The Appointment

 The Appointment at 08:41 & 26 seconds

By Christopher Mathews

   “Late again for the school run and a broken fingernail too, why is my life so unfair! Perhaps I can fit in the nail salon after dropping off Porcha and Miles, then on to the boutique for my first appointment. Typical, it’s raining, my hair will be ruined.”

    The irony of a black 4.2 litre, top of the range Land Rover that had never seen a muddy field now stuck in the morning traffic had entirely escaped Tiffany. Her day was a frenetic schedule of frivolous and joyless appointments. She had this in common with her circle of ‘friends’, or were they simply competitors?

    She was approaching the busy, town centre interchange, which is always snarled up with impatient drivers and pedestrians. Driving at fits and starts through the traffic, she did the arithmetic in her head “My first appointment is 9:30 so I just have time for…”

    Her mobile rang on the seat next to her. From the corner of her eye she saw it was Jasmin.

   “It must be urgent, she normally texts me, no one about, I’ll just…” She looked down and reached for her phone but at that moment the lights changed to red and…

        At 98, Jack had lived through at least six different communities in his lifetime, but always in the same house, his parent’s house, the one where he was born. As a small boy, his town was little more than a rural village with a distinct Essex character. It was then swallowed up and became overspill from the Eastend, and later became gentrified by city traders escaping their frantic London life. Most recently, other people from all over the world came and setup little outposts of their home countries, many arriving in small boats. He felt like a man who was now living in a foreign language film, which made no sense to him. Most recently, his Highstreet was lined with overstaffed Turkish barber shops, which never had customers. They all stood in a row with the occasional vape shop and of course nail salons, the rest were charity shops or garishly signed takeaways. There seemed to be no ‘real shops’ like a baker’s, butchers or tobacconists anywhere.

        “I’ve travelled the world without leaving my house, I have!” Jack used to say to his old dog Shep. All his friends were now gone and his children moved away. Today he was clutching a letter from hospital which read;

    Your follow-up consultant appointment has been arranged for 10:32am on 28^th September. Please attend the neurology department to discuss the results of your scan, arrive early.

    Please complete the online questionnaire before attending. This can be accessed by entering your NHS number, username and ID via our online portal which can be found on the NHS website.

    You may benefit from the advice/comfort provided by our new AI generated    ‘patient’s friend helpline,’ via the above website to help you cope with your condition…

    This meant very little to Jack, and although he read the letter several times, it seemed to be written in a different language.

    He had very few pleasures left in life and no companionship now his beloved Florence was gone. Ever since he could remember he had walked to the corner where Mumbles the gentleman’s outfitters used to stand to buy a paper and a tin of tobacco.  It was now a busy intersection, a bewildering rush of traffic. Like himself, everything Jack owned, was old, tired and slow, he felt like an old 78-gramophone playing in a 33 ^1/3rd world. Shep, his old dog was now much slower too.  Even the news paper made little sense to him, but old habits…

    His mid-terraced house in Weaver Street was like an old leather-bound book in a shelf full of glossy paperbacks. He now approached the junction with a sinking feeling of apprehension. When he was a boy, he felt a thrill of excitement here in the heart of the town. In his youth, this was where the whole town met, everyone stopped as drovers took their sheep to market through here. Once, one of Mr McGregor’s pigs got loose and ran into the church! The Blacksmith’s hammer once rang out like a Church bell and the Town Crier sang out the news. The smell of freshly baked bread once filled the air, now it’s just car fumes, and foreign languages. On Sundays the whole town was silent and at rest, but now everyday the same, full of noise. Above the sound of traffic, costermongers could be heard singing out their poetic chant,

   “Three for a Cockney Hen or four for a Commodore.” A street market was held here every Wednesday for as long as he could remember. But nothing like what it was when he was a boy. Mostly, dodgy traders selling tat now. But never ask, where it comes from.

    At 08:41 & 18 seconds, the lights changed, pedestrians rushed across the road like sprinters at a starting pistol, umbrellas shielding their faces from the stinging rain. Jack hesitated, slowly taking in the bewildering scene as a pack of strangers seemed to be rushing towards him. Stepping aside he politely waited before he started crossing. Too slow, at 8:41 & 26 seconds a screech of car wheels on wet road, a black Land Rover, an inattentive driver and Jack was…

    A crazy man wearing a sandwich board stood on the corner, his banner, high above his head read;

“…It is appointed unto men once to die, but after this, the judgment.”

For Jack, that final appointment had been postponed - for now.

 

Copyright, Christopher Mathews. September 2023