Peter. A Story
The hospital window is propped open, letting in the fresh morning air that the nurse let in earlier. The curtains flutter, the lush green outside soothes his eyes, and its still a good while before the heat of summer settles in.
Peters had his appendix out. Apparently the operation was tricky, they had barely made it in time, but Peter faces it all with a straight back.
“Not afraid of needles, are you?” the nurse smiles, squeezing out air from the syringe with a little whistle.
Peter just turns on his side, not allowed up yet.
Trying to scare me with that…
They brought him in from an alleyway, thats where he was struck down. Not a runaway, not really. Hes grown up in the childrens home. He and the lads had just come from the market where theyd tried to earn a bit under the table. Then, suddenly, he was doubled over.
He only regrets drawing in Len and little Sam the home will be in chaos now. Yesterday, just after surgery, Mrs Chandler the deputy head came running. She put on a show of being concerned. Peter, still groggy from the anaesthetic, only remembers her worried face swimming above him, but the rest is a blur.
If only the pain had struck closer to home. Hed have made it. But fate decided otherwise…
He blames the apricots. Some friendly trader handed them a crate of “spoiled” apricots at the market only they werent spoiled at all, sweet as honey. The boys dug in couldnt help themselves.
“Well, young man! How are you feeling?” asks the elderly doctor with hairy arms, checking the wound. “Worst is over now. Nothing to fear.”
“I wasnt frightened.”
“Oho! A brave lad, yes?” The doctors voice drops. “Still, youre not eating anything just yet. No treats allowed! Bit of patience. Youll have some jelly this evening.”
Peter nods to be polite. He knows theres no one to bring him sweets anyway. The childrens home is probably seething with annoyance right now hes caused trouble, shamed the staff. Theyd snuck out through a gap in the fence, and on the way back, he keels over…
As for bravery, the doctors right. Life has made Peter fearless. His mother had him by accident, probably couldnt afford to end the pregnancy. Hes ten, but he speaks of it without a hint of self-pity just like all the other care kids.
He feels no bitterness. On the contrary, hes grateful she gave birth to him, even if she signed him away at once.
He spent his first three years in a baby home, then moved to a childrens home in Norwich, then up near Manchester. As far as he remembers, its been a fight to survive.
He remembers scrapping over food in the dining hall. Back then, even if it was peacetime, the staff and cooks openly pinched most of the food for themselves. Theyd take it home, take it off in the boot of their cars.
And fights werent just over food. It was for anything. Peter grew up sturdy. He could brawl. Broken bones a couple of times. The hairdresser who shaved their heads wept, looking at his head ringed with scars.
Whats the point of crying? Peter never cried.
And now they want to scare him with a scar on his belly or needles…
How funny!
Hes learned to regard adults as cold and calculating. He isnt a cute tot or a pretty girl anyone could love; hes blunt, rough around the edges, stubborn.
“Watch yourself, Watson! If you try something, Ill send you to the isolation ward!” Mrs Chandler threatens often enough.
He never argues, but hes stopped obeying long ago. He has his own rules.
Theres only been one adult he remembers fondly. He doesnt know how other children remember their mothers, having little imagined conversations with them, but her this woman who was there for just a while he revisits in his thoughts all the time.
He was about six when she arrived to work at his previous home, near Norwich. He doesnt know what her role was. He remembers her gentle smile, her clear blue eyes, the warmth of her hands, and her scent. He remembers her sitting him on her lap and whispering into his ear:
“You need to be strong, darling Peter. Eat well. Look after yourself. Listen to the grown-ups. It will be hard sometimes, but youll get through. Just do your very best, all right?”
Then shed hum a song.
“Little kitten, little grey-tail kitten,
Hush now, hush now.
Grey little tail, snowy paws like white cotton,
Hush now, hush now.
Snowy little paws, tiny dark ears showing,
Hush now, hush now…”
And even now, though Peter fancies himself grown up, that simple little lullaby comes back in the worst moments. He closes his eyes, hums it to himself, remembers her hands, and somehow he feels better.
The woman vanished, faded away into memory, leaving a song and something kind behind. No one has sung lullabies to him since, nor rocked him. Hes even forgotten her name and calls her “Mum” in his head, knowing she was probably just a temp. But he cherishes the fantasy.
The nurse closes the window, starts making the bed opposite. Peter feels glad its dull being alone.
Soon, a trolley wheels in another patient, trailed by a cluster of doctors in white coats. Theres hurried activity. From his bed, Peter cant really see, but just catches a glimpse: a thin, sharp-faced boy hooked up to a drip. In the end, only the nurse and a man, jacket beneath a white coat, remain.
No one speaks much, just scattered words.
“Hell sleep,” says the nurse.
“All right. Thank you.”
“If anything call me…”
“Right.”
She leaves, and the man sits with his back to Peter, hunched, head lowered, utterly still. The boy sleeps.
Its warm in the ward, but the man wont even take off his jacket. Peter wonders if hes fallen asleep too.
Peters back aches, so he shifts, and his bed gives a small squeak. The man glances round. Deep lines between his brows, bags beneath his eyes. But his gaze is gentle.
“Hello,” he murmurs, almost surprised hes not alone.
“Hello,” Peter replies.
The man becomes more alert, checks his son, then quietly lifts a chair, slides it next to Peter.
“Surgery?”
“Yeah, appendix,” Peter says.
“Thats good. Not up yet, though?”
“Not yet.”
“Is there anything you need?”
“Im not allowed anything yet. Until evening, no food. Whats wrong with him?” Peter nods at the boy.
“Him?” The man looks round, concern deepening. “Different illness. Mind if I stay here for a bit? Ill help if you need anything. If anyone comes for you, Ill leave.”
“Dont mind,” Peter shakes his head. What right does he have to object?
The man moves the chair and quietly says, “His names Simon. Hes eleven. You are?”
“Peter, Im ten.”
“Thank you, Peter,” the man says, and for a moment Peter cant fathom why.
Next day, the ward teems with people. In the morning, Simon has more drips; the doctor comes and goes. Simons father stays overnight on the other bed, sometimes speaking softly to his son. Simon stretches or stirs but never opens his eyes it seems as though hes sleeping on.
Later, an older couple arrives with a tall young woman, Simons mum. Shes pale, eyes red-rimmed and swollen. Her family brings her in and sits with her by the bed, where she murmurs gentle things and strokes Simon endlessly.
“Perhaps you can move Peter?” Simons father asks the doctor, anxiously glancing at his wife.
“Yes, well move him today.”
The doctor seems to recall Peter only now, comes over.
“So, how are you, mate? Hurting much?”
“A bit.”
Last night Peter barely slept; the wound aches, moving is scary, even the old catheter is a nuisance. He still hasnt been fed. Maybe they forgot, maybe he isnt quite ready.
“Up we get, gently does it. You can try standing today. Well move you next door. Come on, mate, stretch a bit. Nurse will sort the catheter.”
Peters desperate to stand, but the nurse takes ages to arrive. People pop in and out.
Thats when Peter starts to realise Simon is dying. He hasnt woken, and the atmosphere is thick with quiet words and tense, helpless faces.
A young woman Simons aunt, it turns out is left in charge near the bed. Peter feels awkward around her. When the nurse removes his catheter, Peter hints hes embarrassed in front of her, but the nurse snips, “No ones bothered about you Im quick, just dont fuss!”
True, the procedure is quick, but Peter lingers, suddenly feeling his freedom, lying there naked with no idea where his clothes are. The woman watches Simon, adjusting his blanket, dabbing his lips with water. Peter just wishes hed remembered to ask about his clothes.
“No ones bothered about you.” It rings true.
Still, after a while he tries to sit up, dragging the blanket round him.
“You need a hand?” the woman asks.
“No,” but Peters head spins, and he collapses back down.
Minutes later, he tries again.
“Do you know where my clothes went?” he asks.
She doesnt know but says shell find out.
“Just keep an eye on Simon, will you?”
Peter tries to get up, wrapped in the blanket, but hes unsteady on his feet and scared to leave his bed. Hed never expected it would be so hard just to cross the ward.
Eventually someone brings in hospital-issue clothes. Not his, of course.
“Ill turn round, dont worry,” the woman says.
He sits, pulls on huge, baggy trousers, finds and pulls in the drawstring as best he can. Rolling up the legs is a struggle, and Peter cant lean forward yet. When he finally shuffles forward, tripping over the hems, the woman notices.
“Wait! Goodness, they’re huge. Here, Ill roll them up.” She crouches in front of him, fussing so gently and for so long that Peter suddenly feels queasy.
“Im going to fall…”
“Hey, steady,” she helps him onto a chair. “Blimey. Youre still poorly. Had anything to eat? And what do they call you?”
“Peter.”
“Im Lisa. Peter, you ought to have your mum nearby just in case… or maybe your home doesnt have a phone?”
“No mum.”
“Oh… well, dad, then? Or… who do you live with?”
“Its all right. Im better, really. I need the loo.”
He makes it to the bathroom, glances in the mirror. Bleak black shadows under his eyes, lips gone pale. But his eyes are flaming dark. One carer once told him his surname “Watson” probably came from his eyes black as a ravens wing. That was his nickname, Raven. He likes it.
Cold water wakes him up. Lisa must have pulled a few strings next thing, someone brings him jelly.
“If youre walking now, come to the dining hall yourself.”
“Where?”
“Right, then right up the stairs or just follow the smell,” jokes the cleaner.
“He nearly fainted just before! He cant go anywhere. Ill bring him his jelly myself,” Lisa protests. “Nothing but jelly for now.”
Peters too restless to lie still. He paces the ward, takes in Simon a pretty thing, almost girlish, lots of curly hair like his mum, but wretchedly thin.
“Is he dying?” Only care home kids can be so blunt.
Lisa shudders.
“We dont know. But yes, Simon is very ill. Four surgeries… the last, on his gut. His parents have been through so much now Im involved as well. Im his aunt, his fathers sister. But miracles happen sometimes, right?”
“I dont know,” Peter sits on his bed.
He thinks about Simon. Simons had another kind of life, like from the telly. Mum, dad, grandparents, lots of family, everything a boy could wish for. Yet here he is, dying.
Unlucky
Peter is left in this ward longer than expected. Come evening, Simons dad returns, nurses bustle. Peter overhears them talking: not a souls come to check on Peter all day.
“Peter, the doctor said youre from the childrens home, arent you?” Simons father asks.
“Yeah.”
“Maybe youd like to move to a different ward? Simons in a bad way…” he sighs.
“No, its fine here. Can I stay?”
The next few days merge together. Peter runs a temperature and is moved to another ward, this time with only old men. Hes monumentally bored, so he pops back to Simons bedside often. No one stops him.
His discharge is postponed because of the fever.
In that time, Simons dad whose name is David Thomas learns everything about Peter, piecing it all together, quietly asking questions, overhearing, picking up hints. He brings him clothes. Peter, used to hand-me-downs, is happy for them but looks over at Simon.
“Theyre his, arent they?”
“His…”
“And if he doesnt die after all?”
David looks at him, startled. In their family, no one has said “die” out loud. Everyones waiting, but not daring to say it. How do you voice that about an only child?
Once, only once, Sonya had cried out: after he told her theyd done everything right, all they could.
“Why! Why have we done everything, but hes still dying? Hows that any comfort?!”
When someone you love starts to fade out of life, the body gives up too. Sonya, his wife, is giving way. She doesnt want to live without Simon, needs sedatives not that they help.
“And if he doesnt die after all?” Peter asks again.
David feels a strange need to be honest, not just for Peter, but for himself.
“Im sorry, but he cant survive. Hes dying, Peter.” He has to force the words out.
“Does it hurt dying?” Peter hugs Simons shirt, looking at him with crumpled brows.
David sees his understanding, his sympathy. After a few days of overhearing doctors, of sitting nearby, Peter gets it. And its so much to ask of a child, especially an orphan.
“Faster than falling asleep. Were doing everything so he doesnt hurt. Thats why were here.”
“But he moves.”
“Thats why we talk to him. Hoping he can hear. But honestly, we just dont know.”
Theres nearly always someone sitting with Simon. One evening, David nips out and leaves Peter by the bed. When he returns, he finds Peter holding Simons hand, gently talking.
“…and I dont know where my mum is. Maybe shes not alive anymore. But she left me and thats that, Im not angry. If she came back Id forgive her, honest. And you, you cant die, all right? Your mums so sad. And your dad Id give anything for a dad like that. And these clothes, Ill give them back, I wont get them dirty. Ive got loads like it. Just dont die, stay strong. Try try as hard as you can”
David clears his throat theres a sharp lump in it. Peter jumps up.
“He hears, you know. He gave my hand a squeeze. I swear dont you believe me?”
“I do, Peter, I do. I think he can hear.”
The Thomas family wait for the end. Simon their bright, beautiful hope is dying. They first noticed something wrong with his muscles when he was eight. From then, it was a parade: heart, lungs, intestines endless treatments both in Liverpool and up in Manchester, the very best consultants. He made it to eleven. Simon never complained, never whined, just accepted his fate.
All the strain falls on Sonya. Shes sat with Simon night after night, through wards, waiting rooms, surgeries, even prayers in empty church pews. David is there, but hes the man; he’s supposed to be strong.
Shes only used up all her strength since Simon started slipping away for good, needing injections to get through the days.
“Keep talking to him, Peter. Please. I think he likes it.”
David comes to look forward to Peters stories. Standing in the corridor, he eavesdrops, holding each precious minute by the bedside.
“…This one time, this big lad Scarface, we call him snapped my arm, and I went black all over, you know? Didnt last, though. I just woke up, looked at it, it was bent here right here. He was watching, wanting me to scream. But I just stood, dusted myself down, held out my arm and said, Go on then, break the other bit. Felt sick as anything, but I wasnt going to cry. Not to give him the satisfaction. He ran to the nurse, sobbing himself. Idiot.
See? My arm healed good as new. Youll be fine too. A broken arms not so bad as your stuff. So come on, mate, get better, yeah?”
Simon dies during the night. Peter doesnt notice, and no one tells him. He goes for breakfast with the others, then peeks into the old ward.
A young man, a new patient, is arranging his things on the bed Peter had before.
“Where?” Peter nods at Simons old, now-tidy bed.
“I dont know. No one was here when I arrived,” the new lad says.
Peter dashes to the nurses station no ones about. He bursts into the doctors lounge, spots another doctor.
“Simon! Where is he? Did they take him? Where?”
“Simon?” The young doctor frowns. “Ah you see. He was very ill…”
“Hes dead?” Peter blurts.
The doctor nods.
“Im sorry. It happens.”
Peter backs towards the door, seething with fury at the hospital, at doctors, at everyone.
Rotters! They didnt save him!
How else can he show his anger?
In the corridor, a cleaner mops the floor Peter boots the bucket, water spilling everywhere. The cleaner screams, doctors run out, the nurse appears. Everyone scolds and shouts at him, but Peter just kicks open the ward door, sits on his bed and claps his hands over his ears.
A whole hospital a big one! So many doctors and nurses, and they couldnt do anything to keep his friend alive. Nothing!
Why did Simon who, for all their short friendship, never even woke up become Peters best mate? He doesnt know. But he did. Peter told him everything: his mum, the lady who sang him to sleep, all the fights, the broken bones…
One night, still in the old ward, Peter dreams that Simon sits up, gives him a small, sad smile. In the dream, Peter rushes to help him, but Simon asks him just to let him sit a while. In a thin, childlike voice, Simon tells him bits about his life.
Peter doesnt remember the details, but he knows they talked. Then Simon looks at the window, stands up, starts to climb the ledge. In the dream, Peters terrified hell fall, and wakes up with a jolt.
Out the window, black branches wave, the moon shines bright. Simon tosses and flails, his tired father dozes.
Then Peter, very quietly, sits on Simons bed and takes his fragile hand. He softly sings the only lullaby he knew:
“Little kitten, little grey-tail kitten,
Hush now, hush now.
Grey little tail, snowy paws like white cotton,
Hush now, hush now.
Snowy little paws, tiny dark ears showing,
Hush now, hush now…”
From then on, Peter talks to Simon in his mind. Simon tells him about his life: family trips to the seaside, a proper granddad whos a general, everything a boy dreams of, a mum who wakes him in the mornings.
Peters ideas of family life are pure guesswork, copied from Saturday night telly. He imagines every family has a dormitory each person with a single bed in a row, own locker in the hall, everyone together for fish on Thursdays. Mum doles out tea with a ladle.
***
Strangely, when Simon dies, David feels relief. Not because he loved his son any less, or was a bad dad. But Simon wasnt living anymore the endless coma, the pain, and suffering. Hes at peace.
Now, David must accept whats happened, help his wife do the same, find a way to live on.
He cant stop thinking about Peter.
Theres no talk of adoption yet wrong time. Sonya wouldnt understand. No one can replace Simon. His portrait sits in a sea of flowers on their mantelpiece; Sonya keeps vigil, lights candles, visits the cemetery daily. Eight years ago, she had to have an emergency operation; theyll have no more children.
But Peter has never known family…
Hes different, of course rough, blunt, dark-eyed. But David has heard him the boys got a good heart beneath it all.
“Son, I went to the hospital today. Peters been discharged at last.”
“Why? Why did you go back?” Sonyas eyes widen.
“Me? Oh I had to collect Simons medical forms. Thats all.” David shrugs, then half-smiles, remembering. “Peter apparently caused a scene when he learned Simon was gone, threw a proper tantrum, had a go at everyone.”
“Daft thing,” Sonya sighs.
“Yeah,” David agrees.
“Dont worry about me, David. Im getting there, bit by bit. Stay busy.”
“I will.”
“And please, dont mention any boys, all right? Not now.”
David never mentions Peter again. But the idea settles and wont budge. At the weekend, he goes to Peters care home. Hes stalled at every turn, grilled by the head teacher, eyed with suspicion. No matter how much he insists, its “just a talk,” they wont let him see Peter.
Its frustrating, but he gets fired up. He rings his old schoolmate, Jane Barton, who now works in social services supporting adopters.
He finds her address quickly, pops by the next day. They chat for ages. Jane understands, offers sympathy, promises to learn all about Peter and says the most important thing is Sonyas agreement and that Peter must want it himself. Without that, theres no point.
Yet, David trudges to the council and gets an application pack for fostering or adoption. The staff are surprisingly helpful and kind, and promise to help arrange a meeting with Peter.
He tells all this to Jane, to his father-in-law and his sister-in-law, Lisa. Lisas enthusiastic she likes Peter. Theyll talk to Sonya too.
But the second Peters name is mentioned, Sonya cries.
“Hell never replace Simon. Dont you understand?”
“No ones trying to,” David says softly. “Hes his own person, a care home kid nothing like Simon. We cant replace our son. But oh, if youd heard him speak to Simon! How desperately he wanted him to wake up. The boy gave me a grown man hope and calm. Its hard to explain… Lets just meet him. Please.”
“Just dont push me…”
Thats as much as shell give him.
When Peters brought in to meet them, in the headteachers office, he sits stiffly, staring at his lap, fingers clamped so hard theyre bone-white. He wont even shake Davids hand.
Jane sits with them, silent, busy with papers. David sees how hard it is for Peter. The boy just sits there, frozen. Hed been different in hospital.
David wants to hug him and say, “Dont worry!” But says nothing, glancing at the women for support. Sonya watches quietly, Jane just observes. So David starts rambling about the weather, anything, to fill the silence.
Poor Peter is so tense, so rattled, that they send him back to his dorm early.
So much for being fearless!
“He gets it, I think,” David sighs on the way home, “and he doesnt want to come to us. Am I right?”
“Youre wrong,” Jane says. “He wants it more than anything. Hell do his very best to fit in, but hes worried he wont be good enough.”
“Are we scary?” Sonya asks.
“Youre real parents. Hes never had that. He doesnt know how to act, doesnt want to disappoint. He dreams of you now, thats all he thinks about,” Jane assures her.
They agree Peter will visit. He hasnt agreed to stay yet, and Sonyas still unsure.
When David brings him, they sit for tea. Peters palms sweat, his eyes fixed on his cup, terrified to eat, afraid to clink china or even look up at the beautiful kitchen. Everythings so different from his guesses. He feels crowded, cornered by these kind but unfamiliar adults.
Hes especially scared of Sonya.
When David fumbles a spoon and it clatters, Peter startles, goes rigid, and mutters under his breath: “Bloody typical.”
David immediately plays along.
“Too right! Useless hands, me. Peter, mate, tuck in have some potatoes, go on!”
Peter chews one bit of potato, but feels awkward, cheeks bulging.
“Come on, relax,” David smiles.
“Peter, would you like to see Simons room?” Sonya suggests.
Peter brightens, eyes shining, and nods enthusiastically.
Going in, the first thing he sees is Simons large portrait. He looks a little different, not quite as in hospital, but still open, cheerful, a little smile. It makes him almost glad to see his friend so alive-looking. Like Simons urging him, “Come on, dont be scared, Im right here.”
“Hey, Simon! Morning mate!” Peter grins, touches the frame, glances at Sonya. “Hes a bit chunkier in this one.”
“He wasnt always so thin. That only happened… at the end,” she manages, still not at peace with saying the word “dead”.
“Before he died, yeah?” says Peter bluntly, stroking the frame. “Show me where he lived?”
Sonyas not sure what he means, but grabs the photo album.
“You know, I cant look for long yet sorry,” she says. “Look by yourself if you like.”
Peter sits, leafing through. Sonya stands quietly at the window.
“Is that him? That little one?” he asks.
Shes drawn to sit with him, and, somehow, its easier with the boy beside her. They look together baby pictures, holidays, funny snapshots…
“Silly cool brilliant boy,” Peter comments.
Hes full of questions. Then, seeing a beach photo, he exclaims:
“Look! The sea! He said you all went to the seaside together!”
Sonya shakes her head, sadly.
“He told you? Peter, he couldn’t speak by then…”
Peter, caught out, blushes, but insists, “He told me, he did!”
Sonya decides to let it lie. She studies the photos with her son, and for the first time it soothes her, brings a little comfort. She thinks that, truly, acceptance might be easier with this honest, awkward, good-hearted boy in the house.
Taking a deep breath, she suddenly asks:
“Peter, if we wanted to adopt you, would you say yes?”
Peter grows stiff, flips through the album for a few silent moments.
“I dont know. Simon was good. Me not so much. Im no good at you know”
Sonya impulsively hugs him tight.
“Thats all right. Were not bringing you in instead of Simon, just as his friend. And ours.”
Peters startled by the embrace apart from scuffles, no ones touched him in years. He feels the warmth, the quiet scent of her and to distract himself, keeps leafing the album, numb with surprise.
He never cries. Never.
But now, a ball rises in his throat, and for the first time, tears spill. He sniffs.
“Crying, darling? Are you crying? Oh dont, or youll set me off, too! Come on, youre a lad. Youve got to be strong!” She wipes his cheeks with her palm.
Hes heard those words somewhere before.
The window is open. The air is clean, the curtain swells, green leaves shimmer outside, and Simon, gentle and smiling, watches from his portrait.
And Peter, suddenly young again, asks: “Do you happen to know that song? About the kitten Little kitten, little grey-tail kitten, hush now, hush now. Grey little tail, snowy paws?”
“I think Ive heard it. Thats a lullaby, isnt it? Do you want me to learn it for you?”
Peter sniffs and nods. Theres nothing else he really wants…
***Sonya wraps an arm around his shoulders, warm and real, and Peter lets himself lean in, just a little. Outside, birds sing somewhere high in the sunlit branches, and the clouds drift by as if theres all the time in the world.
“Well learn it together,” Sonya whispers. “If you help me remember.”
Peter manages a shaky laugh, half smile, half sob.
“Ill teach you, then,” he says, voice small and hoarse.
David appears in the doorway, pausing to watch themhis wife and this frightened boysitting side by side, sharing old snapshots and new, fragile hope.
“Teas ready,” David says, softer than usual. “Apple crumble, too.”
Peter looks up, uncertain, but Sonya gives his hand a squeeze. “Come on, lets eat. You’re home nowand we always finish with pudding,” she says, ruffling his hair.
He stands and follows, blinking into the bright corridor. At the kitchen table, David pours custard, and Sonya hums the tune under her breath, fumbling for the words. Peter joins in quietly, stumbling at first, but by the time dessert is finished, the three of them are singing together, voices uncertain, yet growing strongerthreading together, note by note.
For the first time, Peter doesnt feel like an outsider peering in at someone elses life.
He belongs here.
As night falls, the house is gentle with the sounds of settling, and before sleep, Peter stands at the window, looking out at the deepening blue, remembering Simons smile. In the hush, Sonya passes by his door, pausing just long enough to whisper, “Goodnight, Peter.”
Peter climbs into clean sheets, closes his eyes, and hums the lullaby, sure now that even the smallest, stubborn hearts can find homeand that somehow, somewhere, Simon is listening with a smile.
And at last, Peter lets himself drift into dreams, not afraid, not aloneonly softly, sweetly, home.
