It was Saturday night, but he retired early to bed. He had to be at the hospital by 6 am in the morning to start one of those long, thirteen- hour shifts on the busy Accident and Emergency unit and with nearly an hour’s travelling to get there, he’d set the alarm for 4.30.
The boys said they were turning in after Match of the Day. He always called them boys, but they were young men now; both had left school and were started on apprenticeships.
He had dropped off to sleep easily enough, but woke with a start when a loud bang disturbed him and caused him to sit up. The bang was followed by the noisy whirring of what sounded like a helicopter. He put his head down on the pillow and tried to get off to sleep again. Sleep would not come; he buried his head under the blankets, but it would not shut out the sound of raised voices.
Then he was just beginning to drift away when a volley of shots rang out. This time he pulled the pillow out from under his head and put it over his head instead, but it still wouldn’t muffle all the noise. It was becoming one of those nights when once deep sleep is broken, you can’t get off again and every five minutes seems like an hour.
Some music now that rose to a deafening crescendo, then a woman screamed and another shot rang out. It seemed as if he had been awake for hours, and he began to fret about whether he would hear the alarm when the time to rise came. He was getting really angry and frustrated now. He was still the master of his own home. Had they lost all respect for him? They knew he had to get up early, even if they didn’t.
Finally he leapt out of the bed, not pausing to put on slippers or dressing gown, rushed out of the bedroom, cursing as he stubbed his toe on the newel post at the top the stair, thundered down and threw open the lounge door. James Bond’s Aston Martin raced across the screen in the late night movie. Not pausing to locate the controls he strode across the room and yanked the plug out of its socket. Silence was restored.
He swung round angrily to release a string of invectives at his tormentors. One lay full length on the sofa, a couple of empty beer cans on the floor beside it. The other was sprawled in the tilted back recliner, two more empty cans and some empty crisp packets on the coffee table beside him. They were both sound asleep.
He walked out of the lounge to a cupboard in the hall and took out a couple of blankets, quietly returned to the lounge and gently covered each of the boys. Then switched out the light and tiptoed silently up the stairs.
As he slipped back between the sheets, Jean half stirred on the other side of the bed and said sleepily, “Where have you been?”
“To turn off that infernal racket downstairs, ” he muttered.
“Didn’t hear a thing, ” mumbled Jean, drifting back into her dreams.
He did hear the alarm at 4.30 and climbed out of bed quickly, fearing if he didn’t, he might drop off again. Once under the shower he felt invigorated. Jean, woken by hearing him stir, slipped on her dressing gown and went downstairs to put the kettle on and prepare some breakfast. She always did this for him when he was on an early shift and would say “I don’t know how you can eat at this time in the morning. I’ll get mine later.”
Breakfast over, he gave Jean a peck on the cheek and picked up his car keys. “Try not to be late” she said “I’m cooking something special for you this evening.” He left and Jean feeling wide awake, decided to sort some laundry and do some ironing before she walked the dog. The boys would be shouting for clean shirts on Monday morning. Perhaps she’d have time to go to church this morning; she hadn’t been for weeks. Or maybe call in on Mrs Francis, who hadn’t been at all well. With such an early start she could get round and still get lunch for the boys.
He turned on the radio in the car. At least the roads were clear at this time in the morning and he’d have no problem finding a parking place when he got to the hospital. He knew it would be a busy day. It always was at weekends. As well as the usual everyday cases there would be the hungover, nursing the injuries of Saturday night brawls, they weren’t conscious of until the numbing effects of the alcohol wore off, then the endless string of sports injuries. At least the day went quickly when you were permanently on your feet tending to somebody.
Jean, having had a long day had cleared away the remains of that special meal, put the crockery in the dishwasher, put the empty wine bottle out and had given the dog his short evening walk, then retired to bed with her book. She too, had had a busy day. Was a woman’s work ever done? She nodded over the book which dropped to the floor as she drifted into a peaceful slumber.
The boys came in from their evening at the youth club at 10 ‘o’ clock; they would have to be up early for work in the morning.
As they came in the front door a light was on in the lounge and the TV was on loudly. They looked in and saw him stretched out in the recliner, his feet up on the stool; an unopened beer can on the coffee table.
One went across the room and turned the television off whilst the other went to the cupboard in the hall and took out a blanket.
They covered him gently, then tiptoed silently up the stairs to bed.
About the author
Guy Pratt is a retired octogenarian second hand bookseller who enjoys gardening, long walks with his dog and travel. He gravitated into the book trade after earlier years in farming, the army Intelligence Corps and the civil service.
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