The Lonely Caller

Augustin had been dreaming about his first night shift for months. In none of the dreams was anyone old, calm or sitting in a hallway. His dreams contained sirens, stairwells and dramatic decisions. The real shift began with a cold sandwich and a warning from his supervisor. "Don't expect fireworks," she said. "Most nights are mostly paperwork."

The first six hours proved her right. They were sent to a minor car scrape and a woman with a sprained ankle, and then spent forty minutes restocking the ambulance. Augustin, who was only observing, carried bags and kept quiet. Despite himself, he was beginning to feel like a spare part.

At ten to three in the morning, the radio crackled. A man had called the emergency line to report a fall. The address was a small flat above a bakery in the old quarter.

The door was unlocked. Inside, a thin man of about eighty was sitting on the hall floor, his back against the wall. A tea towel was pressed to his forehead. "Ivar," he said, when they asked his name. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry to bring you out at this hour."

The senior paramedic, who had been doing the job for twenty years, checked his pupils, his pulse and his head. The cut was small, and nothing seemed to be broken. "You were lucky," she said. "But why did you wait an hour before calling?"

Ivar looked embarrassed. "Because it wasn't an emergency," he said. Then he admitted that he had not spoken to anyone in four days. The last person had been the baker downstairs, who had asked whether he wanted his usual loaf. When the phone was in his hand, he had simply wanted to hear someone answer.

Augustin, standing in the doorway with the equipment bag, felt something shift. He had expected an emergency, and a small cut was hardly one. Yet the man in front of him had needed help badly enough to dial.

While his colleague finished the examination, Augustin made tea in the narrow kitchen. The flat was tidy and very silent, with one clock ticking above a table set for one. A radio sat on the shelf, switched off.

Once the tea was in his hands, Ivar began to talk. He talked about the bakery and about the choir he could no longer reach because of his knees. He talked about a daughter who lived abroad and called on Sundays. By the time he had finished, the cut was dressed and the tea had gone cold.

Back in the ambulance, Augustin raised the subject. "He doesn't need a hospital," he said. "But he needs someone."

His colleague looked at him for a moment. "There's a community visiting service," she said. "Volunteers call round, and a coordinator phones within two days. The patient has to agree, though, and a referral form has to be filled in."

Ivar had been asked, and he had agreed after a long pause, although he warned them that he wouldn't be good company. Augustin had laughed. He had not been able to help it.

At dawn, back at the station, Augustin sat down with the form. The box marked "Reason for referral" was only two lines long. He wrote, "Patient has not spoken to anyone in four days." Then he crossed it out. Underneath, in smaller handwriting, he wrote, "Patient would enjoy company, and has plenty to say."

He signed the form and, after a moment's thought, dropped it into the tray marked "Urgent".