Charlie sits in his wheelchair, staring through the dusty panes of the hospital window. Unfortunately, his room looks onto the inner courtyard of the ward, where a oncelovely garden with benches and flowerbeds lies empty, almost devoid of people. Winter has settled in, and patients rarely venture out for a walk. Charlie is alone. A week ago his neighbour, Jack Turner, was discharged, and ever since the ward feels hollow. Jack is a chatty, cheerful bloke who knows a million stories and tells them with the flair of a seasoned actorhes actually studying drama in his third year. Their friendship makes any boredom impossible. Every day Jacks mum brings fresh pastries, fruit and sweets, which Jack generously shares with Charlie. With Jack gone, the homely warmth of the ward evaporates, and Charlie feels more isolated and unnecessary than ever.
His gloomy thoughts are interrupted by a nurses entry. He sighs deeper when he sees who is about to give his injection: not the pretty young Emily he hoped for, but the perpetually sour, alwayscomplaining senior nurse, Martha Whitfield. In the two months hes been in this hospital, Martha never smiles, and her voice matches her scowlsharp, gruff, unmistakably harsh.
Alright, whats the matter, Connor? Back to the bed! she barks, brandishing a syringe already filled with medicine.
Charlie exhales in disappointment, swivels his chair, and wheels himself to the bed. Martha swiftly helps him lie down and then flips him onto his stomach.
Off with your trousers, she orders. He obeys, feeling nothing as the needle pierces his skin. Marthas technique is flawless, and Charlie silently thanks her for the skill.
He wonders about her age. She must be retired by now, on a tiny pension, so she has to keep workingthats why shes so cross.
Martha slides a fine needle into his faintly blue vein, and he winces just a little.
All done, Connor. Did the doctor stop by today? she asks, already reaching for her bag.
No, not yet. Maybe later he mutters.
Dont sit by the window eithercold drafts will make you feel as dead as a fish, she says before heading out.
Though he wants to be angry, a grudging gratitude flickers beneath her harsh words; there is a strange, if rough, care there.
Charlie is an orphan. His parents perished in a fire when he was four. The blaze consumes the family cottage in his village, and his mother, in a desperate final act, throws him through a broken window into the snow just before the roof collapses. He lands in a heap of snow, the only survivor. He ends up in an orphanage; distant relatives exist but never take him in. From his mother he inherits a gentle, dreamy nature and bright green eyes; from his father he gets height, a long stride and a knack for mathematics. His memories flicker like old film strips: a village fair where his mother waves a bright flag, sitting on his fathers shoulders feeling a summer breeze, a big ginger cat named Morris. No family album survived the fire, leaving him with almost nothing but those fragments.
When he turns eighteen, the state allocates him a bright, spacious council flat on the fourth floor of a block in Manchester. He enjoys living alone, though bouts of melancholy sometimes strike him hard. Over time he adapts to solitude and even discovers its advantages. Yet the orphanage years still haunt him; seeing families at playgrounds, supermarkets, or simply walking down the street fills him with a bitter, uncheerful ache.
After school he aims for university, but his exam scores fall short, so he enrolls in a technical college. He likes the programme, but his classmates find him boringquiet, withdrawn, preferring books, scientific journals and video games over noisy socialising. The same goes for the girls; his shyness and lack of bravado make him invisible. At eighteen and a half he looks no older than sixteen, earning him the nickname the white crow in his group, though it doesnt embarrass him.
Two months ago, hurrying to a lecture on an icy pavement, he slips in an underpass and shatters both legs. The fractures are complex, healing slowly and painfully, but in the past couple of weeks they improve. He hopes for discharge, yet worries: his flat has no lift or wheelchair ramps, and the wheelchair will likely remain his main transport for a long while.
Later that afternoon, Dr. Robert Clarke, the orthopaedic surgeon, walks into the ward, examines Charlies Xrays and says, Well, Connor, good news: your fractures are finally knitting together as they should. In a couple of weeks youll be on crutches. Theres no point staying here any longer; youll move to outpatient care. Your discharge slip will be ready in about an hour. Will anyone meet you?
Charlie nods silently.
Excellent. Ill ask Martha to help you pack. Take care, Connor, and try not to end up back here, Dr. Clarke replies with a friendly wink and leaves.
Martha reenters, hands him his small backpack, and says, Pack up, love. Petrovna will be changing the sheets soon.
He stuffs his modest belongings into the bag, feeling Marthas steady gaze.
What did you tell the doctor? she asks, tilting her head.
You? Charlie looks bewildered.
Youre not fooling anyone, Connor. I know no ones coming for you. How will you get home?
Ill manage, he mutters.
You wont be walking for at least half a month. How do you plan to live?
Im not a child, he snaps back.
Martha sits on the edge of the bed, looks directly at his face, and says, With injuries like yours youll need help. You cant do it alone. Im not new to this. Im not going to argue with you like a child.
He shrugs, What does that matter to you?
She sighs, I live far out in the country, but I have a spare room and just two steps up to the porch. Im widowed, no children. When youre on your feet again, you can go back home.
Charlie freezes, stunned. The idea of staying with a stranger feels odd, yet her constant little gesturesConnor, have a meatball for lunch today, Close the window; its getting chilly, Eat some curd; its good for calciumsuddenly form a pattern of care he never expected.
Ill stay, he finally says, but I have no money. My stipend wont arrive for a while.
Martha leans forward, elbows on her knees, and says, Im not doing this for cash, love. I feel sorry for you, thats all.
She adds, Dont be offended. Lets get you into the sister ward for now; my shift ends soon and well go from there.
Marthas cottage is a tidy little house with narrow, carved windows. Inside are two snug rooms; Charlie takes one. At first he is painfully shy, rarely leaving his room and trying not to bother his host.
Stop being shy, Martha tells him, If you need anything, just ask. Teas always on the table.
He soon discovers he enjoys the cottage: snow drifting past the small panes, the crackle of logs in the fireplace, the aroma of homecooked stewall reminding him of a lost, happy childhood.
Weeks pass. The wheelchair is replaced by crutches, and the day comes to return to the city. He limps beside Martha, chatting about upcoming exams and credits.
You need to keep at your college, she urges, Your tech college wont disappear. The doctor told you to ease the load on your legs for now.
Their bond deepens, and Charlie finds himself reluctant to leave the warm cottage and the endlessly kind woman who has become a second mother to the orphan boy. He lacks the courage to admit this even to himself.
The next morning, while searching for a phone charger, he spots Martha on the doorstep, tears streaming down her cheeks. He steps forward and embraces her.
Will you stay, dear? she whispers through her sobs, What will I do without you?
He stays. Years later, at Charlies wedding, Martha sits proudly at the head of the table as the mother of the groom. A year after that, she holds his newborn granddaughter in the hospital, a baby named Lydia in her honour.
