Extracts from a novel in progress

Nights were the worst. They were impossibly endless. The clock on the wall grew louder and louder in its haste to tell us of seconds passing. Each quicker than the first. Yet still morning did not come. I know I wasn’t alone in longing for dawn. Mrs Williams in bed 5 had nightmares that left her screaming, twisted this way and that in her paper-thin sheets.

Tonight, Nurse Cooper was on duty. “It’s okay love,” she crooned in her soothing Yorkshire accent, “Nout to worry about.”

I closed my eyes, thinking of Franklin’s visit earlier. He had been late, and by the time he arrived, Mrs Williams had already nodded off, raspberry jelly dripping off her chin. As he walked in, I could smell the cold air on his clothes. It was the closest I had come to being outside in days.

“Tell me what it’s like outside,” I begged.

“Well,” he said, smiling as he placed his gloves on my bed. I reached out to touch them, enjoying the feel of the material, their fingers stiff from the cold.

“It is so cold out. Textbook English weather.”

I had wanted to close my eyes. To focus only on his soft, deep voice. But then I couldn’t miss his facial expressions. The wide-eyed amazement that four winters in England hadn’t dulled.

“Every morning you wake up to a fresh powdering of snow, like the icing on a cake. By nightfall its ground down to slush, ready to be made new again.”

How I longed to be outside. To break free of the sterile hospital bubble, untouched by winter. I couldn’t bear the thought of spending Christmas here. As I did every night, I began to will myself better. To will my injuries to heal. Right on cue, Mrs Williams began snoring.

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I allowed myself a faint smile as I stood in the doorway. So little seemed to change in the shop, that it often felt like stepping into a time machine. How easy it was to pretend that the weekend never happened. The brightly coloured cardboard signs, which were suspended over the aisles still pointed to the same products. Cards. Paper. Pens. Filing. Webs woven by countless spiders, which blanketed the fluorescent lights overhead sat undisturbed. As did the tiny moth graveyards inside each light. Silhouettes of outstretched wings, immobile and frozen in time.

Yet, a damp smell lingered in air. A hangover no doubt, from the burst pipe a few days ago. It overwhelmed the shop’s usual smell, a mixture of Mr Richards’ pungent aftershave and wafts of sizzling meat from the tandoori two doors down.

“Are you going in or what?” said Mr Richards behind me, impatient as ever.

“Yes sir,” I said, walking through the shop to hang up my jacket on the peg in his small, cramped office.

I took my place behind the counter. As I often did, I positioned my feet in the marks where the carpet had been worn away by years of shoes. It was a gorgeous day out, surprisingly mild. Sunlight poured in from the front window and I closed my eyes for a moment to bask in its warmth. At just after eight, Mr Samson would be in for the morning paper, whistling as he entered, beginning the slow trickle of customers. But until the door opened, until he arrived, these few moments, these were all mine.