On the appointed day, Hortensia waited on the kerb for the works to start. An excitement caught her, a fever of energy. Marion too was about. Hortensia nodded a greeting that was met with a scowl. The builder, a woman with no eyebrows and the name Hannie, arrived and stood with Hortensia for a few minutes. They compared schedules, then Hannie went inside to prepare, her workers following. The brick delivery truck arrived and parked. Hannie came back outside and had a brief conversation with the driver. Hortensia, standing close by, had the sense not to attempt to understand what was being said – Afrikaans (apparently a simple language to learn) had always eluded her. Not that she’d tried much. While they talked Hortensia walked up to the truck to study the crane used for lifting the pallets of bricks. Hannie went back to her workers.
Funny how many bricks such a small job involves, Hortensia thought as the operator cranked the crane to start depositing the bricks by the roadside. Then, much later when she woke up in hospital, she had to retrace the events to make sense of the pain in her leg.
She didn’t like thinking of herself sprawled on the Katterijn Avenue pavement, Widow James Knocked Down by Delinquent Crane. But most of all she hated the piece of news she was given by the nurse. That not only had she been knocked unconscious, the fall further damaging her already-weak leg, but the damned crane that had caused all this had also swung a blow at No. 12. Part of the front of her neighbour’s precious home was in rubble. Hortensia had once heard Marion complain that the fa?ade of her home was too near the street – might she now take some comfort in having been right?
Agnes had a piece of debris glance off her cheek and was stitched up. Marion, who had been in the back garden at the time, had fainted from the turmoil but had, otherwise, been uninjured.
The Constantinople Private Hospital staff didn’t take long to fear Hortensia. She’d arrived at the hospital on a stretcher but, on waking, had immediately managed to insult the paramedic. Within hours she was in theatre. The brakes of the truck had failed, or perhaps they had not been fully engaged. The truck had slid down the gentle slope and Hortensia, this yellow mass coming towards her, had scrambled and fallen. The machine had continued careening, made twigs of Marion’s fence and jammed into her home, the crane arm pivoting and slapping into the fa?ade. Hortensia had broken a femur. She also had several gashes, the biggest of which was on the side of her head, above an eyebrow – it would leave a scar and a particular sensation of a headache approaching.
After the operation the surgeon explained that she’d performed an open-reduction internal fixation, words that meant nothing to Hortensia. Fancy word for a pin, she presumed, but she didn’t care enough to confirm. She liked the part of the explanation that promised quick mobility. She didn’t so much appreciate the ‘person of your age’ comment, which was used to explain the lack of a cast; it would be too heavy for her, impede mobility, and so on. They’d given her a minimum of twelve weeks for the bone to heal.
The crane-driver was a man who hadn’t quite grasped what it meant to apologise. He visited Hortensia in hospital and, in a clipped English accent, spoke about the distractions of the day, the glare in his eye, massive oak trees with branches that should have been trimmed; he mentioned the faulty machine and only then did it dawn on Hortensia, as she reminded herself that a workman never blames his tools, that she was being awarded an apology. Except it lacked the one thing all apologies require in order to be called such – an admission of guilt.
As Hortensia listened and silently critiqued the poor job the crane-driver was doing, a sick feeling reminded her that she also had an apology to make. If Hortensia James hated anything, it was needing to apologise. She could barely remember a time when she’d had to. For a few seconds this pain surmounted the agony of her broken limb.
Sleep in the hospital was fitful. Hortensia regarded hospitals with suspicion. Her left leg was a throbbing mess. She opened her eyes and grimaced.
‘Ah, you’re up,’ the nurse said, shutting the door behind her.
‘I wasn’t sleeping. My eyes were closed.’
Hortensia could smell the odour of superiority when in the company of nurses or doctors. After three days under the observation of such people she wanted to go home.
The nurse wavered at the door. ‘There’s the matter of a care-nurse, Ma’am.’
Hortensia stiffened and looked in the nurse’s direction. ‘No. Thank you.’
‘Doctor is coming to see you before you leave. She did ask that I arrange for a care-nurse, Ma’am.’
‘I. Said. No.’
The nurse waited outside Hortensia’s room while the doctor entered and attempted, with her best bedside manners, to convince Hortensia about the necessity for a day-nurse. At Hortensia’s age it was too dangerous not to have someone qualified observe the healing process, to guard against gangrene.
‘How long have you been doing this?’ Hortensia asked into the silence that took over the conversation.
‘I completed my internship two years ago.’
Hortensia rolled her eyes. ‘I meant this.’ She waved her hand. ‘Forcing nurses on people.’
‘I don’t understand the question.’
‘I’m old, not incapable. You’ve assumed I can’t care for myself. How long have you been ramming this assault onto unsuspecting patients? I do not want your miserable spying nurses in my home. I’ve met them already and I don’t want them. If I am to have a nurse, I will order one myself.’
The doctor opened her mouth to speak but the words stuck to her tongue.