Petey: A Short Story

Peter. A Story.

A warm breeze wafts in through the open window of the hospital room. The nurse opened it this morning. Curtains float gently in the draft, the lush green of the trees outside draws the eye, and its not yet sweltering with summer heat.

Peter has just had his appendix removed. They say the operation was trickybarely in timeyet Peter remains fearless.

Not scared of injections, are you? the nurse asks with a smile, tapping the syringe to let the air out.

Peter silently turns on his side. He isnt allowed to move yet.

As if that could frighten him

He was brought in from an alley behind the estate, after he doubled over with pain. No, he wasnt homelesshed grown up in the care home. He and a couple of the boys were sneaking back from the Saturday market, where theyd tried to earn a few pounds under the table, when the pain struck.

He only cares about one thing: putting his mates, Len and little Simon, in a fixtherell be a right commotion at the home now. Yesterday, the deputy head, Miss Kirke, came running just after his surgery, fussing over him. Peter was still groggy with anaesthetic, so he remembers her leaning close above him, full of worry, but the details are a blur.

Why couldnt it have happened just inside the homes gate? He was nearly there. But nofate got him outside.

He blames the apricots. Theyd been given a box of bruised apricots at the market, only they werent that badsweet as honey. So, of course, they all ate too many.

Well now, hero! Howre you feeling? the elderly doctor with hairy hands checks Peters stitches. The worst is over. Nothing left to fear.

I wasnt scared anyway.

Brave, eh? Well then, since youre so tough, listen here for now, you cant eat anything. No treats allowed! Hold tight for a few more hours youll get jelly this evening.

Peter nods respectfully. He knowsno one will bring him sweets. Everyone at the care home is probably cross with him for leaving, annoyed that he got the staff in trouble. They snuck out to the market through a gap in the fence, and trust it to be him who collapsed on the way back!

As for bravery, the doctors right. Peter is bravelife taught him to be. His mum, he reckons, had him by accident. Probably couldnt afford not to. Hes ten and regards it all coolly, as everyone in a care home does.

He doesnt resent her. On the contrary, hes grateful she gave birth to him, even if she signed the papers and walked away.

He was in the baby home till he was three, then moved through various care homesMansfield, then outside Oxford. For as long as he recalls, hes been fighting just to exist.

He remembers the scrapping over food in the canteen. Even in these calm times, staff pocketed much of the food for themselvesand took carts of it home. But scraps werent just over food. For everything. Peter grew up hardy, strong. Once, he broke his arm. The hairdresser, who came to shave them all for nits, nearly burst into tears when she saw all his scars.

But why cry? Peter never did.

And now they want him to be scared of a scar on his tummy or routine jabs? Pathetic.

Hes always thought adults were cold, calculating. He wasnt cute or one of the little girls people cooed overhe was rough around the edges, blunt, sometimes bad-tempered, stubborn.

Behave yourself, Warren! Try anything, and its the isolation room for you! was Miss Kirkes regular threat.

He never argued, but he didnt promise to be obedient either. Hed long had his own set of rules.

There was only one adult Peter often remembered. He didnt know how other children thought of their mums and talked to them in their heads, but this woman, whod briefly worked at his old care home, often wandered through his thoughts.

He was about six when she started. He was still in the home in Mansfield then. He never knew her role, he just remembers her gentle smile, sky-blue eyes, warm hands, and her scent. He remembers how shed sit him on her lap and whisper in his ear:

You must be strong, little Peter. Eat well, look after yourself, do as youre told. Itll be tough, but you can do it. Just try, okay?

And shed sing him a lullaby.

Little tabby, fluff and tail,
Sleep now, sleep now.
Tail of grey, paws so pale,
Sleep now, sleep now.
White little paws, ears so dark,
Sleep, my darling, hush, hush

Even though Peter wants to think of himself as grown-up now, there are days this simple tune comes back to him when he feels rotten. He closes his eyes, hums it to himself, remembers the warmth of those hands, and things seem easier.

Eventually, she disappearedjust goneleaving behind her song and the memory. No one else ever sang him lullabies or rocked him. He even forgot her name and just calls her Mum in his head, though he knows she was probably just a temp. Still, its nice to imagine.

The nurse shuts the window and makes up the other bed. Peter is glada new patient is company.

Soon, a trolley rolls in with a crowd of staff. Theres the bustle of a new case. Peter cant see much, but spots the boythin, sharp-featured, a drip above him. Soon, only the nurse and a man in a white coat are left.

No one talks muchthe nurse, the man, or the boy. Just the odd word.

Hell sleep, the nurse says.

Alright. Thank you.

If you need, call

Will do.

She leaves. The man sits hunched, head bowed, unmoving, by his sleeping son.

Its stifling in the room, but the man keeps his jacket and white coat on. Peter suspects hes dozed off too.

Peter’s back aches from lying still so long, so he shifts slightlyhis cot squeaks. The man turns, a crease between his eyes, shadows beneath.

Hello there, he whispers, as if only now noticing Peters presence.

Hello, Peter answers.

The man straightens, checks on his son, then quietly takes a chair and moves to Peters side.

Had surgery?

Yeah. Appendix.

Good. Not up yet, then?

Not allowed.

Anything you want?

Not really. Can’t eat till evening, they said. What about him? Peter nods at the other boy.

Him? the man glances back, frowns. Something different. Do you mind if I stay here a bit? If anyone comes for you, Ill step out.

Dont mind, Peter shakes his head, as if he has a say.

The man glances at the other bed.

Hes Simon. Hes eleven. Whats your name?

Peter. I’m ten.

Thank you, Peter, the man says. Peter isnt sure what for.

The next day, people are back and forth constantly. Simon is on drips, the doctor checks in several times, and his dad sleeps here at night, sometimes murmuring to his son. Simon twitches now and then but doesnt open his eyeshe seems always asleep.

Then Simons family arrivesgrandparents and his mum, tall, straight-backed, with a hooked nose and curly hair tied back. She looks pale, eyes red from crying. Shes helped into the room, sits beside her unconscious son, crooning softly, caressing him.

Do you think you could move Peter to another room? the father asks the doctor, nodding to Peter, anxious for his wife.

Yes, well transfer him today.

Almost as an afterthought, the doctor turns to Peter.

Well, how are you? Hurting much?

A little.

Peter hasnt slept wellsoreness from his stitches, afraid to turn, the catheter in the way. He still hasnt been fed since the op; maybe they forgot, or maybe its still too soon.

Up you get. You can start moving around today. Well transfer you soon; nurse will take out your catheter.

Peter itches to get up, but the nurse is delayed again by the endless parade of visitors.

Only now does Peter realise: Simon is dying. He hasnt woken up, lies still, the adults speak in whispers, anxious, resigned.

The boys cousin, a young woman, stays by his bed. When the nurse comes to remove Peters catheter, he mumbles shyly that hes embarrassed, but the nurse snorts:

No ones looking at you, boy! Hold still.

Its truethe whole thing is over quickly. Peter, now free of wires, lies back for a bit, feeling strange. Hes completely naked and not sure where his clothes are. The woman quietly tends to Simon, smoothing the covers, wetting parched lips. Peter wishes hed asked for his clothes.

No one cares about you! Shes right, reallyno one does.

Still, after an hour, Peter decides to sit. He turns, tugs the hospital blanket up, and manages to sit up.

The young woman glances over.

Need a hand?

No, thanks his head spins, and he lies down again.

But soon hes up once more.

Do you know where my clothes got to? he asks.

She isnt sure, but promises to find out.

Just keep an eye on Simon, would you?

Peter tries to get to his feet, awkward in the sheet, but his legs shake, and he cant stray far from the bed. He hadnt realised standing up would be so difficult.

At last, some clothes arrivebut they’re hospital issue, not his.

I’ll turn away, don’t worry, the woman says.

He clambers into the trousershuge on him. He pulls them tight with a bit of elastic, a trick he knows, but cant manage to roll up the legs. As he shuffles along, stepping on the too-long hems, the woman notices and helps.

Hold still. They’re miles too big! Let me sort these for you, she crouches to turn up his cuffs for agesso long that Peter feels dizzy.

Im going to fall…

Whoa there, she catches him, sits him down, Youre still pretty unwell. Have you eaten? Whats your name?

Peter.

Im Lizzie. Peter, shouldnt your mum be here? Or should I call hermaybe you dont have a phone at home?

No mum.

Oh Well, dad, then? Who do you live with?

Its fine. Im better. I just need the toilet.

He makes it to the loo, stares at himself in the mirror. Blue shadows under his eyes, lips pale, but his black eyes burn with life. One carer at the home once said he must have got his surname, Warren, for his black-as-a ravens-wing stare. They called him Raven back at the home and he was proud of it.

He splashes his face with cold water, and that helps. It must have been Lizzie who sorted him outa jug of jelly appears soon after.

If youre walking, you can fetch your own meals from the dining hall, a nurse jokes.

The hall? Which way?

Right, down the stairs, another right. If youre hungry, just follow your nose, the orderly laughs.

He nearly fainted just nowstairs are no good for him! Ill bring his jelly myself, Lizzie huffs, And nothing else.

Peter cant settle. He starts wandering the room, looks over at Simona beautiful boy, almost pretty. Looks just like his mum, lots of curls, but so very thin.

Is he dying? Only care home kids are this blunt.

Lizzie jumps.

Were not sure. But yes, Simons very poorly. Four major operations The poor family is at their wits end. His mum and dad have tried everything. Im his aunt, his dads sister. But you know, sometimes miracles happen, right?

I dunno, Peter perches on his bed.

He thinks about Simon. Such a different life, like in films. Mum, dad, grandparents, relationsall there for him. Everything a boy could wish for, and stillhere he is, dying.

No luck at all

Peter isnt moved that evening. Simons dad returns; the room bustles again. Peter hears thempeople murmuring that hes had no visitors all day.

Peter, the doctor saysyoure from a care home? Simons dad asks.

Yeah.

Maybe youd like to go to another room? Simon well, hes very ill, his dad sighs.

Nah, Im fine. Can I stay?

Days begin to blur into one. Peter spikes a fever, and at last, they move him to another room full of old men. Its lonely, so he slips back to sit by Simon, no one minds.

His discharge is delayed because of the temperature.

Simons dadhis name is Davidhas found out everything about Peter by now, chatting and eavesdropping. He brings him some old clothes, which Peter gratefully accepts, used to hand-me-downs; then thinks of Simon.

Are these his clothes?

They are

What if he doesnt die?

Davids eyes flick up, surprised. In their family, no one says the word die. Theyre all waiting for Simon to go, but never say it out loud. How can you say that about your only child? Its terrifying to say.

Just once, his wife, Sonia, had shoutedwhen he tried to reassure her.

Why! Why do you say we did everything right? Hes still dying! Why should that make it easier for me?

When someone you love fades, your own strength goes with them. Sonia has all but given up. She doesnt want to live if her son cant; the doctors give her sedatives that barely take the edge off.

What if he doesnt die? Peter asks again.

David wants, desperately, to answer honestlynot just for Peter, but for himself.

Im afraid he cant survive now, Peter. Hes dying, he says, fighting for the words.

Does it hurt? Peter clings to Simons shirt, forehead creased in sympathy.

David sees it. Peter careshe really does. Through these past days, Peters been there, heard the doctors words, seen it all. The boy is kind; maybe hes frightened too, especially as an orphan.

Its quicker than falling asleep. Were making sure he isnt in pain. Thats what were here for.

But he moves.

Yes, so we keep talking, hoping he understands. Cant be certain though.

Family are always with Simon. One evening, David steps out for a moment, leaving Peter by the bedside, and returns to find him sitting there, holding Simons hand and talking.

and I dont know where my mum is. She might not even be alive. She left, but Im not angry. If she ever came back, Id forgive her. Not sure you believe me, but its true And you, dont you die, yeah? Your mums in pieces, and your dads great. Id never die if I had a dad like yours. And Ill give your shirt and trousers backpromise. Wont get them dirty in hospital. Ive loads of shirts anyway. Just dont die, survive. Try with all your strength

David coughssomething is stuck in his throat. Peter jumps up.

He can hear, sir, I swear he squeezes my hand. You dont believe me?

I believe you, Peter, honestly, I do.

David and his family wait for the end. Simon, their brilliant, gifted boy, their hope, is fading. He was diagnosed at eightmuscular atrophy first, then everything: heart, lungs, gut. They went from London to Manchester for specialists, managed to keep Simon going till eleven. He was used to it, accepted it, rarely complained.

Sonia carried the heavy burden, spending nights at hospitals, knocking on doors, praying in churches. David was there too, but he had to be strong.

Her strength failed only recently, when it became clear Simon wouldnt last. The doctors started giving her jabs to cope.

Keep talking to him, Peter. I think he hears youand likes it.

For David, Peters stories are a breath of life by his dying sons bedside. Sometimes, he stands behind the door and listens:

so, when that big lad, Sarney, broke my arm, everything went black. Not joking. Really black. Didn’t last though. I came round, saw my arm bent like thishere! He just watched, waiting, you know, for me to scream. I stood up, brushed myself off, stuck my hand out, and said, Go on thenbreak it properly! I felt sick, but made sure I didnt cry, just to spite him.

And off he ran to the nurse, blubbing. Idiot.

See, my arms fine now. Yours will heal too, bet its nothing compared to that. Youll bounce back, mate.

Simon dies in the night. Peter doesnt realiseeven in the morning, no one tells him. He does the ward round, grabs his breakfast, and then pokes his head into the old room.

A new, young patient is unpacking his things by the made-up bed.

Wheres? Peter nods at Simons bed.

No idea. Theres been no one here, the boy shrugs.

Peter storms off to the nurses station, but theres no one. He pushes into the doctors room, searching for his doctor, but finds another.

Simon! Wheres Simon? Did they move him? Where?

Simon? the young doctor knits his brows. Ah Yes. He was very ill

Did he die? Peter cuts him off.

The doctor nods.

Im sorry. It happens.

Peter backs out. Right now, hes furiousat the hospital, the staff, all of them.

Useless lot! Couldnt save him!

How can he show his anger?

In the corridor, a cleaner is mopping; Peter deliberately kicks her bucket, water splashes everywhere. She shrieks; nurses and doctors rush out to shout at him, the nurse appears as well.

Everyones cross, scolding, but Peter storms into the ward, kicks the door, flings himself onto his bed and clamps his hands over his ears.

A whole hospital, all these adult professionals, and they did nothing to save his friend. Nothing!

Why did Simon, who barely opened his eyes throughout, become Peters friend? Peter cant say. But he did.

He told Simon everythingabout his mum, that singing woman, all the fights and broken bones.

One night, when Peter was still sleeping in Simons ward, he dreamt of Simon sitting up, smiling a little sadly. In his dream, Peter rushed over, but Simon asked him not to fuss, just to let him sit. In his thin, almost girlish voice, Simon started telling his story.

Peter cant recall all the details, except that he definitely heard Simon speak. He listened, and then Simon looked at the window, got up, and started to climb the sill. Peter was terrified hed fall, and woke suddenly, heart pounding.

Outside, black branches sway in the wind, the moon hangs low. Simons restless, tossing his head, flinging his hands, his exhausted dad dozing.

Peter slipped quietly to Simons bed, gently took his paper-thin hand, and began to sing the only lullaby anyone ever sang him:

Little tabby, fluff and tail,
Sleep now, sleep now.
Tail of grey, paws so pale,
Sleep now, sleep now.
White little paws, ears so dark,
Sleep, my darling, hush, hush

From then on, Peter talks to Simon in his head. Simon describes a life Peter only saw on TVseaside holidays with the family, grandad the army officer, school, friends, his own room, mum waking him for school.

Thats how Peter imagines life in a familyeveryones in one room, with a bed each, and everyone has their own little wardrobe in the hallway. Fish is always for tea on Thursdays, and mum pours out the morning tea with a ladle.

***

Oddly, when Simon dies, David feels a kind of relief. Not because he loved his son less, or was a bad fatherquite the opposite. Simon wasnt really living anymore. Theyd kept him going in this half-conscious state, but it wasnt life. At least, now, the suffering was over.

Now, David must accept itand help his wife do the same, and carry on.

He finds himself thinking more about Peter.

This isnt the time to talk about adoptionSonia would never understand. No one could replace Simon for her. His picture, surrounded by flowers, sits in the living room; Sonia sits for hours beside it, lighting candles and going to church, the grave visits every day. After an operation following an ectopic pregnancy eight years back, theres no chance of other children.

And Peter will never have a mum or dad

Of course, he isnt Simona rough lad, dark-eyed. But David has heard his storiesPeters spirit is strong, unspoiled.

Sonia, I went to the hospital today. Peter was discharged at lastthey kept him for ages.

Why? Why did you go? Sonia is surprised.

Me? Just to sort out Simons medical records. And, well Peter apparently kicked up a fusswhen he found out Simon was gone. Blamed everyone, caused a scene.

Silly boy, sighs Sonia.

Absolutely, David agrees.

Dont worry about me, David. Im getting by. Just focus on work.

Of course.

Only, dont talk about boys to me now, please.

David keeps quiet.

But at the weekend, he drives to Peters care home. Something makes himhe cant let it go. Hes heard Peters tales of the place, doubts things are as ordered as the staff say. He doesn’t get to meet Petera mountain of suspicion, endless questions from the headmistress, who is cool and formal, no matter how David insists its nothing official.

Instead of being deterred, David grows more determined. He remembers an old friend from university, Tania, who now works in social services, supporting adopters.

He finds her address and visits the next day. They talk for hours. Tania is sympathetic, promises to find out all she can about Peter, but insiststhe key is Sonia agreeing, and Peter himself. Without that, theres no point.

Anyway, David stubbornly heads to social services, takes away the forms for fostering or adoption. The social workers are surprisingly welcoming, promise to help arrange a meeting with Peter.

He doesnt tell Sonia. But he does tell his father-in-law and his sister-in-law, Lizzie. Shes encouragingshe liked the lad. They promise to talk to Sonia, too.

But any mention brings Sonia to tears.

He cant replace Simon. Dont you see?

No ones saying he will, Sonia. Hes an orphan, just as we are now Hes different, difficult, grew up in care. He cant replace our son. But if you heard the way he talked to Simon, how much he meant to him! How he wished for Simon to wake up! He was a comfort, even to me, an adult. I cant explain Just meet him, thats all I ask!

Dont push me, David

And thats the first bit of progress.

At their first meeting, in the heads office, Peter is all nervescant look anyone in the eye, fingers tightly clenched. Even flinches when David offers a handshake.

Tanias presentshe lets them be, quietly working in the background. Davids at a lossPeter had been so different in hospital. He wants to reassure, to help, searching Sonias face for support. But Sonia just sits, observing, sighing often. Tania watches. David rambles to fill the silence.

Peter is so tense, they cut the meeting short.

So much for being fearless!

He doesnt want to come, does he? David asks on the way home, downcast.

No, youre mistaken, Tania says, He wants it more than he can say. Hell try so hard to be good enough, but hes terrified he wont measure up.

Are we that scary? Sonia asks.

Youre the parents hes never had. Hes no idea how to behave, terrified to dont fit in. He’s only thinking about you now, Tania replies.

They arrange for Peter to visit. He hasnt agreed to anything yet, and Sonia is still uncertain.

When David brings Peter round, they gather in the kitchen for tea. Peter sweats with nerves, eyes glued to his cup, afraid hell break something, so tense he cant bring himself to look around at all the lovely things. Everythings far closer together than hed imagined; he feels hemmed in by all these adults.

For some reason, hes especially fearful of Sonia.

When David drops a spoon, Peter jumps, blurts:

Oh, brilliant Thats just grand.

David joins in immediately:

That’s it, Peteruseless, arent I? Come on, eat, laddig in, dont be shy!

Peter nibbles a bit of potato, but chews awkwardly, unable to swallow. It’s agony.

Hey mate, you alright? Relax!

Peter, do you want to see Simons room? Sonia offers, a lifeline.

Peter brightens, eyes shining, nods.

He steps inside at once, and the first thing he sees is a big photo of Simon, looking not like the sick boy in hospital but open, smiling. To see his friend, vibrant and alive, gives Peter courageSimon seems to say, Dont worry, Im here with you.

Oi, Simon! Hello! he steps over, touches the frame, glances at Sonia, Hes a bit fatter in this one.

Yes, he wasnt always so thin. Only later on she struggles to finish the sentence.

When he died, you mean? Peter asks plainly, stroking the frame, Will you show me how he lived here?

Sonia doesnt quite take his meaning, but she fetches the photo album.

You know, I cant look at these just nowmaybe later. Why dont you look yourself?

Peter sits on the sofa, opens the album. Sonia stands by the window.

Is that him? The little one? Thats Simon, yeah?

Reluctantly, Sonia sits beside Peter, looking at photos she thought she might never be able to see again.

Hes funny looks great awesome, Peter mutters, fascinated, full of questions.

Then, grabbing a holiday snap, he exclaims:

Look! The seaside! He told me you went to the sea together.

Sonia shakes her head, sadness returning.

He told you? Peter, he couldnt talk then.

Peter looks at her, realising hes been caught out, then stubbornly, “Well, he did, to me!”

Sonia doesnt argue. Instead, looking through the photos with this honest, awkward boy, she finds her dread and fierce pain receding; his innocence is comforting somehowaccepting her sons death feels more possible with Peter beside her.

Deliberately, she takes a breath, and asks:

Peter, if we wanted to adopt you, would you say yes?

He tenses, flicks through the album without looking.

I dont know. Simon was decent. Im not. I dont really know how to

Suddenly, Sonia hugs him close.

Thats alright. Were not taking you instead of Simon, Peter. We just want you as his friendand ours.

The hug startles Peter at firstbeyond the rough-and-tumble of fights, hes barely been touched. Hes overwhelmed by the closeness, the scent of a woman, her warmth.

To distract himself, he fiercely turns the album pages with both hands, but she keeps holding on gently, swaying, thinking.

Peter never criesnever.

But now, a lump rises in his throat, and suddenly, tears spill over. He sniffs.

Youre crying, Peter? Are you? There, there, dontyoull set me off too! Come on now, youre a man, youre strong! She wipes his cheeks.

Hes heard those words before.

The window stands open in Simons old room. The air is fresh, the curtain billows, the green leaves outside shimmer, and Simons smiling face looks back from his portrait.

And Peter, just a boy still, asks:

Do you do you know a song called, “Little tabby, fluff and tail, Sleep now, sleep now”?

Ive heard of it. Its a lullaby, I think. Want me to learn it for you?

Peter wipes his nose and nods. Theres nothing else he could wish forSonia doesnt let go; she just rocks him gently, her cheek pressed to his hair. After a while, her hand strokes his shoulder, and the room is silent except for the faint ruffle of leaves and an occasional robin trilling from the garden. The ache in Peters chest loosensnot all at once, but enough to breathe.

David stands quietly in the doorway, and for a moment, the broken threads between the three of them seem to stitch together: sorrow woven with hope, memory with new beginnings, grief easing its grip just long enough for sunlight to spill across the floor.

When Sonia lets go, Peter doesnt pull away, but sits with her a little longer, gazing at Simons face. He thinks of all the stories he told, the ones he has yet to tellof care homes and lost mothers, of fights and stolen apricots, of songs that do not vanish and hands that remember to hold on.

Will you show me how to make tea? Like you did for Simon? he asks, voice small.

Yes, darling, Sonia says, wiping her cheeks. And you can pour it out with the ladle if you like.

Peter smilesthe first true smile, awkward and shy, but full of light.

That evening, with the window open, he helps set the table, awkward in his movements, but eager. Sonia glances at him, and something inside her shifts: the pieces of her broken heart rearrange, making space. David tells one of Simons favorite jokes, and for a second, laughter rings in the kitchenuneven, halting, but real.

When night falls, Sonia tucks Peter in on the old camp bed beside Simons, a soft blanket pulled to his chin, the lullabyhalting and half-rememberedtumbling from her lips, just for him. He listens with his whole heart, eyes wide in the darkness, and somewhere, beyond the open window, he imagines Simon and the singing woman who might have been his mother, listening too.

Sleep comes gently.

Tomorrow, there will still be heartache, and the slow business of healing to do. But tonight, as the robin sings under the pale moon, Peter knowsfor perhaps the first timethat he belongs somewhere. That love, rough-edged and tender, has room for boys like him.

He drifts off, the tune of the lullaby tangled with hope, knowing that Simons story, and his own, will go onside by sidein the warmth and light of this new family.