Memories are made of this
Only weeks later Esther and her brothers were leaping over cracked pavements in Petersfield Avenue; running ahead of their mum. Esther hauled open the door of the red telephone box. In they went. Looking at their mum and listening.
"Of course it's an emergency operator. Do you really think I would be sending a life and death telegram if I didn't need to. For Gods sake why are you not listening to me? My husband is critically ill. The doctors at the hospital have just told me he has less than twenty four hours to live. I need to let his mother and two sisters know so that they can get here from Coventry. My children are here in the dark with me. I need to get them home to bed; so why all the questions?
She broke down in that cold, red telephone box box whilst they just stood quietly there.
Earlier Esther and her brothers had sat in a hospital side-room whilst a young doctor had delivered the news that she had dreaded hearing.He pushed forward a box of tissues as their mum tried to be strong again.
Later they walked down long corridors that twisted and turned and the glass in the windows rattled. Leaves from the trees breezed through open doors. Squirrels leapt from branch to branch in the inner court-yard where a laundry van and a strange black van stood. How could she shake away from her memory his ashen and sweaty face or the clear tubes of liquid that dripped from a bag on the stand near his bed and into his nose. For a while they huddled around his bed and she felt so frightened and alone.