Page 26 of The Day Shelley Woodhouse Woke Up
‘What’s your worst?’
‘Today, or worst of all time?’
‘Today.’
‘Well, today hasn’t been so bad. There was a guy who insisted I remove the pepper from his sandwich, stood there with his hands on his hips, as if that’s a thing you can do.’
‘What did you do?’
‘I had to chuck it away and start again.’
‘Right. And worst ever?’
‘Well, that’s a story. Are you sure you’re ready for it?’
I nod and smile. I love a story. I wriggle down a bit in the bed, arrange the covers over my legs.
‘Well, there was this guy, a couple of years ago, used to come in every day. Now, I always try to be mindful of the fact that our customers either work here, in which case they’re in uniform, or have a relative or friend who’s in hospital. People aren’t always at their best when their loved ones are seriously ill, so I give them more leeway than I would normally. But this guy was a serious pain in the arse. He used to ask for a cappuccino and then, when we gave it to him, he’d say he’d asked for a latte. Ask for a jacket potato with extra cheese and then say why was there so much cheese, he’d asked for no cheese. He did it with all the staff, not just me. I couldn’t work out why it was happening. It was the same every day. We’d check and recheck his order, and it was always the same. He’d say “This isn’t what I asked for. I need to speak to the manager.” I kept telling him I was the managerand he wouldn’t have it. Said I looked like I was barely out of short trousers.’
I laugh properly at that, and it makes him smile.
‘Me!’ he continues. ‘I’m about to turn forty.’
Forty, I think. Ten years older than me. And then I’m not sure why my brain has made that connection.
‘So what happened?’ I ask.
‘One day, after this had been going on for weeks and weeks, he just blew up and said he was going to find somewhere else to have his lunch. I thought, good luck with that, because it’s the only restaurant in the hospital. He’d either be getting a stale sandwich or he’d be back. But he never came back. It was a bit of a mystery. We’d talk about him sometimes. Funny how someone can be the bane of your life and then, when they disappear, you can sort of miss them. Anyway, months later I ran into him on the street outside Tesco. I said I hadn’t seen him at the hospital for a while and I hoped that meant that whoever he’d been visiting was better. He gave me this funny look and said he hadn’t been visiting anyone in hospital, he’d just liked the food.’
Two things happen. One is that we both laugh, and it feels so good, to be in on a joke together. To feel happy. And the other is that I have this odd sense of déjà vu. I didn’t know how the story was going to end when he was telling it, so why do I feel like I’ve heard it before now it’s finished? I put it down to the brain fog I’ve felt since waking. Remind myself that my body’s been through a lot.
I notice that it’s gone quiet, and Matt’s shuffling around a bit like he’s wondering whether it’s time to go. He probably needs to get back to work. Or to sit with someone else. I can’t be the only patient in the hospital who’s short on visitors.
‘Listen,’ he says, standing up.
I look at him, notice how he smooths down his jeans and sweeps his messy hair off his face.
‘I have to go, but I could come back a bit later, if you’re not totally sick of me.’
‘I’m not,’ I say.
‘I can always go, if someone else comes.’
‘No one else comes. Well, my friend Dee has been once, but no one else.’
He looks a bit pained at that. And no wonder. You should have at least two or three people in your life who will come to see you in hospital after your husband tries to kill you. If you don’t, it seems like maybe you’ve gone wrong somewhere along the way. Did Dee say when she’d come back? I’m not sure she did. But here is this man, a stranger, who always offers to come back, and does.
‘Sorry,’ I say, ‘not your problem. I’ll maybe see you later.’
‘Can I bring you anything?’
I don’t have to think. ‘Another KitKat, if that’s all right? I’ll give you some money.’
He smiles and nods, waves his hand to signify that it doesn’t matter about the money, and turns to go.
The man in the next bed has his mother beside him, holding his hand. She is here every day, for hours, though he’s rarely awake. Angela comes to do my obs and I ask her something without realising I’m going to.
‘Can you help me to call my mum? I’d like to see her.’
