The bell activates the dogs. I stand back from the door and listen to what sounds like a bear fighting a pack of wolves. If it is a bear, though, it has learned our city ways, how to curse and swear and slam a gate. A minute later and a paw materialises behind the frosty glass to flip off the latch.
The bear turns out to be Jon, a frazzled middle-aged man in a Motorhead t-shirt, his long, wild hair thinning at the top; the wolves a couple of miniature schnauzers who glare and rage at me from behind a baby gate.
‘Sorry about that!’ he says, pushing the hair back from his face. ‘Come on in! Just ignore them.’
I go past the growls through to a narrow front room where Jon’s wife, June is sitting in an armchair, dozing, her face propped on the flat of her hand. The room is dominated by a hospital bed that must have only landed there recently, everything else pushed to the side to make space, things piled quickly on top of each other. ‘It’s the nurse,’ says Jon, gently touching her shoulder. She rouses blurrily as he helps her to sit up.
The moment I’ve finished saying hello and explaining why I’ve come, Jon throws himself into a long and frantic description of everything that’s happened recently. It’s a monologue that’s as traumatised as the room, big things mixed in with small, a jumble of information that’s hard to get straight. Jon scarcely seems to breathe as he talks, everything spilling out in a rush. The best I can do is nod and say Yes or Right or I see, letting him vent.
These are the closing hours of a fiercely hot day – the last of a run of hot days. Outside the sky is thickening with storm clouds, the air oppressively close. The windows in the little front room are all open, but nothing moves except the traffic outside and an occasional shout from the street. The net curtains hang straight down.
There’s a cushion on the back of the sofa behind me – a photograph of a schnauzer in close-up, eyes wide, mouth open.
I start to sweat.
I can’t gauge how much Jon is accepting of June’s recent End of Life diagnosis. The job was given to me when I was out and about, an urgent visit to assess the home environment and give guidance to the carers on what’s safe or not. I couldn’t figure out from the attachments exactly how much had been explicitly stated to June and Jon, and it was too late now to ring the other agencies involved for advice. All of the falls and manual handling struggles Jon describes could be put down to June’s declining health. But maybe as a family they’ve opted to do as much as they can to normalise the situation, which would be completely understandable. So I find myself trying to do three things at once: piecing together a timeline of events from everything Jon’s describing; trying to figure out if any of this shows they know and have come to terms with the diagnosis, and worrying how I’m going to talk about safe manual handling for the carers without acknowledging the most significant detail.
June slaps the top of her head and groans. Jon goes over to her to comfort her. ‘Don’t worry, love,’ he says. ‘Don’t worry. We’ll get there – wherever there is.’
Gerry is on the floor when we arrive to do the assessment. He’d been there all night, and although he hasn’t hurt himself, he’s in pretty poor shape. We clean him up as best we can, then call an ambulance to take him to hospital. There’ll be a two hour wait, the call taker says. Exceptionally high demand. Like it’s ever any different.
In the meantime we try different ways to get Gerry off the floor, positioning chairs, encouraging him to roll over into an all-fours position that he might be able to progress into a kneel then a stand. But although he tries his best he’s just too weak; the chronic pain in his arm from a recent fracture means he’s got limited upper body strength to call on, and his legs won’t support him even if we physically boosted him up. In the end we admit defeat, and decide the best we can do is surround him with cushions and pillows, ply him with water and biscuits, and wait for the paramedics.
My colleague has to go to another call; I settle down on a kitchen chair to wait with Gerry.
Gerry has been smoking forty a day for the best part of thirty years, with the result that the whole flat – from the curtains to the carpets, the doors to the clock on the wall – is coated with a grungy patina of nicotine. It’s a hot day, so I open the windows for some fresh air. Even the flies that blunder in haul on the brakes and head straight back out again.
‘How long have you lived here, Gerry?’ I ask him, sitting back down on the chair. ‘Ooh – a long, long while. When they were built, pretty much.’ And it’s no doubt a consequence of sitting here with him for so long, but I imagine the builders laying the first course of bricks around us, Gerry on the floor, me on my chair, Gerry thoughtfully stroking his enormous Father Christmas beard, me checking my fob watch.
There’s a bookcase just behind him, filled with books on chess. ‘You like chess, then?’ I say, artlessly. ‘Oh yes!’ he says. ‘Yes, yes!’ ‘When did you learn?’ ‘When I was at Grammar school. I saw some kids playing and I thought hmm – what’s that? So I got a book out of the library. Then another book. Then another one. And I gradually taught myself all there was to know. I played in local leagues, bigger competitions. I was never international, but I got pretty good.’ ‘I know how to play,’ I say. ‘Basic stuff. I don’t have any tactics, any strategies. You know? The prawn’s gambit and all that?’ ‘Prawn’s gambit?’ ‘I just made it up.’ ‘Hmm – the prawn’s gambit,’ he says, stroking his beard. ‘You might have something…’ ‘My problem is I just throw everything forward and hope for the best.’ ‘Hmm,’ he says. ‘Yes.’ ‘I don’t know who even invented chess. I know it’s pretty old. I remember seeing the Lewis chess pieces in the British Museum once. They were cute.’ ‘There are lots of myths around the invention of it,’ he says. ‘My favourite is the one about the Indian king.’ ‘What’s that?’ ‘Well you see, a long time ago there was this great king. And he was bored with all the usual games, so he put out a proclamation. Invent a new game and the winner gets as much gold and silver as they desire.’ ‘And the losers get killed.’ ‘Quite possibly. Anyway, lots of people came forward, but the best was a wise old mathematician who offered the king chess. He told him he’d based it on court life, with soldiers, bishops, knights and so on. The mathematician taught the king how to play, and through playing the King learned his first important lesson, which is that everyone under his command has a role to play, from the most insignificant pawn to the grandest queen. And the king was very struck with this game, and told the mathematician that he’d won, and could help himself to as much gold and silver from the Treasury as he liked. But the mathematician said no thank you – what I’ll have is one grain of wheat on the first square of the chess board, doubled on the second, then again on the third, all the way to the last of the sixty-four squares. And although the king was put out, because he didn’t think a few grains of wheat were a satisfactory prize, he agreed. But of course he soon realised his mistake, because the number of wheat grains grew exponentially, until he owed him more wheat than his kingdom could ever produce. So that was the king’s second lesson – never underestimate the power of mathematics.’ ‘Then what happened?’ ‘I don’t know. He probably had him killed. Life’s not really like chess, is it?’
When I was a kid one thing I did was try to be like my eldest brother who lived in a whole other masculine dimension judo, motorbikes, not to mention an academic ability which gave him the facility to be ridiculously successful on the whole growing up was pretty stressful
I even joined his dojo did it work? no I was basically scared of the other kids their sweaty digs playing ‘British Bulldog’ getting my head pulled off I’d shake with fright every Friday night I mean – Fred the sensei tried alright bellowed I never got past yellow
In retrospect you couldn’t expect a different outcome maybe if there’d been some other stuff I could’ve done something fun like figurative ice skating I think but your ambition shrinks when there aren’t any rinks so that’s that you’re slammed face first through a judo mat
Now I’m free to be me and life goes on more easily but if I had the knack of reaching back I’d say hey Jim whassup? and lead me out of that judo club to a beautiful spot beside the river where I’d dance and deliver a song to make me shiver impromptu you don’t have to copy him if you don’t want to
There’s a sound like someone managing two sharp turns of a rusty bolt, then a cat walks in – or rather, rocks from side to side, easing its hips.
The cat is ancient, its fur clumpy and all over the place, like someone tossed a tiny black and white throw in the washing machine then slung it over some sticks to dry. The cat’s eyes burn fiercely, fixing it to this life. I imagine if it blinked, the whole thing would simply vanish in one, final, dusty meow, and the little black and white throw would gently settle onto the rug.
‘Twenty three’ says Agnes, pre-empting the obvious question. ‘Wow! Twenty-three! We had a cat that was nineteen and I thought THAT was old. But twenty-three…’ The cat stares at me: Say twenty-three again – I dare you – I double-dare you… I hear in my head. ‘Where did you get him?’ ‘The cemetery.’ ‘The cemetery?’ ‘He was about one they reckon, with his head caught in a can. The fire brigade had to snip it off. It was in the papers. When I read about it I went down to the shelter. He was furious with everyone of course. But I spent some time there, sitting with him, just talking about this and that. And he seemed to come round. And when I asked if I could adopt him they said yes! And here we are!’ ‘So what did you call him?’ ‘Guess,’ she says. ‘I don’t know. Lucky?’ She shakes her head. ‘Snippy? Beans?’ ‘It was a tin of cat food. I don’t suppose he’d have tried so hard if it was an old tin of beans.’ ‘No. You’re probably right. I don’t know, then. I give up.’ ‘Tintin!’ ‘Of course.’ ‘Actually I didn’t call him Tintin. The girls at the centre did. But it seemed to stick.’ ‘Like the can.’ Agnes doesn’t respond to that; Tintin certainly doesn’t. ‘YOU’RE SITTING IN MY SPOT!’ shouts Agnes suddenly leaning forward. ‘THAT’S WHERE I LIKE TO JUMP UP!’ She sounds so cross I actually flinch. For a second I think she means I’ve inadvertently taken her place on the sofa. But – jump up? The last time Agnes did any jumping up was maybe the Marquee Club in 1962. ‘That’s what Tintin’s thinking,’ she says, relaxing back again. ‘But don’t let him bully you. Now then – where were we…?’
I had to go to the dentist for a check-up I could only see him from the neck up but he seemed nice enough a bit rough if I’m honest like he’d just wandered in from the forest from felling trees to filling teeth
‘Oh Mr Clayton,’ he said shaking his head ‘Do you floss?’ ‘Yoss’ (speaking’s a struggle with two hands in your muzzle)
‘Okay Let’s take an xray Relax!’ he said, scooting back
Later, when he was studying the plates I thought I’d break the tension with some post-examination conversation
‘At least we’ve got the NHS millions don’t have dentists, I guess.’ ‘Except Cuba,’ he said raising his eyebrows and nodding his head ‘Yes! Cuba has a superb dental system Also, they’re so good it’s insane when it comes to dealing with hurricanes. Everyone knows exactly the part they have to play and immediately snaps into an efficient civic display medical attention, blood stocks, search and rescue what have you everybody out on the streets to help you it really is incredibly neat’ He jumped to his feet. ‘Hurricanes and teeth my friend, hurricanes and teeth.’ ‘And how’s the x-ray? I asked him seen anything nasty, hmm?’ ‘LM2’s worn, doesn’t need drilling But Guantanamo Bay definitely needs filling.’
me, leaning in a plastic dumpster fumbling for a mallet or a hammer to knock in a bamboo marker the dogs had knocked over round a patch of wild flowers singing MacArthur Park? (to be clear – the dogs just bark I’m the one singing the first thing that comes into my head – a song from the 70s by Jimmy Webb)
MacArthur Park!
I mean – not even the cool Donna Summer version but that godawful, barely lawful perversion by Richard Harris
Richard Harris! I’m so embarrassed singing with the same, geriatric warble like Richard Harris had gone to the trouble of building up status with audiences & directors in the theatre, film and television sectors but found himself singing like a vivisector might sing operating on a cat and being suitably horrified by that
mind you it’s true the brain is a crazy kinda organ with weirder projections than a gorgon signals continually toing and froing without you knowing what the hell is going on, and why you’re getting strange looks from strangers because you’re singing and snapping your fingers to Scooby dooby Doo, where are you….? or that advert for Murphy’s in 1992 p-p-p-pick up a penguin flickering round your axons for aeons and aeons along with a billion other distractions
No doubt if you held a gun to my head and said sing us something or you’re dead it wouldn’t be anything I genuinely liked like Iron & Wine, Die Antwoord, or anything I’d been listening to that night on Spotify anything of quality it’d be some lame-arsed jingle an advert for Pringles or Nivea for wrinkles a tune you desperately snatch as they frown and flick off the safety catch as I start singing uncertainly: Ski – the full of fitness food – for all the family….
and of course – I’m sure they wouldn’t hesitate or waver they’d shoot me straight off and they’d be doing me a favour
let me see the coldest I think I’ve ever been was when I was sixteen
it was the winter of ‘78 and I’d gone on a date by mistake
I was sitting on a ferris wheel next to a girl called Lucille It wasn’t just the middle of December it was a contender for the worst winter anyone could remember whatever I didn’t care about weather I was wearing my light leather bomber the one with the studded nehru collar because I thought it made me look tough even though it wasn’t remotely warm enough and didn’t have any pockets for stuff
I don’t remember what Lucille was wearing I was ten degrees past caring and falling but I do remember her calling me lots of disparaging names because she thought I was lame and the date was too tame and she should’ve gone to the fair with Wayne who’d copped off with her best friend Jayne so she’d been forced to say yes to me and sat and suffered next to me cursing the tragic destiny of a sub zero life with sub zero chemistry
I do remember she had red hair, though which I tried to imagine was the glow from a lovely warm fire as the ferris wheel rose higher and higher and the blood slowed and froze in my veins and my legs pistoned in my jeans and I folded my arms and gritted my teeth freezing to death trying to pretend my breath was smoke which only provoked Lucille even more and she swore and narrowed her eyes at the night beyond the door as we shook and shivered on the hard metal seats and I tried to look cool like Danny from Grease
jim clayton 