Fever

Flag McAndrew is on his way back from army leave in 1960. On board the train from the north of Scotland h has a rising fever.

 

Fever

 

Darkness began closing in as the train rolled through the countryside. Flag’s fever was now almost too much to bear. He was burning up, and still not a drop of sweat on his body. He peered out of the guard’s compartment window as a station flashed past - DALGUISE said the signboard.

Where the hell is Dalguise? Why didn’t the train stop? I thought it stopped at every station. Have to find a doctor soon.  What happened to the guard? Must find him.  He staggered into the corridor, and made his way along the train on weak legs, holding onto the rail.

Where am I going? Which way is forward? That way, I’ll go to the front first. He must be somewhere, he couldn’t have got off.  He giggled at the thought, and continued along the corridor. One shoulder hit the window rail, the other hit the compartment wall, and he got up a rhythm, swaying from one side to the other, giggling as he went. “Sorry sir, excuse me, I didn’t see you there” he apologized to the window.  This is fun, I can make it along the length of the train no trouble at all. OOps, what’s that? Boots? How did I get down here?

The guard helped him to his feet, and held the back of his battle-dress jacket, all the way to his compartment.

“Just stay here and drink the rest of that tea. I don’t want you wandering along the corridor, d’you understand?”

“Okay, okay, unnerstand” mumbled Flag.

He leaned back in the corner, with his eyes coming in and out of focus. The clickety-clack of the wheels over the rail joints was almost hypnotizing.  But not as quick as the beat of his heart, which was thumping away like a triphammer, twelve beats to the bar. What’s a triphammer anyway? How many beats to the bar does it do?

He giggled again, took another drink of  tea, and the flask was empty. Stupid guard, how can I drink the tea when the flask’s empty? Wonder where he went this time?

He started singing to himself, but it sounded like a dirge.

At Dunkeld Flag almost decided to leave the train and find a hospital. But the guard should know where was the best place, so he kept his seat, now delirious.

 

Where is the guard? He promised to look after me, and he hasn’t come back. Maybe I should find him and tell him about the tea? No, better not bother him yet, until the train’s up to full speed again. What comes after Dunkeld? Nobody would believe I got Higher Geography if I don’t know what comes after Dunkeld.

That started the giggles once more, as he leaned against the corner of the seat. Ten minutes later he found out that Murthly came after Dunkeld. But he couldn’t be bothered getting up from his nice comfortable seat. His chest was sore, and it was hard to breath.

He started singing again as the train gathered speed. The singing gradually faded away, and his head dropped forward. He started awake. “What? Did you say something?” He looked round the compartment and there was nobody there. Now I’m talking to myself. First stage of lunacy they say. Or maybe the second stage of a fever would be more likely. What the hell’s the matter with me? Whatever it is has gone past a joke now, that’s for sure.  He began floating between consciousness and unconsciousness. For miles he hadn’t a clue where he was, then he would suddenly become more lucid. There seemed to be no logic to it - one minute thinking okay, and the next forgetting what it was he had been thinking about, as his breathing became more ragged.

He was too tired to move out of his seat at Stanley, and thought there might not be a hospital anyway. Perth would be better - if he could last out. From memory Stanley was where the old Highland and Caledonian railways parted company north of Perth, so it couldn’t be too far away now.  You can go back to the head of the geography class for that. Yes sir, thankyou Sir Stanley.             Doctor Livingstone I presume? Don’t presume with me young man, or I’ll have the natives cook you for supper.

He sat in the corner mumbling and chuckling away to himself for the next five minutes, until the thirst became too much. Now he would have to get out of his comfortable seat.

Must have a drink, get to the toilet. He staggered out of the compartment and along to the toilet, holding onto anything he could find to stop himself from falling over. Once in the toilet he sat on the pan, with his head over the sink, splashing his face and drinking from cupped hands, dragging in air between mouthfuls. The fever was ferocious, and for the first time he seriously began to think he might be close to death.     

He started retching into the sink. His stomach couldn’t hold any more water, but he kept drinking between retches, hardly knowing what he was doing any more. He was retching when the guard appeared.

“Come on laddie, back to the compartment, I’ve got some orange juice there you can drink. That water’s no’ supposed to be for drinking.” He sighed, and followed Flag along the corridor, steadying him from behind.

This one must have really had a skinful he thought, settling Flag back in the corner and handing him a large container of weak orange cordial. Then he was gone again.

Flag peered out the window as a station flashed past outside - another one where the train didn’t stop. What did the sign say - LUNCARTY?  Here we go again, happy as can be, all good men and jolly good company. Is that how it goes? How what goes? The song. What song? Forget it, where’s Luncarty? Back to the Geography class for you my boy. Yes sir, I’m sorry sir, but it wasn’t there last time I looked. He had another fit of the giggles.

Where did the guard go this time? Doesn’t he understand I have to get to a hospital? What’s wrong with him?

A thought suddenly entered Flag’s fuddled mind.

My God, what if he thinks I’m drunk? Maybe that’s why he’s been staying away from me most of the time.

He remembered the way the guard had recoiled from him the first time, and the look on his face on a couple of other occasions. He was sure of it, the guard did think he was drunk, and was keeping him hidden away from the other passengers. He had no intention of finding a hospital for a drunk!

Must get to hospital, can’t lose consciousness, must stand up, get fresh air.

He reeled out of the compartment to the outside door of the carriage. At the third fumbling attempt, he managed to undo the strap on the door and open the window a few inches. He stood swaying in the cold wind that rushed inside, gasping for breath. The train was slowing down.

Buildings, houses, I can see houses, watch for the sign, must be Perth.  But there was no real need to check the sign as the train rolled into the station. It had to be Perth, there wasn’t another station this big between Perth and Inverness.  Where’s my belt  and beret? Where’s my kitbag? Never mind, get to a hospital, or no need for them ever again.

People on Perth railway station platform avoided the soldier with no hat and belt, staggering along with his uniform jacket undone, occasionally falling over. Disgusting said the looks on several faces. At the ticket- collector’s booth he fumbled in his pockets.

Where’s my ticket? I thought it was in my pocket. No, it’s in the top of my kitbag.

“Sorry” mumbled Flag to the ticket collector. “Ticket in kitbag, must find hospital, sick.” This railway official had no intention of arguing with a soldier so drunk he could hardly stand. Let the police catch up with him - which wouldn’t take long, the state he was in. He waved Flag through.

In the station concourse he wandered around, trying to find the way out. His vision was blurred, and he found it difficult to see where he was going. He bumped into a pillar, and sank to his knees, peering around. Turning, he got his back against the pillar in a sitting position. That was better, now it was easier to look round. He didn’t want to get up, it would be easier just to sit here.

Why doesn’t anyone help me? What’s wrong with them? SOMEBODY PLEASE HELP ME.

He heard the words, and realized he had said them out loud. But nobody was coming close - they were giving him a wide berth.  They’re all like the guard, they think I’m drunk. Must get up, there’s traffic through that big doorway, find a taxi.

He forced himself slowly and painfully to his feet and held onto the pillar for a few moments. His head was swimming, and he felt desperately sick. He retched again, clasping the pillar with both arms. Some of the vomit splashed on the cuff of his jacket. But if he let go of the pillar now, he might fall over. And once down on the ground once more he doubted his ability to get up again - ever. He stayed there for minutes, until he felt confident enough to let go. At first he was scared to move away from the support, his head was aching so much, as if it would explode. And his throat was burning again, he must drink soon. He tried desperately to keep his eyes focused on the main doorway where he had seen the traffic. Moving across to the wall, he made his way along it towards the entrance, steadying himself against the stonework, now gasping for breath.

At last he was through the entrance, and hanging onto the wall while he tried to get his bearings. There was a row of taxis not far away. He inched his way towards them like an old infirm man. The first taxi driver drove off as he saw Flag approaching his cab. The second one was friendlier.

“Come on soldier, get in, here I’ll help you. Big party was it?”

Flag slumped in the back seat as the driver climbed in the front.

“Where to Soldier?” he asked.

“Hospital” mumbled Flag, in a barely audible croak.

“What was that, did you say hospital? Which one?” He leaned over the seat in order to hear Flag’s breathless croak. With very little strength left, Flag took the driver’s hand and placed it on his own forehead.

“Sick, need hospital.” The taxi driver jerked his hand away as if burned by a hotplate.

“My God, you’re burnin’ up laddie. Hang on and I’ll get you to the Infirmary. I thought you were drunk, God help me.”

The taxi sped through the streets, engine roaring, tyres screeching. Almost immediately a police car latched onto his tail and soon drew alongside, bell ringing. The driver didn’t stop for the police. Instead he wound down his window and jerked his thumb towards his passenger.

“Infirmary, emergency!” he shouted at the policeman in the front passenger seat. The policeman waved his hand and shouted “Follow us!” If it was a bluff they would soon enough find out, and they had his number. Meanwhile the bloke in the back seat of the taxi looked half dead - or dead drunk.

The police car pulled in front, bell clanging, roof light flashing. At the hospital the two cars screeched to a halt in front of the casualty entrance. In the back of the taxi Flag was now barely conscious. At last somebody believed he was sick, not drunk. Thank God he had found the right taxi driver. There were lights and voices, and people were helping him out of the cab.

“Here, give us a hand,” said the driver to one of the policemen. “He’s heavy, and he’s no’ very conscious. Feel his brow.” The policeman felt Flag’s forehead. “Jeeeesus! Come on let’s get him inside, quick.”

The taxi driver and the policeman almost carried Flag into the casualty room. He tried to walk, but his legs felt like jelly, and half the time his feet dragged uselessly. But he could sense the lights and the people, and knew he was nearly home. If he could just hold on a little bit longer. They sat him on a bench, and the policeman called out “Nurse! This lad’s real sick, you’d better see to him now!”

The nurse he had shouted at looked askance, as if to say who the hell did he think he was giving orders to. But she came over just the same, and stuck a thermometer in Flag’s mouth. He was so far gone, he nearly swallowed it! The nurse frowned down at him.

“Come on soldier, you’re not dead yet.” She felt for a pulse on his wrist and couldn’t find it at first. Then she felt a racing flutter where the pulse should be - and the wrist was red hot! Her attitude changed instantly.

“Sister, come quick!” The Sister ran across to them, and was confused by Flag’s actions. He had put his hand in his pocket, and was taking out his wallet.

“Must pay taxi” he mumbled.

“Never mind that” said the cab driver, “gi’e Sister your hand and get better, I dinna want the money.”

 Sister nodded her head, and the driver and policeman withdrew. Flag held out his hand, but she felt the side of his jaw instead.

“Trolley, Doctor Blair’s room.” She looked around and waved to another nurse.

“Over here Nurse Andrews, NOW!” she shouted.

The first nurse fetched a trolley, and between the two nurses and Sister, they soon had him on it, and wheeled him along a corridor. His recent life seemed full of corridors. He looked about him, feeling more than seeing what was going on. Almost as if it was somebody else on the trolley. A man’s face peered down at him, fiddling with his eyes, feeling behind his ears.

“Get a drip into him now, I’m giving him an injection. Tell Doctor Ness to have the X-Ray room ready. Quickly now, he’s far gone, my guess double broncho pneumonia, and it’s setting.”

There was shiny steel, and glass, and lots of lights, bright lights, some far away, another one shining closely into his eyes. First the left eye, then the right. Somebody rolled him half over, and there was a sharp pain in his buttock. But it was nothing compared to the need to breathe. He couldn’t get enough air into his lungs.

 Must try, keep on trying, can’t give up. Oh Diana my love, pray for me. Breath in, breath out, TRY breathe HARDER. Can’t breathe, yes you can, keep trying, keep breathing, FORCE your body to. That’s it,  keep  it up, don’t give in. What’s that, what’s he doing? NO!”

 With all of the pitiful strength remaining to him, Flag grabbed the hands holding the mask.

Mustn’t give in, can’t let them put me under, or the breathing will stop. I can’t keep trying if I’m not conscious.  A moan broke from his throat as he struggled with the hands in front of his face. He willed the strength to come, forcing the hands away. Faintly, the words made their way into his confused brain.

“It’s oxygen for God’s sake, to help you breathe!”

He dropped his arms and let the mask come over his face. Concentrating on his breathing, he drew in the oxygen, and felt light-headed. But suddenly he felt more lucid, and became more aware of what was happening around him.  There seemed to be an awful lot of people looking down at him.

Almost like I’m the star at a football match!

He started to giggle, and couldn’t stop. Until he realised he wasn’t breathing so well again. Then he stopped the giggling by sheer willpower. I’m going to make it, I have to make it, can’t leave Diana now.

The trolley was moving again, into a lift with scissor doors. The doors clashed shut and they were going up.

Going up, going up, anybody for a sky lark? Please stop this side of Heaven, I’m not ready yet. If you’re going all the way, just drop me off at the next cloud.

The lift doors opened again, well short of heaven, and they were rolling along another corridor. 

Welcome to the corridors of power. Unfortunately we are currently suffering a power failure. Please be patient, patient. Patience, solitaire, a solitary patient on a trolley, where are the trolley wires? No good without power. 

The trolley wheels made a sound like the wheels of the railway carriage. The patient started singing ‘Last Train to San Fernando’, and one of the nurses joined in. The sun was blazing down on the trolley, making him thirsty again. He stopped singing and the sun went away.

How could it be the sun, this is a hospital, from the inside, and anyway it’s night time - isn’t it?  He was drifting in and out of a dream. Not a bad dream, soft and comfortable, and somehow comforting. At last he could stop fighting and start resting. He was going to be alright, he could feel it, he was going to win. The fight wasn’t over, but resting and dreaming were part of the fight now, he knew that.

His body was lighter than air, floating towards the ceiling, where it settled in the top corner.

This isn’t my body I’m in. That’s my body down there, in the bed, with all the people round it. Then what am I doing floating around up here? Better get back down into my body before they take it away and I can’t find it. My chest feels heavy, weighing me down. That’s it, back down again, here we go.

He was in a magic garden, where the flowers were enchanted, and the gardener was a wizard in a see-through dress. A WIZARD in a see-through dress! You need your eyes tested Flag boy, no wizard ever had a body like that. It must be a fairy - a fairy wizard? Maybe he/she/it belongs in Soho? So who made you the judge then? People are people, and fairies are - well, fairies. Better get out of the garden before Diana finds it. Are there fairies at the bottom of HER garden? Come into the garden Maude. Except that Maude’s a railway locomotive. Named after a General in the First World War. Imagine a General named Maude, no wonder they made such a mess of things. 

The garden faded away, and he was floating on his back in the ocean, staring up at the stars. They were coming closer, and closer. Now he was among them, inside a spaceship, roaming the Universe, looking for Eldorado.  Who ever heard of a planet called Eldorado? So who said it was a planet? Well isn’t it? No, it’s a state of mind. And a fine state your mind’s in, I can tell you. There’s always somebody who wants to spoil the party.

The spaceship veered right - and ran out of petrol.

Spaceships don’t run on petrol, Dummy. What do they run on? And who says they run anyway? They’ve got no legs to run with.  They float through space at the speed of light - light as a feather.

 He was at the Albert Hall, conducting the orchestra. The music rose and fell by order of his baton. The notes floated round the hall, and out through the open windows. Over the river and above the rooftops of London they glided, until they found the Great North Road. They followed the traffic for miles, before turning onto the road to the magic garden. The music hovered above the flowers, before individual notes broke off and flitted around the garden like butterflies. He wielded his baton once more, and the quavers regrouped into an overture. They flew in formation out of the magic garden, across the countryside to the coast. There was confusion as some of the crotchets broke ranks once more, dipping into the water, and frolicking like dolphins. Until he tapped his baton and pointed at the offending notes.

Regrouping, they flew in formation once again, skimming the waves at first, then swooping higher. The tempo rose as the music soared above the waves, and on over the ocean, rising ever higher, ships becoming specks on the water. Up through the clouds and into the ever-increasing darkness of space and time. The stars called to the music, and the naughtiest notes went off to play with them, twinkling here and there and everywhere about the heavens. This time they were more reluctant than ever to regroup under the command of his baton. But they did eventually, in time for the finale, close to the biggest star of all. Where the spaceship was still out of fuel.

In perfect formation the music zoomed in crescendo, before swooping on the spaceship. The notes moulded themselves to the hull, and the first ever music-powered space vehicle moved off through the stars. His baton was the joystick, steering the ship between heavenly bodies. A nod and a flick of his baton to the brass and it veered left. More strength from the cellos applied right rudder. The woodwinds took her up, the percussion section down, while the violins provided power, seeking out the centre of the Universe...........

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Author's Note

Go to it