The Angel Who Weighed Twenty Stone and Smelled of Cheap Coffee
In the playroom on the childrens cancer ward, a hush settled, broken only by the crinkle of paper and the scratch of marker pens. It was a delicate quietfragile as spun glass. Far too heavy with adult seriousness for children not yet ten. The task was simple: draw a Guardian Angel. The children put their hearts into it.
For Helen, a young volunteer, this day was a test. She was used to “proper” beautythe sort painted in the domes of old English cathedrals, where angels were willowy lads with golden ringlets and eyes as clear as a June sky. She wandered among the tables, quietly delighted: Jack had given his angel a gigantic sword; Lilys sported wings as plush as new wool clouds. All perfectly touching, all rather the same.
Then Helen reached Emily.
Emily was seven. Her head, bare from another round of chemo, was as smooth as a snooker ball, her skin almost see-through. Emily drew with utter precision, tongue stuck out in concentration.
Helen glanced over her shoulder, struggling not to gasp aloud.
Across Emily’s page sprawled a most peculiar figureround, solid, and massive, taking up nearly the whole sheet. No wings in sight. Instead, a tremendous belly under a white shirt, a bald head like a King Edward potato, and comically large, askew spectacles perched button-like on the nose.
Emily, darling, Helen crouched beside her, picking her words with care. Whos this? Were drawing angels, remember?
Thats an angel, Emily replied quietly but with calm conviction, never pausing the snowy shading of his belly.
Helen tried to smile, a little unsure. He does look different, love. Why no wings? Why so big?
Hes got wings, Emily insisted. He just tucks them up under his coat so they dont get messy. Gets a bit mucky here sometimes.
Helen gave a forgiving little laugh. Such vivid imagination children had.
The ward often echoed with a peculiar, laboured breathing that swelled from the corridor, rolling in like the 6:12 from Euston. Shuff, shuff. Heavy steps that seemed to make the carpet quiver.
The door to the playroom swung open, and there he was.
Paul Richards, the head doctor in resuscitation. He was a mountain of a manburly, triple-chinned, always in a white coat two sizes too small, buttons straining. His face, streaked with sweat, bore that grey tinge of exhaustion. Thick-rimmed glasses slipped down a broad nose, and hed jab them back up with a stubby finger. He smelled of tobacco, old sweat, and bracingly cheap instant coffee. Hed lived three days and nights here, bedding down in the staff room on a sunken sofa.
Helen always saw only a worn-out, unkempt man who should have retiredor at very least, showered.
Well, then, artists? His voice rumbled up from the deepest part of his frame. Still with us?
Yes, Doctor! piped up a shy, mismatched chorus.
He lumbered between the rows, steadying himself on chair backs as he passed.
He stopped at a pale boy hooked up to a drip, placing his vast hand on the lads forehead.
Hang on in there, you hero, he muttered. Your results are out. Well get through.
Next, he bent over Emily. Helen watched the girls eyes light up, her arms reaching for this lumbering, tobacco-smelling man.
Drawing? he asked. And behind the thick lenses, Helen suddenly glimpsed not the bleary stare of a weary man, but an endless blue, lit by countless sleepless nights.
You, Emily whispered.
He snorted, nudging his glasses higher. Me? Thatll break the paper, lass.
Suddenly, the monitors in the corridor wailed, sharp and shrill, an alarm slicing the stillness.
Paul Richards switched in an instant. The wheezing faded, the shuffling vanished. He turned, unexpectedly nimble for his size, and darted for the door.
Dont any of you move! he shouted, already halfway down the hall. Kate! Crash kit, now!
Helen remained, clutching her arms to her chest. From behind the wall, urgent voices barked commands, metal clattered, and Doctor Richardss baritone rang outno longer softened by kindness, but steely.
Breathe! Come on! Stay with us! Breathe!
His cry chilled the blood.
Within it, a demand and a plea, both at once. Helen squeezed her eyes shut. She was frightened.
Forty minutes passedan eternity, time stretched to breaking. The playroom fell silent. No child drew now. They watched the door, waiting.
At last it creaked open. Paul Richards stepped in, gripping the frame for support. Drenched in sweat, his coat stained dark, a smear of blood on one sleeve. He tipped off his glasses, wiped a hand over his face, exhaustion smeared in deep lines. Then, groaning, he dropped onto the edge of a tiny childs chair, which squealed miserably beneath him.
It worked, he breathed into the hush. Sleeping now.
Helen watched him. And in that moment, as if someone yanked away a dusty net curtain, she saw.
She looked at Emilys drawing. At that bumbling, round figure. And then at the true Paul Richards.
She didnt see fat or sweat. She saw substance. A tremendous, unwavering weight of lovenecessary to anchor these fragile, drifting children to earth when they threatened to float away. A gossamer-winged angel would be useless heretoo light, swept off with them.
What was needed was thisheavy, solid, smelling of earth and old coffee, hands enormous enough to snatch back escaping life and rasp, Not on my watch.
His bald head gleamed beneath the fluorescent lightsnot golden, but workaday, damp with strain.
Emily slid from her chair, padded over to the weary doctor slumped forward, and hugged one solid legthe only height she could reach.
Told you, she said softly, gazing at Helen with ancient eyes. He keeps his wings hidden. So it doesnt get draughty.
Paul Richards rested his heavy palm on her smooth, bare head. His fingers were trembling.
Hold on, little darlings, he whispered. Just a while longer.
Helen turned to the window, unable to see any more.
The tears shed dreaded came at last. She weptashamed for ever being blind. Shed been hunting for beauty amid the glow and refinement, never realising it sat right before her, mopping sweat away with a sleeve, clumsy and holy and heavier than the world.
