The Tuesday Volunteers

A cold knife seemed to run through me. I could give no answer. My eyes filled with tears, and I rose without responding to the child. I struggled out of the ward with blurred vision. Reaching the corridor I leaned my head against the wall and broke into sobs that seemed to be torn from the very depths of my being. Even at the worst time, after Vic left me, I had not cried like this.

I felt an arm round my shoulder, and Bryce was saying, “Come with me.”

He led me to a side room and sat me in an armchair.

I wept on, but began to speak through my sobs.

“Bryce I couldn’t, I couldn’t. Its…its too terrible…those little children… those poor little children…I couldn’t…couldn’t even answer her…I couldn’t be a volunteer.”

“Nancy, we all feel like you at first. If you have love in your heart, how could you not weep for them, but for most of them, there is at least hope. I heard what little Petra said to you, and the terrible thing is, she is one of those who have the least hope. But suppose you had said to her, ‘You are very pretty now, Petra’. Can you imagine what that would have done for a little girl? A ‘pretty lady’, telling her she’s pretty?”

“Don’t Bryce, please, it hurts too much. I don’t have ‘love in my heart’. I only have bitterness and hate. And I’m not a ‘pretty lady’.”

“I think you believe that, Nancy, but I also think you are deceiving to yourself. Your very response shows the love that is in you, and as for not being pretty, I think you feel ugly inside, so can’t see the beauty outside, but others can. I don’t know what has hurt you so much, but I do know that with these sick children, you could find healing.”

“Take me home, Bryce, please.”

His arm still round me, Bryce escorted me, a sopping wet ruin, to his car. We said nothing during the drive, yet I could feel the warmth and comfort of Bryce’s presence. I wanted to escape that too. I wanted to flee back to my castle of cynicism, to feel safe from the pains of the world.

Bryce stopped the car outside my house. “Will you be all right?” he asked. “Is there anything I can do for you.”

“Nothing,” I answered, more tartly than I had intended.

“Shall I see you next Tuesday?”

“I think I might be very busy,” I snapped.

“Oh well, some other time, perhaps.”

I turned away without another word. Entering the house, I suddenly burst into tears again. It was not only the children this time, it was also the way that I had dismissed Bryce, the gentle, loving, clowning Bryce.

I wept until there were no tears left in me. Poor Darcy tried in his doggy way to comfort me, and I ended up on the sofa, exhausted, hugging his warm little body to me.

I slept, but had dreams of white faced little children and a clown that turned into the figure of the grim reaper. I was woken by the sound of the telephone ringing. I looked at the clock, and it was eight p.m. I went to the telephone and picked up the receiver.

“Nancy Nightingale.”

“Bryce Williams here, Nancy. Hope you don’t mind but I was concerned for you, so I looked up your number and…”

“Its all right Bryce.”

Dear God, I had treated the man like dirt, and he was ringing me out of ‘concern’! What did one have to do to turn this man away from you?

“Are you okay, Nancy?”

“I think so, Bryce.”

“You don’t sound too sure.”

“No, I’m all right, Bryce. Its just…just…I have a few things I have to sort out. Don’t you worry about me.”

“Well, if there’s anything I can do…can I give you my telephone number? I’m at work right now so I’ll give you this number and my home number…just in case you want to talk.”

I took the numbers and said, “Well, good night, Bryce.” I wanted to say, “Good night, you beautiful man,” but of course, men weren’t beautiful in my book.”

“Good night, Nancy.”

He rang off.

The experts – counselors, psychiatrists and all sorts of therapists, had probed me. None had succeeded in bringing me face to face with myself like the gentle Bryce, and that child Petra.

I had known him no time at all and apart from today; it had been fleeting conversations on a bench. Yet such was the power of the man – was “power” the right word? – I felt I had known him forever. What was that power if power it was?

I knew the answer, but was not prepared to face it. If I did face it, then my little castle of cynicism would come crashing down. I would be defenceless. I would have to admit that there could be love, love like Bryce’s. Not the love of the men who tried to get inside my knickers. Not love like that of Vic who had betrayed me. Bryce had the pure love of compassion for his fellow humans that led him to open himself to others in their need.

It was too much for me to be able to admit. It was like the love that long ago had led to an execution on a hill outside a Middle Eastern city. I didn’t want his compassion, I wanted my revenge, revenge for all the pain…Petra…don’t think of her…

I wasn’t too busy on Tuesday. I met Bryce on our bench.

“I want to be a volunteer, Bryce.”

“I knew you would.”

“How did you know?”

“I felt the goodness in you. They will give you training before you start as a volunteer. You’ll need to know what to do and not to do.”

“That’s all right. When can I start?”

“As soon as you’ve been interviewed by the volunteer supervisor.”

“Can I come in with you today.”

“Of course. I’ll call for you as soon as I’ve got into my clown outfit.”

I was interviewed by a beautiful woman in her sixties.

Why had I always thought that people in their sixties could not be beautiful?

She welcomed me, and after some probing questions, my training course was outlined for me. The following weeks were among the busiest of my formally easygoing life.

I saw little of Bryce except for the short times on Tuesdays. But then, when had I ever seen more of him apart from the one occasion?

When we did have our brief Tuesday meetings Bryce would ask me how the training was going.

At first I had approached the course with trepidation, but quickly found myself becoming involved with it. I told Bryce what, after all, he already knew, that the course, apart from talks on hospital regulations, consisted of two main elements: First, the ability to listen properly and, second, the way to respond properly.

It was in learning about these things that I was often brought face to face with myself. Like many people I had reacted, rather than responded to what people said. This can lead to confrontation and a failure to connect with the other person.

Once let loose on the wards, I at first tended to be stilted in my responses, as I tried to apply what I had been taught as a technique. I almost despaired when my efforts struck no chord with the children, but given a little time I absorbed what I had learned so it became part of me, and my responses where much more me, and not a technique.

Working with the children began. I made a point of visiting the leukemia ward and went to Petra’s bed. Another child occupied it. I asked the nurse what had happened to her, but I knew the answer in my heart. “I’m afraid we couldn’t save her,” she replied.

Bryce had predicted that working with the children would bring about a healing process in me. In time, he was proved right. The hate and bitterness began to diminish, to be replaced by – what can I call it? “Love?”

With the diminishing of my former negativity about people and world, came a more positive view of myself. As the children responded to me, I came to consider that I might be a likeable, if not a loveable, person after all.

Into the midst of this agreeable change taking place in me, came something that was as surprising as it was pleasing.

At one of our Tuesday park bench meetings, Bryce said, “Nancy, the State Theatre is putting on a revival of ‘A Little Night Music.’ They’ve sent a couple of complementary tickets to the hotel, and the manager has given them to me. Would you come with me to see it?”

I was wary but I hasten to add, that Bryce had never, by word or deed, done anything to bring about this response. It was the case that, although I now trusted myself with children, men were still highly suspect. They had, I believed, only one ultimate goal, and that was to get me into bed, or like my first encounter with sex, into the back of a car.

Then more rationally, I wondered why Bryce would want to be taking a woman some nine or ten years older than he was to a musical? He could surely have got himself a younger, and probably more sexually amenable, date?

Shamefully I must admit that I reverted to some of my old cynicism and replied to a perfectly innocent offer of a pleasant night out, more sharply than was warranted.

“Why are you asking me?”

The manner and form of my response would have turned most men off on the spot, but not the lovely Bryce.

“I just thought you’d enjoy it, and I would like your company.”

So ingenuous was his reply that I melted. That he liked my company was clear from the way he made a point of meeting me, however briefly, every Tuesday. Had I thought that through, I would have acknowledged that I liked his company, or why else did I make sure I was there at the park bench to meet him?

Regretting my snappy reply I said, “I’d love to come with you, Bryce.”

He looked rather happy.

I made an arrangement to pick him up in my car. This would give the double advantage of travelling in something bit more up market than his battered Toyota, and make any attempt to grope me more difficult if I was behind the wheel. Unworthy motives, perhaps, but that is how it was with me at that time.

On the night of our outing, I can safely say it was an outstanding and thoroughly enjoyable performance. One little incident occurred that modesty should forbid my repeating, but self-esteem prevails.

It was during the interval, and Bryce spotted a colleague and his wife. We went over to them and introductions were carried out. I started talking to the wife, while Bryce chatted with his colleague. Out of the corner of my ear, as it were, I heard the colleague say, "Where did you meet that beauty, you lucky bugger?” Bryce had his back to me, so I did not hear his response.

The drive home had me slightly edgy, wondering what would happen when we got to Bryce’s place. Arriving there, I stopped the car, leaving the engine running.

Bryce simply said, “Thank you for coming with me. I’ve enjoyed being with you very much. Goodnight, Nancy. See you on Tuesday, unless we run across each other on the wards.”

He got out of the car and I drove off.

Arriving home, I felt a contradictory mixture of relief and pique. Relief because he hadn’t even tried to so much as kiss me on the cheek, and pique for the same reason. My female ego was abashed.

Having been invited out by Bryce, I now felt the need to reciprocate in some way. I was not at that time, or even now for that matter, inclined to the view that men should do all the inviting or all the paying. But what to do?

I finally decided on the good old standby of an invitation to dinner. Not, of course, at my house. That would be far too dangerous. The meal would be at a restaurant.

The following Tuesday, after ascertaining if and when Bryce got an evening off, I made my invitation. Bryce accepted very happily, but only on the grounds that he was allowed to buy the wine. Again, I was to pick him up.

I chose my location carefully, opting for a non-soft lights and sweet music restaurant. “No point in courting trouble,” I thought.

Detail of the meal is hardly relevant to my story and the journey and arrival home produced the same result as before. Not even a peck on my cheek.

I decided to confront myself with what I thought to be the reality. “He’s just being friendly towards an older woman. He’s that sort of chap. He likes to do nice things for people.” I accepted this conclusion and thought I’d better rejoice in having such an
agreeable friend.

I had not expected any further evenings out with Bryce so I was surprised that on the next Tuesday there was an invitation to a concert.

From then on, there was always something, theatres, films, concerts, restaurants and we even got around to walks in the country.

It all seemed a bit bewildering to me because Bryce never made the slightest sexual advance. He had only put his arm round me once, and that was when I was distressed on my first visit to the hospital. Apart from that, he did not even attempt to hold my hand. It was all very Platonic and puzzling.

I held off from questioning our relationship because I was enjoying it immensely and wished to do nothing that might bring it to an end. Eventually, however, I reached the point where I had to say something.

I chose one night after we had been to a concert, and I had just stopped outside Bryce’s place, which I hasten to add, I had never been inside or he in mine.

Bryce was about to get out of the car when I stopped him.

“Bryce, I have to ask you something.”

“Hmm?”

“Bryce, I love going out with you, but I don’t understand, why me?”

“’Why you’ what, Nancy?”

“Don’t be difficult Bryce. Why are you going out with me so often? Don’t you have any girl friends?”

“Yes, you.”

“Don’t be silly Bryce. You know what I mean, girls your own age.”

“Not now.”

“Why?”

“Because, as I’ve just told you, I have a ‘girl friend’.”

“This is ridiculous, Bryce. A nice looking young chap like you taking out a woman old enough to be your mother.”

He laughed heartily at this. “Old enough to be my mother! That’s a bit of an exaggeration, isn’t it? You would have had to be a very enterprising little girl of…”

“Ten,” I snapped.

“Nine,” he contradicted.

“All right, nine if you want to be pedantic. So why an older women?”

“If you heard that chap at work – the one we met with his wife the first night we went out together – he’s got all the other chaps green with envy with his descriptions of you.”

“That’s not really an answer, Bryce. I mean, we’ve been out together a couple of dozen times, but it’s not like the dates I remember. You’ve not even…”

A sudden thought struck me. “You’re not gay, are you. I mean, you’re not playing it safe with an older women just for appearances?”

It was a thoroughly rude and uncalled for question, but being Bryce, he took it in his stride and laughed.

“No, Nancy, I’m not gay and if you want to know, I’m not bisexual either. I’m just a very ordinary heterosexual male.”

“Far from ordinary,” I thought, but did not say so.

“I know what you wanted to say, Nancy,” he went on. “You wanted to say that I’ve never tried to get my hand up your skirt.”

“Bryce!” I was shocked. The way he had put it was so uncharacteristic of him.

“Sorry, Nancy. I just had to put it crudely, because it was what you really meant, wasn’t it?”

“I suppose so,” I mumbled.

“I’ll tell you why, Nancy…”

“You don’t have to,” I cut in, afraid of what I might hear.

“I know I don’t have to, but I’m going to. I admit I’ve done my share of fumbling with girls, and having sex with them. It was all that rough and tumble stuff by people who didn’t really mean much to each other. The situation with you, as far as I am concerned is that if, and I repeat, if, anything physical…sexual should ever happen between us, it has to be just right.”

I was shaken partly because of his openness, and partly because what he had said indicated a very strong attachment to me. I hesitated to let myself think the words, “In love with me.” That would have been too frightening for me.

Unable to cope with what he had said, and struggling for a response, I said, weakly, “I must go home, Bryce.”

It was I who had opened this matter by questioning him about our relationship, and now I couldn’t face his answer.

Bryce came to my rescue. “Of course. I’d better get in and see to Annie. Been on her own quite a bit today. Goodnight, Nancy.”

He got out of the car, walked to his front door, went in and closed the door. I felt suddenly bereft, as if the closing of that door had also closed the door on one of the finest friendships I had ever had. I almost ran to the door to knock and call out to him, “Don’t leave me Bryce.” Sanity prevailed, however. I drove home to Darcy, trying to hold back my tears.

I went to our bench the following Tuesday. Bryce was not there. I waited as long as I could, but still he did not come.

Like Bryce, Tuesday was one of my days at the hospital. Occasionally I had met up with Bryce when we happened to be working on the same ward. This Tuesday I made a point of looking for him, but he didn’t seem to be around.

I asked some of the other volunteers, but they hadn’t seen him either. The general comment was, “Most unlike Bryce, he never misses his Tuesday visits.”

I was getting seriously anxious. Had my response to his, what amounted to, a declaration of love, upset him to the point that he was not only rejecting me, but the children as well? It seemed utterly uncharacteristic, but what else was I to think?

Perhaps he was ill? Should I telephone him? If I did, would he think I was chasing him?

I took the risk and rang his home number. There was no answer. Was he away somewhere? He had said nothing about going away. Was he refusing to answer the telephone precisely because he thought it might be me and he didn’t want to talk to me?

All my old uncertainties came back to me. Had he seen through me at last? Had he decided, just as I had suggested, that I was too old to be with him? Perhaps he too had come to see how unlovely I am?

I went through a week of torment, first telling myself it was best this way, then swinging in the opposite direction and weeping for a lost friendship (A lost love?).

The following Tuesday depressed, I went to our bench by the river. It was a sort of goodbye visit…goodbye to one of the best things that had ever happened to me.

“Hello, Nancy,” A cheerful voice – his voice.

I looked up, and there he was, his usual smiling self.

“Bryce, where the hell have you been? I’ve been ringing and ringing you.”

“Missed me?” he grinned.

“Of course I damned well missed you, you bastard. I’ve been going out of my mind worrying about you.”

He became serious. “Didn’t she tell you?”

“Didn’t who tell me?”

“The volunteer supervisor at the hospital. I told her to let you know.”

“No she didn’t, and ‘let me know’ what?”

“I should have rung you. That’s what comes of relying on other people.”

“For God’s sake, Bryce, will you tell me what it is I’m supposed to have been told!”

“Ah, yes, sorry. I’ve been at work…”

“All day and all night?”

“Almost, yes.”

My insecurities came out like sunrise on a wet day. “He’s got himself some female he’s been screwing. Working! I’ve heard that one before,” I thought.

“The manager got very sick, and I had to take over. We had two other staff members off with the same problem as the manager, and on top of all that, we were packed out with a huge influx of tourists. I’ve actually been sleeping at work. Had to get a neighbour to take Annie in for a few days.”

“A very plausible story,” I thought cynically.

“Look, I’m feeling pretty washed out, but I must go to see the children today. Could we have a nice quiet dinner together tonight? Nothing too late, I want an early night, but it would be nice to have a quiet couple of hours with you.”

“Are you sure you want them with me?” (What awful things I said to that poor man).

“Nancy, who else would I want them with?”

“I thought you might prefer…you know…someone…”

“Nancy, is there something wrong? Have I said or done something…?”

My own thoughts and behaviour suddenly sickened me, and here as characteristically, was Bryce trying to take blame himself. The tears started.

“No, no, it’s me, darling. Why don’t you just drop me…find someone else…I’m no good for you.”