‘Isn’t that right, Mr Peterson?’ she called across the ward.
Silence.
Not a good silence.
A worrying, unusual, alarming silence.
‘Mr P? Didn’t you hear that? Mother Angel over here was just being especially nice to me. I’m surprised you’re missing out on an opportunity to take me off that pedestal.’ Alfie tried to make his voice light-hearted, but there was a definite edge to it.
Nothing.
‘I’ll go have a check on him, sweetheart. I’m sure he’s just sleeping. Mr Peterson, is everything OK over here?’ He could hear Nurse Angles closing the curtains behind her.
Say something, please.
‘OK, honey. OK, sure. I’ll get your breakfast then ask the doctor to come and check on you.’
A faint grunt of acknowledgement followed by the curtain being drawn.
‘He’s not feeling too well, Alfie. Says he’s OK but a little tired. I’m going to get the doctor to check in, just in case.’
He smiled and nodded, aware of how discreet she was being.
It’s OK. He’s a ninety-two-year-old man. He’s allowed to be tired.
The reassuring words played in a continuous loop until at last he saw the doctor appear. Alfie quickly analysed his approach. As a resident, you soon learnt to assess the severity of a situation by the way the doctors walked. This guy was in no hurry. He sauntered across the ward, distracted by his notes and saying hello to the nurses on his way. There was no rushing, no urgency. Everything was going to be fine.
‘Bloody fuss about nothing. Just a bit of dehydration. Probably because they put about a litre of salt in every goddam meal in this place,’ scoffed the old man after the fifth time he’d been checked on by the nurses.
‘Oh please, Mr P, don’t you dare pretend you’re not enjoying all the attention.’
‘Ach, give it a rest, will you, boy. And do me a favour? Go and annoy someone else today, will you? I’m in a bloody awful mood as it is.’
Alfie looked at his friend. Was it really just a bad mood? Or was there something else?
‘Get away with you, kid. Stop giving me that look. I’m fine!’
Alfie did as he was told and left Mr P alone. He seemed like the normal grumpy old man he’d come to know and love, yet something was telling Alfie not to be so sure.
Maybe he wasn’t the only one who wore a mask in this place.
*
The rest of the day held nothing new or out of the ordinary which, to Alfie, felt like a blessing after the unwelcome excitement of the morning. He didn’t even mind that Alice had gone quiet; he assumed she was still processing their conversation last night. Which reminded him that he should probably be doing the same thing.
It was, after all, because of Alfie that Alice’s emotional outburst had happened. He’d spoken about the most harrowing night of his life, and to his surprise, he wasn’t embarrassed or ashamed about it. In fact, the only thing he felt was an overwhelming relief. Storing all of that noise in his head had been more of a burden than he had realized. He hoped that eventually Alice would feel the same way.
Alice. Alice. Always thinking about Alice.
No matter how hard he tried to keep focused on himself, Alfie found his mind constantly drifting back to her. There were so many questions he wanted to ask, but none were appropriate so early on in their friendship. He wanted to know what had happened after her brother died. What had caused so much tension between her and her mum? Where was her dad in all of this? Most of all, he found himself wondering if she was lonely. This last one he found too upsetting to think about for long. Or maybe it was because he already knew the answer.
‘You’re worried about him, aren’t you?’ Her quiet voice, almost a whisper, crept through the curtains.
‘Huh?’ Her question caught him off guard.
‘Mr Peterson … you’re worried about him.’
How had she known?
