THE LAST GLINT
People always noticed the Head of the Medical Ward: men watched her with intrigue, women with barely concealed envy. Slender, dark-eyed, Dr. Jane Whitmore wore her crisp white coat with a stately grace. She pinned her lustrous hair into a soft roll at the back, her starched nurses cap perched perfectly atop her head, making her seem taller. Either her heels were cobbled just so, or she simply walked so softly that the gentle click of her steps never grated on the ear. Jane looked about forty-five, but no one at the hospital truly knew her age. She inspired a peculiar blend of respect and hesitation; doctors, nurses and patients alike were wary of her cool, uncompromising manner.
The gentlemenwhether patients or colleaguesattempted now and then to court her favour. They asked her out, offered chocolates, gathered wildflowers, but one severe glance would always silence and root them to the spot. Tales about Jane abounded; some said she had lost her heart and her husbandthe latter supposedly perished in the Falklands, or at sea. There were whispers of a lost child, too. No one ever knew what was truth, and what was simply the idle fancy of hospital gossips.
The staff did know one thing: Jane lived alone. She kept to herself, neither allowing anyone close nor truly befriending anyone. Yet she wasnt mean-spirited or callous.
Long ago, Jane had hopelessly fallen in love with a fellow studenthandsome Charles Whitmore. Shed lived and breathed only for him. But Charles, ever popular among women, grew weary of Janes tireless loyalty. He left in the end, preferring another. Since then, Jane had locked her heart away. Perhaps she still loved Charles, or perhaps she simply feared more betrayals.
One dusky afternoon, Jane paused at the nurses station. Mary, Ill need Mr. Baxters notes from Ward Five, please. Ill prepare his discharge by morning. Tucking the file under her arm, she returned to her office. “Well, hes recovered. In the end, how soon we meet again will depend only on his will, and his bodys strength,” she mused, typing up the standard discharge on her computer, listing tests, prescriptions, results.
There was half an hour left in her shift. Jane locked up her office and lingered in the corridor. At the far end stood a woman speaking in hushed tones by the window, her back turned, phone pressed to her ear.
No. No, hes not dead. Hes very much alive. Dont get snippy. I told him Yes, its done. Do you think he doesnt know? Fine, well talk tonight, the woman said, slipping her phone away and heading toward the stairs without meeting anyones eye.
Jane entered Ward Five. Usually, empty beds would have earned her a sharp word about the dangers of smoking on hospital property, but today she noticed instead the tense figure by the window, back turned.
Mr. Baxter, tomorrow She began, but as he turned, his eyes filled with anguish, she faltered.
Whats wrong? Jane sat gently on the edge of his bed, careful not to loom over him. Are you feeling unwell? Pain?
Could Iperhapsnot be discharged yet? IIve nowhere He fumbled for words, trailing off.
His beds been claimed, an elderly man in the corner chimed in, His wifes brought another man round. She told him straight: Thats it, end of story. I belong to another now, and always will. Chucked him out without a care, she did.
Is that true? Jane asked softly.
So thats who the woman at the window was talking about, Jane realised. She hoped her husband would diebut having run out of patience, decided to move on while he was still recovering right here.
Mr. Baxter, a broad-shouldered man past fifty, his shorn hair flecked with silver, stared at the bleak hospital grounds, his face clouded.
Jane, too, looked outside. April was nearly done. The buds on the ancient oaks in the hospital park were fit to burst, a promise of green. Yet under the grey sky, a stray flake of snow still seemed possible. The sun hadnt appeared all day.
No friends you can stay with? Children? Janes voice was kind.
Theyve their own families. A night on a sofa, perhaps, but more? Its humiliating at my age, and I always knew she had someone else. Thought shed change
Mr. Baxter, staying on wont help you, and we do need the beds. Butwait. Jane hesitated, then brightened. You know, I have a cottage in the country, about fifty miles from towna fine old place, good road, but it needs some work. No ones lived there in years. Tomorrow morning Ill fetch you the keys, and directions. Itll do you some good, and the place will thank you for it. Before he could reply, she stood and marched out.
Good heavens! muttered the patient in the corner, awe in his tone, Strict she may be, but theres a real heart in her. Dont you dare refuse, Baxteryour wayward cats worth none of this kindness.
With the wild cherry blossoms falling and the brisk winds giving way to the gentle warmth of May, Jane drove her old Honda out on a Sunday morning to check on her charge.
To her surprise, the cottage glowed with change. The trim had been daubed a cheerful blue, the roof patched, a new step glimmered where the old had rotted through. She pulled into the tiny yard and switched off the engine. Mr. Baxter appeared on the porch, barefoot, in a faded t-shirt and jeansa world away from the pale, despondent patient of weeks before. His shoulders were squared, hed caught some sun, his arms showed fresh strength. He looked content.
Good afternoon. I just wanted to make sure youre all right. No troubles from the locals? she asked, leaning on the car.
No one here but three old dearsglad of the company, if anything. Holiday folk keep to themselves. He was still somewhat stunned to see Jane out of her hospital garb.
Country air suits you. And the work? She made no move towards the house and he didnt invite her in, not from uncertainty, but from habits formed long ago.
Oh, I hardly call it work; Ive done all sorts in my timeserved in the Army, then as a watchman, nothing worth regretting. Pensions decent.
Well, arent you going to show me around? Jane finally left the car, smiling.
Oh, what a fool I am, Mr. Baxter tapped his forehead, startled by his own fluster. Do come in! He held the door open for her.
On the spotless floor lay old rag rugs, the sunlight dancing in patterns through lace at the windows. Pots of geraniums perched on each sill, the tick-tock of an ancient clock filling the air.
Valerie from the end of the lane brought thosemakes it feel more homely, doesnt it? he said, noting Janes gaze.
And what is that lovely smell? Jane asked.
I made a stewvegetable and a bit of ham, and some potatoes. Care to join me? he stammered, as Janes stern features finally relaxed with a smile. Cookings been a journey. Never lived in a village beforeburnt everything at first, then, well, the neighbours had pity and showed me the ropes.
Jane found herself longing to stretch and yawn, wrapped in a warmth that felt like childhood. Memories of jam jars, pickled onions, and her mothernow all gonehovered in the air. She hadnt been back to the old cottage since her mothers passing. She couldnt part with it, either; the cottage came from her grandparents, and in summers her mother had kept it alive, only returning to the city for winter. Now, the chain lay broken.
She remembered how the car would be loaded up to the roof with jars of preserves at the end of each summer, ready for the winterhow long ago that was.
How long am I allowed to stay here? Mr. Baxter interrupted her reverie, a touch of awkwardness in his voice. Please, do say if Im in the way.
Live as long as you like. I havent been here in nearly ten years. I just couldnt. Ill visit again, if you dont mind. Its as warm as it ever was. I never had the knack for country living, nor the wish. Janes eyes dropped, but Mr. Baxter was wise enough to remain silent.
Oh! I brought you some groceriesnearly forgot! Jane dashed outside.
Mr. Baxter breathed deeply. She looked so much younger in her simple summer frock, her usually prim hair now loosened by the breeze. He saw his own hands, roughened by honest work, and for the first time in years, times passing stung him keenly.
After Jane drove away into the deepening dusk, her perfume lingered in the cottage. Everything he touched seemed tinged with her scent, unsettling his heart, awakening something he thought long dead. To his surprise, he even found some small gratitude for his wifes betrayal.
Jane returned two months later, again bringing suppliesand a new fishing rod. Mr. Baxter had rebuilt the sagging fence and now local widows called at his door, asking for repairs and bartering homemade butter, eggs, milk.
His cottage, freshly cared for, seemed to puff out its chest with pride, as if to say, I have an owner again, as good as any in the county.
In winter, Ill have plenty of pickles for you, he boasted. Jane noted with pleasure that hed filled out nicely, his belly receding, his step lighter. She found herself embarrassed by the warmth in his eyes.
The evening sun painted the world orange as it fell behind the woods.
Ill be back in a moment, Baxter said, and hurried out.
Jane wandered through the little cottage, noticing all the new additionsthe faint trace of someone elses life now sharing hers. She realised shed been daydreaming when Mr. Baxter failed to return, and she ventured into the garden to find him, slumped by the old fence.
Ivan! she cried, before correcting herself, startled, I meanMr. Baxter! and she dropped to her knees. She checked his fluttering pulse, ran for her medical bag, dashed back for water. Around her legs the skirt whipped about as she hurried; If only I had a syringe! she thought, dissolving aspirin under his tongue and holding water to his lips.
Within fifteen minutes, Mr. Baxter struggled up and let Jane support him back inside to the bed.
Bit too much sun, thats all, he apologised. Wanted to pick you some cucumbers for your journey. Please stay, he added, quietly, and at last he called her Jane.
She stood by him, uncertain. His head rested gently against her stomach, a low groan escaping in relief.
Happiness is a peculiar thingyou call for it, hope it hasnt lost its way, wonder if its been misled by old griefs. You grow used to living alone, without betrayal or the fear of loss. And then, by chance, your path meets anothersand together you walk a new road.
And love? Its never the same. In youth, it is fiery, all-consumingpossessive in its longing. Later, it is quieter, gentle and sure, like the very last golden glint of sunset.
