I really like Leon, Gerty. Really like him.’ I sniff, wiping my eyes. ‘I wish he had at least asked me whether I actually said yes. And . . . and . . . even if I had . . . I wish that he hadn’t just given up.’
‘It’s been half a day. He’s in shock, and drained after the session in court. He’s built this day up in his head for months. Justin, as ever, has impeccably dreadful timing. Give it a little time and I hope you’ll find Leon un-gives up again.’
I shake my head. ‘I don’t know. I don’t think so.’
‘Have faith, Tiffy. After all, isn’t that what you’re asking from him?’
66
Leon
Move between wards like I’m haunting the place. Should I be able to focus enough to take blood from a vein when even breathing feels like an effort? It’s easy, though – blissfully routine. Here’s something I can do. Leon, Charge Nurse, quiet but reliable.
Notice after a few hours that I’m circling Coral Ward. Dodging it.
Mr Prior’s there, dying.
Eventually the junior doctor on shift says a morphine dose on Coral Ward needs countersigning. So. No more hiding. Off I go. White-grey corridors, bare and scratched, and I know every inch of them, maybe better than the walls of my own flat.
Pause. There’s a man in a brown suit outside the ward, forearms on knees, staring at the floor. Odd to see someone here at this time of the morning – no visitors on the night shift. He’s very old, white-haired. Familiar.
I know that posture: that’s the posture of a man Mustering Courage. I’ve struck that pose enough times outside prison visiting halls to know how it looks.
Takes a little while for it to click – I’m barely thinking, just moving on autopilot. But that white-haired man staring at the floor is Johnny White the Sixth, from Brighton. The thought seems ridiculous. JW the Sixth is a man from my other life. The one full of Tiffy. But here he is, so. Looks like I found Mr Prior’s Johnny after all, even if it took him a little while to admit it.
Should feel pleased, but can’t.
Look at him. Aged ninety-two, he’s tracked Mr Prior down, put his best suit on, travelled all the way up from the coast. All for a man he loved a lifetime ago. He sits there, head bowed like a man in prayer, waiting for the strength to face what he left behind.
Mr Prior has days to live. Hours, possibly. I look at Johnny White and feel it like a punch in the gut. He left it so. Fucking. Late.
Johnny White looks up, sees me. We don’t speak. The silence stretches down the corridor between us.
Johnny White: Is he dead?
His voice comes out husky, breaking halfway.
Me: No. You’re not too late.
Except he is, really. How much did it hurt to come all this way knowing it was just to say goodbye?
Johnny White: It took me a while to find him. After you visited.
Me: You should have said something.
Johnny White: Yes.
He looks back at the floor. I step forward, bridge the silence, take the seat beside him. We examine the scratched lino side by side. This isn’t about me. This isn’t my story. But . . . Johnny White on that plastic seat, head bowed, that’s what the other side of not-trying looks like.
Johnny White: I don’t want to go in there. I was thinking about leaving, when I saw you.
Me: You’ve made it to here. There’s just the doors, now.
He lifts his head as though it’s something heavy.
Johnny White: Are you sure he’ll want to see me?
Me: He may not be conscious, Mr White. But even so, I have no doubt he’ll be happier with you there.
Johnny White stands, brushes down his suit trousers, squares his Hollywood chiselled jaw.
Johnny White: Well. Better late than never.
He doesn’t look at me, he just pushes his way through the double doors. I watch them swing behind him.
Left to my own devices, I’m the sort of man who’d never walk through those doors. And where’s that ever got anybody?
I get up. Time to move.
Me, to junior doctor: On-call nurse will countersign on the morphine. I’m not on shift.
Junior doctor: I did wonder why you weren’t in scrubs. What the hell are you doing here when you’re not on the rota? Go home!
Me: Yes. Good idea.
*
It’s two in the morning; London is still and muffled in darkness. Turn on my phone as I jog for the bus, heartbeat