London | Janey L Foster

Now there’s a tree watching over the bed, birds scrabbling for food, people darting in and out the Costas just off to the right and if they looked up from their latte they’d see me in the window looking out.

I didn’t like yesterday’s room though, felt too far tucked away, almost a sense of punishment, of neglect. Broken thinking on my part, of course. Tiredness doesn’t help.

Of course the care was on point and Senior Sister Gemma enfolded me with her reassuring London tones, her voice and her words and her ways. She called me darlin’ and we joked about the room upgrade. She should have been pulling pints but she was pushing beds instead and I was grateful .

And when the upgrade came, when trees were administered, when the relief of natural light came into view, I relaxed (a little.)

A ward with a window over green and the bole of the tree stands guard, steady, constant, dependable bark that’s been there a hundred years watching people change.

I feel like I’ve been there a hundred years but it’s only day seven or is it eight?

Maybe that’s why the previous room took me down, floored me with an echo of late pregnancy, of no privacy, of people poking and me hanging on. Propped up, out of time with a job to do, concerned faces, waiting, willing. Praying.

I think that’s it, the silent magnolia walls, the speckled ceiling, just a little too high for my liking and a view, (if you can call it that,) over the scrag end of the buildings.

Still, that’s not now.

I’d better get up, I’ve got a job to do. I hope Gemma’s on today. I like her long black pony tail. When she walks, it swings like a metronome on her back, keeping me steady with her rhythm.

Seconds tick down at crossings, marking time and if you take the time to look after a stranger’s baby while their mother collects some food, then take a moment, the only moment that you have, to hold the infant in your eyes, to wish him love and health.

Take a breath amongst the hubbub and the clamouring to pray his life goes well, that circumstances hold him and that years from now he’s not spotted sitting in a doorway with a tin can of cash by his cold feet, irrelevant to passersby who jostle for position, who want the next Must Have.

And while seconds tick down at crossings you try not to fall into the cracks between the paving stones, the concrete where your mother’s feet brushed years ago, her cashmere cardi fluttering in quieter streets. And if you fell would some hand reach down to pull you up, would someone come to save you? Would a stranger wipe smeared blood and debris from your cheeks? Would they hold you?

And your mother’s feet blur into your own. You don’t fall down while the seconds tick to nothing and as diesel fumes mingle with chips and grease, the baby waggles his feet in the pushchair, sucking on the saccharin of a sweet Fruit-Shoot. His mother returns and thanks you. His life is good. You pray it always will be.

Under the trees where you shield from rain, a raggle-taggle group set up their tables, you leave before their purpose becomes clear. Your chips are warm in the cold, a fleeting comfort while your mother echoes around you, her pearls glinting from a younger sun that tries to push through now, that tries to warm you.