The Exiles

sparrows squabbling in the gutter, ‘the National Health Service, our National Health Service, lacks, these days, a certain panache!
    ‘They have become,’ she added, aiming for a cyclist and not missing him by very much, ‘blasé!’ A fly hit the windscreen and she put the wipers on double speed to clear it off.
    ‘Give birth to quins,’ she continued, ‘receive a brain transplant, contract rabies perhaps, and you might arouse a modicum of interest. Mere human agony however, such as you are now experiencing, they regard as tedious. Not worth the comfort and convenience of an ambulance!’
    Glancing sideways she saw that Naomi’s face was so white and tight and miserable looking that she could not speak.
    ‘Poor old thing,’ said Big Grandma gently.

    ‘No wonder they call it a waiting room,’ commented Naomi, some time later. ‘They should call it a waiting and waiting and waiting room!’
    ‘Those who do not perish from their injuries,’ said Big Grandma in a dictating voice, ‘will certainly die of old age!’
    At that moment a girl in a white coat, one who Naomi recognised from the X-ray department and suspected of having sadistically twisted her arm for reasons of private amusement, stuck her head round the door of outpatients and called, ‘Naomi Conroy?’ She caught Naomi’s glowering eye and smiled innocently.
    ‘You’ve broken your arm.’
    Naomi rolled her eyes to the ceiling and sighed heavily.
    ‘We realised that, dear,’ said Big Grandma.
    ‘We’ll call you in a minute,’ added the nurse, smiled again and disappeared.
    Big Grandma and Naomi counted the minutes and when it came to forty-two Naomi was taken through to be stretched and pulled into a plastercast.
    ‘We find quite a lot of children enjoy this part,’ remarked the doctor untruthfully, for Naomi did not forbear to scream and flinch whenever she felt it needful.
    ‘Why?’ asked Naomi.
    ‘Anyway,’ he said, ‘you’ll be able to get your friends to sign it.’
    ‘Why?’ asked Naomi.
    ‘Well, that’s what people do,’ replied the doctor, still with his awful fake cheerfulness.

    Big Grandma had spent a dismal morning, restraining Naomi, helping her count the red, green and white tiles on the floor and calculating the percentage cover of each, and reading and solving all the problems on the problem pages in the magazines. Left alone she had mentally redesigned the waiting room (money no object). She had added hammocks and a bar and was just choosing the drinks when Naomi, equipped with plaster and pain-killers, re-entered the room.
    ‘All things come to those who wait,’ she remarked, heading immediately for the door.
    ‘I tried to hurry,’ said Naomi, pathetically but loudly, ‘but I had to stay while the doctor made a lot of jokes about people with broken bones.’
    There was a murmuring sound of anger from all the people in the waiting room who had, or suspected they had, broken bones.
    ‘Poor little girl,’ remarked the white-coated nurse to the doctor as he left to call up the next of their victims.
    ‘Poor little girl my … foot!’ said the doctor.

    ‘What are you doing?’ Rachel asked Ruth as she met her staggering in from the garden with an armful of roses and marguerites.
    ‘Getting ready for Naomi. Come and help.’
    Together they proceeded to ransack the house, systematically going through every room in turn and removing anything that might be useful.
    ‘What about Big Grandma’s?’ asked Rachel. ‘She hates us going in there. I’ve only been once and she chucked me out.’
    Ruth, however, had no such qualms and marched boldly in, seizing a bowl of pot-pourri from the bedside table en route.
    ‘Anyway, there’s nothing in here that Naomi would want,’ continued Rachel, following Ruth, ‘no books and nothing to eat— What’s that door?’
    Ruth, who had been eyeing up the bedside rug in a speculative way, looked up at the question. ‘What door?’
    ‘This one.’ Rachel pulled aside a green velvet curtain that was almost hidden behind the shadow of the wardrobe.
    ‘That’s a window.’ Ruth bent down to pick up the rug and dropped the bowl of pot-pourri, scattering flower petals all over the floor.
    ‘No, it’s a door, but it’s locked.’ Rachel tugged at the handle. ‘It must lead out into nothing though. Into the air. Unless Big Grandma’s got a ladder for getting out at night.’
    Ruth, abandoning the flower petals, came to investigate the door. Then she peered