Mr Amos had a dreadful fright
almost, but not quite
the dearly departed
but his heart was restarted
and he was dragged from the light
ironic he says I used to be a mortician
you’d think I’d know best
but now I’m obsessed
by how all the vicars used to fight
over who’d get the right
to the next commission
‘Do you believe in God?’ says Thora.
I hesitate before I answer – not because I’m afraid of saying I’m an atheist, but more because I know how freighted the question is. Thora is ninety-five, in failing health, her world shrunk to the size of a pressure cushion, a riser-recliner, what light and life the carers bring in, and the occasional family visit. The degenerative changes to her spine are inoperable, as she wouldn’t survive the general anaesthetic. Her pain medication is at maximum stretch, providing temporary relief at best. Thora’s already told me she’s ‘ready to go’, and seems a little bewildered that the days still follow one after the other in an endless line without any prospect of release.
‘Well – it’s not that I don’t believe in God,’ I say, sounding as if I’m hedging my bets. ‘It’s more that I don’t believe in a literal interpretation of the bible – or any religious text, come to that. I think they’re stories people tell themselves to express how they feel about the world and give them a sense of meaning. They’re creation myths, really. Which is fine. But do I think heaven is this sunny place in the clouds with a big, judgy guy handing out justice? I don’t think so. I think all these stories are just a big hangover after we developed consciousness. We’ve kidded ourselves we’re the most important thing on Earth, and we can figure everything out, and we know what’s what, because we learned how to make a hammer and a fire and – I don’t know – a rocket to the moon. So we invent the Gods we think we deserve.’
‘So you don’t believe in God?’
‘Not really, no.’
‘Aren’t you scared you’ll go to hell?’
‘No. I just don’t think it exists. There’s plenty to be scared of here on earth without worrying about a fiery pit.’
‘That’s what you say now.’
I shrug.
She shakes her head and bites her lip. I can tell her back’s troubling her again, but she’s had all her meds, so all I can offer her is a cup of tea.
When I come back she seems a little more settled.
‘Did you see that interview Stephen Fry gave?’ she says, putting the cup down. ‘On some chat show.’
‘Yes. I did see it. A few months back. On YouTube. He made some good points.’
‘He said something about an insect in a baby’s eye. And why would God do that.’
‘Yes. He was pretty emphatic.’
‘What do you think about that, then?’
‘I think he’s right. But I didn’t think he was angry at God. I think he was angry at people who take the bible at face value, in a simplistic, kind of fundamental way. And I don’t think it’s all that helpful, sometimes. Didn’t he say something about the Greeks being better at that sort of thing, because their Gods took into account human frailty? They didn’t try to force God into a corner, to make him this all-seeing, all-loving figure. Because it’s impossible. It just doesn’t square with all the injustice in the world, insects, earthquakes, cancer – you name it.’
‘Back pain?’
‘Definitely back pain.’
‘Well,’ says Thora, picking up her tea. ‘You may have a point. Mind you, I should think God’s got a lot on his plate, what with one thing and another. I’m not surprised I might have slipped his mind.’
‘Just press the button at the top and let yourself in the main door,’ says Giles. ‘I’ll leave my flat door open.’
‘Great. See you in about ten minutes.’
‘Right you are. Goodbye.’
I’m not entirely convinced, though. Giles sounds drunk, speaking with that slow and over-elaborate articulation, tying each word off individually, like balloons.
I know Giles’ block very well. It’s a neat, self-contained complex, a sequence of four, ten storey buildings connected by a corridor and terminating in a bigger, more recent block for residents with higher dependency needs. It’s often the case that patients we see start in the flats at one end and finish in the flats at the other, like they’re being fed through some kind of slow-moving machine.
As I park up outside the entrance to Giles block, I see a gloomy, cadaverous man with long, frayed hair, wearing a string vest and yellow shorts, his left arm in a sling, like he put his shoulder out rolling the stone away from the tomb. He’s struggling to uncoil a garden hose from a drum, and even though it reminds me of a scene from Silence of the Lambs, I go over to help him.
‘Thank you,’ he says. ‘Could you unkink it for me, please?’
I put my book and bag down, and then carefully release the hose as the guy staggers backwards with the nozzle.
‘Are you alright there?’ I ask him.
‘Fine’ he says. ‘Now – could you turn it on when I shout?’
‘Okay. Just don’t be looking in the end when I do.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Don’t look in the end when I turn the water on.’
I jerk backwards in a comedy mime.
‘No,’ he says, then wobbles off round the corner of the block, the hose slithering behind him.
After a while it goes slack.
Time passes.
I start to wonder what’s happened, but just as I’ve decided to put my head round the corner and see what’s happened, he shouts: ‘Okay! Turn her on!’
The hose gives a shudder, and I hear a spraying noise.
I figure he’s watering the grass – which seems pretty futile. The scrubby little patch out front is so brown now it’ll take a monsoon and a bag of seeds to make it better.
I pick up my book and bag and then go round to talk to him. He’s standing there, spraying the grass with a tragic look, shifting his arm in the sling occasionally, staring through the water vapour and the little rainbow it makes.
‘I’m afraid I’ve got to go inside’ I tell him. ‘I’ve got an appointment with someone.’
‘Couldn’t you wait just a few more minutes?’
‘No. Sorry. He’ll be waiting.’
The man gives a desultory little sniff, and then turns his sad gaze back to the grass.
‘Bye then!’ I say, and turn back to the entrance.
Up on the fifth floor Giles’ flat door stands open, just as he said. I knock loudly, shout Hello Giles! It’s Jim, from the hospital!
No reply.
Hellooo-oooo.
When he still doesn’t answer I go inside to check he isn’t on the floor. It’s quickly apparent the flat’s empty, though. I’m guessing he just stepped out for a moment, because there’s a cone of incense smouldering on a saucer in front of his chair, filling the room with so much smoke he may as well have set a bunch of tires alight.
I go back down to the car to make some calls.
The old guy watering the grass has gone, as has the hose. It’s so hot outside, what water there was on the drive has almost entirely evaporated.
I ring the office to check I’ve got the right address (I’m guessing I have, as Giles’ directions had been accurate). The only other explanation I can think of is that he popped round a friend’s flat and will be back shortly. I make a plan. If he still doesn’t answer the phone, I’ll go back up and knock on the flats either side to see if they know anything. Other than that, I can’t think what else to do. It’s frustrating, as I’ve got several more visits to make. I had thought this would be straightforward. But then again, it’s always the straightforward jobs that end up taking the longest.
I make one last call to his flat.
Giles answers.
‘Yes? Giles speaking.’
‘Oh! Hi Giles. It’s Jim again, from the hospital. I called up to see you but you weren’t in.’
‘I don’t understand. I’ve been here all along.’
‘Have you?’
‘Well – yes!’
‘Okay. I’ll be up in a second.’
Of course, Giles is the hose guy. He’s sitting in the chair wreathed in smoke from the incense cone, the same lugubrious expression, shifting the weight of his arm in the sling. He makes absolutely no sign that he recognises me from outside, or even that he’s moved from the chair at all. And for some reason, neither do I.
Just as I’m getting ready to do the examination, there’s a vigorous knock on the door and two huge guys in tight blue t-shirts and white powder gloves thump into the sitting room.
‘Bed bugs!’ the older of the two says. ‘We’ve come to check your mattress, mate!’
‘Be my guest!’ says Giles, waggling the yellowing fingers of his right hand.
The bug guys go into the bedroom.
Giles tells me about his poor health lately. He drinks a lot of whisky, he says. He was assaulted by a blind man at a bus stop. He’s in dispute with the police, the hospital – really, it’s such a long and complicated list, I lose track.
The bug guys come back in.
‘All done!’ they say, and turn to go.
*
Later on, when I’ve finished the examination and left Giles to kipper quietly in front of his cone, I see the bug guys again, stomping down the stairs in front of me. And maybe it’s an effect of the incense, or the sudden blast of fresh air, or both, it’s hard to say, but suddenly I feel quite exhilarated.
‘Beeeeed Buuuuuuug Maaaaaan!’ I sing.
The older of the two looks round at me and frowns.
‘Don’t,’ he says.
I hadn’t thought of Dr Smedley for ten years or more. But when Kath got back from a weekend catching-up with old school friends, and told me all the gossip, including how Alice was coping as a busy GP with an equally busy family life, it made me think about how medics tend to fall into two camps: those that like people, and those that don’t.
‘I mean – why would you go to all that trouble training to be a doctor if you didn’t like people?’ she said. ‘It’d be like setting up as a window cleaner if you were scared of heights.’
‘Or a vet if you were allergic to cats’
‘Or an accountant if you didn’t like numbers’
‘Or a traffic warden. I mean – why would anybody be a traffic warden?’
The thing was, Alice was a complete shoe-in for doctor. Not only was she smart, with that deep and natural intelligence that radiates warmth, but she was kind and funny and empathetic, a winning combination that would make you want to bind yourself to her practice with an unbreakable silver rope.
So in the same way as talking about God almost inevitably leads you on to talking about the devil, I had to mention Dr Smedley.
The best you could say about Dr Smedley was that he washed his hands. I think he was probably knowledgeable, too, of course – you would hope so, anyway, because if he’d made up his qualifications, there really would have been no excuse for having him in-post.
Dr Smedley was a legend. Rude to patients. Rude to staff. Irritable. Impulsive. Aggressive. He was tall and thin with a predatory stoop, like a praying mantis with a set of patient notes, ready to bite your head off for any infringement, real or otherwise. He wore large glasses that gave him better peripheral vision and made it impossible either to sneak up on him or escape undetected.
I only knew him through my role as an EMT with the ambulance service, so I had limited exposure. Still, I had numerous encounters. The worst was when I dropped off a drunk with a head injury to his department.
What happened was, the main hospital was on divert. This meant that only serious emergencies could go there; everything else had to be bussed up country to the next available A and E. Dr Smedley’s A and E. We’d fished a drunk out of a hedge in a park on the northern edge of the city. He was covered in blood from a cut to his head, and had to go to hospital to make sure that his slurred speech and bizarre behaviour was the vodka and not something more sinister. I was the attendant, riding with him in the back of the ambulance. He was already a mess, thrashing around in filthy clothes, wanting to take his penis out and urinate on the floor and so on. When we got to hospital we put him on a trolley and wheeled him through. The nurses were deeply unimpressed, but they understood about the divert and the head injury, so they signed the paperwork and we went back out to the truck to clean up.
A few minutes later, Dr Smedley came striding out.
‘Just what the HELL do you think you’re playing at?’
‘Is this about that drunk head injury we brought in?’
‘Yes, it’s about that drunk head injury. What were you thinking, man?’
‘Ah. Yes.’
‘So what d’you propose to do about it?’
‘Well the other hospital was on divert…’
‘I’m not interested in your pathetic excuses. Get him out of here!’
‘We’ll be happy to take him off your hands and release him back into the wild, but you’ll have to sign a letter to say you take responsibility.’
‘Oh this is absurd!’
‘He’s got a head injury.’
‘He’s drunk!’
‘With a head injury.’
Dr Smedley gave me a sharp and violent look like he was gauging the striking distance, and I couldn’t help leaning back.
‘I’m going to report you,’ he said. ‘This doesn’t end here.’ And he walked off.
Luckily, one of the nurses had come outside for a fag. She waited until Dr Smedley had crashed his way through the A and E doors, then came over to console me.
‘He’s only raging because the geezer got his cock out and started pissing on the floor,’ she said, blowing smoke off to the side and shrugging, like this was just another working day. ‘Anyway – at least you get to drive off. I’ve got another two hours of this shit.’
It’s not that I have no sense of direction. I definitely have a sense of direction. It’s just – it doesn’t seem to work round here.
And by round here, I mean Planet Earth.
I get lost coming back from the shops. Driving’s worse. Even with Satnav. Despite the stern make a u-turns, I can’t resist taking lefts or rights instinctively – almost as if some unseen force has leaned in through the window and grabbed the wheel.
And given the strength of that feeling, how wretched is it that it’s always, always wrong?
I suppose I should take comfort from the fact it’s probably genetic, as much a part of me as my short legs or big-footed laugh. I bet a few hundred thousand years ago, a Neanderthal guy looked out of the cave and said something like: I’m just going outside for a bit – and wasn’t seen again for three moons.
I thought you were just going outside for a bit?
– I was
We thought you’d been eaten by a sabre-tooth
– No. I mean – I saw one, but it didn’t seem that bothered.
So what happened?
– I got lost
Lost? How could you get lost? You stepped outside…
– There were these rocks that looked like faces... (blushes / scratches his head / laughs in a big-footed way that makes the ears of a nearby sabre tooth prick up).
Or the Napoleonic Wars. Ordinary Seaman Clayton, said something like: I’ll just nip ashore and give ‘em a hand with them barrels – and wasn’t seen again till Waterloo.
You stand before this Court Martial accused of desertion, sir. How d’you plead?
– Not guilty yer honour.
Not guilty? How so?
– I got lost, sir
Lost? The deuce! Lost, d’y’say? You walked to the end of a gangplank, man! Barely half a cable. You got lost?
– Yessir. I became disorientated.
What nonsense! What on earth by?
– Well, there was this seagull waggling his feet…
Funnily enough, I used to think working by the sea would help. You’d think a hundred and eighty degrees of water might improve the odds. Turns out it has the opposite effect, intensifying the confusion.
The other day I had a patient assessment in a residential care home, one of those endlessly sprawling conversions with corridors, passageways, rooms and offices sprouting randomly one from the other like some nightmarish burrow, excavated around the roots of a giant tree. Anyway, the auxiliary who showed me through bustled along by scent more than anything, I think, her eyes squeezed shut, vigorously wiping her hands on a Birds of the Garden tea towel.
‘When you go, go by that exit there,’ she said, nodding blindly but firmly to a door back of a hair salon. Three ancient women were sitting under static hair dryers that looked like upturned jet engines and just as noisy. The women stared back at me, magazines poised.
‘Hello’ I said, waving. They carried on staring, so I turned my attention to the door, frowning and nodding at it in the kind of mime that was supposed to demonstrate to anyone who cared to see that here was a man marking out his territory, making a mental plan of it all, figuring out the whys and the ways. Of course, the three wise women saw straight through it. They laughed, divining my fatal flaw.
‘Don’t get lost!’ the nearest one said, raising a crooked finger. ‘Or you’ll end up like us’
‘I wouldn’t mind!’ I said.
They laughed longest at that.
there was none of this: where are you mate?
you’re already a day late with them bluestones
I can’t afford to have everyone
standing around scratching their arses with antler picks
there weren’t no portakabins, no snobby accountants
sipping their earl greys, shaking their heads
over a scale model so hokey my sheila’s dwayne
coulda done better with his tub of lego
they didn’t have no kangol cases
no telescopic cranes, no geezers in yellow jackets
hard hats, unlaced Caterpillars,
lolling about, laughing
raising their mugs, shouting oy-oy saveloy
when the gaffer leans out of his landrover
red faced, tapping his watch
there was none of that
it’s like that kevin mcloud off the telly
I can imagine what he’d say
‘when they told me
they wanted to build
a temple to the sun
a vast stone wagon wheel, if you will
slap-dab in the middle of Salisbury plain
using monstrous, nine ton blocks
hewn from the earth
with the simplest of tools
floated down from Wales
hammered into shape with rocks
hauled into position with a bunch of mates
and a few hundred feet of homemade rope
I would’ve said to them
with the greatest of respect
Are you completely insane?
But here we are
five thousand years of Grand Designs later
the old stone wheel’s still standing
the rays of the solstice sun still
tip over the horizon
to illuminate the hub of this mad,
magical, monumental construction
really, you’d have to say
in anyone’s book
what, in fact, you’re presented with,
is nothing short of a triumph’
Fitting a convene over Geoffrey’s penis is like trying to roll a condom on the snout of some retiring and wildly hairy creature. I’ve used the hair guard – essentially a piece of gauze with a hole in the middle – but still, his wiry pubes get tangled in the sticky gel of the convene, and the whole thing’s a tragic mess.
‘I felt that,’ says Geoffrey.
‘Sorry.’
‘You’re doing your best. Thanks for trying.’
‘You’re welcome’
I give up on this one, unpack another, and have a re-think.
The simple jobs always turn out to be the worst.
You couldn’t just swing by Geoffrey’s and sort his convene out?
I haven’t much experience, but working for a community health team means being prepared to turn your hand to most things, including ninety-year old penises.
‘One more go,’ I tell him.
‘Righto.’
The builders next door have their radio on full-blast. Kissin’ in the back row of the movies on a Saturday night with you…
I’d spent ten minutes at the hospital reading through the instructions that come with the convene. It seemed pretty straightforward, and I’d set out with every hope of success. Although, of course, I had it in mind that probably the real world experience of rolling on a convene might not tally exactly with the neatly labelled illustrations in the pamphlet.
Geoffrey lives at the very top of a narrow block of flats. He hasn’t been out for three years, spending all his time sitting in a riser-recliner with a view out over the city, one carer first thing in the morning to make sure he has some food and water, at least. Geoffrey has steadfastly refused any increase in care, and certainly has the mental capacity to make these decisions, even though anyone could see it’s not in his best interests. He’s doubly incontinent now, and really needs more regular pad changes. Still – he doesn’t want to spend the money, and he understands the consequences of his actions. And to be fair, he seems pretty happy. I’ve cleaned him up already, fetched him tea, and according to his very specific instructions, two slices of ham and four chocolate biscuits, all on the same plate.
‘What did you do before you retired?’ I say, as he eats a biscuit and watches me down below, wrestling with the convene, getting as tangled up in the coarse thicket of his pubes as the prince in the brambles round Sleeping Beauty’s castle (and, by the way, I’d like to put it on record, I think I’d have way more chance of success putting a convene on that).
‘Insurance!’ says Geoffrey, reaching for his tea. ‘Everyone needs insurance!’
‘That’s true. It’s an interesting business…’ although to be honest, I can’t think of a single thing to say on the subject.
Geoffrey comes to my rescue.
‘I was in the war,’ he says.
‘Navy?’
‘Army!’
‘What was that like?’
He shrugs.
‘Oh. You know,’ he says. ‘People try to shoot you. But what can you do?’
We start back early, skipping breakfast to beat the traffic. A couple of hours later and we’re desperate to stretch our legs and get a coffee. Unfortunately I miss the slip road for the service station we planned to use, the next one doesn’t have a sit-down area, the one after that is closed for refurbishment – and then eventually we see a sign: Last stop before the motorway. I take it.
It’s like driving back in time fifty years.
Despite the hot weather and the heavy traffic, the parking lot is almost empty, apart from a BMW parked in the furthest corner. It looks like it’s been there some time, covered in leaf tack and bird shit.
The cafe itself is a long, low, prefab, with glass on three sides, panelled wood beneath the windows, a glass door with yellowing squares of plastic on the panes and a handwritten sign saying push. The interior is regularly laid out in canteen style, formica tables and curve-backed wooden chairs, a toast rack on each table to hold the menu cards and hide the ketchup, brown sauce and sugar cruet. There are strings of plastic Union Jack bunting curling across the ceiling. A radio plays quietly behind the counter, which has a curved glass display mostly empty apart from a couple of plates of dark squares under cling film. Beside the counter is an ice cream freezer. A waiter is leaning against the freezer with his arms folded and his mouth open. He has a mass of scribbled hair and crenellated teeth, looking exactly like the kind of waiter a child would draw with crayons.
‘Eating in?’ he says.
‘Yes, please.’
‘Take a seat.’
The only other people in the restaurant are – presumably – the couple with the BMW.
‘Is the bunting for the World Cup, d’you think?’ says Tessa, looking round.
‘Wouldn’t that be the England flag?’
‘Maybe it was for the wedding?’
‘Which one?’
‘I dunno. Queen Victoria?’
The waiter comes over.
‘Yes please,’ he says, sighing, pulling a pad from his back pocket.
‘Do you have any pastries?’
‘Pastries? What? Y’mean like a Danish?’
‘Yes.’
‘No.’
‘Oh. Anything similar?’
‘I could do you a tea cake.’
‘Yep. That’d be great.’
He writes it down, dots it with a stabbing motion, then turns his eyes on me.
‘Do you do a poached egg on toast?’
‘No.’
‘What about scrambled?’
‘We can do you a scrambled.’
‘Great. I’ll have that, please.’
‘What sort of toast? Brown or white?’
‘Brown, please.’
He looks at Kath.
‘What about you?’ he says.
‘Can I have fried eggs on toast?’
‘Fried eggs?’
‘Do you do fried eggs?’
‘No.’
‘I’ll have the same as Jim then.’
‘Two scrambled egg on brown toast, one toasted teacake. Butter with that?’
‘Yes please.’
Stab.
‘Drinks?’
‘Two lattes and a pot of tea, please.’
He writes it all down – or draws it, the pen moves so wildly across the paper – then lopes back to the counter. He doesn’t seem to do anything with it, so I guess the chef must be watching us through a peephole disguised as a Fab on that ice cream menu.
We stare at the passing traffic out of the window.
The BMWs check their phones.
‘You wonder about places like this, don’t you?’ says Tessa. ‘It must’ve been busy at some point, otherwise what happened to all the pastries?’
‘Maybe they’re between deliveries.’
‘Yeah. Like ten years.’
The waiter comes back with a tray of drinks, and drops it off at the end of the table for us to help ourselves. I wonder why he doesn’t pass the stuff out and take the tray away, but then again, maybe if the tray’s left on the table, we’ll be more likely to stack our empty things, and he’ll save time later. It makes sense.
‘I like it here,’ says Tessa. ‘It’s not too corporate, like all those other places.’
The waiter comes out again with our food, one plate in his right hand, one plate in his left, one balanced on the heel of his left thumb.
‘Great! / Wow! / That looks fantastic!’ we say, overlapping each other. ‘Thank you so much.’
He gives us the same blank look, then turns and heads back to the ice cream freezer, where he leans with his arms folded, and watches us eat from a distance.
‘D’you think he lives here?’
‘Where? Out back?’
‘Maybe he walks to work. Over the fields.’
‘That wouldn’t be so bad.’
‘Eggs are good.’
I go to the toilet whilst the others are finishing up. There’s a sign above the urinal: Looking for something to do? Why not try a flying lesson at our local airfield! Only £51!
Pretty good value – but maybe the advert’s out of date.
There’s a faded picture of a tiny, two seater plane, someone leaning out of the cockpit window, waving.
I think it’s the waiter.
We’re a while on the porch waiting for Henry to come to the door.
‘He obviously likes a fag’ says Tom, nodding at the evidence: a miniature red fire bucket filled with stubs by a simple metal chair. ‘Still. Nice to have a hobby that gets you out. Shall I ring again, d’you think?’
As if in reply, Henry calls out from somewhere deep in the house Just coming, so we wait a while longer.
‘My hayfever’s bad today!’ says Tom, rubbing his eyes. ‘I took a Piriton, but the trouble is, it completely wipes me out.’
‘What about the non-drowsy stuff?’
He shakes his head.
‘Doesn’t touch it,’ he says. ‘No – I need the big guns. And then I end up looking like him…!’
He nods to a nightmarish plastic figurine by the side of the front door, a pixie (I’d guess), clothes made from flowers, flowerpot hat, holding a watering can, smiling vacantly.
Suddenly we see the shape of Henry coalescing behind the frosted glass, lurching from side to side as he harrumphs and curses his way down the hall. Eventually he’s near enough to reach out a hand, there’s a deal more swearing as he fumbles with the lock, and the door opens.
‘Sorry about the delay, fellas,’ he says, struggling with his words as much as his legs. ‘Only the wife’s left me.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that, Henry.’
‘No, no. I mean shopping. Come in.’
He turns round with some difficulty in the narrow hall, and then starts the long journey back to the bedroom.
‘I understand you’ve been having some trouble with your electric bed?’ says Tom as we follow him inside.
‘You can say that again,’ he says. ‘I tripped over the control panel and pulled the wire out.’
‘When did that happen?’
‘I don’t know. A year ago?’
‘A year?’
Henry shrugs.
‘I’m useless these days and there was no-one else. Here – I don’t suppose you want to buy a bed, d’you?’
The bed’s the first thing we look at. It’s something the family have bought privately – a simple divan affair with the head and foot end operated by buttons. I lift the bed up (it’s not heavy), whilst Tom lies on his back like a mechanic and wriggles underneath.
‘This is where I tickle you,’ says Henry to me.
‘No! No tickling!’ says Tom. ‘Ah-ha! I see the problem…’
He pushes home the disconnected cable, crawls out again, I lower the bed, he presses the control panel. The head end whirrs and rises.
‘You did it!’ says Henry.
‘I can’t believe you’ve been without it for a whole year!’
‘It’s amazing what you can do with pillows.’
‘I’ll take your word for it,’ says Tom. ‘Hold on… I’m going to sneeze.. aah… aaaah…. aaaaaaaah…. No. Sorry. False alarm.’
‘I’m disappointed,’ says Henry.
‘Aaaaaaacccccchhhhhhooooo!’
It’s astonishingly loud, like we’ve just been buzzed by a fighter jet.
‘Good God in Heaven!’ says Henry. ‘I’m glad I was holding onto something.’
It doesn’t matter how many times I visit Canterbury Court, I always get lost.
Outside by the keysafes there’s a gravestone to a dog incorporated into the wall. Bogie – Most faithful of animals. Died 1905. I wonder if one of the keysafes is for Bogie, because I’m certain that most faithful of ghosts would be able to take me straight to Beatrice’s flat.
The problem is, Canterbury Court fundamentally and demonstrably does not make sense. It has mezzanine anomalies called -1 or +2. It has one main staircase leading up to the first mezzanine, then other, smaller stairways leading off from that, in ways so random you’d have to think, in the event of fire, the idea was confuse the flames not confine them. I can only imagine it was put together by a team of architects who were at war with each other, or possibly one architect having an existential crisis. Either way, Canterbury Court is a living nightmare to navigate.
A postman passes me on one of the landings. He looks haggard, a marine veteran of the labyrinth, gripping his bag with a thousand-yard stare, marching with a death or glory kind of vigour towards the lift. He must surely know the way to flat fourteen, so I stop him to ask. He pulls the ear buds out of his ear (I think he’s listening to a self-development app: You are a confident and generous human being, afraid of no-one and nothing … ). He frowns, then nods dismissively to the far end of the corridor. ‘Take the stairs’ he says, then screwing the buds back into place, he crosses himself, turns and throws himself into the lift as the doors slide shut.
On the next floor the numbers pass in illogical sequence, like one of those intelligence tests where the answer could be anything from 27 to a chicken on a bike. But luckily enough – before I run out of water and die – I find myself standing outside Beatrice’s door. I knock quickly, in case the magic ends and the door changes again. Beatrice answers. I go inside.
I’m sure if Bogie the ghost dog had been leading the way, he’d collapse down in a grateful heap in front of Lovejoy. (It’s always Lovejoy when I come to see Beatrice – which sounds like a particularly cruel kind of Purgatory, but there’s actually a perfectly rational explanation: Beatrice always has her Tinzaparin injection this time of the morning). Or maybe with one howl of anguish, when he realised what it was he was watching, Bogie would jump up and throw himself through the window. Even if he did stay, though, he wouldn’t be able to help me over the next hurdle. Finding Beatrice is a cinch compared to understanding Beatrice.
The stroke Beatrice suffered a few years ago has affected her speech. That, coupled with a strong Norfolk accent and the fact that Beatrice only has one, large tooth displayed as flagrantly in the middle of her mouth as Bogie’s headstone in the wall outside – all this means that I find it almost impossible to understand what she tries to tell me. It doesn’t help that Beatrice gets irritated with me, too, and speaks more quickly, so that in the end I’m desperately using every sense I have to divine what it is she wants. Mostly I’ll just ask her to speak a little more slowly, or write down what it is she wants. But today for some reason I steam ahead and try to understand by letting the sounds wash over me and the sense filter down by weight.
Beatrice shakes a handful of opened letters at me.
‘You want me to file them?’
– – – – – – – – (shakes the bundle)
‘You want me to throw them away?’
– – – – – – – – (shakes the bundle harder)
‘You want me to recycle them?’
– – – – – – – – (holds the bundle forwards / pulls the bundle back / shakes the bundle)
‘You want me to check the letters to make sure there’s nothing important in them, and THEN recycle them?’
(big sigh / shakes head / hands me the bundle)
‘Okay then.’
I look through the letters. The first one has a marmalade sandwich in it.
‘What do you want me to do with this, Beatrice?’
She raises her eyebrows.
jim clayton 