**Diary Entry 14th February, St. Georges Hospital, London**
I sat in the wheelchair, staring through the grimy window at the empty courtyard below. No luckmy room faced the hospitals inner garden, a quiet little square with benches and flowerbeds, but hardly a soul in sight. Winter had settled in, and patients rarely ventured out for walks anymore. I was alone in the ward. A week ago, my roommate, Jamie Whitmore, had been discharged, and the place felt emptier than ever. Jamie had been the lively sort, always cracking jokes and spinning tales like a proper actorwhich, in fact, he was, studying theatre at uni. With him around, boredom was impossible. Besides, his mum visited daily, bringing homemade scones, fruit, and sweets, which he generously shared. When Jamie left, the room lost its warmth, and Id never felt more alone.
A nurses sharp voice snapped me from my thoughts. My heart sankinstead of cheerful young Daisy, it was stern-faced Margaret Haywood, the one who never smiled. In two months here, Id never once seen her laugh. Her voice matched her expressiongruff, no-nonsense, and utterly unpleasant.
“Right then, Stevens, quit loungingback to bed!” she barked, syringe already in hand.
I sighed, turned the wheelchair, and rolled obediently to the bed. Margaret helped me lie down with brisk efficiency, flipping me onto my stomach.
“Trousers down,” she ordered. I obeyedand barely felt a thing. For all her roughness, Margaret gave the smoothest injections, and for that, I was silently grateful.
*How old is she?* I wondered as she checked the vein in my thin arm. *Must be near retirement. Pensions not enough, so shes stuck hereno wonder shes cross.*
The needle slid in with barely a pinch.
“All done. Did the doctor stop by today?” she asked unexpectedly, already turning to leave.
“Not yet,” I muttered. “Might come later.”
“Well, wait. And quit sitting by the windowyoull catch your death, looking half-drowned already,” she said, striding out.
I almost bristled, but something in her tonebeneath the bluntnessfelt oddly like concern. Not that Id know.
Im an orphan. My parents died when I was foura fire tore through our cottage in the Cotswolds. I was the only one who made it out, thanks to my mother throwing me through a window into the snow moments before the roof collapsed. The burns on my shoulder and the twisted wrist are the only reminders I have of them. No relatives stepped forward, so I grew up in care.
From my mother, I inherited soft-spoken patience and green eyes; from my father, height, long strides, and a knack for numbers. My memories of them are fragmentsvillage fairs, my fathers shoulders under me, the summer wind on my face. I even recall a ginger tomcat named either Marmalade or Simba. But theres nothing elseno photos, no keepsakes.
No one visits me here. At eighteen, the council gave me a room in a fourth-floor flatno lift, no ramps. I dont mind solitude, but sometimes the loneliness aches. Watching families in parks or shops brings a bitter twist to my throat.
Id wanted to go to university, but my grades fell short, so I enrolled at a technical college instead. I liked the course well enough, but making friends was hopelesstoo quiet, too bookish. Girls preferred lads who could banter. By eighteen, I still looked sixteen. A proper outsider, but it never bothered me.
Two months ago, rushing to class, I slipped on icy pavement, shattering both legs. The fractures were nasty, slow to heal, but lately thered been progress. Still, dread gnawed at mehow would I manage alone in a walk-up flat?
After lunch, Dr. Harris, the orthopaedic surgeon, strode in. He reviewed my scans and nodded.
“Good news, Daniel. The bones are finally knitting properly. Another fortnight, and youll be on crutches. No point keeping you hereoutpatient care from now on. Someone picking you up?”
I nodded silently.
“Brilliant. Margaret will help you pack. Stay on your feet, eh?” He winked and left.
Panic set in. *What now?*
Margaret returned, tossing my rucksack onto the bed. “Get packing, Stevens. Housekeepings coming.”
As I stuffed my meagre belongings in, her gaze lingered.
“Whyd you lie to the doctor?” she asked, head tilted.
“About what?” I feigned ignorance.
“Dont play daft. No ones fetching you. Howll you get home?”
“Ill manage,” I grumbled.
“You cant walk yet. Howll you live?”
“Im not a child.”
Suddenly, she sat beside me, voice softening. “Daniel, its none of my business, but youll need help. You cant do this alone.”
“I can.”
“You cant. Ive been nursing thirty years. Stop being stubborn.”
“Even so, why tell me?”
“Because youll stay with me. I live out in Essextwo steps to the porch. Spare rooms yours till youre back on your feet. Im widowed, no kids”
I gaped at her. *Live with her?* We were strangers.
“Well?” she pressed.
“Its awkward,” I stammered.
“Awkwards trying to cook from a wheelchair in a flat with no lift. So? Coming?”
I hesitated. Yet, these past months, beneath her gruffness, shed looked out for me*”Eat your greens, Stevens,” “Shut that window, youll catch cold,”*small acts of care. Now, she was the only one offering help.
“Ill come,” I said finally. “But Ive no money. Student loans not due yet.”
She scowled. “Think Im charging you? Im not heartless, boy.”
“I didnt mean”
“Enough. Wait in the nurses station. Shift ends soon.”
Her cottage was snuglow ceilings, leaded windows, a wood stove crackling. The first few days, I barely left my room, too shy to ask for anything.
“Stop being daft,” she snapped eventually. “Speak up if you need something.”
Truth was, I liked it therethe snow outside, the smell of her shepherds pieit reminded me of home.
Weeks passed. The wheelchair went, then the crutches. Time to return to London. After a check-up, I limped beside her, fretting over missed exams.
“Take a deferral,” she chided. “Your legs need rest.”
Wed grown close. I didnt want to leavethis woman, fierce and kind, had become family. I couldnt admit it, not even to myself.
The next day, as I packed, I turned to find Margaret in the doorway, crying. Without thinking, I hugged her.
“Stay, Daniel,” she whispered. “Ill be lost without you.”
So I stayed. Years later, she sat proudly as mother of the groom at my wedding. And when my daughter was born, it was Margaret who held her firsta little girl named Margaret, after her grandmother.
