Bruar's Rest

was a man in each room. Her eyes widened as each sad, gaunt face looked at her, then lowered its head to stare at a cold stone floor. Banging on every door, she called his name over and over. ‘Bruar, it’s me—Megan! We must go home, Bruar, where the hell are you?’
    All she heard was an echo of her own voice and footsteps behind. With her heartbeat quickening she began running again, came to a winding staircase and started climbing. ‘Wait there, young woman, you’ve gone too far, no one is allowed up there!’ The man who had questioned her, who by now had been joined by another, got past and physically halted her.
    Convinced they were hiding him from her, she screamed out, ‘Bruar Stewart, you get down here now! It’s me, Megan.’
    Both men, gently yet firmly, led her back to the waiting-room, where, overcome with emotion, she fell into a chair and sobbed.
    After a time the man who had been questioning her again sat next to her and asked if she felt more composed. He assured her it wasn’t uncommon for young wives seeking news of their husbands to react as she did. He told her that they wanted to help but needed information, and could she fill in a form?
    ‘What’s a form?’ she asked, drying her eyes.
    ‘Before allowing visits it’s very important we establish who comes here. All that is required is name, address, and relationship with inmate, and so forth.’ He laid the form in front of her on a small desk where an inkpot sat neatly beside a nib pen and piece of blotting paper.
    Ignoring the writing materials, she said, ‘Look, mister, I can’t read nor write, so don’t waste time. Just show me my man, or at least tell me if he’s here.’
    This man was obviously a stickler for the regulations and said, ‘This information is not in my power to divulge. You must understand that some of our inmates are extremely violent, and only close relatives are given permission to visit. If you cannot provide the necessary details, I am within my rights to escort you off the premises.’
    ‘I have no proof of who I am! All I want to know is, have you got my man?’
    A sledgehammer would not have broken this man’s resolve; she had no identity therefore had to be put out of the building. It took three sturdy male nurses, all wearing white coats, to remove Megan as she continued to scream and shout for Bruar.
    Out on the street, feelings of the deepest despondency spread over her like a shroud. ‘Some kind of demon is fighting me all the way, but I won’t let you win,’ she screamed up into the noise of London. No one seemed remotely interested as she kicked carriage wheels and spat at dogs. Street after lonely street presented a heaving mass of bodies heading everywhere yet nowhere. London reminded her of a weather-beaten oak tree. From a distance it looked like any other tree, but as one got nearer its bark showed all the creatures living off it. Maggots, flies, mould, moss, worms, the list was endless, and the nearer you got the more could be seen, eating into its bark, a never-ending army of devourers. Until one day the old oak could feed them no more and began to crumble and die. London, the old oak tree, would live on forever in her mind as the guard who kept her away from Bruar.
    Exhausted she continued to walk along the bank of the Thames. She did not want to go back to her hotel, and thought another walk might clear her head. If a fisherman on the riverbank could lead her to the door of Morton Home, then someone else might help her find a way into it. ‘I mustn’t give in,’ she forced the thought to the fore, ‘not when I’ve come so far.’
    Down by the water were countless ducks and geese, and she wondered how they stayed alive. Standing by the water’s edge she saw a man with a bag of stale bread surrounded by birds feeding excitedly who answered her question. He looked shabby, as if every penny in his pocket was counted, and she thought it odd he could afford to feed wild birds. Suddenly he began shouting at several teenagers who had started to throw stones at the birds. In time the boys tired of their play and ran off. She watched the man pick up an injured bird. He stroked its feathers, speaking words of a gentle nature. Megan moved closer to hear what he was saying, but before she could do so, the bird had recovered and was flying high above her. Watching it she hardly noticed the man approach. He went to her side and said, ‘Excuse me.’
    But with only a few pounds left in