‘Y’awright, Hazel?’ The nurse-girl’s mask muffles her words, but the skin around her eyes crinkles. There’s a smile there, beyond the gauze.
Yes, you say, your voice – a little husky but sweet – so clear in your head that it’s hard to believe you didn’t speak aloud. You know you didn’t.
Nurse-girl, this one is Eve, nods at the flowers on the windowsill. ‘Shall I move these so you can see ’em better?’
She doesn’t wait for a response. When they’re on the table at the end of the bed, she steps back, feet tapping her satisfaction. ‘All right, my love, time to get you into your bed.’
Another nurse enters. This one is Salima. Another mask. It’s a new thing, they won’t say why. That old radge Danny Bradley asks them over breakfast every morning, and whoever he latches onto just says, ‘It’s for your protection. For everyone’s protection.’
The Salima-girl pulls at your tatty cardi. Whatever happened to that red one you used to love? All your clothes have muted into fraying pastels, when you’re allowed to wear them at all.
You hate pyjamas even more than track suits.
Their duet is quick, quiet, efficient. One woman lifts an arm, a conductor marking time; the other pulls off a layer of fabric and rolls on some more terry towelling. Same with the legs. When they get to the wiping part you block it out; you are just a puppet. No control. So you go elsewhere.
The Hammond organ kicks in, chords rising. You close your eyes, count to ten on the sea air, and smile at the silent figures waiting for you to start. Silhouettes concertina-ing in every direction, a host of unknowns, all here for you.
You breathe in, one, two, three, four – and they are gone. There’s only the song pressing its emotion through you, the hazy evening air on your face, the swish of the sea behind the bandstand, behind you. In front of you, sky such a deep blue you never thought it was possible in this country, and the sun drooping behind the hotel across the way.
Many a stellar performance has degenerated into a shambles between one song and the next. This time, though – maybe it’s the fresh air, maybe the holiday feeling among the crowd, maybe the sapphire blue dresses of the backing singers sparkling in the spotlight, maybe your band hitting every note just right – this time the whole thing is perfect.
The words don’t matter – lord knows, you don’t care about the kind of love most of these songs bewail. What matters is the tune and the way you play it with that voice they love to write about. The way it pours out through your skin, your breath, your eyes; your body moving as the music carries you in its sway.
Someone’s patting your arm, and you realise it’s the Salima-girl. Woman, actually, her eyes betraying the exhaustion of life.
‘You okay, honey?’ She’s holding a little plastic vial, and as your eyes focus you realise she has the spoon ready. When did you stop being able to take your own tablets?
Well, you can still open your mouth. There, two of them, washed down without any fuss. The nurse-girls are out with a swish of their blue backsides, and the lights go down.
As your head falls back on the pillow, something flashes a different blue: the dahlias at the end of the bed, left there by Eve, catching the last of the evening sunlight. The whirling dresses of the backing singers were the same exact shade, sapphire shimmering through the lace curtains of the past.
In the gloom, in the silence, you close your eyes and the music sings through you.
Elizabeth Ottosson is a writer and translator whose work has been published in various anthologies and shortlisted for awards on two continents. ‘Grace’, her very short story about Grace Darling, won the Segora International Vignette Competition, and she is currently submitting a novel to agents. Her stories often focus on memory and connections, both lost and found. Find Elizabeth at @liza_belle and elizabethottosson.com.
So glad you liked it – thank you for reading!
Very moving and evocative imagery. Thank you for giving my day a perfect start with such beautiful words.