THE LAST RAY
Everyone takes notice of the head of the Medical Department: men shoot her interested glances, while women cant help but feel a little envy. She is tall, slender, and dark-eyed; the white doctors coat suits her perfectly. Her hair is always rolled and pinned neatly at the back, and her crisp white cap perches proudly, adding to her stature. It might be the sensible heels she wears, or her gentle gait, but the soft click of her shoes never grates on anyones nerves. She looks to be about forty-five, but no one in the hospital knows her true age. Strict and uncompromising, Margaret Strickland is respectedand perhaps feared a littleby both staff and patients.
Men among her colleagues and those recovering on the wards have tried their luck, inviting her out, bringing chocolates and the occasional bouquet of flowers. But one stern look from her and theyd stand frozen, fumbling for their words. Rumours swirl endlessly: that shed suffered a tragic love affair, that her husband had died, either in the Royal Navy or somewhere far-flung. Some say she lost a child. No one truly knows whats fact, whats the makings of hospital gossip.
All colleagues do know is she lives alone. She keeps to herself, makes no close friends, lets no one in. Yet, no one would ever call her mean or spiteful.
In her youth, Margaret fell hopelessly for a fellow studenta dashing chap named Henry Strickland. She couldnt breathe without him. But for him, swamped with female attention, her unwavering devotion felt smothering. He left her and chose someone else instead.
Margaret never allowed anyone else near her heart. Maybe shes still not quite over Henry; maybe she simply fears being let down again.
She pauses at the nurses station. “Alice, could you bring me Tolsons notes from bed five? Ill do his discharge summary for tomorrow.” Pressing the file to her chest, she returns to her office.
Well, the mans recovered. Now it depends on his will to get back to full health, and his body’s resources, when Ill see him again, she muses, filling out the standard discharge form on her computer: tests done, treatments finished, blood test results…
Theres half an hour left in her shift.
Margaret steps from her office, locks up, and hesitates. At the far end of the corridor stands a woman, talking quietly on her mobile, face turned towards the window. Strange words carry across the corridor.
No, hes not dead. Right as rain, still ticking. Dont get cross. I told him… Oh, come on… You think he didnt realise? Right, well talk tonight. The woman puts her phone away and heads for the staircase, not looking around.
Margaret enters the fifth ward. Any other time, on seeing the empty beds, shed say something about the perils of smoking, but she notices a tense man, turned to the window, and says nothing.
Mr Tolson, tomorrow she begins, but when he turns his head, pain etched in his eyes, she stops mid-sentence.
Whats the matter? Margaret sits gently on the bed, not looming over him. Are you in pain?
Is there any way I could… not be discharged? I… Ive nowhere to go… Tolsons words falter, defeated.
His place isnt his anymore, pipes up a grey-haired man in the corner. His wife brought someone else in. Told him straight: Thats it, the shows over. I belong to someone else now, and I shall remain faithful. Poor old chap gets the boot, he finished, shaking his head.
Is that true? Margaret asks quietly.
So thats who the woman by the window was talking about on the phone, she realises. She was hoping her husband would die. Since he didnt, she let him know his place was taken while he lay here in hospital.
Frank Tolson, a broad-shouldered man pushing fifty, with neat-cropped greying hair and sorrowful eyes, lies staring out at the hospital park, silent, jaw tight.
Margaret follows his gaze. Late April is fading fast. Buds burst ready on the bare hospital trees, soon to greet the young green leaves. But from the cold, colourless sky, snowflakes seem likely at any moment. Theres no sun today.
Nowhere at all? Margaret asks kindly. No friends or children?
Theyve families of their own. I can stay a day or two, but then what? At my age, its a bit embarrassing, drifting from house to house. I knew she was seeing another bloke. Thought shed get over it…
Mr Tolson, a few extra days will do you no good, plus these beds are needed, Margaret says, gently. Then, suddenly decisive: You know, I own a cottage out in the countryside, about fifty miles from here. Good road there. The house is solid, but its been empty for yearsneeds some work and strong hands. Ill fetch the keys and directions tomorrow morning. Without waiting for him to argue, she stands and leaves briskly.
Well, I never! his roommate exclaims in amazement. Always thought she was so sternbut see? Human after all. Take the offer, Frank. That run-around wife of yours isnt worth a single trimmed nail off Miss Stricklands hand.
As the hawthorns blossom passes and the chill wind yields to sun-filled days, Sunday morning finds Margaret behind the wheel of her Honda, bound for the village to check up on Frank.
She is delightfully surprised by the transformation: The window-frames gleam sky-blue, the patched-up roof looks secure, even the step to the porch has been replaced with a shiny new plank. She pulls into the drive and switches off the engine.
Out to greet her comes Frank Tolson, in a T-shirt and jeans, barefoot on the porch. He looks nothing like the pale, desolate figure she remembers: his shoulders squared, his sun-kissed face open and relaxed, arms showing fresh muscle. He seems revived, content.
Hello there, just thought Id check in. No one giving you any trouble? She leans on her car door, smiling.
No one here to give me trouble, he grins. Three old ladies in the village are just delighted theres someone else about. The weekend folk are off doing their own thing.
Country air seems to be working wonders. And what about work? She stays by the car, sensing his hesitation about inviting her inside.
My work Well, its nothing serious. Demobbed from the Army and turned out that the only thing Im really good at is marching men around a parade ground. Did some security work. But Ive no regretsthe pensions decent.
Go on, show me! Margaret finally shuts her car door and heads for the porch.
Frank smacks his forehead, flustered. Sorrywasnt expecting company. He leads the way, swinging open the door for her.
Margaret stops, taking in the spotless room: home-made rag rugs warm the boards, sunlight shimmers over them through lace curtains, neat pots of geraniums bloom on the window sills, the clock ticks gently on the wall.
Valerie gave me thoseshe lives right at the edge of the village. Makes the place homelier, dont you think? Frank apologises, noticing her gaze settling on the geraniums.
Whats that delicious smell? Margaret turns, curious.
Cabbage soup in the old stove, and some potatoes! Care to join me? Frank flutters about, moved to see a genuine smile cross her face for the first time. Had to learn from scratchnever really lived in the countryside. Kept burning everything at first, or serving it up nearly raw. The ladies next door have helped me out.
A contented drowsiness wraps round Margaret, the sort that brings back memories of childhood at her grandmothers. She hasnt set foot here since her mother passed. Selling the place was unthinkable, but so was confronting the memories inside. The house belonged to her grandparents, and then her mother, who returned each summer, only leaving for the city in winter. Now shes gone as well.
She remembers packing the car to the brim with jars of pickled cucumbers, jam, and mushrooms for the journey home, the taste of summer spent by the fireplace all winter long. How long ago that seems.
How long do you want me to stay on… as caretaker? Frank asks, breaking her reverie. If you want me out, just say so.
Stay as long as you wish, Margaret says quietly. Its been nearly ten years since I last came. It was too much. Ill visit you again, if you dont mind. Youve made things cosy againjust like when my mum was alive. The house, the land… Ive no knack for it, and even less desire. She glances away, slightly embarrassed, and Frank politely holds his tongue.
I almost forgotI brought you some groceries, Margaret remembers. She heads out to the car.
Frank exhales. Hes never seen her without her white coat and cap before. Her light cotton dress suits her, makes her look younger; a few wisps of hair have escaped her usual neat twist. She seems softer, closer. Frank looks at his hands, scratched and scuffed from working in the garden, suddenly aware of his age.
She leaves in the earliest dusk, her perfume lingering in the house. Whenever Frank picks anything up, it smells faintly of Margaret. It both unsettles and excites himhe hasnt felt this way in years. Oddly, he almost feels grateful to his ex-wife. He spends a sleepless night, mind running wild, unable to quieten his thoughts.
Margaret returns in two months time, laden with groceries and a new fishing rod. Frank has mended the sagging fence and proudly tells her how people come from the next villageelderly widows and women on their ownasking for help with odd jobs, paying in milk, cream, and eggs.
The house looks lived-in and proud now, as if its poking out its chest with its bright window-frames, boasting, Im cared for too, Im as good as any.
In winter, Ill treat you to pickled cucumbers, Frank promises, showing off his handiwork. Margaret notes with quiet pleasure that hes trimmer now, his belly gone. She flusters under his gaze, unused to such attention.
The sun is dropping towards the far forest, burning everything golden-orange.
Ill be back in a minute, Frank leaps up and dashes out.
Margaret wanders the house, noticing the new belongings and scentsthe house is someone elses now, she realises. After a while she notices Frank hasnt come back and steps into the garden to find him slumped on the ground, leaning against the fence.
Frank! She drops beside him, feeling his pulse, tight and erratic. She runs for the first aid kit, doubling back for a glass of water. The hem of her summer dress floats around her knees as she moves. If only I had a syringe… she thinks, before feeding him a tablet with water.
After fifteen minutes, Frank manages to stand. Margaret helps him indoors and sits him on the bed.
Just a touch too much sun, thats all, he apologises. I was just going to fetch some pickles for you… Please, would you… Stay? His voice falters, and he switches to the familiar you.
Margaret stands, hesitating, unsure what to say. Frank buries his head in her lap and sighs heavily.
Happiness is a strange thing. You call for it, wait hopefully, check that it hasnt lost its way. Alone too long, you accept a life without betrayal or the fear of loss. And suddenly, your path crosses someone elses, and you set out together. Love changes too: in youth, it is all fire and possessiveness; with age, it grows soothing, gentle, and companionable, like the last ray of the setting sun.
