Peter. A Story
The hospital window was open. The nurse had thrown it open that morning. The air was fresh, the curtains fluttered, the lush green leaves outside cheered the eye, and the suffocating summer heat still felt a long way off.
Peter had his appendix out. They said it was a difficult surgery, just in timebut Peter was fearless.
Afraid of injections? The nurse had smiled at him that morning, pressing out the air bubbles from a syringe.
Peter turned on his side without a word; he wasnt allowed to sit up yet.
As if that would scare me
Theyd brought him in from a back alley. Thats where it had hit. No, he wasnt homeless; he grew up in a childrens home. He and the lads were coming back from the market, where theyd tried to make a few quid on the sly, when suddenly it happened.
He regretted only one thing: hed landed Len and little Sam in troublenow there would be an uproar back at the home. Yesterday, just after the operation, Mrs. Harris, the deputy head, had darted in, fussing. Peter, still woozy from the anaesthetic, only remembered her bending anxiously over him, but hed lost the details.
Why couldnt it have happened back in the home? He was almost there. Just a bit further and hed have been safe. But no, it happened right then and there…
He blamed the apricots. At the market, theyd been handed a crate of spoiled apricots, though they werent all that badsweet as honey. The boys had gorged themselves. And now they were paying for it.
Well, young man! How are you feeling? The older doctor, arms as hairy as an old bear, inspected Peters wound. The worst is over. Youve nothing to fear now.
Wasnt afraid, anyway.
Oh, brave are we? Well, listen here, lad! The doctors tone grew serious. You cant eat anything just yet. No treats! Hold out a bit longer. Later, youll get some jelly.
Peter nodded out of respect. He understoodthere was no one to bring him sweets. Back at the home, everyone was cross with himfor sneaking off, for getting staff in trouble. Theyd gone to the market on the sly through a hole in the fence, and it just had to be on the way back that he collapsed!
The doctor was right about the bravery. Life had forced it on Peter. His mother, he supposed, had him by accidentprobably couldnt afford an abortion. Peter was ten, but hed accepted all this calmly, just as all the home kids did.
Oddly, he wasnt angry at his mother. He was grateful, reallythat she brought him into the world, even if shed signed him away at once. Still, thank you.
Hed spent the first three years in a babys home, then moved to a childrens home near Newcastle, then to one near Oxford. As far back as he could remember, hed been scrapping for survival.
Food fights in the dining hall resurfaced in his memory. Even though it was a relatively peaceful time under Major, the kitchen staff and management shamelessly took home most of the supplies, sometimes even by the carload.
And it wasnt just food they fought overeverything was a battle. Peter grew up strong and won things by strength. He broke arms a couple of times. Once, a visiting hairdresser, clipping them all to a stubble, nearly burst into tears looking at his headscar on scar.
Why cry? Peter never cried.
And now they thought they could scare him with a scar on his belly, or with injections
Not likely!
He always saw adults as cold and calculating. He wasnt a little kid, nor a sweet little girl that anyone would love; he was rough, a bit sharp, blunt, and stubborn.
Watch it, Baker! Try anything, and Ill have you in isolation! Mrs. Harris would often warn.
He didnt argue, but he wasnt the sort to obey blindly. Hed long had his own rules and principles.
There was only one grown-up he often thought of. He had no idea how children talked to their mums in their heads, but with this woman, whod briefly appeared in his life, he spoke like that in his mind, frequently.
He was about six when she joined them. Not at this home yet, but the one near Newcastle. He never knew her role. He just remembered her gentle smile, blue eyes, warm hands, and her scent. She would place him on her lap, whisper in his ear:
You must be strong, Peter. Eat well, look after yourself, listen. Itll be hard, but youll make it. Just try. Alright?
Then shed sing him a tune.
Little Puss, grey little tail,
Hush-a-bye, hush-a-bye.
Tail all grey, paws so white,
Hush-a-bye, hush-a-bye.
White little paws, tiny black ears,
Hush-a-bye, hush-a-bye
And although he already fancied himself grown up, Peter would often think of that simple lullaby when things were especially grim. Hed close his eyes, hum to himself, recall the warmth of those hands, and it eased the pain.
Afterwards, that woman vanished, dissolved into memory, leaving him with just her song and that comfort. No one had ever really sung him lullabies, or cradled him like that. Hed forgotten her name and only ever thought of her as mum. He knew she was probably just a temporary nurse, but he liked to pretend.
The nurse shut the window, making up a bed opposite him. Peter was gladbeing alone was dull.
Soon a trolley rolled in, surrounded by a crowd of adults in white coats. The place became a hive of activity. Peter could just about see from his bed. On the trolley lay a thin, sharp-faced boy with an IV dripping into his arm. Soon only the nurse and a man in a thrown-on white coat remained by his side.
None of them said much. Just the odd word.
Hell sleep, the nurse said.
Alright. Thank you.
Call if you need
Will do.
She left, and the man stayed, back to Peter, head in hands, unmoving. The boy slept on.
Though it was hot in the ward, the man kept his jacket and coat on. Peter thought he might be asleep himself.
Lying there made Peters back ache, so he rolled over, making his bed creak. The man turned around. There was a deep furrow between his brows, bags under his eyes, but his look was kind.
Good morning, he whispered, as if noticing there was someone else in the room only now.
Morning, answered Peter.
The man roused, glanced at his son, then quietly fetched a chair and sat beside Peter.
Been operated on?
Yep, appendix out.
Thats good. You cant get up yet?
Not yet.
Need anything?
Im not allowed. Theyve said no food until evening. What about him? Peter nodded towards the bed with the boy.
Him? The man glanced back, frowned. Different illness. Mind if I stay here? Ill help if you need anything. And if someone comes for you, Ill step out.
I dont mind, Peter shook his headwhat right did he have to object?
The man lifted his chair, turned, and quietly said,
His names Simon, hes eleven. What about you?
Peter, Im ten.
Thanks, Peter, the man said softly, though Peter didnt quite understand what for.
The following day the ward was full of people. Each morning, Simon had his IVs changed, the doctor came several times. His father spent nights in the ward, sometimes talking to his son. Simon would move his hands and head, but never opened his eyes. He looked as if he was only sleeping.
An elderly couple arrived at one point, with a tall, straight-nosed woman whose brown curly hair was tied back. She was Simons mother. Pale, eyes swollen from crying, she was led into the ward and seated beside her son. She talked softly to him, stroking him constantly.
Could you move the boy? Simons father asked the doctor, nodding at Peter and obviously worrying for his wife.
Yes, hell be moved today.
The doctor seemed to recall Peters existence only then, approaching him.
How are you, lad? Painful?
A bit.
That night, in truth, Peter hadnt slept wellthe stitches hurt, it was scary to turn over, and the catheter was uncomfortable. Theyd forgotten to feed him yesterday, or maybe he just couldnt eat yet.
Time to get moving. You can try standing up today. Well move you into the next room. Go on, lad. Nurse will remove your catheter shortly.
Peter wanted to get up more than anything, but the nurse was ages coming. People kept coming and going from the ward.
It dawned on Peter only today that Simon was dying. He hadnt woken up, just slept on, and people spoke in whispers, tense and resigned.
For most of the day, a young womanSimons aunt, Peter learnedstayed by the bedside. Peter felt awkward, and when the nurse finally came to remove the catheter, he hinted at his embarrassment. She snapped back,
Oh, as if she cares! Shes not worried about you. Wont take long, come on.
And it was, quick enough, though Peter lay there savouring his newfound freedom. He was completely naked, with no clue where his clothes had gone. The woman drifted between the window and Simons bed, tidying blankets, moistening his lips. Peter regretted not asking the nurse about his clothes.
As if anyone needs you! Too rightno one does.
An hour later, he decided to try to sit up. He shifted onto his side, covered himself, and sat.
The woman glanced round.
Need some help?
Nah, but Peters head spun. He lay down again.
A minute later, he was sitting once more.
Do you know where they put my clothes? he asked.
She didnt, but promised to find out.
Just keep an eye on Simon for me, okay?
Peter attempted to stand, blanket wrapped around him, but his legs trembled; he didnt dare move from the bed. He had no idea it would be so bloody hard to just cross the room.
Finally, clothes arrived. But not hishospital clothes.
Ill turn around, dont worry, said the woman.
Peter sat, pulled on the trousers. Everything was huge on him; he had to work the drawstring tight around his waist. He was good at this. He needed to roll up the legs, but bending wasnt an option yet. Only when he tried to walk, clumping around on trouser-legs, did the woman realise and kneel down to carefully tuck them up for him. She took so long that Peter felt faint.
Im going to fall
Oh, no you dont, she steadied him and sat him on a chair. Goodness, youre still unwell. Have you eaten today? Whats your name?
Peter.
Im Lizzie. Pete, you should have your mum nearby. Or maybe your dadcan we ring him?
No mum.
Oh. Well, who do you live with?
Its alright. Im fine now. Ill goI need the loo.
He made it to the bathroom, looked at himself in the mirror. Well dark circles beneath the eyes, white lips. But his jet-black eyes burned with fire. One of the carers once said he probably got his surname, Baker, from those eyesblack as a ravens wing. His nickname at the home had been Raven. He was proud of it.
He washed his face in cold water; felt better at once. Probably thanks to Lizzie, someone brought him jelly.
Theyve let you up now, so youve to walk down to the canteen.
Where?
Down the stairs, then right again. Youll smell it, the cleaner giggled.
The boy nearly fainted! How is he supposed to manage stairs? Ill fetch his jelly myself, Lizzie scolded. And nothing else for now.
Peter was restless. He wandered the ward, peering at Simona handsome boy, almost like a girl, curly haired like his mother, though so skinny.
Is he going to die? Only children from care homes could be that direct.
Lizzie flinched.
We dont know. But Yes, Simons very ill. Four surgeries. His parents have been through so much, and now were all pitching in. Miracles do happen, right?
I dont know, Peter said, slumping onto his bed.
He thought about Simon. Such a different lifea real family: a mum, a dad, grandparents, kin and yet, even with all that, here Simon was, dying.
No luck
They didnt move Peter after all. In the evening, Simons dad returned. There was another commotion in the ward, and Peter heard people talking about himhow nobody had come to see him all day.
Peter, the doctor says youre from the childrens home? Simons father asked.
Yep.
Would you mind moving to another ward? Simons very The father sighed.
No, I dont mind. Can I stay?
The next four days blurred together. Peter spiked a temperature and was finally moved to a ward with a bunch of elderly men. He was desperately bored and would return to sit by Simons bed. No one made him leave.
His discharge was postponed because of the fever.
Over time, Simons fatherDavid Edward, as he was calledlearned all about Peter, both by asking and overhearing conversations. He brought Peter some clothes; Peter was used to hand-me-downs and accepted them, then glanced at Simon.
These are his, arent they?
Yes
What if he pulls through?
David looked surprised. His family never spoke the worddieout loud. They were all waiting for Simons death, but couldnt say it. How can you say such a thing about your only child? It was too terrible.
Just once, Sophie had cried out, when hed tried to comfort her by saying theyd done all they could.
Why! Why do you say we did everything right, and hes dying anyway? Why should that help?
When someone you love is fading, your own body starts to give out too. Sophie was falling to pieces. She was on sedatives that barely made a difference.
But what if he doesnt die? asked Peter.
David wanted to say it more to himself than to the boy.
Im sorry, Peter. He wont make it. Hes dying, the words tore out of him.
Does it hurtto die? Peter clutched Simons shirt to his chest, looking at him, brow wrinkled with pity.
David saw the compassion, the connection. In just a few days together, Peter had found a brother in Simon. The boy clearly felt strongly; after all, he was an orphan.
Its quicker than falling asleep. Were making sure theres no pain, thats why were here.
But he still moves.
Yes, thats why we keep talking to him. We hope he hears us. But no one knows for sure.
Simons family were constantly by his side. But one evening, David slipped out for a minute, leaving Peter with Simon. He lingered and, returning, paused in the doorway.
Peter was sitting, holding Simons hand, talking.
and I dont even know if my mothers alive. Left me, but let her. If she came, Id forgive her. Dont believe it? You should Dont you go dying. Your mums heartsick as it is. And your dadI wish he was mine; with a dad like that, Id never let go. Dont worry about your clothes, Ill return them proper, promise. Ive loads, anyway, nothing to spoil here. Just dont dietry, mate, try as hard as you can.
David coughedit couldnt be helped; there was a knot in his throat. Peter jumped up.
I swear he hears me, he squeezed my handpromise.
I believe you, Peter, I do! I think he does.
David and his family waited for the end. Their Simonbrilliant, beautiful, the familys hopewas slipping away. His condition had been diagnosed at eight, a kind of muscular atrophy, and then everything else: heart, lungs, intestines. Theyd sought help in London, in Edinburgh, had the best consultations, which was how Simon made it to his eleventh year. Hed grown up accepting his illness, never complaining.
The burden of care, though, fell on Sophie. Shed sat up with him in every hospital, knocked endlessly on consultants doors, prayed more in church than at home. David was with them, of course, but, as a man, he was supposed to be the strong one.
Her strength had finally crumbled when it became clear Simon was dying. Sophie was put on injections for her nerves.
You keep talking to him, Peter. Go on. I think it helps. He can hear, and hes glad.
David found these conversations between Peter and Simon a lifelinesomething warm and alive next to his ailing son. He would stand outside the ward, listening:
reckon this bloke Scarborough broke my arm once, everything went black. No, seriously, it did. It didnt last though. When I came round and saw my arm like thiscrookedhe watched me, waiting to see if Id wail. But I stood up, dusted myself, held out my arm and said:
Go on, finish the job, you muppet! and I was about to be sick, but, well, I wouldnt give him the satisfaction of tears. No way.
And Scarborough ran off to the nurse, crying like a wimp. Idiot.
See, my arms fine now. And youll get better too. A breaks a bigger deal than your illness, mate. So, come on, wake up already.
Simon died in the night. Peter didnt even notice and no one told him. He waited for the morning rounds, went down for breakfast, and then peeked into the next ward.
By his old bed, a young man was unpacking things.
Wheres? Peter nodded at the freshly made bed that had been Simons.
Dont know. No ones been here, the new patient replied.
Peter flew to the nurses station, but found it empty, so he burst into the doctors room, looking for his doctor, but he wasnt there. He asked another.
Wheres Simon? Has he been moved? Where to?
Simon? The young doctor frowned, then, understanding, said, Ah, you see He was very ill
Is he dead? Peter cut in.
The doctor only nodded.
Unfortunately, yes. It happens.
Peter backed out. He was seething at the whole hospitalat the doctors, at everyone.
Useless lot! They did nothingnothing to save his friend.
How else could he show how angry he was?
In the corridor, a cleaner was mopping, and Peter kicked her bucket, sending it spinning. Water gushed out. She screamed, nurses and doctors came running, all scolding and shouting, while Peter stumbled into the ward, dropped onto his bed, and clapped his hands over his ears.
A hospital full of staff, and theyd done nothing to save his mate! Nothing!
Why Simon, whod been unconscious their entire short friendship, became his friend, Peter couldnt even explain. But a friend he was. Peter had told him everythingabout his mother, about the woman whod sung to him, about all the fights and scrapes.
One night, when Peter was still in that room, hed dreamed Simon sat up in bed and gave a small, sad smile. Peter rushed to help, but Simon asked not to be moved, just to let him sit. With a thin, almost girlish voice, Simon began to tell his own story.
Peter didnt remember the exact words, but he knew Simon had spoken. He listened and listened, and then Simon looked at the window, stood, and started climbing onto the sill. In his sleep, Peter was so terrified Simon would fall that he jolted awake.
Dark branches stirred outside, the moon was up. Simon tossed, turned his head, moved his arms, his exhausted father fast asleep.
Then Peter quietly sat beside Simon, took his skeletal hand, and sang him the only lullaby hed ever known:
Little Puss, grey little tail,
Hush-a-bye, hush-a-bye.
Tail all grey, paws so white,
Hush-a-bye, hush-a-bye.
White little paws, tiny black ears,
Hush-a-bye, hush-a-bye
And ever since, Peter had imaginary conversations with Simon. Simon told him stories about going to the seaside with his family, about his grandma and granddadhis granddad had to be a general, of course. Simon told him about school, classmates, about a room with everything a boy could want, and a mother who woke him with tea each morning.
That was what Peter imagined family life was, and so that was how Simons stories went. Sometimes his fantasies were far-fetched, but that was simply because Peter had never lived in a family, or slept in a family house. Hed only seen such things on telly.
For instance, he pictured that all the beds for the whole family were lined up together in one bedroom. Each person had their own, of course. That in the hall, everyone kept their own little cupboard, and that every Thursday was Fish Day, and the mum used a ladle to dish out everyones morning tea.
***
Strangely, when his son died, David felt a kind of reliefa horrible thing to admit. Not because he hadnt loved Simon or been a bad fatherfar from it. Simon simply hadnt been living anymore. In that half-coma, if they hadnt kept him going, hed have only suffered. But now the struggle was done.
They would have to accept his passing, help Sophie come to terms, and move forward.
Yet Davids thoughts kept returning to young Peter.
Now wasnt the time to mention adoption. Sophie wouldnt hear of it. No child could replace Simon. His photograph now stood surrounded by flowers in the sitting room; Sophie sat beside it with a candle, or else was at church, or visiting the grave daily. Eight years ago, an emergency operation after an ectopic pregnancy had meant shed never have another child.
And Peter would never have parents
Of course, he was different from Simonrough around the edges, dark-eyed, a little wild. But David had heard hima pure-hearted, unspoilt soul.
Soph, I was at the hospital again today. Peters been discharged. They kept him a while, but hes gone now.
Why? Why did you go? Sophie looked at him in surprise.
Me? Oh I picked up Simons medical files. Plus David shrugged, recalling with a wry smile, Peter, they said, had a real scene when he heard Simon had gone. Accused everyone, raised hell.
Silly boy, Sophie sighed.
Quite, David agreed.
Dont worry about me, Dave. Im coping bit by bit. Get on with your work.
Alright.
Just dont mention any boys for now, please?
David said nothing more on the matter.
But that weekend, he went to visit Peters childrens home. Something tugged him there, wouldnt let him be. From what hed heard Peter say, there wasnt much order or care. But he had no luckthe staff at the home wouldnt let him see Peter. They asked endless questions, gave him suspicious glances. The matron wasnt at all warm, and no matter how David tried to explain, they would only agree to a meaningless meeting.
But this didnt deter himif anything, it spurred him on. He remembered an old classmate, Tessa Saville, who worked in adoption support.
He soon tracked her down, and next day was off to see her. They talked for ages. Tessa understood and promised to find out all she could about Peter, stressing that nothing could happen without his wifes and Peters agreement. Without that, nothing could move forward.
Still, David doggedly visited the council offices, got the paperwork list for fostering or adoption. The social workers, to his surprise, were welcoming and open. They promised to help arrange a meeting with Peter.
He told his father-in-law and Lizzie. Lizzie was optimisticshed liked the lad. Both promised to speak to Sophie.
But discussing Peter with Sophie only brought tears.
Hell never replace Simon. Dont you see?
No ones saying he would, Soph. Hes an orphan, and now so are we, in a way. Hes nothing like Simonrough, wounded, a home kid. No one can replace our son. But if youd heard the way he spoke to Simon, how much he caredit almost kept me, a grown man, going. Such calm and hope I cant explain. Cant we just meet him, please?
Dont push me
It was the first sign of yielding.
When Peter was brought to their meeting at the home, he looked awkward, eyes down, hands clasped so tight the knuckles whitened. He didnt even take Davids outstretched hand.
Tessa was there, quietly occupying herself. David longed to hug Peter, to tell him not to fret. He didnt know how to reach outhow to help the boy. He looked to the women for support. Sophie studied Peter, sighing softly. Tessa kept silent, observing. David started filling the silence with small talk.
Peter was so tense, so nervous that they ended the meeting early for him.
So much for fearless!
He seems to understand it all, but doesnt want to join us, does he? David asked, dejected, on the way back.
Youre wrong, said Tessa. He dreams of it. With all his heart, as few do. Hell try desperately hard to be good enough, but hes scared to death hell get it wrong.
Are we that frightening? Sophie asked.
Youre exactly the parents hes never known. He has no idea how to act around you, worries you wont like him. Now, all he can think about is you, Tessa replied.
It was agreed Peter would visit their home, though he hadnt agreed properly, and Sophie was far from sure.
When David brought him, they sat for tea. Peters hands were clammy; he kept his eyes on the cup, afraid to take anything, terrified of clinking the cup, unable even to look at the beautiful kitchen. Everything was different from what hed imagined. It felt too small, like the adults were too close.
He was inexplicably terrified of Sophie.
When David dropped a spoon, Peter flinched and burst out,
Bloody hopeless, honestly.
David grinned.
Hopeless! Just clumsy. Peter, eat up, lad. Dont be shy.
Peter forced down a bit of potato, chewing awkwardly, sitting with it half-uneaten.
Come on, mate, relax!
Peter, would you like to see Simons old room? Sophie offered.
Peter brightened up, eyes shining, and nodded eagerly.
He went into Simons room and at once saw the big portrait. Simon looked different hereopen-faced, smiling, alive. It was such a comfort, seeing his friend like this. It almost felt like Simon was saying, Dont fret, Im here with you.
Hey, Si! Alright, mate? Peter went right over, touched the frame, looked at Sophie, He was a bit bigger here.
Yes, he wasnt always so thin. That was only at the end She couldnt bring herself to say died.
Right before he died, yeah? Peter asked, stroking the frame, Will you show me how he lived here?
Sophie didnt follow at first, but then grabbed a photo album.
I cant bear to look yet. You go ahead.
Peter dropped onto the sofa and started leafing through it. Sophie stood by the window.
That him? The little one? Thats him, right?
So Sophie had to come sit beside him, and together they looked at the photographs she hadnt thought she could face.
Funny kid cool awesome Peter commented.
He was full of questions, interested in everything.
Then, picking up a beach photo, he suddenly exclaimed,
Oh! The seaside! He told me you went to the sea!
Sophie shook her head sadly.
He told you? Peter, he couldnt talk by then.
Peter stared up at her, understanding hed gone too far, but stubbornly insisted,
He told me, he really did!
Sophie let it pass. She found herself looking through her sons photos with calm and even joy. The fear and pain ebbed away. Sitting with this awkward boy, she realised it might be easier to accept Simons death with him close by.
She drew a deep breath and asked firmly,
Peter, if we wanted to adopt you would you say yes?
He tensed again, flipping the album for a few seconds in silence.
Not sure. Simon was good. Im not. I dont know how, really
Suddenly, Sophie hugged him tight.
Thats alright. Were not taking you as a replacement for Simon, just welcoming his best friend.
Peter was startled by the sudden embrace. To be touchedoutside of fightingwas something he hadnt felt in years. He smelled her scent, felt her warmth.
To distract himself from the hug, he kept turning pages, not really seeing, her arms around him, rocking him softly in thought.
Peter had never cried, not ever.
But now a lump rose in his throat, and suddenly, tears welled up. He sobbed once.
Are you crying, Peter? Oh, sweetheart, are you? Come on, dont cry, or Ill be off too. Hold on, youre a man! You have to be strong! She wiped the tears from his face with her hand.
Hed heard those words before.
The window was open in the room. The air was fresh, the curtain ballooned, green leaves outside delighted the eye, and his friend Simons portrait smiled gently down.
And, like a little child, Peter asked,
Do you know a song, by any chance? Little Puss, grey little tail, hush-a-bye, hush-a-bye… white little paws, tiny black ears
I think I know it. A lullaby, isnt it? Would you like me to learn it?
Peter sniffed and nodded. There wasnt anything else he wanted more
***Sophie put her arm around him and, with her cheek resting lightly against his hair, began to hum uncertainlya few wrong notes, then the quiet tune found itself. The sound wrapped softly round them, floating out into the golden evening. For the first time, Peter allowed himself to lean in, closing his eyes, letting the warmth flow through him.
A feeling bloomed, slow and unfamiliar. Not quite happiness, not yet belongingbut the hope of both, pulsing gently in his chest.
For a moment, the room was silent except for Sophies voice and the distant singing of birds. David, standing in the doorway, watched them; he didnt enter, not to disturb the spell. He saw his wifeher face softer than it had been for monthsholding the dark-haired boy as if he was already her own.
Peters shoulders trembled, and he tried to swallow his sobs, but Sophie only drew him closer, rocking him just a little, the way mothers do, until his breath calmed and the tears dried on his cheeks.
Then Peter pulled away, rubbing his eyes fiercely. He grinneda shy, lopsided grinand glanced from Sophie to Simons photo, and back again.
Ill try, he whispered, as if answering a question no one had asked aloud.
Outside, the wind stirred the green leaves, carrying off the last notes of song. In that sunlit room, surrounded by memory and hope, Peter foundfor the very first timea place to begin.
And all together, they breathed in, and sat quietly, listening to the promise of a new day.
