Peter. A Story
The hospital window stands open, left that way by the nurse early this morning. The air is crisp and clean, the curtains lightly fluttering, the vivid green leaves outside soothing to the eye, and the stifling summer heat still far away.
Peter has just had his appendix removed. They said it was a tricky operationthey made it just in time. Yet Peter remains unflustered.
Not afraid of injections then? The nurse smiled, flicking the air from the syringe.
Peter simply turned on his sidethe doctors still wont let him get up.
Really, as if needles could scare him
Theyd brought him in from an alley just off the high street, just as it hit him. He wasnt homelessthe orphanage was all hed ever known. Theyd been out with the lads from the market, picking up what shifts and odd jobs they could. Then the pain struck.
If he regretted anything, it was getting Len and little Jake mixed up in itit would be chaos back at the home now. Even yesterday, right after surgery, Mrs Kirkley, the deputy head, had stormed in, making a show of concern. Peter still felt the haze of the anaesthetic; he can remember her anxious face looming over him, but nothing else.
Why couldnt it have happened on the orphanage grounds? He was nearly there. But it happened on the street, as things do.
He blamed the apricots theyd been given at the market. A crate that was supposed to be past its best, but sweet as honey. They wolfed them down, ate far too many, and well, there you go.
Oi, young hero. How are you feeling? An older doctor with hairy arms checked the stitch. All the worst is behind you now. Nothing to worry about.
I wasnt worried, Peter replied.
Mmmh. Youre a brave one. Well then, brave lad, nothing to eat yet. No treats, no giftsdoctors orders. Take it easy, youll get some jelly later.
Peter nodded out of politeness. He knewnobody would bring him sweets. The others at the home would be angryat him leaving unexpectedly, at dragging the staff in it. Theyd snuck to the market through a hole in the fence, and just on the way back, this had to happen!
Truth be told, he was brave. Life had left him no choice. His mother had him, he suspects, accidentally. Likely, she couldnt afford tohes thought about this, clear-eyed, the way a ten-year-old from the home does.
He wasnt angry at her. If anything, he was gratefulgrateful shed let him be born at all, even if she left right away.
He spent his first three years in a baby home, then was moved to an orphanage in Manchester, and after that, on to one near Leeds. For as long as he could recall, life was a battle.
He remembers fighting over food in the canteen. Those were the years of quiet Britaincomfortable and calm on the outsidebut the cooks and managers took most of the good stuff home, loaded into their cars.
And the fighting wasnt just over food. It was for everything. He was tough, using his strengthhed broken arms more than once. Once, the visiting hairdresser, who shaved their heads, nearly burst into tears at the sight of all his scars.
What was there to cry about? Peter never cried.
Now, they thought they could scare him with a few injections or another scar!
It was almost funny.
To him, adults were cold and calculating. He wasnt cute and cuddlya hard boy with a rough sort of honesty. He was plain, even a bit surly.
Mind yourself, Warner! If youre up to something, Ill have you in the isolation room! Miss Kirkley warned him often.
He never argued, but he had no intention of obeying either. Hed drawn up his own rules years ago.
Only one adult ever stuck in his memory. He couldnt remember what it was like having a mother who loved you, but with this one woman whod flashed through his life, hed often find himself talking to her in his mind.
He must have been six when she started working at the old orphanage near Manchester. He couldnt be sure who she was, just that she had a kind smile, blue eyes, warm hands, and a gentle scent. She used to sit him on her knee and whisper,
You must be strong, Peter. Eat well, look after yourself, be good. It will be hard, but youll manage. Wont you try, for me?
And then she would sing him a lullaby.
Little grey cat, sleepy head,
Hush now, hush, lay down your head,
Tail so soft and paws so white,
Hush now, Peter, sleep tonight
Even now, considering himself practically grown, Peter remembered that simple song, especially when things got bleak. He would shut his eyes, hum the tune, remember the warmth of those hands, and the pain eased.
Then one day she vanished, leaving only the song and memory behind. He never heard a lullaby otherwise, never rocked or comforted in arms. As for her name, hed forgottenin his mind, he just called her mum. Most likely she was just a temp, but it was nice to pretend.
The nurse came back in, closing the window and making up a bed across the ward. Peter was gladsolitude was boring.
A rush of staff in white coats wheeled a stretcher into the room. The sudden bustle, the half-whispered words; Peter, from the far side, could only catch glimpses. A pale, sharp-nosed boy lay on the bed, attached to a drip. Soon enough, everyone but a nurse and a tired man in a doctors coat had gone.
Few words were spoken.
Hell sleep, said the nurse.
Thats good, thank you.
If you need anything
Right.
She left. The man stayed, slumped, head down, utterly motionless. The boy slept.
Despite the heat, the man still wore his jacket under the hospital robe. Peter thought for a second he might have drifted off too.
Peters back ached, so he rolled over. His bed squeaked. The man looked up; deep furrow between his brows, tired eyesbut not unkind.
Hello there, he said, barely above a whisper, as if only now realising someone else was there.
Erhello, Peter responded.
The man glanced at his son, then quietly took a chair and drew it over to Peter.
You had surgery, then?
Yeah, they took my appendix.
Good. Up on your feet yet?
Not yet.
Is there anything you need?
Not allowed, till evening. Whats wrong with him? Peter gestured at the other bed.
The man frowned. Something else entirely. Mind if I stay? Ill help with anything, and if anyone comes for you, Ill clear out.
Course not, Peter shrugged. It wasnt like he had a say, anyway.
Lifting the chair, the man turned, Hes called Simon. Hes eleven. And you?
Peter, ten.
Thank you, Peter, the man smiled, and for a moment Peter wasnt sure what for.
All the next day, people came and went from their room. Nurses adjusted Simons drips, the doctor stopped by. Simons father spent the night on the fold-out bed, sometimes murmuring to his son. Simon fidgeted, his eyes never opening, as if asleep.
Family arriveda greying couple, and a tall, pale woman with tear-reddened eyes and curly hair pulled back. She sat beside Simon, stroking his hand, whispering gently.
Shouldnt Peter be moved? Simons father asked the doctor, glancing at Peter, worried for his wife.
Yes, well move him today.
Abruptly the doctor remembered Peter.
Well, hows it going, son? Hurting much?
A bit.
Hed not slept well, his stitches ached, and the catheter was awkward. Hed not eaten since before the operationperhaps forgotten or not allowed, he wasnt sure.
Try getting up today. Well move you next door. Nurse will take out the catheter.
Peter was desperate to move, but the nurse was busy elsewhere. More people streamed in and out.
Only now did Peter realiseSimon, the other boy, was dying. He lay unconscious as family spoke quietly, subdued, tense, as though bracing themselves.
A young woman, Simons aunt, stayed at his bedside. Peter felt awkward about her being there, especially when the nurse came to remove his catheter. He half-hinted as much, but the nurse dismissed him: No ones bothered, just stay still. Nearly done.
It was quickly over, but Peter stayed in bed, not sure where his clothes had gone. The woman rearranged Simons covers, dabbed his lips with water. Peter wished hed asked about his clothes.
No one cares, he sighed. He might as well be invisible.
After a while, though, he decided to try sitting up, wrapping himself in a sheet.
Do you need a hand? the woman asked.
No, Peter replied, but his head spun. He lay down again.
But in a minute, he tried again. Do you know where my clothes are? he asked quietly.
She didnt know, but said shed find out. Just keep an eye on Simon, please? Peter tried to shuffle across the room in the oversized hospital pyjamas, but his legs trembled. He didnt make it far.
Eventually, they brought him some clothesnot his, but hospital ones. The woman turned her back as he struggled into them, the trousers far too long. By the time he stood, still treading on the hems, she knelt and rolled them up for him, taking so long Peter felt faint.
Im about to pass out
She caught him, sat him down. Youre still really poorly. Have you eaten today? Whats your name?
Peter.
Im Lisa. Peter, someone should be with youmum, maybe? Want to ring her?
I havent got a mum.
Ohwell, your dad, or whoever you live with?
Its fine. Honestly, Im better now. Just need the loo.
He limped to the bathroom, stared at himself in the mirrordark circles below his eyes, lips faded to white, but those black eyes still burning. One carer said his surname, Warner, probably came from his eyesraven-black, like a birds wing. The other boys just called him Raven, and he was proud of it.
A splash of cold water helped. Soon after, Lisa must have intervenedsomeone brought him some jelly.
Proper food soon, just ask at the kitchen.
How do I find that?
First right, follow your nose, a cleaner quipped.
He nearly collapsed. Ill fetch him some jelly, Lisa retorted. Hes not ready for stairs.
Peter couldnt settle. He paced the room, glancing at Simon, curly, stick-thin, almost pretty, more like his mum. Is he dying? Peter asked, blunt as only care home kids can be.
Lisa flinched. We dont know. Yeshes very unwell. Four operationshis parents are exhausted. Were all trying, but sometimeswell, you never know, do you?
I dont, Peter muttered, sinking onto his bed.
He couldnt stop thinking about Simon. Someone elses life, like in the filmsa mother, father, grandparents, uncles, everything. And yet, here he was, dying.
It didnt seem right.
Peter was never moved that evening. Simons father, Mr Jameson, returned, new bustle in the ward. Peter overheard them: No-ones come for this lad all day.
Peter, the doctor says youre from the orphanage? Mr Jameson asked.
Yeah.
Maybe youd prefer another room? Simons not well
No, Im all right here. Can I stay?
Four days blurred by. Peter developed a fever and was sent to another room, full of pensioners. He was bored stiff, would sneak back in to sit beside Simon. No one turned him away.
His temperature delayed his discharge.
By now, Mr Jameson had found out everythingsubtly asking, listening to conversations. He brought Peter some clothessecond-hand things, but Peter was used to cast-offs.
These Simons? Peter asked, glancing at his bed.
They were.
What if hewhat if he pulls through? Peters question surprised Jameson, who flinched at the mention of deaththe word never spoken aloud among the family. Everyone waited for the end but kept silent. How could you say it, of your only child? It felt unspeakable.
Just once did Sonia, Simons mum, cry out when her husband tried to reassure her: Why? Why did we do everything rightand he still dies? Hows that supposed to help?!
When those you love slip away, your own body gives up as well. Sonia was near collapse. She didnt want to live without her boy. Tranquillisers helped, but not enough.
What if he pulls through? Peter pressed.
Jameson wanted to be honest, not just with the lad, but with himself too. He wont recover, Peter. Im sorryhes dying. Saying it was agony.
Does it hurtto die? Peter clung tightly to Simons old shirt, his brow creased.
Jameson saw it clearlythis orphan boy cared, deeply. He listened to the doctors, picked up on every word. Children understand, sometimes more than we think.
Its quicker than falling asleep. We do everything to make sure hes not in pain. Thats why were here.
But he still moves.
Yeswe talk to him, hoping he hears. We cant be sure, but we hope.
Family members sat with Simon around the clock. Once, Jameson slipped off for a minute, leaving Peter with his son. When he returned, he paused at the door.
Peter sat by Simon, holding his thin hand, whispering.
And I dont know where my mum is. Maybe shes gone now. She left, but Im not angry. If she ever turned up, Id forgive her. You dont believe me? Well, you shouldBut you, Simon, you mustnt die. Your mums in pieces, your dads lovely. If I had a dad like that, I wouldnt give up. Ill return your shirt and trousers, keep them clean. Got plenty of others. You justtry to get better. Try, with everything you’ve got.
Jameson coughed into his hand, throat tight as stone. Peter looked up, hopeful.
He heard me. I know he didhe squeezed my hand. Promise you believe me?
I do, Peter. I do. Maybe he did.
Jameson and his family waited, counting down the final hours. Simonclever, beautiful, everything theyd hoped forwas slipping away. His illness had been diagnosed years ago, muscle atrophy at eight, then the slow collapse: heart, lungs, gut, everything. Theyd tried every London doctor, every best hospital in England. Thats how hed lived to eleven.
Sonia bore the brunt, sitting up each night on hard chairs, chasing after specialists, storming church steps with prayers. Jameson was always there, but he was a manstronger, in a way.
When it was clear Simon couldnt go on, their efforts failed. Sonia needed sedatives.
You keep talking to him, Peter. I think he likes it.
For Jameson, Peters stories became a lifeline. He would stand in the hall and listen:
And when that thug Saunders broke my arm, the world went black for a second. Honestly! Then, when I came round, saw my arm bent like thiswell, I just glared at him. Go on then, finish the jobyou think Ill cry? I said. He panicked, ran straight to matron. Next thing I know, hes sobbing.
Peter flexed his now-healed arm for Simons benefit. And its fine now, see? An arm breaks worse than your illness, so youll get through it, mate. Just push through.
Simon died at night. No one told Peter. He turned up for breakfast, then wandered by the room.
A new boy was already unpacking on Simons old bed.
Where? Peter nodded at the freshly made bed.
No idea, mate. Just came in, the boy answered.
Peter rushed to the nurses stationno one therethen into the doctors office.
Simonwheres Simon? Was he transferred? Where did he go?
The on-call doctor frowned. Simon? Oh. He wasvery ill, Peter, he said gently.
Did he die? Peter cut in.
Im afraid so.
Peter staggered out. He was furiouswith the hospital, the doctors, everyone.
Theyd failed him. Theyd done nothing. Not one thing.
He lashed out, booting a bucket of water the cleaner had left, sending it skittering down the corridor. Shouts followednurses, doctors swarming. He shoved the ward door open with a kick, slouched back onto his bed, hands clamped over his ears.
A whole hospital, and yetnobody had saved his friend. No one.
Why had Simon, unconscious all the while, become Peters friend? He wasnt sure. But it was true. Peter had told him everythingabout his mother, about the woman whod sung to him, about all the fights and troubles.
One night, Peter dreamt Simon sat up, smiled sadly, and asked not to be fussed. His voice was thin, almost girlish. He began telling Peter about himself. Peter couldnt recall the details, but he remembered the gentle voice, the soft, sad story. Suddenly, Simon looked at the window, stood, and climbed onto the sill. Peter was so scared hed fall, he woke up in a panic.
Black branches rustled outside, the moon shone in. Simon slept, limbs thrown about, his exhausted father dozed.
Peter tiptoed over, sat on Simons bed, took those frail hands, and softly sang the only lullaby hed ever known.
Little grey cat, sleepy head,
Hush now, hush, lay down your head,
Tail so soft and paws so white,
Hush now, Peter, sleep tonight
From then on, Peter would talk to Simon in his thoughts. Hed imagine stories Simon might tellholidays by the sea, grandparents (the grandfather a general, naturally!), stories about school and friends, about a room filled with toys, a mum who woke you gently for breakfast.
All the stories he told himself, Simon told right back in dreams. Sometimes these stories were improbable, but Peter, never having had a family, never having lived in a home, could only imagine what he saw in TV dramas.
He pictured the beds all in one room for everyone, each person with their own narrow cupboard, fish every Thursday, mum ladling out the tea every morning.
***
Strangely, when his son died, Jameson felt a strange, cold relief. Not because he didnt love himquite the opposite. Simon was not alive anymore. If theyd kept him going, hed have just suffered more pain. Now, it was over.
He needed to accept it, help his wife to, and find a way to keep living.
More and more, he thought about Peter.
This wasnt the time to speak of adoption. Sonia was in no place to understand. No one could replace Simon. His photograph, ringed with flowers, stood in the lounge; Sonia sat by it, burning candles, making visits to the cemetery every day. Theyd had no other children, after an ectopic pregnancy years before.
And Peter would never have parents.
He was nothing like Simonhard-edged, black-eyed, rough. And yet, Jameson listened to him and found a soft, unspoiled heart.
Sonia, I went to the hospital today. They released Peter at last. He was there a long time.
Why did you go? Why keep going back? She looked at him, confused.
Me? Oh, just picked up Simons file. They said Peter lost it when he found Simon was gone. Kicked up a real fuss.
Daft boy, sighed Sonia.
Yes, daft, Jameson agreed.
Dont worry about me, James. Im getting there, slowly. Get on with things, butIm not ready for new boys.
He didnt press her.
But he did travel to Peters childrens home that Saturday. He couldnt help himself. He remembered Peters talkthe neglect, the lack of real care. But it was harder than hed imagined to meet himquestions, suspicion from the headmistress, icy reception. This just a visit carried no weight.
That didnt stop him. He remembered his friend Tanya Bell, now supervising adoptive families. He soon tracked her down. Over tea, Tanya listened, promised to check up on Peter, but reminded himhed need Sonias agreement, and Peters.
Still, Jameson pressed on, meeting with social services, gathering paperwork. The staff there were helpfuleven encouragingthe possibility of arranging a proper meeting.
He said nothing to Sonia. But told his father-in-law and Lisa. Lisa, bright and practical, was pleasedshed liked Peter and promised to help persuade Sonia.
But Sonia would cry if anyone mentioned Peter.
He cant replace Simon! Dont you see that?
No ones saying that, Jameson murmured. Hes a lonely orphan, and now were alone, too. Hes not Simonwe know that. But if youd heard him, how he spoke to Simon, how much he wished for him to wake up He comforted me, as an adult. He made me feelreassured, somehow. Lets just meet him. Please?
Dont push me
It was a first stepthe start of a thaw.
When they finally brought Peter to meet them in the home office, he was a tense wreck: eyes down, knuckles clenched white, wouldnt even take Jamesons handshake.
Tanya was there; she hung back, quietly observing. Jameson saw how hard this was for Peterso much braver in hospital than now.
All he wanted was to hug him, say, Dont worry. But he had no clue how to start. Sonia watched him, thoughtful, Tanya waited in silence. Jameson rambled about this and that, just to fill the room.
After a while, Peter was so tense, they ended the meeting early and sent him back.
So much for him being fearless.
He doesnt want to come to us, does he? Jameson worried on the drive home.
He wants it more than you think, Tanya replied. He aches for you to want himto make him worthy. Hes terrified of being found wanting. That you wont like him, that hell blow his chance. Now, he dreams only of you.
Are we really that scary? Sonia asked.
Youre the parents hes never had. He doesnt know how to be with youcant risk hope. But hes hoping all the same.
They agreed Peter would visit. He hadnt said yes, and Sonia was still unsure.
On his first visit, Peters palms were sweaty. He stared down at his cup, too afraid to eat or even glance up at the elegant kitchen. Everything felt wrong, the adults too close. He was terrified of Sonia.
When Jameson dropped his spoon, Peter flinched, muttered under his breath, Oh, brilliant.
Jameson caught on quickly. Brilliant, indeed! Butterfingers me. Why arent you eating? Come on, try some potatoes.
Peter forced a bite, but just chewed, sorry and silent.
Relax, mate.
Peter, shall I show you Simons room? Sonia finally offered.
Peters eyes lit up at once.
He stepped into Simons room, and there was a big, cheerful photo of Simon, much livelier than he ever seemed in hospital.
Oh! Hello, Simon! Peter smiled, touching the frame. Hes a bit chubbier here.
Yes, he wasnt always so thin. Only later just before Sonia still couldnt bear to say died.
Before he died, yes? Peter asked openly, hand on the frame. Can you show me how he lived here?
Sonia brought out an album. I cantcan you look alone? Its still hard for me.
Peter perched on the settee, leafing through. Sonia drifted to the window.
Is that him? Little onethere?
Sonia couldnt help herself, came back, and sat beside Peter, looking through the album together, laughing quietly now and then.
He was daftfunnycool Peter commented, asking about each picture.
Suddenly he spotted a beach photo. Oh, the seaside! He mentioned you went to the seaside.
Sonias eyes glistened. He said so? He hadnt spoken in ages, Peter
Peter glanced away, realising hed embroidered it too much. But stubbornly he replied, He told me.
She let it pass.
Sitting side by side, looking at Simons life, Sonia felt a quiet peace. The pain lessenedthe fear receded.
She drew a breath: Peter, if we wanted to adopt you, would you want that?
He tensed, flicking through the album for a few moments.
Im not sure. Simon was special. Im not. I dont know how, really
Without thinking, Sonia hugged him tight.
Thats fine. Were not looking for another Simon. Wed welcome you, just as you are. As his friend.
For a split second, Peter stiffenedaside from fights, no one had hugged him for years. The scent and warmth of a womans arms made his eyes smart.
He kept going through the album, gripping it, but Sonia wouldnt let go, rocking him softly.
Peter had never cried. Not ever.
Now his throat caught, and tears welled. He sniffed, then sobbed.
Are you crying, Peter? Oh, darling, so am I. Dont, pleasebe strong! Youre a manyou must be strong! She wiped his tears.
He had heard those words before.
The window in the room stood slightly open. The air was clean and fresh, curtains ballooning, green leaves dancing outdoors. Simons photo seemed to smile benevolently down.
And Peter, all at once a little child again, asked,
By any chance, do you know a songit goes something like, Little cat, little tail, hush now, hush?
Sonia smiled gently. I think I know the one. A lullaby, isnt it? Shall I learn it for you?
Peter sniffed, nodded. For now, that was all he wished forThat night, Peter lay in Simons bedjust for one night, Sonia promisedwrapped in fresh sheets still scented faintly with sea air, as if the beach holiday in the photo lingered in every thread. Outside, the trees murmured, the house softly settling around him. In the stillness, Sonia stood at the doorway, the words of the lullaby awkward on her tongue, but she sang anywayher voice trembling, uncertain at first, then gathering strength, comforting both herself and Peter.
Little grey cat, sleepy head,
Hush now, hush, lay down your head
Jameson listened from the hall, eyes closed, arms folded, letting the last notes wind through the house like a gentle promise.
By morning, Peter woke to the hush of rain tapping the window, the soft clatter of someone making breakfast downstairs. He perched on the edge of the bed, Simons photo smiling at him, and realized the ache in his chest had lessenednot gone, but changed. He padded to the kitchen in his overlong borrowed pajamas, almost tripping over the cuffs.
Sonia glanced up as he appeared. Hungry?
He nodded. She set down a mug of tea, glanced at him, and smiled.
Peter breathed in the unfamiliar scent of toast, jam, milky teaand something else. Belonging, maybe. Loss lingered, but in this house, memory and hope crowded togetherSimons laughter still echoed, but it wasnt lonely anymore.
He carried his mug to the windowsill, watched raindrops race down the glass. Jameson entered quietly, dropped a hand on Peters shoulder, sincere and steady.
Well learn together, Peter, he said.
Peter stared at the green outside, heart thumping with possibility.
He didnt replynot yet. But this time, when Sonia began to hum in the kitchen, Peter hummed along, soft and off-key, feeling the tune lift him, carry him somewhere new. And, for the very first time, he let himself hopereally hopethat maybe he wouldnt have to be brave all on his own anymore.
