Category: Fiction

Relief. That’s all I feel. My duty discharged. My obligation fulfilled. What had to be done, has been done. The end.
___
I’m approaching the revolving doors when she steps in front of me. A nurse on Gordon’s ward. Bright and smiling at the start of her shift.

“Good morning, Peter,” she says. “How’s Gordon today?”

“Oh, well. You know …”

No need to say any more.

“I must tell you,” she says, “we all think you’re rather marvellous.”

I look past her at the revolving doors.

“Visiting Gordon every day, the way you do. Come wind, come rain. Sitting with him for hours on end. I wouldn’t have the patience myself.”

“He has no one else,” I say.

No, no one else.

—

I no longer walk round the park. There’s no reason why I should. It did Gordon no good. Besides, walking round the park on one’s own is a bleak business.

After Hazel’s death, I found myself seeing Dr Woodward once or twice a month. Minor complaints mostly, but we both knew why I was there.

“I could prescribe something,” he said, “but medicine’s not an exact science. We try things. Sometimes they work; sometimes they don’t. Taking a little exercise might be a good idea,” he added, “although there’s always a chance it might kill you. I’m so sorry. A tasteless joke. It’s high time I retired.”

Which he did. I half-hoped we might run into each other from time to time, but he and his wife moved to Cyprus, possibly to avoid his ex-patients.

Dr Woodward’s successor is a brisk young woman with no time to waste. I sense it’s best not to trouble her.

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