‘Thing is, I don’t flamin’ well want to be a farmer, that’s the cow of it,’ Sydney had said, whispering across the old man when Luke came in to check on Mr Brown, ‘I want to be an engineer, I want to make things happen. I never wanted the farm at all. I can’t stand being stuck out here in the sticks. I’ll sell it quick as I can and be off.’
Luke’s reveries on the uncertainties of fate were cut off by the welcome arrival of Will Kelly, the night porter. Kelly was famed at the Bridge Hotel for his ability to drink gallons of lemonade shandy, his drink of choice, with no obvious effect, yet a single tot of whiskey, rum, or brandy—Kelly wasn’t a fussy man—would have him drunk as a lord and twice as foolish in no time at all.
‘Ah, it’s himself, is it? The young doctor, and good evening to you too.’
Kelly clattered into the private room and halted his forward trajectory by the noisy but effective method of clanging his ancient trolley into the hospital bed. He set to work right away, rolling the covers back from old Mr Brown and readying his trolley and body bag to house the deceased.
As he worked he sang quietly, ‘Full fathom five thy father lies, of his bones are coral made—’
Kelly broke off to look at Luke’s aghast face, ‘Don’t you worry at all. Not your fault, this old fellow. Time’s the culprit here, nothing you could’ve done to save this one, don’t go blaming yourself.’
‘I know that, of course I know it was his time. It was his grandson, he wanted to see Sydney,’ the doctor protested. ‘We all thought he was holding on for the young man.’
‘Well, that’s the way with the dying, hang on when you expect them to go, pop their clogs when they’re meant to hang on. Never can tell. Tricky ones, the dying are. The lad was lucky to be here when he went, more often than not the family hang around for hours or days, waiting for the final words, the last breath, then the minute they nip out for a cup of tea, there you go, he shuffles off his mortal coil. I reckon they prefer to be alone when they go. He was a lucky young fellow all right. Come on then, old boy, let’s be having you,’ Kelly said as he manhandled the corpse into the body bag.
Luke frowned and took a few steps backwards, eager to get away from the sight of Kelly rolling the corpse into the canvas bag.
‘I have to go, there are forms, Matron has the papers ready and I need to sign them.’
‘Death and taxes, always the way. You hurry along to the office, they’ll have the paperwork ready and want it signing, always want a name to a death, that they do and yours is as good as any other once you’ve your fancy letters after it.’
With that Will Kelly finally finished struggling with old Mr Brown, fastened the bag, rolled the bagged body onto the trolley and pushed off and out of the room. Luke heard him as he headed along the yard towards the morgue, hidden away at the far end of the row of wards, singing through the rain.
‘Those are pearls that were his eyes; Nothing of him that doth fade, But doth suffer a sea change, Into something rich and strange.’
Luke had to admit that Kelly had a fine baritone, and an apposite choice in his Shakespeare. He turned out the overhead light as he left the room, remarking how especially empty it felt with the dead man removed, as if death really did have a presence of its own. The doctor took a deep breath and forced himself to pay attention to where he was. He was no longer in a field hospital, he was no longer surrounded by heat and dirt and flies. He was here, at Mount Seager and as the ghastly images receded from his mind, he looked across to the Transport Office. The dimmed light was on. Very well. He would sign the paperwork for old Mr Brown and then he would go to Sarah and speak to her. He took a deep breath, squared his shoulders and walked across the yard.
Mr Glossop, uncomfortable on his cot in the anteroom, finally decided he’d had enough. He should have been at home by now in his cosy little cottage, drumming rain outside, his apple trees and the big walnut getting a welcome soaking, a fine night’s sleep ahead knowing his work was done and done well. Not tonight. There was something not right, he was sure. It wasn’t just the rain, nor was it the heat, heavy despite the sheets of water dropping from above. He needed to be sure the money was secure and he’d move this darn cot down to sleep alongside the safe if he had to. No one would say Jonty Glossop was not a conscientious man. He’d just missed the last war, too young by a year, and while he was not officially too old this time round, they’d sent him home when he offered to take up his papers and serve, told him he needed to get into shape, get fit. The nerve of it, in his prime and told he wasn’t forces material. It rankled even now, but he wasn’t one to bear a grudge, not Jonty. He found a valuable job, stuck with it, and proved he could do it well, even with all the trouble from the van, the fuss every week to get the rounds done on time, always some hold-up at one of the destinations, you’d think they didn’t want paying, some of them. Well, he’d make sure they got paid tomorrow and catch his death of cold for his pains no doubt.
Mr Glossop’s shirt was badly stained with sweat when he finally managed to get the cumbersome cot down to a manoeuvrable size. He made a half-hearted attempt to at least wipe off his face before he left the anteroom, she might be a stickler for propriety, but Matron was surely a lovely woman. She had a few years on him, but he liked that in a woman, always had, none of these flighty young things had any appeal, too clever by half and all too ready to come the madam. All right, he would arrive at Matron’s door bedraggled with rain, but if she happened to be in residence, he’d rather not be dripping sweat as well.
Standing on the steps to the Surgery, he looked along the yard. The rain was tearing down as expected, but other than the high wind driving the torrent down from the mountains, it was quieter outside than inside. Now that he was not directly beneath the corrugated iron roof the drumming rain seemed less insistent and the asphalt it fell upon sent up a damp heat and the cloying smell of warm, wet tar. He was about to step down and out of the shelter of the office door, when he saw a flash of white in the distance, up by Military 2. Glad he had turned out the lamp in the anteroom, he peered ahead. It was hard to judge in the dark and rain, but Glossop thought he could make out the large shape of a starched uniform, white veil blowing in the wind, scurrying up to Matron’s office. She stopped at the door, waited a moment and then scurried back out of the rain into Military 1. A lucky escape, he wouldn’t mind pleading his case to Matron, but he didn’t fancy having to persuade that mis-named harridan Comfort that she wasn’t the only one around here who took her work seriously. He had taken just a few steps into the yard when another blasted light shone out, from Civilian 3 this time, and he ducked back into the doorway of the anteroom. Peering out, he saw a figure, the vicar presumably, judging by the dark coat, heading straight for Matron’s office. There was a brief burst of light and then he was inside. Well then, Matron was definitely in situ. Perhaps she’d leave with the vicar, Mr Glossop thought, there would be formalities to be done if the old fellow had died. Not long afterwards, he saw another figure heading towards Matron’s office, up to the door and then, after a brief pause, away again. It must have been that fool of a porter, Matron was wise not to open the door to him. Glossop frowned, he could either spend the night in the anteroom or wait a little longer on the step and hope the coast cleared. He thought more clearly about the woman in question. Matron was an efficient woman, she wouldn’t be closeted in her office with the vicar for long, she had far too much to do. He now saw another figure heading into the yard