Conrad Bennett sits in his wheelchair, staring through the dustcovered window of his hospital room. The pane looks out onto the inner courtyard of St.Edwins Hospital, where a oncecozy garden with benches and flowerbeds now lies empty, almost deserted. Its midDecember, the streets are frosty, and patients rarely venture out for a walk. Conrad is alone in his ward. A week ago his neighbour, Jamie Tims, was discharged and sent home, and ever since the ward feels unbearably quiet. Jamie is a sociable, lively fellow who knows a thousand stories and tells them with the flair of a seasoned actor hes actually studying drama and is in his third year. When Jamie was around, the ward never felt dull. Each day his mother drops by with fresh scones, fruit, and sweets, which Jamie shares generously with Conrad. With Jamie gone, a sense of home that once filled the ward vanishes, leaving Conrad feeling more isolated than ever.
His melancholy is interrupted when a nurse steps in. Looking at her, Conrads mood worsens: the injection is not being given by the pleasant young Dasha he had hoped for, but by the perpetually sour and seemingly foreverdiscontent Mrs. Margaret Hargreaves. In the two months he has spent in the hospital, Conrad never sees her smile or hear a kind word; her voice matches her clenched expression sharp, rough, and unpleasant.
Come on, youre not getting any younger, Mr. Bennett. Lets get you back to the bed, she barks, brandishing a syringe already filled with medication.
Conrad exhales a sigh of disappointment, obeys and rolls the wheelchair to his bed. Margaret deftly helps him lie flat, then turns him onto his stomach.
Off with the trousers, she commands. Conrad complies, feeling nothing as the injection is administered with clinical precision. He silently thanks her for her skill.
He wonders, How old could she be? Probably already retired, living on a tiny pension, which must be why shes so cross.
Margaret slides the fine needle into his pale blue vein, causing only a brief wince.
All done, Mr. Bennett. Did the doctor stop by today? she asks unexpectedly, already gathering her things.
No, not yet, Conrad replies, shaking his head. Maybe later.
Dont linger by the window youll catch a draft and feel as dead as a fish, she says as she leaves.
Conrad wants to take offense, but he cant; beneath her harsh tone and bluntness he senses a strange sort of care. He is an orphan. His parents died in a fire when he was four, the blaze consuming the rural cottage they lived in. His mother, in a final act of desperation, hurled him out of a shattered window into a snowdrift just before the roof collapsed, burying the rest of the family. He survives in a childrens home, though distant relatives exist, none of them offer him shelter.
From his mother he inherits a gentle, dreamy nature and bright green eyes; from his father, height, a confident stride, and a knack for mathematics. Memories of his past flicker like fragments of film: a village fête where he waves a bright flag with his mother, sitting on his fathers shoulders feeling the warm summer breeze on his cheeks, and a large orange cat named Morris who once prowled the kitchen. Apart from these shards, nothing remains; even the family photo album perished in the fire.
When he turns eighteen, the state assigns him a spacious, bright room in a council flat on the fourth floor. He enjoys the solitude, though at times the loneliness overwhelms him. Over the years he learns to accept being alone and even finds some advantages in it, yet the orphanage years still haunt him: watching families with children in playgrounds, supermarkets, and city streets brings a bitter ache.
After leaving school, he hopes to enter university but falls short of the required grades, so he enrolls in a technical college. He enjoys his course, but relationships with his classmates are strained; his quiet, introverted nature makes him uninteresting to them, and he prefers books and scientific journals to the noisy student life and video games. Their conversations, when they happen, revolve only around coursework. The same goes for the girls: his modesty and reticence dont appeal to them, who favour more outspoken suitors. At eighteen and a half he still looks younger than sixteen, making him the odd one out in his cohort, but it doesnt seem to bother him.
Two months ago, hurrying to class on an icy pavement, he slips in an underground passage and crashes, breaking both legs. The fractures are complex, healing slowly and painfully, but in the past couple of weeks his condition improves. He hopes to be discharged soon, yet worries that his flat has no lift or any adaptations for a wheelchair, meaning he may be confined to his chair for a long time.
After lunch, Dr. Roman Abramovich, the orthopaedic surgeon, visits. He examines Conrads legs and the Xrays, then says, Well, Mr. Bennett, I have good news: your fractures are finally knitting together as they should. In a fortnight you should be on crutches. Staying here any longer is pointless; youll continue treatment as an outpatient at the clinic. In about an hour theyll bring you your discharge papers. Someone will meet you?
Conrad nods silently.
Excellent. Ill call Margaret; shell help you pack your things. Take care, and try not to end up back here, the doctor adds with a grin before leaving.
Margaret Hargreaves reenters the room. What are you doing, Mr. Bennett? Theyre about to send you out, she says, handing him a backpack stashed under the bed. Pack up; Mrs. Patel will be here to change the linens.
He stuffs his modest belongings into the bag, feeling Margarets watchful eyes on him.
You didnt tell the doctor the truth? she asks, tilting her head slightly.
What do you mean? he replies, puzzled.
Youre not fooling anyone, Mr. Bennett. I know no ones coming for you. How will you get home? she presses.
Ill manage somehow, he mutters.
Youll be unable to walk for at least another two weeks. How do you plan to live? she snaps.
Ill figure it out; Im not a child, he snaps back.
Suddenly Margaret sits on the edge of the bed, leaning close. Conrad, it may not be my business, but with injuries like yours youll need help. You cant do this alone, she says softly.
Ill manage on my own, he insists.
You wont. Ive been in this field long enough. Why are you arguing like a child? Margarets tone sharpens.
Even if thats true, why are you telling me this? he asks.
Because you could stay with me for a while. I live out of town, but my front step is only two steps down, and I have a spare room. Once youre on your feet you can go home. I live alone; my husband died years ago, and I have no children, she explains.
Conrad stares, stunned. Living with a stranger? Hes grown used to relying on no one but himself.
Why are you silent? Margaret asks, frowning.
Its awkward, he mumbles.
Stop playing the tough guy, Mr. Bennett. Its miserable living in a wheelchair in a house without a lift or ramps, she retorts in her usual blunt manner. So, youll come to my place?
He hesitates. On one hand, staying with a total stranger feels unsettling; on the other, he knows he wont be walking for months, and Margaret isnt entirely unknown. He realises that over the past months shes quietly looked after him Conrad, have a meatball for lunch, close the window, you havent had a fever, eat some curd for calcium, shed say. She is the only person willing to help.
Ill agree, but I have no money. My stipend wont arrive for a while, he says.
Margaret presses a hand to his side, looks perplexed, then, voice tinged with annoyance, replies, You think Im offering you a place for a fee? I feel sorry for you, thats all.
I just thought he begins, then stops, apologising, I didnt mean to offend you.
Im not offended. Lets get you to the nightward for now; my shift ends soon, and well go, she commands.
Mrs. Hargreaves lives in a small, tidy cottage with narrow windows framed by ornate wooden casings. Inside are two snug rooms; one becomes Conrads temporary refuge. At first he is painfully shy, rarely leaving his room and trying not to bother his host. Noticing this, the elderly nurse says plainly, Stop being shy. If you need anything, just ask Im not a guest.
In truth, Conrad likes it here: snow piled against the little windows, the cheerful crackle of the woodburning stove, the aroma of hearty homecooked meals all reminding him of the home he once knew and a distant, happy childhood.
Days pass. The wheelchair is eventually replaced by crutches. Its time to return to the city. After a routine clinic visit, Conrad, slightly limping, walks beside Margaret, sharing his plans for the coming weeks.
Ive got exams and assessments. Ive lost so much time, its a nightmare. I dont even want to think about further study, he says.
Take it easy, Margaret advises. Your college wont disappear. Start exercising now, as the doctor told you to reduce the load on your legs.
Over the weeks their bond deepens. Conrad finds himself increasingly reluctant to leave the cosy cottage and the endlessly kind woman who has become, for an orphan, a second mother. Yet he lacks the courage to admit this, even to himself.
The next morning, while rummaging for his phone charger, he looks up and sees Margaret standing on his doorway, tears streaming down her face. Compelled by an unknown impulse, he steps forward and hugs her tightly.
Will you stay, dear Conrad? she whispers through sobs. How will I manage without you
He stays. Years later, Margaret sits proudly at his wedding, taking her place at the motherstable. A year after that, she cradles her greatgranddaughter in the hospital, a baby named after her own mother, Lucy.
