Fortunate was I that the pain ceased. By now the good leg was numb. I call it the good leg, of course it was the only one. I hopped back out, clinging onto the ends of the trousers, hopping to the rear of the queue.
I was thinking of one good leg and one bad leg, the good being the whole and the bad being the stump. This was a defence mechanism of the emotions.
When I reached the Emergency desk it was to find another receptionist on duty. A woman of about thirty-six years of age. She had that maturity, allied to youth, allied to blouse; women wear such blouses, I heard of a fellow whose nose dropped down a cleavage. She looked at me. I explained that which had transpired. She was attentive, noted all the details, which she emailed immediately to Personnel. She keyed in additional data and that was that, my presence, its necessity.
Along the way to the exit an old guy was guarding a space by a radiator. He wore an eye-patch and had a bandage wrapped round his head; a twisted bandage, it must have been uncomfortable. Judging by the lack of a bump on the left side of his head he was missing an ear. That may have explained why his posture was so curious. He was somehow not even standing, not what you would call standing. He rocked on the very rearmost edge of his heels though he seemed asleep. But he was not asleep. He was heating his hands.
He looked at me, noting the problem I had with the back-to-front one-legged garment. How would he have described me? The one-legged bloke with the back-to-front trouser(s).
Behind us was the queue of people at Emergency reception. The old guy seemed to be wondering what explanation existed for my present state. There was none, it was just the way of the world. He hesitated, adjusted the bandage about his head. When I passed him by he called after me: Heh pal!
Yeh? I hopped a step sideways to look behind.
Will I zip up yer trousers at the back?
That would be good, I said, thanks, thanks a lot.
Saves a wee bit of embarrassment, he added.
Definitely. I balanced myself against the wall. When the zip was applied I could relax, and I did relax, just that little bit; that little bit was not only necessary it was enough. I flexed my wrist muscles.
Okay? said the old guy.
Yeh.
But when I went to put my hands in my pockets it was so very awkward, very very awkward, just about damn impossible.
What’s up? he said.
Aw nothing. Just life, always something.
Dont I know it!
Thanks anyway.
Take it easy pal. Tricky times ahead.
You’re right, I said.
He was, he was spot on. The experience of age. Suddenly I remembered the £5 deposit on the key to the toilet but I had left the damn thing in the doorlock. It would have vanished by now. There was a café I knew where £5 bought you a cup of tea and a baked potato. The same £5 got you two cups of tea and a sandwich. That was what ye got for yer £5. Not bad really, although it was not so much a café as a snackbar, located at a supermarket entrance. This entrance was also the exit and folks like me, well, anyway, I did go along on occasion. The Security man was always a snag. If he was there individuals had to dodge through.
That was the supermarket this was the Social Security. It too had an exit and I was interested to see it. In the old days I named it ‘the escape hatch’. My heart leapt when I spied it. In future times, whenever I returned here, and was obliged to leave, I would view it differently. But I should have told the old guy about the £5 deposit, he could have taken a chance on the key, but no he wouldnt, he wouldnt, an old fellow like that; to some he was a hero.
Our Times
There was this upper-middle-class guy who was a genuine goody. Charles was his name. He may have been called after the English monarch. I did not know him personally and might have thought highly of him if I had. We shall never know. He was a boring individual in adult company but children suffered him and allowed him to join their games. On the whole his life was boring insofar as anyone’s life is boring. But I was serious when I said I regarded him highly.
This will have the mark of authenticity about it.
Charles had a full-time upper-middle-class type of job. At the same time he was a complete individual, a whole human being, figuratively. So too was Sian, his wife. Sian is an unusual name for a woman which was of additional interest to myself, as is the Gaelic tradition.
Charles and Sian shared an interest in the arts and were at ease in their own community. This appealed to me. She was of the middling-middle-class; a girl who, prior to the first pregnancy, held a responsible position in a local law firm. She would pick up her career where she had left off. Once her youngest child reached nursery-school age, she hoped. Sian was counting the months.
Theirs were decent children, neither stuck-up nor namby-pamby. They did not feel ill at ease if adults were in the same room yet had their own little circle of friends. They made no attempt to dominate mixed-age companies. Charles was proud of that. He disliked children being pushed to the fore in adult society. He thought it demeaning.
Sian thought the same but in her it occasioned pangs of guilt. In a curious way she was proud of that guilt. Yet the guilt itself was a secret and she disliked secrets. One night she blurted it out to Charles. His only reply was a smile. Sian liked his smile. It was beautiful. Oddly it was their daughter who inherited the smile. Sian wished it were the boy. Their smile reminded her of her own father and she had never much cared for him, nor his memory.
Twice a year the family holidayed together. These were not unadventurous forays and were thoroughly enjoyed. So much so that Charles and Sian intended selling up and moving abroad to a similar destination if only they could wangle early retirement. Times had become tough but they did stand a chance. I am not sure if ever they did wangle it. We only heard about them from neighbours. Each time I saw these particular neighbours it was not only a reminder but a rejoinder. I was aware of Charles’s existence but was fortunate to have an independent circle of friends I could describe as ‘mine’ rather than ‘ours’.
talking about my wife
I should have been working or else calling into the pub for a couple of pints before the last stretch home. I sometimes did that coming off the nightshift on Friday mornings. Even if I was working an overtime shift into Saturday, I still liked that Friday morning. There was a pub near the cross that opened for breakfast. A couple of us went in there. We did not stay long, an hour or so, three or four pints. The lasses were well away to school by the time I strolled home and Cath would be up and about, giving me looks.
Anyway, she had been asleep when I opened the door. So how come I was home like this? I saw the question. She was frowning and blinking at the alarm clock on the dressing table. Dont worry, I said, it’s no time to get up yet.
She turned her head from me, her eyes closed. She aye had difficulty getting out of bed. I had difficulty getting in it.
I leaned across to her, laying my hand on her thigh. She screwed up her eyes, gave a slight shudder instead of a smile then her exaggerated shiver; she should have had that copyrighted — or copywritten, whatever you say.