Here’s C___, bright-eyed and attentive,
eager to tell, the whole story not revealing itself, but “P___’s
got a great karate kick.” And there’s T___, cool and well-dressed,
smiling, but no further inquiries. Here’s A___, reeling and wheeling,
who knows what’s aloft, but has the story repeated to him and is
unaware. There’s the T___’s, snorting, guffawing, singing and
shouting, carousing for attention and activity, “There was a fight,
no one else stepped in.” “Why didn’t you help your friend?”
M___ asks, staring, unblinking. They have now all chatted to the guy;
G___ can redress him. And the guy leans on the bar, and conspires with
S___, and is forgotten, and the activity was a blip of imagination, until
a new arrival retriggers the occasion of the memory for recounting, and
is told, and the evidence is in a dirty great shoe print— but everyone
is over now, kicking bottles from corner to corner, snatching final swigs
from the odd upstanding bottles lying around. The pictures crash to the
floor. C___, demanding kisses from D___, and the throng directs itself
downstairs, past boats on their masts and landscapes set awry, and the
spillage diverts into rivulets, bar, toilet, reception, entrance, street,
with the currents causing the droplets to consistently replace themselves
and interchange until out on the street the dam bursts, two people crash
to the floor, one giggling, falling from waist height, the other, upright,
is felled, and received by the corner of a dustbin waiting outside. The
blood begins its passage, and the dazed person has luckily partaken of
his share of the refreshing flow, and is thus unable to see what we can
see, and attempts to re-assert himself—“No, no J___, stay there,
pinch your nose, put your head forward.” “No, no, don’t
pinch it, put your head back.” The crush swells outward and J___,
stepping past, is forced to look—“oh dear.” A car is retrieved
and persons pile in. S___ is our relief and accompaniment. The ambulance
is held up by the taxi. Casualty. We enter through the ambulance entry
and sit down. A young Canadian sits next to us, a couple behind, a man
reclines, dozing noisily. Someone wants a plaster. He stands close in
front of the couple, teetering, he looks about to pee on them, he sways
and looks down, speechless, then turns, walks around to the next recipient—a
middle-aged woman, unsure—the teetering man, arm crocked, holding
his shoes in one hand, so close he may be about to sit on her, turns,
wanders, demands a plaster. The Canadian’s friend turns up and swears
at the guy, “some nerdy little shit . . . didn’t tell no one,”
and is expelled. In our absence for refreshment there has been a rumpus,
at the heart of which J___ attempts to quell the disturbance. The staff
are concerned that J___ should “sit down.” The teetering man
with the injured chin, demanding his plaster, ejects himself, untreated,
shoes off, tie untied. The police arrive, cuffed to a suntanned jogger.
His long-pitted vest and running shorts give an indication, but the handcuff
to the policeman does not confirm the story. He is sent in to be consulted
ahead of all long stayers; enquiry discovers “It’s for his own
good.” We accept this and sit down. A thudding crash wakes all—the
potential jogger hurtling himself at the front doors, karate-kicking open
the swing doors in his path—the whole crew descend upon him. Unfortunately
for him the hospital doors are now kept locked, entry is by a bell only.
The chocolate eggs are possibly wasted, the crisps enjoyed by the three
wisecrackers. J___, oblivious of events, concerned for our welfare, is
insistent that we depart. It is 4am. Reluctantly we forego further opportunity
for speculation, speculation and doctoring, but not before the nurse reassuringly
realigns the lips, to which we breathe relief. We journey home to S___’s
pastoral hack-street and end our day at its beginning.Andrea Mason
London, Great Britain
1995