The Hospital

The concrete buildings of the hospital rose straight from the pavement below, with no preamble, no grounds or gates to prepare. To a child they looked like a mountain range, dominating the landscape with an ancient authority. In the foothills of these mountains lived Peter. The hospital was so close to his house it blocked all sunlight until late afternoon, when he would sit at the kitchen table doing homework. It looked shut up and impenetrable. The walls rose too steeply for anyone to be able to see into the windows. It was difficult to imagine the light and activity within, where (his father had informed him), they fixed broken people.

The world Peter inhabited was limitingly small. He was bound to keep within a certain radius of the house, although out of the house, and this line hemmed him in as effectively as an electric fence. And he was strictly forbidden from going near the hospital, which took up at least a third of his available space. The small park inside his territory was scratchy and exposed and offered few oppotunities. Peter would ride around the hospital on his bike, wondering if they threw out broken people like broken toys.

It was the holidays and Peter felt the limits of his world most oppressingly. He watched the comings and goings of the hospital and had concluded that most people in hospitals were old. And from this he formed a plan, watching the door for three days until he dared enter.

He intended to keep walking until someone stopped him, half-skipping as he did when his father was in a hurry and he needed to keep up.
"Excuse me young man, where are you going?"
This exchange had been predicted.
"I've come to visit my grandad."
The receptionist looked ugly and unhelpful, the corners of her mouth turning down and giving her the look of some kind of sinister deep sea fish. But this was likely to be her most heart-warming exchange of the day.
"I see. Do you know which ward he is on? Are your parents here with you?"
"No. I only live across the road."
He paused and wisely appealed to the success of his opening line again.
"I've come to visit my grandad."
"Yes. I'm not sure it's allowed but let's see. Do you know your grandad's name? I suppose not."
Peter searched genuinely. Grandad was grandad.
"Let's try with your name shall we."
"Peter Roberts."
She checked a database but frowned.
"It must be your mum's father I suppose. Come on then, let's have a look."
And the cool white corridors enveloped him.

They looked through two wards for Peter's grandad, and Peter had begun to suspect that they might actually find him. As they passed one bed the man in it held out his hand, laughing at some private joke. He was as small as some of Peter's class mates, swamped in blankets, his eyebrows more voluminous than the hair on his head. He wore glasses which magnified his eyes and gave him the look of a benevolent owl. Peter took his hand, which felt papery but warm.
"Smashing," he said.
The woman asked Peter, "Is this your grandad?"
He smiled, fairly sure that this wasn't his grandad, but still holding his hand.
"Smashing," repeated the old man.
"Very good." The corners of her mouth almost turned upwards. "Come and find me when you've finished, Peter, will you?"

The man had an old-fashioned walkman on which he listened to sports results, and he began by asking Peter's opinion of a recent match. The situation was a little unusual but Peter found it no more complicated than a conversation with a shopkeeper or a teacher, and he answered the old man's questions admirably.
"What do you do then Peter?"
"I'm at school."
"Oh yes, lots of subjects then i'd say?"
"We do maths and english and games, although I'm probably best at games."
"What kind of games? Rugby, and so on?"
"Football really, but we'll start rugby next year."
"I had a brother who played football, a wizard he was. Left wing, always the hardest place to play. Oh yes, quite famous he was. He was away playing then, most of the time. When he turned up back at home, I wish you could have seen him, in one of those shiny american-looking cars. Dressed to kill he was."
"Did he play for a team then?" Peter was moderately impressed.
"Oh yes. They don't have teams like that any more," he answered vaguely.

The nurses brought round tea and Peter had a cup with three sugars, assuming that would be alright as the old man had four. He sat on the chair next to the bed, and they sipped their tea comfortably like old neighbours.
"Well anyway, I better get home or i'll be in trouble. It was nice to see you."
"Very nice Peter. Thanks for visiting."
And that was it.

The next day Peter went back, to see his grandad. He told him about his school project and the boys in the park. The old man said, "They'll not be bothered with you too much longer. Don't give them anything to be interested in." After their cup of tea he said, "Very nice Peter. Thanks for visiting." Peter took him a magazine on rugby league the next day, and brought in his school project the next. The nurses knew him and gave him extra biscuits when the trolley came round. When he left the hospital his face prickled with a proud blush, and he had to run around the park to shake it off before he got home.

When school started again, for two weeks Peter did not have time after school to go to the hospital. His holiday project was a success and he had started rugby. One monday he finished practice early and went to the hospital to show the old man his shirt. He reached the ward and started towards the bed, but stopped. It was a different old man. He backed out of the ward, heart thumping. It was the right ward, the right bed. He avoided the nurses, ashamed by his tears, and went home. He was disappointed that he would not be able to show the old man the shirt, but glad that he had been fixed. For months he dreamed of the brother in a killer suit, come to take the old man home.