Pacemaker
by Kay Sexton

Bartie was angry and he felt he had good reasons for his bad temper. To start with, his hospital appointment card gave his name as Bertie. It was doubly annoying; first because when you got to a certain age everybody seemed to think they could use your nickname as though you were a dog, or a child, and second, it was infuriating to be named Bartholomew but get downgraded to Bertie at some filing clerk's whim.

A further cause for fury was the waiting room of the cardiology department, which was filling up rapidly, but emptying out slowly. For every person moving consultant-wards, there were three heading seat-wards and he could see that his 10.30 a.m. appointment would become a midday one. Finally, he - and everyone else on the cardiac list - was suffering the behaviour of some noisy youths who had no decorum and no volume controls. They laughed, they yelled, they put their feet up on the seats, they had mock boxing contests with each other and drank copious amounts of water from the cooler. There seemed always to be one of them jiggling around in front of Bartie; either the tall one who looked as if his hair had encountered a lawn mower, or the stocky one with a scowl, or the skinny one.

Mainly though, they congregated around a lad who seemed too fit to be visiting a cardiologist. Eventually he said something that caused a frenzy of watch checking and, after the rituals of leave-taking, which involved more mock punching and feinting, the group left. The youth looked briefly over at Bartie and said, "Late for a lecture," as if that made things clear.

The nurse appeared, looking flustered. "Mr. ... Mr. ...? I'm sorry but I can't read this. It appears to be ..., no, I just can't make any sense of it. The first name could be Bertie or Barry? Pacemaker gentleman?"

Bartie began the long journey to his feet, noting that the lad was rising too. 'If he offers me his arm,' thought Bartie with vicious intent, 'I'm going to whack him with my stick.' He had to concentrate hard to get across the room, the litter of magazines and abandoned coats was dangerous for a man who'd recently had a major heart operation and was feeling as if he would never recover from the huge and bruising indignities inflicted on that erratic organ. By the time he reached the consulting room door the lad was going through it. Bartie turned, thinking to ask the nurse to remove the young upstart and make him wait his turn, but she had disappeared again, possibly to find somebody better equipped to decipher the consultant's hieroglyphs. He stumped on, determined that he would get his appointment even if he had to crawl on his belly. Who would have believed that he once trained with Roger Bannister? That the four minute mile had been almost in his grasp? Who could guess that this slow man, with his creaking limbs and his fluttering heart had once been as fleet as the wind over the Sussex Downs? He hated himself, and his heart, and the whole process of aging that had left him here, plodding through life where once he had sprinted.

"Excuse me," the lad, already in the consulting room, was clearly embarrassed, "I think this is my appointment. Barnie Trevally; pacemaker. They always call me Barry, it's so annoying."

"Excuses accepted," snapped Bartie, "And I'll trouble you to leave now. This is my appointment, Bartie Evans, pacemaker fitted six months ago and I don't know why I bothered, it's not worth the trouble."

"No, you've got it wrong," laughed the youth, "I'm a pacemaker, I run up at Brighton University and I have to come down here whenever I'm running as a pacemaker for another runner, heart tests and all that, for insurance ...did you say Bartie Evans? Who ran with Roger Bannister? I've got your 1500 metre win on video at home, copied over from cine-film. I don't believe it! I'm talking to Bartie Evans!"

Bartie straightened up, looking away from the enthusiastic young man. "I'm afraid so," he said coldly, "But as you can see, there's not much left of my old form now."

Barnie smiled widely, "Maybe so," he said, "Maybe not, but you were a great pacemaker in your time. Perhaps I can buy you a cup of coffee in the Mad Hatter Cafe after this and you could fill me in on your success - I'm sure you have lots of tips you can give me."

"Quite right," said Bartie slowly, "And the first one is ... if you're determined to turn into a miserable old codger, never sit in hospital waiting rooms; there's a very high risk that something will happen to drastically improve your day!"<