In the Midst of Life

and Aunt Adoration stood up. But at that moment Mrs Roberts came in, accompanied by two younger girls aged about thirteen or fourteen, so I said that she should come up with her daughters. The aunt blustered about being first, but Mrs Roberts said quietly, ‘Hold your peace, sister Adoration. Do you not remember our dear Lord’s words “and the first shall be last, and the last shall be first”? Hold your peace. Come with me, Daffodil, and you also, Ruby, and we go softly, not to disturb the quiet of the evening.’
    Mrs Roberts was the only one who seemed to understand that a dying man needs rest and tranquillity, and, above all, peace in which to approach the ending of life.
    That was only the first day. During the next three weeks the stream of relatives was constant. One woman, a cousin I think, turned up with three small children, who were sweet and pretty, but a perfect nuisance. I couldn’t let them into the ward, so they raced around the ground floor. We let them out into the gardens, which were normally reserved for ambulant patients, and they shrieked and whooped as they chased each other around, to the anger of the gardener who regarded his garden as a sanctuary for the sick. We tried to limit visitors to two at the bedside, but frequently there were four or five. Brothers arrived from Birmingham, a sister from Bradford, and the sons and daughters who lived locally came every day.
    Poor Mr Roberts had no peace, but he never complained and,as far as we could see, never showed any irritation. He was always courteous, and even though he could barely move or speak, he would open his eyes and smile, and perhaps murmur, ‘It is kind of you to come. You are welcome,’ and then drift away again to where senses and perceptions are beyond our understanding.
    We all knew what would happen, and it did. Other patients, and particularly their relatives, started to complain. ‘Why is he allowed unlimited visiting time, when we are confined to the specified hours? It’s not fair.’ And it wasn’t, I had to agree.
    It was difficult for us, because at the same time we had a similar problem with Mr Winterton, who was an alcoholic. Alcohol is not allowed in hospitals, but you cannot withdraw all supplies from a true alcoholic and expect his body to adjust overnight. He will go berserk. So, a daily dose of whisky was measured out for Mr Winterton at each drug round. This soon attracted the attention of the other men, some of whom called out good-naturedly, ‘Come on, Nurse – splash it around, be a sport.’
    Others complained, ‘If he can have whisky, why can’t we?’
    ‘Alcohol is not allowed in hospitals.’
    ‘Yes, but…’
    It was a circular argument. We even turned a blind eye to his wife bringing him extra supplies in a hip flask. She was a glamorous and interesting woman – an actress, who earned a lot of money on the stage – and she was devoted to him. Mr Winterton had real charisma, and all the nurses, myself included, felt it when he turned on the charm.
    One day I had a telephone call from a woman enquiring about Mr Winterton. You have to be guarded about supplying information to anyone who rings up, so I said that the patient was comfortable and that his wife had just visited.
    ‘I
am
his wife,’ replied the voice.
    Silence from me!
    Yes,
I
am Mrs Winterton. The woman who has just left is not his wife. Did she tell you that she was?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Well, she isn’t. I am. What does she look like?’
    I described her.
    ‘I know her. She’s an actress, and a very good one at that. She is also either a saint or a fool, I don’t know which. She has kept that worthless man for years, moving him from one hotel to another along the coast. When the police pick him up drunk and disorderly, she sorts it out and pays the fine, then moves him on to another seaside resort. She has saved me a lot of trouble.’
    It’s hard to know what to say to a story like that. After deep thought I said, ‘Oh.’
    ‘Well, I had better give you my address and telephone number, so that you can inform me when he dies.’
    That was the end of the conversation.
    We still called the glamorous woman who brought in illicit bottles of whisky Mrs Winterton, but I looked on her with very different eyes. A saint or a fool, which was she? And is there much difference? The Orthodox Church has a concept of the Holy Fool – one who is a fool in the ways of the world, but wise to the ways of God. Are we all ‘fools to