Paint It Red

It’s remarkable how much you can take in in a single glance although you might not realise it at the time. The events which follow happened around 18 months ago and whilst some of the peripheral details have faded the salient parts are etched clearly somewhere I don’t go very often.

The routine blood test at my surgery had not gone well. Vera had reluctantly given up finding a vein and “referred” me to a higher authority namely the hospital up the hill. Vera was most put out that I had donated blood dozens of times in my adult life without being made to feel like a pincushion. I wondered what tactics the “higher” nurses might employ with their evidently superior vein-detection skills.

Inevitably there was a queue waiting to be bled or consulted about previous bleeding. Strolling into the side room I took in that there were 5 rows of about 7 seats and only 2 or 3 seats unoccupied. I dismissed the nearest seat next to a large unkempt man. I elected for the seat at the far end of the room which someone was “keeping” with a folded back magazine. I lifted the magazine and the young girl adjacent jumped and shot me a glance of fright. I smiled weakly and motioned towards the now empty seat and she nodded. I sat and rested the magazine on my lap then flinched at the picture presenting to me.

Before the ragged application of a bright red crayon the picture was one of a sunlit lakeland scene with a swan massively dominating the foreground. The swan’s beauty had been all but extinguished by the violent crayon strokes which made the swan an incongruous crimson shape against its once idyllic backdrop.

What moron could vandalize the magazine in this way? What mindless lout could be so devoid of …?

“Its Danny…” she said quietly as her eyes never left the yawning entrance to the “clinic” which swallowed up people in ones and twos after names were called.

She turned slowly to face me and I saw not the face of a moron but the sad world-weary face of a 5 or 6 year old whose very soul was stricken by events too difficult to imagine. Sunken eyes framed by dark circles of pain.

She pointed to the swan and before I could say anything before I could articulate my forgiveness before I could breathe…

“He’s dying, Danny it’s his blood it’s not working proper” and then I knew and hated myself for my snap judgement. My smug fiftysomething know-it-all seen-it-all perceived wisdom my ennui my damn stupidity.

I knew straightaway. It was her mother and brother emerging from the clinic by her expression of first elation then instantaneous return to despondency. She got up quickly and ran to join them as they moved towards the exit.

I too got up and as words failed me I held out a hand. A gesture of conciliation maybe or perhaps a wave goodbye. She looked towards me one hand already on the handle of Danny’s pushchair and with some conviction said “I painted it red mister, I painted it red”.