He was always Mr Marks to me, although he would probably have been called Dr Marks to his colleagues…
He was younger then of course and I seem to recall him as Dr Finlay, Dr Doolittle at times and quite possibly, Dr No, all of whom where grafting a corner out for themselves on the available platforms of the day.
It used to be a strange old trip across to Clatterbridge… The C3 or the C4 as far as New Ferry Toll Bar, then the 60 or the 64 across to Bebington and then the hospital bus to the site itself. Dad didn’t drive then and it was always a long day, arriving early generally, waiting in the queue to be seen, the hope that your name would be called first but it never seemed to happen that way.
Sometimes Bernadette would be there, her pale skin showing beneath her black hair, carrying her leg with a shuffle, the remains of the Polio that her young life had left her with.
I pressed my nose to the window, looking out into the ‘quad’, where the soft toys and the rocking horse sat quietly in the steady, wet rain. Maybe we could get pizza or Chinese food in the arcade by the Crossville bus depot. There was always a treat to be enjoyed on these adventures.
Mum would be careful to keep me within earshot, waiting for the call… Mrs Bryne, Stephen Bryne… They always got my name wrong.
It’s Byrne… Byrne… It’s not that hard surely.
The Sunday Express lay crumpled at the back of the bookcase, the crossword was torn and unfinished but I could just about make out one or two of the answers. Igloo… Perfume… Redress… Tester.
I liked words, the way they could scatter across the page and find themselves a home in the ebb and flow of a sentence, allowing me to trace or track their history.
Prior to my interest in all things Catholic, I would make an eternal commitment to the pun and to the mess I would occasionally find myself in.
‘Stephen Byrne’… I instinctively jumped and Mum gathered up our bits and pieces before trailing me in to see the Doctor.
His hands were cool as he pressed gently into the somewhat withered, fleshy limb. The plaster was a little ragged and the napkin I had taken from the the tea trolley, doubled as a handkerchief, while he spoke to me softly, asking if it was painful, whether it was numb or whether I had any pins and needles.
It was getting late and to the surprise of both of us, he decided a fresh plaster would be needed. The hot, wet bandages, had a sizzle about them in his clutches, while the nurse, with her soft Scottish lilt, played out a conversation with Mum, something about Whisky and Galore and they all shared the joke between them.
Temporarily, I was placed in the old wheelchair and pushed back from the treatment room… The look on Mums face was woeful…
She had promised something nice to eat for tea… Instead, she was having to spar with the nurse and sought an explanation with Mr Marks…
There was nothing to it, just a precaution and seriously, it was nothing to worry about… She was beside herself with sorrow.
The growing darkness had taken the light out of the sky and to this day, some 55 or more years later, I will never forget the sadness in her eyes.
I don’t remember her leaving… It’s a mystery still.
I managed to ease myself asleep eventually… Summoning all of my strength to grapple through another night,.. In the morning they took me for my bath, taking care to trail my left leg over the side of the tub
There was a tune running through my mind… I didn’t know it then but it was ‘Take 5’ by Dave Brubeck. Everybody seemed to be humming it and I did my exercises to it on the way back to my bed… A few sit ups and an attempt to carry my body weight on my hands.
There was no malice to the decision to keep me in overnight.
No debris either… No tissues…
Just the smell of the plaster of Paris and the ghost of my fixed stare at the door… Haunting me still.