The Final Ray of Light

THE LAST RAY

Everyone at the hospital paid attention to the Head of the Medical Wardmen watched her with interest, women with thinly veiled envy. She was tall and dark-eyed, and the white coat seemed made for her. Her hair was always pinned neatly into a soft roll at the back, and her starched cap added to her height. Perhaps it was the proper thickness of the soles on her shoes, or maybe simply her gentle stride, but the quiet clip of her heels never grated. She looked to be around forty-five, but no one at the hospital knew her real age for certain. The staff and patients alike respected and feared the stern, unyielding Helen Ford.

The menpatients and colleaguestried to flirt, invited her out, brought her chocolates and flowers. But when met with her cool gaze, their courage melted. Many rumours circled around her: a tragic love affair in her past, a husband lost either in some distant conflict or perhaps at sea, a child never born. No one knew the truth; gossip thrived on uncertainty.

Everyone did know she lived alone, never befriending anyone, never permitting closeness. She was neither cruel nor unpleasantsimply composed and unattainable.

In her youth, she had been desperately in love with her classmate and, if truth be told, a rather dashing manEdward Ford. She could scarcely breathe for love of him. But his attention, perpetually courted by others, chafed against Helens fierce devotion. He left, choosing someone else.

Since then, Helens heart was closed. Perhaps she still loved Edward, perhaps she simply feared further betrayal.

This evening, Helen paused at the nurses station. Mary, could you fetch me Mr. Middletons chart from bed five? Ill prepare his discharge papers for tomorrow. With the chart pressed to her chest, she returned to her office.

Well, the man is mending. His full recovery now depends on his own will and strength, she thought, her fingers flying across the keyboard, filling out the discharge summary: listings of tests, treatments, laboratory findings

Half an hour remained of the workday. Helen stepped out, locked her door, and stood still. At the end of the corridor, a woman stood, phone against her ear, speaking in hushed, anxious tones, back to the window.

No. He didnt die. Cheeky as ever. Dont get cross. I told him Well, not really You think he hasnt guessed? Well talk tonight. The woman stuffed the phone away, glanced neither left nor right, and took the stairs.

Helen entered the fifth ward. Usually, empty beds would earn a stern comment about the dangers of sneaking off to smoke, but today she saw only the tense back of a man, turned to the glass, silent.

Mr. Middleton, tomorrow she began but stopped as he turned. His eyes were full of sorrow and defeat.

Whats the matter? Helen sat at the edge of the bed, careful not to loom overhead. Are you unwell? Pain?

Could you not discharge me? Please. I Ive nowhere to go he barely managed.

Someone else has filled his spot. His wifes moved another man in. Told him straight: Thats it. The comedys over. I belong to another, and Ill be faithful forever. Poor chap was shown the door, muttered an older man from the corner bed.

Is that true? Helen asked quietly.

So thats who the woman on the phone was talking about, Helen realizedhoping for her husbands death and, when it didnt come, declaring his place taken by another.

Mr. Middleton was a large man in his early fifties, his short hair flecked with grey, his eyes weighed down with sadness. He lay with his back to the window, jaw muscles shifting with tension.

Helen looked outside. April was drawing to a close. The buds on the hospital parks bare branches were about to burst, ready to release springs first green. The sky was a cold, unyielding grey, threatening snow. No sunlight had broken through today.

Nowhere at all? Friends? Children? she asked gently.

They have their own lives, families. A night or two, maybe, but after that? A man my age, shuffling from one spare room to anothershameful. I knew she was seeing someone else. Thought shed come to her senses

Mr. Middleton, a few extra days wont make a difference, and we do need the beds, Helen paused. But I have a cottage outside Stratford, about fifty miles from here. Good roads, solid walls, but itll take a bit of elbow grease to get it right. No ones lived there for ages. Ill bring the keys tomorrow, show you how to get there. Not giving him a chance to refuse, she left the room with firm resolve.

Well, I never! said the man in the corner, wide-eyed. Always thought she was strictturns out shes got more heart than most. Don’t you dare turn her down, John. Your straying wifes claws aren’t worth the dirt under her nails.

The blossom had fallen from the bird cherry, the cold wind replaced by gentle sunlight. One Sunday morning, Helen got into her trusty Honda and drove out to visit her unexpected lodger.

She was genuinely surprised at the transformation of the cottage. The window frames were painted a cheerful blue, the roof repaired, a new step shone white on the porch. Pulling up, Helen watched as John Middleton appeared, barefoot in jeans and a t-shirt, radiating health and contentmentnothing remained of the pale, downcast patient. His shoulders were broad, his face tanned, his arms corded with new muscle.

Afternoon, just checking youre settling in. No one giving you trouble? She leaned on her car door.

No trouble at all. The three elderly ladies here are delighted for new company. The weekenders keep to themselves, he answered, still a little wrong-footed by Helens visit.

Village air seems to suit you. Still got work to do? she asked, not moving from the car.

My work just bits and bobs. Came out of the Army, realised all I was fit for was marching about with the lads. Had a go at security. No regrets though. Good pension.

Well, show me how youre getting on, Helen said, finally closing her car door and heading to the house.

Oh, what a fool I am. John slapped his forehead. Sorry, you caught me off guard. He led the way inside.

Helen paused in the doorway. The floor gleamed, covered in homespun rugs. The sunlight filtered through lace curtains, sending shifting patterns across the room. Two pots of geraniums brightened the window ledge. The old clock ticked cosily.

Valerie over at the edge of the village gave me the geraniums. Makes it homelier, dont you think? John said, catching her glance.

Whats that lovely smell? Helen turned to him.

I made a stewbeef and potatoes in the oven. Care to join me? John busied himself, delighted to see for the first time a real smile flicker across Helens face. Im not the best cooknever lived in the country before. Neighbours showed me, but I burned a few meals at first.

Helen had an urge to stretch and ease her back. The atmosphere wrapped around hera warmth steeped in childhood memories of her grandmother. She hadnt been here since her mother died. Couldnt bear it. Couldnt sell the house, eitherall those memories. It had belonged to her grandparentsher mother stayed here in summer until, one winter, she did not return.

She remembered how theyd load the car with jars of pickled cucumbers, jams, wild mushroomsenough to last the winter. Mother how long ago it all seemed.

How long can I stay here? Johns voice broke through her thoughts. Dont want to put you out.

Stay as long as you like. I havent come here in about a decade. Couldnt bring myself to. Ill drop by again, if you dont mind. Youve made it feel warm, like when my mum was here. I cant see myself keeping a country house or gardenIm not built for it. She dropped her eyes, embarrassed, and John tactfully said nothing.

I almost forgot. I brought you some bitsgroceries, Helen dashed outside to her car.

John exhaled. It was the first time hed seen her without her white coat and capshe looked younger in a light summer dress, a few strands of hair escaping the neat bun. She seemed almost ordinary, approachable. John glanced at his work-roughened hands and felt every year.

Helen left at dusk, her perfume lingering in the cottage. Whatever John touched seemed to carry the scent of Helen and her perfumea new and stirring feeling. Hed thought such things would never come againand perhaps, in a strange way, was even grateful to his wife. He lay awake, restless, his imagination running wild.

Two months later, Helen visited again with supplies and a new fishing rod. John had replaced the broken fences and proudly told her that even widows from the next village consulted him when they needed repairs or help, paying in eggs, milk, or cream.

The cottage seemed to stand straighter, displaying its bright blue window frames as if wearing medals: Look, I have an owner nowI’m no worse than the rest.

In winter Ill keep you in pickled cucumbers, John boasted. Helen noted with pleasure that he was trimmer, his stomach gone. She felt awkward under his gaze.

The sun was setting behind the distant woods, bathing everything in golden light.

Ill be right back, said John, jumping up and leaving the house.

Helen wandered through the rooms. There were different things nownew smells, new signs of life. Eventually, noticing John wasnt returning, she stepped onto the porch, looked down the lane, then into the garden, where she found him sitting on the ground, leaning against the fence.

John! She rushed to him, dropping to her knees.

Her fingers sought his uneven, tight pulse. Running for her first-aid kit, she turned halfway, remembered water, dashed into the house, returned. Her summer dress whipped around her legs with every movement. An injection would be ideal, she thought, and hurried back, pressing a tablet to his lips, the rim of a glass to his mouth.

Fifteen minutes later, John managed to stand. Helen helped him indoors, sat him on the bed.

Got over-heated in the sun, thats all, he apologised. I wanted to take some cucumbers for you Will you will you stay? he managed, switching to you, not the formal you.

Helen stood, uncertain of her answer. John pressed his head to her stomach, groaning.

Happiness is strange. We search, we call, we wonder if it’s lost, maybe took a wrong turning. You get used to living aloneno betrayals, no fear of loss. Then fate sends someone across your path, and your lives move forward side by side.

And love? Love is many things. In youth, it blazes with urgency, with the need to possess. As we age, it becomes softer, warmer, quieterlike the final ray of the setting sun.