Greyhound for Breakfast

Benson’s visitor

Every Sunday afternoon he appeared. The patient who had the first bed on the left at the ward entrance always heralded his arrival with the cry: ‘It’s Benson’s visitor!’ But he never acknowledged this cry. He was aware some might think him deaf. He stood on the threshold peering down both sides of the ward for ten to fifteen seconds, perhaps to see if Benson was still there and if so whether he had been shifted to a different bed as sometimes happened. If everything was as it should be he stared at the highly polished floor and walked steadily down the right-hand passage, to the bottom end, and from there across to Benson’s bed at the end of the left-hand row. At the beginning he had nodded and occasionally greeted other patients but over the years he had ceased doing this and nowadays he could scarcely bear to look at patients other than Benson. And if Benson was awake he found it increasingly difficult to look at him. He used to smile in a friendly manner at the nurses but they barely noticed his presence. If ever he put a question such as ‘Not so good today, is he?’ the most they would give was a yes or no but sometimes not even that, as if they had not heard him speak at all even. The new nurses were better but gradually they became used to things and acted no differently from the others. Hardly anyone else ever visited the ward and those who did seldom stayed for more than quarter of an hour and they spent most of that gazing vacantly about the ward. On occasion they would stare across as though looking at Benson whereas it seemed obvious they were looking at his visitor. There was one time Benson’s visitor saw somebody leave an article on the chair beside the bed of the patient he had been sitting at. He was not sure what to do about it. Eventually, after the person had departed, he walked across and uplifted the article and quickly rushed out to return it. But the person acted in a peculiar way and pretended not to recognize the object. Benson’s visitor took it into the Sister’s office and attempted to explain what had happened but the Sister was impatient and did not show any interest in the matter at all. She waved him away. He put the article back onto the chair and tried not to think about it. Next Sunday of course the chair was empty and no-one ever referred to either it or the incident ever again. This was many months ago, prior to the arrival of the patient on the left at the ward entrance. And yet, there was something about this patient that made Benson’s visitor think that he knew of the affair.

Benson had been a member of the ward longer than anyone else. His visitor accompanied the wheelchair that transported him there. Although the nurse had observed him following she said nothing, merely indicated a large placard pinned to the wall. The placard gave the visiting times. Benson’s visitor stared at it for a long while, until the sound of the creaking wheelchair had died away. He missed the subsequent Sunday because of it. It was a feeling he had not cared for.

This afternoon Benson lay snoring fitfully but peacefully. His visitor stared at the slack mouth and the way the chin drooped. When the bell rang Benson’s eyes opened. The gaze settled on his visitor who hastily looked down at the floor. Benson’s head began to move back and forth against the piled pillows as though to alleviate an itch. His eyes remained on his visitor for a period, then they closed. His visitor’s sigh was quite audible. After a moment he stooped to lift his hat and shabby briefcase from where they had been lying. Across the way an older nurse arranged flowers in a vase. She did not notice his approach. He moved to the right side of her at the precise second she moved to the left. He hesitated and she turned swiftly and strode along and out of the ward. There were no other people about except patients and they all seemed to be sleeping. Then another visitor appeared in the doorway. Benson’s visitor returned slowly to where he had been sitting and he returned the briefcase and hat to where they had been lying, and he sat down carefully. Shortly afterwards he was aware of a muffled conversation coming from somewhere to his rear but he was not able to look round to see. A voice called: ‘It’s Benson’s visitor!’ and gave an abrupt laugh.

He stared at the floor for a long time. Gradually he wanted to see what was happening around him and he raised his head. But Benson stared at him. Benson glowered. ‘Who are you?’ he groaned.

His visitor smiled weakly.

‘I don’t know you.’

His visitor inclined his head and stared at the floor beneath the bed.

‘Is he visiting me? I don’t know him from Adam!’

Footsteps approached. He estimated at least two people.

‘I don’t know him. Who is he?’ cried Benson. ‘Who are you?’

‘Not so good today, is he?’ said his visitor. Two nurses were looking at him and he smiled faintly at them. His heart thumped. Then the nurses looked at the patient with concern and one of them said:

‘He’s your visitor.’

His visitor nodded his head but without daring to look at him.

But Benson cried, ‘I don’t know him from Adam. Why is he sitting at my bed?’

The older nurse smiled down on him. ‘Come now,’ she said, ‘you mustn’t embarrass your visitor.’

‘He’s your visitor!’ smiled the younger nurse.

‘Who is he?’ groaned Benson, attempting to raise himself up by the elbows as though for a fuller look at him. But the older nurse snapped:

‘Come along now lie down!’

The patient lay back down immediately and stared sideways away from both his visitor and the two nurses, the younger of whom glanced at her colleague and then said to Benson’s visitor, ‘Who are you?’ And she smiled as though to soften matters.

Benson’s visitor jumped. Somebody else had arrived suddenly. It was the Sister.

‘Benson’s visitor. .’ began the younger nurse.

‘Of course it’s Benson’s visitor,’ she said, ‘What’s going on here?’

‘Who is he?’ murmured Benson.

‘Oh you know fine well,’ replied the Sister.

‘Who are you. .’ Benson murmured.

His visitor smiled at the Sister. He wondered whether the other visitor and any of the patients were listening. He thought he should say something. He cleared his throat but was not able to speak. At last he managed: ‘Not so good. .’

The Sister was speaking in a low unhurried voice to the two nurses who responded as to a direct command, but none noticed Benson’s gasp, and his eyelids closed.

The older nurse said to his visitor, ‘You better go now, visiting’s over.’

He nodded and gripped his hat and briefcase, got off the chair and walked from the ward without glancing back. Out along the lengthy corridor the younger nurse appeared from behind a pillar. ‘Are you a relative?’ she asked.

‘You must have a record,’ he said.

‘Come along now you won’t be on it. You won’t be there.’ She shook her head at him.

A wave of nausea hit him and he wanted down onto the floor, down onto the floor until it passed. Somebody was holding him by the arm. It was the other nurse, and behind her stood the other patient with a worried frown on his forehead. His hat and briefcase were leaving him, the hat having fallen perhaps but the briefcase from out of his hand. And the younger nurse steadied him. ‘Come along now,’ she was saying.

The older nurse smiled. ‘That’s the ticket,’ she said.