by Doyle, Paddy
I couldn’t wait to tell John Gorman but before I did, I made him swear not to tell anyone. He suggested that if he said anything about the money I could tell what he told me about babies and the difference between men and women. Slowly and with great caution, I took the money from under my mattress and showed it to him. He gasped and asked who sent it to me.
‘My uncle,’ I said.
‘Jesus,’ he responded, ‘he must be awful rich.’
‘He is,’ I said, jumping at the chance to give him a better impression of me. I said that my uncle was living in the house my parents used to live in, that it was a big house and there was a farm with it.
‘When I’m twenty-one,’ I said, ‘I’ll be getting it all as well as the money my mother and father left me.’
I don’t know how I came out with that tale but it was obvious that John was impressed and, from that day, his attitude to me changed. I even somehow managed to convince myself that there was a house, a farm and money waiting for me. One day, I would be rich.
‘Jesus!’ Gorman exclaimed again. ‘Ten pounds is an awful lot of money, you could buy loads of things with it. All you have to do is hide it until your new boots and splint come, then you can go to the shop and get ice cream and lemonade and sweets and cigarettes.’
‘What would we do with cigarettes?’ I asked.
‘Smoke them of course.’
It was a hospital rule that patients couldn’t keep money, it had to be handed up to the sister in charge of the ward. Gorman got annoyed when I told him so, and said that I would be mad to give it up because the most I would get at any one time would be sixpence or a shilling, which he described as being ‘fuck all use’.
‘Hide it,’ he urged.
‘What happens if I’m caught?’ I asked nervously.
‘Nobody is going to know you have it as long as the two of us keep our mouths shut,’ he said.
‘Suppose,’ I said, ‘that someone asks where I got the money when I go to the shop?’
‘All you have to do is say you’re getting messages for a patient in the men’s ward.’
Later, when a nurse came around asking if anyone had money to be ‘handed up’, I remained silent.
When my splint and boots arrived a nurse fitted them on me. She tied the shining leather boots tightly and then fixed the iron splint firmly to my leg. Before being allowed to stand out of bed, I had to sit for a time with my legs hanging over the edge. As I did, I noticed the tightness of the boots on my feet and in particular the pulling effect of the splint on my foot. Before I stood up, I mentioned that the leather strap just below my left knee was hurting me, and she loosened it slightly. Even though it was extremely uncomfortable I said nothing, fearing I would not be allowed up. I had spent long enough in bed, now I was anxious to be walking again. I looked forward to the freedom. There would be the opportunity to play table tennis and walk around the hospital grounds. But it was the shop I was most excited about. Having money of my own, and being able to spend it was a new experience, one I was determined to enjoy.
I felt desperately weak when I stood up and was certain that I would faint. The blood seemed to drain from me and I could almost feel my face turn white. The nurse looked at me and could see I was in difficulty.
‘Are you all right?’ she asked.
‘Just a bit dizzy,’ I answered.
She held my arm as I took a few steps and enquired how I was feeling. I felt less weak, and said so. After two or three minutes walking she suggested that I sit on the bed and only take short walks with long rests in between until I got used to being up. She warned that under no circumstances was I to leave the ward.
‘Never?’ I asked incredulously.
‘Well not today anyway.’
Later that day as I was walking along the corridor with the nurse, the consultant approached and recognized me. He gestured to her that he wanted me to keep walking and, having watched, said that he would like to see me the following week, ‘after he has had some time in the caliper.’
As I became stronger my walking improved and I was free to move around the ward and the grounds outside as I wished. John Gorman watched my progress and eventually suggested that I go to the shop. The £10 note which had been hidden for almost three weeks was withdrawn from under the mattress.
‘What will I get?’ I asked.
‘Lucozade, biscuits, twenty “Players” and a box of matches.’
‘How am I going to get cigarettes?’ I asked.
‘Just ask for them.’
‘What if I get caught?’
‘Say they’re for one of the men.’
Nervously, I left the ward and walked up the long corridor to the shop which was situated in a room adjacent to the men’s ward. A small group of men had gathered outside it, all in dressing gowns. As they chatted among themselves I stood at the end of the queue and rehearsed over and over in my head what I was going to ask for when my turn came to be served. I wanted to sound confident.
‘Are you new here?’ one of them asked.
‘No. It’s just that I was in bed until I got this,’ I said, pointing to the splint.
‘Now that you’re up and around, it won’t be too long before you’ll be heading home.’
‘I don’t know,’ I answered.
I never expected to find a nun serving in the shop, and if John Gorman knew, he said nothing. She looked to me and asked what I wanted.
I drew a deep breath and quickly told her. I was going to add that they were for one of the men but decided against it. To my surprise she put everything into a brown paper bag, took the money and asked me to wait a minute for the change. I took it, and without checking stuffed it into my trousers’ pocket and walked as quickly as I could back to the ward.
Just as I left the bag on John Gorman’s bed the sister in charge of the ward appeared, demanding to know what was in the bag and who gave me permission to leave the ward. ‘I don’t know,’ Gorman said, ‘Pat Doyle bought them and he was leaving them on my bed because he was tired.’
I glared at him and felt cheated.
She emptied the bag and held the cigarettes aloft. ‘I don’t suppose,’ she said, ‘either of you had the slightest notion of smoking these.’
‘No, Sister,’ I said, and John agreed.
I had thought of telling her they were for one of the men and that I was going to bring them to him later, but I realized she wouldn’t believe me. I admitted having bought them for myself and John Gorman. He was furious and denied any knowledge of the cigarettes.
Then the question of where the money came from arose. Because it was such a large amount of money I was convinced she would think I had stolen it.
‘I got ten pounds from my uncle in a letter.’
‘You know the rules regarding money,’ she said.
‘Yes, Sister.’
She held her hand out and I dug deep into my pocket and took out what money I had. She left the ward with it and the messages.
‘You’re a pig,’ I said to Gorman, furious with him.
‘Don’t call me a fucking pig,’ he replied angrily.
‘You made a promise and you broke it.’
‘Did I say anything about the money?’ he said. ‘Did I?’
I threatened to tell the ward sister what he told me about babies. He sat upright in bed, pointed his finger, then squinted his eyes and swore to break every bone in my body if I opened my mouth.
‘You’re a bastard,’ he said, after a brief silence.
‘I’m not,’ I retorted.
‘You don’t even know what the word means,’ he teased.
‘I do.’
‘What?’ he snapped.
When he realized that I hadn’t the slightest idea, he grinned and said that I was a bastard because I didn’t have any parents. ‘That’s what a bastard is.’
I walked away from him, realizing that the friendship we had was beginning to crumble and, angry though I was, had no wish for that to happen. It was he who g
ot me through the rough times in the hospital. I had never wanted to be on the receiving end of his anger. Despite my feelings towards him at that moment, I hoped that our relationship would not be ruined.
In time we forgot our quarrel and once John Gorman was allowed out of bed I had a companion with whom I could walk around the hospital grounds. When the weather was fine we used to sit in the fields while he pointed out the direction of various Kilkenny landmarks like Castlecomer coal mines and the steeple of the Cathedral. He could also show me where his house was. At six o’clock most evenings, both of us would go to the shop and spend any money he had been given by relatives the previous day. Anything we bought was carefully concealed as we made our way cautiously back to the ward and headed for the toilets. One evening, while we were both in one of the cubicles, John Gorman sat on the toilet bowl and carefully stood his crutches against the wall. He lit two cigarettes and handed me one. He had smoked before but I hadn’t. I watched as he inhaled the smoke deep into his lungs and allowed it to stream out his nostrils. I drew on mine, filling my mouth with smoke, before taking a deep breath. I nearly choked. I could feel the smoke crushing my lungs and as I gasped I felt my face redden and my head become light. The cubicle spun as I coughed uncontrollably and tears streamed down my cheeks.
‘Shut up,’ Gorman said, ‘or you’ll get us caught.’
I tried to say something but could only cough. It was some minutes before I got my breath back and the dizziness subsided.
‘Pull on it like this,’ he said, holding the cigarette between the thumb and first finger with the burning end covered by the cave formation of his hand. He pulled deeply on it and asked me to do the same. I tried but couldn’t and when he stood up I threw the half-smoked cigarette into the toilet. I watched it sizzle and become saturated before fragmenting into tiny pieces. I knew I was going to vomit and gestured for Gorman to get out of the way before bending over and being violently ill.
‘For Jesus’ sake,’ he said.
A sudden knocking on the door startled both of us. The familiar voice of the ward sister demanded to know who was in the toilet. I spewed out what was left in my mouth and spat into the bowl to eliminate the sour taste of sickness and tobacco.
‘I want both of you out here this minute,’ she said.
Slowly John Gorman slid back the chromed bolt of the toilet door, before putting a crutch under each arm and inching his way out. I followed.
‘What happened to you?’ she shouted at me.
‘I was sick,’ I replied.
‘I wonder why?’ she said sarcastically, asking us both to turn out our pockets. Picking up a packet of cigarettes which had fallen from my pocket she warned that we would get the severest punishment. ‘Both of you will go back to your ward, get straight into bed and you will remain there for a week.’
Later that night both our beds were taken from the main ward and moved to the babies’ unit. The nurses pushing the beds took no notice whatever of Gorman’s threats to get his father after them and that he was going to run away in the middle of the night.
There were fifteen or twenty babies in the ward, often no more than a few weeks old, who cried, demanding to be fed. Some were in plaster from the soles of their feet right up to under their arms. Nurses had difficulty in lifting them from their cots for feeding while others could not be lifted at all. They were on traction with weights on pulleys, hanging from their legs. Those that were being fed sucked contentedly on their bottles. They slept as the nurse changed the pads which had been placed at the cut-outs in the plaster at the backside and the pelvic area. In the soft light of the ward I could see babies with large heads and tiny bodies and others born without limbs or with only part of hands and legs.
As I was drifting to sleep John Gorman threatened to run away and asked if I would go with him. He said he had no intention of spending a week ‘stuck in a ward full of squealing babies and shitty nappies’. He swore he would be gone by morning.
I woke early next morning to find Gorman still in his bed, curled in a bundle beneath the sheets, oblivious to the sounds of babies demanding breakfast.
The ward sister arrived and told me that the doctor was going to see me and she wanted me ‘up and out of bed immediately’. I hadn’t expected to be allowed up so soon after beginning my punishment and was surprised that the doctor wanted to see me. I sat motionless until she hurried me.
As I got dressed she awoke my companion and told him we were both being given a chance, provided we gave an assurance to stay in our own ward and not to smoke in the future.
I was worried about seeing the consultant, even though I felt sure he would be happy with the progress I was making. I washed my face a couple of times and brushed my teeth until the gums bled. I combed my hair where bits of it stuck up, wet it and combed it down.
‘What are you all cleaned up for?’ Gorman asked.
‘I have to see the doctor,’ I replied.
‘He’ll probably want to take you down,’ he jeered.
‘He won’t,’ I said, not really convinced by my own words. ‘He already said I wouldn’t have to have an operation.’
‘They always say that,’ he replied, ‘and then they change their minds.’
‘You think you know everything,’ I said, walking away from him.
I was brought to a room off the main ward to await the arrival of the doctor and as I sat there I prayed silently that he would not operate on me. I practised walking, watching my feet and trying to ensure they were straight.
When he arrived he was in a cheerful mood, rubbing his hands together as he asked me to walk across the room. I stood up and took the first few steps cautiously, looking downward all the time. Halfway across the floor my leg flexed at the knee and I had difficulty in getting it back down to the floor again.
When I turned to face him, he asked me to raise my head, and ignore my feet. Again my leg flexed and the harder I tried to get it back down the worse it became, until, in a sudden movement, it released like a string snapping and I walked the rest of the way.
‘What happened there?’ the consultant asked.
‘I don’t know,’ I said.
‘Has that ever happened to you before?’
‘Only since I got the splint.’
‘And does it happen often?’
‘Just when I get afraid.’
‘And are you afraid now?’ he asked.
‘Just a bit.’
‘Sit down there.’ He pointed to a chair and told the nurses who were with him that he didn’t see any further need for the splint. ‘It doesn’t appear to be doing any good and in fact it may be causing harm.’ He asked me to walk without it. My feet felt free and light, there was no difficulty walking and no involuntary flexing.
‘Patrick,’ he said, ‘you’ve been here for a long time now, nearly two years, and we haven’t been able to put your foot right.’ I waited anxiously for what was coming next.
‘Because you’re not getting any better I want to send you to another hospital to see a specialist who will be able to help you. Once that happens you will be able to go back to your school and the friends you have there.’
I began to cry and said that I didn’t want to go back to the school and I didn’t want to go to any other hospital either.
‘It’s for your own good,’ one of the nurses said.
‘I don’t care, I like it here and I want to stay.’
The consultant intervened, ‘But you don’t want to spend the rest of your life in hospital. Do you?’
‘No,’ I said hesitantly.
‘Right then, we’ll get this other man to have a look at you, and we’ll see what happens from there.’
‘Will I have to stay in the other hospital?’
‘Just for a little while, until they do some tests. Once they have been done we should be able to get that foot right for you.’
He wrote a letter on a piece of hospital headed notepaper and put it into a long white envelope which he sealed an
d addressed to ‘Professor E. D. Casey, Consultant Neurologist’.
‘What does it say on the envelope?’ I asked.
He held it up for me to read. I read the name and then stopped.
‘Consultant Neurologist,’ he said.
‘What’s a neurologist?’ I asked.
‘Just another type of doctor, that’s all, nothing to worry about.’
CHAPTER TEN
For two days I roamed around the hospital stunned and unable to believe that I had to leave. I had made it my home, I had friends there, I liked the way I was treated and had come to enjoy the companionship of the other boys. The initial stress-filled weeks of being teased and tormented seemed a long time ago and irrelevant now. I wanted to stay. John Gorman tried to be consoling, and said that he would visit me when he went home.
‘But it’s in Dublin,’ I said.
‘How do you know?’ he asked.
‘I heard the nurses saying so.’
‘That doesn’t matter, I can get my father to take me. Anyway you won’t be staying there for long.’
I wanted to agree with him, but I knew I wouldn’t see that hospital or John Gorman again. Promises made by nurses and doctors were something I had learned to mistrust. I had heard them all before and things never worked out the way they said they would.
On the day I was leaving, after I had said goodbye to the patients and nurses, the sister in charge took me by the hand and led me from the ward. I cried bitterly, pleading with her not to send me away. I dug my feet into the floor to prevent her dragging me further.
‘I’m not going to any new hospital,’ I screamed at the top of my voice and as we were nearing the top of the long sloping corridor I gripped a radiator and held it until my knuckles turned white. She pulled at my arm but I was determined not to budge. I kicked out, attempting to catch one of the nurses across the shins and threatened to kill them if they didn’t leave me alone. I was so determined not to leave that it took three nurses to make me release my grip on the radiator.
