The Constant Visitors

                                                        The Constant Visitors


I didn’t notice them in the beginning. When mother first went into hospital I visited whenever I was free. I got to recognise the other regulars, they’d be around for days or weeks, then vanish and others take their place. I’m not sure when I realised that I was seeing this pair every time I came. Or that whenever I did, they were visiting a different patient.
         I asked mother who they were. She always was one for taking an interest, she knew everyone’s name and what they were in for. At least, she did in the early days. But even she couldn’t tell me much, except that they were always around. I looked across the ward. They were sitting by the bed which usually had its curtains drawn, not saying anything, just sitting. The bed’s occupant seemed to be asleep.
          ‘It’s very good of them,’ mother said, ‘giving up their time to come and cheer people up.’
         I thought they didn’t look very cheerful.
         ‘I expect they’re from the church,’ said mother.
         Well. maybe. After that I kept seeing them everywhere. Not in mother’s ward – the lady they were visiting there died, I think. But I’d catch glimpses of them in the distance, down those long corridors or disappearing through doors. They started to get on my nerves. I mean, what sort of person wants to spend all their spare time in a hospital? It’s different if you work there, obviously, and I was there a lot because of mother – but with those two it seemed to be more like a hobby.
         I only once saw them properly. I got in the lift one day and the doors closed before I realised they were there. I was stuck. Close to, there was nothing particularly odd about them. They could have been any age from fifty up. Old fashioned clothes, as if they’d laid in a stock in the fifties and been wearing them ever since. They were terribly grey: grey flannels and sports jacket for him, grey coat and hat for her, grey moustache, tight grey perm. Another thing I noticed, neither of them was carrying anything. When you visit a hospital, it’s normal to bring flowers, fruit, a magazine ... but their hands were empty.
         So were their eyes. Anyone else, I’d have said hello, but the way they looked through me, I felt like I was invisible. It killed any idea of making conversation. Besides, I wasn’t feeling too good. I’m never bothered by enclosed spaces, but that day I couldn’t seem to get enough air into my lungs, and then I thought, what if the lift stopped between floors? I was so relieved when at last the door opened.
         That must have been just before mother took a turn for the worse, and I forgot about the Greys, as I thought of them. I had other things to worry about. Towards the end I was practically living at the hospital. One night I’d left her for a while, I needed a break, and when I came back they were coming towards me down the corridor. It was late, well after visiting hours. They must have been coming from mother’s ward, there was nothing else down that end.
         They’d put mother in a small room off the main ward. I meant to ask her, had she had any visitors, but she looked so bad I called the nurse, and everything else went out of my head. She died next day.
I can’t help thinking about these things, lying here after lights out. It’s the same hospital mother was in, though it’s changed. They don’t have those big wards any more. There’s only five of us in here, and you can have your own TV if you want. Not that I can be bothered, I don’t have the energy. I don’t sleep well either and all sorts of things come into my head: memories, often ones I’d rather leave alone. Like the Greys.
         I know what reminded me of them. During visiting a few days ago, I happened to look over at the lady in the corner bed. She’s like me, never has any visitors, so I was surprised to see a couple sitting by her.  I asked one of the nurses, afterwards, who they were. The Todds, she told me. They often visited the lonely. Would I like them to come and see me?
           ‘No!’ I shouted. She looked offended. I was sorry, but I didn’t care. You see, I’d recognised them.
          Only, it can’t be, not after more than thirty years. Not looking exactly the same, with the same clothes and everything. The same grey faces. How old must they be? No it’s not possible. I must be imagining things.
           That night the screens went up round the corner bed, and in the morning it was empty. I didn’t see – them – again. Not exactly. But this afternoon. I was lying with my eyes closed, when I had the feeling there were people sitting by my bed. I could hear rustling, feet shifting. I knew I should open my eyes and find out, but (and I know it sounds stupid) I didn’t dare. You’ll say it was a dream. I expect it was, but it unsettled me.
                 So I was wondering – I know it’s a lot to ask as you don’t know me – but I’ve watched you when you come to see your auntie, and you look kind. Could you visit me now and then? Because I’ve worked out, it’s the ones who don’t have anyone that they come to, and if they appear at my bedside one day ... I don’t know. I think I’d die. So would you mind? Please?