none of these people are still alive / says the voiceover guy / as crowds of flickering people drift by / not one / not the kids in jackets and flat hats / or the moustachioed gents smoking pipes at the back / not the copper arresting the restive horse / not the horse, of course / or any of those bonneted babies in perambulators / or the Hope-sashed Temperance League agitators / not any of the heaving masses / waving and waving as the camera passes / not the acrobat in the striped apparel / who leaps feet first into a barrel / or the school kids in lines doing tucks and rolls / or the women twirling their parasols / or the soldier with a chest full of medals / or the old guy labouring on the pedals / of the latest Edwardian tricycle / or any of the hundreds of other bicycles / keeping pace with the overcrowded tram / not the post office boy with the telegram / or the factory owner taking the note / with a penny from his overcoat / not the smallest boy in the boys brigade / trooping down the high street on parade / a wooden rifle sloped on his shoulder / copying the company commander / not the woman with the black umbrella / in mourning for poor Queen Victoria / or the boy at the gate in line for a job / who sneers and sticks two fingers up / nor any of the three young women in flowery hats / who walk slowly past and then quickly back / all gone and done / and time moved on / turning at a steady camera handle’s pace / and the people paid a shilling to take their place / in the tent they set up on the village green / to show the miracle of the moving picture machine / just a shilling, to see themselves as others see them / ghosts, in a national film museum
Author: jim clayton
the stipe angle
we sat together on the touchline
me on the bench
dave in his wheelchair
a tumour caught in his head
as squarely as the softball
in that outfielder’s mitt
did you see michael stipe
on unplugged MTV
I think that’s when it really hit me
he said
what did?
I’ll never be michael stipe
and in the time it took
to look away and back again
three strikes and you were out
chemo, crystal, prayer
(and a last minute flight to brazil
for a cure that – needless to say – didn’t)
we sat in concentric circles in the meeting house
stood up in turn, said some things
met afterwards in the courtyard
the snacks were fine, it went okay
the banality of tragedy
someone else cleared up
and death shall have no dominion
dylan said (thomas, not bob)
it did alright with you, though, didn’t it
that metastasising piece of shit
and here I am, thirty years later
still wrestling with the stipe angle
a cat and a dog
a cat
Anna’s bed is in the bay window, the sunniest spot in the house, a light breeze filtering in through an open window, gently filling and turning the curtains. Anna’s asleep, curled up on her right side with one hand crooked under her head; sunlight illuminating the linen sheets and multi-coloured crochet square throw with such intensity it’s as if I’ve been staring at a beautiful painting for so long I’ve found myself suddenly transported into it.
Aside from the bed, the rest of the living room is just that – a room for living. There’s a baby lying on its back in a baby gym, reaching up for the fabric toys hanging overhead, waving his legs and gurgling happily; a toddler, standing on the sofa with her arms draped over the back, staring at me with wide, brown eyes; their mother, kneeling on the carpet, talking into the phone crooked at her neck whilst she folds laundry from the trug, and then her mother, Anna’s daughter Jean, standing in her dressing gown in the doorway, smiling, overseeing everything, cradling a mug of tea.
To add to it, a plump tabby cat strides into the room with her tail in the air. The toddler on the sofa jumps up a little, points to the cat, says Dat! and looks at me even more intensely.
The cat raises its chin like a butler in an over-starched collar, looks right and left, gives one, long, imperious yeowl, then collapses at my feet and stretches out, using her claws on the carpet to increase the bend, until she’s one languorous curve from the tip of her tail to her nose.
Dat! Dat! says the toddler, bouncing up and down on the sofa cushions.
‘Molly!’ says Jean, shaking her head and laughing.
And for a second, I’m not sure which is which.
a dog
Getting in to see James this morning was like trying to solve a giant, unwieldy puzzle. His carer Leila was delayed, some kind of bus trouble, apparently (We didn’t crash she said Thank God! But he is learner driver I think and he clipped mirrors and we all stopped for a long time and eventually I said no, no, no this is not good I have place to go so I asked them to let me be free please, and he did, and so then I ran and jumped on number 5, and change at river…). Meanwhile, Wendy the scheme manager wasn’t answering the intercom button or her phone. Two other residents had come outside already, one to smoke, one to chat. Both had asked if I wanted to go in and I’d said no, thanks, but James’ door is locked so it won’t do much good. They tell me where they saw Wendy last, and that segues into what a great job she does, and how the fish and chip supper went last night. It’s a nice block. Everyone looks out for everyone else, like a vertical village, people coming and going, or hanging around, mostly. Even the contractors working on the underground garage are cheerful and friendly, raising their coffee cups and smiling, more like actors than electricians, sauntering over from the on-location, TV catering wagon in their laundry fresh check shirts and utility belts.
The main door opens again and this time I see Wendy, waving her phone from the mezzanine floor that overlooks the lobby.
‘Can you come up here?’ she calls out to me. ‘Barry’ll let you in to see Jimmy. Sorry about the intercom. They’re working on it… or so they tell me!’
She says this on cue, just as the contractors are passing through the lobby. They smile and raise their coffee cups again, and exit stage right.
I go up – but I don’t have to wait long before Barry appears, an elderly man so immaculately turned-out I can imagine his Spotlight photo in the casting directory alongside the contractors.
‘This way,’ he says, jangling a bunch of keys and pressing the button for the lift. Then he turns and calls out ‘Fred! Come on, mate! We’ll go without you!’
‘Come on Fred!’ I say, then I turn to Barry and ask him who Fred is.
‘You haven’t met Fred?’
‘No.’
‘You’re in for a treat.’
We both turn to look at the archway that leads from the TV room out onto the mezzanine. I hear him before I see him, a deep, wet, resonantly lumpy sound, like an old British motorbike firing on one cylinder. Then I feel him – or I think I do – the thump of him through the springy floor. The lift arrives behind us, the door pings open but we both ignore it, waiting for Fred to emerge through the arch. And then he does – a gigantic black labrador, his tongue lolling out, hauling himself along on arthritic hips, one vast pad after the other, his head bobbing up and down with the effort of it all.
‘Come on, Fred!’ says Barry. ‘Good boy! Let’s go see Jimmy! Hey?’
scrappy rap rant
I suppose it helps you don’t owe me / and I like it at the bottom with nothing below me / but hey – it’s okay / I’m finally dealing with this shit today / the mice are playing while the cat’s away / on some kinda retreat to work on his health / something about freeing the mouse in himself / something like that / something about a cat / anyway / hey / I’m fine most of the time / a scream and a wild front crawl / from the foaming rocks at the edge of the falls / but look – I’m not worried at all / I’m a cool-arsed original / I’m the swinging restaurant in the gondola beneath the flaming dirigible / I’m that cute but fatally defective detective / the chinless chump who never gets it / I’m that violin guy playing with brio / in that trio / on the titanic / who didn’t panic / but played on amongst all the scheming & the screaming / the flares / the desperate fights on the stairs / till the atlantic finally rushed up / and his stradivarius got smashed up / and he went floating off / with the rest of the flotsam & jetsom from steerage / (and not much in the way of peerage) / all the way to Newfoundland / him & the rest of the icy band / is that reasonable? / have I said something treasonable? / I suppose what I wanted to say is / It’s always safer to go where the money is / I’m as mercenary as the rest / I’m the wad of dirty notes in the kevlar vest / I’m the bastard son of Eastwood, Statham & Van Damme / I’m a fickle motherfucker who never gave a good goddamn / I’m the red light, the Don’t Walk, the stop / I’m the bloody nightstick in the belt of the whistling cop / but don’t judge me / okay? / I’m not feeling so great today / it’s true / would i lie to you? / okay – would I lie to you AGAIN? / still friends? / muchas gracias, finito, the end / it’s important to know where you stand / watching life on demand / with a raised right hand / for some fancy oath / you don’t understand / just don’t follow me / see? / I’m made up / I’m sponsored, pocketed, paid up / I’m a shoe-in for the sham brigade / I’m a stand-in / glad-handin’ for the president’s parade / the aristocrat in the kiss-me-quick hat / on the steps of L’Hotel Fantôme at Cap Ferrat / smiling, of course / horsey as a goddam powerboat / so, tell me, have I got your vote? / no? / I thought you’d be more impressed / the old school tie, the trouser press? / I thought you’d learned to be content / working for the government / dreaming of approval / a final, slick, anaesthetised removal / and writing? / don’t get me started / it’ll leave you hungry and broken-hearted / it’s like feeding cheese to a bony cat / that doesn’t get fatter but keeps coming back / or put it this way / okay? / you say what you want to say and if you’re lucky you live to fight another day / and if you don’t / well – it’s life, Jim / but not as we know it / a misquoted line with Nimoy’s name below it / but hey – never let a fake quotation stand in the way / of saying what you never meant to say
good day
green beans & other crises
The checkout guy has only just sat down at the till. I nod as I pass by to check if he’s open; he grimaces as he hangs his fleece on the back of the chair, which isn’t a definitive no, so I start unloading.
‘I can’t believe my luck,’ I tell him. ‘This never happens to me.’
‘Yeah?’ he says. ‘Well it always happens to me. Is it six yet?’
‘No. I think it’s only about half past four.’
‘The nightmare continues.’
I finish unloading the trolley.
‘So! How’s your day been?’ I say, setting out the divider and moving on with my bags ready.
‘Long’ he says. ‘Very long. And I just had a very unsatisfactory meeting with my manager. I say meeting,’ he says, holding a packet of green beans in front of him, staring down at them as if they’re implicated but he can’t figure out how. ‘It was more a conversation at the bottom of a stairwell, really.’
He passes me the beans. I pack them.
‘Sorry to hear that,’ I say.
‘Do you ever get those conversations where you walk away at the end and think
what the hell was that all about?’
‘Frequently.’
He swipes a few more things through.
‘What do you do, then?’ he asks.
‘I work in community health.’
‘Ah! So you’ve seen it, then.’
‘I suppose so.’
‘Community health’ he says, trying out the words for size. ‘Like it, d’you?’
‘It’s alright. Keeps me in beans. To be honest, I’m looking around.’
He snorts.
‘Well don’t look around here. That’ll be twenty six pounds and ninety eight pence.’
Just at that moment a woman at the neighbouring till reaches over and taps me on the arm. It’s Jenna, a parent I used to know when the girls were at primary school. I haven’t seen her for a while, and to be honest it’s a miracle I remember her name – I think because I just say it quickly and don’t have time to panic. I offer to pack for her but she says no, she’s got a system. We swap quick summary stories about what the kids are up to, and then say goodbye – to the checkout guy, too. I walk away feeling pretty smug. I bet he’s thinking there goes the community health guy, chatting to everyone, buying green beans and everything. But then again – probably not. I bet he’s just thinking how the hell he’ll get through the next hour and twenty five minutes before he can be walking out the door, too.
the stone queen
There are warning signs tied to every lamppost: Road resurfacing. No parking. Tow-away zone. The silhouette of a truck dragging off a car, and a date scrawled in the space beneath. The date is tomorrow, though, so I figure I’ll probably be good to park here today. I’m prepared to take the risk. If I had to look for a parking space anywhere else I’d end up have to walk miles, and I’m behind on my visits as it is. I put my Parking Exemption ticket on the dashboard, grab my stuff and walk up the path to number 18.
Mina’s daughter, Sarah opens the door. She smiles bravely but looks exhausted, a fresh-looking perm accentuating the dark lines under her eyes, as if the energy it took to highlight and curl has used up whatever reserves she had left.
‘Mum’s upstairs,’ she says. ‘She hasn’t left the flat in a year or more – well, except for appointments.’
Despite the bright sunshine outside – or maybe because of it – the room is muted and still. There’s a large aquarium bubbling away against one wall, stunned fish drifting in and out of focus. The aquarium is so dominating, it seems to extend and occupy more than its own space, especially as the walls and the carpet are mottled green and blue, and all the furniture, too, soft and plump, making it feel like a state room on the Titanic, everything swollen with coral blooms. Mina is sitting in a scallop-backed armchair in the window, Queen of this Undersea World, except her robe of fish-scales is actually a fluffy blue dressing gown, and her trident is a walking stick.
I pull up a lobster, and ask how she’s feeling today.
She turns her sad eyes down on me, and with her knotty fingers draped over the handle of her stick, she sings me the sad, siren song of her back. A soft, sinking kind of song, as lulling as the bubbles. A song of osteoporosis, rheumatoid arthritis, COPD, heart failure, and diverticulitis. Of degenerative changes to lumbar vertebrae that can never be corrected. Certainly not by surgery; she wouldn’t survive the operation. All they can do is control her pain with medication. But she’s sensitive to just about everything, and they’re running out of ideas. She has all the equipment she needs. She knows the maisonette is inappropriate, as she can’t easily manage the stairs, but she’s lived there so long she couldn’t face moving – not that there’s anywhere to move to, bungalows being in such demand.
Sarah is sitting on the opposite chair, kneading her hands as she listens, as if she’s working through it by some invisible mechanism, forcing it to a conclusion. She interrupts when she can: I’ve got my own problems she says. Work. Kids. Everything else.
The questions I manage to ask have all been asked before. Mina deals with them all in turn, scarcely pausing to think, wrapping them up in words, kelp around a propeller.
‘Well – I’m limited to what I can do today,’ I say, shaking myself into action. ‘I’ll do your obs – you know – your blood pressure and so on, just to make sure there’s nothing else going on that might be making things worse, like an infection and so on. Take some blood, too. And then liaise with the GP. How does that sound?’
Mina smiles sadly, then turns her head towards the window.
‘They’re fixing the road tomorrow,’ she says, as I open my bag and set out my things.
‘I saw that! I didn’t know whether it was safe to park or not.’
‘It’s safe,’ she says. ‘I can see your car from here. The little blue one. If anyone goes near it I’ll use my stick and turn them to stone.’
And she taps it, once, on the carpet, to illustrate.
watertight
Glenda’s smile is so utilitarian I imagine she keeps it on a hook by the door.
‘Thank you so much for coming,’ she says – then waits in the hall for me to enter.
‘Shall I take my shoes off?’
‘Not many of your colleagues do.’
‘It’s what I do at home,’ I say. ‘It feels weird otherwise’
She watches as I slip them off and line them up with the others.
‘Easy on, easy off!’ I say, although the faux-Cockney falls flat.
Glenda watches me, one hand hooked over the other, a self-conscious and mechanical kind of coupling, like a robot that hasn’t had the soft skills upgrade.
‘What people don’t realise is the toxins they’re tracking through the house if they don’t take them off,’ she says.
‘No. Exactly. And anyway – I like the feel of a wooden floor under my socks. So…’
I wait for her to lead me through to her mother, the patient I’ve come to see, but Glenda stands absolutely still.
‘Take tarmac, for instance. They seal it with a cocktail of chemicals that are severely detrimental to one’s health. The sun comes out, the sealant becomes tacky, it adheres to the underside of the shoe, and you walk it in. Tests have shown the average household dust carries concentrations of harmful toxins such as PAH, which is implicated in respiratory and other illnesses.’
‘I bet.’
‘And then there are the bacteria, of course. E coli. C. diff. Klebsiella’
‘Yes.’
‘Not to mention all the debris and dirt you’d expect to find in the street and the garden.’
‘So – are you a microbiologist or something?’
She flinches.
‘No! I’m a lawyer’
‘Oh.’
I shoulder my bag in a resolute way that’s supposed to indicate I’m ready to move on.
‘You do understand the situation here,’ she says, after a significant pause.
‘Well – I think I do. The basics.’
‘Perhaps I’d better explain,’ she says. I adjust the weight of the bag on my shoulder.
‘My mother is ninety years old, a fully independent person who lives without assistance in a small village in Somerset called Duckton. She was on a visit to us when she became ill with a urinary tract infection, and suffered a minor injury fall, and was taken to hospital, where she spent three days. The hospital deemed her to be medically ready for discharge, on the understanding was that she should have one month of community rehabilitation, with therapy and nursing support, and care three times a day. Which is where you come in.’
‘Okay.’
‘There have been a number of medication changes effected at the hospital, and these have all been ratified by my own GP, who has taken temporary care of my mother whilst she is away from home.’
‘Great.’
‘Now. What I need from you – other than a medical review this morning – is to provide a report detailing all therapeutic programmes undertaken by your department, nursing interventions and so on, and for these to be communicated to my mother’s health authority in Somerset. I want assurances that all possible measures will be taken to maintain her safety when she returns home, provision of all necessary equipments and so on, and continuing care support from agencies in that county. Is that something you can help us with?’
Glenda talks in such a relentlessly steady way that it’s something of a lurch when she stops, like coming down a long flight of stairs and unexpectedly putting your foot down flat.
‘Well…erm… that’s not usually how it works.’
‘Explain to me how it usually works.’
I blush, and cast around for a friendly face. All I can find is a vast, frowning, butterscotch cat staring at me from the cushion of a Windsor chair. It looks so severe I wouldn’t be surprised to see it reach up and place a square of black cotton between its ears.
‘The thing is – Glenda,‘ I say, swallowing drily. ‘We’re an acute team. We get referrals from the doctor, the ambulance or the hospital, and we go in, and we make sure everything’s okay. Nursing, therapy, care or what have you. And when we’re done we refer back to the GP. Or make other referrals for chronic, longer-term needs, to the district nurses and others. And that’s about it.’
She sighs, once, heavily, as if she’d asked for architectural plans and been given sugar paper with a crayon sketch of a house.
‘It’s a question of resources,’ I say, helplessly. ‘A real world thing. We struggle to look after the people who live here, let alone the other side of the country.’
‘As I explained to you,’ she says at last. ‘I’m a lawyer. Now. A piece of paper with a signature on it constitutes a contract. And your service has contracted to provide us with one month of therapeutic, nursing and auxiliary care needs, prior to repatriation.’
‘Has it?’
‘Are you telling me this is not actually the case?’
I pick my bag up.
‘Glenda,’ I say.
She gives a small nod of her head, activating another, thinner smile.
‘I’ve come here this morning to see your mother. To see how she is, do her blood pressure and so on. I have an awful lot of other patients to see today, so I haven’t really got time to talk about the finer points of these things, much as I’d like to. So do you mind if we…?’
The smile flicks off again.
‘For example. If I was buying a boat,’ she says.
‘A boat?’
‘Yes. A boat. There are certain rules pertaining to the transaction that would need to be adhered to in order for that transaction to be properly concluded, to be watertight.’
An anguished voice calls out from the front room.
‘Who’s that at the door, Glenda? Is it the nurse?’
‘Coming!’ I say, shrugging, and holding up my hands. ‘Just losing the shoes…’
waving, and calling
The outside of the building has kept its elegant facade, and the cool black and white tiles of the hallway, the low-hanging chandelier and the multicoloured blaze of the leaded light window are about as perfect as you’d want for a Regency costume drama – so long as you were careful to keep the burnished steel lift out of shot.
The voice on the intercom was pretty direct.
Come inside, get in the lift, don’t touch the buttons.
I do as I’m told, and wait.
Nothing happens.
Did I hear her right? I can’t understand why I shouldn’t press anything. Maybe she thinks I’ll be confused by the mezzanine floors? Maybe when the place was converted into flats there was some architectural kink, and people are always getting lost. I can’t believe it, though. It all seems straightforward.
I wait some more – for what, I’m not sure.
Eventually the lift shudders and I start moving up.
Mrs Rouncewell is there to meet me.
‘Hello!’ I say, slipping off my shoes and then immediately wondering where to leave them.
‘Oh – you don’t have to do that,’ she says, obviously relieved that I have. I put them down as neatly as I can side-by-side beneath the enormous, floor to ceiling artwork that dominates the hallway. We both look at them a moment, in the confused and slightly disappointed way two people visiting an art gallery might look at something they’re not sure is an exhibit or littering.
‘So… what’s with the buttons?’ I say at last, as she leads me through to the lounge.
Mrs Rouncewell gives me a measured smile that I take to mean she’s explained this a few times before.
‘The lift opens directly out into the flat. You have to use a code to make it work, but that’s too difficult to explain over the intercom, so it’s easier just to say don’t touch the buttons.’
‘That explains it!’
‘It’s a security issue.’
‘Unusual.’
‘Unusual? In what way?’
‘Having a lift that opens directly into a flat. I’d never thought about that before.’
‘Yes. Well.’
She waits to see if there’s anything else, then leads me up a short staircase into a gigantic room that must be the footprint of the house, the furthest wall replaced by a panoramic plate glass window, a section of which stands open, revealing an immaculate rooftop garden, bistro table and chairs, and beyond the filigree railings at the edge, a wide city vista of houses and office blocks, all on a shining blue sky.
Her mother is lying in a riser-recliner chair, a halo of fine white hair ruffled by the breeze from the window. She looks comfortable, but her dementia has left her with a flushed and approximate look. She orientates herself to the change in the room like a newly-hatched chick.
‘Hello’ I say, putting my bag and folder down and offering my hand for her to shake. ‘Lovely to meet you.’
She reaches up and takes my hand – then suddenly cups it with both of hers, so strongly it’s quite a shock, and keeps it there, like she’s scared if I let go she’ll rise up and float off through the window, and see the two of us, her daughter and me, hurrying out onto the patio, waving from the railings as she trails helplessly away across the rooftops.
Calling out, maybe.
Waving, and calling.
syracuse & the duck
Jennifer Syracuse is my name of the day – the year, probably. A private detective kind of name. The name you’d give to that character in the book who crashes in on page three, lights things up and drives all the way to the big reveal.
These days, what with one thing and another, the brandy bottles clinking in an unbroken line from sometime back in the fifties out to an empty bottle on a windowsill; the falling away of friends and family connections; the piling up of clutter until even the long-case clock strains to keep its face clear – these days, Jennifer Syracuse is lighting up the world a little less, and the big reveal has long since flattened out into something longer, looser and more predictable.
‘When you see a duck have its head cut off you know you’ll never eat pate again. The way the feet waggle – d’you know? They keep on waggling.’
She looks up at me from where she’s sprawled on the ottoman.
‘Do have a seat,’ she says. ‘You make the place look untidy.’
If you can ignore the heaps of clothes and books and undifferentiated clutter, it’s a pleasant enough flat. The french windows are standing open, and sunlight filters in through a thicket of wisteria, giving the place a sleepy, soupy feel. There’s a gigantic chocolate coloured cat on the only other seat clear enough to sit on, sprawled as luxuriously and definitively as Ms Syracuse.
‘That’s okay,’ I say. ‘I’m happy standing.’
‘I mean – how could anyone eat an animal?’ she says, ignoring me. ‘Take cows for instance. Now – don’t they remind you of the women’s institute? Fat old matriarchs marching around, jabbing you with their elbows. They’d look darling in a flowery hat, though, you have to admit. And then you get the young calves in the background, jumping up and down, wondering what all the fuss is about.’
‘I like cows,’ I say.
‘How could one not? I was brought up in India, for heaven’s sake! D’you know – the other morning I sat up in bed and found myself talking Hindi! I haven’t spoken a word in seventy years, and there I was, completely fluent! It passed, of course, but I’m convinced it’s in there somewhere. I just need to learn how to get it out.’
When I steer Jennifer towards the reason for the visit – her numerous falls, weight loss and general decline – she adopts a serious expression and struggles into a more upright position.
‘Would you keep your voice down! Please!’ she hisses, then leans forward and waggles her fingers for me to meet her halfway.
‘That bitch upstairs listens to every word,’ she says, then satisfied I’ve got the message, winks slowly in a lopsided way that threatens to extend into an extemporary sleep, comes to herself again, acknowledges me with a start, and taps the side of her nose.
‘What d’you want to know?’ she says, and collapses back on the ottoman.
a cussed old cat
‘You cat looks exactly like ours. That same splodge of white on his back, like someone threw a paint brush at him.’
The black and white cat slowly raises his head and orientates himself to my voice, his eyes tightly closed, as if he understands the insult – and would like me to see that he understands – but chooses not to respond, conserving his energy instead for the more important things in life, like sleeping. The moment passes; he gets back down to it.
‘He’s a funny old thing,’ whispers Derek. ‘A cussed creature. Does what he likes. Much like me.’
I’m glad about the cat. I mean – I like having animals around anyway, but in Derek’s case it’s a definite advantage. I’d been given plenty of cautionary notes about Derek beforehand. His new diagnosis of Parkinson’s disease, coming at a time of family problems generally. His self-discharge against advice. Self-neglect. Resistance to help. I’m calling round this morning ostensibly to dress a wound on his foot, but there’s more to it than that.
‘Of course, you are the boss of you,’ I’d said to him when he eventually answered the door. ‘You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. So long as you understand what it is you’re refusing, and what the consequences might be, you’re perfectly free to say no.’
It’s a speech I’ve used before, the verbal equivalent of putting the gun on the floor and backing up a little. It’s okay. I’m on your side.
‘Yes’ he said. ‘Well. Obviously.’
He talks softly and quickly through a fixed smile, his head tipped back and his eyes half-closed. Maybe it’s a combination of his illness and his natural character, but the effect is peculiarly unsettling, as if he’s using his very last reserves of sociability to maintain a pleasant appearance, like a light bulb connected to a failing generator, flickering on the edge of darkness.
I didn’t expect I’d make it over the threshold, but he’d shown me through to the sitting room, and that’s when I saw the cat.
‘He’s lovely’ I say.
‘There are foxes in the garden,’ whispers Derek. ‘They seem to get along.’
I ask him about his time in hospital while I bandage his foot.
‘Dreadful’ he says. ‘Jabbed and prodded all hours of the day and night. No explanations. No introductions. Bullies and fools the lot of them. I’d had enough. I walked out. Probably should have stayed. So long as they leave me alone. I don’t care.’
He smiles down at me.
‘How does it look?’ he says.
Derek’s wife Barbara comes in and although she seems perfectly pleasant the atmosphere changes. He shrinks a little into himself. She unpacks her shopping bags – sandwich packs, bags of crisps, milk, snacks. ‘Don’t mind me,’ she says.
‘We won’t,’ says Derek.
There’s a knock on the front door and Barbara goes to answer it.
‘Oh God’ says Derek.
Barbara shows someone in, a tall, brisk woman with an armful of files and folders and a blue NHS lanyard round her neck.
‘Oh! Hello there!’ she says to me.
‘I’m Jim from the community health team,’ I say, ‘come to dress Derek’s foot.’
‘Great!’ she says. ‘Excellent! Well – I’m Ruby, the social worker. Do you mind if I put my stuff on the counter?’ She unloads her files and things amongst the shopping, then turns to Derek, looming over him, supporting her weight with both hands on her knees, her ID card swinging in the space between them. She speaks slowly and loudly, for some reason.
‘Hello there, Derek. I’m Ruby. The Social Worker. Lovely to meet you.’
Derek leans away, his smile even more ghastly.
He draws back his foot.
‘Just let me get this last bit of tape on…’ I say.
‘We’re done,’ he says.
jim clayton 