‘You what?’
‘It was hermum. The visitor.’
‘Interesting … so she isn’t completely on her own, then.’ His face twisted in thought.
‘Based on what I heard, I’d say she’s not far off it.’
He didn’t want to pity her. He would hate the thought of anyone feeling sorry for him or discussing his private life so publicly, but he couldn’t help himself. He would challenge anyone to overhear that conversation and not feel bad for her.
‘I know that look, boy.’ Mr Peterson prodded him in the arm. ‘You’re going soft on her, aren’t you?’
‘No’ – although Alfie’s voice was less than convincing – ‘but let’s just say if I had a mum like that, I think I’d have a few issues too. I reckon there’s more to her than we think …’
‘Hmmmm. Whatever you say, kid. Seems to me she’s more trouble than she’s worth, but hey, who am I to judge?’ He held his hands up in acceptance.
‘You, Mr P, are a grumpy old man who is rubbish at crosswords, that’s who!’ Alfie laughed and thrust the puzzle book under his friend’s nose. ‘Five across is HUMOROUS and twelve down is DISCOMBOBULATE,’ he declared smugly.
‘I’ll discombobulate you in a minute …’
*
Luckily for Alfie, the afternoon came around quickly. It was Sunday, and Sundays were Alfie’s favourite day. They had been since the dawn of time because Sundays meant one thing and one thing only … Jane Mack’s roast dinner. A meal that was cooked to absolute perfection and seasoned with more love than one person should be capable of holding. He’d witnessed old men tear up at the taste of his mum’s potatoes. He’d seen raging children silenced by a lick of her gravy. The family would swear that just a morsel of her chicken could cure any illness. Now, Alfie could practically taste his mother’s desperation for a cure for his disability rubbed into its skin.
Pre hospital life, Alfie would show up at his parents’ house without fail at 3 p.m. He would be able to smell the garlic and onion from the driveway, and his stomach would be screaming as he knocked on the door. His mum knew there was a strict fifteen-minute window in which the food neededto be plated up, or she would risk facing an onslaught of whining and grumbling.
That first Sunday when she turned up with a silver tray packed with her finest roast dinner, Alfie couldn’t help but cry. He loved his mum so deeply that it sometimes took his breath away. In the whirlwind of operations, tests, technical terminology and limb loss, all Alfie had wanted was the comfort of home. His wonderful mother, without even needing to be asked, gave it to him quite literally on a silver (foil) platter.
At first Alfie assumed this was a one-off treat. A gift to remind him of how loved he was, and how life on the ward could still feel like home. It was only after the fourth weekend in a row of roast dinners that he realized this was going to become a regular feature. Like clockwork, at 3 p.m. Jane Mack would show up with piles of delicious treats. As is customary for mothers to do, she always made too much and soon, along with the mountains of food came extra plates and cutlery.
‘Do us a favour, would you, Alfie, and see if anyone else would like a plate? We really have got too much for the three of us.’
Alfie would look at his dad, who’d simply roll his eyes and shrug his shoulders. There was no use fighting her, especially when food was involved, so off Alfie would go, asking the other patients whether they’d like any food; it was always a resounding yes. Every week, the moment the smell of gravy wafted through from reception the energy in the room would lift. It was that same unique fervour that bubbled up at Christmas. Excitement and anticipation. And it was all thanks to his parents. He knew then that every bit of goodness he had inside him came from them.
This week was no different. Hidden behind platters of food, his mum and dad bustled into the ward to raucous cheers. Commotion ensued, with spoonfuls of food being dished out here, there and everywhere. It was only when everyone was in that wonderful contented silence of eating that his mum noticed the curtains drawn around the cubicle next to him.
‘Do you have a new neighbour, Alf?’ She was already reaching for a spare plate to pile high with food.
‘Yeah, but we’ve been told to steer clear. She’s not one for talking.’ He tried to keep his voice as low as possible.
‘Hmmm. Talking, maybe not, but eating is a different matter entirely.’
Alfie knew it was pointless trying to stop her. He watched as his mum knocked on the curtain. When she realized that rapping on cloth was a fruitless exercise, she plucked up the courage to speak.
‘Excuse me, dear. I don’t want to disturb you, but I’ve got a plate of Sunday roast here if you’d like it?’
Nothing.
‘I could always leave it with the nurses for them to bring over?’
Silence.
‘No? Are you sure, sweetheart? It’s my special chicken!’
Not even the whisper of a breath.
Dejected, Alfie watched his mum turn back to face him. He was about to open his mouth to reassure her when, as if by magic …
‘No, I’m OK but … thank you for asking.’
