Raymond interrupted me again. “Aye,” he said, “and I bet the food’s rank as well, eh, Sammy?”
Sammy laughed. “You’re not wrong there, son,” he said. “You want to see what they served up for lunch today. Supposed to be Irish stew . . . looked more like Pedigree Chum. Smelled like it too.”
Raymond smiled. “Can we get you anything, Sammy? We could nip to the shop downstairs, or else pop back later in the week, bring stuff in, if you need it?”
Raymond looked at me for confirmation and I nodded. I had no reason to dismiss the suggestion. It was actually quite a pleasant feeling, thinking that I might be able to help an elderly person who was suffering due to inadequate nutrition. I started to think about what to bring him, types of food that could be transported without mishap. I wondered if Sammy might enjoy some cold pasta and pesto; I could make a double portion for supper one evening and bring the leftovers to him the next day in a Tupperware tub. I did not own any Tupperware, having had no need of it until this point. I could go to a department store to purchase some. That seemed to be the sort of thing that a woman of my age and social circumstances might do. Exciting!
“Ach, son, that’s awful kind of you,” Sammy said, deflating my sense of purpose somewhat, “but there’s really no need. The family are in here every day, twice a day.” He said this last part with evident pride. “I can’t even finish half the stuff they bring. There’s just so much of it! I end up having to give most of it away,” he said, indicating the other men on the ward with an imperious wave of his hand.
“What constitutes your family?” I asked, slightly surprised by this revelation. “I had assumed you were single and childless, like us.”
Raymond shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
“I’m a widower, Eleanor,” Sammy said. “Jean died five years ago—cancer. Took her quick, in the end.” He paused and sat up straighter. “I’ve two sons and a daughter. Keith’s my eldest, married with two wee ones. They’re cheeky monkeys, those boys,” he said, his eyes crinkling. “Gary’s my other son; Gary and Michelle—they’re not married, but they live together. That seems to be the way of it these days. And Laura, my youngest . . . well, God knows about Laura. Divorced twice by the age of thirty-five, can you believe it? She’s got her own wee business, a nice house and a car . . . she just can’t seem to find a good man. Or when she does find one, she can’t hang on to him.”
I found this interesting. “I’d counsel your daughter not to worry,” I said, with confidence. “In my recent experience, the perfect man appears when you’re least expecting it. Fate throws him into your path, and then providence ensures that you will end up together.” Raymond made a strange sound, something between a cough and a sneeze.
Sammy smiled kindly at me. “Is that right? Well, you can tell her yourself, hen,” he said. “They’ll all be here soon.”
A nurse walked past as he said this and had clearly overheard. She was grossly overweight and was wearing rather attractive white plastic clogs teamed with striking black-and-yellow-striped socks—her feet looked like big fat wasps. I made a mental note to ask her where she’d purchased them before we left.
“There’s a maximum of three visitors to a bed,” she said, “and we’re strictly enforcing that rule today, I’m afraid.” She didn’t look afraid. Raymond stood up.
“We’ll go, and let your family visit, Sammy,” he said. I stood up too; it seemed appropriate.
“No rush, no rush now,” Sammy said.
“Shall we return later in the week?” I asked. “Is there a magazine or a periodical you’d like us to bring?”
“Eleanor, it’s like I said—you two saved my life, we’re family now. Come and visit anytime you like. I’d love to see you, hen,” Sammy said. His eyes were damp, like periwinkles in seawater. I held out my hand again and instead of shaking it, he clasped both of mine in his. Normally I would be horrified, but he surprised me. His hands were large and warm, like an animal’s paws, and mine felt small and fragile inside them. His fingernails were quite long and gnarly, and there were curly gray hairs on the backs of his hands, running all the way up and under his pajama sleeves.
“Eleanor, listen,” he said, staring me in the eye and gripping my hands tightly, “thanks again, lass. Thanks for taking care of me and bringing in my shopping.” I found that I didn’t want to remove my hands from the warmth and strength of his. Raymond coughed, his lungs no doubt reacting to the absence of carcinogens over the last half hour or so.
I swallowed hard, suddenly finding it difficult to speak. “I’ll return later in the week, then, with comestibles,” I said eventually. “I promise.” Sammy nodded.
“Cheers then, big man,” Raymond said, placing a meaty hand on Sammy’s shoulder. “See you soon, eh?”
Sammy waved to us as we made our way out of the ward, and was still waving and smiling as we turned the corner and headed toward the lift.
Neither of us spoke until we got outside.
“What a lovely guy, eh?” Raymond said, somewhat redundantly.
I nodded, trying to hold on to the feeling of my hands in his, cozy and safe, and the look of kindness and warmth in his eyes. I found, to my extreme consternation, that nascent tears were forming in my eyes, and I turned away to rub them before they could spill over. Annoyingly, Raymond, usually the least observant of men, had noticed.
“What are you doing for the rest of the day, Eleanor?” Raymond asked gently. I looked at my watch. It was almost four.
“I suppose I’ll return home, perhaps read for a while,” I said. “There’s a radio program on later where people write in to request excerpts of items they’ve enjoyed during the week. That can often be reasonably entertaining.”
I was also thinking that I might buy some more vodka, just a half bottle, to top up what remained. I yearned for that brief, sharp feeling I get when I drink it—a sad, burning feeling—and then, blissfully, no feelings at all. I had also seen the date on Sammy’s newspaper and remembered that today was, in fact, my birthday. Annoyingly, I’d forgotten to ask the nurse where she had purchased her wasp socks—those could have been my present to myself. I decided that I might buy some freesias instead. I have always loved their delicate scent and the softness of their colors—they have a kind of subdued luminosity which is much more beautiful than a garish sunflower or a clichéd red rose.
Raymond was looking at me. “I’m going to my mum’s now,” he said.
I nodded, blew my nose and zipped up my jerkin in preparation for the journey home.
“Listen—d’you fancy coming with me?” Raymond said, just as I was turning toward the gate.
Under no circumstances, was my immediate thought.
“I go over most Sundays,” he went on. “She doesn’t get out much—I’m sure she’d love to see a new face.”