Page 52 of The Alpha Escort Agency
“She’s in here,” he tells the paramedic and his partner, pointing them down the corridor to the bedroom. The first man goes ahead and the second trails behind, asking Rory questions about her name, age and condition.
His grandad is sitting on the edge of the bed and the first paramedic is already kneeling over his nan when Rory goes in.
“Think we’ll need the stretcher, Reg,” the first paramedic calls over his shoulder and his partner disappears.
Rory can tell they’ve done this many times before as they check his nan over and then slide the stretcher under her carefully, carrying her away to the ambulance.
“Who's coming with her?” Reg asks.
“You go, Grandad,” Rory tells him. “I’ll follow in the truck.”
His grandad simply nods his head and Rory helps him up into the rear of the ambulance then stands, his arms hanging by his sides, as the door closes and the ambulance pulls away, the lights out, sirens silent, this time.
He breathes, staring at the puddles on the pavement, rainbows of oil spinning on their surface, the wind kicking a can along the road. Then he shakes his head and rushes to lock up the flat.
The hospital is busy and he has to circle the car park three times until he finds a spot. Ignoring the signs telling him to pay and display, he dashes through the maze of parked cars and through the hospital’s main entrance.
A giant sign listing departments and wards hangs in the foyer and he scans down the list until he finds the Churchill ward, then races up to the second floor and follows a series of green signs until he finds the right door. There, a lady at a desk stops him and, after checking the name, instructs him where to find his nan.
He’d like to take a deep breath in and steady his nerves before he goes to find his nan and grandad, but he’s always hated the stench of hospitals. The sterile, chemical stink of misery and pain. It’s always made his skin creep and his spine shiver. He’d rather not take a gulp of it.
The soles of his shoes squeak on the lino floor as he walks down the hallway past a series of doors until eventually he reaches number four and opens the door. It’s a small ward. Eight beds, four on each side of the rectangular room, a small window on the far wall. Each bed is separated by a rail, some with the blue paper curtains drawn around the bed, some with them open.
He looks along the beds until he spots them. His nan appears small in the large hospital bed and his grandad is sitting in a chair beside her, holding her hand. He spies Rory too and waves him over.
“She’s sleeping,” his grandad whispers as he draws closer. “Took you a long time.”
“It’s rush hour, Grandad, and I couldn’t find a sodding parking space. I’ve been circling for 45 minutes.” He drags over a chair to sit beside them. “Is she okay?”
“Better now. She was in a lot of pain. They gave her some painkillers, though, right before the x-ray. It’s a broken thigh.”
“Shit,” Rory says. His nan’s face is ghostly white against the green hospital pillow and she appears much older.
“They want to operate, but it won’t be until tomorrow.” His grandad pats her hand. “Poor duck. You know she hates hospitals and I think she’ll be here at least a week or so.”
“Operate?” Rory rubs at his forehead.
“I know. I don’t see why they can’t just bung her in a cast. Would stop her causing so much trouble.” His grandad chuckles, although Rory can tell it’s half-hearted, and Rory rolls his eyes at him, trying to keep the mood light.
It's always been that way between the three of them. Deflecting hurt and pain with a joke or a wisecrack.
“Chance would be a fine thing.” His grandad’s laugh dies away and they sit quietly again, listening to a patient in another bed coughing and another mumbling to themselves. “How did it happen? The fall.”
His grandad stares ahead, eyes fixated on the hand he now strokes with his thumb. “Got impatient waiting for me, didn’t she? Tried to climb out of bed herself. Ended up tumbling onto the floor.” He swallows. “It was an almighty thwack. I didn’t know what I was going to find when I rushed into the bedroom.”
“Why didn’t you call me sooner?”
“I called you as soon as I realised it was serious, Rory. Anyway, you can’t be dashing about after us every five minutes. You’re a grown man with your own life.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Grandad.”
They are both quiet, watching his nan’s face, the fall and rise of her chest beneath the blanket pulled up to her armpits. She’s dressed in her nightie, white with pink roses and a bow around her neck. She’s always loved roses. He must remember to get her some. Although he remembers they’ve banned flowers in hospitals these days.
“You eaten anything? You want me to go get you something and a tea or coffee?” he says, turning to examine his grandad. His face appears grey under the stark ward lights, drained and tired.
He knows it must be tough caring for his nan twenty-four hours a day, especially when his knees aren’t great and he isn’t the strong man Rory remembers from when he was a child, the man who was older than the other dads at the school but just as active. His age never stopped him from taking Rory down to the park and kicking a football about with him, or slinging him up onto his shoulders when his little legs ached on their long country walks. He’d never seemed old. In fact, it had taken Rory years before he’d noticed the difference between the parents at school and his own guardians.
“I would murder a cuppa, but the sister said that the doctor’s due in the next half hour and she wants to speak to me. Would be good if you were here too, lad.”
