Author: jim clayton

how far is anywhere

~ jim clayton ~ 2 Comments

Derek is sitting on the sofa, both legs stretched out on a stool, a tartan throw neatly draped over his lap – so precisely aligned it’s like a draughtsman has lain a grid over the lower half of him pending further work. Derek is cradling half a mug of tea on his belly, only freeing a hand now and again to point aggressively, either at me, or at Mia, the nurse who’s come to do the assessment with me.

‘Listen to me… just for one second,’ he says, in a hoarse and curiously fractured way, zoning in and out, soft one moment and aggressively emphatic the next, as if he’s speaking from a great distance and the signal keeps getting distorted, ‘I do not appreciate… I do not appreciate…yeah? All this, what you are doing. It irritates me, high up, in here…’ slowly transferring the pointing finger to his right temple and tapping, firmly, twice. I wonder if that’s the side he had the stroke, and I make a note to ask his wife Sandra about it. ‘I do not appreciate  this,’ he says. ‘I do not want it. Let me tell you something. I have been round the world. A few times. I’ve walked it. The entire world. And I’ve seen things. You wouldn’t believe what I’ve seen. I’ve seen people killed. Yeah? You cannot imagine…’
‘You’re absolutely right,’ says Mia. ‘I can’t. But – if I could just explain why we’ve come here today…’

Mia is unflappable. She wears her long years as a community nurse lightly, but with great warmth. It’s impressive to see how patiently she’s able to maintain her focus in the face of Derek’s behaviour, not rising to his challenges, progressing the meeting as best she can, slowly and neutrally, her clinical objective always in mind. I feel like a naturalist taking notes on a species of big cat, stalking its prey on the prairie. It’s instructive to watch her work, to see how she continually makes tiny adjustments to her approach, the way she sits, the way she puts her notes to one side, the way she holds him in her attention. If she had a tail it would be switching, infinitesimally, at the tip.
‘No! Now – wait!’ says Derek. ‘Let me tell you something.’
‘Please let them help you,’ says Sandra.
‘It’s okay, Sandra,’ says Mia, reaching over to touch her on the arm. ‘We’ve got time.’
‘And you!’ says Derek, stabbing the air in the direction of his wife. ‘You I’ll deal with later.’
‘Oh, Derek,’ says Sandra.
‘You know what you did. You let them in. You know I didn’t want them.’
‘But you’re ill.’
‘You I don’t mind’ he says, turning his attention back to Mia. ‘‘I don’t … have trouble with women. And I’ve known a lot of women in my time. You would not believe. But men? I’m a fighter. I’ve always been like it. Him,’ he says, flashing a sideways glance at me. ‘Him I would’ve had outside in a second. In a second.’
‘I’m sorry you feel like that,’ says Mia, smiling at me. ‘Now – look. it’s important that I explain to you why we need to see you today.’
‘No. Wait a minute. Listen.’
‘Derek! They’ve got people to see. They’ve got lives of their own.’
For the first time in the visit Sandra looks utterly forlorn.
‘I do not want a thing,’ says Derek, adjusting his position on the sofa with an uncoordinated lurch and slopping tea onto his t-shirt.
‘Oh now look! I’ll go and get a cloth,’ says Sandra, taking the mug from him. ‘Would either of you like a cup?’
‘That’d be great. Thanks.’
Sandra hurries into the kitchen.
‘Derek. We think you have an infection and we’d like to do something about it,’ says Mia, taking advantage of the distraction to strike the point home. ‘If you don’t let us help you it’ll just get worse and you’ll end up in hospital. Again. We respect your decision to say no, and we certainly wouldn’t go against that. But you have to understand what’ll happen if you don’t accept treatment.’
Derek closes his eyes, compresses his lips into a ghastly smile, and slowly shakes his head from side to side.
‘Just you listen a minute to me,’ he says. ‘You’ve had your say. Now it’s my turn.’
‘Okay.’
Weirdly, he almost seems to go to sleep, but when no-one speaks he suddenly opens his eyes again and points at Mia.
‘I’ve been round the world,’ he says. ‘I’ve seen people killed. I’ve seen people kill themselves, but it’s worse when they get killed. Can you – appreciate – what it is I’m trying to say to you? The whole world? Because I do not appreciate …. it gets me irritated …. up here. You do not get what I am telling you. I have been round the world, I’ve seen it…’
Sandra comes back in with a tray of tea.
‘There!’ she says, handing me and Mia a cup. ‘Although what I think you really need is a medal.’
‘I’ve been round the world. I’ve seen it,’ says Derek.
‘I know darling. And got the t-shirt.’
‘What?’ he says. ‘What t-shirt?’
‘Never mind, never mind,’ says Sandra, ‘I’m sorry.’ And sinking back down into the chair facing her husband, she straightens her skirt and takes a breath. ‘So. How far did we get?’ she says. ‘Anywhere?’

party line

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

When Agnes finally reaches the front door, she looks so beautifully turned-out in her vintage, poppy-print housecoat it’s like she set off from the back kitchen sometime in the nineteen fifties.
‘Hello!’ she says, through a crackle of thick, coral pink lipstick. ‘Thank you so much for coming.’
She leads me slowly through into the lounge, and after gesturing to the sofa, perches herself on the edge of an armchair and fixes me with a bright smile.
‘Now. What’s this all about?’ she says.
I explain that her doctor has made the referral, but as I carry on talking I can’t help wondering if I’ve got the right address. Struggling with ADLs the referral said. Recent UTI. Needs TDS care & help with meds. Really? The room’s as perfect as Agnes. No sign of dust or disorder; nothing out of place; a clock and two porcelain clowns equally spaced on the mantelpiece; a TV remote symmetrically aligned with paper, pen and reading lens on a discreetly placed, Moroccan side table.
‘How are you feeling today?’ I ask her, opening the yellow folder.
‘Oh. You know,’ she says, smiling even brighter. ‘Annoyed with myself. I took the Christmas decorations down yesterday and now I can’t find them.’
‘I’m sure they’ll turn up.’
‘I hope so. Some of them were very old. Falling to pieces, but – well – you get used to these things.’
I know what you mean. My favourite decoration is a snowman playing the violin. He’s looking pretty shabby these days, but it’s nice to see him every year.’
‘I bet!’
‘I’m sure your decorations will turn up.’
‘I hope so,’ says Agnes. ‘I feel so cross with myself.’

-oOo-

After the examination I review the facts. All Agnes’ observations are normal. Her medication is nicely ordered in a dosette box that her son, Barry, organises at the beginning of each week. She is perfectly able to wash and dress herself; before her recent illness she was driving once a week to bridge club.
‘Shall I ring Barry and see what he has to say?’
‘That’s a good idea!’
‘Do you mind if I use the landline? Only – if I ring using the work mobile, the number won’t show and he might think it’s a sales call.’
‘Of course! Please – help yourself…’
Barry is on the address function. I press call – and it’s immediately apparent that the phone is on loudspeaker.
‘How do I take it off?’
‘Oh – it’s always like that’ says Agnes. ‘Don’t worry. Barry won’t mind.’
The phone keeps ringing – extremely loudly – and I’m still trying to figure out how to mute the thing when he picks up.
BARRY MOSS says Barry, in a voice so thunderous and sharp I want to hold the phone away from my ear.
‘Hello Barry. My name’s Jim. I’m a nursing assistant from the hospital…’
YES. UR-HUM.
‘Barry? The doctor’s asked that we come round to see your mum’s alright – to do her blood pressure and so on….’
YES
‘…but before I go on, can I just say… you’re on speakerphone at the minute and I don’t know how to take it off’
I smile and nod at Agnes; she smiles back.
YOU CAN’T. IT’S LIKE IT ALL THE TIME.
‘Would you like me to call you back on my work mobile?’
NO. IT’S ALRIGHT.
‘Okay. Agnes is sitting right here with me…’
I can’t make it any clearer that he’s being overheard, but if Barry’s understood, he makes no sign.
HOW IS SHE?
‘She’s fine. Aren’t you, Agnes?’
‘Absolutely!’ says Agnes, shaking her head and smiling. ‘Never felt better!’
YOU CAN’T TRUST A WORD SHE SAYS, YOU KNOW.
‘Oh, now – I don’t know about that…’
Agnes straightens in the chair. Although her smile doesn’t falter, I can see her fingers whiten round her knee.
Because I can’t immediately think of a way of stopping him saying anything else, I look to buy myself some time.
‘Let me hand you over so you can have a quick word with your mum,’ I tell him. ‘Then we can all have a chat about what to do next.’
HAND HER OVER, THEN
‘Hello darling!’ says Agnes.
HELLO MUM shouts Barry. WHAT’S ALL THIS? A PARTY LINE?

strange dreams in a blue house

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To paraphrase a movie tagline from the seventies: Rich means never having to say your address.

‘The Blue House, Ocean Rise’ isn’t much to go on. It sounds distinctive, though, and as I have some time before the appointment, I take a chance and drive straight there, figuring I’ll spot a blue house easily enough, especially on Ocean Rise, where all the houses are a transcendent white, following a brutalist style of architecture that’ll one day be known as ‘bunker chic’.

Ocean Rise is a grand, slow ascent of the cliffs to the east of town, an eclectic throw of old and new money, each house with a panoramic view of the sea, secure gates, and landscaped gravel drives leading to doors wide enough to walk through with a saddlebag of gold over each shoulder.

I’ve driven up and down the road twice when I admit defeat and pull over to call for directions. Even doing this gives me a prickly feeling, security cameras zooming in on the small, suspiciously old car as the driver flips through a diary and glances anxiously through the window. With any luck they’ll see the NHS lanyard and reassuring blue of my uniform and put the phone back on the hook. I mean – this isn’t the US. The worst you see here are signs that say: No Hawkers or Canvassers. In the US it’s Armed Response.

– Who is this?
Hello Mrs Shand. It’s Jim, from the hospital. I’ve come to see Mr Shand, to check his blood pressure and so on.
– Well where are you, then?
I’m on Ocean Rise.
– That’s it. That’s where we live.
I’m afraid I don’t have the number.
– We don’t have a number. We’re The Blue House.
I haven’t seen any blue houses.
– You won’t see it from the road.
No?
– No. We’re set back. On a hill. Behind a hedge.
Where on the road?
– (Oh for goodness sake) You know the new block? Moana Heights?
Yes.
– Turn in there, and then sharp left. It’s not signposted, but that’s where we are. Got it?
Yes. Thanks. See you in five minutes.

She hangs up, saying either Good, or possibly Good God, the ‘god’ part truncated.
I spin the car round and head in that direction, half a dozen outraged CCTV cameras capturing my registration plate.

-oOo-

Luckily, Mrs Shand is sweeter than her phone voice suggests. I can see that the stress of the situation is beginning to tell on her, giving her the alarmed and dangerously taut look of frayed rope.
‘He’s upstairs,’ she says, turning round in the hallway, bending down to pick up the post and in the process dropping half of the clothes and folders she already has in her arms.
‘Here. Allow me,’ I say, helping her sort things out.
‘He’s not well at all and I don’t know what to do,’ she says. ‘He’s leading me a merry dance, I can tell you.’
I follow her upstairs to a bedroom that’s like the deck of a ship, one great window stretching entirely across one end of it, the ceiling low, the only furniture in that vast space a simple double bed, an elderly man with wild, white hair lying placidly on top, both hands behind his head.
‘Hello?’ he says, stiffly pushing himself up on an elbow. ‘Who’d we have here, then?’
‘For goodness sake, Alfred! It’s the nurse!’ says Mrs Shand, trotting round the far side of the bed and fussing with some pillows. ‘You see what I mean?’ she adds, as if I’d just witnessed some outrageous display. ‘You see what I have to put up with?’
‘How are you, Alfred?’ I say, putting my bags down and then reaching out to shake his hand. His fingers are long and cool and frail, with so little pressure to them that if I closed my eyes it would be like shaking hands with a shadow.
‘I was having such a dream!’ he says, laying back down again and lacing his hands across his chest. ‘All those people! Coming out of the walls!’
He closes his eyes, then opens them again with a start, and looks straight at me, as if I was part of the same, ghostly parade.
‘Who did you say you were?’
‘Jim. From the hospital. Come to see how you are.’
‘Ah!’ he says, and then turns his pinched face up to the ceiling again, and closes his eyes.
‘Not good, Jim. Not good at all.

a shaggy nag story

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

Everyone’s got at least one story about everything.

Take horses. I don’t know the first thing about horses. Okay, maybe a few things.

– Where you might want to put the bit
– Horses are measured in hands, for some reason.
– One aspect about them is called the hock (I’m guessing the feet, but I’m not going to google it, for comedy value)
– Don’t be tempted to buy a spavined horse, even if it’s really, really cheap
– A horse whisperer is someone who can make a horse lie down without putting them to sleep (which would be a vet).

Other than that, I’m clueless. Except – I have one story about horses I can trot out if I have to. It goes like this:

I was persuaded to go on a cross-country hack once. On Dartmoor. Because I was a novice they gave me a sedate old nag called Onions. We started off down a road, then a country lane, then veered off along a dried-up river bed, and on into some woods. And the thing that impressed me more than anything was how steady and sure-footed Onions was. There was nowhere she couldn’t go, one hoof in front of the other, hour after hour, her head bobbing up and down, utterly relentless. And I thought: This would be the perfect off-road vehicle – if it wasn’t so fucking uncomfortable.

(That is actually the pay-off. I know. Sorry. Now you know why I don’t get invited out much).

And the point of all this is – earlier today I interacted with a bunch of horses.

(Is that what you do? Interact with horses? Maybe if you’re an alien masquerading as a human, nervous you’re being watched, trying to act natural. Still – too late. That’s exactly what I did. I interacted).

IMG_6027What happened was, I’d taken Lola for her morning walk. Not the usual spot – a place I stopped going to a while back for no real reason I can think of. I’d met these particular horses before (nailing the I only have one story about horses lie, right there). I knew they were inquisitive – downright nosey, actually – were good with dogs, basically safe, so far as I could tell, although there was no way I’d ever be persuaded to walk at the kicking end, which is basically north and south. I was excited to see that the dew pond at the top of the field was full of water. I’d only ever seen it like that once before, and now that I was into taking pictures, I could see there might be some interesting tree-reflection shots to be had. The dew pond is where the horses hang out, though. Mostly. They have a tumbledown shelter way the other side of the field, but I can’t tell you much about that. I can’t even tell you who owns the horses. Maybe no-one. Maybe they’re a bunch of horse outlaws – or horselaws – and now that I think that I can never go there again.

IMG_5982Still – this morning I was prepared to take my chances. I slid down the bank of the pond and was busy taking pictures when I noticed the horses emerging from the gloom and heading straight for me. As usual they were led by the solidly built piebald who seemed to be the leader, the others tagging along behind in a shiftless kind of way, looking like they’d rather be anything other than a horse. I didn’t want to get nosed into the water, so I climbed back up the bank to meet them. I thought bowing my head and holding my hand out would be the sensible thing to do. They’d see I had humility, respect, and allow me to journey on peacefully through their realm. The piebald was pretty dismissive, though. She sniffed my hand – seemed aggrieved there was nothing in it – nosed my arm to the side and went straight for the pockets, maybe thinking I’d simply forgotten to take out whatever deliciousness I had to be carrying, or why else would I be there? It was like being patted-down by a weary cop, and a little unnerving. Trying to stay calm, I decided to retreat, walking as neutrally as I could to the nearest gate. The horses all followed me in a line, the piebald in front – natch – the others behind. I said some bland and vaguely placatory stuff, like good girl and thank you for escorting me to the gate…. any moment expecting to be beaten to the ground and hooved into a horrifying mash that some other dog walker would come across, and scream, and bite their knuckle, and all the crows in IMG_6002the elm would fly up, the piebald grinning maliciously from the tumbledown shelter way the other side of the field. I made the gate in one piece, though, and braver once the other side of it, offered my hand again by way of apology. The piebald let me ruffle her awful mane some, then as if that wasn’t enough, began rubbing her enormous skull on the post that stood between us, I suppose to emphasise how big and ornery her skull was, that she could knock this post down and get to me if she wanted, and to please bear all this in mind if ever I dared to think I could visit the dew pond with nothing more interesting to offer than a dog and an iPhone 5s.

So there. That’s my new horse story.

Needs some work.

But at least this time I got some pictures.

sig

 

 

marvellous in moustaches

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‘Call me Ellie. Everyone does.’
La Contessa is sitting in her riser recliner, one hand clapped over the business end of a cordless phone, the other held out to me – whether to shake or kiss, it’s hard to tell.
Are you still there, Doctor? she shouts into the phone, flapping her free hand for me to come in and sit down somewhere, anywhere. Hello? No – that was the nurse. Come to sort me out, I should think. I should HOPE. Now – this really is the most awful bother I’m in. Those pills you gave me aren’t doing the trick and I need something stronger. Something with a bit more of a kick. Mildred my domestic was telling me about the lovely liquid morphine she was given for her knee. She said she took a slug of it every time she had a twinge and it sorted her out nicely. I rather like the sound of that. So I’d be awfully grateful if you could see your way to organising that for me…….. Well, I’m hardly like to do that, am I? I haven’t moved from the chair in the last day or so…..No, not even for that….. which is why I’m rather hoping this kind nurse may have brought a special something to help with that aspect. (She glances over at me, raises her eyebrows, and nods.) Yes, she says into the phone, he just made a gesture to indicate that he HAS brought something…….Okay Doctor? Thank you Doctor. I’ll say goodbye for now, and I look forward to seeing you soon. Lovely. Cheero.

She presses the phone off in an overly forceful way – more like she’s grinding out a revolting bug with her thumb – then places it on the table of things next to her chair, and turns herself to address me.

La Contessa isn’t all she appears to be. Her fingers may be extensively knuckled with an array of decadent rings; her neck hung with impressive ropes of pearls and pendants, blue and white enamelled things reminiscent of medals, or obscure orders; and she might be surrounded in the room by Regency furniture and paintings of haughty relatives posing in country settings, with featureless children and bug-eyed dogs – but there’s something about the place, a junk-shop utility, that’s difficult to take seriously. I’m tempted to screw a loupe in my eye and hold her hand up for a closer look, but instead I unpack my bag and get ready for the examination.

The referral doesn’t say anything about any of this, of course, but Rae gave us the heads up. Rae is a physio. She came to see La Contessa earlier in the day, and was sufficiently impressed by everything she said about her life as an actress and scriptwriter, and her relation to half the royal family in Italy, to look her up on imdb. When that failed, she turned to Google, and came up with a much richer vein of information, which seemed to show that the only role La Contessa Eleganza di Dramamine had ever played in her life was La Contessa Eleganza di Dramamine. A role she plays to perfection.

‘Now look,’ she says – but then instantly appears distracted, tipping her head to one side like an inquisitive bird and scrutinising my face. ‘Have we met before? On a film set somewhere? What do you do when you’re not nursing? What d’you get up to?’

I’m always a little reluctant to tell anyone I’m a writer. Especially of a blog. It would feel like a duck hunter standing up in the reeds with a whistle, gun and hat with a duck on top. But I’m instinctively honest, and besides, I want to feel like I am actually a writer, and declaring it might go someway to making that happen, even if the next step would probably be to go to a support group, Writers’ Anonymous, and stand up when it’s my turn, and say Hi. I’m Jim, and I’m a writer.
‘I write,’ I tell her, a little forlornly.
‘Fabulous!’ says La Contessa. ‘Look in the drawer to my right, would you?’
The drawer is filled with business cards. I’m tempted to shuffle through them and see if they all say the same thing, but instead I take the first one I lay my hands on, and hold it up. A fancy gilt affair, curly lettering, La Contessa’s name followed by a long line of acronyms.
‘Send me some of your work,’ she says. ‘It’s all about the contacts, you know.’
‘Great! Thanks!’ I say, putting it in my pocket.
‘This back pain really is the most dreadful nuisance. I’m halfway through a project and it’s cutting across everything like mad.’
‘What’s the project?’
‘Oh – you’d love it! It’s called The Heart is Another Country. It’s about a Mata Hari figure in World War One who has to choose between duty to her country and this rather scrumptious German general she falls in love with. It’s in pre-production, but not quite cast. Darling Judi is frightfully keen to play the mother. Do you know Judi?’
‘Dench?’
‘That’s the one!’ says La Contessa. ‘Stephen wants to play the general, but I don’t know how to put him off. He’s frightfully brilliant, of course, and he looks marvellous in moustaches, but I’m just not sure I could take him seriously.’

the big man

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Mira is using her zimmer frame for the first time, hobbling slowly and painfully to the hallway from the front room where she’s been sleeping these past few weeks.
‘Excellent! Good work!’ says Bethan, the physio. ‘We’ll soon have you back to normal.’
Mira stops in front of a picture on the wall, a lurid pastel portrait of a crying child in a knitted bonnet.
‘Do you know who this is?’ she says, letting go of the zimmer to straighten the frame.
‘Careful!’ says Bethan.
‘This is my husband,’ says Mira, ‘as a small child’
‘They gathered that,’ says John, her son, holding on to the door, his arm making an arch for her to pass under. ‘Come on, mum. Keep it moving. Keep it moving.’
‘Would you like to know why he was crying like this?’
‘Oh god. You’re going to get the guided tour now,’ says John.
‘It was Vidovdan, feast day. My husband’s Baka had made a wonderful torte, beautifully spread with segments of apple and pear, glistening with the most marvelous jelly and topped with fresh whipped cream. And he just couldn’t resist it. So he dragged his finger across the top, and then he stuck his finger in his mouth. Of course, when his Baka came in she was furious, and she smacked him – like this – on his hand. What you do this for? she said to him. Who will want to eat my lovely torte now you’ve wiped your dirty paws all over it? And he cried and he cried and he cried – just like the picture. And his Baka said to him, she said Why are you crying so much? I did not think I hit you as hard as all that. No he said I’m crying because I made you sad. And that was why they had this picture made of him.’
‘Yeah. And I bet they had to pinch him a few times to keep him going.’
‘John!’ says Mira. ‘Don’t listen to him. He misses Papa as much as I do.’
We continue walking towards the hallway.
They’re an odd couple, Mira and John. She is so small and frail, and her son so huge, it’s difficult to imagine her ever giving birth to him.
‘It might be quicker if I just put you over my shoulder,’ he says, checking his watch. ‘Mind you, I’m not sure I could these days. I carried a heavy machine gun and a radio when I was in the army. Well – it was a few years ago. I was twenty-six, the big man. Seemed like a good idea at the time.’

glad & buttons

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‘The physio should be here soon,’ I say, finishing off my notes and putting them in the folder.
‘She’ll have trouble parking,’ says Moira. ‘It’s absolutely terrible round here.’
‘My grandson’s got a car that parks itself,’ says Glad.
Glad is Moira’s domestic help. It’s a funny arrangement. Glad is as elderly as Moira, but she gamely drags herself around the place with a duster and a bin bag. ‘You pull up, push a button and off it goes. Don’t ask me how it works. I wouldn’t have a clue. I can’t even work the radio.’
‘Yes. It’s incredible how these things have come on,’ says Moira, sitting in her riser-recliner, her hands placidly folded in her lap.
‘I expect in the future we’ll all be flying around in silver balloons,’ says Glad. ‘You’ll probably park on the roof and come down the chimney. I won’t be around to see it though, thank God. Here – what d’you want doing with these?’
She holds out a bunch of magazines, the top one Good Housekeeping, Mary Berry on the front. Moira looks a lot like Mary Berry, making allowances for the nightie, dressing gown and absence of make-up. They share the same haughty benevolence.
‘Oh I don’t know,’ says Moira. ‘Perhaps the hairdressers might want it. Or just recycle.’
‘Righto,’ says Glad, hobbling with her gammy hip to the side table by the door where she drops the magazines and then opens a cupboard to fetch out the hoover.
‘Look at this beauty!’ she says, pulling out a brand new, highly technical-looking Bosch. ‘Light as a feather. And the suck on it. Not too noisy, neither. And see this button? You press that when you’re done, and it puts itself back in the cupboard.’
She turns the thing on and starts pushing it backwards and forwards.
‘I’m lying about the button,’ she says. ‘Lift your feet, love.’

liza of lambeth

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nah! I’m a proper Londoner, me
Lambeth Walk – heard of it?
‘Course you ‘av!
Doin’ the Lambeth Walk – Oi!
Charlie Chaplin, he was round the corner
Genius, he was. Genius.
They didn’t none of ‘em understand him
They thought he was a Commonist
So he married that Pickford gel
and they run orf to Sweden or someink
I don’t mind telling you
I get a bit blue now and again
– don’t you go writing that down!
stands to reason, though, dunnit?
I’ve got a lot on me plate
what with me feet and me chest
Specially now me husband’s gone n’left me
we used to do everythink together
me n’Stanley. Everythink.
proper team we was
only now it’s just me
on me Jack Jones
‘cept for the girls who come round
helpin’ me aht
they’re good girls
one of ‘em’s a dancer
legs up to ‘ere
she only does this to keep her
‘ed above water
although you’d fink
wiv legs like that
she’d be alright, eh?
Family? Yes and No.
I got four sisters
and I hate the lot of ‘em
Jes’ because you share the same farver
don’ mean to say you’ll get along
anyway, there’s only two left now
so all’s well that ends well
during the war?
I worked in a factory
making bullets
I didn’t want to, mind
they ‘ad to drag me orf
kicking and screaming
still. I made some good friends
course – they’re all dead now
either that or too tight
to send a card at Christmas
my family? Or-straylia
I know. It is a long way
probably why they chose it
I’ve been there a coupla times
didn’t like it
I couldn’t never open me eyes
d’you know what I mean?
it was all too bright
Swimming? You must be joking!
Only if you want to get et by a shark
taking aht the laundry weren’t no joke, neither
what with all them widowy
spiders waiting for you
under the rim of the basket
they got fangs like this, mate
and poison what’ll turn yer air green
Nah. I’m alright here, fankyouverymuch
So long as I’ve got the girls
me CSI Friday and me
Saturday night strictly
How many children you got?
Two? Tha’s nice!
‘Cos you know what they say
two’s company three’s a whasisname
I bet they give you the runaround.
Nah then. What’ve you gone and done
wiv me slippers?

 

 

feathers & the beginner’s mind

~ jim clayton ~ 2 Comments

So what happened was, we were queuing to board our flight back from Toulouse when there was an announcement. Mesdames et Messieurs. They were short of space in the overhead lockers, and would appreciate it if some passengers would volunteer to put their carry-on luggage into the hold. We already had two pieces checked in, so it didn’t make much difference. There were a couple of laptops in the carry-on, so we took those out and Kath went ahead to sign in the case. Which meant she took her seat on the plane first.

The seats on these planes are arranged three by three, either side of the aisle. What we normally do is sit two in front and two behind, Martha and Jess, me and Kath. When Kath went to sit down, she found that the third seat was taken up by a young guy who for some reason had ended up in the seat immediately behind his wife. They were newly married, and it seemed a shame, so Kath volunteered to do a swap.  She would sit with the girls in the three seats behind us; the guy would sit next to his wife by the window, and I’d be in the aisle seat next to him.I didn’t mind. It was a short flight, late at night, and I probably wouldn’t be all that sociable anyway. Everyone settled in. The young couple next to me were halfway through a film on a netbook, sharing some headphones. I tried to figure out what the film was. A slick, supernatural thriller. Tense shots of glossy people at a cocktail party in a skyscraper. Every so often they paused the film so the guy could explain a plot point. No – you see, it was his brother who did the deal. So now he’s the one trying to stay out of Hell. But the girlfriend has the book and she hasn’t found out about the ticket yet… When the guy finished explaining, his wife squeezed his arm and gave him a kiss, the kind of kiss that sneaks up the arm, smiling, eyes open. They would lock like that for a while, then put the headphones back on and unpause the film.

I watched the cabin crew demonstrate the emergency exits. When we’d taken off, I closed my eyes and tried to meditate.

There’s a technique I’ve been trying to learn called ‘noting’. It’s a way of dealing with distracting thoughts. You don’t fight or try to control them, because the effort of doing that will become as distracting as the original distraction. If you see what I mean. The idea is simply to ‘note’ that you’ve become distracted, a light acknowledgement – as light as a feather touching a glass – and then gently bring the focus back to your breathing, and the business of being in the moment.

I was using the feather a lot. The young couple were about as distracting as it’s possible to be without training. Apart from continually stopping the film, explaining what had just happened, leaning into each other for elaborate shows of reassurance and affection, rearranging the small mountain of coats and bags that surrounded them like a nest, they were as exercised by the menu choices on the snacks trolley as they were about the film. Hot chocolate or a glass of wine? Pretzels or peanuts? What do you think? No what do you think? Reassuring kisses. I checked the expression of the air stewardess waiting to take their order, but she was as professionally neutral as the safety demonstration, perhaps even more so. (Note to self: check out any courses in mindfulness endorsed by EasyJet.)  Finally they made their order, everything passing inches in front of my nose, despite me trying to make whatever adjustments I could to minimise the risk. Money going backwards and forwards, complicated transactions. But finally it was done, they had their drinks and were back into the film. I closed my eyes again and thought about a giant feather swinging into the side of a glass house like a wrecking ball.

The boutique trolley came round.

The guy thought he might buy a watch, because they were twenty percent off. Should he, or shouldn’t he? You should treat yourself. You’ve done so much for everyone else. Why not? But I don’t know… You’ve been saying for ages you wanted one… yeah, but – really?  When the trolley stopped in the aisle he tried on a few. The whole range, as far as I could tell. Holding each one on his wrist, his wife saying yeah.. but a brown strap? The turbulence was getting so bad I was worried about the stewardess. She had to brace herself with one hand on the overhead, her legs apart still maintaining the kind of professionally passive look you only see on saints and contract killers. Finally, after a great deal of tryings-on and comparisons, the guy settled for a Boss watch. Sixty-three pounds and twenty pence. His card was declined. Horreur. Not normally a problem. His wife offered to pay on hers, but he was adamant the stewardess try again. She did. Mon Dieu. It worked (although I was suspicious; I think she faked the sale, happy to pay sixty-three pounds and twenty pence so long as she could move on with her trolley and her life).

I went on with my meditation. Fell asleep. Had a dream I was sinking beneath a stormy sea. Woke up with the guy’s coat over my head.
‘Sorry! So sorry!’

The plane had landed; everyone was getting ready to leave.

*

There’s another technique in meditation: ‘Beginner’s mind’. It means that no matter how experienced or practised you think you are, you should try to approach every session as if you were coming to it for the very first time.

Waiting at the baggage reclaim, I told the girls about my experience with the young couple. Jess listened patiently, then touched me lightly on the shoulder (like a feather touching a glass).

‘Basically – what you’re telling us, Dad – is that you sat next to two perfectly normal human beings.’

The bags came round on the carousel, including the extra one we checked. I dragged them off, and we all headed out of the terminal for the taxi.

*

Thanks for reading – and a Happy New Year!

sig

a tale of two women

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

I.

Maud is asleep on the ottoman.
‘She’s exhausted’ whispers her granddaughter, Eve. ‘We thought it best if we let her rest a while’
Maud couldn’t be more comfortable, a pile of crisp white pillows behind her head and a richly patterned duvet tucked around her.
‘Come and have a seat,’ says Eve. ‘We’ll wake her up in a minute.’
Eve leads me to a heavy oak dining table in the middle of the room, where Eve’s mother Lucy and Lucy’s sister, Beth are waiting.
‘Thanks for coming,’ says Beth, standing up to shake my hand.
‘It’s good of you,’ says Lucy. ‘Everyone’s been so kind.’
We take our seats.
It would make a good painting. The Visit. A broad and comfortable room, naturally lit by the low winter sun through the patio windows, a collection of old prints and portraits hung around the walls, ferns in planters, a baby grand covered with an antique shawl and a spread of family photos in simple, silver frames – and then the focus of the picture, the loving family leaning in on three sides of the table, me with my open folder, pen in hand, and Maud, snoozing in the background.
‘Can you just go over for me why Maud was taken to hospital in the first place?’ I say.
‘It was just before Christmas,’ says Lucy. ‘Mummy’s always been fiercely independent. She doesn’t like fuss and she’s absolutely resisted any attempt to get some help in with the garden.’
‘Imagine!’ smiles Eve.
‘Quel horreur!’ says Lucy, shaking her head.
‘Anyway. That’s the context. What we think happened is that Mummy was out there planting bulbs and having a bit of a tidy up – overdoing things as usual – came in and then suffered some sort of collapse. Not a stroke or her heart or anything. More a kind of giving out or a weakness in her legs. Whatever the reason, down she went and couldn’t get up again. Wasn’t wearing her red button, of course.’
‘I think it’s upstairs on the bathroom door,’ says Lucy.
‘Exactly. So there she was, down on the floor, and she just couldn’t get herself up again. The best she could manage was to shuffle about a bit – although not as far as the phone, sadly. Malcolm, a good friend and neighbour who lives just across the way, well Malcolm saw the light on quite late and rang Mummy to ask if everything was all right. When she didn’t answer he came over and let himself in with the key we’d given him…’
‘Thank God!’ says Beth.
‘…thank God!’ says Lucy. ‘Thank Malcolm! As soon as he found Mummy on the floor he called the ambulance. They were a while getting here, so once Malcolm had established that Mummy hadn’t broken any bones and so on, he helped her up and waited with her for the paramedics. She had every test you could think of at the hospital. Really – everyone’s been so kind….’
‘Absolutely!’ says Beth. ‘Thank you so much.’
‘…just amazing, actually. But aside from the usual wear-and-tear of Mummy’s osteoarthritis and her habit of doing too damned much, they couldn’t find anything wrong.’
‘A bit of a chest infection…’ says Beth.
‘Oh yes. The chest infection,’ says Ruth. ‘Beyond that, who can say? We’ve got some carers starting this evening. I think Mummy’s been given a bit of a frightener by all of this and she’s finally agreed to some help. One of us will stay tonight and however long it takes to get her back to strength. But she is ninety, you know. You can’t go on pretending you’re a young woman forever.’
And we all turn to look at Maud, fast asleep on the ottoman.

II.

‘I’m ninety, you know!’
‘I can’t believe that!’ I say, touching Renee lightly on the arm. I have to admit it’s a lie, though. One of her eyes is permanently closed, giving her a lopsided, leering look, and when she speaks – with difficulty – she rolls up her mouth at the end of each sentence, taking most of the lower half of her face with it.
Rene is stuck on the commode. She wasn’t able to pull up her nightie, and opening her bowels has resulted in a mess that’s going to take some deft manoeuvring to sort out. At least I’m here with my colleague, Helen, though. Together we manage to stand Renee up, and whilst Helen keeps her steady, I set to work with quantities of tissue and wet wipes.
‘Sorry about that,’ she says.
‘Don’t worry, Renee.’
After a while she says: ‘We’ll have to take the decorations down soon.’
I glance up at the walls. There are three lines of red tinsel stuck with masking tape to the crumbling plaster above the fireplace – not delicate strips of tape; the kind you tear off in a hurry and slap on.
‘Shame. It goes so quickly,’ says Helen, adjusting her position as I struggle to free some more wipes.
‘Yes,’ says Renee. ‘Still. It can’t be Christmas all the time or it wouldn’t be special.’
Her son Graham watches us from the other side of the room. He seems to do a lot of that. He was watching at the front door as I parked the car, not waving back when I did, or even saying hello, merely turning with a flat, mildly irritated look and disappearing inside, like a bear plodding back into its cave when it finds winter still has a way to go.
‘How is she?’ he says, as we struggle to get her nightie over her head.
‘Not sure.’
A microwave dings in the kitchen.
‘D’you mind if I get my dinner?’
‘Go ahead!’ says Helen, dropping the soiled clothing into a bag.
After a minute or two Graham reappears with a plastic dish of curry. Instead of taking it upstairs or out back, he sits on the side of Renee’s hospital bed, and starts tucking in with a spoon.
‘Sure you don’t mind?’ he says.
It’s disquieting to see just how exactly the food looks like the mess we’ve just dealt with.
‘Absolutely,’ I say. ‘Smells good.’