Don't ask me - I just see this stuff!

A man walks into a room. In the room are five people. It is a waiting room for a city bus-station. He takes from his pocket a watch, a bus ticket and a short piece of string. From another pocket he produces a lighter and a pencil.
He kneels and puts the watch on the floor, stands and then stamps his heel upon the watch smashing it to pieces. Kneeling again he places the bus ticket onto the remains and then, with the pencil, he writes upon the floor. The word FAKE appears and satisfied he flicks the lighter and lights the piece of string. When it is alight he lowers it onto the ticket until it too is alight. When the string begins to burn his fingers he carefully drops it into the centre of the pile of cogs, wheels and ashes. He stands, kicks the heap away and laughs.

He leaves…

Running on empty - 2

The words of a song came to her as she lay up against the heating pipes in the darkness of the Church. -

"Now there’s a wall between us, somethin’ there’s been lost,

I took too much for granted, got my signals crossed.

Just to think it all began on a long-forgotten morn.
“Come in,” she said,
“I’ll give you shelter from the storm.” "

Walls. Signals. Memories. Promises.
Falsehoods.
She sorted through the emotions in the words and the patterns they made in her head and she let sleep take her into a warmer, more familiar place than the coldness of the Here & Now.
Sleeping rough was not the problem - it was the waking rough that perturbed her.
There had been so many times when ‘help’ had arrived and had offered a hand along the way. On occasion she accepted, but she still had a few scars, both mental and physical that still showed from the times that had turned sour, so she tended to shun ‘help’; It was always sex, ‘Care’ was way down the list.
Care was a memory.
Love was an alien.
Sometimes, just sometimes; there appears a genuine hand.

“Who’s there!?” The voice was strong and demanded an answer.
She lay herself full length on the floor trying to look like a pew but could feel the pipe against her bare leg getting hotter and hotter. Gritting her teeth she slowly started to twist her body.
“It is warmer in the Manse. Fancy a cup of tea? Come on then.”
“Sorry vicar.” She mumbled. “Just on my way. Sorry.” Lowering her eyes. She wanted no trouble. She stood up.
“I repeat. Fancy a cup of tea?” He smiled a smile that showed no malice and his eyes shone bright with something that eluded her.
Tea did sound nice. And she heard herself saying, “Thank you, yes. Yes please.”
“I’m the Vicar as you know. Come and meet Mrs.Vicar.”
“How do you know I know?” How could he know what she was thinking or what she knew?
“You were here on Sunday last. You sat at the back and listened intently. It was raining and it was cold and you sought shelter.” He smiled again.
“That’s right…” words came back to her – Shelter from the storm.
“I also know where you live.” He said amiably. Then hastily, “I haven’t been spying on you, I was going about my clerical duties.”
She smiled. “It’s ok. Though, what Clerical duties would take you to that forgotten corner of town? No one lives there.”
He shrugged. “The Church owns that corner of land. Has done for years. It was bigger, but we sold some to the railway company generations ago when they built the bridge. It has been a bit wild ever since. I go along and check it over every day or so.” He locked the door to the church and gestured across the green where a cottage sat back off the road and glowed with light from within. “Lets get that tea.”
Mrs.Vicar greeted them. “Saw you from the window, come on, it’s cold out there. Hi toots.” She kissed her husband fondly and ushered them into the wide warm kitchen. “Now then, sit here girl.” Indicating a seat by the range. “You must be frozen! Look at you with no coat!” Protest was futile.
She sank into the warmth of the chair that seemed to wrap arms of comfort around her. “You are kind, thank you.”
Without moving a cup of tea was produced and passed over. “My name is Gwen. Nice to meet you. Now that is the formal nonsense dispensed with. Where do you intend to sleep tonight?” She folded her arms and gazed down.
Before she could draw a breath Gwen interrupted.
“DO NOT tell me you intend to sleep in that hut.” An order.
“I won’t say it then. But it is what I planned.”
“Huh!. Arthur, talk to our guest.” She crossed to the kitchen area and began to rummage in cupboards.
His smile had not diminished. He kept it throughout. “Gwen tends to get a bit uppity about these things.” He settled into a chair that had taken on his shape and moulded itself to his frame. “There is a bathroom upstairs if you want. Please, feel free. The only thing I want you to know is, you will NOT be sleeping in that hut tonight.” Matter-of-fact.
He said more. He said they wanted her to stay. He said that they could offer work. He said they ‘cared’. He also said they had a duty…
‘Duty’, was something she knew about. She had being doing what she thought was her ‘duty’ for years… much good it had achieved.
To meet someone who readily admitted to having a Duty was different.
He talked. He spoke of his Stewardship. He spoke about words that had faded from her vocabulary, love was mentioned.
Throughout the talk she knew one thing. Truth is hard to find, she knew this to her cost, but she saw no lie in his eyes neither did she hear it in his words.
Later, as she wallowed in a hot bath she reflected on the offer. A bolt from the blue. From being destitute she was being offered employment and a better place to live in, And the chance to oversee the installation of a wild garden in the heart of a metropolis.

The sheets on the bed in the Guest room were crisp and clean and smelled of the wind and she slept.

Continued…

Running on empty - 1

The stillness lay as thick as the mist that hung in the pre-dawn air, coating everything with a thin film of moisture. A fox travelled across the empty ground and across his pelt could be seen a halo against the glow of streetlamps that lit the sky and caught its light in the droplets of water on his back. The fox stopped and shook himself, lifting his nose to the damp air hoping to catch a scent, his ears flicking back and forth to locate a sound. But the silence remained and the air did not move.
After the fox had moved on a sound did stir the air. It was a groan that came from the old railwayman’s hut beside the tracks, just before the bridge over the canal. Through the clapboard planks came the sound of pain and suffering.

For the umpteenth time she promised her brain that she would stop inflicting this hurt upon the cells within. Her brain gave no answer except to release more pain behind the eyes and cause another grunt. Eventually she drifted back to sleep and the silence returned.

The sun made a brief appearance as dawn broke through the low cloud but it was unable to penetrate the mist and was only seen briefly as a washed-out watercolour picture might show, before the clouds closed in again.

She awoke with her belly complaining and the headache still there. With a lot of mumbling and stumbling she had voided her bowels and even climbed down to the canal to clear the debris around the bottom step so she could wash her face in the cold water. The pain at the back of the eye sockets dropped a few notches and she was able to summon up the energy to think a little. In the hut, she had pulled a backpack from its hiding place (under the floorboards) and found an apple and a still-wrapped meat pie. Mindful that her mouth felt like the floor of a budgies cage, she decided to leave the pie until later. She took the apple outside and climbed up onto the roof to eat her breakfast.
The triangle of empty land lay still. To the left the railway, angled to the right the canal which disappeared beneath the railway bridge. To mark the top of the triangle the blank wall of a derelict printing factory joined the two. Steel, water and brick. Almost a prison. She had been here for months and had seen no-one. Which was odd, areas that had accommodation are hard to come by and the hut she sat upon was in a desirable area. Views over water – good transportation links and a blank canvas. A prime location; so why did nobody come here?
She changed into the cleanest ‘dirty clothes’ she could find in the capacious holdall. A rummage around also produced a linen tie-up bag into which she stuffed her laundry. She hid her rucksack and shut the door, carefully placing objects to show if anyone had entered.
She found enough change in her jeans pocket to pay for a Service-Wash and decided to kill the hours waiting for the washing with a good read so she set off for the library. Her mood was light as she stepped into the grand entrance of the public building and as she headed upstairs for the reading-room she came upon a photo exhibition.
Pictures lined the wall of the staircase – a portrait of a town through the eye of a camera. The photographer in question was a student at the local college she read from the introduction pamphlet at the foot of the stairs..
One by one she climbed the stairs, taking in the vast array of black & white pictures. They showed a good selection of views from oblique angles upon a town that had lost its way. Alongside the essential views of the high street and the civic buildings lay interesting and candid portraits of the population along with strangely lit pictures of decay and urban desolation.
It was a good balanced collection and then, there, suddenly was a picture of her current home – a beautifully structured picture; taken from the brick wall end and showing the railway and the canal meeting; forming, on the print, a perfect triangle. The tiny, leaning shed that stood alone at the apex said it all – derelict - Nothingness.
As beautifully crafted as the picture was, it held an air of despair that grated the nerves and with an effort she averted her eyes and then - fate being fate, halted their progress by bringing them to rest upon another image that sent a shock throughout her body and made the bile rise in her throat…

He had a flat. Clean(ish) sheets! How could she not like it? It had been a good party. They had met at Geralds party, who had done everyone proud by throwing money at the booze; they had exchanged pleasantries and talked and at home-time he had offered a lift – or maybe, a coffee? A nightcap perhaps?
The coffee was gross. But he did have a nice flat and she had agreed to it. He had eyes with a slight squint, not unnerving but a tad off-putting. She had been with worse.
His grunts of passion had dissolved as he fell asleep on top of her. She caught an odour of his breath and heaved him off.
Climbing out of bed she padded her way to the bathroom and stepped into the shower. An hour passed.
She left a note thanking him. - Never let it be said that she wasn’t grateful. A good nights sleep in the arms of another did do something for the soul. Not nearly enough, but it went partway.
It was later that afternoon when their paths crossed.
She wandered the shelves of Safeway looking for instant gratification -though without the need for a microwave oven. Fresh fruit along with bread and cheese had so far made up the selection.
The arm that led her away from the cooked-meats clung firmly. The voice held a further warning that resistance was futile…
A debt was owed it seemed. She had not fulfilled her part of the ‘bargain’. She had walked out on him. She had hurt his pride. She placed the basket on the floor and followed him.
The immediate assumption that punishment was due became apparent when he closed the door to the flat. She took it. What followed was worse. She took that too. The dismissal was final.
During early evening when the day hovers between light and dark she had returned to her hut. The feelings she held within now came out and she vomited without reservation. She tried to let all the hurt and hate exit her body and stain the ground but she had been left heaving and hurting …..

The picture showed that moment. The photographer had been there and focused in on her as she let the day vent from her body. He had intruded upon her solitary moment and put that moment up for all to see. The shock of seeing the picture was to much. She held her hand to her face and cried out…

to be continued...

just the one..

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5fGTzEuk6-8&mode=related&search=

or maybe

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=I7RDuqJiayc&mode=related&search=

Days like these...

Some days interest and care wanes. You go to work and try to get through the day – but, others get in the way…. Then there are days when a job well done can work wonders.

“No. You cannot transfer the number of a bleep and expect it to bypass the transfer.”
“I NEED a bleep!” Shouting.
“Yes. You do. And you have one.”
“I need a bleep that will find me. This only gets the Ortho SHO. I want you to get hold of me. I am expecting calls.”
“You have a bleep.” Sighing. “WE know you are on that bleep because your number has been transferred to the Emergency bleep you now hold in your hand. That way WE know that YOU are on that bleep. If we want you we can find you – if you answer the thing.” Another sigh.
“Are you telling me that because I forgot my bleep this morning I am now non-obtainable?”
“No. I am telling you that should anyone come to us and ask for you by name or title, we WILL be able to bleep you personally. Because that’s what we do. We provide a service. We have serviced YOU with a bleep this morning because you forgot to brings yours with you. It behoves the Hospital to keep running in the face of such adversity and needs must, so, thus – We have given you a way around your singular predicament and allowed you to go about your clinical duties without any concern over your personal contact ability. Safe in knowledge that as long as the bleep you have about you is functional (easily tested yourself by dialling it), and performs to its maximum, you WILL be found. Far be it from us to cast a shadow upon your day.” A yawn.
Click
I have said it before and I will say it again; Doctors may be Clever – but they are not very bright.
The everyday objects that us ordinary mortals take for granted are anathema to Doctors. For varying reasons:
Some are prone to ultimate Professionalism they loose track of reality.
Some lean toward the effusive behaviour that belies the person underneath.
Some are so far Up themselves they all have brown eyes…
Some are just plain dim.
I carefully put the headset into its charger. I pushed back the chair and stood uttering another cry to the heavens and rolling my eyes. I saw sympathetic eyes as the others looked up.
With a casual glance at my desk I set off for the Post room. (As a Department we are lower than the bottom rung of any ladder and we fail to show on any charts, so we do not get our mail delivered like everywhere else.. Not that I mind, I like the walk through reception and the canteen to get a ‘feel’ of the place.)
Besides, David would brighten my day. He always greeted me with a broad grin and a loud hello. True, some mornings did not warrant such enthusiasm and anyone else would get their head bitten off, but David gets away with it through no knowledge of any over-indulgence on my part the night before. He doesn’t feel the pain between my eyes and the throbbing in my head. He only knows that he has to get the post delivered in five minutes, therefore approach with caution upon the – otherwise engaged.

This day, Daevid was engaged. His eyes and mind focused upon an envelope that he held in a vice-like grip and peered at with suspicious eyes. It did not convey language to him that he understood –
Indignant tone ~ “What’s this?” The letter thrown onto the desk. The moment passed.
I entered the post room and said “Good morning all, morning David.” I headed for the pigeonhole where my post is kept, To the left Steve mumbled a sound that could have been a greeting. David gave another envelope a thorough scrutiny.
I grabbed my post and made my exit.
I was halfway along the corridor almost at the slightly different coloured tile in the floor when I heard the response…
“Morning! Mand” Shouted David.
“Hello David.” I glanced down at my handful of post and saw a name that was unfamiliar. I stopped and turned and retraced my steps up the corridor. The address on the envelope was for another department and I reasoned that they might want it more than me. As I re-entered the room two heads as though’ joined peered down at an envelope held in Davids hand.
“But what does it mean?”
He thrust out his hand toward Steve who took it and peered through bloodshot eyes at the thing before him and tried to focus. “I dunno. Means nothing to me. Get George to look.” He turned to put the offending article to one side and noticed me. “Oh, hello again. What did we get wrong?” He picked up another pile from the open sack and began to deposit them in the appropriate compartments.
“No problem Andy, just this one which belongs in the hole underneath mine I believe.” I flicked the offender into the gap and turned away again.
“What do you make of this?” Said David as he thrust the envelope under my nose. “We can’t understand it.”
I glanced at the envelope. It had clear writing on it, it said; - ‘Adams wife – Hamlet Ward.’
David gave his thoughts aloud and with some indignation, “How do we know who Adam is.?” He snorted derisively, “How does he expect us to know his wife.” He laughed at the mistake the silly person responsible for writing that into the address box had made.
I shall admit no collusion here. I have come across this ‘clever’ addressing of envelopes before. - In a previous incarnation (or was it this one?...) I used to be a humble Porter who had the task of post-sorting. It is now tho’ an established position in its own right. To have sent it deliberately would be to admit to a massive amount of forethought on my part. – I rest my case.
“Perhaps David, you Do know, but he has written it in code that only You may know.” I gave him back the envelope.
He snatched it from me and looked at it with more suspicion than before. He began to see more in the words on the letter. “Are you sure?” He glanced my way and looked hard for the right answer.
“I reckon so David. You are up to it. Just think it through one step at a time. First think of Adams wife. I will see you later and check if you have any success, I am interested to know.”
“Did you send it?” He called down the corridor.
“No David.”
Steve may have helped a little. Who knows? I didn’t ask. I returned toward eleven a.m. because the first round has been done and the internal sorting is almost over.
David was eager to impart news of his progress. “Guess what!” He demanded.
“About what?”
“The letter!!” His eyes rolled at my stupidity. He was on a quest – and I appeared to be distracted from it. Then he added, “Perhaps you have been working and forgotten.”
“I am afraid so David. But I remember now, how have you got on?”
“Well,” he shuffled his feet a bit and stared at the floor. “I think I know who Adams wife is.” Before I could ask he blurted out the answer. “EVE!”
“Of course!. SO, where does that leave things? Have you got the letter to the rightful owner?”
“No.” He returned his gaze to the floor. “I was just thinking of Hamlet Ward. I don’t know anyone called Hamlet.”
“Ever heard of William Shakespeare?”
“Course.”
“And what do you know about Shakespeare David?”
“He wrote a lot of plays and things.”
“yes he did. Do you know of any?”
He threw back his head and gave the speech…. “To be or not to be, that is the question: Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, And by opposing, end them. …”
“Wow! Where did you learn that?”
“I read it” He looked at me as though I was a simpleton. I felt one.
“OK, go back to the beginning. What is the first line?”
“To be or not to be. …that is….”
“Stop.” I held up a hand. “Say that again.”
“To be or not to be.”
“Give me just the first two words.”
A moment of digestion. “To be.” Triumph! The light came on. “2B!!!! It’s ward 2B!!!!” He almost danced with joy. “Andy!!!, it’s ward 2B, we need to ask if they have anyone called Eve!”
I wandered off. It was nice to see success, but much better to hear it fading into the distance and enjoy the moment for what it was.
I had just past the different coloured tile when I heard a voice call up the corridor and my heart glowed.
"Thanks Mand"

A good question...

I moved from the top flat to the ground floor. The advantage, I thought, was a garden to walk into when the walls closed in.
Many a time I would sit at my PC gazing out of the window watching the man next door tending his beautiful garden. He had planted borders, installed a water feature and grown a mini forest at the far end that provided a leafy glade to rest from the hot sun.
The garden to our flats was unkempt and mostly overgrown and was included in the lease for the ground floor flat.
Before I moved in the place had belonged to an old chap by the name of Reg. Strange old cove, always peering out to see who was coming in and always up and about. No matter what the hour he could be heard shuffling round the rooms, coughing or peering through the curtains. Harmless but not very talkative is how I remember him.
When he died I took over the flat and spent the first five months decorating the place and bringing it into this century. As a genuine thirties museum it was all very well but that wasn’t what I wanted, I ripped out and sold a lot of the fittings, repainted others and adapted all manner of things in order to make it more conducive to modern living. Or at least my interpretation of it.
When it was finished I sat in my study one day beside an open patio door listening to the sound of the garden. That was when I decided to do something about the state it was in.
Business had been quite good - I write software for those that can’t tackle the task themselves and I make a good living. I am able to work from home as soon as I have the specification from the customer.
My first foray into the depths of the jungle turned up all sorts of things; A cast iron fountain, now cleaned and working well just beyond the patio. Two cart wheels. Varnished and housing my herb garden. A shed that leaned to starboard and was propped up by three stout pieces of timber; It stays that way because of its inherent character.
Three weeks later I had cleared it all and laid out the basis of a ‘proper’ garden. It was then that next door began to show an interest. I had unashamedly borrowed a few ideas from him by peering over the fence at various points and had adapted a couple of his ideas to my own interpretation..
He began to talk to me. We swapped seeds and catalogues and became friends. He came round and had tea and I went round to sit and enjoy the occasional G&T with him.
His story, when he told me one sunny afternoon sitting under the shade of his mature apple tree, was to say the least, startling…

A Military man. He had grown up with discipline and it had followed and stayed with him throughout his life. He didn’t think it was a fault, more a way of life. And therein lay his downfall. Discipline can lead to naïve actions.
He had met women. Plenty of them, but none had wanted to stay with someone who was to the point of obsession about neatness. ‘A place for everything and everything in it’s place.’
A mantra. Take time out to straighten the tie, make sure the curtain falls just so, the extra buff of a well-polished shoe.
Do things by the book. Do it right and it will work. So he did things right and the women came and went and none stayed. He became disillusioned in Civvie Street and decided that the only way for him to glean any enjoyment from life was to make some money.
It happened that a school friend who was in business making plastic wrapping for the food industry and had discovered a new way of producing the thin, clingy plastic and needed a healthy dose of Investment to launch it at the public. He could see that there was indeed a market for this stuff and decided that he wanted to put money in. In order to invest he devised a scheme whereby he might make himself some of the required cash.
He robbed a bank.
In true Wild-West style, he walked into the Fairfold Bank held the place up at gunpoint with a pair of six-guns dressed in the full regalia, boots and all.

Furthermore he got away with it. The Police had never ever come close in the forty intervening years. He had invested the money in the school-friends business, to the tune of £100,000. And he sat back to await the results.
After a few years and the business was up and running and the orders flew in for this new wonder-wrap because it was new and was useful around the kitchen, the profits soared and they banked their respective shares accordingly. But resentment by the owner began to surface. Remarks were made, inferences inferred.
Board meetings became a battleground for him. Then the friend announced that he wanted to stop with the wrap and move on to other areas. He had been given the nod from a well-known chemical company that a lot of money could be made for the right packaging. His plan was to throw everything at the new venture and drop the wrap and thus force out what he saw as a money grabber.
At the end of the battle my neighbour walked away with the sole rights to the wrapping production and the friend went off and tried to compete against the chemical companies. He lost.
Neighbour took out a lease on a small unit and installed the equipment, looked about for some people to run it; Pressed go and the cash-cow started to produce.
So that is how he got here.
And now he is thinking of turning himself in.
Had enough of the silliness of ‘everyday’ life. Had a hankering for the disciplined nature of a term in Jail; his military background would see him through and when he came out he would be old and a home would be available, a home that has been bought and paid for these many years…
Wanted to get it off his chest. A crime is just that. Law says Do Not and if you Do, you get punished. No punishment had been forthcoming so maybe it was time to seek it out and let justice prevail. Confession is good for the soul. Make peace.

We sat and watched the sun go down and our G & T’s emptied. He gave a sigh that startled the dog. “Tell me,” he said reaching for the bottle, “what would you do?”

No Imagination - Epiphany

Betty Lees locked her front door and looked up and down the street as was her habit every morning. She liked to check that all was in order before setting off for work. – Had the milkman been, or the postman? Did the street-cleaner machine manage to get that corner swept? Last week it had skirted round the corner piece and had left a pile of rubbish there for days.
It seemed that all was indeed in order so she gave the door a push to check that it had firmly locked and turned toward work.
As she walked she pondered on her day ahead. It was time today to move bed one and bed two. She had not been able to get to them yesterday and she could not allow things to go another day; Not in the ITU, it simply would not do.
Cleaning was in her blood she told people. Her Mother had been a cleaner and her Grandmother had kept house for the Gentry out in the country. She liked to clean and when the job at the Hospital had become available she had gone against her husbands wishes and taken on the task. That was some years ago now and she mulled over the twenty seven years she had spent there. Next year she was going to have to retire. She was approaching the age and, though she had asked, they were not about to give any leeway. If the department was still run by the Health Service she could no doubt have gone on untill she dropped, but the Domestic Services had been privatised last year and they ran a tight ship which gave no quarter and the rules were engraved in stone.
A sigh escaped her lips as she walked. There was no doubt she would miss working and hoped that she could find something to keep her busy when the time came. The prospect of being at home nowadays held no attraction since her husband had died five years ago. Pheumonia had got him and he had died in the very ward she now cleaned so assidiously. Her thoughts returned to moving beds one & two.
The butchers shop stood by itself because the Town Planners had removed all the building around it for redevelopment. Something else that would be gone by years end. Betty recalled when she and Norman had first moved to this area. Row upon row of terraced houses had occupied the two blocks that now served as a makeshift car-park. She had long since ceased to ask the question as to Why they did these things.
She knocked on the window of the shop and the butcher within looked up and waved, She mouthed that she would like a lamb-chop for dinner and he signalled back that it would be ready for her when she passed on her way home. As she walked on she wondered if the supermarket would be so obliging when Elliots – High Class Butcher closed his door for the last time?

The Hospital had grown over the years that Betty had been working. It was now a collection of Specialist units and not like the General Hospital she had started in. Still and all, it was “Her” hospital just as it was to the rest of the town. She hated the way that the modern regime saw it as a tool for political football. She hated the new Directors for turning it into a management exercise in cost-cutting and above all – she hated the current spotty kids that held these posts and spoke in a new jargon – fretting over ‘waiting times’, ‘bed-blocking’ and talked of patients as ‘Clients’. Somewhere along the way the mere act of Caring for patients as people had been forgotten.
Another sigh could be heard as she walked into the office to sign-in for her shift of duty. She barely acknowledged the Team-Leaders and collected her trolley from the store, making sure she had the required items and she added a few extra floor wipes because she knew that the given quota was never enough to do a proper job.

As if a light switch was flicked on when she entered the Intensive Therapy Unit her demeanour changed; she became the woman she knew herself to be. Knowing, caring, and able.
“Morning Sister” she called cheerily. “Got here early for a change I see. Feeling guilty I s’pose? Two days off? Who said you could have them?”
Sister Hilary Hobbs had asked for betty to be asigned to the ward ages ago because she knew a damn good worker when she saw one. The warm smile she gave spoke volumes.
“Good morning Betty. I hope you are going to clean this place properly today. It looks a complete mess, have you been off too?”
The banter continued for a few minutes as Betty wheeled her trolley into a corner and surveyed the area she had plans for. First thing was to empty all the bins of rubbish and change the plastic sacks that in a couple of cases bulged with rubbish.

Bed one was occupied by the newest arrival, but he was making good progress and would not be here for much longer, a few broken bones that would soon heal meant he would be able to go up to the Orthopaedic ward very quickly and free up a bed in anticipation of the next Trauma case.
Bed two was Daevid Hardy who had been in the ITU for a long time. He had been thrown from his motorcycle and had been unconscious ever since. The machines kept him fed and watered and the Nurses tended him and made sure that his needs were kept up.
Betty was surprised to note that his girlfriend Jane was not in yet, she came in every single day to talk to him and hold his hand and to wash him and read to him. And nothing was to trivial, she would read anything and everything. She would play his music and talk to him about that. Betty sometimes wished she had done as much for her dear Norman, but times had been different then.
The trolley held the various impliments needed to keep infection at bay and she selected the dusting wipes to make a start. The whole Unit always exuded an air of calm even in those moments when things went awry and the machines beeded and buzzed and doctors came at the run – even then the calm professional nature of the unit gave hope to every visitor.
As she wiped down the myriad surfaces she talked to Daevid. She had been in and out of the room for months so by now she felt she knew his taste in most things because Jane chatted all the time to him and about him.
“I see that the cricket is going well.” She said chattily, “I heard on the news this morning that England only need a few more runs to secure a victory. It should all be over by lunchtime.” She paused while she took another wipe from the pack. “That new roundabout at the bottom of the hill is causing nasty traffic-jams all through the town. Even up your road it gets crowded at rush hour.” She paused to slide the cloth behind the stand that held a monitor and her tongue poked out a touch as it always did when she concentrated. Out of the corner of her eye she spotted Jane talking to Dr. Anderson who was the Anaesthetist that looked out for Daevid. Everyone like Dr. A. She cared not only for the patient, she looked after the friends and relatives also.
Sister poked her head around the glass door of the unit “Give a shout when you need the bed moved Bett. Things are quiet today so we should get lots done. If you are up to it of course. I don’t want you overdoing things.”
“Cheeky monkey! Thanks Sister, I’ll tell you when. Is it ok to play some music? It is so quite in here you lot are in danger of falling asleep!”
Hilary laughed and suggested that Bett choose something from Daevids collection.
After finishing dusting around the stand she looked through the box for something that would appeal. Years ago she had gone to a few concerts with her husband and her eyes alighted on a cd by Bob Dylan. With a mischievious grin she selected the it and placed it into the player. Norman had liked Dylan and had taken her to two three or concerts that the singer had given in London. She liked to hear that gravelly voice because it gave fond memories. She pressed play.

“Look out across the fields, see me returning,

Smoke is in your eye, you draw a smile.

From the fireplace where my letters to you are burning,

You've had time to think about it for a while.”

Jane heard the music and smiled to herself, she knew that Daevid had liked this one. Dr.Anderson had given the usual reassuring but blunt appraisal and wandered off to write up her assessments of the patients in her care. She had seen Betty going about her duties and knew that Daevid was in safe hands. She sat down in a chair by the entrance and watched Betty at work and allowed herself to dream a little. And the music played.

Well, I've walked two hundred miles, now look me over,

It's the end of the chase and the moon is high.

It won't matter who loves who, You'll love me or I'll love you

When the night comes falling from the sky.

Hilary stopped what she was doing and cocked her head to one side, she had heard this song before but the strong beat and words caused her to listen as she worked.

I can see through your walls and I know you're hurting,

Sorrow covers you up like a cape.

Only yesterday I know that you've been flirting

With disaster that you managed to escape.

Jill Anderson had been the Consultant Anaesthetist for many years and loved what she did. She did it well and it showed by the thousands of letters from patients and relatives that had taken time out to write to express their thanks. She kept them all in a filing cabinet in the office. As she wrote up her notes she to paused to listen.

I can't provide for you no easy answers,

Who are you that I should have to lie?

You'll know all about it, love, It'll fit you like a glove

When the night comes falling from the sky.

Staff Nurse Pam Jenkins was teaching the new Student Nurse the fundamentals of a new cathetar that had been adopted. It was tricky at first but once you got the knack it was simple. A model was used to demonstrate and the student was repeating the exercise over and over.

I can hear your trembling heart beat like a river,

You must have been protecting someone last time I called.

I've never asked you for nothing that you couldn't deliver,

I've never asked you to set yourself up for a fall.

In the far corner of the unit sat a machine that measured blood gas and a Porter had been called earlier to change the Co2 cylinder. Andy Keely had been given the task. As he worked he to paused to listen. He knew this track, he and Daevid had spent many nights together on nights and music was a prerequisite when working overnight. They used to take turns in providing tapes or cd’s. He remembered that Daevid had rated Bob Dylan above all else.

I saw thousands who could have overcome the darkness,

For the love of a lousy buck, I've watched them die.

Stick around, baby, we're not through, Don't look for me, I'll see you

When the night comes falling from the sky.

Betty finished the dusting and turned her attention to the floor. It looked spotless of course but nothing could be taken for granted in an envoirenment where bugs lurked awaiting the chance to strike. She was about to call Sister Hills to shift the bed so she could give those bugs a splash of disenfectent when a movement caught her eye.

In your teardrops, I can see my own reflection,

It was on the northern border of Texas where I crossed the line.

I don't want to be a fool starving for affection,

I don't want to drown in someone else's wine.

She blinked. No. That wasn’t right. Or rather it WAS right – it was what everyone had hoped for. For a moment she stared not quite beleiving her eyes She opened her mouth to call Jane and Hillary…. No sound came. No movement could she make. Her disbelieif in what she could see made no sense and she stood staring.

For all eternity I think I will remember

That icy wind that's howling in your eye.

You will seek me and you'll find me In the wasteland of your mind

When the night comes falling from the sky.

Hilary sensed the change in the air. She has known this before at certain moments. She was not a believer; However, she knew this to be the moment when God walks in.

Well, I sent you my feelings in a letter

But you were gambling for support.

This time tomorrow I'll know you better

When my memory is not so short.

Jane noticed the change too. She stared at Betty who stood open-mouthed and pointing down at the bed. Slowly she stood and dared to hope without knowing why. Tears welled in her eyes and blurred her vision as Hilary took her hand and led her into the cubicle following Dr.Anderson.
The world revolved. A door opened and a parallel place existed for that single moment and seemed to last forever. A moment of ecstasy – wordless and beyond understanding enveiled all of those people gathered. They stood and stared at Daevids finger gently tapping to the beat of the music.

This time I'm asking for freedom,

Freedom from a world which you deny.

And you'll give it to me now, I'll take it anyhow

When the night comes falling from the sky.

In the silence as the song ended and his finger lay still, and they all held their breath - one further movement occurred - Daevid opened his eyes.

No Imagination - Enigma

Some time ago I wrote No Imagination. Sandra was a character in that tale and here she writes about the central figure of Daevid.

No Imagination was important to me inasmuch that it has many autobigraphical attributes.

Shamefully I left Daevid unconcious in a hospital bed and have yet to return to him.

Time changes things. Therefore, be warned Daevid will be back ...

<>

Sandras tale

I am paid to write. I do occasional articles for many publications, sometimes at a moments notice. The topics can vary - the last was a PR piece on the usage of organic and synthetic materials in farming in the country of Chad.
All of which is relevant only because it shows how versatile the English language has to be. One minute it has to be matter of fact and scientific and then it has to cope with emotion.
Emotion. Easy word to write. Easy to spell. Phonetic… e - mo - shun.
How many different emotions fill his room when people visit him?
Jane? She sits with him constantly and exudes love. She so desperately wants to hold her lover in her arms again and cannot bear the pain of being so distant.
Frank? He loves too but in a different way. He loves him as a fellow traveller on this journey through life and offers the hand of friendship. He wants Daevid to know the joy that comes from having God as a Saviour!
Squirrel, Chip and Prof? They love him as they would a brother. A member of that close-knit community of bikers. The fellowship of like-minded people. You find it in music too.
Me? I lusted for him…
I first met Daevid at the Manse. I was immediately struck by his modesty. He is an attractive man and I have to confess that my initial thoughts did include lust but I quelled this as soon as I could; mostly I have succeeded. During the short times we were together he always behaved impeccably and there is a certain amount of disappointment here. I would like to have known him better but I didn't know about Jane at that point so I'm glad that I didn't try anything and make a fool of myself.
He is a very assured young man. Not arrogant at all just.. nice; and it was impossible not to like him. I've read of his misdemeanours and I'm not impressed, I have met a few ruffians in other places and Daevid pales in comparison. That is not to say that he is in any way angelic! A loveable rogue? Yes, I like that.
Playing the guitar is a gift from God in my mind and I hate to see a gift unused. His gift is latent. It is there but unused except for the odd occasion. I loved playing duets with him because it is rare to find a kindred spirit that knows exactly how you are thinking. But play we did and the music flowed. I made him late for work once and he did not mind a bit.
When I see him now it is difficult to relate to that same person. I gaze at his hands that lay there so still and I recall how those elegant fingers can fly effortlessly up and down a fretboard producing the magic of music. Oh, how I have prayed for his suffering to end and that he should be back with us. I know God has his own timetable and I have no right to question His judgement but… when I see Jane sitting beside his bed, holding his hand and gazing with such love at his face, it breaks my heart.
Please God, take him or return him, we all love him so.
Every week Mr. Gunn mentions him in prayers and I know that many others at Hilltop also ask for intervention in their own meditations. My faith remains steadfast but I still question. Forgive me Lord.
And there you have a range of emotion. Something for everyone. So is it any wonder that people doubt on occasion?

Or is it that we care so much but are helpless and must fall to You in supplication and cry 'Hear me Lord for I have sinned.' Or do we think to ourselves that there but for Your grace go I?
The answer will be revealed to us one day. My prayers ask that it is sooner not later.

Bull in a sweet shop

The Aberdeen Angus was first bred in Scotland in 1824 and records show that the breed has continued through to today. In general it is a mild-mannered beast without horns (which caused some consternation to the American market) It is generally regarded throughout the world as - Good Eating!
That said, there is always the exception to the rule.. When any beast of this size is unhappy it is best to stand aside.

Monday was the day of the cattle-market. During holiday time it was a magnet for all the kids in the area. The sound of the Auctioneer with his alien tongue, the smell, the animals lowing and bleating and snorting, the heavy trucks releasing their loads of livestock into pens, men with long sticks prodding and coaxing; it made up a tapestry that assaulted the senses.
At the far end of the market stood the Auctioneers hut which was in fact a caravan of the horse-drawn variety. A set of six wooden steps led up to the door which hung open on market day to reveal the men inside all wearing white smocks to denote their rank and busily writing in ledgers.
A brick wall surrounded the whole compound and the only way to sit atop the structure was to run up the steps of the caravan and jump up onto the wall. That done it was possible to walk, or shuffle if walking invoked fear, along and take up a position that overlooked the bull-pen beneath and the rest of the proceedings.
To the left was the entrance. The lorries would back up to here and release their loads of sheep, goats, pigs, cattle and the main attraction, the bulls. Over to the right the pens for those animals stood and the attendants guided the animals through a maze of moveable gates to the appropriate place.
This day, I had taken up my position early, though not before Pete who had a knack of being everywhere before anyone else. I started to tuck into a hot meat pie from the mobile canteen (sadly missed is that ‘Greasy Spoon; The best tasting meat pies in the whole world. Meat supplied by Taylors the Butchers of note.) when a loud bellow caught our attention.
A cattle truck was backing up and the noise came from within and it was loud. The truck stopped and the hiss from the brakes caused another roar. We knew a troubled bull when we heard one and fidgeted in anticipation.
On occasion various animals had made a bid for freedom. Pigs being the worst offenders, they could lead the men with sticks a merry dance in their attempts to get them to get back into line. A bull was a different manner and we waited while the men unbolted the draw gate and lowered it to the ground. The cross-gates are pretty flimsy affairs and serve only as a token barrier and are more of a guide for the creatures as they ascend or descend the ramp of the tailgate.
With another bellow at the world the black beast stood at the top of the ramp and snorted its defiance, it was not happy. The cross-gates were lifted and set each side of the ramp but no movement did it make. It stood and snorted, a mist appearing from each nostril. Noise is something that the Angus does well.

Mrs. Bowen owned the sweet shop. She had been the incumbent there since time began and Sweet Shops had been invented. It was no surprise to us kids when sometimes we would arrive at the door of the shop only to find a note on the door – Back in five minutes. Gone to feed the cats. We would wait of course, you cannot keep a child away from a sweet shop for long, especially when the shop in question had so many delights to lust for. She once had been married but Mr. Bowen had not lasted the course, he had expired before my time and indeed anyone else’s, except maybe Mrs. Stone who had laid everybody in the street out in her time and we all knew that She would be around to see us off to.
The shop next door belonged to Mr. Taylor the Butcher. He took only the best meat from the Market. He reluctantly left young Bob in charge whilst he was away but he fretted the whole time because Bob didn’t cut the meat in quite the right way; He would always cut rashers of bacon to thick or tie the beef to tight: Mr Taylor fretted a lot whilst at the market.

The Auctioneer began his spiel on the current bull that had entered the ring and hands or sticks lifted as he raised the price or they made cutting motions to indicate they were out of the bidding. Meanwhile the black Angus started his descent of the ramp albeit a tad reluctantly.
With a toss of the head, that maybe indicated a degree of boredom with the company that goaded him downward, the bull decided to strike out on his own. He simply lurched off to the left and crashed through the flimsy cross gate leaving the splintered wood about him as he stepped down onto the access road. Before him he saw a free path so he began to trot.
As one, the nearest people scattered. It was all very well to have a bull in a controlled environment, to have one loose on a road was not good.
Angus started to run and we watched with great interest, this was an extra to normal proceedings. We jumped down from the wall and followed – at a distance.
The driveway to the market first passed the Coachworks where Jeff stored and serviced his Luxury Coaches that made trips across Europe – Jeffways, The trip of a Lifetime. Call us for The BEST of Deals.
The bull took no notice and continued his way. Tossing his head and snorting as he trotted he rapidly approached the main road. Roads are everywhere of course, and the one the bull neared was the major road between London and Oxford. It was always busy and provided a headache for the Town Planners who had yet to realise what a wealth lay at their feet if they could bring the passing motorists to stop in the town and spend money. Alongside the road lay the river, this also provided another headache for planners. In later years they built a piped diversion for it and buried it forever underground and widened the road above to allow even more traffic to pass through.
At this time it remained a pleasant feature, the bull however was not into sight-seeing and he crossed the road without a thought. Much screeching of brakes and shouting accompanied this. A straight line bought the bull into Bridge Street and relative quite to the bustle of the market and main road. We followed the followers who, armed with sticks and loud voices advised each other on the best way to bring the beast to a halt and return him to the market. Advice there was in plenty – Action was there none.
With a hop and a jump the bull picked up speed. WE ran now to keep up, though still at a safe distance.

Mrs. Bowen came out of the butchers and fished into her handbag for her keys. Under her arm was a neatly wrapped parcel of fresh meat, a bit of steak for her tea and a few scarps for her cats. She looked up and beheld the mayhem that drew toward her.
She could have simply stepped aside and let it al pass. She could have opened her shop and stepped inside out of harms way. After all, a bull charging toward you was not an everyday experience.
Whatever sort of stubborn streak she had in her came to the fore. After looking up and assessing the situation she stepped out into the middle of the road and the animals path and stopped.
Now, it is true that the bull slowed and it is also true that we, the onlookers, drew a breath because even at the distance we were, we could see the anger in the his eyes. Mrs. Bowen saw none of this, what she saw was a naughty animal that ought to be chastised.
The loudest bellow was reserved for the old woman and the bull drew up in front of her, snorting and pawing the tarmac. With a casual movement Mrs. Bowen took the parcel of meat from under her arm and delivered a mighty blow onto the nose of the still snorting beast. “Now stop that you stupid creature”, she said.
It is difficult to describe the look the bull gave her. Surprise is probably the nearest, followed by one of pardon which quickly turned to fear.
Handlers gathered and roped and tied the beast and began to lead it away which seemed to please the bull no end; It gave a snort of acceptance and relief and allowed itself to be led back to the market without another murmur.
The old lady returned to her shop and let herself in.
We searched through our pockets and purses for a few pennies and followed her into the shop. We just HAD to spend more time in the company of this woman.