Short story number 5

   Hello friends,

here is story number 5................                    

                        HONEYSUCKLE

‘Do you like travelling?’, she asked him one day, as the young porter gently eased the woman from the wheelchair into the bed.

‘Yes, very much’, though he knew that, apart from one or two brief trips abroad, his scope of travelling was, in most people’s sense of the word, severely limited.

‘My husband and I travelled a lot – not abroad so much – but we covered every inch of Britain’.

Peter wasn’t good at spontaneous conversation. He would have much preferred that the patients remained silent. He certainly did nothing to encourage communication. He’d taken on the job because he needed to earn some money and this opportunity had appeared thanks to a friend of his father’s. He looked at the woman he had just returned to her bed. She had a kindly face and was smiling at him strangely. Instead of leaving, he lingered for a moment. What blue eyes she had.

‘Have you been to any of the islands off Britain?’

No. Pete thought he hadn’t and he vaguely began to wonder which islands.

‘There are some islands which you must visit’.

He remembered the Scilly Isles; a day’s outing with the family when it had rained all day.

‘Alderney is just magnificent, and how we loved Sark. Then, of course, there’s Guernsey and Jersey; so many beautiful places; I do miss them’.

Her blue eyes seemed to have got wider and softer. She wasn’t even looking at him anymore.

‘Don’t let me keep you from your work’

He would have liked to have stayed longer. He felt she wanted to talk and he found himself wanting to listen; something moved him in this woman.

‘Yes, plenty to do. See you tomorrow Mrs. Lewis, and he stepped away from the bed and out of the ward.

Guernsey, Jersey, Alderny, Sark. The words were rolling out like a chant. He found himself repeating them with every step.

Guernsey, Jersey, Alderney, Sark; a mantra of islands.

Later that evening he opened the atlas. There they were. He’d never really thought about them before but this woman, whom he hardly knew, had spoken their names with such affection; they weren’t just names of places, they were experience; a whole series of experiences with a man she must have loved; a vibrant life. He began to smell the salty air and feel the wind blowing across imaginary cliffs and rolling green hills; the lull of waves breaking on sandy shores and the cries of gulls overhead. There would have been walks and boat trips out – maybe fishing. What did they do? Where did they go? Did they drive or take buses? Was there transport on all the islands?

The next day Pete sensed he was looking forward to seeing Mrs. Lewis. He felt shy to start a conversation; she might think it intrusive. As he finished pulling up the coverlet he was suddenly anxious. Perhaps she saw it in his eyes; such kind eyes.

‘How long have you been working here, Pete, it is Pete, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, about two months’.

‘Oh, so you’re getting used to it then. Is this a temporary job?’

Pete found himself talking about his plans, such as they were, of his university course for next year and his intention to visit Italy. She was giving him all her attention and her enthusiasm in his plans were as though she were organizing her own trip. How was he going to travel to Italy and what places would he visit? Her gaiety and excitement encouraged him and together they explored the unknown territory of a new experience just around the corner.

‘You know what I would like to do?’ she said suddenly. ‘I’d love to go outside’.

It hadn’t occurred to Pete; outside, out of the ward, the hospital. Of course, she was there all the time; ward, treatment room and back again in dreary, monotonous routine. This woman who had felt the wind swept spray of far off seas on her face; who had walked up and down rocky coasts and down stony paths into steep cliffed bays; who had breathed in the fresh green of open countryside and delighted in the fragrance of wayside flowers; this same woman now confined to the claustrophobia of imposed internment.

‘Tomorrow’, he said. ‘I’ll think of something’.

The route from ward to treatment area was a reasonably quick one but offered no possibilities of seeing outside. However, there was an alternative.

The next day Pete arrived just a little earlier than usual.

‘An extra blanket today, Mrs. Lewis’.

He tucked her in carefully and they wheeled out of the ward. Instead of turning left, he carried straight on towards the double doors that lead towards the rear of the kitchen and beyond.

‘Where are we going?’, she asked.

‘Wait and see’.

They passed through the double doors and out into the sunlight.

‘Oh’, she said involuntarily as the sudden brightness filled her face.

‘We’re going on a little diversion’.

The hospital was located right at the end of town and backed onto rolling downs. The road to the treatment centre was still edged on one side by an old farmer’s hedge. Pete pushed the chair very very slowly and the wheels brushed the rich foliage cascading in glorious profusion. Mrs. Lewis stretched out her hand and trailed it through the leaves.

‘Oh, just stop a moment, Peter’.

‘We can stop as long as you like, Mrs. Lewis’.

A dancing frond of honeysuckle wafted near her face and she gently pulled it towards her and almost reverently drew in the scent.

‘Lovely, lovely’, she said.

They inched their way forward and she beamed at the bright yellow dandylions bobbing at her feet. Sparrows were twittering near by and again they stopped.

‘Listen, just listen’.

They were no longer in the hospital. They were somewhere far away.

Pete waited in the still rich silence. Perhaps Mrs. Lewis was on one of her islands. She was so quiet, he almost dared not breathe. A pale yellow butterfly emerged from the hedge and flew in its dancing fashion ahead of them. They both watched it until it melted into the haze of the summer morning.

‘I think we can go now’, she said.

They moved off in silence. A ramp lead up from the road to the entrance. As they pushed through the swing doors a nurse looked strangely for a moment but said nothing. Mrs. Lewis turned to him with a sweet fondness in her blue eyes.

‘Thank you, thank you so much’.

The next couple of hours were busier than usual and another porter took the patient back to the ward.

Pete was already thinking about the book he’d be bringing in tomorrow, a big colourful book of the British Isles. He’d never bothered to look at it before but he knew who would enjoy exploring its pages.

The following morning he walked up to the ward early. He wanted to give her plenty of time to see it before he took her for treatment. He entered the room and for a moment thought he’d misplaced her bed, but there it was, neatly made up with fresh, crisp, white sheets and two large, smooth pillows. Her name was no longer pinned above it. He stood for a moment unable to move.

‘I’m sorry, Peter’, said a young nurse. ‘Were you looking for Mrs. Lewis? I’m afraid we lost her during the night. You were quite friendly with her, weren’t you?’

Peter nodded and tried to smile.

‘It’s not easy’, she said, touching his arm, ‘but you’ll get used to it’.

He felt the book hard and awkward under his arm. ‘Why did it have to be like that?’ He turned and left the ward and there ahead of him were the double doors leading out into the sunlight. And he suddenly smiled, a rich, warm, summer smile and pushed his way into the still sweet air of an August morning.