This Could Change Everything(26)
‘I was visiting an old friend last year in Amsterdam,’ she said. ‘Over dinner one evening, she told me about a charity they have there called the Ambulance Wish Foundation. It was started in 2006 by a paramedic who was driving someone very ill from one hospital to another. When the second hospital said they couldn’t admit him for a couple of hours, the paramedic asked if there was anything he’d like to do. And the patient said he’d love to visit Rotterdam Harbour to say goodbye to it. So that’s what they did,’ said Zillah, ‘and the man was so happy to see it one last time, because he’d worked there all his life.’
‘That’s amazing,’ said Essie.
‘Isn’t it? The paramedic was so moved, he arranged for the man to be taken back there a couple of days later, lifted on his stretcher onto one of the boats and taken for a last trip around the harbour. It was a small gesture with a huge impact. It meant so much. And when my friend told me this story, I was deeply touched by it. Because there are lots of charities granting bigger wishes for younger people . . . and that’s fantastic, of course it is. They and their families go on trips to Disneyland and have a holiday to remember. But what this paramedic discovered was that when you’re bedbound and very close to death, your final wishes can be very small indeed.’
‘I’ve never even thought about it,’ said Essie.
‘I know, I hadn’t either. But it struck such a chord with me. The charity really took off in the Netherlands. Now they have hundreds of volunteers and several ambulances, and they’ve fulfilled thousands of wishes. I’m eighty-three,’ Zillah went on. ‘I can’t set up anything like that at my age. But when my darling husband was dying, it would have been lovely if there’d been something nice we could have done for him. So in the smallest way I decided to arrange for a few last wishes to be granted. And that’s the story,’ she concluded with a shrug. ‘This is what we’re on our way to do now. The only reason I didn’t mention it before was because I didn’t want you to feel obliged to join us, especially on Christmas night.’
They reached St Mark’s Hospice ten minutes later. It was a modern single-storey building in well-tended grounds. Essie knew of it – they had several charity shops dotted around the area – but had never been here before.
There was a private ambulance already waiting at the top of the driveway, and signs of activity in the dimly lit reception area. As they climbed out of the car, Essie said, ‘Will they mind me being here?’
Zillah shook her head. ‘Not if you’re with us.’
But Essie hung back all the same and waited beneath the covered entrance as Zillah warmly greeted a very old man beside the reception desk. He had slicked-back grey hair and an Errol Flynn moustache, and was bundled up in a long dark winter coat.
‘Is that him?’ she murmured to Conor, beside her. ‘I thought he’d be iller than that.’
The next moment she mentally kicked herself, because a set of double doors had swung open and two uniformed paramedics appeared, pushing a stretcher on wheels. A curvy middle-aged woman walked alongside them and Essie saw that the patient was a parchment-pale elderly lady who couldn’t weigh more than five stone.
‘I’m such an idiot,’ she murmured.
‘Don’t worry about it.’ Conor held open the main door so everyone could make their way down the ramp. The sick woman was wearing an oxygen mask and there was a drip running into her left arm, but she was smiling and murmuring a few words to her husband as they passed by.
Finally, loaded up, the ambulance moved off. Flowers were brought out and placed in the boot of Zillah’s Mercedes, and Conor resumed his place behind the wheel so they could set off in pursuit.
This time the journey took thirty minutes. When they finally arrived in the small Cotswold village of Alton Tarville, Conor followed the ambulance into the narrow driveway that led up to the church.
The vicar was waiting for them. As Essie and Conor carried the flowers into the simple, twelfth-century church, Essie marvelled at the sight of the stained-glass windows lit up from below by rows of glowing ivory candles. There were more candles flanking the altar, and trails of holly and ivy had been arranged around the choir stalls. The heating was on and the air smelled of must and dust, of ancient stone and beeswax polish.
Quickly they placed the arrangements of flowers for maximum effect. The organist took up position. At a signal from the vicar, he pumped the pedals and began to play, and the familiar opening bars of Wagner’s Bridal Chorus filled the church.
The heavy oak door opened and through it came the middle-aged woman, whom Essie now knew to be an off-duty doctor. She guided the front of the wheeled stretcher between the pews and greeted the rest of them with a nod and a smile to reassure them that all was well.
John, the man with the Errol Flynn moustache, had removed his coat to reveal a smart grey suit with a white rose in his buttonhole. He held the hand of his wife of fifty-six years as the two of them headed together up the aisle. The two bearded paramedics, in their green uniforms, solemnly brought up the rear like oversized bridesmaids.
The music soared to the rafters and Essie saw the look of joy on the face of John’s wife Elizabeth as he lovingly clutched her hand.
When the organist had finished, the vicar spoke about John and Elizabeth’s long-ago wedding in this church and their happy marriage. Elizabeth didn’t take her eyes off her beloved husband whilst they renewed their vows, and when it was over, John bent to kiss her with infinite tenderness.