“Hiya, Eleanor,” he said, rubbing his hands on the front of his thighs as though to clean them. “How’re you doing today?”
Horrifically, he leaned forward as though to embrace me. I stepped back, but not before I’d had a chance to smell the cigarette smoke and another odor, something unpleasantly chemical and pungent. I suspected it was an inexpensive brand of gentleman’s cologne.
“Good afternoon, Raymond,” I said. “Shall we go inside?”
We took the lift to Ward 7. Raymond recounted the events of the previous evening to me at tedious length; he and his friends had apparently “pulled a late one,” whatever that meant, completing a mission on Grand Theft Auto and then playing poker. I wasn’t sure why he was telling me this. I certainly hadn’t asked. He finally finished speaking and then inquired about my evening.
“I conducted some research,” I said, not wishing to sully the experience by recounting it to Raymond.
“Look!” I said. “Ward 7!” Like a child or a small pet, he was easily distracted, and we took turns to use the alcohol hand rub before we went in. Safety first, although my poor ravaged skin had barely recovered from the previous dermatological onslaught.
Sammy was in the last bed nearest to the window, reading the Sunday Post. He glared at us over the top of his spectacles as we approached; his demeanor was not friendly. Raymond cleared his throat.
“Hi there, Mr. Thom,” he said. “I’m Raymond, and this is Eleanor.” I nodded at the old man. Raymond kept talking. “We, eh, we found you when you had your funny turn, and I went with you in the ambulance to hospital. We wanted to come by today and say hello, see how you were doing . . .”
I leaned forward and extended my hand. Sammy stared at it.
“Eh?” he said. “Who did you say you were?” He looked quite perturbed, and not a little aggressive. Raymond started to explain again, but Sammy held up his hand, palm facing forward, to silence him. Given that he was wearing candy-striped pajamas and his white hair was as fluffy and spiky as a baby pigeon’s, he nevertheless cut a surprisingly assertive figure.
“Now hold on, wait a minute,” he said, and leaned toward his bedside cabinet, grabbing something from the shelf. I took an involuntary step back—who knew what he might be about to pull out of there? He inserted something into his ear and fiddled about for a moment, a high-pitched squeal emitting from that side of his head. It stopped, and he smiled.
“Right then,” he said, “that’s better. Now the dog can see the rabbit, eh? So, what’s the story with you pair—church, is it? Or are you trying to rent me a telly again? I don’t want one, son—I’ve already told your pals. There’s no way I’m paying good money just to lie here and watch all that shite! Fatties doing ballroom dancing, grown men baking cakes, for the love of God!”
Raymond cleared his throat again and repeated his introduction, while I leaned forward and shook Sammy’s hand. His expression changed instantly and he beamed at us both.
“Oh, so it was you pair, was it? I kept asking the nurses who it was that had saved my life—“Who brought me in?” I said. “How did I get here?”—but they couldn’t tell me. Have a seat, come on, sit down next to me and tell me all about yourselves. I can’t thank you enough for what you did, I really can’t.” He nodded, and then his face became very serious. “All you hear these days is that everything’s going to hell in a handcart, how everybody’s a pedophile or a crook, and it’s not true. You forget that the world is full of ordinary decent people like yourselves, Good Samaritans who’ll stop and help a soul in need. Just wait till the family meet you! They’ll be over the moon, so they will.”
He leaned back on his pillows, tired out from the effort of talking. Raymond fetched me a plastic seat, then another for himself.
“How are you feeling, then, Mr. Thom?” Raymond asked him. “Did you have a good night?”
“Call me Sammy, son—there’s no need to stand on ceremony. I’m doing fine, thanks; I’ll be right as rain in no time. You and your wife here saved my life, though, no two ways about it.”
I felt Raymond shift in his chair, and I leaned forward.
“Mr. Thom,” I said.
He raised his eyebrows, then waggled them at me in quite a disconcerting way. “Sammy,” I said, correcting myself, and he nodded at me.
“I’m afraid I have to clarify a couple of factual inaccuracies,” I said. “Firstly, we did not save your life. Credit for that must go to the Ambulance Service, whose staff, although somewhat brusque, did what was necessary to stabilize your condition whilst they brought you here. The medical team at the hospital, including the anesthetist and the orthopedic surgeon who operated on your hip, alongside the many other health-care professionals who have carried out your postoperative care—it is they who saved you, if anyone did. Raymond and I merely summoned assistance and kept you company until such time as the National Health Service took responsibility.”
“Aye, God bless the NHS, right enough,” said Raymond, interrupting rudely. I gave him one of my sternest looks.
“Furthermore,” I continued, “I should clarify posthaste that Raymond and myself are merely coworkers. We are most certainly not married to one another.” I stared hard at Sammy, making sure that he was in no doubt. Sammy looked at Raymond. Raymond looked at Sammy. There was a silence which, to me, seemed slightly awkward. Raymond sat forward in his chair.
“So, eh, where do you live then, Sammy? What were you up to the other day when you had your accident?” he asked.
Sammy smiled at him.
“I’m local, son—born and bred,” he said. “I always get my bits and pieces from the shops on a Friday. I’d been feeling a bit funny that morning, right enough, but I thought it was just my angina. Never expected to find myself in here!”
He took a toffee from a large bag on his lap, then offered them to us. Raymond took one; I declined. The thought of malleable confectionery, warmed to body temperature on Sammy’s groin (albeit encased in flannel pajamas and a blanket) was repellent.
Both Sammy and Raymond were audible masticators. While they chomped, I looked at my hands, noticing that they looked raw, almost burned, but glad of the fact that the alcohol rub had removed the germs and bacteria which lurked everywhere in the hospital. And, presumably, on me.
“What about you two—did you have far to come today?” Sammy asked. “Separately, I mean,” he added quickly, looking at me.
“I live on the South Side,” Raymond said, “and Eleanor’s . . . you’re in the West End, aren’t you?” I nodded, not wishing to disclose my place of residence any more precisely. Sammy asked about work, and I let Raymond tell him, being content to observe. Sammy looked rather vulnerable, as people are wont to do when they are wearing pajamas in public, but he was younger than I’d originally thought—not more than seventy, I’d guess—with remarkably dark blue eyes.
“I don’t know anything about graphic design,” Sammy said. “It sounds very fancy. I was a postman all my days. I got out at the right time, though; I can live on my pension, so long as I’m careful. It’s all changed now—I’m glad I’m not there anymore. All the messing about they’ve done with it. In my day, it was a proper public service . . .”
Raymond was nodding. “That’s right,” he said. “Remember when you used to get your post before you left the house in the morning, and there was a lunchtime delivery too? It comes in the middle of the afternoon now, if it comes at all . . .”
I have to admit, I was finding the post office chat somewhat tedious.
“How long are you likely to be in here, Sammy?” I said. “I only ask because the chances of contracting a postoperative infection are significantly increased for longer-stay patients—gastroenteritis, Staphylococcus aureus, Clostridium difficile—”