Anthem for Jackson Dawes (14 page)

‘Don't stare,' the mother commanded; words like bullets. ‘Drink your juice.'

The assistant behind the counter smiled at Megan, eyes crinkling behind thick glasses. A string of pearls sat around her neck, making her look like the Queen. ‘Oooh, I love the silver. Like a Christmas fairy. Where's your friend?' she said. ‘He's not been down today.'

‘Having an operation.'

The assistant's face fell. ‘Oh, I didn't know.' Her cheeks flushed. ‘Poor thing. We've missed him. Regular as clockwork, he is.'

‘He's out now,' Megan rushed on, reassuring her. ‘He's in Recovery. It won't be long before he comes back up.'

The smile returned. ‘That's good. He'll be on his feet in no time. Say we're all asking after him.' A man arrived at the counter. He was holding a large bag of toffee eclairs and a newspaper. The assistant held out her hand for his money. ‘Can I get those for you, dear? Terrible day, isn't it? All that rain.' There was a note of relief in her voice. It seemed that terrible weather was a far safer topic than Jackson being in Recovery.

Megan made her way past the revolving card stand, the fridge full of fruit snacks and milkshakes, to the rear wall, with its comics, magazines and
newspapers. She glanced occasionally through the large windows into the corridor, to see who was outside, knowing that Jackson could be on his way back. He might come past the shop. But he didn't. Disappointed, she returned to the counter and paid for her magazine.

‘Is he not back yet?' Megan could see that Jackson wasn't, she could see that his room was empty, but somehow she couldn't stop herself asking. Maybe they'd put him somewhere else.

Siobhan grinned. ‘Megan, you're like a plague with all your questions.'

‘So, he's not back.'

‘I promise you'll be the first to know. But for now you'll just have to sit and wait.'

Megan's mobile hummed. She took it back to her room. ‘Grandad?'

‘Just thought I'd give you a ring, see how things are on that ward of yours.'

His voice was tinny as usual. It was the voice of a frail man, someone who hardly got out of bed because of weakness. Only that wasn't Grandad at all. He went out every day to the harbour to talk to the fishermen, to watch the seagulls, to make his lists of birds in his little black notebook. Nobody believed he was in his nineties. Today, though, he sounded just a little bit older.

‘Is Mrs Lemon there?' Megan said.

‘She's out at the shops. She says I'm not to get into any trouble while she's gone. So I rang you. Big day tomorrow, hey?'

‘Jackson's having an operation,' Megan said, not wanting to talk about having her head cut open, not wanting to worry Grandad, when he was all on his own. ‘He's been down ages.'

‘Oh … well … You'll see him soon, I'm sure,' Grandad said. ‘Don't worry, Pet Lamb. He sounds like a big strong lad. And that
Shee-vorn
will take care of him, right enough.'

Rain drummed against the windows, filling the children's ward with noise. All the lights were on even though it was the middle of the day. Grandad's voice was buried in the sound and seemed planets away. Megan could see him grasping the phone, like an unexploded bomb, and no Mrs Lemon to keep him right. She should try to get him to ring off. But he was still talking, though his voice was sounding more and more faint.

‘I might have to go, Grandad. Jackson's probably coming back soon.'

‘Aye, off you go, see to that lad. Say hello. And look after yourself. We'll be thinking about you … tomorrow …'

There was a pause and Megan realised that Grandad was crying, that he couldn't speak because of it.

‘I'll be fine, Grandad. And soon as I can, I'll ring you.'

‘Pet Lamb,' he said.

‘Put the phone down, Grandad. And fill the kettle for Mrs Lemon coming back. You know how she likes her cup of tea. Tell her I said hello.'

At last Grandad rang off, but Megan couldn't settle. She went back to Jackson's room, sat behind the door, where no one could see her. The place looked huge with no bed in it. All that remained of him was a tissue, which lay crumpled next to his locker. She picked it up and dropped it into the rubbish bin, unable to bear the thought that he might come back to a messy room.

Megan sat in Jackson's chair, in the hollow that he'd made, so that it held her, hugging her whole body. She laid her hands on the armrests where his fingers sometimes tapped out a tune, found herself pecking at the wood with her nails. She breathed, slowly and deeply, the air Jackson had breathed that very morning. She could almost feel him there in the room, as if he'd left some part of himself behind, just for her.

A siren cut through the air. Megan glanced at the window. It was an ambulance, coming in to the Accident and Emergency Department. Jackson had some story about wandering in there one day, and a nurse herding him back out. Megan imagined what would be happening now, pictured a person being carried in on a stretcher, the doctors and nurses flitting about, doing what they do to save a life. The
drips, the cardiac monitoring, the blood transfusions, electric-shock treatment. Just like TV.

When at last she heard them pushing Jackson down the corridor, Megan ran out to see him, pressing back against the wall as he went past. He seemed to be asleep, though a low groan came from him as they swung his bed towards the door.

‘Another time, Megan,' someone said in all the bustle of getting him back into his room, opening both doors, manoeuvring things. ‘Off you go, for now.'

Later, Megan watched from the doorway as Siobhan moved quietly around Jackson's bed. Temperature. Pulse. Blood pressure. Fluid charts. Intravenous therapy. She was so familiar with all the words; it was like a new language learned.

‘He doesn't look very well,' she said, trying not to cry.

‘Ach, nobody does after a big operation, Megan. Don't worry.'

Jackson was having a transfusion. There was a steady drip, drip of blood from a bag into the see-through chamber, which was long like a small, stretched balloon, always half full, always half empty. A giving set, they called it. Each new drop into the chamber pushed another down the see-through tubing into Jackson. Megan watched as one oozed and grew into a small red berry before it fell.

‘Will he have some more?' she asked Siobhan,
who was now checking the flow, making marks on a chart.

‘I think so,' the nurse said, smiling. ‘Another unit, I imagine. Well, miss, that's enough for now. When he wakes up later, you can pop in for a few minutes, so you can.'

‘Have I got to wait in my room?'

‘Anywhere but here, at the moment. Go on. Off with you!'

But Siobhan smiled and Megan knew that she wasn't in trouble, just in the way.

Later, the ward was quiet. Jackson's family had left for the night but he was awake, Siobhan told her. ‘You can have five minutes. That's all. He's still drowsy.'

‘Five minutes,' Megan promised, making her way quickly to his room, not wanting to waste a second. She stopped in the doorway, not sure if he'd fallen asleep already. The room was lit only from the light above his bed which dropped a halo of gold on to his face.

‘Hi.' Jackson's voice sounded crusty, but he managed a weak smile.

‘Hiya.' The air was filled with the blinking of a monitor, the click of the drip, and Jackson breathing slowly. ‘Are you all right?'

‘Can't … feel … anything.'

‘Good. That's good, isn't it?'

Jackson made a slight movement of his head, as if it was too heavy to nod or shake.

‘Are you too tired? I'll come back tomorrow. They said I can only stay five minutes.'

‘Should've told you … something …' Jackson shifted his hand just a little towards her, as if he didn't want her to go. His fingers were long and slim, like a musician's, his palm pale, smooth-looking.

‘What's that?'

‘About Kipper …' There was a moment of not knowing what to do, a second of not being sure, then Megan laid her hand over his, afraid she might hurt him. Her fingers rested on his wrist, her palm pressed lightly into his. She could feel his pulse beating against her skin. Jackson swallowed. It looked painful, as if his throat was raw.

‘What about Kipper?'

‘… she died.'

Megan nodded. ‘I thought she might have.'

She didn't ask how he knew – of course he would know, the Pied Piper of Hamelin, leading all the children on a Mr Henry hunt, of course he would. She didn't even wonder at how she'd almost felt it would happen when Kipper went home that day to see her kitten, to give him a cuddle. And now it felt so long ago, and far away, like something from another time. ‘But she'll still be keeping an eye on Brian.'

‘Yes.' Jackson's fingers curled sleepily, lazily, but didn't let her go. ‘Better watch out, Brian. No more … climbing … trees …'

Megan sat watching a scarlet berry as it formed in
the drip, following the drop as it sank into the small red ocean that would make its slow way round Jackson's body. Drop by drop, beat by beat. Keeping him safe.

Jackson's hand relaxed into drowsiness. Megan watched his face as it too melted into sleep. She watched and watched until his breathing grew deeper and slower.

His lips looked dry, cracked. They might be sore when he woke.

Gently slipping her hand from his, she found the little tin of vaseline in her pocket, squeezed off the lid and dipped in her finger. She brushed a thin film of balm across Jackson's lips, his smiling, storytelling mouth, now silent, now still, yet moving, as if his flesh were glued to hers for that moment and for all the moments.

She would have stroked his face too, every bit of it; she would have run her fingers over his head, over the joins in his skull, the lines and ridges, so clear beneath his skin; she would have trailed them over his brow and his closed eyes, over his cheekbones, so fine, so prominent an artist might have drawn them, a sculptor might have chiselled them; she would have laid down on the bed next to him, if it would stop anything else hurting him.

Megan stood up, content to leave him now, but pressed her fingers to him, one last time, kissing them gently against his lips.

She moved away at last.

Her fingertips glistened. She gazed at them under the light from the lamp above Jackson's bed, as if they weren't her own fingers at all, as if they didn't really belong to her. She brought them to her mouth, resting them on her lips, and tasted those remnants of balm, those tiny traces of Jackson, like kisses, still on her skin.

Megan believed in miracles. Sometimes when you least expect it they just happen, she reckoned. Sometimes she prayed for them, though not the way Mrs Lemon did, with rosary beads, or lighting little candles in church.

The miracle she most wanted, right now, would be for her to get down to Theatre and for the surgeon to find her tumour all gone. But if that wasn't possible, then just to see Jackson before she went.

Only that didn't seem to be possible.

He couldn't come to see her. She wasn't allowed to see him. It was too early, he was still asleep, still feeling poorly after his operation.

There were too many reasons. Siobhan said that
she could wave at him as she passed his room, would that be OK?

It wasn't. She'd finished her picture of him last night, staying up late until it was done. She wanted to show him before she went for her operation.

And somehow she got herself into
such a state
, as Siobhan said, that they had to give her something to settle her down. It made her full of wooze, full of clouds, and her words came out like glue.

‘Canhenot comehere?' Megan begged again.

‘He's got to stay in bed. He had a big operation yesterday.'

‘ButIwannaseehim.'

Siobhan patted her hand. ‘I know you do, but there are … other pebbles on the beach, so …' Megan looked up, though it was hard. Siobhan was being so mysterious, with that smile on her face, talking about pebbles and everything. ‘And one of them is right here. To see you. A real surprise visitor.' She stepped aside and there he was, right next to her bed.

‘Dad?'

Megan had to check, to be completely sure, had to focus her eyes to get him all in. There he was, tanned, dark even, against his white shirt, smiling at her. His eyes still blue, hair still grey and thin, his middle still round, cuddly.

But he shouldn't be here.

‘AmIgoingtodie?'

Suddenly Megan was convinced that she was. People did with cancer sometimes. Look what happened to Kipper. That's why Dad was here. It had to be the reason why he was here.

‘Course not, silly billy.' He leaned over and dropped a kiss on her forehead.

‘Where's Mum?'

‘Just behind me, see?'

There she was, smiling as if it was a party, not an hour or so before Megan had to have her head cut open. ‘Hello, love. This is a nice surprise, isn't it? Having
him
here.'

Megan frowned, then looked at Dad. ‘Butwhy're youhere? Toldyounottocome.'

‘Because you're having an
operation
. I've not worked every hour God sends not to be able to come home for that! And Grandad's not here to check they do it right, so it's down to me.' He gave a little laugh. ‘I would have come last night, but the flight home was hours late.' He hung up his jacket. ‘You don't really mind me being here, do you?'

She'd made him promise not to come but now he was here. It wasn't right … and yet …

‘Notgoingtodie?'

‘No. Definitely not.' Dad sounded very sure.

‘WillyoubeherewhenIcomeback?'

He sat down next to the bed and gently nudged her arm. ‘Just let them try and stop me. I'll be waiting here for as long as it takes. Me and Mum.'