Florence

My parents separated just after I was born. I grew up in a council flat in Brighton with my mother, who worked two jobs to afford to pay our way. I only see photos of my father. Mum was a waitress by day (10-4 at Handsome Joe’s Family Diner) and an NHS nurse by night (7-3, Brighton General Hospital). She would take me with her, to the hospital, and set me sleeping in the crèche, at ease, while she went about her work.
She slept in the free time she had, but she had Sundays off entirely, and loved taking me for walks on these days, to the park, to feed the geese, to tell me about the hospital. Inside, beyond the necessity of it, she cherished her work at the hospital. While others dismissed it as a graveyard shift that left her tired eyed and weary, she took great pleasure, even solace in walking the dead corridors (quiet), caring for sleepless patients (there there, go back to sleep) and the easy coffee and free conversation known only to middle aged night shift female single parents.
Between falling and waking, in that dreamy, weightless pool, where mother carried my comfortable, limp body through the endless corridors to her car, an intangible bond was strengthened, between mother (nurse) and child. Vague orange lights warmed her cheeks like an angel, like a rose in blossom. Through the exhaustion, her eyes shone with simple orange love. She smiled warmly and held me to her.

(...)

I remember that I had a fever... I was about 9 years old and asleep in the crèche.
I’d taken the day off school (oh, you have got a temperature. you’d better stay in bed today) and sat watching ‘Channel 4: Learning’ all day, bored senseless and worn out from sneezing, waiting forever for my mother to return. Curled up on the sofa, in my duvet, watched the TV man read out other children’s birthdays, watched historical programs about war and medicine, the Crimean War, a lady who looked after the soldiers, healed them. Like my mother, I supposed. The lady was called Florence Nightingale, and she had saved a lot of lives during that war. She was angelic. When my mother came home (about 4:30), I told her about Florence Nightingale, and how she reminded me of her. Mother smiled and said that Florence Nightingale probably worked under more difficult conditions than her, and that there was really no comparison. Regardless, since then, whenever I would see my mother in nurse’s attire, I would call her Florence Nightingale, and she would blush with delight.
The crèche: my temperature sky-high and rocketing still. Waking in sweat, in shock, confused and vulnerable. The jovial nature of this place (where am I?), its walls and colours and the animals and pirates (Disney style, not to scare) grew dark and contorted, bastard nightmares, twisted and feverish. Shadows loomed and angles reared rigid and precise, wordless questions for which I could offer no answer, just run in painful circles, without end, without beginning. Lost. And the quiet is deafening, the air thick and restless with the silence spinning, at once instant and abrupt and echoes forever. Left here, bathing in chaos. Left here alone.
From this whirlpool of senses (all wrong) that held me captive, my sweet mother, Florence Nightingale, came bearing hope and orange candlelight. Administering reassurance and comfort, she took my hand in hers and stayed with me, in that dark place. She eased me from apparitions and into her light. We said a prayer together and the room became holy. She kissed my forehead (like only a mother can) and lay me down at peace. She stayed with me for nearly half an hour before I fell asleep, and she left me (for it was only 1 am) basking in her reflection.

(...)

She wheeled him from his bed. Between two others, opposite three more. They were asleep- everyone else was asleep. In that moment, unmoving and out of speech or thought, he gave himself to her. She wiped the dribble from his bottom lip, looked into his vacant eyes, and smiled. They continued. The left wheel was in need of repair, or oiling, or changing (she wasn’t sure which). It became stiff with revolution, like treacle, momentary and sticking. The right wheel rolled smoothly. She pushed him along the dead corridors with only the creaking of the wheel and the reverb from faraway footsteps for company. Bold, uniform windows allowed an orange light to illuminate the art that adorned the endless corridor walls. Generic seafronts and kites and suchlike. The chapel is on the left, the canteen on the right. She eased him into that holy place: along the aisle, to an elevated Christ. Magnolia and pine were gentle on him and the veil was an easy fit. He lowered himself before The Lord and prayed.

They took this journey every night. Always the same time. Always her. Always in silence.

She waited at the chapel door, and thought of her Lord. She thought of her patient, as he knelt there, in awesome silence. She thought of him as a child, and how he had aged. He’d told her that his mother was a nurse, in this same hospital, before she’d died. They’d had many conversations as she’d routinely dosed out hot chocolate. She thought he was quirky, but adorable, and she took pleasure in caring for him, seeing him heal. He’d been in for a few weeks now, since being hit by the car. She felt a sharp sense of pity for him, for he had no family alive, nor had any of his friends (of which he spoke regularly, often the same stories repeated, added to, strengthened) visited him once. She had felt he was becoming lonely, desperate, without hope...so she begun taking him, once a night, to the chapel, to share in her prayers. He had latched onto this attention, and swallowed it whole. This journey was now expected, concrete and secure. Their Lord put smiles on their faces, made them amiable and removed them from their situations. Her mind wandered and she let her eyes lose focus.

His prayer was beautiful. His prayers were always beautiful. His eyes were closed tightly and She could hear him whispering, but not what he was whispering. He thought of his mother, the caring nurse, his mother, Florence Nightingale, his love. He thought of the nurse stood behind him. He thought of these things as he prayed, and they were included in his prayers. As he whispered ‘Amen’, his mind became a tool of its own use; the lines between truth and fiction disappeared and...and...He turned his head to her, and she saw the character in his eyes. The recognition. Florence Nightingale, he thought. Mother. My Love. She cares for me. She’s always been here for me, since I was young. Mother. Here. Now. Florence Nightingale.

He lifted himself to his wheelchair (as the prayer had been lifted to their Lord) and, in silence, she led him back down the same, sombre corridors, (the window revealed to them the downpour) to his bed. Between two others, opposite three more.

(...)

Those who wander the streets aimlessly, in search of something long gone or something never there... Those who tell stories over and over, real-life factions as they live... You can’t see where the transmission ends and the receiver begins. What consequence have these people, who wield memory like a tool, for what purpose, why? Consuming truth and input and moulding them to a lifestyle blurred in search of....

(...)

I had been sat at the bus stop for about 20 minutes, waiting for the 380 and seeking shelter from the rain. I saw him walking in this direction from about 200 yards away. He was soaked. After a while, he had reached the bus stop and came inside. He asked if I’d mind if he sat next to me, I didn’t, so he did. He was eager for conversation, but conversation was stunted, one way. He wasn’t listening to my responses, my points...There was a deluge of information, of stories linked somehow to the next, the last. I got the feeling he’d told them before. Some contradicted each other, and some made no sense at all- but they all focused around one central theme, that of Florence Nightingale.
He said that he was very sad, and I could see that he had been crying. Not wanting to be insensitive, I tried comforting him. He told me of how he had recently been taken to hospital (though he never mentioned why), and there, he had met and fallen in love with Florence Nightingale. At the mention of her name, he lifted his face to me and spoke, staring into me, through me. He was sure that his love was requited, and that he didn’t think they would see each other again. I didn’t know what to make of this story.

(Bus shelters can be treasure chests of conversation. He was clearly mad. Too many drugs, I thought, fucked up and forgotten about. Lives encouraged in the rain, amplified by alcohol... It’s easy for them to flip. Best be polite. Best listen.)

He was crying again, sobbing uncontrollably. After 5 minutes of his wailing, and my uncomfortable silence, he wiped his eyes and got up. Something in him had changed, his tears had ceased and there was a new vitality in his eyes. A hope previously unthere. He smiled at me and laughed. His eyes were wide and luminous, maddening. He strode out, into the rain, and looked up at the sky. He held out his arms, turned his face to the sky and cried “Florence! I’m coming back!”. Then he ran into the road, into the oncoming traffic.