‘Miss Barbara Anna Krycinski, born 20th October 1973, died 28th May 2024. A friend to all and like a mother to Paul. Here’s to you Babs.’
Small blue flowers have grown through a tuft of unmown grass next to the grave. Robbo kisses the top of the headstone and whispers, “speedwell, Aunty. But what’s there to be doing about Hank?”
‘Just do your best to help your friend, Pauly Po, just do your best.’
He closes his eyes for a few seconds, and kneels as if in prayer, murmuring, “will do, aunty. Promise! Love you!”
Robbo pauses for a few seconds, his eyes still closed, and takes a deep breath. He stands up and walks slowly, reluctantly, down the winding, sloping path to the cemetery gate and over the main road to Florence Park. He doesn’t look back.
The leafy park is busy with dog walkers and pensioners pushing trollies back from Cowley Centre shops. He turns down a narrow, tree shaded path by Boundary Brook, which currently has more rubbish than water. A cyclist rings his bell impatiently at Robbo to stand aside but he ignores him.
Robbo resents cyclists. And he resented having to sell his old diesel van for scrap. He can’t afford a new van so has to use a bike for jobs.
But, today, he is walking to the John Radcliffe Hospital, about three miles away. The JR bike sheds are notoriously insecure and Robbo can’t afford to have his bike nicked. So it stays chained to the bannister on the internal stairs to his flat.
He walks across Cowley Marsh, which is dry and brown from lack of rain, and deserted apart from more dog walkers. He wonders whether he could do that, walking people’s dogs for them, but observes all the walkers are younger than him and almost all women, probably students who do it for pennies because they really want dogs of their own.
Robbo carries on up a lane between the ‘marsh’ and a school sports field. It’s breaktime and the kids are all out, kicking a football about, chasing each other, hanging around at the edge of the field trying to look disinterested and cool.
At the top of the lane are Southwell Flats, a group of four-storey blocks of flats separated by patches of grass and a car park. Robbo lived here as a child with Aunt Babs.
Everything about it makes him feel melancholy: the path snaking between the buildings that he rode his bike up and down, the uncared for row of garages he used to climb onto and jump around to make the metal roof creak and groan, and, above all, the crows cawing to one another as they search for discarded food – Babs always left out scraps for them, because she thought they were smart, beautiful and misunderstood creatures who deserved respect. All reminders of a life that has gone yet somehow still feels more real than his life now.
Robbo hurries on, head down, focused on getting to the hospital. Along the streets of Headington, past semi-detached houses, small shops and the big, early 21st century buildings of London Road Business School, formerly Oxford Brookes University.
His route takes him past the site of the old Manor Ground, Oxford United’s last but one home. Babs, taking on the role of loving father as well as that of mother, often took him when he was small. Little Robbo liked the crowds, the smell of tobacco, the swearing, the general sense of excitement and joining in the shouts of ‘yellows, yellows’. And he shared in the collective disappointment as results went against them.
He continues across an open park, with rows of benches, each with one, sometimes two, people sat on them. One man is surrounded by pigeons and is trying to explain to them that he has run out of bread. The birds, however, remain optimistic – pecking excitedly at anything that might be edible.
On the other side of the park is a large imposing white building, sat on the brow of a steep slope, commanding a view across the Cherwell valley, northern Oxford and the Thames beyond. And in the distance, the low, densely wooded Wytham Hill.
Robbo heads through a set of large automatic doors and looks around him. It’s unfamiliar. He thought he had been here before but that must’ve been the A&E Department, which had a different entrance, and was all low ceilings and trolley jams.
This is a large, bright open space. High, glossy walls with a sun trap, greenhouse-style roof. People are bustling in and out, some uniformed, some not, all in a hurry.
A man in a yellow baseball cap pushes himself along quickly in a wheelchair. Robbo stumbles out of his way, heart thumping. Mr Rumbelowe is here somewhere. In a ward, probably in bed. He should be fine but needs to be careful not to be seen.
“You okay mate?” checks the man in the baseball cap, turning and coming to a stop facing Robbo.
“Yeah, yeah. Fine.”
“Alright then. You take care now, okay?” he takes the brake off his chair and wheels away.
A large sign listing various departments, clinics and wards – each colour coded – hangs from the ceiling. Robbo stops to inspect it. How to avoid the wards but get to the clinic? Follow the orange route, maybe.
He takes the stairs. It feels cooler and the lights are dimmer than in the corridor. A harassed looking man, pink shirt and dark trousers, bustles past, not noticing him. He climbs two flights and pushes through a double door into another corridor.
Robbo looks around for signs. Is it left or right? No idea. The signs are for clinics for things he has never heard of. They are not colour coded. There is a strong smell of disinfectant in the warm, thick air. It makes Robbo’s eyes water.
He blinks several times and stops a nurse to show her the appointment on his phone.
“You okay there? Good. So you need to go down the stairs two floors, or you could take the lift at the end, then follow the yellow route along the central corridor until you come to another lift, or you could take the stairs, and go up two floors. Then you need to follow the orange route,” she checks her phone, “you should still make it on time. No need to panic.”
“Thanks.”
Stairs, corridor, stairs, corridor – he gets there in the end. Sweating slightly.
“I’ll just leave you sat there for a minute,” explains the nurse at the Oxford University Treatment Development Clinic, “and let you catch your breath before I take your blood pressure and all the rest. I’ll be back soon.”
—
“You’ll feel a sharp prick. It’ll hurt a little but won’t take long. You might want to look away if you’re squeamish.”
Robbo squeezes his eyes shut and tilts his head back to face the blank, panel-lit ceiling. What did Matchbox say? Think about the nurse naked? Well, at least she’s a woman.
But the light is too bright through his eyelids. He feels too exposed, too vulnerable. His imagination won’t work. He just wants to curl up but daren’t move his arm.
Slow, soft music plays. Robbo half-opens one eye and then the other, and lowers his gaze gradually; carefully, not so far as to see the needle; onto a screen on the wall. There’s a picture of waves breaking on an empty beach, with a caption: ‘Smooth Classics’.
He feels the nurse adjust something connected to his arm. It tickles every time she moves it, like there’s something crawling beneath his skin. Robbo leans his head towards her. She’s about the same age as him, strong rather than pretty but her voice is gentle.
“Halfway there young man, you’re doing very well. I just need to fill another vial. There are several tests we need to conduct before you can start the programme.”
She carries a purple-stoppered tube of dark red liquid over to a tray, attaches a sticker to it and places it in a holder. Robbo stares at the tube, unable to drag his eyes away even as he feels another tickly sensation beneath his skin.
The nurse unties a band from his upper arm, “there we go, all over. If you can just check back with reception and then you’ll be free to go.”
—
Robbo leans impatiently against the reception counter, rubbing his arm.
“I just need the doctor to update… ah there we go,” explains the woman receptionist, “I think that all looks fine. So this is a one-off payment. If the doctor decides he wants to take you on as a regular volunteer, then we’ll contact you and set up a weekly appointment and payment schedule.
“Your blood pressure and weight are both fine but he’ll need the blood results back from the lab and a few other things that’ll probably take a few days. If you don’t hear from us within the fortnight, then I’m afraid the doctor’s decided not to take you on. Is that clear, Mr Robertson?”
Robbo nods.
“So for today’s payment, if you can just scan your phone on this device…”
Robbo holds his phone to the small black box on the desk. A light turns from white to green to red and back to white again.
“…the payment has gone through and should be in your account. Thank you for your time Mr Robertson. Enjoy the rest of your day.”
“Where is the exit for Marston?”
“Marston, Mr Robertson? I thought you lived in Rose Hill. But if you want to go to Marston,” the woman sighs and gives a slight shake of her head, “meeting ‘someone’ are we? It is still morning, you know. So head past the cafe, down one flight of stairs and follow the signs for A&E, blue route, and out past West Wing reception. You can walk down the hill towards the row of shops from there. The Co-op sells flowers. Maybe you could get some for your wife or girlfriend?”
“Divorced and single. But thanks.”
Robbo heads past the cafe, thinks about buying a tuna sandwich in case he gets hungry later on but decides travelling light is best, and down the stairs as instructed. As he goes through the door at the bottom of the stairs, a trolley bed is wheeled past him by a man in a green uniform. He leaves the bed by a lift and heads off.
A grey faced man in a threadbare suit stares at Robbo from the trolley, holding him in his gaze for a second and reaching a hand out, “thirsty, sir. I’m thirsty.”
The man closes his eyes. Robbo feels an urge to get away from here.
He walks through the crowded A&E waiting room, looking only straight ahead, past rows of tired, downcast faces. Some of them raise their eyes as he passes, fooled for a second by the sound of his quick, regular footsteps into thinking he might be a nurse, only to be disappointed. The room echoes with the wails of unhappy children and the silence of those in pain. The smell of disinfectant mingles with urine.
Robbo leaves the building past a queue of ambulances and strides down a sloping drive, dotted with blue ‘Emergency Vehicles Only’ signs every fifty yards, towards the main road – the road that becomes Marston Ferry Road.
In medieval times people could cross the River Cherwell at Marston by punt – the ‘ferry’ – or across a ford. The ferry remained in use until 1971, when a road bridge was built. The Oxford Authority constructed Cherwell Gate on the eastern side of the bridge in 2032.
Upon reaching the end of the drive Robbo consults Google maps. Uni Parks is less than two miles away but the problem will be crossing the river. There are two footbridges at the Parks but it’ll be busy there, probably security about. How to find somewhere to cross that is quiet and hidden? There is another bridge on the map, a short way upstream from the Parks.
‘Maybe worth a try, Pauly Po.’.
Robbo cuts across a playing field – goalposts with peeling paint on an unmarked, brown pitch. A dog sniffs the base of one of the posts, turns and sprays.
Away from the recently sprung-up red light district, Marston is still a largely residential area of semi-detached houses arranged in grass-verged streets and crescents. Beyond it flows the River Cherwell and fields that usually flood in the winter. And, in recent years, dry out completely in the summer.
Robbo cuts down a narrow alley between high garden fences, stepping around dog shit and broken glass. It leads to an open path, next to a dry drainage ditch down the side of a field. Ahead is a row of Alders. He heads for the trees.
A six foot wire fence has been stapled to the trunks of the Alders, in places higher than the lower branches. A corporate logoed sign proclaims, ‘Protecting Oxford’s Nature’ and a sign with a lightning bolt icon warns,‘This Fence is Electrified’. Beyond it is the river.
Robbo walks along the fence looking for a way through. The ground is parched, clay soil baked hard as rock. He picks his way through a tangle of withered shrubs and starts to cross another dry ditch. As he does so, he realises he can get under the fence by crawling along the ditch to where it meets the river.
Having cleared the fence, Robbo raises himself onto his haunches and uses both hands to scoop some river water over his face and into his mouth. It tastes disgusting. He curses himself for not buying a bottle of water at the hospital cafe.
‘It’s thirsty work, Pauly Po, just do your best.’
He clambers up the side of the ditch, the earth a little softer here by the river, slippy, slightly muddying his hands and jeans. And steps along the narrow river bank, broken up by tree roots and with tiny sandy beaches, just big enough for his feet, exposed by the drought.
Ahead is a footbridge across the river, a slim concrete arch with low side railings. A high metal gate, garlanded with barbed wire, guards the entrance to the bridge. But there is nothing to stop Robbo wading a short way into the river and reaching up to grab the two nearest railings.
Twisting back round to face the bank, Robbo raises one foot out of the water and pushes it against the base of the bridge while pulling himself upwards. He gets his knee onto the outside of the bridge and, again pulling with all his strength, brings his other leg up so he can run his hands, one after the other, up the railings, rise to a standing position and clamber onto the bridge.
The other side doesn’t have a metal gate. Instead a clean – new looking – sandstone archway, with hanging baskets overflowing with pink petunias, blue lobelias and little yellow nemesias, greets Robbo, ‘must need load of water for all those.’
A slight breeze ruffles the surface of the river and carries a sweet fragrance from the blooms.
Robbo follows a cobbled path, lined on either side with dwarf hedges. It leads through another archway, this one in the wall of a low, white concrete building with full-length windows, into a courtyard containing an ornamental garden.
Small, budding fruit trees form a circle around a pond. The water is clear, golden carp swim in languid circles. A dragonfly darts inches from the still surface and alights on a lily pad. At the far side of the pond is a stone fountain in the shape of a young and naked girl, with a trickle of water dribbling from her mouth. Robbo reaches out and tries to slap the falling water towards him. A few drops land on his face.
It is hot and dry. And very quiet.
Robbo finds a low bench, between the fruit trees and the fountain, and pulls his phone out of his pocket. No signal. He holds it up to the blue sky. Still no signal. He can’t access a map or get directions to Uni Park without one. Maybe the quadrangle buildings are blocking it. Not to worry, he just needs to get out of this place and then he can work out where he is.
But first he stretches out his legs in front of him to dry his shoes, socks and jeans by the heat of the midday sun.