Just Like Florence Nightingale

JUST LIKE

FLORENCE NIGHTINGALE

A TIGERS AND DEVILS SHORT

by

SEAN KENNEDY

Text by Sean Kennedy
 © 2012

Cover by Catt Ford 
© 2012

“HEY,
FRAN—”

I
didn’t get any further.

“Oh,
hello
,” came the voice from the other end of the phone.  “Finally
calling to see whether we’re alive, are you?  We’ve only been gone three
weeks—did you just notice we’ve left?”

“I
texted you!” I hissed, peering around the kitchen to check if Declan was still
asleep on the couch.  He was, his foot propped up before him encased in
its bloody bandages.  He was wincing in his sleep; when he woke I would
have to force some more painkillers down his gob as he was trying to be all
manly and do without them as much as he could.  “And you texted me back,
remember?”

“Texts!”
she scoffed.  “We could have been kidnapped by terrorists, for all you
knew.”

“I
didn’t know Tuscany was known for its terrorists,” I replied.  “But I
guess those grapes need protecting from Western imperialists.”

“Hilarious.” 
There was a scuffling noise in the background and the drone of a male
voice.  “Roger says hi by the way.”

“Tell
him I said hi back.  And to watch out for Osama bin Wino.”

“
You
can talk to him in a minute!”
she yelled off-line,
then
returned to me.  “Honestly!  So why are you calling?”

“I
need your help.”

“I
should have known this wasn’t a courtesy call.”

She
was being very belligerent.  Fran could be that at the best of times, but
there was a boisterous edge to it, that... hang on.  “Are you
drunk
?”

“I’m
in Italy!  Of course I’m bloody drunk!  They take your passport off
you if you’re not lying in a ditch somewhere with a bottle of grappa.”

I
heard an interrupted snore from the lounge room, but when I peeked around Dec
was still asleep.  “How very
Contiki
tour of
you.  Anyway, how do you cook soup?”

There
was a startled silence on the other end of the line. 

“Hello?”

“Sorry,
I thought I was talking to Simon Murray.”

“Give
me a break!”

“Why
are you asking me about soup?”

I
sighed heavily.  “I want to make some for Dec.  Isn’t that what you
do when people are sick?”

Fran
took pity on me.  “How is Dec?”  There was mumbling again.  “
That’s
what I’m asking!
”

I
had to bite back a laugh.  “He’s getting there. 
Still
a lot of pain.
  I promised him soup.  From scratch.”

“Simon,
you can be so sweet when you want to be.  Why don’t you always want to
be? 
Shut up, Roger!
”  She took a deep breath to collect
herself.  “You could have
Googled
a recipe, you
know.”

“But
you’re the best cook.  And Declan deserves the best.  So seeing
you’re not here, he’ll have to settle for whatever monstrosity I produce.”

“You
would so be getting a hug if I were there right now.”

“Thank
fuck for all the ocean between us, then.”

“Bastard. 
What type of soup do you want to make?”

“Chicken
noodle.”

She
giggled.  “That’s a bit clichéd, isn’t it?”

“You
know me.  Always living up to the stereotype.”

“Grab
a pen, and listen to me....”

I
dutifully obeyed.

I
WAS NO Kylie
Kwong
in the kitchen, I knew, but the
soup seemed to at least smell like soup as it simmered away on the stove. 
Fran had warned me not to add the noodles until the last few minutes so they
wouldn’t get all starchy and fuck the soup up.  They were waiting to be
added as soon as Declan woke and felt like eating.  He had opened his eyes
halfway through the process and laughed at me in my grimy butcher’s apron (I
was feeling very
Masterchef
) but had quickly
fallen asleep again.  The meds were playing havoc with his system, so I
guess I could understand why he wanted to get off them as soon as possible.

“Simon?”

When
I walked back out into the lounge, he seemed alert.  He sniffed the air
and asked, “Are you really cooking?”

“Yes.”

“Nah,
I must still be asleep.  Weird dream, though.”

“I’m
cooking,
nuff-nuff
.  I take it you’re hungry?”

“Smells
like soup,” he said sleepily.  His hair was ruffled and
smushed
up against the left side of his face.  I had
to resist the urge to tame it back down, because it made him look
adorable. 
Ack
,
adorable
! Dec would die
if he knew I was applying that word to him.

“It
is.”

“Heinz
or Campbell?”  He then perked up slightly.  “Or did my mum bring some
over?”

Offended,
I said icily, “
I
made it.”

“
Campbells
, then,” Dec said decisively, his head dropping
back down on the cushion.  “You don’t like Heinz.”

“Ye
of little faith,” I said scornfully.  “The only thing that came out of a
packet in this soup is the
noodles
.”

He
opened one eye.  “Really?”

“Really.”

“You
cooked?”

“I
cooked.  For you.”

“Wow,
you must really love me.”

I
leaned down and kissed him on the forehead.  “No, I’m just feeling sorry
for you, lying there all weak and
defenceless
.”

A
strong arm snaked around me and pulled me down to the ground next to the couch
before I could even put up any resistance.  “Oh?” he asked, sounding proud
of himself.

He
was such a sucker.  He had me right where I wanted to be.  I kissed
him slowly,
manoeuvring
myself so I wouldn’t brush up
against his leg by accident.  His body was warm—
too
warm—so the meds were probably making his
body work
overtime.  He broke away suddenly and winced.

“I’ll
get you your painkillers.”

“Thanks.”

While
I was in the kitchen I dumped the noodles in and gave the pot a stir. 
Back in the lounge I handed Dec his pills and a bottle of water, and he took
them eagerly.

“Your
bandages are pretty gross,” I said casually.  “I should change them for
you.”  I knew he wouldn’t be happy about it.  It was necessary, but
it was also painful navigating around the scars from the surgery that were
still tender and raw.

“Wait
until after lunch,” he suggested—anything to stave off the inevitable.

“Yeah,
because it would be far better doing them on a full stomach.”  I grinned
to try to make a joke of it.  “Come on, we have enough time.”

Being
a nurse was a hard job.

“Fine,”
he sighed.

Watching
horror movies always makes me nauseated, but it’s funny how when you’re treated
to the sight of gore in real life, if it’s the gore of the person you love, you
don’t even bat an eyelid.  Dec watched me as I unflinchingly cut free the
bandages and wiped away at the mess on his knee before wrapping it all up in a
plastic bag.  He let slip
a moan when I applied fresh
antibacterial gel and began wrapping the knee back
up.  When I
looked back at him, a fresh sheen of sweat had broken out upon his
forehead.  I kissed him and said, “Let me just get rid of this and wash
up, then I’ll get you soup.”

His
humour
returned, and he called out after me, “Thanks,
Florence.”

I
gave him the finger as I walked to the bathroom.  I could see Maggie lying
on our bed through the open door.  She wasn’t happy having been moved over
here temporarily and was avoiding us both even though Declan was out there to
be a warm mattress for her to lie upon twenty-four-seven.  With the gunk
disposed of and my hands clean, I detoured past her to try to give her a
pat.  I ended up in the kitchen with a fresh set of scratches across the
back of my hand as thanks for it.

The
noodles were soft, and the soup wasn’t starchy. 
Thank you, Fran.
 
This just may be edible.

I
ditched the butcher’s apron before carrying two bowls of soup with buttered,
crusty bread.  Too bad there was no fresh parsley in the house to add to
the look.  Declan looked appreciative (and surprised) as I helped him into
a sitting position and presented him with his tray.

“Wow,
looks good.”

“A
ringing endorsement if I’ve heard one.”

“Here
comes the moment of truth though,” he laughed and sipped delicately from his
spoon.

I
watched him, waiting for the spit-take. 

“
Mmm
,” he murmured.  “It’s good.”

“You
lie!”

“No. 
Taste it yourself.”

I
did.  It didn’t seem like it would poison me, but Dec was really making a
show of it, smacking his lips and sounding like that demented
Skeksi
from
The Dark Crystal
whenever he spotted a
Gelfling
.

“Okay,
’fess up,” he said, laying aside his spoon for a moment.  “Fran or
Google?”

“I’m
insulted.”

“Okay,
it was Google.  You would be too cheap to call Fran internationally.”

I
frowned and relented.  “Just don’t check your phone bill next month.”

He
laughed as he picked up his spoon again.  “However long you talked, it’s
worth it.”

“I
promised you soup, remember?”

“Yeah,
but you threatened me with packet.”

I
stared at him and said quietly, “You’re worth making soup from scratch.”

“Simon,
you sap!”

“Yeah,
well,” I grumbled. “I’m a sap for you, I admit it.”

“I
like you when you’re sappy.”

I
could see his eyes were growing heavy again.

“It’s
a rare thing,” he murmured, his words slurring a bit.

I
lifted the tray out of his hands.  “No, it’s not,” I said.  After
all, he had never seen me before he came into my life.  Obviously.  I
had
never
been like this before, with anyone.  People always said
when you really loved somebody, all bets were off and all things changed. 
I guess I was proof positive of that.  I was about to take the tray back
to the kitchen when he tugged on my leg.

“Stay
here.”

I
really wanted to clean the kitchen and get it out of the way, but lying there
with him was just too inviting.  I made sure I wasn’t touching his leg and
scooted in next to him.  He was still nuclear-warm, but the drugs were
obviously
working
as he looked more at peace.

“Love
you,” I said, but he was asleep and didn’t hear me.  That was okay; he
knew it anyway.

I
closed my eyes, feeling sleep beckoning me with the rhythmic lull of his breath
and the rise and fall of his chest.  Dishes could wait.  Dinner could
wait.

Florence’s
work was never done.