I wondered, you know... if you wanted to bring the old guy’s stuff in? We’re at the Western Infirmary.
Oh, and his name’s Sami-Tom.” “What?” I said. “No, that can’t be right, Raymond.
He’s a small, fat, elderly man from Glasgow. There is absolutely no possibility of him being christened Sami-Tom.”
I was beginning to develop some serious concerns about Raymond’s mental capacities.
“No, no, Eleanor—it’s Sammy as in... short for Samuel. Thom as in T-h-o-m.” “Oh,” I said.
There was another long pause. “So... like I said, Sammy’s in the Western.
Visiting starts at seven, if you want to come in?”
“I said I would, and I’m a woman of my word, Raymond. It’s a bit late now;
tomorrow, early evening, would suit me best, if that’s acceptable to you?”
“Sure,” he said. Another pause. “Do you want to know how he’s doing?”
“Yes, naturally,” I said. The man was an extremely poor conversationalist, and was making this whole exchange terribly hard work.
“It’s not good. He’s stable, but it’s serious. Just to prepare you. He hasn’t regained consciousness yet.”
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