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The Bed

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Ray lies on a hospital bed in a corridor next to the entrance of A&E; each time the door opens he endures a blast of freezing air. It’s four o’clock in the morning and he’s yet to see a doctor. He feels sorry for himself; it’s no place to be with Christmas and Covid in the air. As he climbs out of bed, to go to the toilet, the bed issues a melodic sequence of multiple squeaks. Ray laughs as he inspects the bed, sees how old and battered it is and sings, Any old iron? Any, any old iron? 

A passing nurse calls, You should be asleep after that sedative we gave you.
Instead, Ray explores.
Another corridor is empty except for a boy sitting bolt upright in bed, wide awake, sobbing and pleading, Daddy! I want to go home.
Ray asks, Shall I call you a nurse?
Daddy, you came at last, the boy whimpers. 
Sorry, son, I’m not your daddy.
The boy screams, Daddy! Daddy!
The same nurse comes running. I told you, get back to bed before you pass out!

Reluctantly, Ray does as he’s been told. As soon as his head hits the pillow he falls into a deep sleep and dreams.

In an enormous sports hall, innumerable blue hospital privacy screens on wheels, are in constant movement like the sails of myriad sailing boats caught in a raging storm. Ray finds the sound of screens and beds ricocheting one against another, the screeching of wheels, the constant noise of ventilators, shouted conversations, sobbing, cries of distress and even shouts of man overboard, frightening. He goes on. Boris Johnson and Matt Hancock play badminton with a shuttlecock dripping blood. Ray wonders why there are no stains on Johnson’s and Hancock’s clothes while spectating female and male patients lying on hospital beds are drenched in blood. Alarms ring.
An elderly male voice interrupts his nightmare, asking, Were you taking the piss singing, Any old iron?
Who said that? Ray asks.
I did. 
Who?
Your bed. Can I sing along? You look dapper from your napper to your feet, the bed sings.
Bloody hell, beds don’t talk, let alone, sing.
You’d be surprised. When there’s too many sick folks, they dig me out of the store and here I am, an emergency bed. In 1948, when the NHS was founded, it took over ownership of 480,000 beds: I’m one of those beds. We used to sing lullabies to get the bairns to sleep. It was another of Aneurin Bevan’s miracles. Do you know how many NHS beds there are now?
No.
In March 2024, 141,903.
Jesus, I need cheering up.
Let’s sing a carol.

Hello, Raymond, I’m your doctor, Sandra, time to wake up. You’ve been dreaming and singing Good King Wenceslas; it was odd, it sounded like a duet. Anyway, we’ll find you a nice new bed to make you comfortable.
Sorry, but this is the best bed I’ve ever had.
Thanks Ray, the bed whispers. 

I hope you enjoyed this story. Please feel free to pass it on to others who may be interested. You can read my previous 500 word stories on my website www.philcoskerwriter.com under ‘Writing’.>>>More
© Phil Cosker 2024
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.

The Bed

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I’m eighty-two and I want a bed of my own. My last bed, our marital bed, was bought by the husband for our golden wedding anniversary.

I loved the husband but it was only after he died that I realised that the house was a kind of man cave; hardly surprising when we had three sons – four men in the house for years and years, and just one woman – me: invisible until needed.

Men smell different to us; it’s not necessarily offensive, except, of course, when they fart. When the four of them were at it they had a conspiracy of silence never admitting their stink; they just laughed at my objections. My father had the ‘Man Smell’ and his was a mixture of tweed suits, pipe smoke and bad breath. The husband, near the end, smelt like an old comfortable armchair covered in well worn moquette, plus the slight smell of shoe polish from his habitual brogues and we always laughed at his futile habit of chewing mints to disguise his whisky breath.

The décor, in the man cave, is as drab as a downpour in November. I tried to put a bit of colour into our lives; I gave the boys lovely bright colours in their bedrooms. As they got older they complained that their mates would think they were fairies. You’d think having anything pink within fifty feet was an indication of incipient homosexuality. Bloody rubbish, and I said so, but the husband wasn’t having jolly chintz when he could have brown. Even a footstooll upholstered in William Morris’ ‘Strawberry Thief’ gave him a fit of the Heebie Jeebies. 

It’s about ownership. Not just the owning of me as me, but the me that’s expressed through the house. It’s never been ‘my’ house; it’s always been ‘their’ house, or ‘our’ house, but never mine.

I never wanted him forever dead; though God forgive me, there were times when I did. But he is, and now I’ve ordered a double bed of my own; a single divan would make feel that I was in a home. The curtains are ugly but they’ll keep me warm. The red and dark green Axminster carpet will see me out as will the rest of it, especially the endless brown furniture so polished you can see your face in it. I can’t be bothered anymore; I’m too old; it can all stay as it is.

The husband was bigger than me and over the years he’d made a big body-shaped hollow in the old mattress. I’d forgotten that just after he died, I used to sleep in his hollow; it was the nearest I could get to the husband and it fitted me nicely. It was a comfort; he was there but not there. 

I’ve now had my new bed for a couple of weeks. But I can’t sleep; there’s no husband hollow to curl up in. I’m cold and lonely. I should have kept that mattress. 

I hope you enjoyed this story. Please feel free to pass it on to others who may be interested. You can read my previous 500 word stories on my website www.philcoskerwriter.com under ‘Writing’.>>>More

© Phil Cosker 2022
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.