When Roy’s son-in-law Malcolm comes home it’s like a bull that’s learned to walk, striding proudly in the front door on his back legs: Arsenal cap, t-shirt, shorts.
‘All right?’ he says, tossing the cap to one side. ‘Who’ve we got here? The SAS?’
A light switches on in Roy’s face. The absence of his dementia suddenly doesn’t count for anything; instead, he’s a loving father welcoming home his favourite son.
‘Here’s Malcolm, Roy,’ says Steph, Roy’s daughter, Malcolm’s wife. Roy waves his stick in the air and makes a toothless welcome.
‘All right, pops!’ says Malcolm, throwing himself down in a chair, planting his arms and legs left and right. ‘What’s going on, then?’
I tell him what I’ve found, what I think we can do to help.
‘Yeah?’ says Malcolm. ‘I thought you’d be coming round with a big mallet. Clang! Pow!’
Roy laughs.
‘No, seriously. We appreciate you taking the time,’ says Malcolm, affecting a degree of seriousness. ‘I hope old whasisname there hasn’t been too much of a problem.’
‘Not at all. He’s a model patient.’
‘A model patient! Hear that, Roy? Mind you – no offence – but I think I’d rather have an actual model, if you don’t mind.’
Steph puts the kettle on.
‘Now don’t start,’ she says to Malcolm. ‘We’ve got enough problems without you sticking your oar in.’
‘That wasn’t my oar, love!’ he says, lacing his hands together in his lap and distributing his bonhomie about the place. ‘Is that an oar in your pocket or are you just pleased to see me?’
He garks, like some giant species of bird.
‘Someone’s pleased with himself,’ says Steph.
‘If I’m not, who will be?’
‘You see what I’ve got to put up with?’
I finish my observations.
‘That’s all fine,’ I say. ‘I’ve just got to write it all up.’
‘A job’s not finished till the paperwork’s done,’ says Malcolm. ‘Hey?’
Malcolm watches Steph fuss around Roy for a while, then changes his position in the chair and chats to me.
‘I’m in a five-a-side football team,’ he says. ‘I bet you can’t guess who we played the other day?’
I look up.
‘Don’t know. One Direction?’
‘Who? Nah – there aren’t enough of them girls. No – we played that open prison.’
‘Really?’
‘Yeah! It was weird. I got sent off for a dodgy tackle and I thought they were going to put me in solitary.’
‘You should’ve played Holloway,’ says Steph, rinsing up some cups. ‘You’d have loved that.’
‘We’ve played quite a few prisons,’ he says, matter-of-factly.
‘Really? Why’s that? Are you in the business?’
‘Me? No. I’m an electrician. I couldn’t really tell you why. You’d have to talk to the manager. We were at this one place, once. It was a really old prison, one of the oldest in the country. The man in charge, he says “See that block over there? That’s where they used to hang people”.’
‘Cheery conversation for your father in law,’ says Steph, coming in with a cloth and wiping Roy’s chin.
‘I’m just saying,’ says Malcolm. ‘It’s interesting, history.’
He leans forward and taps me on the knee. ‘Between you and me,’ he says, lowering his voice, ‘I’d rather that than all this malarkey.’ He makes the universal sign of the rope – a jerky motion off to the left – then nods at Roy and winks at me. ‘Know what I mean?’

The parking attendant – a guy who’d make Vin Diesel blush – was doing his rounds. Everyone dashed out to move their cars, including me. I jumped in and sped off to find a spot out on the road.
When eventually I’d parked up and was walking back, I saw a bumblebee lying on the pavement with its legs in the air. I didn’t want anyone to step on it, so I thought I’d pick it up with whatever came to hand and move it to the grass verge. I crouched down and began gently poking it with my diary. Whether the bee was sick or stunned I don’t know but it just lay there, buzzing furiously, waggling its legs, trying to buy enough of an angle to sting me.
A kid passed by. He had an odd expression on his face, and suddenly I saw how it must have looked to him: a nurse, kneeling down in the middle of the pavement, resuscitating a bee with the point of his diary.
He hurried on.

Margaret’s basement flat is as deep and sombre and lightless as a mausoleum with TV and en-suite. The shadows in the corners have been undisturbed so long they’ve thickened and taken on an independent life of their own, rustling in the corners; I imagine when she dies, someone will have to tempt them outside with scraps of black cloth.
‘You have an interesting last name,’ I tell her, struggling to make conversation as I run through the basic obs.
‘Scotch-Irish,’ she says. ‘On my Dad’s side.’
‘Really? I love all that family tree stuff. I looked into it once, but then I got put off when I read somewhere we’re all related to Charlemagne. I mean – what’s the point?’
I write down her blood sugar level.
She stares at me.
‘It was quite interesting finding out about my grandparents, though,’ I flounder on. ‘What they did in the war and all that. But you don’t have to go back very far before you start getting overwhelmed by sheer weight of numbers. It all gets a bit dilute.’
‘I did the family tree once,’ she says.
‘Really?’
‘But I started turning up stuff no-one wanted to know about. Bad stuff. So I had to stop.’
‘Bad stuff? Like what?’
‘Just bad stuff, you know. And everyone started to go a bit funny, like they really didn’t want to know about it. You see, I’d started doing all this work. Digging around, bringing things to light. But what I didn’t know was how uncomfortable it would make everyone.’
‘What kind of stuff?’
‘I don’t know. The kind of stuff no-one wanted to hear about. It made them feel bad or something. I don’t know. So I stopped.’
‘Wow! I wonder what it could’ve been?’
She doesn’t rise to the bait.
After a moment or two I wrap a cuff round her arm and put my stethoscope to her vein.
‘So what was it you found out?’ I ask, trying the innocent busy doing something else not really paying attention approach. ‘The mind boggles!’ I say.
‘When I started telling people about it they got all funny like they really didn’t want to know,’ she says. ‘So I put it all away, ‘cos I thought – I’d better not do this. People are getting quite upset. They really, really don’t want to know.’
‘Blimey!’
I flip the stethoscope back over my shoulders.
‘That’s all fine!’ I say, ripping the Velcro and freeing her arm. ‘Family trees, hey? Who knows what you’ll find!’
She grips the arms of the chair, and stares at me whilst I write.

Helen has lived in this house ever since she moved here in the seventies. It’s a tall, elegantly proportioned, sparsely furnished Victorian town house,  a neatly organised kitchen, a roll-top bath on bare boards in the bathroom, pale green shutters on the windows, a lush patio crowded with  jasmine, vines, hydrangea, everything to hand, everything in its place.
‘It’s jolly nice of you to come out like this and see me,’ she says, re-positioning herself on the armchair. ‘I hope you didn’t get caught in that shower of rain. Where’s your brolly?’
Her osteoarthritis has severely affected her spine now; despite the morphine, and despite her efforts to hide it, you can read the pain in her face.
‘It really is most disagreeable,’ she says, looking momentarily as if the whole thing is going to overwhelm her finally. But she takes a breath or two, finds her focus again.
‘I’ve been reading Candide,’ she says at last. ‘Or re-reading it, actually. It’s a favourite of mine, a wonderful book. I’d lend it you but I’m rather attached to this copy. The best of all possible worlds. That’s the way to look at it!’
Helen is perfectly frank about her situation. The fifty years she spent as a nurse has left her with no illusions.
‘I’ve lost a good deal of weight but I’m sure it’s not cancer,’ she says. ‘It’s just that one’s taste for food rather declines the older one gets. And of course, I’m not doing anything much these days, just sitting about reading and so on. It’s not as if I’ve worked up an honest appetite. But there you are! The trials and tribulations of Helen!’
She submits to all the observations I’ve come round to take, doing as much as she can to help.
‘I used to worry I didn’t know enough,’ she says, watching me unclip my stethoscope and put it away. ‘But eventually I realised I knew even less. I’d barely scratched the surface. But that was comforting, somehow. Do you see?’
I tell her everything’s fine, her blood pressure and so on.
‘Marvellous, darling,’ she says. ‘That’s splendid.’
I write out the report.
‘Have you been to Lisbon?’ she says.
I tell her I haven’t, but I’d really like to go.
‘Well you simply must! It features in the book, of course. The terrible earthquake they had there in seventeen fifty-something. It must have been a dreadful scene – fires, rioting, a tsunami. Thousands died, I think. The place was absolutely flattened. But they rebuilt it, marvellously, which just goes to show what you can do when you put your mind to it.’
She waves the book in the air.
‘The best of all possible worlds!’
She shifts her position on the cushion, rides the pain, then puts the book back on the table.
‘Well,’ she sighs, ‘It could be worse, I suppose. Although it’s come to a pretty pass when you have to draw comfort from an eighteenth century catastrophe!’

As distances go, it’s not all that.
Certainly not as far as Dunkirk to the Middle East and back via the deserts of North Africa.
‘Churchill didn’t believe in time off’ he says, grinning toothlessly.
We’ve done as much as we can to make it easy. We’ve put the commode up close to the side of his chair and his zimmer just in front; if he shuffles to the edge of the cushion and takes a good hold, weight bears on his left leg, he should be able to skooch across. But whether it’s his chest infection, the pain in his right leg, a lack of confidence after a recent bout of falls, or simply a function of his ninety-four years, he just can’t manage it.
‘Wait a minute. Wait a minute,’ he says, casting his massive hands right and left for any kind of purchase.
‘The thing is, Len, it’ll be easier to manage things if you’re in bed and not in the chair,’ I tell him.
‘No! I don’t want to be one of them bed-bound people,’ he says. ‘I don’t want to be a burden.’
‘You’re not a burden. It’s a pleasure to help you. Come on, look. We’ll show you what we mean. It’s only temporary – to get you over this hump. When you’re feeling better you’ll be up and about again.’
‘Wait a minute,’ he says. ‘If at first you don’t succeed, try, try and try again – and if you still can’t do it, take a handful of pills and end it all.’
He reaches for his wife’s hand and squeezes it.
‘I don’t want to be a burden, love.’
She strokes his hand but doesn’t say anything.
After a moment he lets go and grabs hold of the commode and zimmer frame again.
‘Come on, Len!’ he says to himself, shuffling forwards. ‘Now then. If at first you don’t succeed…’

Gladys is sitting in her chair, one arm out so I can take her blood pressure. Her son Phil is on the sofa opposite, along with Derek, her next door neighbour. Phil’s wife Susan is clearing up in the kitchen. Every now and again she stands in the doorway and looks in.

‘So I’m not dead yet, then?’
‘No, Gladys. So far so good.’
‘Hear that, Phil? He said so far so good!’
‘That’s a relief!’
‘You can say that again.’
She looks at me and smiles.
‘I’ve got a wonderful family. I don’t want to be a burden to no-one.’
‘You’re not a burden, Gladys.’
(Susan, folding a tea towel in the kitchen doorway). ‘We’d tell you if you were.’
‘I bet you would n’all.’
I unwrap the cuff.
‘That’s all fine, Gladys. Better than mine.’
‘Better than mine he says! I like that!’
She watches me wrap the cuff away, then looks across at Philip.
‘When’s Pete coming to see me, then?’
‘Pete’s dead, mum.’
‘Oh he never is! Oh don’t say that! When did he die?’
‘Seven years ago, mum. He died of cancer. You just keep forgetting.’
‘Oh don’t, Phil. Don’t say that! He never is dead!’
‘I’m afraid so, mum.’
Her face crumples up, and it looks as if she’s going to cry. But her attention’s caught by the TV guide precariously balanced on the arm of the chair. She carefully puts it on a side table, then looks around at everyone and folds her arms.
‘What’s all this about, then?’
‘The man’s come from the hospital, mum. He’s just giving you a bit of a check-up.’
‘A check-up?’
‘Yes. An MOT.’
‘Oh, right. An MOT. And have I passed?’
‘With flying colours.’
‘Well that’s nice. So I’m not dead yet then?’
‘No. Not dead yet. Fit as a fiddle.’
‘Fit as a fiddle? I don’t know about that.’
‘There aren’t many ninety-five year olds carrying on like you do.’
‘Who’s ninety-five?’
‘You are.’
‘I’m not!’
‘’Fraid so.’
‘That’s a shame. Well – what can you do about it? Not much, I ‘spect!’
She folds her arms and looks round the room.
‘When’s Pete coming to see me?’

Alf and Audrey have been married sixty-odd years.
‘You should’ve seen her when she was young. Blimey O’Reilly, she was hot stuff. Fantastic at tennis, running – you couldn’t keep up with her.’
He shakes his head.
‘You can’t go on what you see now,’ he says. ‘You gotta think back a’ways. And it weren’t that far back, neither.’
He’s struggling to cope. Audrey’s dementia has reached the point where she leaves the house at night, sits in the armchair, crying, or talking to people who’ve long since died.
Alf is mentally intact but physically failing. He’s lost a lot of weight, keeps falling, can’t keep on top of things.
‘I don’t want her in a home,’ he says. But other than a live-in carer, which they couldn’t afford, it’s hard to know what to suggest. The wider family aren’t in a position to help.
Alf nods towards the mantelpiece.
‘That was us when we got married,’ he says.
It’s a double-framed affair, each photo behind a heart shaped mount, The World’s Greatest Grandparents in cut-out lettering between. In the first picture, Alf and Audrey are just married. They’re both squinting and smiling in the bright sunlight. Audrey has one arm hooked through Alf’s; in the other she holds a bouquet of roses so large and vigorous I half expect to see roots. In the second picture, the two of them are elderly, face to face, holding hands, probably in the same garden though it’s hard to tell.
‘I’m the handsome one on the left,’ says Alf, then leans forward. ‘D’you know what? We had our great-granddaughter  over the other day, and she was looking at that picture. She’s a funny little thing, very serious, very solemn. She was frowning away at them pictures, looking from one to the other and back again. And eventually she looks up at me and she says: ‘What happened?’
He laughs, settles back in the chair.
‘What happened? she says. Just like that, straight out with it, no messing.’
He sighs, watches me put the picture back on the mantelpiece.
‘Life, mate. That’s what happened,’ he says.

Ralph is sitting on his bed, watching ‘The Warrior’ whilst unsuccessfully trying to roll a cigarette. There are five flies cutting backwards and forwards through the smoky fug above his head. One of Ralph’s legs sticks out from under the duvet. It looks more like a weirdly shaped red-skinned potato than a human limb, pitted with the multiple scars of old ulcers, infections from his long years of drug use.

‘Have you seen this film? You can borrow it if you like. It’s pretty fucking amazing. Like dancing.

Do you know much about the Ming dynasty? That’s when it all takes place. Kind of like the Middle Ages, only in China. Those geezers are protecting the princess from the Mongols. That one’s pretty handy with a lance. He’s gonna go in a minute. Watch out! And that’s the princess. Man, she’s just perfect. So beautiful. And she can cut it up pretty rough when she wants. You just wait.

Have a seat. What’s the rush?

But keep your voice down, yeah? Some of the guys are outside drinking and I don’t want them to know I’m here. They think I’m dead and I want to surprise them later.’

It’s a shame the old hospital’s got so run down. It used to be such a lovely, busy place. Like one big family. I think I worked just about everywhere in it. I started off in the kitchens, then I was a porter. I was on the wards for a while, like a healthcare assistant. Then I finished up in the office doing general admin. The whole family worked there off and on over the years. I’m surprised they didn’t name a ward after us. The mortuary, at least.

I remember one year there were loads of people off with the Asian flu. It was really bad. So bad, Mr Reynolds, the surgeon, he comes over and he says to me “Janet, I don’t suppose you’d be able to do us a favour and help us out in the theatre this afternoon, would you?  We’ve got such a lot on and we’re down two nurses.” So I says to him: “What good am I going to be? I don’t know where nuffing is.” And he says: “Oh! You don’t want to worry about that, Janet. It’s only someone to hold stuff. We’ll tell you what’s what. We’ll look a’rter you.” So then when I asks him what they had on the books he says “This and that. The last one is women’s problems. ” Well, I had a strong stomach by that time, and there wasn’t much that’d throw me. Except everyone’s got their blind spots, and mine was down there, you know. So when I tell him that he says: “Oh! Don’t worry, Janet. You won’t have to look. We’ll set everything up so you won’t see nuffing.”

So like a mug I says yes.

Well. I spend the afternoon in the theatre. I’m passing them this and that and it’s all pretty straightforward. Then we get to the last patient, the one with the women’s problems. “It’ll be quick” he says. “All I want you to do is hold this kidney bowl out so I’ve got somewhere to put me swabs.” So I’m standing like this, holding the bowl out with one hand, the other one over my eyes. And my arm’s getting so tired it’s starting to shake, but I’m too scared to look.
Eventually Mr Reynolds taps me on the shoulder.
‘Okay Janet. You can put the bowl down now.’
‘Is it safe?’ I ask him.
‘I think so,’ he says. ‘She was back on the ward ten minutes ago.’

Hilda sits on the edge of her bed, both hands draped over the bars of the zimmer, her head tipped back, looking as mean as a Hell’s Angel relaxing at the lights. An Occupational Therapist writes notes in a folder the other side of the room.

OT: This is Jim! He’s come to do a Health Screen for you!
H: Jim? Is that what you said? He’s called Jim?
J: Yep. Hello! I’m Jim.
Studies me for a second.
H: The last Jim I knew kept ringing me up all times of the day and night asking when I was going to die so he could have all me money. We had the police on him but it didn’t help. He pulled Chas out of his wheelchair and threw him across the room. We had to take a restraining order out. He’s in prison now. I was on pills for me nerves for weeks. I never really got over it.
J: I’m sorry to hear that, Hilda. On behalf of Jims everywhere I can only apologise.
OT: Our Jim’s not like that. Are you?
J: No-o. No. Absolutely not. No.
H: I expect we’ll see about that, shan’t we?