The Angel Who Weighed Sixteen Stone and Smelled of Cheap Coffee
In the playroom of the childrens oncology ward, a delicate hush hovered in the airfragile, as if made of spun glass. It was broken only by the rustle of paper and the squeak of felt-tips. This silence wasnt natural for children under ten; it carried the weight of adult seriousness. The instructions were straightforward: draw your Guardian Angel. The children tried with great sincerity.
For Helen, a young volunteer, the afternoon was a kind of trial. Shed grown up with a proper sense of beautychurch murals full of angels that seemed almost fleeting, airy young men with golden curls and eyes like a perfect English sky. She wandered between the tables, delighted: Tom had drawn his angel with a gigantic sword; Daisys had wings fluffy as clouds. All so familiar, so touchingand yet, they all looked a bit the same.
Then she reached Alice.
Alice was seven. Her scalp was bare as a billiard ball after another batch of chemo, and her skin seemed almost translucent. She coloured with careful focus, tongue poking just past her lips.
Helen peered over her shoulder and could barely smother a gasp.
On Alices paper, instead of a celestial messenger, sprawled something strange: a round, stout man dominating most of the page. He had no wings. What he did have was an immense belly straining under something white, a bald head like a new potato, and large, askew spectacles perched on his nose like a button.
Alice, Helen said softly, crouching down, whos this? Were drawing Guardian Angels.
Thats my angel, the girl answered quietly but with certainty, still filling in the great stomach with a white crayon.
Buthes a bit unusual, Helen ventured. Why no wings? Andhes so big?
He has wings, Alice replied. He keeps them under his apron. So they dont get dirty. It gets messy here.
Helen smiled indulgently. Of course, a childs wild imagination.
On the ward, the sound of a laboured, wheezing breath was often heard, echoing down the corridor like the arrival of a far-off train. Shuffling steps, heavy enough to seem to make the lino shiver.
The playroom doors groaned openand then he appeared.
Mr. Peter Godfrey, the head consultant for resuscitation. A mountainous man, round and vast, with three chins and a perpetually unbuttoned coat far too small for him. His face had the pallor of wet clay, glistening with sweat. His horn-rimmed glasses slid forever down his nose, which he pushed back with a pudgy finger. He smelled of tobacco, sweat, and strong, cheap instant coffee. It was his third day of sleeping here, crumpled up on the battered staff sofa.
Helen had always seen him as a tired, disheveled figure who should have retiredor at the very least, taken a showeryears ago.
All right, artists! he boomed, the sound rolling up from the depths of his stomach. Still going, are we?
We are, Dr. Godfrey! came the uneven chorus.
He moved slowly among the rows, supporting himself heavily on the backs of chairs. Stopping beside a pale boy hooked to an IV, he placed his massive hand gently on the childs forehead.
Hang in there, hero, he murmured. The test results are back. Well sort it.
He reached Alice next. Helen saw the spark in the little girls eyes as she reached her arms out to this broad, tobacco-scented giant.
Drawing? he asked. But behind those thick lenses Helen caught, for a moment, not the drowsy eyes of a weary man but an endless, sleepless blue.
You, Alice whispered.
He snorted, flicking his glasses.
Id burst your paper, love.
That moment, a machine out on the ward squawked: a shrill, urgent alarm.
Peter Godfrey changed instantly. Laboured breath forgotten, shuffling replaced by surprising speed, he spun and moved for the door with a kind of urgent grace.
Stay put! he bellowed from the corridor. Laura, resus kitnow!
Helen was left clutching herself, heart pounding. On the other side of the wall, chaos erupted: sharp orders, clatter of metal, and Mr. Godfreys voiceno longer jovial, now steel-edged.
Breathecome on! Stay with us! Breathe!
The shouting was rawpart plea, part command. Helen shut her eyes. She was frightened.
Forty minutes passed. They dragged, as slow and sticky as syrup. The playroom fell silent. The children stopped drawing. No one spoke; all eyes were fixed on the door.
At last, Mr. Godfrey returned, leaning on the doorframe, shirt soaked and dark with sweat, smudge of blood on his sleeve. He removed his glasses, wiping his eyes with a hand broad as a shovel, smearing tiredness across his face. Then, with a groan, he lowered himself onto a childs chair, which shrieked in protest beneath his weight.
It worked, he panted into the quiet. Hes asleep.
Helen looked at himand suddenly, as if some cloudy film lifted from her eyes, she saw.
She glanced at Alices drawing, at that clumsy, lumbering man. Then at the real Mr. Godfrey.
She saw no fat, no sweat. Instead, she felt the massive gravity of himso much love that he anchored those frail, featherlight souls to earth, like a great anchor when they were tempted to drift away. A shining, light-winged angel would not do herefar too slight, hed be swept away too.
It was this kind they needed: heavy, solid, earthy and smelling faintly of coffee, the kind able to grab hold of a slipping life in his mighty hands and rasp, Not letting go.
His bald head glowed under the fluorescent light like a halonot golden, but workaday, slick with labour.
Alice slid from her chair and shuffled across the room to the doctor, who sat slumped in defeat. She hugged his thick leg, unable to reach any higher.
Told you, she said in a grown-up whisper, gazing at Helen. He keeps his wings tucked in. So we dont catch a chill.
Peter Godfrey placed his heavy hand on her smooth head. His fingers trembled.
Stay strong, my loves, he whispered. Just a little longer.
Helen turned to the window, unable to watch.
The tears she dreaded finally came. She cried, ashamed of her blindness. She had searched for beauty in the gleam and glamour, yet Beauty sat before her on a battered chair, wiping his browunlovely, awkward, and the holiest thing in the world.
