‘Yes.’
‘Did he have a nice life?’
Thomas leant forward and put his old hand on my old hand. ‘Yes,’ he said.
I took a breath. That was all I needed to know.
‘He stayed in Bristol for most of his life. Moved back here about ten years ago. They say the call home is strong, don’t they? In the end?’
‘And here we are,’ I said.
‘Here we are.’ He smiled.
Glasgow Princess Royal Hospital, February 2014
Margot Macrae is Eighty-Three Years Old
I woke up in my little room at Moorlands care home with a crackling pain in my chest. I thought I had indigestion, but what happened next was evidence to the contrary.
The panic button that had so intuitively foretold the day I’d need it was right. I would need it. And I’d be panicking and hoping that someone else would know or care, or come into my room and panic with me.
And then a face I couldn’t place but I knew I knew appeared. It’s a blur after that. I remember them taking off my top in A&E to stick on the pads for the ECG, and I remember wishing heartily that I’d been wearing a bra.
The next thing I knew, it was the morning. And I was in recovery from an exploratory surgery which left some open-ended questions. The doctor, whose dress beneath her stethoscope was covered in white flowers, said it would probably be weeks before I’d be strong enough for the next surgery stage. The very posh woman in the bed beside mine tutted loudly at that.
‘Weeks!’ she said.
I noticed her red dressing gown was monogrammed with the initials W. S., and I wondered what life a person must lead in order for them to need to identify their dressing gown from others with such regularity that monogramming would seem a wise choice.
The doctor pulled the curtain around my bed and came closer. Her perfume was a sweet vanilla. ‘You’re not to worry,’ she said. ‘Just rest. You’ll be strong again soon.’
I lived out my days happily in the little curtained-off area. A week or so into my stay, the monogrammed lady lent me a book and gave me two pears from her personal fruit bowl on her bedside table. She told me that she was a gynaecological surgeon for thirty years and, in her own words, ‘loathed what she’d become’。 Her ex-husband was managing her estate until she was released, but she’d been bouncing between infections and various treatments for weeks. Had she been her own doctor, she would have disliked herself for taking up a bed space for so long.
‘Try a pear,’ she said, ‘they’re Conference.’
A few days later, a letter arrived for me.
Perhaps not an incredible thing in and of itself.
But it was incredible to me.
How can it be that paper is still flown around the world, in the era of email and text?
And then it went into my postbox at Moorlands Care Home. And then it was cleared out and given to Emily, one of the assistants at the care home whose task it was to bring me a suitcase with some more of my pyjamas and essentials.
‘This came for you,’ she said, as she slid my suitcase under my bed.
The envelope had a stamp with a man I didn’t recognize. And the return address was Ho Chi Minh City.
I could barely hear sweet Emily for a moment because all I wanted was to open the letter. But she wanted to tell me about Johnny’s brother Thomas, about how his daughter April had invited him to live with her family, just in time for the birth of his third grandchild. Emily stayed and we talked for a while, and then the nurse came to give me my DVT jab, and then dinner arrived.
I woke up to my great surprise. Mostly because I had no idea I’d fallen asleep. My dinner tray had been cleared away, as had yesterday’s newspaper. And something else too. What was it?
I was out of my bed like a flash. I pulled the suitcase from under my bed. I rifled through the pyjamas and cardigans, all the while knowing it wasn’t in there. I pulled my bed covers off and lifted up both pillows. I put on my slippers, pulled my curtain back and slippered over to the monogrammed lady.
‘Have the bin men been?’
‘I’m sorry?’ She pulled her glasses from her nose and squinted at me.
‘The cleaner. Have they, has he, taken away the rubbish?’
‘Yes.’
‘When?’
‘I’d say …’ I wanted to shake her to hurry her up. ‘About … a good while ago, certainly.’
I’m not sure I even thanked her. It was my first unsupervised walk in the hospital. I felt like a fugitive. A slow one, though. I tried to think like a porter. I remembered him now; he had a series of tattoos that, were they mine, would annoy me endlessly for being so crooked.