Isobel on the Way to the Corner Shop by Amy Witting Page B

up by the ambulance. Should have been on a stretcher, they had her sitting up in front with the driver. Got to get her fed and to bed.’
    Isobel said, ‘I don’t want anything to eat. I want to go to bed.’
    Her tone was fractious, infantile. It shamed her.
    ‘That’s dirty talk around here. They can give you soup and bread and butter. Okay?’
    ‘Yes.’
    He brought her a bowl of soup and a plate of bread with a pat of butter.
    He perched on a plastic chair, long legs extended. He was a large-boned loose-jointed young man whose appearance, since it lacked sophistication, inspired confidence.
    ‘Listen,’ he said as he watched her spoon up soup. ‘It’s not half bad. Honestly. They are a decent bunch and the doctors know their job. I can vouch for that.’
    ‘Were you a patient then?’
    ‘A couple of years ago. Then I took a job in the wards. Kind of got used to the place. You’ll find you do. Have some bread?’
    She shook her head.
    ‘Can’t.’
    ‘Okay. You tried and I won’t peach. Off we go again.’
    He wheeled her out of the deserted dining room into the corridor, through another set of double doors, along another corridor, and repeated the process.
    ‘Can you stop at a bathroom?’
    ‘I shouldn’t, but okay. Don’t be long. We’re expected.’
    He helped her up at a bathroom door. She used the lavatory, washed her hands and wiped them on the discarded face mask. He came to the door and supported her into the chair.
    ‘Shouldn’t have let you do that, I think. Better say nothing about it.’
    Isobel was learning a new vocabulary.
    ‘I shan’t peach.’
    ‘That’s the style! And here we are.’
    They had arrived in a lighted ward with eight beds. One of them was empty and beside it a small grey-haired woman was waiting.
    She came forward, saying, ‘It’s Isobel, is it? We had given you up.’
    ‘The ambulance was late.’
    ‘Yes. We know that now. Thank you, Max. Are those her night things? Right. Now I’ll fetch some water for a wash and you can change into your pyjamas.’
    She said to the onlookers, ‘You mustn’t get her talking. She’s had a long day and she’s a sick girl, so leave her in peace.’
    The woman had a soft Scottish accent, which was reassuring.
    She left to fetch the hot water. Isobel sat on the bed. The patient in the next bed said, ‘How long have you known?’
    ‘A week and a bit.’
    ‘Ah.’
    It was a sympathetic sound, echoed from other beds.
    There were no curtains here. Isobel fetched her pyjamas from the bag, slid out of her sweater and then her pants, thankful this time for knickers, and changed with all possible modesty and great effort into her nightwear.
    Sister Mackenzie came back with a jug of water, a towel, a washer, a basin and a glass which she filled with water from the jug.
    ‘You’ll be wanting to clean your teeth. Do you want a pan?’
    ‘No thank you.’
    ‘Face and hands and then clean your teeth and we’ll settle you for the night. Now don’t stir.’
    Having her face and hands cleaned with a wet washcloth made her feel decidedly juvenile.
    ‘I shan’t be doing this for you every day, I assure you.’
    ‘I hope not.’
    ‘For the moment you just keep as still as you can. You can clean your own teeth. There we are then. Settled for the night. Do you want a sleeping pill?’
    ‘No thank you.’
    ‘I’ll say good night, then. Sleep well.’
    She went off carrying the equipment and saying, ‘Good night to you all. Pleasant dreams!’
    ‘Fat chance,’ someone said when she had gone.
    Another voice said reproachfully, ‘Never knock back a sleeping pill. Remember you’ve got friends!’
    ‘Well, she has some manners, Sister Mackenzie. More than you can say for some.’
    ‘I want a fag. Anyone got a lighter?’
    ‘You’ll get caught, Pat. Have to front up to Stannard. Brrr!’
    ‘I’ll hand it straight to you, dear, and just sit there looking innocent. Besides, he knows. Turns a blind eye.’
    ‘How do you