White Chairs.

A 500 word short story from ‘Behind the plague door’.

The white waiting room chairs in A&E are bolted together in sets of five or ten, in lines. They are no longer new, nor are they comfortable, and have a 1970’s Habitat look with round holes in the metal seats and backs. Some chairs carry word-processed notices: Please don’t sit on me I’m broken. There is no irony in this, nor is it a metaphor, it’s merely a statement of fact. 

 During the day the chairs that are not broken are always fully occupied. Often, when there are no vacant chairs, patients lean on the walls, sit on the floor or loiter outside for a chat or a fag.

At night, this A&E is closed. In the dark, unanswered telephones monotonously ring and ring, sick with tinnitus. No people suffer. No people are in pain. No parents panic. There is no blood. All is spick and span. No doctors fight to save lives. No nurses tend the ill with compassion and care. No one gasps for air. No broken bones needing repair. Sounds echo from far off-stage, safety lights faintly glimmer – a theatre without a play. 

The noise of an electric floor-polishing machine grows as Janita pushes it into the waiting room. As she polishes, she sings to the white chairs as if she wants to cheer them up from their loneliness, All you need is love, love, Love is all you need. She looks out through the windows.

Heavy rain falls in sheets through the radiance of high car park lights. A car skids to a halt. A middle-aged man leaps out, opens the rear door of the car and helps an old lady out. He protects her with his coat and helps her stagger to the doors. He rattles them. On the inside, Janita tries to let them in. Outside, the man pounds the doors with his fists and shouts, It’s my mother. Janita shakes her head, there is no way in. She shouts, Try the main doors, and points in their direction, Round there, round there. She stares at the car, the driver’s door is still open. She waits. 

Rain falls. The man and his mother return to the car. He helps her in. The car drives away. Janita, unable to sing, weeps as she continues to polish the floor.

In the deserted car park, Austerity, the Grim Reaper, watches.



© Phil Cosker 2020
Phil Cosker has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work. All rights reserved; no part of this work may be reproduced or transmitted by any mean, electronic, mechanical, photocopying or otherwise without the prior permission of the author.

4 thoughts on “White Chairs.

  1. Thanks Phil , an excellent snapshot of how people are feeling and behaving across the world. I have almost finished your books.Im at a crucial point in the smoke. Immigrant workers and stonier virus… how did you know?? Ken

    Sent from my iPhone

    >

  2. Hi Phil!
    I´m highly impressed by your creativity. One short story a week! What a gift to recieve in these dark days.
    “White chairs” is so actuel and cruel. When I read I can see the film before my eyes. Nothing is so empty as an closed A&E, but I can easely fill the emptiness with so many emotions, sentiments and impressions. (i think of scenes in the the swedish filmer Roy Anderssons settings) And the sounds are there. The floor machine, first at distance off screen and then Janita (ttone of these unseen and under paid heroes singing and dreaming of a more decent life. 1+1=3 over and over again!
    And then the man and women seeking for relief. A most touching scene. When they disapeard in the rain the screen fades to black and I hear the polishing machine and Janita weeping…… more and more silent
    White and black. Wipe and weep.
    A short story ready to be turned into a short film or the start of a full length film!

    Thanks my friend!

    My love to you all from Sweden
    Lennart

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s