‘Who is it?’ asked the youth astride a delivery cycle.
‘An ordinary Joe, mate,’ the fellow with a face as seamed as a nineteen fifties leather football replied.
‘Pretty popular.’
‘Well, he was a giver.’
The youth was getting twitchy, waiting for the crowd to pass, the narrow road crammed with funeral limos and an endless trail of following cars. He couldn’t even ride on the pavement, there were so many out for the cortege. He rocked to-and-fro in his saddle, keen to get back to the pizzeria. This was costing him money.
‘What did he give?’ he asked indifferently. His attention was on a gap that might be opening up on his side of the kerb. ‘Time? Money?’
‘Blood. Why don’t I tell you about him?’
But the youth was away, pedalling rapidly.
/
The consultant peered at her through thick-rimmed glasses. It made her feel insignificant, like a specimen in a jar.
‘We have a problem Mrs – ’ he looked at his notes – ‘Andrews. Your blood type is Rhesus negative. It’s at risk of attacking your baby whose blood is Rh D positive.’
The man might intimidate her but she’d fight for the infant within her.
‘So what can you do for my child?’
‘Your blood could cause an immune response in baby which might be fatal.’
‘So what can you do?’
‘Nothing yet. We’re waiting for immunoglobulin.’
/
‘How are you James?’ his father asked.
‘Weak.’
‘You’ve done well, son. Hasn’t he Mum?’
‘Done very well,’ his mother said.
‘Your lung’s good, the surgery was successful. Right, Mum?’
‘No more hospitals ever again, James.’
‘How many blood transfusions did I have, Dad?’
‘Loads. You have the blood of many people in you, son.’
‘In four years’ time I’m gonna be a donor, Mum.’
‘But you’re scared of needles, James? Petrified.’
/
The youth set his bike against the wall of the hall and went into the sitting room. ‘Alright babes?’
‘Ssh!’
‘Wassup?’
‘Ssh!’
The tv was on. Inside a church, a boxy object down by the altar. ‘What’s on babes?’
‘Ssh! Local news, Dean, highlights of a funeral service.’
‘You what?’
‘Ssh! The dead man’s famous all over the country.’ Dean joined Bianca on the sofa. ‘Do you know who he was?’
‘He gave blood.’
‘He saved lives. A local man.’
‘I know.’
‘The vicar’s talking about him now. Ssh!’
‘I didn’t…’
A figure on the screen was saying: ‘James’ first donation was on his eighteenth birthday, his last one when he was eighty one. He soon learnt that his plasma was precious, containing unusually high levels of antibodies which could be used to prevent haemolytic disease in the newborn. Figure it out. Fortnightly donations, decade after decade. They were used in 2.4 million doses. He saved thousands of lives.’
‘Wow!’ Bianca said, tearful.
‘His blood was rare.’ the vicar said, ‘So was James. Let us pray.’
‘I’m gonna give blood,’ Dean said.
‘What a selfless guy!’
‘I’m gonna do that.’
‘Wow!
‘You hear me?’
