Peter: A Story
The hospital window stood wide open, just as the nurse had left it that morning. The air was crisp, curtains billowed, the greenery outside cheered the eye, and the baking summer heat was still a distant threat.
Peter had just had his appendix out. They said it was a close call, the operation tricky, but Peter wasnt one to fuss.
Not afraid of needles? the nurse grinned each morning, flicking the syringe theatrically.
Peter would just roll over. He wasnt allowed up yet.
As if that could scare me…
Theyd brought him in from a back alley, when the pain struck. No, he wasnt homelesshe grew up in a care home. He and the boys had just come back from the market, trying, rather illegally, to earn a few quid. Thats when his stomach revolted.
He regretted one thing: hed gotten Len and little Tom into trouble. Now the care home would be in a state, heads would roll. The deputy manager, Mrs. Kirton, had popped by yesterday after surgery, brandishing an air of concern. Peter was still woozy from the anaesthesia and only remembered her face hovering anxiously over him. Details, mercifully, were fuzzy.
Why couldnt it have happened right in the care home? Hed almost made it… But fate had other ideas.
He blamed the apricots. Some market bloke had handed them a crate of dodgy apricots, but they were sweet as honey. Too sweet. Theyd eaten far too many.
Well, hero! Hows the wound? The older doctor, arms hairy as a badgers, inspected Peters stitches. The worst is behind you now. No more fear necessary.
I wasnt frightened before, Peter replied, with a hint of pride.
Brave lad, are you? All right, but listenno sweets, no parcels from the outside, understand? This is a sugar-free zone. Later, well bring you some jelly.
Peter nodded, mostly out of politeness. Truth was, no one would bring him treats anyway. The care home lot were probably fuminghed slipped out, dragged others down. Slipped out through a hole in the fence, no less, and collapsed in the most inconvenient place.
The doctor had a point about bravery, annoyingly. Peter was brave, or rather, life had made him so. His mother had him, well, probably by accidenttoo broke to do otherwise. He was ten, but saw no reason not to think about these thingsthe way all care home kids do.
He didnt resent his mum. If anything, he was gratefulshed had him, after all. Shed signed the paperwork and gone, but stillthanks.
Hed spent his first three years in a baby unit, then onto a care home in Bedford, then out near Reading. Hed always been scrapping to survive.
He remembered the food fights in the dining hall. Peaceful 1980s or not, the cooks and managers lugged home half the kitchen stores, and whatever couldnt be pinched went out by the barrel in cars.
And it wasnt just food they fought overeverything was fair game. Peter was tough. He fought his way up. Broke a few arms, even his own, more than once. When a visiting hairdresser saw his scalpscar after scarshe nearly wept.
Whats there to cry about? Peter never cried.
And yet, now adults thought they could frighten him with a scar on his belly or a jab in the bum.
Hilarious.
Grown-ups, in his experience, were cold and utilitarian. He wasnt a sweet little thing, or a winsome girl, he was rough, blunt, and direct.
Watch yourself, Brown! If youre up to something, straight to the isolation ward! Mrs. Kirton would warn him, not infrequently.
He didnt argue, but he also didnt quite do as told. He had his own rules.
There was only one adult in his life hed ever really thought about. He didnt know how children remembered their mums, chatting to them inside their heads, but with this womana fleeting presencehe found himself doing just that.
He was about six, back when she arrived at the care home near Bedford. He couldnt say what she was, exactly. But he remembered her gentle smile, blue eyes, soft hands, and the scent of lavender. Shed plop him on her knee and whisper,
Youve got to be strong, Petey. Eat well, take care of yourself. Listen when you can. Itll be tough, but you can manage. Just do your best, sweetheart. Can you do that?
And then shed sing to him:
Pussycat, pussycat, little grey tail,
Hush-a-bye, hush-a-bye.
Tail is grey, paws so white,
Hush-a-bye, hush-a-bye…
And though Peter considered himself long since grown, hed often remember that silly lullaby when things got especially grim. Hed close his eyes, hum it under his breath, and imagine those warm handsa comfort, in its way.
Then that woman disappeared, leaving him only her song and a memory. No one else sang. No one else rocked him on their lap. Hed forgotten her name; in his thoughts she was simply Mumthough he knew really she was just a temp. But a kids allowed a bit of fantasy.
The nurse shut the window, and bustled about making up the bed opposite. Peter cheered upbeing alone was boring.
Soon, a gurney wheeled in with an entourage of white coats. Commotion. Peter couldnt see well from his bed, but made out a spindly boy with a sharp nose, a drip suspended above him. Once the crowd dispersed, only the nurse and a man in a white coat remained.
No one said much. The nurse explained, Hell stay asleep, to which the man nodded, Thank you. Call me if anything changes.
And then silence. The man sat by the childs bed, jacket under his coat, head bowed, unmoving. Peter thought he might be asleep.
Peters back was sore, so he rolled over, making the bed squeak. The man turned. Deep frown, shadows under his eyesbut a kind face.
Hello, he said softly, as if only just noticing Peter was there.
Hello, Peter nodded back.
The man seemed to wake up, glanced at his son, then quietly fetched a chair and sat by Peter instead.
Had surgery?
Yeah, snipped the appendix.
Good. Can you get up yet?
Not really.
Need anything?
They said no. Not until the evening. What about him? Peter nodded at the other bed.
Him? Hes got something else. The man frowned. Mind if I stay here? Ill help if you need anything. If your folks turn up, Ill step outside.
Dont mind, Peter shrugged. He didnt really have a right to object.
The man picked up his chair, introduced himself softly, Hes Sam, hes eleven. What about you?
Peter. Im ten.
Thank you, Peter, the man said, oddly, and Peter wasnt sure why he was being thanked.
The next day, the room was busy. Sam was put on more drips, doctors came and went. His father spent the night in the ward, sometimes murmuring to his son. Sam moved a little in his sleep, head and hands twitching, but his eyes never opened. He just seemed to doze.
Later, a tired couple arrived, bringing with them a tall womanSams mother. Upright, curly brown hair, anxious red eyes. They guided her to the bed, let her sit, she stroked Sams hand, murmuring, endlessly.
Perhaps you could move the other boy? Sams father suggested quietly, glancing at his wife.
Yes, well arrange that, the doctor replied.
Only then did he remember Peter. Hows it going, mate? Painful?
A little, Peter admitted. The wound ached through the night, hed barely sleptcatheter still in, nobody brought him food. Forgotten, maybe.
Today you can try to get up, the doctor announced. Well shift you to the next ward soon. Nurse will remove the tubes.
Peter desperately wanted up, but the nurse took ages. People wandered in and out.
Only this morning did Peter truly notice: Sam, it seemed, was dying. He never woke, everyone spoke in whispers, the air thick with tension and resignation.
A teenage girlSams cousinsat at the bedside. Peter felt awkward, and when the nurse arrived to remove his tubes, he hinted he was embarrassed. The nurse just snapped, She doesnt care! Wont take a minute. Lets get on with it.
Which was truethe procedure was quick, and Peter now luxuriated in his newfound freedom. There was, however, a snag. He was completely naked, no sign of his clothes. The girl fussed with Sams blanket, dabbed his lips, and Peter regretted not asking about his things.
Nobody cares about you! Thats about righthe couldnt argue.
But after a while, Peter gathered courage to sit up, wrapping himself in the blanket.
The cousin glanced over, Want a hand?
No, he muttered, trying to fight off dizziness before flopping back down.
A moment later, up again. Excuse me, do you know where theyve put my clothes? he asked.
She didnt, but promised to find out.
Just keep an eye on Sam for me, yeah?
Peter managed to stand, blanket bundled around him, but his legs were shaking, he was wobblinghe barely made it two steps.
Eventually, she brought him some hospital-issue pyjamasnot his own.
Ill look away, she said kindly.
He yanked the trousers on; all too big, so he fished a waistband thread and cinched them tighta skill practiced to art. The legs dragged, but he couldnt bend to roll them up, so when he started shuffling abouttrousers swallowing his feetthe cousin knelt and rolled them for him, fussing so much Peter thought hed faint.
Im going to fall over
She caught him, parked him in a chair, Blimey, youre not well enough for this. Have you eaten? Whats your name?
Peter.
Im Lucy. Pete, is your mum around? Maybe ring her?
Dont have a mum.
Ah. Dad, then? Who do you live with?
Im all right, really. Bit better now. Just need the loo.
He dragged himself off, caught sight of his face in the mirrorblue circles under his eyes, lips pale, but his black eyes still fierce. One carer had joked that his surname, Brown, suited himeyes dark as a ravens wing. At the care home, his nickname was Ravenhed owned it with pride.
He splashed cold water on his facehelped a bit. Lucy, evidently intervening, soon brought him jelly.
What about meals? he grumbled, If Im up, can I go to the dining room?
Where do you think youre off? the cleaner cackled. Find it by the smell, mate, just right of the stairscant miss it!
He nearly keeled over, Lucy protested. Ill fetch the jelly for him! Hes having nothing else for now.
Peter was restless, so he paced the ward, peered at Sama beautiful boy, almost girlish, curly-haired like his mum, but terribly thin.
Is he dying? Peter asked, as only a care home kid couldbluntly.
Lucy shuddered.
We dont know. Yes. Sams very ill. Four surgeries… his parents are exhausted. Im his aunthis fathers sister. Stillmiracles happen, yeah?
I dont know, Peter shrugged, flopping onto the bed.
He pondered Sams strange lifelike something in a film. Parents, granny, granddad, relatives… everything in place, and yet, there he lay, fading.
No luck at all…
Peter was never moved; come evening, Sams father returned, and bustle came back with him. Peter overheard them: Not a single visitor for that lad all day…
Hey, Pete, Sams dad said, Are you from the care home?
Yeah.
Perhaps we should move you elsewhereSams not well He hesitated.
No, Im all right here. Please let me stay.
Four days passed, all alike. Peter developed a fever, got shifted to the old folks ward, where boredom nearly finished him off. Hed sneak back to sit by Sam; no one objected.
His discharge was delayed.
By then, Sams father, Mr. David Brown, had figured Peter outpicked up his story, even what hed overheard. He brought Peter a bundle of clothes, which Peter acceptedhand-me-downs were familiarand then glanced at Sam.
These are his, arent they?
They are…
And if he doesnt die?
David stared, startled. In their family, death was never said aloud. They all awaited Sams end, but to say itunthinkable.
Only once had Sams mother, Susan, burst out: Why? We did everything rightwhy is he dying? Why should I feel better for having tried?
When your child is slipping away, your strength drains with them. Susans, especially, had vanished. She couldnt imagine life without her son. They plied her with tranquillisersnot that it helped.
But what if he doesnt die? Peter pressed.
David felt it was time for honestyperhaps as much for himself as the boy.
Sadly, he cant. Hes dying, Pete, the words caught painfully.
Does dying hurt? Peter gripped Sams shirt in his hands, eyes creased with sorrow.
David saw the sympathy in him; a boy so moved, despite being a strangerand an orphan at that.
Quicker than falling asleep. We make sure hes not in pain. Thats why were all here.
But he still moves?
Yes, so we talk to him, hoping he can hear us. Butwho knows?
Family kept a near-constant vigil around Sam. One evening David stepped out briefly, leaving Peter. He returned to find Peter sitting, hand in Sams, talking quietly:
…and I dont know where my mum is. Maybe shes not around anymore. But if she did come back, Id forgive her. No, really! And youdont die. See how your mum worries? And your dad… wish I had a dad like that. I swear, if you get better, Ill wash these clothes and give them right back. Ive got loads, they give us hand-me-downs all the time. Just dont die, please. Try your hardest…
David cleared his throata lump seeming to block it. Peter leapt up.
Hes hearing me, Im sure! He squeezed my hand! Honest!
I believe you, Pete, I do! He probably can.
David and the whole family were resigned. Little Sam, their talented, beloved boy, was at deaths door. Diagnosed at eight with muscular atrophy, things had only gone downhillheart, lungs, gut, the lot. Theyd sought help in London, Manchester, everywheremade it as far as age eleven. Sam never complained, took his fate quietly.
Susan bore most of the hardship; sticking by her son through clinic visits, praying in churches. David was there too, but he could bear it morehe was the strong one.
Susans stamina finally gave out when hope faded; then they sedated her.
You keep talking to him, Pete. I think it helps.
For David, the chats between the two boys were a reliefa breath of normality beside his sons bed. Hed sometimes stand in the corridor, listening:
…You know, when Saracen (that big kid) broke my arm, everything went black for a moment. Really! But only a bit! When I came round, my arm was twisted like this, here. And that lout stood there, waiting, probably thought Id scream. But I got up, dusted myself off, held out the arm and said, Go on then, finish the job, though I felt sick. I wasnt going to bawl, just to spite him.
He ran to Matron in the end. Weakling.
See, bones mend. You will too. A breaks nothing compared to your illness. So come on, matepull yourself together.
Sam died that night. Peter didnt notice at first; no one told him. He waited for the morning round, went to breakfast, then popped back to check the other bed.
A new patient was unpacking his things.
What about him? Peter asked, nodding to Sams old bed.
No ideanobody here now, the new boy shrugged.
Peter darted round the ward, then found the nurse wasnt there, so rushed to the staff room, eyes scanning for his doctor. No luck. He asked another.
What about Sam? Did they move him? Where?
The young staff doctor frowned, then, Oh… Im sorry. He was very ill…
He died, didnt he? Peter cut in.
A nod.
Sometimes that happens.
Peter backed out. Right then, he was furious with the whole hospitaldoctors and nurses and the lot.
Bastards! They didnt even save him!
How could he show his anger?
In the corridor, a cleaner was washing the floor. Peter kicked the bucket, spilling water everywhere. The cleaner screamed, doctors rushed in, the nurse appeared, staff scolded and tutted, but Peter only banged his way back into the ward, fell onto his bed, and clamped his hands over his ears.
A whole hospital! So many doctors! And they hadnt done a thing for his only friend. Not a thing.
Why Sama boy hed only known unconscioushad become his friend, Peter couldnt say. But a friend he certainly was. To Sam, Peter had told his whole story, about his mother, the singing woman, every scuffle and injury.
Once, during another night in the ward, Peter dreamt that Sam sat up, smiled sadly, and Peter tried to lift him. But Sam asked him not to, and, in a small voicealmost girlishhe started talking about himself.
What Sam said, Peter couldnt remember upon waking. He just remembered the voice. Sam stood, approached the window, and started to climb onto the sill. Peter, in the dream, was so frightened Sam would fall that he woke with a start.
The branches waved stark against the window, the moon shone. Sam thrashed, turning his head and hands, his father dozing in a chair.
Peter crept up, took Sams thin hand, and quietly sang the only lullaby hed ever known:
Pussycat, pussycat, little grey tail,
Hush-a-bye, hush-a-bye.
Tail is grey, paws so white,
Hush-a-bye, hush-a-bye…
Since then, Peter would chat to Sam in his mind. Sam would tell him of seaside holidays, of having a granny and grandad (the latter always a retired colonel, naturally), about school, friends, a bedroom full of treasures, and a mum who woke him up with a smile.
That was how Peter imagined family life, and so thats how Sam recounted it. Sometimes Peters flights of fantasy were absurdbut how would he know? Hed never lived in a family home, only seen them on telly.
He pictured families all sleeping in one room, each with their own bed. In the hallway, a locker for everyone; fish on Thursdays; mum serving tea with a ladle.
***
Strangely, when Sam died, David felt a shuddering relief. Not from lack of lovefar from it. But Sam had not truly lived for weeksonly existed, a shadow of pain. At least now, the suffering was over.
Now, David had to accept his son was gone, somehow support his wife to do the same, and carry on.
He found his thoughts wandering, more and more, to Peter.
Of course, now wasnt the time to talk adoption. Susan would never understand. No one would replace Sam, ever. Sams portrait, garlanded with flowers, stood in their lounge; his mother sat and stared, burned candles, visited the church, even the graveevery day. Susan, after an ectopic years ago, could never have more children.
But Peter would never have a home or parents…
Peter was nothing like Samrough around the edges, tough, black-eyed. Yet David had listened to him talk, seen the light in him.
Susan, I went to see Peter todaytheyve finally discharged him.
Why would you do that? she asked, baffled.
Well… I wanted to pick up Sams medical records. They say Peter made a sceneblamed everyone, caused a ruckus.
Silly boy, she sighed.
Thats him, David nodded.
Dont worry about me so much. Im learning to live with it. Work, keep busy.
Right.
And pleasenot a word about bringing a boy home. Not yet, all right?
David said nothing morebut nonetheless, he called on Peters care home at the weekend. Something tugged at him, and he couldnt leave it. Hed heard the horror storieslittle order, much chaos. But his visit bore no fruitthe manager pelted him with questions, looked askance, hardly supportive.
If anything, that fuelled Davids resolve. He remembered his old school friend, Mrs. Thatcher, now a support worker for would-be adopters.
He tracked down her address and visited. They talked long; she sympathised, promised to look into Peters case, but insisted that Susans and Peters consent were crucialwithout it, nothing doing.
Still, David turned up at social services, gathered paperwork for guardianship or adoption. The staff were unexpectedly kind and promised to help arrange a meeting.
He kept Susan out of the loop, but told her father and Lucywho was positive about Peter and promised to chat to Susan.
Susan wept if Peters name was even mentioned.
Hes not Sam! Dont you see?
Were not trying to replace him! David pleaded. He wont ever fill Sams shoes. Hes a tough customer, brings his own challenges, and needs what hes never hada home. But you should have heard him talking to Samcaring, hopeful. When I was at my lowest, he gave me hope. Lets meet him, if nothing else. Please.
Justdont push me… she whispered.
It was the first glimmer of hope.
They arranged a meeting at the care homePeter in the directors office, flexing his knuckles until his fingers went white, and refusing to meet anyones gaze. David offered his hand, Peter wouldnt take it.
Mrs. Thatcher, there as observer, busied herself with papers. David found it toughPeter looked so jumpy, nothing like the lad hed seen in hospital.
He wanted to give him a hug, say Dont worry! but didnt dare. Susan simply watched, sighed. Mrs. Thatcher kept mum. David started chattering about nothing at all to break the ice.
Peter was so tense, they let him go back to his group early.
So much for being fearless!
He looks terrified, David said later, disappointed. He doesnt want to come with us, does he?
On the contrary, Mrs. Thatcher replied. He wants it more than most; hes desperate to be chosen, but afraid hell disappoint you. Petrified of not being good enough.
Are we so scary, Susan? David asked gently.
Youre real parents. Hes never known that. He hasnt a clue how to behave. Right now, youre all he can think about. Hes dreaming of thistrust me.
So, a visit was arranged. Peter hadnt agreed outright, and Susan still wasnt sure.
David brought him round for tea. Peter sweated, studied his cup, terrified of making a noise, too shy to eat, eyes glued to the sumptuous kitchen, awkward in the unfamiliar cosiness.
He was afraid of Susan in particular.
When David dropped a spoon, Peter flinched, muttered under his breath, Well, thats stuffed it.
David seized the mood, Thats stuffed it, all right! Come on, Petetuck in, have some spuds, mate!
Peter nibbled a bit of potato, chewed nervously, cheeks burning.
There you go, mate, dont be shy!
Pete, would you like to see Sams room? Susan offered, finding her stride.
Peter perked up, eyes wide, nodding quickly.
He entered Sams room, immediately drawn to the big portraita little chubbier than in the hospital, grinning, open-eyed.
Hey, Sam! Hello! Peter approached, touched the frame, glanced at Susan. He looks healthier here.
Yes, that was beforethe end, she said, struggling with the word died.
Before he died, you mean? Peter replied, patting the frame. Can you show me how he lived?
Susan seemed lost, but grabbed a photo album, sat beside Peter. You look yourself. Ill just be over here.
Peter flipped the pages, Susan eventually joining him, her fear softening.
Hes funny. Cool, actually… awesome… Peter commented.
He was all questions.
Suddenly, spotting a beach photo, he shouted, The seaside! He told me you went to the seaside!
Susan shook her head, sad.
Told you? Pete, he couldnt talk for ages, love.
Peter flashed an embarrassed look, then insisted, He talked to me, though!
Susan saw no reason to argue. She felt calm, even consoled, sitting with this naive, hopeful child. Maybe, with him by her side, she could accept her loss.
She took a deep breath, and with surprising firmness, asked:
Peterif we wanted to adopt you, would you want that?
Peter tensed, silent for a long moment.
Im not sure. Sam was a good lad. Im not, really. I dont know how…
Without warning, Susan pulled him into a hug.
Thats all right. Were not taking you as Sams replacementjust as his best mate.
The sudden embrace frightened Peter. Fighting, sure, but a caring touchhe hadnt felt that in years. He caught the scent of her, the warmth of her arms, and, blinking hard, continued flicking through the album, knuckles white, as she gently rocked him, lost in thought.
Peter, who never cried, not once.
But now, a lump surged up his throat, tears spilled. He sniffled, quietly.
Crying? Petey, youre crying? There, there, dontelse Ill start blubbing too! Be brave, youre a man. Youve got to be strong! She wiped his face with her hand.
Hed heard those words before.
The window was open in the room. The air billowed in, curtains like soap bubbles, the leaves outside vivid green. And from the portrait, Sam beamed down at him.
And Peter, feeling small at last, asked, Do you happen to know a song? Pussycat, pussycat, little grey tail, hush-a-bye, hush-a-bye. Tail is grey, paws so white…
Ive heard it. Its a lullaby, I think. Want me to learn it for you?
Peter nodded. That was all he wanted, really.
***Susan nodded, smiling through her tears, holding him as the afternoon light poured golden into the room. In that gentle warmth, a hush fell between them, the ache of grief and hope woven softly together.
Somewhere below, David was busying about, making tea no one truly needed, clinking cups and hummingjust to fill the silence with something gentle, something alive.
Peter stayed close to Susan, watching the dust shimmer in the sunbeams, the air heavy with flowers and the faintest trace of lavender. For the first time, comfort felt real: not fierce, not earned by toughness, but simply given, like a song or the promise of sleep in a safe bed.
He glanced once more at Sams portraitboyish grin, eyes shining with the sort of mischief Peter recognised in himself. It was as if Sam winked, just for him, a blessing to take his place and write new chapters in a story that needed mending.
Outside the window, the world kept oncar tyres hissed, a blackbird sang, and the leaves danced as if the summer would never end.
Peter drew a long breath.
Will you sing it now? Susan whispered.
He smiled, almost shy.
And together, in the softest hush, they began:
Pussycat, pussycat, little grey tail,
Hush-a-bye, hush-a-bye…
The words rose through the lamplight, out into the garden, up toward a boy on a swing in a better place, and scattered across the tender, new beginning unfolding in that quiet, sunlit room.
Peter let himself be held.
This time, he didnt mind crying. And when sleep finally came, he did not dream of being alone.
