The story... Extract from a book- Copyright Robert Fullarton 2014

The story... Extract from a book

 Copyright Robert Fullarton 2014

Graham Cooke spent the day killing time, waiting for the doctors to come and go, for the prescriptions to be written and he waited apprehensively , on edge for the day to go, another day, to be blotted out, for what did it matter, he was sick and there was no cure for the wound that bit his heal, that had supplanted his body, gnawed at his stomach over the years of frailty, the same wound that went from childhood right through adolescence to eventually speak and it spoke through terror. Every organ and orifice was laid waste to cannon fire, invisible acts of destruction and moaning that went on and on, the wound would even speak to Graham at night, in the deep dark, it called his name and almost possessed a life of its own..it said "look back dear boy...look back into the eyes of the past and see the boy that once existed! Where is he now?" Taunted the wound, or so Graham thought, perhaps it had been a dream or his own imagination playing tricks on him again.

Graham got up and walked from the main hallway of the Hamilton Ward, to the patients lounge to read a few pages of his new book, browse the area, to see who was hanging about for treatment.
A rather scruffy looking man, about mid-forties in age, with spectacles and a tuft of grey hair that turreted upwards, gave him a look of curiosity and friendliness.

"So, are you waiting for something?" He asked in a friendly and cordial tone of manner.
"No, not really my Psychiatrist has already been round the wards, but he never bothered to come and see me."
"Why not?"
"I dont know? He is not so good I guess at keeping appointments."
"Well", said the man jokingly, "At least he's not a friend or family member, otherwise he'd probably be terrible at keeping promises too."

As he said this he gave out a hearty bellow of laughter and pushed his grey rimmed spectacles up from the bridge of his nose.

"Perhaps", said Graham with a smile in response.
"You know, I think I have spent my whole life waiting? I must admit that I don't really know what I am waiting for either."
"What do you mean?"
"Well this life is strange to me...I was once an artist, who obtained a grant from the local council to go and study at the City University. I worked hard, it came to me from an early age, the will, the life, the capacity to paint, to draw, to sketch and even draw up architectural plans and blue prints for the local theatre. My father tripled my allowance and even supported me with my accommodation.
He said to me one day..when I was 25..

"Son, your going to go far in life, believe me I can tell. I can sniff out genius and see it in your work, you will be commissioned soon by the council for that arts programme and you will be designing theatres, stages, props and one day you will make money for your portrait painting. No man gets a scholarship that easy, its not luck, its not an accident or a fluke, its your talent come alive..it comes with hard work and the phenomenon of genius. Travel when you can, go where I could never go...high up in a Jet plane.. visit the continent, go above the clouds.. to America and beyond. Let the colours of your palate come out from those wonderful hands...gaze and imagine James...gaze and imagine..do you not know how far you are going to go."

"I still see his face in my dreams at night, he's sitting at the kitchen table one summer night, smiling, he's had too much whiskey, but he's doing nobody any harm, from his drunken gaze he grabs me close and hugs me with a father's love...its time relived so to speak but it ends when I wake up paralysed in my bed without the use of my legs and with my arms in pain...as it spreads up the legs through the muscles and it leaves me in agony. I could call one of the nurses to lift me up unto my chair or one of my private carers but it is no use.
I look at this loveless body and wonder what use, or dignity it can have now that its semi-paralysed and getting weaker over time. A woman's love, the erotic hibernation of a man fades, his simple desire to be touched in soul, body and emotions, finds no quarter with reality! I dreamed of being married, having children having the nuances and gestures of love harvested, but time harvests too..it converted me from being a young healthy man, into a cripple. What woman would want this body now? The oil on my canvases are still partially wet they are my children, my medals and triumphs, store up in the attic of my parents house, I often ask to be permitted some music and when it plays, I like to imagine I have my palette knife and board nearby  with a canvass out-stretched to paint, the colours appear in tiny forms, balls of light, tints of pure tone they speak and when the music plays, I even see the notes as primary colours that shift and spiral into mixtures, I see the whole thing in composition, like God's creation unfolded with a stolen glance by the naked eye."

"I understand your passion..I am a writer myself and it speaks to me as symphonic as your art, for I can appreciate the fine things in life", said Graham in a dry, raspy voice, broken and with a breath that came with a whoosh up his lungs like an elevator to heaven from the hell of his wound up to fresh skies of inspiration above his delicate position.
"Very good! We are kindred spirits, one of a kind, less known these days! But seriously, I cannot paint, I did not do the things my father wanted me to do. I did not achieve the lofty ambitions he set for me...but polio..damn Polio! Ruined my life, took my legs and worked its way up! Who wants a damn cripple for office? For Love? For fatherhood?"

He wept a few tears..Graham grabbed his handkerchief and wiped his face clean. Out of the tears, there came his beautiful blue eyes, blue but as warm and as inviting as the Pacific Ocean.

"An act of kindness is an act of worship, did you know that?"
"Yes, its in the Bible, I've heard of it before."
"I would be honoured to serve your needs, to help you find your canvasses, I'll buy you some paint and always remember that you can talk to me any time you like."
"Thank you, I am moved... by the kindness you have shown me..thank you...thank you."
"Always know that each person in this ward has his or hers tale of suffering and we are fighting like Spartans against our odds, one man is a battling alcoholic who has lost his wife and family in the storm and he's just come up for air to find the wreckage. Another man was consumed by heroin, another by psychosis and fights the parameters between one thing and another. Another woman weeps for her only son that has been killed in a motorbike accident and states she never got to say goodbye. Now does that not make you realise that you are not alone, their dreams and nightmares, their struggles are as real to them as yours is to you, the measure of a man is in what he overcomes, his soul when let free is the prize-winning horse that makes the hurdles and leaps to finish with new stripes and courage won. Where is the salvation we all seek for the daily sustenance of our dreams and mortal bodies, but remember we need to be saved from the deep black sea of fear, we cannot capitulate to those who laugh at us? Remember the man who painted with his music and with his heart, he's you...he's still alive and well...what have they got...those who mock us...mirror their own emptiness and they too are blind...so blind they probably cant even dream...their dreams are dark, invisible and pitched with silence"