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34
Jack
Clive pointed to the busy terrace overlooking Pond Street, seemingly the only outdoor space in the entire hospital. It wasn’t exactly picturesque, with buses hissing to a stop on the road alongside us and patients in varying degrees of undress, from pyjamas to gaping operating gowns, all trying to enjoy a tiny bit of fresh (if you could call it fresh) air. Lots of them were smoking, too, even some of the ones hooked up to drips. For some reason, that depressed me more than anything else.
‘Over there, man,’ said Clive.
I pushed his wheelchair into a corner by the stairwell, just above the drop-off point for A&E. Pushing a grown man in a wheelchair was far more difficult than I’d imagined.
‘This will do,’ Clive instructed me.
After some faffing about trying to find it, I managed to put the brake on. It was the warmest day of the year so far, according to Clive, and I was dripping with the exertion of getting him down from the ward and also because I was wearing a long-sleeved sweatshirt with a fleece lining, which had been an unfortunate choice, in hindsight.
‘Sit,’ said Clive, pointing to a low wall.
‘You’re bossy today,’ I replied good-naturedly.
Clive sighed. ‘I feel like I have no say in what I do up on the ward. I’m told to do this, eat that, walk there, take this tablet, that tablet. So when I get a chance to tell someone else what to do for a change, I’m going to take it.’
I nodded. ‘Understood. Feel free to tell me what to do. By all accounts, I could do with some direction.’
Clive raised his eyebrows at me. ‘What makes you say that, young man?’
I pulled a packet of Jaffa Cakes out of my bag and offered one to Clive, who promptly took two and stuffed them both in his mouth at once as if he’d not eaten for a week. I couldn’t imagine Jaffa Cakes were on the NHS menu.
‘I don’t know. Things are actually going all right at the moment and I’m not used to it. Feels like I’m going to do something to mess it up,’ I said.
Clive swiped another Jaffa Cake out of the packet. ‘What things are going right?’
I rubbed my jaw. ‘I’ve got a part in a play – no money, but a decent production with a director there’s a lot of buzz about.’
‘What else?’ asked Clive. ‘You’re not talking about women, are you?’
I shook my head. ‘I don’t need all that hassle. I’ve told you that before.’
Clive slapped his hand on his thigh as though he was angry. ‘You can’t close yourself off to finding love. I won’t have it.’
I looked at him, worried. What had I started? When he got wound up about something, there was no stopping him.
‘Take it from someone who knows,’ Clive went on. ‘Do you want to end up all bitter and twisted like I am?’
‘Um …’
‘Do you?’
‘I didn’t realise you were bitter and twisted,’ I said, wanting to keep him calm. It couldn’t be good for his blood pressure to get all het up like this.
‘Do you think I want to spend every night sitting in front of the television set with nobody to talk to? I’ve lived on my own my whole bloody life and I regret some of the decisions I’ve made and I can’t do anything about it now, can I?’
We both looked up as a family came tumbling over to sit near us, the little boy full of energy, the woman looking as though she would imminently be giving birth to baby number two.
‘Well I can’t force it, can I?’ I said.
Clive shifted in his chair. ‘But you’re putting obstacles up, aren’t you? All this nonsense about not having enough time. I see you around and it’s not like you’re never in.’
I rubbed my mouth. ‘That’s a bit harsh, Clive.’
‘I’m saying this for your own good.’
