need to fast until midnight,’ the tea lady asks, when she collects his tea tray. The rays of the evening sun shine harshly on her face causing her to squint. He sees each line etched into the pale, thin visage. She has known hardship, he can see that. She reminds him of some of the mothers who have stood stoically in his court with their sons and daughters, weary to their bones at the hardship their offspring’s criminality brings.

  ‘You may bring me one,’ he says coldly, remembering what she had called him earlier.

  ‘Grand,’ she says and then is gone with the tray. He hears her calling to one of her colleagues that Number 224 is due up from theatre and will be wanting tea and toast in a while.

  He is in room 222. No doubt she calls him Number 222 when she is not calling him derogatory names, the Judge thinks, sulkily flicking his TV channels to get the news.

  He has a busy evening. His consultant calls and explains yet again about the bladder-sling procedure he will preform the following morning. The anesthetist comes to listen to his chest. His wife and brother call to visit and he is fatigued by the time the tea lady comes to collect his supper tray.

  It is after eight p.m. She has been on duty since early that morning. Tiredness seeps through her bones; he can see it in the gray pallor of her face. No doubt, he muses, she has to go home and catch up on chores, but still she is determinedly cheerful.

  ‘Sleep well, see ya tamarra.’ She wipes his trolley, gathers his tray and bestows a smile on him, before hastening out the door to take her load of dirty crockery to the ward kitchen.

  They work long hours, those hospital staff, he admits, after the night nurse has bought him his theatre gown and switched off the main light. He slumps against his pillows wishing he was at home in his own bed, in his maroon and brown bedroom surrounded by his books and toby jugs that he has collected since childhood. His bedroom is his haven. He and his wife have their own rooms, at her suggestion. His snoring is not conducive to a goodnight sleep for her and she has abandoned him for the sanctuary of a duck-egg-blue bedroom with frills and female fripperies.

  He feels nervous at the thought of what is to come. Tomorrow will be even worse than today. After his surgery, he will have a catheter. He will have nurses fiddling with his privates. He can think of no greater indignity. Well, perhaps one. He grimaces, remembering his earlier shame when he lost control of his bladder. It is a long, long time since he has felt such mortification. And then, unwelcome and repugnant, that memory from his school days roars like a tsunami into his consciousness.

  ‘No!’ he moans, shaking his head as recollections he would prefer to erase surge back with unwelcome clarity.

  ‘Spekkie Four Eyes. Spekkie Four Eyes, Mama’s Little Pet,’ the older boys taunt, waving a dead crow at him. They advance towards him and he is terrified of those hideous, staring black beady eyes, the pointy fearsome beak and clenched talons. He screams and they laugh and come closer, backing him against the grey stone wall that wraps around the school playground.

  Shaking, he feels the wet stream flowing down his leg and his tormentors shout in delight. ‘Pissy Pants! Pissy Pants! Frederick is a Pissy Pants!’ Shame and fear and helpless fury engulf him and he weeps uncontrollably, sobbing and peeing simultaneously until his persecutors spot his older sister coming and run away, their bellows of derisive laughter deafening his ears.

  ‘You have to learn to stand up for yourself, Freddy,’ Alexandra says angrily. ‘Or they will never leave you alone. Stop being a cissy and learn to fight.’

  Lying in his hospital bed, the Judge remembers as though it were yesterday. Silent tears slide down his cheeks, as years of suppressed grief and hurt finally have their say.

  It seems as though he has only closed his eyes to sleep when the rattling of the breakfast trollies awaken him. The night nurse, a middle-aged woman called Fran, hurries into the room with an air of distraction. ‘Frederick, they’ve just rang down from theatre, Number 234’s op has been cancelled so you’re first on the list. Quick now, into your gown,’ she says authoritatively, pulling up the blinds and flooding the room with the pale lemon rays of the rising sun.

  He is too flustered at this unexpected turn of events to chide her for calling him by his first name. He fiddles with his pajama buttons, all fingers and thumbs and as soon as his top is opened, she is assisting him out of it and shoving his arms into the laundered faded hospital gown.

  ‘Into your slippers now,’ she urges, checking his wristband and making a note on her file.

  ‘My slippers?’ He is bemused. ‘Shall I wear them on the trolley?’

  ‘There’s no trolley, Frederick,’ she says, briskly tying his gown behind his back. ‘Cutbacks. Patients walk to theatre now or go in a wheelchair. You’ll be wheeled back to your ward, of course, after your surgery. Wrap your dressing gown around you like a good man, and let’s be on our way.’

  He is genuinely shocked as he follows her meekly out the door. This is a private hospital; at the very least, he would have expected to be wheeled to his operation by a hospital porter. When he had his hip replaced some years back, a big burly Kerry chap had whisked him at speed down the corridor, like a rally driver in the grand prix. Perhaps his wife has a point about his expenses. He feels a brief moment of shame that his social conscience has been dampened down over the years. He knows there are much bigger cutbacks than porters and trollies that will never impact on him.

  The tea lady is pushing her carriage of trays along in the opposite direction and he is, thankfully, distracted. ‘Are ya off!’ she exclaims as though she has known him all his life. ‘I’ll have the tay for you when you get back. Good luck, luv,’ she throws over her shoulder, hurrying past them to start delivering the morning meals.

  ‘Thank you,’ he murmurs, strangely touched at her good wishes.

  He is welcomed kindly to the anteroom adjoining the theatre. Fran helps him divest himself of his dressing gown and pajama bottoms. He feels unusually vulnerable in his gown with the wide gaps that let in the breeze and display his bare posterior to all and sundry.

  ‘Up on to the bed here now,’ the theatre nurse instructs, helpfully catching him at his elbow to steady him. Briskly, efficiently, he is eased back against the pillows, swaddled in a blue blanket, and a cannula is inserted into the back of his hand with a minimum of fuss. All the while, the theatre nurse is doing her checklist, asking him the questions Fran has already posed.

  ‘Ready for the off?’ The gowned anesthetist appears through the swinging doors that lead to the theatre. The Judge gets a glimpse of the big arc lights shining down on the operating table that awaits him and f
eels a sudden, unanticipated dart of fear.

  ‘Umm,’ he grunts, swallowing hard.

  ‘Nothing to worry about. It will be over in no time,’ the anesthetist asserts with faux chumminess.

  A hand gently touches his shoulder. It is Fran, looking down at him. ‘You’ll be fine, Frederick,’ she says comfortingly, as the anesthetist inserts a large needle into the cannula and slowly depresses the plunger.

  ‘You won’t even count to three,’ she says, smiling. Then blackness envelops him and he slides away.

  ‘Wake up, Frederick. Wake up now. You’re in the recovery room.’ A voice commands as he struggles to surface through the dark miasma that swirls around his brain.

  ‘Am I done?’ he mutters, dry mouthed.

  ‘You are. It all went fine,’ he hears, before he drifts off again with an uncharacteristic sense of well-being, knowing he is in safe hands.

  The next time he awakes he is back in his room. The red-haired nurse is smiling down at him, unwrapping the blood pressure cuff from his arm. He has no memory of his journey from the recovery room.

  ‘You’re back with us again down on the ward, Mr Harney. You’re doing great,’ she assures him, ‘and your blood pressure is perfect. Your wife rang. She’ll be in later.’

  His eyelids droop again and he surrenders to this rare and pleasurable feeling of being nurtured and taken care of, free from all his responsibilities and the expectations of others.

  He is lying against his pillows looking at the apple tree when the tea lady arrives. ‘Ah are ya back in the land of the livin’? She stands at the foot of the bed, studying him.

  ‘I am, thank God!’ he says, utterly relieved the ordeal is over.

  ‘And are ya ready for the tay and toast?’

  ‘I am indeed,’ he assures her. He is hungry and thirsty.

  ‘It will be like the nectar of the gods,’ she promises.

  ‘Now luv, get tha’ inta ya,’ she orders ten minutes later, placing a tray of tea and hot buttered toast in front of him. ‘An’ if ya fancy another slice, I’ll bring it to ya.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you . . . er . . .’ he peers at her name badge.

  ‘Janet,’ she supplies, helpfully, pouring his tea for him. ‘In case ya have the collywobbles after the anesthetic and yer hands shake,’ she explains patiently as though to a child.

  ‘Thank you, Janet.’ He inclines his head graciously.

  ‘Yer welcome, luv, enjoy it. I’ll be back for the tray and, if ya want more, I’ll bring it to ya,’ she assures him and then she is gone and he is alone once more. The tea is indeed the nectar of the gods and he savours it. The toast, oozing butter is as tasty to him at that moment as the finest most succulent red-juiced steak has ever been.

  The uncommon sense of wellbeing the Judge experiences lasts until he reluctantly dons his suit and overcoat the following day, to return home to recuperate. Trailing his wife down the hospital corridor, he is disappointed that neither Kate, his nurse, nor Janet, his tea lady, are on the floor so that he can say his farewells and thank them for their care.

  He spends his two weeks of recuperation quietly resting, contemplating how his life will change when he retires. Sometimes his thoughts turn to his brief hospital stay and the events therein. For the most part, it was a surprisingly enjoyable experience, he admits. Even his episode of shame no longer seems so darkly dire.

  On the day of his post-operative check-up, the Judge sits at his desk, writing in his neat, elegant cursive on expensive, embossed stationery. He slips the three notes he has written into cream watermarked envelopes and drops each into a small gift bag. Humming to himself, he picks up his car keys and strides to the front door. His wife has offered to drive him to his appointment but he wishes to make his own way. He has a small chore to do after he has seen his consultant.

  ‘All healing well. Watch the weight, no tea or coffee after six p.m., and take regular exercise,’ his urologist instructs matter-of-factly, having conducted the dreaded examination. The Judge is so relieved the ordeal is over he almost skips down the steps of the clinic and makes his way to the private hospital adjoining it. Cognizant of the advice he has recently been given, he takes the stairs rather than the lift, to the second floor. Panting somewhat, he turns right.

  He hears her before he sees her. ‘Number 222 is givin’ out yards about been put on a reduced diet. He’s demanding a cooked breakfast for tamarra, Kate. Will ya deal wid him?’

  ‘No prob, Janet,’ he hears his nurse say, as he rounds the corner and sees them standing by the ward kitchen. A sudden shyness overcomes him. He clears his throat. They turn to look at him. It is Janet who recognizes him first.

  ‘Ah, tiz yourself. Howarya getting’ on, luv?’

  Kate takes a moment longer. If he were in his pajamas, she’d probably remember him, the Judge thinks with a flash of humour.

  ‘Room 222, the judge fella,’ Janet prompts, glancing over her specs at him.

  ‘Oh, yes, Judge Harney. How are you keeping?’ The young nurse asks politely.

  ‘Very well, thank you. Very well indeed. I just wanted to er . . . drop these in to you both, to thank you for your kindness during my stay here.’ He knows he sounds pompous and searches for something to add. ‘I was extremely well looked after, especially by both of you and I very much appreciate your care. And if you would be so kind as to give this to Fran I would be obliged.’ He thrusts the gift bags at them.

  ‘There was no need for that, but thank you very much,’ Kate demurs.

  ‘Ahhh, Jayziz, now, isn’t tha’ very kind of ya to remember me too!’ Janet exclaims, delighted, peering at the box of chocolates nestled in the pink tissue paper that lines the gift bag.

  ‘Well, now, Janet, how could I forget that tea – the nectar of the gods – and toast you made for me after my operation? I know I was somewhat grumpy but I hope you’ll forgive me,’ he adds slyly, a rare twinkle lighting his hazel eyes.

  ‘You men, yer all the same when yer sick, but ye can’t resist me tea an’ toast in the end.’ Janet laughs and pats his arm.

  ‘Thank you again, ladies.’ He nods before turning on his heel to march away towards the stairs.

  ‘Well, I wasn’t expecting tha’. Sickness an’ old age are great levelers, luv, aren’t they, even for judges?’ Janet remarks sagely, taking out the box of chocolates. ‘Oh, look, Kate, they’re posh an’ all. Handmade.’

  ‘Chez Emily, very posh!’ agrees the nurse, opening the envelope. ‘Ah, Janet, look at the way he signed it, after all his giving out. ‘I bet yours is the same.’ She laughs, studying the embossed, headed notepaper of Mr Justice Frederick Harney, and the signature that ends the Judge’s note.

  Thank you so much for your kindness and care. It was much appreciated. If I was at all grumpy, I apologise and ask your forgiveness.

  Best regards,

  Frederick (No. 222)

  BIRTHDAY

  Life Begins At Forty!

  ‘So you’re absolutely sure that you don’t want a surprise party for your fortieth?’ Liz, my older sister, asks, as we sit sipping vanilla coffee in the trendy new café on the seafront.

  ‘I’m positive.’ I grimace. ‘It’s bad enough being forty without having to make a song and dance about it in public’

  ‘Life begins at forty, honey,’ she says airily, as our tuna wraps and salads arrive ‘Look at me, a half a stone heavier, eyesight failing, grey hair multiplying at a rate of knots, everything going south and do I care?’

  ‘That’s because you’ve given up. You’ve gone all Zen-like with all that yoga and meditation stuff you do. Well, I intend to fight ageing tooth and nail.’

  ‘You do that, Amy,’ Liz soothes, munching on a slice of cucumber.

  I’m dreading forty.

  I’m thirty-nine years, eleven months, two days and forty-five minutes old. I’ve a husband, Steve, eight-year-old twin daughters, Molly and Daisy, all much loved. My work as a medical secretary in a busy consultant’s clinic is varied
and satisfying. Life is good.

  ‘Well, we have to have some sort of a celebration now that you’re joining the club. I told Steve I’d try and find out what you’d really like to do. Will we have a girl’s night in Wicklow?’ Liz asks.

  ‘Don’t you mean “ladies” or “women’s” night?’ I say dryly. ‘Girl’s we ain’t.’

  ‘Oh, get over it. We all had to go through it; wait until you’re my age. If you think forty is bad, try forty-five.’ My sister is unsympathetic to my trauma. Still, she’s treating me to lunch and trying to help my darling husband, who knows my feelings about turning forty, organize some sort of birthday treat. I shouldn’t be so ungracious.

  We finish our wraps and order more coffee and a selection of cream cakes. It’s my last fling, I promise myself. I’ve got to stop this comfort eating. I bite into a creamy éclair, pushing away the thoughts of calories and cellulite and all those other horrible, guilt-inducing words that are starting to become part of my vocabulary.

  ‘We could go to The Tap for a slap-up and stay the night in the cottage quaffing champers in front of the fire. No children and no husbands,’ my sister suggests enthusiastically.

  ‘Sounds blissful,’ I agree. ‘I’d love to get down to Wicklow for a few days. But do you think it would be a bit mean leaving Steve and the twins out of it?’

  ‘Leave it to me. We’ll have our girls’ day and night on the Friday and Steve and the girls and Declan and my lot can come down on Saturday. We can have a barbecue if the weather is dry.’

  I laugh. Only Liz could suggest a barbie at the end of February.

  ‘The kids would love that. We can wrap up and drink hot ports on the deck. Jennie’s all on for it,’ Liz continues. Jennie is Liz’s sister-in-law and she’s a dote. She owns the holiday cottage next door to Liz, who has the one beside ours. We’re like a little tribe in the small development of holiday cottages where we all decamp for weekends and holidays.

  ‘You’re on,’ I say, enjoying the frisson of anticipation my sister’s plan generates. What could be nicer than a long, brisk walk on the beach and then to sit on the deck of our small beachside haven listening to the roar of the surf with family and dear friends, easing myself into my new decade?