Dad, the card just arrives, half a year late. Theyre inviting you and Mum to a wedding. Some Rory and Zara.
Let me see, he opens the card, studies the invitation, the names, the signatures. He hands it back ah, they missed it, they didnt make it.
Dad, it says they invited you to Yorkshire, to Harrogate! Who are they? It even says flight and accommodation on our account. Dad, tell me!
Father shrugs, then after a pause says:
Its the brides side that sent it.
And?
Well its back in 85, right around New Year. An unusual storm hits, the whole county gets buried in snow. Step outside and you only see rooftops, fences disappear. The radio announces a state of emergency, feed for the livestock is dropped from helicopters onto shepherds camps to avoid a shortage. The army tries to clear the roads, but its not enough.
I am the head of the infectiousdiseases ward; I remember we are planning to give patients some NewYear wishes. I stand at the mirror, fastening a cotton beard, while nurses and orderlies chop salads. Suddenly, outside, with a deafening roar and a crunch of snow, a massive lorry pulls up.
You know the one, right? I say.
Of course.
We look out the window and two people step out. A few minutes later theyre in my office. A young Yorkshire family, living and working at a shepherds camp about fifty miles from the district centre. They stand at the door, shivering, their faces grey from the road. I invite them to sit; they stay standing.
The husband begins:
Tom, he says, our baby died. She was only six months old, had diarrhoea for two weeks and a week ago she stopped breathing. Thats it. We need a death certificate so we can take her to holy ground for burial.
I notice hes holding a small yellow suitcase. He puts it on the table, opens it, and a newborn lies inside, a bluewrapped girl.
Why did you keep her until the end? I start to scold. Why didnt you bring her right away?
We tried, Tom! We couldnt get through the snow. We finally found a big truck and came.
I fall silent, pull out a form, and start filling it in while listening to the childs chest with my stethoscope.
I wasnt expecting anything, the father says, this is a routine procedure, they do it a lot. Then I hear a noise. Not a heartbeat as everyone expects, but a rush.
Everyone, quiet! I shout, pressing the diaphragm tighter. Two minutes later the stethoscope registers a vague shhh.
Now I remember, the father continues, I dump everything off the table, the suitcase too, lay the baby down and shout for the chief nurse. She rushes with a resuscitation kit. In a minute we give a horsedose of medication through an IV and start chest compressions. Theres a lot you cant understand. The baby starts to turn pink, then suddenly she screams loud enough for the whole ward to hear.
I stare in horror as the mother, unconscious, slides down the wall. The father, pale, clings to the table. I call for an ambulance and a helicopter. They fly the girl out together with her parents. You probably remember, they keep coming back, bringing gifts.
Uncle Raymond? I ask.
Yes! Raymond, thats right. And this Zara is his daughter. He nods. They remember
I think of this story often when I try to compare what I do now with what my father did in his day. I never come close to his results. And whenever I recall the story, my father just smiles modestly:
Yes there were many like that.
