What is the Song
the Children Sing?
Paul Radcliffe
‘ What is the song the
children
sing
When doorway lilacs bloom
in
spring?’
Rudyard Kipling,’ A Counting Out Song’
The little girl was lost, and the little
girl was sad. She felt she had always been sad and she did not know why. She
knew her name was Rosalind, and there were other things she remembered. Mummy. Daddy.
They had always looked unhappy when she thought about it. Well, not always, but
sometimes when they thought she wasn’t looking. Why would they be unhappy? And
they had told her the headaches would soon go away. Everything would be okay
soon, then she wouldn’t be so sleepy all the time and maybe we would all go
home. They never said when we would all go home. They always said ‘soon.’ But
she didn’t know when ‘soon’ was. Maybe nobody did.
Go
home. Go home for strawberry ice cream and stories and the nice things. The
teddy bears and the books and the cartoons. But Rosalind had never gone home
with Mummy and Daddy. Not ever. They had left her, but it wasn’t their fault. Rosalind
remembered being in the hospital. It was a scary place sometimes, lots of funny
noises and strange smells. It was nicer in that quiet little room that was only
for very special children. The nurses had told her that, and they were very
nice. The headaches didn’t go away. Sometimes she felt sick as well, so sick
she didn’t even want the ice cream. And everyone likes ice cream. Especially
strawberry. And the light, of course. it hurt her eyes so she squeezed them
shut. Mummy and Daddy just turned off the light. There was just a little one in
the corner. At home, in her own room—ROSALIND’S
ROOM, it had said on the door. She had had her own lamp by her bed. On the
wall, there were shiny pictures of kittens playing. She would say goodnight to
the kittens just before she fell asleep. She loved kittens. So happy and so
silly. She could see Mummy and Daddy, but they were shadows, like the pumpkin
faces and candles at Halloween. It had been harder and harder to hear what they
were saying, and she had just wanted to sleep. When she was asleep, the
headaches went away. She thought they waited outside the door, and Rosalind had
wished they would go away. Bad, bad naughty headaches. And one day they went
away, and they had never come back. That was good. But she was lost, and that
was bad. She was looking down a long corridor. There were signs on the walls, but
she couldn’t read some of the words. They were too long. She began to walk down
the corridor, and Rosalind guessed it was night. It was so quiet. And then she
remembered. It was the hospital, the scary place with the funny smells and the
noises. She looked down, and on the polished floor she saw a toy duck. An old, yellow
toy duck with the red, soft beak almost hanging off. It was Diddley. Diddley
had been a Christmas present when she was very little. He had always been in
the quiet room with her. She had cuddled him while she waited for the headaches
to go away. And he was here, in the corridor, and she picked him up. She did
not know how he got there, but she was happy. He had always been with her, just
like her friends had until the headaches came, and she couldn’t play anymore. She
had hated that, that she couldn’t play, and she had told Diddley all about
that. And when she couldn’t play with her friends, Diddley was always there. He
was with her now. Now, when she was lost. She was remembering some other things
now. Going to sleep for a long time in the quiet room, the special room where
the headaches finally, finally went away. Rosalind thought she remembered
something. A long walk to a charity shop, a place full of second-hand things
that people no longer wanted or cared about. She had gone there because Mr
Fuzzypants was there—she did not know how—and he was a teddy bear, her
favourite even more than Diddley. She had brought him out, and she could not
think how she had done it. At first, it was like reading a book from the end
instead of the beginning. You were left trying to guess what had happened
before. She had not opened the door of the shop. She was just there. It was not
hard to find Mr Fuzzypants. He was waiting for her. A very special teddy bear, thrown
on top of a heap of broken toys. They must have put him there by mistake. He
was missing an eye, but never mind, the other one still worked. He was an old
bear now. She had sometimes heard people say things change when you get older. She
really wasn’t sure what they meant. Rosalind did not know she would never
become older, and that this was not a choice. She had taken Mr Fuzzypants home,
not far from the hospital. She had put him on a red cushion in the living room.
He liked watching television with Rosalind. They liked all the same shows, and
watched them together. The little girl had left Mr Fuzzypants there, and she
did not know quite why she had left. But it was home, and one of the many
sadnesses of children is the belief that home will always be there. If they are
lucky, they can keep the memories somewhere safe but the place will become
something else—and so will the people—and it will not be what they remember. Still,
somehow, she had left and she was back in the hospital. Back in the corridor. Rosalind
was holding on to Diddley, swinging gently but gripping him tightly, just as
she had in the special room when she had whispered to him. Diddley had
whispered back, but only she could hear. But she did hear.
The
hospital was close to a hill. Paths wound their way through it and there were
secret glades hidden by trees. In one of the shaded places there was a bench.
There was a little sign on it, a reminder of someone who could no longer be
there but who wanted to be remembered. The harbour glittered below. She had
loved seeing the sunlight on the green water. Rosalind had wanted to take the
sunshine home with her. When she was even smaller—even before the headaches
came—Mummy and Daddy had taken Rosalind up to the playgrounds on the hill. Her
friends had come as well. There was a shining slide that had small patches of
rust here and there. Some crude, basic swings hung by ropes from an old and
battered tree. Rosalind’s favourite was a kind of fixed rocking horse which had
room enough for four children, but which was fixed firmly to the ground. They
grabbed the metal handles and used them to rock the horse frantically. It would
rock so quickly it was as if it was trying to run away, run away from this
playground to a field of green grass where the sun was always shining. Sometimes,
not always, Rosalind would look over her shoulder when she was leaving, the day
growing colder. The blue painted eyes of the rocking horse would look at her,
as Mummy and Daddy and her friends were leaving and she lagged behind. She
thought the horse wanted her to stay. To be his friend and have adventures.
Rosalind
thought
it was sad that the children were leaving, and soon there would be no more sunshine.
She missed those days on the hill. They seemed far away now. And she was still
in that long corridor. Rosalind walked a little way, and she saw doors, big
doors with round windows like you might see on a ship. She remembered those doors,
and there was a sign next to them. Big letters, big words. She didn’t really
know what they meant.
PAEDIATRIC ONCOLOGY
She
was still lost,
but she thought she remembered that sign. Those doors. Rosalind put her hands
on the doors, and she did not need to push. She was on the other side and
looking down a ward. Dim lights and sick children. She saw the quiet room, the
special room. Her room. And she went in. There were the kitten pictures and
there were cards on the table. Get Well cards. Hope you’ll soon be with us cards.
When she had been in this room, she had had cards like that, signed by all the
children in her class. Nice to look at if the headaches let her. But she
stopped looking at the kittens and the cards. She saw a little boy on the bed,
and she knew he was sick. Very sick. One of his hands was outside the sheets.
It was very white. Rosalind was still carrying Diddley. Diddley had been her friend.
Perhaps the little boy, in the special room where she had been with the kittens
and the cards. He was very sick, and Rosalind thought he needed a special friend.
Had anyone looked into the room, they would perhaps have seen a gentle,
formless shimmering, and a toy duck laid gently on the pillow. Diddley had been
her friend, but the little boy needed Diddley, who would whisper to him as he
had to Rosalind. Her headaches had gone, she remembered the room, and perhaps
she was not quite so lost. Rosalind remembered something now. She drifted into
that long corridor. She thought it would be nice to help the children, nice to
help them while she waited for Mummy and Daddy. They would take her home. She
just had to stay there, and they would find her.
There
is a dark beauty to separation, to distance from those we love and who we know
love us. The beauty lies in the anticipation, that the separation will end.
Rosalind would stay there, and visit the sick children. She was lost forever to
Mummy and Daddy, though she would wait forever down the passing years. Only the
children would see her, and some would join her. They would play quietly in the
corridor, but sometimes they would sing. It was the song of all the children
whose pain had finally gone away. The song was heard only by those children who
would soon join them, gathered by the wind and carried to a rocking horse on a hill.
Tears fell unseen from painted eyes, but they were not the tears of sadness and
separation.
The
song of lost children, no longer lost, and waiting forever.
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Art by Bernice Holtzman © 2024 |
Paul Radcliffe is an Emergency RN. In the past, he worked in
an
area where children were sometimes afflicted with sickness of Gothic
proportions. Some are ghosts now. As a child he visited an aunt in a haunted
farmhouse. This explains a lot. Paul has worked in a variety of noisy places
unlikely to be on anyone’s list of holiday destinations. He is also a highly
suggestible subject for any cat requiring feeding and practicing hypnosis.
Bernice Holtzman’s paintings and collages have appeared in shows at various venues in Manhattan, including the Back Fence
in Greenwich Village, the Producer’s Club, the Black Door Gallery on W. 26th St., and one other place she
can’t remember, but it was in a basement, and she was well received. She is the Assistant Art Director for Yellow
Mama.
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