I pause on the way to the hospital to buy David a chocolate eclair stuffed with fresh Devon cream. A young mum passes, pushing a stroller bearing bundled twins. These identical yearlings look at the world from their lowered position, fascinated by legs, leashed dogs and orange carrots, whose green tops hang from the rims of vegetable-laden outdoor tables.
It's market day. Farmers exhibit all manner of merchandise beneath the shelter of Ross-on-Wye's 16th century open Market House. While mum bags onions one little guy takes a swig of juice before passing the bottle to his brother, who takes a good pull and passes it back. Grins are exchanged.
Newly born snowdrops with white faces peer up at shoppers from clay pots, Bits of leaf mold cling to their bright greenery. Millions decorate the forest floor behind our cottage. One can never have too many. A woman buys a little pot, smiling. They'll divide and multiply.
A single Scotch egg, surrounded by a perfectly rounded mantle of sausage and onion, sits on a tray at Truffles, a little shop by the market. Its shining glass case is the only thing that separates us. I buy it, impulsively, and scarf it down. Still warm, it's delicious.
A Jack Russell terrier stares at me, unblinking, from its owner's backpack. The sight is ridiculous and endearing. They look complete, somehow -- the huge man in his waxed anorak, the small dog as logo. Both disappear into the Crown and Sceptre pub.
The little hospital's resident marmalade cat, Louis, greets me. He's grown up here, and enjoys his job as leggy receptionist. He's vocal to favorite people, like the pharmacist, who offers a bit of his sandwich crust. The gift is rejected. No one is offended. Louis yawns. Claws dig into the floor as he stretches elegantly before moving to the window to bird-watch. Only the tip of his tail moves. His purr is audible across the room.
He's been slimming, the human receptionist informs me. Louis used to be really fat.
David is sleeping, so I sit next to him, and take his hand.
A thin, elderly woman wanders into the room, and asks us for the name of our little shop. "Does it sell linens?" She has bright eyes and a beautiful smile. I tell her we've forgotten. She wonders if she should ring the proprietor to request its telephone number. I say, "That's a good idea." She waves goodbye and wanders out again to find a directory. A nurse shepherds her into her room across the hall and pours her a cup of tea. The woman selects a biscuit from the proffered tin. "I enjoy teatime, you know. But the village shop hasn't got a working telephone. Most unfortunate ..."
I stretch, and walk down the hall.
A bedridden man repeatedly yells, "Help, help! There're too many dead people." There is a curious lack of urgency in his tone. The tea trolley arrives at his bed. Attentive relatives pour. Drinking it quickly, he wolfs down a biscuit. His agitated eyes are unfocused.
Nurses smile and soothe, not minding these outbursts. They gently tend the needs of bedridden patients who, like David, are at the end of their lives. The sun pours through the big windows. David sleeps on as his tea cools. I gaze outside at a fat robin investigating a newly turned garden bed for worms; it's his teatime, too ...
This absurd thought makes me smile.
David awakens; the room is brighter. We laugh, nibble the eclair, and I natter on about nothing.
The elephant in the room is ignored.
Dee Blair's Sunnybank Gardens are closed for the season. Visit her Web site, www.deeblair.com for more information. Find more of her columns online at record-eagle.com/deeblair.
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