Nora by Charles J Harwood

Nora has a Job to Do Amy took the initiative. ‘Mr. Jonas, I’m sorry to disturb you, it seems the problem we had yesterday just got a little er…complicated.’ Vince didn’t appear to be listening. He proceeded to lift a whisky glass and pour himself a finger’s width of scotch. He screwed the top. Amy ventured on, ‘Er…Mr. Jonas, this is…’ ‘Nora. I’m a nurse.’                           Vince grabbed a fistful of ice from the bucket without using the tongs. He dropped a few chunks into his glass with a clink. ‘Did you get my plane tickets, Amy?’ Amy seemed gratified Vince had ignored Nancy’s greeting. ‘Yes, the flight is scheduled for Monday.’ Vince agitated the liquid. The follicles at his hairline had now grown back as well as the gash in his eyebrow. Nancy guessed his teeth no longer glowed in the dark. He closed his eyes and took a nip. His eyes...

Nancy has Business to Attend To ‘It is in your best interests to know that anyone who obstructs without good cause a registered nurse from administering appropriate treatment to a patient, said person can be held accountable by the said nurse: Section 9 of the Nurses, Midwives and Health Visitors Act 1997. As I have previously informed you, it is a sack-able offence to commit such an obstruction. Now, you have my ID, you have proof I knew Mr. Fairchild in person and we both know Mr. Jonas is not receiving adequate nursing care.’ Amy’s eyes had suspended without a blink. Nancy gave a small nod and stepped past her through a miasma of Amber Mystique. Nancy didn’t hesitate to board the stairs. Within a reception area befitting Country Magazine featuring oak, stone and tinted glass, a mobility stairlift stamped a black blot. The leather seat conjoined the griffin Newell post like a mutated Siamese twin. Following the curves of the staircase, a steel rail flinted grey against the sa...

Nurse Nora AMY stood as upright as a builder’s post. Each hand cupped an elbow, each foot planted squarely upon the porch steps. Like a painting, her form fitted the dark archway precisely. Nancy maintained a proper gait, conveying a strictly formal visit. Her skirt whispered; her Oxfords pummelled the shingles beneath. Amy’s features grew more distinct though no easier to read. Nancy clutched the handle of her satchel-bag surprised by a damp residue. Small teeth gnashed at her breastbone. Nancy feared her reflexes would betray her and the satchel-bag would slip from her grasp and tumble onto the shingles. Nancy killed the steam on the last leg of her journey. She drew past the Lamborghini and alighted upon the Lakeland slabs to stand before Amy. Amy had not moved throughout. She had ladled on the teal eyeshadow today, perhaps to mask the fraught lines radiating from the lower lids of her eyes. She looked no less pissed though. Her plum lips barely moved upon the utterance, ‘...

Nancy lunched at a communal table overlooking Stone Road. Burroughs’ porky aid with a penchant for silk shirts and Cuban heels complemented Nancy on her attire. Nancy had purchased two: a Marks & Spencer linen-blend navy blue jacket and matching skirt lined with silk. The neck opened out to a mandarin-collared blouse; white, lightly ruffed on the seams and fitted to the waist. Nancy thanked him in a starched manner she didn’t recognize and sipped her coffee. Silk-shirted man, Just Call Me Stu didn’t seem to mind and bade her a good day. ‘And to you,’ Nancy returned with a small smile. Nancy had left her cheap shoes at Weaver’s Street. Today she wore John Lewis black Oxfords with heels and leather uppers. She liked the way her nylon tights whispered against her skirt as she walked. She liked the way her bloused enfolded her every curve as an amour. Her mother would have given her pride a royal knocking. Bex would have told her the Jonas shoot had rendered her head too big for t...

Nancy went into Sheila’s bedroom to assemble a hospital bag. Sheila thought she looked like a pig without her mascara. Tissues and chocolate boxes littered the place. Last year’s snow globes anchored stacks of Ibiza postcards in place. Clothes cascaded over the bed-board, smelling of wardrobe and sale deodorant. Nancy’s heel barreled over a cluster of cheeky mugs from Great Yarmouth. All had been stained with fortified dregs. Nancy found a flask of navy rum behind the curtain. She could have emptied the amber nectar down the sink and felt good about it. She could have exorcised the room of clutter with the aid of bin bags and detergent. Nancy gathered night clothes, toiletries and makeup for Sheila and left the room untouched. Nancy nudged the curtains aside. A road bollard cast an ashen glow over a wilted fence opposite. She feared spotting a figure there, two figures and possibly a van or a police car. Press interest was converging to a point. With the photos out, no one could a...

NANCY pulled up outside her house to see a shadow on the porch steps. Please not now . Since her landline had lain quiet, bar the hospital call, she hoped the press attention was fizzling. Not a reporter, it seemed; the figure’s carriage more befitted Bex. Even on a cold night such as this, Bex insisted upon wearing short skirts and court shoes. Her large overcoat made her look like an oilrig.  Nancy killed the engine and got out. Bex appeared subdued, but not enough to say sorry. ‘Hurry up, you mong, its cold out here.’ Her way of saying she’d known Nancy long enough not to let a small matter of inflicting gouges on skin to stand in the way of a toxic friendship. Nancy didn’t look at her as she inserted the key and let her in. Bex took the lead and perched herself on the sofa. She tucked her knees demurely beneath her. ‘Look, I heard about your mom,’ she began. Nancy shrugged. ‘I came as soon as I heard. Danny told me everything. It’s shit, isn’t it?’ ‘What do you want,...

She lifted the glass and drained half the contents. Her tonsils convulsed as the cold spirits passed through. Wet, yet dry and sour activated memories long dormant. Her eighteenth birthday, getting pissed with Alexis; meeting her first boyfriend, Gary Chapman at the Percival per Friday night for vodka shots; hobbling round Bedworth town centre with Bex and Cora with a bottle of cider. Friends forged from social drinking came quickly and easily, Nancy noticed. Enemies too. Once, Nancy had passed out on the steps of Boot’s chemist. Sheila thought it was funny. Nancy had lots of friends. Bono’s Dad surprised her with a forceful shoulder hug. ‘Here’s some heartfelt words to take with yer.’ Nancy’s drink quivered in her hand. ‘Your mom’s a good ‘un. She livens the place up like its Christmas, she does. She’s A-one and any daughter of hers is a pal ‘o mine. Tell her that from Donnie Higgs. She’ll know who I am.’ Nancy’s tight smile slipped. Slowly, she placed the glass back on the bar. ...

Tension-headache gathered at her temples as she approached the pub. The thick panel door gave a squeak as she pushed through. The interior hadn’t changed much. Predominantly brown, a small entryway led into a lounge, a barroom and toilets. Nancy continued into the lounge. Old yeast and burnt chips had stamped a bouquet into the fabric. Aged photos spiced the walls; racehorses, farm scenes and dogs. Bon Jovi’s Living’ on a Prayer played out on the stereo. Three men sat drinking at a table near the bar. Nancy ground her molars and ambled inside. Behind the bar, Danny wheeler’s dad, Albert Wheeler wiped beer glasses. This was Sheila’s world, the heart of Sheila’s life, a life that Nancy didn’t understand. As Nancy approached, Albert, wall-eyed and pot-bellied, stacked the beer glasses in a rack. He smiled amicably as Nancy rested her bag on the top. ‘Good evening,’ he grunted, ‘what’ll you fancy?’ She could feel the eyes of the three men behind her. Sheila had done this countless ti...

The Quick Shop bell. She’d heard it since the age of twelve. A pop in for crisps, coke and a chat with Mr. Dennison, then pick up a bottle of voddie or southern comfort before leaving. A complicit understanding negated any questions on Mr. Dennison’s part. It’s for Sheila. Everybody knew it was for Sheila. The words burst forth. ‘I might just as well have poured the vodka down her throat.’ Dr. Kamat allowed the silence to hang. ‘Miss Hutchens...’ Nancy’s vision finally blurred over. ‘I took the coward’s way out. I didn’t do anything. I just sat by and let it happen.’ ‘We will do all we can,’ Dr. Kamat tried to assure. ‘I will leave you to speak with her now.’ Nancy allowed Dr. Kamat to lead her to the head of the ward where he nodded before departing. Nancy parted the curtained cubicle to encounter one pervading colour: beige. Sheila’s peroxide hair wilted over her jaundiced face. Without her makeup, Sheila’s eyes looked small. Beneath the bed sheets, Nancy spotted a swollen...

The office was deserted by the time Nancy had finished her shift. Her drive home transported her back to Hampton in Arden train station. Her carriage ride had been a journey between death and life and Bex didn’t know. Nobody cared. Louisa only cared about the figures. Sales were down again this month. Nancy shouldn’t be here. She should be back in the crashed limo at the foot of the bridge in eternal night. Only, the limo was no longer there. Nancy pushed open the front door to find the landline ringing. As Nancy picked up the phone and a soft Asian voice conveyed the news, the limo continued to cruise somewhere on the nights side of the lonely train station. Nancy is on autopilot too, as she recites the script, ending with ‘thank you.’ Nancy took a lift to the second floor of the George Eliot hospital. Pine disinfectant tinged the air. Strip-lights buzzed above trolleys, monitors and loitering staff. The night brought a sullen aspect to Adam Bede ward on the Cheveral wing. Nancy ...

HER ANKLES hadn’t looked fat. They tapered from shapely calves in an ideal body-shot. The flashbulbs had bleached out her face, putting emphasis upon her heavily shaded eyes and pink lipstick. She had pulled it off. In her cocktail dress and plastic shoes, she hadn’t looked a hard-eyed slapper. Next to her, Vince gazed off camera, reticent, his hairline strimmed and an eyebrow cleaved, but handsome in his long, black overcoat. A step ahead of her, he appeared to lead the way, perhaps somewhere to quarrel in private. That’s how he looked, on the edge of a strop. A couple with chemistry, the press might believe. From afar, they did indeed appear to hold hands. Close up, her small digit hung desperately onto his. Since the pictures had emerged, her landline had been ringing every evening. Nancy had picked up on one occasion, to hear an ingratiating Brummy brogue. Nancy had ended the call before the woman could get her claws in. Nancy spotted someone waiting outside the house after w...