Peter. A Story
The hospital window stood open, the glass gently pushed aside that morning by the nurse. The air smelled so sharp and cool you could taste it. Lacy curtains trembled under the soft early breeze. Fresh leaves outside shimmered, emerald against the pale sky; the suns cruel summer heat was still far away.
Peter had just had his appendix out. They said it had been a near miss, the surgery tough, but theyd managed it just in time. But Peter, he was fearless.
Afraid of needles? the nurse joked as she pressed air from a syringe with a practiced smile.
Peter only rolled onto his side in silencehe wasnt yet allowed to stand.
As if she could frighten me, he thought.
Theyd brought him in straight from the alley. It had hit him there, suddenly. He wasnt homeless, just a boy from the childrens home. He and a couple of lads had slipped out from the local market, hoping for work that paid cash-in-hand, and there, as they headed back, the pain seized him.
He regretted only that hed gotten Len and little Sam in troublethered be an uproar at the home. The deputy head, Mrs. Gordon, had already rushed over after his surgery yesterday, fluttering in false concern. Peter, foggy from the anaesthetic, remembered her face all wide-eyed and worried, though the details slipped away.
Why couldnt the pain have struck inside the childrens home? Hed almost made it back.
He blamed the apricots. The market traders had given them a crate of damaged fruit, but those apricots were sweet as honey. Theyd gorged themselves, and, well, theyd paid for it.
The door opened; the old doctor, with arms as hairy as a bears, checked Peters stitches. Wars over then, brave lad. Nothing to fear now.
I wasnt afraid.
Oh? A tough one. The doctor grew stern, No eating for you yet. No tea, no cakes, not a thing. Wait until this eveningyoull get a mug of jelly.
Peter nodded simply, out of politeness. He knewthered be no parcels of treats for him. Back at the home theyd all be angry nowangry hed run off, angry hed landed the staff in it. Theyd sneaked out through a hole in the fence and he just had to collapse on the way back!
But the doctor was right about one thing: Peter was brave. Life had given him little choice. His mother had given birth to him, perhaps by accident, perhaps out of desperation; likely, there hadnt been money for an abortion. Peter was ten, but spoke of all this with grim clarity, as all the children in care did.
He didnt blame his mother. If anything, he was quietly grateful shed had him. Shed abandoned him at birth, but stillthanks.
Hed stayed in the babies home until he was three, then theyd moved him to the childrens home in Manchester, later to one in the Midlands. For as long as he could remember, existence had been a battle.
He remembered scrawls for food in the canteen, even though this was the safe Britain of the ’80s. Cooks and management took most of the food home, everyone saw it, carts loaded into cars. And it wasnt just scraps over foodthere were fights over everything: shoes, blankets, a new sweater. Hed grown up sturdy, won scraps by strength. Broken bones, more than once. One trainee barber had nearly wept seeing the scars on his shaven head.
Why feel sorry for me? Peter never cried.
And now they thought to frighten him with a scar on his belly, or a few jabs with a needle? Amateurs.
He saw adults as cold, calculative. He wasnt a darling little child or a cherub-faced girl people could love at first sighthe was rough, a little wild, and stubborn.
Watch it, Vaughan! Mrs. Gordon, the deputy, would warn, try anything and youll be in isolation!
Hed never argued, but neither did he much submit. He had his own codes, his own rules.
There was only one grown-up he remembered fondly, a woman whose name hed forgotten, whose memory never left him. He didnt know how children remembered their mothers, speaking to them in dreams, but he spoke with this woman often, in his mind.
He was six when she started work at the old home near Manchester. Hed no idea what her job was, only remembered her gentle smile, cornflower eyes, soft hands and that scent she always had. Shed lift him on her knee and whisper in his ear:
You must be strong, Peter. You must eat well, take care of yourself, listen. It will be hard, but you must try. Promise?
Then shed sing a lullabysomething old and sweet.
Little kitten grey and meek,
Sleepy eyes and silken cheek,
Close your eyes, lie down and rest,
Let the night give you its best
Peter, grown as he liked to think himself, still hummed that simple song when things got especially bleak. Eyes closed, the melody in his head, hed remember the warmth of her hands, and it helped.
Then one day shed disappeared, leaving him only the memory of that lullaby. No one ever sang him to sleep, no one rocked him in their arms. Her name slipped from memory, though he thought of her as mumwell aware she was surely just a temporary nurse. But he liked to imagine otherwise.
The nurse now shut the window, started making up the bed across the room. It cheered Peterbeing alone was dull.
A trolley arrived with a pale, sharp-featured boy laid upon it, a drip hanging beside. The room came alive with adults. Peter, squinting from his cot, saw what he could. The boy was delicate, with a pointed nose. As the bustle faded only the nurse and a tall man in a white coat remained.
Conversations were minimal.
Hell sleep, the nurse said, straightening the blankets.
Thank you, replied the man softly.
If you need anything
I will.
The nurse left. The man sat, hunched silent, his hand twisted tight, his stare fixed on his sons sleeping face.
Later, Peters back ached from lying still so long. When the cot groaned as he turned, the man looked up. His forehead was creased, eyes shadowed with exhaustion, but his expression was kind.
Hello, he whispered, as if just noticing someone else was there.
Hello, Peter replied.
The man glanced at his boy, then shifted his stool closer to Peter.
Surgery?
Yeah. Appendix.
Good. Able to sit yet?
They wont let me.
Do you want anything?
Not allowed, not until tonight. Whats wrong with him? Peter nodded at the silent, sleeping boy.
The mans jaw tensed. Its different. Hes unwell, terribly so. Mind if I wait here? If you need anything, I can help. Otherwise, Ill step out for visitors.
Dont mind, Peter said. Not as though he had any right to protest.
The man returned to his seat, voice gentle, His names Simon. Hes eleven. And you?
Peter, ten.
Thank you, Peter, the man said, and Peter didn’t really knowfor what.
The next day, people came and went in a constant stream. Simon had his drip changed and a doctor checked on him often. His father slept in the chair by his bed, sometimes murmuring a few quiet words. But Simon merely turned his hands, head shifting slightly, eyes never opening. He seemed to be sleeping.
Family arriveda grey-haired couple, a young woman. She was Simons mother, tall and poised, nose arched, curly hair drawn back. Her face was pale, eyes raw and swollen from weeping. They guided her in, sat her down by Simons bed. She stroked his hair, whispered continuously.
Shall we move that boy? Simons father asked the doctor, indicating Peters cot, his voice tight with worry.
Yes, well arrange that, the doctor nodded, almost absent-mindedly remembering Peter, How are you now, lad? Still sore?
A bit, Peter admitted.
That night, Peter hardly slept. The stitches throbbed, the catheter was a torture, and yesterdays jelly had never arrivedif forgotten, or if it had simply been too soon to eat.
Try sitting up today. Well move you to another room, the doctor said at his next visit. Sister will remove the catheter.
Peter was desperate to be up, but the nurse fussed elsewhere. Visitors, doctors, relatives, all came and went.
Today, for the first time, Peter realised that Simon was dying. His stillness, the tension around the bed, the endless whisperingnobody laughed, nobody joked. Everyone moved like they were waiting for something grim.
In the afternoon, a young woman, Simons aunt, was left by his bedside. Peter suddenly felt awkward about the nurse removing his catheter in her presence. He tried to hint at it, but the nurse only snapped, Nobodys looking at you! Lets be quick.
She was quick, but Peter lay there a while, dazed by the sudden loss of encumbrance. He was completely naked, and had no idea what had become of his clothes. The young woman alternated her gaze between the window and Simon, rearranging his immaculate blanket, moistening his lips. Peters one regrethed forgotten to ask the nurse about his own clothes.
He sighed. No one needs you! The words rang through his head. It felt true.
An hour passed; finally, Peter resolved to sit up. He pulled the sheet over himself and sat, though the room reeled and he lay back down.
The woman looked over. Do you need a hand?
No, thanks, he mumbled, but his head spun.
Still, he tried again. Do you know where my clothes are?
She didnt know, but promised to find out.
Just keep an eye on Simon for me, yeah?
Peter, awkwardly wrapped in a sheet, tried to shuffle across the room. But his legs shook badlycrossing even a few steps was a battle.
At last someone brought him hospital clothes. Not his, but something at least.
Ill look away, dont fuss, the woman assured him.
He shuffled into the trousers. Everything was comically big. He fumbled with the waistband, tying the drawstring harda trick he knew well from the home. But bending to roll the trousers cuffs? Impossible in his state. As he stood, his feet lost in the sack-like legs, the woman crouched down.
Wait upblimey, these are far too long. Here, let me help. She carefully turned up the trouser-legs, slow and painstaking until Peter blanched.
Im going to faint
She caught him and eased him onto the chair.
Crikey. Youre not well at all. Have you eaten? Whats your name?
Peter.
Im Lizzie. Peter, do you want your mum? Maybe I should ring her.
I dont have a mum.
Oh Okay. Well, a dad, or someone
Im fine, really. Just need the loo, thats all.
He shuffled to the bathroom and peered at his pale, drawn face in the mirror. The skin around his eyes was blue, his lips chalky. His eyes burned black and alive. A carer once said his surname, Vaughan, mustve matched those eyes. They called him Rook at the home. He was proud of it.
Rinsing with icy water, he felt revived. Soon, Lizzie had arranged for him to receive the promised jelly.
Youre mobile, now you can fetch it yourself! joked a cleaner.
But Lizzie put her foot down. He almost fainted just now. Ill fetch for him. No extras, either.
Peter found lying about unbearable. He started pacing, pausing at Simons beda handsome, almost pretty boy, curly hair like his mum, but terribly thin.
Is he dying? Only children from homes could be so direct.
Lizzie flinched. We dont know. But yes. Simons very ill. So many surgeries. His parents are worn out. Im his aunt. Still, sometimes there are miracles.
Peter didnt reply, just returned to his bed. He considered Simonhow different his life, like something from the telly. Mum, dad, family, warmth; everything Peter had seen only in daydreams or on TV. But Simon was dying.
Life was unfair
He never was moved as planned. That evening, Simons father returned, the tension fresh in the room. Peter overhead their talkeven a nurse commented that, all day, Peter had not received a single visitor.
So, youre from a childrens home, Peter? Simons dad asked gently.
Yeah.
Perhaps youd prefer a different room? Its just, Simon, hes very ill.
Its all right. Can I stay?
The days blurredPeter developed a fever and at last they moved him in with the elderly men. He was lonely, but drifted back to Simons room, sitting by him when he could. No one scolded him for it.
His discharge was delayed for days.
By then, Simons fatherDavid Georgeknew nearly everything about Peter. Quietly, he asked, listened, observed. He brought Peter some clothes; Peter accepted, long used to wearing whatever was available, but hesitated, glancing at Simon.
Are these his?
Yes
What if Simon gets better?
David looked at him, eyes wide. In their family, no one spoke that worddie. They all waited for Simon to pass, though no one said it out loud. How could you, about your only child? It was too much.
Just once, his wife Sonia had cried, How can you say we did everything right when hes dying anyway? Why should that ever make it less bitter?
When someone you love dies, even your body seems to give up. Sonia was wasting away. Medication dulled her, but couldnt truly soothe.
What if Simon gets better? Peter repeated.
David wanted to answer honestlyfor himself as much as for the boy.
He wont, Peter, his voice broke. Hes dying.
Does it hurtdying? Peter clutched the borrowed shirt, watching David, his black eyes narrowed in worried concentration.
David saw the boy understoodit frightened him. This orphan, this stranger, cared so deeply. Hed sat by Simon for days, listening to the doctors, hearing everything. He must be so afraid.
Its not painful. Were making sure it isnt. Its much like falling asleep.
But he moves.
We talk to him, hoping he can hear. But we dont know.
The family kept vigil by Simons bedside. One evening, David left Peter with Simon for a few moments. Returning, he stood at the door, unseen.
Peter, quietly holding Simons hand, was speaking.
and I never knew my mum. Maybe shes gone now, I dont blame her. If she showed up, Id forgive her, honest. Dont believe me? Up to you But you, you mustnt die. See how your mum grieves? And your dadhe cares, you know. If Id had a dad like yours, Id have fought. Ill return you these clothes, promise. Wont stain them here, will I? Ive had more than enough shirts already. Just live, Simon, please. Try as hard as you can.
Davids throat tightened; he could hardly breathe. Peter jumped when he realised David was watching.
He hears you, I swear. His hand, he squeezed my handhe really did.
I believe you, Peter. I do.
Davids world shrank to waitingtheir bright and gifted Simon, their hope, was fading. His condition had been diagnosed when he was eight, first muscular atrophy, then the organs, one after the other. Manchester. London. Hed lived to eleven thanks to the best treatment they could find. Simon learned to accept his illness, never complained.
The weight fell hardest on Soniashe spent every night beside Simons bed, pleading with doctors, praying in cathedrals. David was there, but as a husband, he told himself he had to be stronger.
Her strength collapsed when Simons fate was clear. Medication smothered her grief.
David clung to those quiet talksthe orphan boys voice beside his dying son gave him peace in a room otherwise defined by death.
He lingered behind, listening as Peter said,
you know, once this brute at the home, Graham, broke my arm. Everything went black. You think I cried? Never. When I came to, the arm was bent right out, and Graham stared, waiting for me to bawl like a baby. I stood up, dusted off. I said, Go on, then, finish the job. Sick inside, but I didnt cry. Not to give him the satisfaction.
Peter flexed his wrist before Simon. It healed, see? So will youcome on, mate, wake up.
Simon slipped away in the night. Peter didnt notice at first. He awoke, had his breakfast, then poked his head into the next room, searching for Simon.
A new patient was unpacking his things.
Wheres he gone? Peter nodded at the freshly made bed.
No idea, mate. Just got here, replied the man.
Peter ran to the nurses stationempty. He dashed to the staff room, found a junior doctor and blurted out, Wheres Simon? Has he been taken away? Where?
The doctors brow furrowed. Simon A pause. He was very unwell
Has he died? Peter cut across.
The doctor nodded. Sometimes it happens.
Peter backed away, anger burning in his chest. The whole hospital, useless! All those doctors, they hadnt kept his friend alive. Nothing at all.
He kicked over a mop bucket in the hall. Water ran everywhere. The cleaner wailed. Doctors and nurses converged, scolding, as Peter retreated into the empty room and slammed the door. He sat on his bed, hands over his ears.
A whole hospital could do nothing. Nothing! His friend was gone. His only friendall despite being unconsciousgone. Peter had poured his whole story out to Simon: about his mother, the singing woman, the fights and pains.
Once, still in that hospital room, Peter dreamt Simon himself sat up, smiling sadly. Peter rushed to hug him. But Simon only asked him gently to let him sit quietly. In a voice so soft and delicate, Simon began to tell his own storyabout holidays by the sea, a grandfather who was a general, family, school, everything Peter imagined a life could be.
Peter always pictured family life this way, all beds in one room, each with a locker, fish on Thursdays, tea ladled out by mums.
Sometimes the fantasy was so peculiar it bordered on funny. But Peter had never known real familyonly saw them on telly.
Strangely, after Simon died, David almost felt relief. Not from lack of lovefor Gods sake, he adored his son! But Simon had long since ceased to live fully. Coma was no life. The pain was over now.
He had to accept it, help Sonia accept it, and carry on.
Peter hovered in his mind more and more. Now was not the time for talk of adoptionSonia wouldnt understand. Nobody could take Simons place. His portrait stood draped with flowers in their lounge. Sonia sat before it for hours, burning candles, visiting the church, tending the grave daily. Shed had an ectopic pregnancy years beforeno more children would come.
Peter would have no parents, ever.
David knew Peter was nothing like Simonawkward, blunt, dark-eyed. But hed heard what the boy said; his heart was good.
Sonia, I went to the hospital today. Peters been discharged. They kept him as long as they dared.
Why? Why did you go? Sonia stared.
Just to collect Simons papers. Oh, and they said Peter threw a fitwhen he found Simon was gone. Raised holy hell.
Poor daft thing, sighed Sonia.
Aye, daft, David agreed.
Dont worry about me. Im coming to terms. Do your work, Dave.
All right.
But please, no talk of boys, not yet.
David nodded. But at the weekend, something pulled him toward Peters childrens home. He needed to see him again. But they blocked his wayfull of suspicion, firing questions. The manageress regarded him frostily, resistant to meetings, no matter the explanation.
But it only made him more stubborn. He recalled his old school friend, Tessa Lee, now working in family support. He found her quickly, spent an afternoon visiting, explained everything. Tessa understood, offered sympathy, promised to make inquiries, but insistedSonias blessing and Peters agreement were essential. Without both there could be nothing.
Still, David went to the council office, collected the forms for fostering and adoption. The social workers surprised himthey were open, kind, promised to arrange a meeting.
He didnt share any of this with Sonia. But he told his father-in-law and Lizzie. Lizzie was positiveshed met Peter in hospital and liked him. Both promised to help gently approach Sonia.
Sonia wept anytime Peter was mentioned.
He cant replace Simon. Cant you see? shed despair.
No one can replace him, love. But Peters an orphan, and suddenly, so are we. He isnt Simon. But if only youd heard how he spoke to Simon, how much he cared. He gave me, a grown man, peace. Lets just meet him. Please.
Dont bully me.
Her first little concession.
The first meeting, in the childrens home heads office, Peter was painfully tense. He wouldnt meet anyones eye, hands locked white. He didnt shake Davids outstretched hand.
Tessa accompanied them but didnt intervene, keeping busy with some paperwork. David tried to engage, feeling Peters nerves, hoping he could ease the boys fearhed been so different in hospital.
He longed to comfort Peter, to tell him not to worry. But he didnt know how to reach out. Sonia watched the boy with quiet, attentive sadness; Tessa made notes. David chatted about trivialities, filling silence.
Peter was so anxious that he left ahead of his allotted time.
So much for being fearless!
He gets it all, and hes not so sure, David mourned as they left.
Youre wrong, Tessa replied, Hes hoping youll take him. Desperately. But he’s terrified hell somehow fail.
Are we so frightening? Sonia wondered.
Youre proper parents, the kind hes never had. He doesnt know how its supposed to work, but now, youre all he dreams about, Tessa assured them.
They agreed to invite Peter for tea. He hadnt quite accepted, and Sonia was still full of doubt.
David picked him up, brought him to their home. Peter sat stiffly at the table, palms sweating, eyes locked to his cup, afraid to eat a thing or even to look around the elegant kitchen. Everything felt too close, as if these strangers pressed in on him.
Worst, he feared Sonia, desperately.
When David dropped a spoon, Peter started hard, muttered, Oh, bloody hell.
David burst out laughing. Bloody right! Clumsy sod, arent I? Come on, Peter, eat uptry the potatoes, go on.
Peter nibbled a piecechewing awkwardly, eyes down.
All right, mate? David tried to ease him.
Sonia saved them both, Peter, would you like to see Simons room?
Peters eyes sparked with lifehe nodded.
In Simons room, the first thing he saw was a large photo of his friendsmiling, lively, not at all like in hospital. Just seeing that made him braver. It was as if Simon was saying, Its all right, Im here.
Hey, Simon! Hi! Peter hurried over, touched the frame, He looked bigger here.
He was healthy, at times. It got bad at the end Sonias voice failed on the word died.
Just before he died, right? Peter said, openly, stroking the frame. Will you show me how he lived?
Sonia searched for meaning, then went for the photo albums.
I cant look just now,” she admitted, voice quavering. “You have a look.
Peter perched on the sofa, flipping pages. Sonia lingered, then sat beside him; together, they browsed the memories shed thought would always be too painful. Peter asked, commenting
So funny cool brilliant
He was curious about everything.
Then, holding a beach photo, he gasped, Sea! Simon told me you all went to the sea once.
Sonia shook her head, puzzled.
He told you? He wasnt able to speak near the end, Peter
He talked to me, Peter said, stubborn but gentle.
Sonia didnt challenge him. As they looked through photos, her grief grew lighter. Being with this innocent boy made it easier to accept Simon was gone.
She took a deep breath, decided, Peter, if we wanted to adopt you would you agree?
Peter froze, staring at the album. I dont know. Simon was good. Im not. I dont know how to I
Sonia, unable to wait any longer, drew him into her arms.
Thats all right. Were not asking for a replacement for Simon. Wed just like to have you, as his friend.
Peter stiffened at firstthe only touch hed known for years had been fists. He smelt her scent, felt her warmth. It was almost too much.
He kept turning the album, hands tight, not seeing. She rocked him now, thinking.
Peter had never cried. Not once.
Now tears came, a strangled sound rising in his throat. He wept.
Are you crying, Peter? Oh, love, dont, or I will, too. Come on, youre a boy, big and strongyou must be strong. She wiped away his tears.
Hed heard those words before.
The window stood open. Pure air swelled the curtain. Fresh leaves shivered outside, and from the photo, Simons gentle smile blessed the room.
And Peter, small again, whispered, Do you know a song that goes, Kitten soft and grey and meek, sleepy eyes and silken cheek?
Sonia smiled. Yes, thats a lullaby, I think. Would you like me to learn it for you?
He sniffed and nodded. He wanted for nothing more.
