Author: jim clayton

of birds and buds

~ jim clayton

Every time I see Friendly Bald Guy With Two Rescues I want to ask his name, and each time I don’t it makes it harder. Why, I don’t know. I expect he feels the same, every time he sees Smaller Guy Of Similar Age With One Rescue. (Real names would be so much easier. Although guys can be problematic. There are only so many Robs and Jims and Daves and Petes you can meet before they start blurring into one amorphous check shirt and cargo shorts).

Today doesn’t help.

I’m standing on a path in the middle of the woods, head tipped back, listening to a bird singing high above me in an ash tree. I’ve no idea what sort of bird it is. The variety of its song is so astonishing, so flamboyant, you could tell me it was a Bird of Paradise and I’d believe you. The bird produces short bursts of piercingly beautiful song, pausing just long enough to catch a response from deeper in the wood, then launches itself into another, virtuoso phrase.

I think Lola’s still with me, so it’s a surprise when I look back down to find FBG’s two dogs sitting at my feet, their heads tipped back like mine. At the same moment, FBG comes striding along the path.
‘Hi!’ he says, tugging out his ear buds. (I think there may have been a slight, name-sized gap just after the hi, but if there was, he generously covered it with a smile).
‘I was just listening to this amazing bird’ I say. ‘No idea what it is.’
‘You put me to shame,’ he says. ‘I should be listening to nature rather than this podcast.’
‘Nah!’ I say, backtracking on the bird. ‘Podcasts are great, too.’

We stand like that for a while, a little awkwardly, either side of the path. Lola has reappeared, thrilled to find that the bird-watching episode has segued into something altogether more interesting. The three dogs chase after each other through the undergrowth, whilst FBG and me do that tentative, exploratory conversational thing, teasing out any correspondences. (They’d been away in Norfolk / Norfolk! I was brought up round there / Were you? Where? / Wisbech – on the border / I know Wisbech! I was further over, Norwich way / I know Norwich – I saw Jim Bowen in Mother Goose …). But for all the progress we make and everything we find out about each other, it still doesn’t stretch to a name. Later on, after he’s screwed his earbuds back in, called the dogs away and walked off down the path, it strikes me how much sweeter and more efficient the bird’s method of communication is than ours.

*

An hour later I’m slogging up Broken Tree Hill. I’ve taken more pictures of the pines at the top of this hill than anything else – so much so that when I tweet the pictures and come to write the caption, it autofills on the first letter. Anyway, today I’ve come armed with a bin bag, because the other day I’d been annoyed to find a scattering of drinks cans and fast food wrappers, and I thought after all the pictures I’d taken I owed it to the place to tidy up a little. I’ve just started litter picking when FBG appears at the bottom of the hill, his two dogs racing towards me. He pulls out his ear buds, waves – and then hesitates. And I really want to sing a burst of notes along the lines of: Hey! It’s not what it looks like. I’m not normally this conscientious. You’ve just caught me on an odd kind of day. But of course all I do is wave, too – forgetting that I’m still holding the bag, which he probably interprets as Look at me, busy litter picking. He shakes his ear buds, as if to say: And here I am, still listening to my podcast, then screws them back into place, and carries on up the hill.

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wheaton mess

~ jim clayton ~ 1 Comment

I hear her
long before I see her
striding along the woodland path
blowing her whistle
over and over
like a furious referee
Have you seen him?
she says, breathlessly.
Wheaton terrier?
Toffee-coloured?
So high?
No, I say, but there’s
a golden retriever
over by the badgers
Badgers? she said.
What badgers? Where?
I turn to point
just as a toffee-coloured dog
comes trotting towards us
Isn’t it? I say
I’m not an expert
Golden retriever? she says
I’m not wearing my glasses, I say.
No? she says. Well. Never mind.
Meanwhile, the wheaton retriever
or whatever the hell it is
cuts straight past us
moving like some wanton wheaton machine
in the direction of a nearby stream
Oh for goodness sake! she says
hurrying after it
blowing her whistle
I half expect to see her
pull out a red card
and wave it in the air, too
and who knows? maybe she does
I couldn’t really say, because, well –
I’m not wearing my glasses

cynthia’s view

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

Cynthia’s flat is above a laptop repair place on the high street.
‘Shame they don’t do people,’ she says. ‘I could do with some of that.’
It’s about as central as it’s possible to be, though, and handy for the shops, if only Cynthia didn’t have to negotiate a set of stairs so steep they may as well be a ladder.
‘I used to run up and down when I was younger,’ she says. ‘Not any more. Not with these knees. But what can you do? At least they match the rest of me.’
Cynthia has been referred to us for help following a bad chest infection, something she’s prone to after years of respiratory problems. By rights she should probably be in hospital, but she refuses to go.
‘I’m not going in just when Ted’s coming out,’ she says. ‘Who’d look after him?’
They’ve been married sixty years, the last three overshadowed by Ted’s dementia. He was admitted after a fall – ‘the bathroom, not the stairs,’ she says, crossing herself – and other complications. ‘He gets so distressed. That’s the hardest thing. Most of the time when he’s home he’s not too bad. He goes downstairs to have a smoke in the street. I have to keep watch out the window to make sure he doesn’t wander off, but he’s only done it a couple of times, and people know him round here. I get so exhausted the end of the day I hardly know what to do with myself. And I know what everyone thinks, the rest of the family, the doctor and everyone. They all think I should just put him in a home. But I couldn’t do it to him. He went into one a while back, to give me a break, and when I went to see him he was so upset I just said right, I’m fetching you back home with me and that was that. One day he had in there, and that was one day too many.’
I tell her we can have a look at how much help she’s getting at home. There are always things to be done.
‘That’s kind of you but don’t worry,’ she says. ‘I’m coping alright at the minute. I mean – he gets up at six! The carers don’t show till nine or half past – and by that time I’ve washed and dressed him myself. So they end up looking around for something to do, and I feel guilty I’m wasting their time.’
I tell her it’s something to bear in mind, though.
‘I went to see him yesterday at the hospital,’ she says. ‘You should’ve seen him. He was sitting on the side of the bed with all his bags packed around him. The nurses said he’d been like that for hours. He keeps telling us he’s got to get home because he’s supposed to be looking after his wife.’
She laughs and shakes her head.
‘Honestly! He’s got no idea. But you know what? I think when he completely loses the plot and doesn’t know me or what’s going on, then I might think about putting him in a home. I don’t think we’re quite there yet, though. I suppose you just have to stay strong and take it a day at a time, don’t you? One day at a time. l mean – nothing lasts forever, does it? Hey?’

I’m guessing Cynthia is sitting in the same seat she uses to keep an eye on Ted when he’s down on the pavement, smoking. She stares out of the window now. It’s a bright, busy weekday lunchtime, and the street is pretty crowded – shoppers, school kids, office workers striding so purposefully their lanyards swing from side to side as they head for the fast food places.
‘Busy,’ I say.
‘Yes,’ she says. ‘But it quietens down at night.’

death and the art of hedge trimming

~ jim clayton ~ 3 Comments

I kneel down to start weeding whilst Jason gets out the hedge trimmer. He looks pretty macho in wrap around shades, khaki singlet and combat shorts, whapping back the starter cord on the trimmer.

‘I was watching Final Destination 5 last night’ he shouts, even though I’m right there. ‘So watch out! I hope you didn’t escape from a plane crash or something?’

Which sounds like it’d be better for both of us if I hadn’t. But I know what he means. I’ve seen the first one. Good, clean, gory fun. A bid odd, though, when you think about it (which you’re obviously not meant to). This Final Destination Death figure is like some grumpy, nerdy guy who gets ticked off when people don’t go when they’re supposed to. So he spends an inordinate amount of time (I’m guessing he has plenty) fussing around with complicated, infernal Mousetrap on Acid style plots to get back at them. I imagine when he gets home he probably slips off his black cape to reveal a tatty t-shirt – The Ramones, maybe – or Scooby Doo in the arms of Shaggy – grabs a Diet Coke (ironic: he’s all bones), and throws himself down at his desktop to troll forums on Natural Burial and hack the CIA.

Jason’s trimmer makes a blubbing kind of coughing noise, throws out a great cloud of blue smoke, judders, stalls.
‘I’ve only had it five years,’ he says.
‘It’s sulking ‘cos you’re making it work the weekend’
‘Yeah? Well if I’m working the trimmer’s working’
‘I used to have an old motorbike like that. How much time did I waste leaping on the kickstart? I tried everything. Every little dodge. Black magic. Goats. Nothing. So I sold it and got a Yamaha instead. You could leave that bike under a hedge for a year and it’d still start first go.’
‘Yeah?’ says Jason, then takes a good hold of the starter cord and adopts a heroic posture. ‘Speaking of hedges…’

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the hitcher

~ jim clayton ~ 2 Comments

‘Goodness!’ says Ian, opening the door. ‘There must be a line of you waiting out in the street!’
‘It’s like that, sometimes. Especially at the beginning. We all tend to just pile in.’
‘And a jolly good thing it is, too!’ he says, showing me inside. ‘I must say, it’s been rather overwhelming. But in a good way – you know. In a good way.’

He shows me through to his mother, Peggy, who is propped up on several pillows, doing The Times crossword. She sets the newspaper aside to shake my hand, takes off her reading glasses and puts them on the bedside table next to a porcelain saucer with one partially nibbled, white chocolate biscuit.

‘So kind of you to come,’ she says. ‘Do please have a seat. Is there anything we can get you?’
I tell her I’m fine. She smiles and then nods at Ian, who almost seems to give a little bow before turning and quietly leaving the room.
‘I’ll just be out here,’ he says.
‘Thank you, darling,’ says Peggy. Then once he’s gone, she adds: ‘I’d be lost without him.’

Peggy is almost a hundred years old. Although she’s been pretty independent up until a month ago, it’s all suddenly caught up with her, and now her body is starting to fail in earnest, the flesh retreating from her bones in the most cruelly anatomical way, revealing all the hollows and protruberances, the cords of her neck, the scoop of her temples. Her eyes are still bright, though, as I’ve no doubt they always were – she seems such a poised and intelligent woman – but perhaps with a cooler, more intense grade of light, the fire of a star at night.

‘I was just admiring your frogs,’ I tell her after introducing myself and unpacking my things.
‘Yes. Aren’t they a wonder?’ she says. ‘I used to spend hours out there, crouched down by the edge, watching them come and go. I’m sure the neighbours thought I was quite potty. But there’s no shortage of things to admire in nature, don’t you find?’
‘I certainly do. We’ve got a wildlife pond at home.’
‘Have you?’
‘Lots of frogs. Newts, too.’
‘And all those marvellous insects, skimming about on the surface…’
‘You’re right! Plenty of things to look at.’
‘Yes!’
‘Do they make much noise, your frogs?’
‘No, not really. Except in mating season, when they all get terribly exercised. Or when one of the cats fetches one out, which is horrible, of course, and I’ve tried my damndest to stop them. We haven’t got any newts, though, so I’m jealous on that score. I do so love my frogs!’

I conduct the examination and everything is pretty much as expected, given the circumstances.
‘Well, one thing’s for sure,’ says Peggy, suddenly serious. ‘I will not be going to hospital. You can do whatever else you like with me, but I will not be agreeing to that.’
‘No. I understand.’
‘I mean – for goodness sake! Look at me! What ever is the point?’
‘You are the boss of you, Peggy. We’ll do whatever’s best for you.’
‘That’s kind,’ she says. ‘It’s so easy to get swept up in these things sometimes – don’t you find?’
‘Absolutely.’

As I’m filling out the paperwork I ask her what she did when she was working.
‘I messed about in the government during the war. Started off in the typing pool but after one thing and another found myself in the Foreign Office, helping out in the Middle East. All frightfully interesting. I travelled about quite a bit afterwards, of course. There was nothing I liked better when I had a bit of free time than to stick out my thumb and hitchhike. I travelled right the way through Syria like that. Fascinating country. Breaks my heart to see what’s happening there now, of course. Those poor people.’
‘Did you hitchhike on your own?’
‘Of course!’ she says, ‘although, these days…’ and she spreads her arms wide and smiles just as broadly, ‘I don’t suppose I’d get all that far!’

 

the truth about the beard

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

‘One of the patients gave you a nice compliment. Well – I think it’s a compliment. Maybe a double-edged compliment.’
‘What patient? What compliment?’
‘The woman whose husband’s diagnosed with mixed dementia.’
‘Oh, I know. She’s lovely. They’re both lovely. Although he really shouldn’t be driving. I always feel like taking his keys off him…’ I mime tossing them over my shoulder. ‘So go on, then. What did she say?’
‘Are you sure you’re ready for this?’
‘I’m sure.’
‘Okay. Well. She said how nice and kind you were. She said you were very gentle, and she said you made her feel a lot better.’
‘You’re making me blush.’
‘Yeah. And she said That’s the thing about the gays, they’re always so sensitive.’
Amy leans in and narrows her eyes.
‘You don’t mind do you?’
‘Me? No! Why would I? Anyway, I’m used to it. Although maybe I should work on my gruff manly skills. Hey! I’m Jim. I’ll be taking care of you today. Look at my tattoos…’
‘I said you were married with kids.’
‘And what did she say?’
‘She said Is he?’

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the things he’s seen

~ jim clayton ~ 2 Comments

‘Is that a bird in the corner?’
‘A bird?’
‘A blackbird. Or a rat. Could be a rat. Something.’
I go over to check, cautiously moving junk around.
‘No. Nothing here.’
‘Oh. I thought I saw something.’
I put the junk back.
‘Do you think you might be hallucinating?’
‘No, no! I definitely saw it. This place – I don’t know. Sometimes things just come in the door.’

I don’t know what to think. Steve’s had a recent history of infection, and he certainly doesn’t take care of himself, with his heavy drinking, his poor diabetes control, and the general state of his flat. But despite all this his obs are normal, and – so far at least – he’s been pretty rational. And he’s certainly right about the place. A tenement block you could use as a film set for the roughest quarter of New Orleans, with a dark, central courtyard, an old tree in a ruined brick planter, and all around rising up six storeys a crumbling iron fire escape.

‘Anyway. I wouldn’t go to hospital, Jim. Not even if I was dying.’
‘Oh? Why’s that?’
‘My son! I haven’t seen him for ten years and he turns up yesterday.’
‘Wow! That’s great!’
‘Yeah. He’s off with his mates the other side of town. I ‘spect I’ll see him later.’

There’s a map of the world pinned to the wall above Steve’s bed. He tells me about his life as the skipper of a yacht, sailing the world, navigating the oceans through a haze of booze, smoke and other substances until unexpectedly running aground on a reef of detritus in this godforsaken flat.

‘I’ve been through storms like you wouldn’t believe. End of the World type storms. Did you know hurricanes give birth to tornadoes?’
‘Do they?’
‘I’ve seen it. The Devil’s spawn. Evil snakes, twisting you into knots. I was always lucky, though. I’ve got a strong stomach. And a strong grip!’

Later that day, back at the hospital, his blood results come in – as bleak a set of figures as the worst severe weather warning. I book him an ambulance to go to hospital, and then call him to give him the news.
‘I won’t go without seeing my son,’ he says.
‘Can’t you call him on his mobile?’
‘I haven’t got any credit on my phone, and he’s left his at home.’
‘I could call his landline and leave a message.’
‘He lives in El Salvador.’
‘Still, I could try…’
He gives me the number, but the number’s unobtainable.
I ring Steve back and tell him what I think.
‘The ambulance are on a two-hour response,’ I tell him. ‘So there’s time. I’m not going to stand the ambulance down, Steve, because your blood results are so out of whack I couldn’t be responsible for that. Fingers crossed your son turns up between now and then. But your health’s the most important thing.’
‘I don’t care about that,’ he says. ‘I’m not going anywhere till I’ve seen my son again.’

A little later I ring the hospital to check Steve went in. There’s no record, so I ring him to find out what happened. When he answers the phone he sounds loud and emphatic, like he’s speaking in the middle of a storm. I wonder if he’s been drinking.
‘No, Jim! He didn’t show up!’ he bellows. ‘But even if he had I couldn’t possibly go now.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘It’s all these kids.’
‘What d’you mean? What kids?’
‘All these seven year olds! Their mums’ve just dumped them on me. And it’s kinda weird, Jim – you know? Because they’ve done that thing kids do these days. They’ve painted their faces yellow and black. Fierce stripes, y’know! Like wasps…!’

I ring ambulance control again. Get the response time upgraded to immediate.

the residents of EMI6

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Bond frowns as the safety gate
snicks into place like a Beretta 418
‘Wakey, wakey! Medication time!’
says the nurse, karate chopping the blinds
then carefully opening a colouring book
lays it in his lap and says ‘There now! Look!’
Bond recognises the Orient Express
‘A steam train!’ says the nurse. ‘Yes?’
He frowns and points to that bit of the track
where he leapt from his Aston Martin and back
But the nurse is busy checking her batch,
she produces a needle and smiles: ‘Sharp scratch!’

Q irritably clicks his pen
as the carer passes with the trolley again
‘Alright Queuey? Wha’ d’ya want?
Custard cream or raspberry fondant?’
Q gives the Parker one last stab
wonders what else he’s got in the lab
‘Tea or cocoa? Banana drink?
Hot or cold, love? Wha’d’ya think?’
Q tugs his bowtie, waits for the explosion
…. and waits and waits in utter confusion
‘Oh dear me, love! It’s not a grenade!’
Pulling the tab on a lemonade.

Moneypenny screams, tears off her shawl
throws it at the poodle looking in from the hall
(the poodle reminds her of someone – a spy?
the lascivious tongue, the damp brown eye)
‘No!’ says the manager, cuddling the dog
‘Yet another entry for the incident log!
You really must control your temper.
We all have to share the space, remember?
Just try harder, please, Mrs M. Promise?’
then turns and leads the dog back to the office.
Moneypenny curses – emphatically
Then watches Dr No on her little TV

sofa dreaming

~ jim clayton ~ 2 Comments

It’s only a furniture store in a nearby town. You’d think we’d asked the satnav to take us to The Magic Faraway Tree.

Take a….right and then take a ….left and then … make a u-turn….and then…. god…. I don’t know….over there? What do you want from me?…I’m just a machine…

Paul, the furniture salesman doesn’t seem to believe he’s really there, either. He keeps rubbing his face, vigorously, particularly the eyes.

‘And this is the snuggle chair,’ he says, gesturing to a cute little sofa like it’s a family member, taking the perspex sign away and reciting a litany of features.
‘Don’t you get embarrassed saying snuggle chair?’ says Kath.
‘No,’ he says. ‘You get used to it.’

Paul talks us through the options. Sets us up with a ledger of swatches, and we spend the next twenty years trying to imagine whether mint tartan will clash with tangerine orange, or whether a pattern of leaves and flowers will be too overwhelming.
‘Earth tones,’ says Paul, tapping an abstract leaf pattern. ‘You can’t go wrong with earth tones.’

Another more elderly couple is wandering round the store. The man says: ‘I’m actually feeling quite low in energy now. Perhaps we should come back later.’

I imagine his wife driving him home and hooking him up to the mains. Or maybe they’ve got an attachment in the car.

‘You can always mix it up with some cushions,’ says Paul, pressing his palms hard into his eyes.

I don’t blame him. I couldn’t work in a place like this. I’m pretty sleepy at the best of times, but this – this is all too padded, too comfortable. I’d spend the entire shift asleep on that ottoman. Next to that giant glass strawberry. There must be a factory somewhere making giant glass strawberries. That might be alright.

‘Okay?’ says Paul. ‘Great. If you’d just like to come over to the desk and we’ll sort it all out for you…’

Kath is very good and tries to angle a better price, but as Paul points out, they’ve already discounted the sofa by twenty-five per cent, and head office have said enough’s enough. But he does say he’ll get the old sofa collected free of charge, as a favour, and we’re happy with that.

Mind you, we’ve had our old sofa so long maybe we should give it more of a send-off. Maybe we should pile it up with DVDs, TVs, books, guitars, clothes, bottles of wine, photos of people, and dogs, and scripts of conversations, and arguments, and laughter and – well, you get the picture. Or maybe I should just fall asleep on it as it’s being carried out of the door to the van, and they could tip me off into the flower bed at the last minute.

We don’t have to decide just yet, though. There’s a two-month wait on delivery.

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when the time comes

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Margaret’s daughter-in-law Sandy is standing over by one of the bookcases, casting her eye over the spines, taking the odd book out and idly flipping through.
‘Quite what we’ll do with all these when the time comes I don’t know,’ she says. ‘I mean – it’s a shame. These Dickens might’ve fetched something, but the sun’s got to them and they’ve gone a bit foxy.’

It makes me feel uncomfortable, but it’s my own fault, of course.

I’d started setting up to take blood from Margaret, and Sandy and the two carers had been standing round the bed, saying nothing, just watching.
‘I’ve never had such an audience,’ I said, just to break the tension, because it didn’t really bother me whether I was observed or not. ‘Talk amongst yourselves.’
‘Sorry!’ Sandy said, and that’s when she started to walk round the room, pricing things up.

As it turns out, though, I’m glad the attention has switched to Little Dorrit. Margaret is quite poorly, and getting anything remotely viable is like trying to tap-up a strand of hair. I’m not even sure why I’ve been asked to try. Margaret has steadfastly refused hospital – and I’m completely with her on that. She’s in her nineties, for goodness sake. If I was her I’d be refusing hospital, too. The only thing I might do differently is ask them turn my bed around so I could face out into the courtyard garden and that flowering cherry, so vibrantly and abundantly pink it would gladden even a dying heart.

‘Alright?’ says Sandy, coming back over. ‘Getting any?’