The grey green wall pulses to the bleeps of the heart-measuring machines. Still green, after all those years, yet now just a hint. They come and go, the nurses. Smarter these days in their comfortable tunics and leggings. Dark blue for the seniors, paler for the juniors. They wash their hands well, here, thank God.

They’re all old men in this room. They sleep mainly. And dribble. And cough and spit and pee. And vomit and fart. Some are hooked to machines because their insides don’t work properly and bags of red urine dangle from their beds while bags of clear liquid drip into their arms.

Yet still the chest rises and falls and the hearts beats, if not rhythmically, if not strongly enough or fast enough, it still beats. The dangers of having a strong heart. It carries on pumping while the rest of the body collapses.

They sleep with their eyes open sometimes and you can see their pupils rolled to the top of their heads, looking towards Heaven. 

The rattle of the trolley wheels tells us it’s tea time. Slightly disinfected hospital tea, Or coffee, or chocolate or other milk drinks. And digestive biscuits. Which they take but leave mainly unnibbled. And the tea’s mainly served in baby cups with spouts from which  the men in hospital green pyjamas turn in disgust.

“Do you want a drink?” I ask.

I offer the nippled beaker of red liquid. It smells of cranberry. Good for the kidneys, don’t they say?

“Can’t keep it down,” I think was the mumble. He pulls a face.

“Has he eaten or drunk anything?”  I ask a nurse.

“Three spoonfuls of mashed potato and three spoonfuls of  custard,” she replies. “For lunch and tea.”

I’m not sure I believe her. He’s still gagging on water.

They doze and wake with a start and make incoherent remarks.

Just three old men and two visitors today.

In his few waking moments we communicate with pen and pad. One of the nurses has written. “Your kidneys aren’t working properly.” I wonder when they intended to tell me that.

People are walking down the corridors carrying chairs. It’s time to go and an hour past his bed time anyway.

We leave, the daughter of the other man and I, and wash our hands in alcohol, and make our way along the pale green corridors.

“See you tomorrow,” we say. Unless we get the phone call, we think.