prosetry

Killing Time

In the hospital there is a shop. It sells newspapers and sandwiches and biscuits and cans of liquid sugar and tissues and balloons that say IT’S A BOY. Just outside of this shop there is a crate of books. There is no real literature in this crate. Just books that are easy to read, books that help you to kill time, books that probably aren’t going to change your life in any way. Some are 50p and some are £1. This isn’t much money to spend on temporary escapism. I always look at the books but never buy one. I only read soul-shattering books. I enjoy trying to put my soul back together afterwards. I looked at the books and wondered how many of them I’d actually bought.

When my father died I got all of his good books, his ‘proper’ books. The hundreds of crime/thriller novels he had amassed over a 20 year career in Time Killing were no use to me. I used to work in the Crime and Thrillers department of a top publishing house. I’ve read enough dreadful manuscripts with flimsy plots and ridiculous twists to last a lifetime. But they are perfect books to waste time on. So I donated them to this hospital and to a day-centre for homeless people. When I was a frequenter of that day-centre I remember being sad that there were no books. If anyone needs escapism, it’s people on the streets. And if anyone needs to kill time, it’s people surrounded by death and disease, waiting to receive their own slice of bad news.

So I’m looking at this crate. I spotted a few titles that I reckoned were my dad’s. I ordered a lot of them off the internet for him. He loved the idea of paying 1p for a book. I never told him about the £2.80 delivery charge. He always paid me the penny he owed me for the book. Even though that man owed me nothing. There was a Simon Kernick that I was sure was my dad’s. Its pages smelled like cigarette smoke. There were some James Pattersons and Lee Childs. I didn’t want to look at the books anymore. I went upstairs for my appointment with the neurologist. It was an appointment I had waited 3 years, 4 weeks and 3 days for.

I didn’t know that the neurology department is right opposite the ward where my father died. I did not like being there again. I paced around and around and around. An elderly woman stared at me suspiciously. “My dad died in there,” I said to her, pointing at the door. “Oh,” she said, walking around me. A man with a laundry trolley came towards me. “My dad died in there,” I said to him, “right through there. He died.” He said, “I’m so very sorry to hear that, my girl,” and went on his way. I told every person that walked along that corridor, “My dad died in there.” Anyone who’d listen. Anyone who wouldn’t listen. Some mumbled things, some expressed condolences, some looked frightened, some ignored me altogether. I just had to tell them. I don’t know why, but it was essential.

I punched the wall outside the neurology department and caught my little finger on the edge of a wooden frame. The frame fractured and I got a splinter caught in my skin, right on the joint. In the waiting room, a man was reading a crime novel. I didn’t read a crime novel. I picked at the splinter on my finger. I kept clawing until my name was called, long after the splinter had come out. The neurologist told me that my brain is broken and my nerves are shot. I told him that I already know that. I waited 3 years to find out something I already knew. And in all that time that I spent waiting for a letter, a referral, an appointment, an MRI, a CAT scan, a thousand blood tests, in all that time I didn’t read a single crime novel.

I went outside for a cigarette. On my way back in I looked at the books. There was a book called Private Vegas, part of the ‘Private’ series by James Patterson. I remembered ordering 8 books of the ‘Private’ series off the internet for my father. He paid me 8p. I picked up Private Vegas. It was well read. I had bought it for him second-hand. I opened the book and tucked in the back page was my receipt from the Book Depository. I put the book back in the crate.

I went downstairs for my blood test. The receptionist was reading Stuart MacBride. I introduced my father to MacBride when I worked at the publishers. He was always chuffed to bits when I’d bring early proofs or publicity copies of the latest thrillers home to him. He was so proud of me. Living the dream. Living the nightmare. The phlebotomist gauzed up the hole I’d dug in my little finger.

As I was leaving the hospital I walked past the crate of books again. Private Vegas was gone. Sold to another stranger killing time. That’s all life is, though, isn’t it? Killing time. We are all just killing time.

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life, prosetry

Quarantine

weather

It is hot in London. A twenty degree heatwave and Londoners have gone mental. Hyde Park is awash with walkers, roller-skaters, cyclists, footballers, sun worshippers, book readers, dogs eating ice cream. The other parks too: Regents, Green, St.James, Richmond, Clapham (Common). Rammed with people who will be red-faced tomorrow.

My social media feed, starved of usual as I have no friends, is gluttonous today. My phone buzzes. Requests to: “hit the park”, “crack open the Pimms”, and “play some frisbee”. Only on London-hot days do my acquaintances deny their proletariat roots and drink fucking Pimms. They will return to work on Monday and compare blistered foreheads with their colleagues, complaining how the sun was “too hot”.

I ignore my phone, knowing I will be spending the day in the hospital.

Walking through the entrance I am struck by how empty it is on a Sunday. No volunteers on reception, no sign of anyone playing doctors and nurses. The coffee shop has its shutters down and the cafeteria has only one hot option. What patients are around seem to be the nucleus of a mini-obesity epidemic. Not one of these rotund people are able to move without structural support, or a lumbering waddle. The National Health Service in this country is under as much strain as that guy’s walking stick. I move up two floors using the stairs, feeling the burn.

Inside the Children’s Ward my daughter is stick thin, a skeletal contrast to the flesh on show downstairs. She smiles as she sees me, pushing the last few wispy strands of her hair behind her ear. It seems silly and futile given how bald she has become, but she likes what remains and refuses to cut it short. I kiss her and she wrinkles her nose, telling me I smell of bananas, which is weird as I don’t like bananas.

There was a chance she could have gone home today, just a few hours of freedom, before returning that evening to continue her medical cocktail. Time out is not much, but it is an oasis of happiness for a little girl who has spent the last seven days quarantined.

That hope is snatched away by a frugal Government. It is Sunday and funds cannot stretch, it seems, to more than a single Doctor covering the entire fucking hospital. They take blood at 06:00 to check if she can leave for the afternoon, they return at 18:00 to say it is now too late to sign her release. I have never been good at stifling my sarcasm in the face of stupidity, and fail once more with my reply to the Doctor.

We wait in the room. First she sits on her bed, then on her chair, then back to her bed, already planning ahead to go back to her chair later– there is a dearth of options. Together we do sticker books, read stories, squidge Playdoh, dress dollies, watch television. Between distractions, she stares wistful out of the window, with more sadness in her eyes than a four year old should ever experience. She asks, “Is it hot outside Dad?” And I reply, “Too hot, cupcake, you wouldn’t enjoy it much.” She laughs and wrinkles her nose, knowing I am lying, but accepting because she has no choice. So she goes back to staring out of the window at the trees, the car park, and the crew-less ambulances abandoned outside A&E. I pick glitter from beneath my nails while she shuffles to her chair.

I am not complaining that I have spent a day indoors and not in the sun. There is nowhere I would rather be than at my daughter’s side, but my preference is not in a hospital, watching her suffer the side effect of treatment.

I hope every one of you reading this had a better weekend than I, and if you didn’t, I am so sympathetic.

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