Being Tony, Chapter 5, Part 1

Tony wakes up in hospital

 

5: The Jolly Anchor

 

Lynn News: Accident closes Wells Road.

“According to local farmer Mr. Aloysius Giles, the car came around the corner too fast, the driver lost control and slid into his tractor, causing extensive damage to both vehicles. “The car was suddenly right on top of me,” he told our reporter. “There was a lot of smoke from the tires, so I don’t know if he lost control or what. He must have been a maniac driving at that speed round a blind corner.” Mr. Giles received only minor injuries, but the driver of the other vehicle, who has been named as Mr. Anthony Platt of Lynn, is currently in intensive care at the Queen Elizabeth Hospital.

Police say they are waiting to question Mr. Platt when he regains consciousness.”

 

I seemed to drift in and out of consciousness a few times before I was properly aware of my surroundings. I know some police were around my bed at one time, and I have a mental picture of mother and dad sitting opposite sides of me, with Ben pacing at the foot of the bed. Somewhere, I got the feeling that Ruby was there too, but I have come to believe that this was just wishful thinking.

The next time I was properly awake, it was bright outside, and a nurse was bustling around the room. I felt more like myself then, apart from a splitting headache, pain in my right side and a horrible itch on my right leg. I tried to reach down to scratch the itch, but my hand was bandaged, and as I attempted to move it my side exploded in pain.

The nurse heard me groan, came over and asked if I was feeling OK. Through clenched teeth, I said I was fine, apart from hurting in every single inch of my body.

She apparently did not appreciate sarcasm. “Well you are a very lucky young man,” she said. “You had a minor concussion, and extensive bruising and lacerations but no bones were broken!” The pain came in waves, and I gratefully went back to sleep while she was still talking.

After 7 days, I was told I could be discharged from the hospital. But the condition was that I went to stay with a relative who would look after me and that I did not drink or drive for at least a month. I agreed and got the ambulance to take me to Dad’s house. As soon as it was out of sight, I called a taxi and made my way back to my flat. It took me an age to climb the stairs to my door, but I was mightily relieved when I had done so.

Dorothy heard me coming in – it must have been hard not to with the groaning sounds coming from my mouth – and was soon fussing around me, offering to make soup and bring it up to me, an offer I gratefully accepted. The next day and the ones that followed were spent in slow recuperation, and piecing together what had happened.

The farmer had been taking his tractor to a field to get ready to start work at the crack of dawn. My sideways skid into the vehicle meant we collided with my passenger door hitting one of the large rear wheels. The doctor said that he assumed the tire had absorbed much of the impact, or my injuries might have been worse. The tractor was drivable, but my Jag had to be loaded onto a truck and was presently sitting in the police compound.

Graham called to see me, I’m sure concerned about his food truck, but making out that he cared about my well-being. I created some vague story to explain how tired I was from the long hours of work, and that I’d been distracted by a flying bird and not seen the tractor until too late. I also told him that I wasn’t going back to working on the food truck.

He didn’t even try to argue me out of it, but he did say he’d be sorry to lose me. He said I’d been an asset to the food truck, and that he’d be happy to give me a glowing reference. As a kind of an afterthought, he also offered to give me £500 instead of wages and as a thank you. I gladly accepted that offer, and he opened his wallet and counted out a pile of notes, and stacked them on the table.

After he’d gone, I thought about what I’d said. I hadn’t actually planned on saying that I’d not go back on the food truck; I just started to speak and found those words coming out of my mouth. As to what I was going to do, that I had no idea about. But for now, there was a pile of £20 notes waiting to be spent. I took one of them, folded it into my pocket, and, slowly and unsteadily, made my way over to the Jolly Anchor.

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About Derek Knight

Transplanted Brit, now in the US Mid West | Writer, blogger & author | passionate about life | Traveler and home body | amazon.com/author/derekknight | http://derekknight007.wordpress.com/ | https://twitter.com/DerekKnight1 | https://www.facebook.com/Derek.Knight.Author
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