The Price of Loyalty

by David Deanshaw 

sour wine

The young man was smitten.

She was all he could ever have wished for – elegant, charming, fabulous figure and of course – gorgeous.

He had scraped all his spare cash to buy an old Morris 8.  It had leather upholstery, a long gear stick and a handbrake that formed a large “X” with the gear stick between the driver and passenger.  Passion was therefore subject to a series of delicate manoeuvres.

After several failed attempts to overcome this obstacle, they decided to await a suitable time at her home.  In order to save themselves they decided to wait for this event and not see each other until it arrived.

The first week went by – no contact – but the chance was taken by both to see other friends etc.

The second week came and went. Both were beginning to feel the need, but he worked out that the calendar was probably against him.  She decided that was probably what he thought anyway!

By Thursday of the third week, both were nibbling the nails and getting scratchy.

He was just contemplating an early departure from the office when he phone rang:-

“Tonight – they have last minutes tickets for the opera – come over and BE PREPARED!”

He leapt out of his chair, asked a colleague for directions to the nearest florist.  He bought an enormous bunch of flowers, saw the sweet shop – a big box of chocolates would be ideal.  On the way he called at the chemist for supplies. 

“ Three packs tonight, please!” he said with gusto. Then he hurried home for a shower.

He did the preparation in some style – shampoo, after-shave, under-arm pong, - the full works.

He arrived on the door step to be met by the light of his life, who said “ Come in. They are just about to leave. Let me introduce you.”

“Good evening sir, good evening madam.  I understand you are going to the opera tonight.  I have never been.  How does one get tickets?”

“We  have a box, young man, would you like to join us?”

“Delighted sir!”

As they were getting into the car, she kicked him hard!

They took their places and scoffed the chocolates as part of the evening.  When they arrived home the young man said to her father,

“ Well sir, I really have enjoyed my evening.  It has been an education.  I will just say good night to your daughter at the door.  Once again thanks very much.”

When he got to the door, the girl by this time scratchy with frustration that a golden opportunity had been missed, grabbed him and demanded:-

“You never told me you liked opera!”

“No and you never told me your father was a chemist!”

Regret Long Ago Over a Large Single Malt

by David Deanshaw 

a large single malt

I believed

We met and I was smitten

And I believed in you

You made me happy

And I believed in you

We travelled and you taught me so much

And I believed in you

You showed me galleries

And I believed in you

You talked of history

And I believed in you

We loved each other

And I believed in you

You strayed

And I still believed in you

You betrayed me

Yet I still believed in you

We parted and you pursued me

But I had stopped believing in you.

DD June 20xx

About the author 

David Deanshaw is the author of  The Price of Loyalty and an associate member of the Society of Authors.

A Grandee

by David Deanshaw

fine cognac

Rupert Montague reached for the cut glass decanter and poured another generous measure of Remy Martin Grand Cru. He relaxed in his leather wing-backed Chesterfield chair and returned to the review of his future options. He was particularly pleased with his new Chesterfield; it added an additional touch of elegance to his study.

A Yule log crackled contentedly in the grate as he let the cognac trickle onto his tongue. The new decade would bring even more changes. The 1960s had shown that the aristocracy no longer ruled the roost.

Rupert was the last in a line of country bankers, his wife long dead and with no offspring, banking had been his life. It was therefore his duty to plot the next decade of the 1970s. There was after all no family to whom he could pass on the fruits of the family’s years of activity. Certainly, he had executives he trusted, but they were not family. A major City institution had now acquired a sizeable shareholding and would, ultimately, complete the purchase of the remainder. By the end of the decade he would have secured his retirement. Perhaps he would write a detailed history of the family. He would also travel, not a luxury he had allowed himself during his working life

The family’s wealth had come from the usual number of sources; patronage, marriage, land and of course hard work. Earlier generations had initially supported the Cromwellian cause and later been involved in the discussions leading to the Restoration in the 1660s. Hence their reward had been land and a title which had subsequently died out. Later generations had inter-married with other gentry, thus developing sizeable estates which had later been put to work producing food initially, then factories, along with cottages for the workforce. In short, a typical upper class English method of country style aggrandisement.

The main family home was a large estate on the edge of the Fens of some 15,000 acres on which carrots and kale were produced. Later, cattle were introduced.

This patrician life style was natural to Rupert who took care to understand the needs of his staff. His father’s advice had been clear and unequivocal:-

“Always remember, Rupert, whilst the servants will always know their place, it is difficult these days to replace good staff. They are essential to maintaining our way of life”.

Even as late as the dawn of the 1970s he kept a staff of five to run the house and a further six to run the estate.

The incremental increase in the family fortunes had led to the next stage of the enhancement of their hold on their community. It was a natural development therefore to fund developments for others rather than soil one’s own hands. Thus the family had started a bank in East Anglia in 1764. Indeed their headquarters building was a grand edifice in the centre of one the beautiful cities of East Anglia. It was originally the family’s “town house”, now still used as bank premises. Following this initial success, a number of branches across the region were developed. This expansion into the towns of East Anglia had been driven by their greed to dominate their locality. Rupert’s grandfather had decreed that the family should balance their domination by becoming associated with philanthropy and a number of bursaries for the children of “worthy” employees were established. It was also decided that a large tract of green space near the centre of the city would be endowed for the “benefit of the populace at large”.

The fine quality cognac helped the musing process, the warmth of his fire and the comfort of his chair, all contributed to a sense of wellbeing. It also fostered a notion of creativity. It was then that he decided that he would set up a history scholarship to study the origins of their city. He already knew that an abbey had been founded in the 7^th century and subsequently destroyed by Danish invaders a couple of hundred years later.

Despite his education at Charterhouse, an environment surrounded by wealth and privilege, it had been his time at Brasenose College in the 1930s which had opened his eyes to the inequalities in society.

At the start of the Second World War his bank had responded to the call for troops by the “careful selection” and release of some of the “less valuable” employees. At the same time he had agreed that only a certain number of his personal staff could leave and form the Montague Detachment as part of the East Anglian Rifles. The same decision was taken in respect of staff at the branches of his bank, assuring them all that their jobs would still be there at the end of hostilities.

Donald Burbage was one such conscript. He was a tall, intelligent man, from humble stock, who had worked hard at his matriculation in the 1930s. His reward had been a junior position in Montague’s bank. He was not a wealthy man but he had scrimped to save enough money to spend most of his savings on a special ring for his childhood sweetheart. She in turn agreed to wait for him on his return from the war. She had not really wanted him to volunteer, but his sense of duty and patriotism has been one of the reasons she had fallen in love with him.

Burbage was retained as Montague’s batman for the first part of the war until he was wounded, repatriated and later discharged. The damage had been caused when he had flung his body on top of Montague during an exchange of fire. In saving the life of a senior officer he was mentioned in despatches and awarded the Military Medal. On his return home, he took some time to recover but nevertheless volunteered to serve in the Home Guard. He had married his boyhood sweetheart and settled in a humble Council house in Ely town. He had re-joined the bank at its headquarters branch and was put in charge of securities – the ancient and musty world of wills, land charges held as security for loans and deeds etc. Rupert, although away on military duty, knew that of all people, Burbage would be discreet in dealing with such confidential matters, besides he owed his life to the peasant.

Burbage carried out these duties punctiliously. However, he suffered frequent periods of pain from the impact of the shellfire. Clearly this would render a truly successful career in banking problematical. He realised that he needed to be philosophical about the problem, accept it and live life as well as he could.

Montague, being aware of the damage his rescue had caused his employee, had given instructions that the staff should recognise that Burbage would suffer these occasional searing flashbacks which meant that he would need to leave the building until the memory had been erased, albeit temporarily.

Later during the war, Montague had also been invalided out and returned to the family business of banking. His time in the forces made him aware that society was changing. No longer did the ordinary resident in the street tug his forelock in his presence, despite his superior rank in society. A tradition had long been established that the staff would always stand up when he spoke to them during his branch visits. Before the war they had even been given clear instructions, “Yes Mr Montague” at first and then “sir”. With a “Thank you for asking sir” at the end of each conversation.

On his most recent visit, he called at the main branch in the city which was on the ground floor of the very building in which he had been born nearly 60 years earlier.

He spoke with the manager first of all. Later he would speak with others usually based on seniority. He always left Burbage to last so he could spend some time with him.

Eventually he reached the desk at which Donald Burbage worked. He approached him and placed his hand on the old man’s shoulder. “How are you today, Burbage?” he asked with his usual genuine concern for his former batman. Burbage made a move to stand up, but Montague insisted; “Please do not get up old friend.”

“Well Mr Rupert, we are both very upset today.” He replied, his voice quaking with emotion.

“How so, my old friend?” inquired Montague.

“Well last night whilst we were watching Coronation Street we thought we heard a noise upstairs, but thought no more of it. When we retired to bed we discovered that the bedroom window was open and that my wife’s engagement ring was missing. She cannot wear it now because of her arthritis but she is of course sentimentally attached to it.”

“My dear fellow – I am so sorry, but did the servants not hear anything?"

About the author

David is an associate member  of the Society of Auhtors 

A Promise Kept

by David Deanshaw  

           a glass of milk                  

Albert Parkes was breathing his last.

He lay propped up on pillows to assist his breathing. The emphysema was now taking its toll.

He and Emily had spent close on fifty years together as man and wife. They had been born in adjacent streets in a place called Clayton in the old part of east Manchester. Clayton had only two claims to fame - it had two roads which led to the more fashionable part of east Lancashire – Ashton under Lyne and the Chemical Company – Clayton Aniline. 

They had gone to school together and later when time came to leave school and go to work they joined the same company – the Aniline

Not surprisingly the two roads from Manchester to Ashton were called the Old Road and the New Road. They were largely parallel and reflected the changes time had wrought in that part of industrial east Manchester. The air around the factory was acrid with the smell of spent chemical activity and processes. “It smells like sour milk tastes” is what visitors to the area would say. Still it’s fifty acres provided jobs for a thousand people from miles around.

Albert had been a supervisor until recently. His breathing affliction could not be blamed on the company, it was the collateral damage caused by forty full strength cigarettes each day for forty five years.

Emily had worked in the factory handling the drums of chemical raw materials, mostly imported from West Africa.

The hours had been long and arduous. They both worked so late every day that they never seemed to have time to do anything but work and sleep. Except Sunday of course which was a day for church.

In fact, so long did they work, that they seemed to spend so much time together that they never had time to meet anyone else. Getting married was just a natural way of their lives moving on, getting away from their respective homes and spending congenial time together.

Clayton was made up of streets of back-to-back houses, two up, two down, with a scullery at the back of the house. The lavatory was at the end of the yard. Houses were plentiful and the newly-wed couple found such a house two streets away from their parents in Kabul Street. Many of the local streets had been named after battles or skirmishes during the Second Afghan War. They had been built in the 1880s and 1890s to house the workers at the chemical factory which had been founded in 1876.

They had been married just three years when Phoebe was born. She was christened at the old Victorian church of St. Cross Clayton which they all attended. It was a difficult and painful birth. So much so that Emily was advised to avoid the prospect of more children. Consequently Phoebe was much loved, but never spoilt. She was a tall, slender girl with flowing locks of golden hair, which looked slightly at odds with her rosy cheeks.

Reports from school suggested that she was a bright child and her teachers suggested that she could take a secretarial course. With this diploma she also got a job at the chemical factory – but in the office – a step up in status from both of her parents.

This gave her the opportunity to meet the managers of the different departments. This in turn led to her meeting and marrying Harry Dene who had a degree in dye stuffs. He would prove to be an ideal candidate for a senior position in the company in due course.

Seeing dad at work seemed to be a strange situation for Phoebe at the start. However as time passed it became clear that her father’s skills were not really being fully utilised. He had unique experience with the corrosive components of chemicals which he had learned in the trenches of the Somme during the First World War. Phoebe passed this information on to her manager who in turn arranged for Albert to be considered for a new position which would use his skills.

The work had the usual dangers inherent in any chemical experiment, but Albert had learned caution the hard way. He never smoked at work of course, which probably explained his constant use of tobacco when he was not at work. Both his wife and his daughter pleaded with him to cut down.

“Dad, I really do want you to be able to see my children grow up and when they are older you can tell them all about the chemicals you came across during the last war.” Phoebe was convinced that stooping to emotional blackmail would work. It didn’t. The irony was that the new responsibility increased the stress he was under and his smoking increased.

Emily also tried it and would say:-“I don’t want to live without you. I have known nothing else but love for you.”

“Look, love, I promise that if I go first, I will come and collect you when your time comes.”

It was no consolation, but Albert obviously believed it, so the girls had to put up with it.

When the end came, Albert smiled and uttered words which his wife would remember all her life, “When your time comes, Emily, I will come for you.” With that his breathing stopped.

Phoebe and her mother shed tears of course. But they knew that they would make the best of it by ensuring that the children, when they came, would be told stories about the granddad they never knew. They even told them about granddad’s promise to come and collect their grandma when the time came. Deep down of course none of them believed it.

It was some years before Emily, who was not a smoker or a drinker, began to feel the strain of old age. Still she spent time with her daughter and the grandchildren Albert had never seen. But time was taking its toll on her life

Whilst not wealthy in a 20^th century sense, by the time she was ailing, she made sure that there would be no nasty surprises when her will was read. Emily knew that her mother’s life was ebbing away slowly.

“Oh mum, please don’t go yet” begged her daughter Phoebe, as she puffed up her mother’s pillows so she was more comfortable. 

“Your dad promised he would come for me when my time came.”

Phoebe’s husband Harry was reading his wife carefully. He placed his arm around her shoulder tenderly, gave her a gentle squeeze and suggested that mum might like some tea when she awoke.

Emily closed her eyes and lapsed into a deep sleep.

Phoebe went downstairs to make some tea; perhaps mum would like a small slice of cake with her cup when she woke.

Within a few minutes she returned with the tray and placed it on her mother’s dressing table. Then she turned round to see her mother’s eyes wide open.

Suddenly, Emily raised her arms, heaved herself to sit bolt upright, smiled and called aloud “Albert”. With that she slumped back onto her bed dead.

Albert had kept his promise.

The Bench

by David Deanshaw

a nice cup of tea 

It was a perfect summer’s day, little in the way of clouds but with a gentle breeze. Temperatures were touching twenty degrees, ideal for my wife Pam, who was a keen photographer. The Botanical Gardens had an excellent reputation for its variety of trees, plants and colours. As Pam strolled round I looked for somewhere to rest my arthritic knees, which were making me hobble. I saw a secluded bower, with a bench. It was occupied by an old man. He wore a check jacket and grey flannels with a knife sharp crease; on the armrest beside him was a matching cap. I didn’t really want to disturb him, but I needed to rest.

I looked over towards him seeking to share his bench. He turned his face towards me, perhaps reading my thoughts; he nodded, as I approached slowly. I could see a tear was trickling down his cheek. His hands were clasped together, holding a handkerchief which was embroidered

It was a truly tranquil situation. We could hear a gentle chorus of birds hidden in the trees.

‘Peaceful,’ I said.

‘Yes, she loved it here.’

I hesitated fearing I had interrupted a tender moment.

‘How long ago?’ I asked.

‘Today, last year,’ he croaked.

‘I don’t want to disturb you.’

‘Not a problem. Perhaps you’d stay a while?’

‘Can we talk?’

He nodded.

‘Tell me about her.’

He smiled as he took a deep breath; obviously the memory of her was both pleasant and sensitive.

‘She was the kindest, gentlest woman you could ever wish to meet. She organised me from the day we got engaged, kept house, managed the money and the cooking.’

‘But you helped, providing for the family?’

‘Yes that’s what we men were for in those days. Then there were the children.’

‘How many?’

'Just two, one of each.’

‘But you helped?’

‘Yes of course. But whenever they fell or got bruised or scratched it was her warmth that mended them. She used to say, “There you are; Mummy mended it.” They’d recover as if by magic. I was the one who taught them to read; then listened as they read to me. I did sums as well – fractions they always found difficult, but not decimals later.’ He moved his head as if looking into the distance. ‘Now they’ve both moved away.’

‘Far?’

‘Australia and New Zealand.’

‘Do they come back to visit?

‘Only for the funeral,’ his voice croaked again. ‘They stayed for three weeks to help me sort things out, then left.’

  ‘Would you want to go and live with them? ‘

‘Difficult, I’d have to be sponsored at my age. Besides, she’s still here with me, not out there.’

‘But do they want you to go?’

‘No I don’t think so. They only think of the future, not the past.’

At that moment, he leaned forward placing his elbows on his knees. Now, I could see, behind his back, engraved on the bench were the words, ’in loving memory of Amy.’ She had been “sitting on his shoulder” the whole time,

‘Do you do much with your time?’

‘Not really I don’t know what to do without her.’

‘You were obviously very much in love.’

‘I loved her more every day.’

‘Can I make a suggestion?’

 ‘Please do,’

‘A friend of mine decided some years ago that he knew nothing of his parent’s family or any of his ancestors. So he decided to write a book about himself for his children and the grandchildren. He wrote his life story all the way from junior school to retirement.’

‘Oh, I couldn’t do that.’

‘If I said that the most touching part of the book for me, when I read it, was the story of how he met the woman he would spend the rest of his life with. Right from first meeting, to falling in love and realising that they were soul mates. It was a love story that brought a tear to my eyes. What would you say to that?’

‘It sounds a nice story.’ He relaxed and lifted his elbows.

‘Anyone who read your story would learn just how much you loved her. My friend told me that it was a joy to write. Did your grandchildren ever meet Amy?’

‘No they stayed with the other grandparents for the funeral.’

‘Then why not write something for their sake. I am sure you have pictures too?’

He nodded.

‘Not just about Amy and me, but of the children too. What their parents looked like as they grew up.’

He was beginning to sound interested; and this did bring a smile to the old man’s face.

‘Do you know I think that I quite like that idea? We got a computer some years ago to stay in touch by email. My son recently introduced me to Skype. We take it in turns. We speak every Saturday morning at ten in the morning here, so it must be the same time out there only at night. Thank you for talking to me. Shall we stay in touch?’

‘I’d be delighted. Let me give you my contact details.’ With that I wrote down my email address and phone number.

‘It’s been a pleasure to talk with you.’

With that, I pressed one hand down on the armrest and got up. We shook hands and I walked away.

The Bench

by David Deanshaw

sweet yellow wine 

A tear was trickling down his cheek.  He had clasped his hands and then wound then together tightly. I didn’t really want to disturb him, but I needed to rest my weary arthritic knees. I looked over towards him seeking to share his bench. He looked over to me reading my thoughts and he nodded, but did not move. He had been listening to a gentle chorus of birds hidden with the trees. 

‘Peaceful,’ I said.

‘Yes she loved it here.’

I hesitated realising I had interrupted a tender moment.

‘How long ago? I asked.

‘Today, last year,’ he croaked.

‘I don’t want to disturb you.’

‘Not a problem, perhaps you’d stay and listen for a while?’

‘Tell me about her.’

‘She was the kindest, gentlest woman you could ever wish to meet. She organised me from the day we got engaged. She kept house, did the budgets and the cooking.’

‘But you helped? By providing the funds?’

‘Yes that’s what we men were for in those days. Then she bore the children.’

‘How many?’

'Just two, one of each.’

‘But you helped?’

‘Yes of course. But whenever they fell or got bruised or scratched it was her warmth that mended them.  She used to say, “There you are, mummy mended it.” They’d recover as if by magic. I taught them to read then listened as they read to me.  I did sums with them – fractions they always found difficult, but not decimals later.’ He raised his head and looked into the distance. ‘Now they’ve both gone away.’

‘Far?’

‘Australia and New Zealand.’

‘Do they come back to visit?

‘Only for the funeral,’ his voice croaked again, ‘they stayed for three weeks to help me sort things out, then left’

‘Do you want to be with them?

‘Difficult, I’d have to be sponsored at my age. Besides, she’s still here with me, not out there.’

Trying to hide a frown of not quite understanding, I asked, ‘but do they want you to go?’

‘No I don’t think so. They only think of the future, not the past.’

At that moment, he leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. There engraved on the bench were the words, ’in loving memory of Amy.’ She had been sitting on his shoulder the whole time,

‘What else do you do with your time?’

‘Not much I don’t know what to do without her.’

‘You were obviously very much in love.’

‘I loved her more every day.’

‘Can I make a suggestion?’

‘Please do,’

‘A friend of mine decided some years ago that he knew nothing of his parent’s family or any of his antecedents, so he decided to write a book about himself for his children and their children. He did it all the way from junior school to retirement.’

‘Oh I couldn’t do that.’

‘If I said that the most touching part of the book for me, when I read it, was the story of how he met the woman he would spend the rest of his life with.  Right from first meeting, to falling in love and realising that they were soul mates.  It was a love story that brought a tear to my eyes.  What would you say to that?

‘It sounds a nice story.’

‘All your readers will learn just how much he loved her.  He tells me it was a joy to write.  Did your grandchildren ever meet Amy?’

‘No they stayed with the other grandparents for the funeral.’

‘Then why not write something for their sake. I am sure you have pictures too? He nodded.

‘Do you know I think that I quite like that idea? We got a computer some years ago to stay in touch by email.  My son recently introduced me to Skype.  He calls me every Saturday morning at ten in the morning, so it must be the same out there only at night. Thank you for talking to me. Shall we stay in touch?

Near Death August 2006

David Deanshaw

red wine 

“Hello I'm Alan. I’m going to put you to sleep for a while. Are you right-handed?”

I nodded.

He lifted my left hand and the rubbed the back. “I’m looking for a good vein.”

I felt him insert the cannula.

“This will feel a bit cold at first. Think of the five things you enjoy doing most!”

He was right - it was cold. I thought I could hear a rushing wind. I got as far as a glass of red wine and that was all I remember.

Sometime later I heard a gentle female voice speaking my name, “Andrew come back to us. The first part is all over.”

I opened my eyes and tried to look around. But my head seemed to be fixed in one position. I could see a bulge at the end of the bed where my feet would be. I was propped up. There was a tube in my left arm. My right arm was free so I could feel the catheter with a sense of relief. My head was woozy. I closed my eyes.

Then the gentle female voice spoke again. She patted my right hand. “Come on Andrew, time to wake up.” I became aware of something tight around my middle. I groped with my right hand. It was a very wide dressing that was wrapped tightly around my body.

“I’m thirsty, can I have a drink? Please!”

The gentle voice whispered, “Of course. Here let me help you.”

She brought a plastic cup to me; in it was water and a straw. I felt like a child.

“Take your time; your inside will be very empty. You’ve had nothing now for nearly two days. Your insides need to settle. There may even need to be another short procedure, perhaps tomorrow. The surgeon will be coming to see you soon.”

“When?”

“You were the last on his list today, because he knew it would take a long time. I think he may be relaxing and having a cup of tea. He’ll be here soon enough.

“Will he give me something for all this pain?”

“Oh yes, he has prescribed some morphine for you. But you mustn’t have too much. Oddly, it’s not good for you to have too much!”

She had such a nice gentle voice, it suited her manner.

“Here he is, now”

“Hello Andrew. How are you feeling now?” Mr Lacey had a strong and firm handshake. That continued my confidence in him.

“Thirsty, hungry and I have a pain somewhere down there.” I pointed to my middle.

“I did tell you that the problem was in a difficult place. The ileocecal valve is a bugger to get at. So you have quite a deep incision. I’m keeping you off food for the time being. The next twenty four hours will critical for you. You can have plenty of water; I have set up the drain pipe at one end and a drip to feed you at this end. You will sleep in this position; the nurses are available on this button to make sure that you stay upright. I do not want you sliding sideways one way or another and most certainly not on your right side.”

 He called a nurse over and asked for another pillow to support the area of the incision; and then a small one to ensure I stayed upright. A lot of fuss I thought because I was as comfortable as could be expected.

“You mean there’s more?” I did not like the sound of this too much. I hate anaesthetic at the best of times. It always takes weeks to wear itself out of my system. It stops me thinking any creative thoughts.

“I will give you something to help you sleep tonight. I’ll be back again in the morning. I’ll check the bottle to be sure your kidney is still working, and then I’ll decide what’s next.”

With that he smiled and left.

I was closing my eyes again when a new voice regaled my ears.

“Is there anything I can get you?” I wondered whether it was my imagination, or do they all have gentle voices.

“Yes please. Is there any chance of some kind of flavour in this water – like orange for instance?”

“Not tonight there isn’t. In your situation, we have to be patient.”

“You mean I have to be patient?”

“Yes, but when you are in my care, I will try and respond in any way I can help, within the surgeon’s demands. You have had a deep cut into your insides. He is a superb engineer, but he cannot wave a magic wand and get you better instantly. So we all have to be patient, especially you. We can talk if you wish, or shall I leave your door open?”

“Yes please.” With that I closed my eyes again. I think I dreamed of walking on a hillside somewhere in Wales. It had a river that babbled over stones. Beddgelert is one of my favourites. But I could hear talking. I was glad that my door had been left open; the room was so warm. But I did not know who or what was the subject of the conversation.

“He’s never lost anyone before.” This was a new rather mature voice.

“His notes are clear; if the patient survives the night, he will try in the morning to explore whether all is well.”

“Is it that bad?”

“The man had obviously ignored the pain, until he finally went to see his GP. It’s a good job he has private health insurance.”

“There’s a priest in the next ward, do you think we should mention this chap?”

Then the voices faded.

I had pain in my head as well as in my body. Their conversation could just have been about the value of private health insurance or about another patient. But it did disturb my thinking.

I have always thought that prayers might be worth more if the supplicant was on his knees. That was not possible in my situation. So I closed my eyes and just asked the Almighty if there was any purpose in me continuing to live.

He obviously thought so.