squirrel cam

I can only think Ann was a philosopher or a physicist – or possibly a witch – because as a memorial, Ann’s Court is something of a gigantic, infernal puzzle. The other possibility is that Ann’s Court is built on some kind of ley-line snarl-up, a geo-locational snag that sends people sensitive to those things immediately insane. There has to be some reason I always get lost here, other than simply being tired and a bit dense. Being built into the side of a hill definitely doesn’t help, so that coming in the front door effectively means you’re starting off in the basement.

To be fair, even the people who live here seem to be confused. The sequence of buttons in the lift starts from lower ground. The designer has circled this button with green plastic, which I suppose in some ways suggests GO or WAY OUT. But it’s clearly not enough, because someone has taped a piece of cardboard with EXIT next to it, written in such a shaky hand I’m guessing it took them some while to find it, too. Each floor has about twenty flats, the corridors exactly the same, every front door identical, the numbers running in such a hectic, jumbled up, any-how order delivery people must come here in teams, calling out to each other at intervals, spooling out meters of fluorescent rope behind them, like cave divers.

So it’s something of a miracle that I find Dorothy’s flat.

She’s sitting in a straight-backed chair, hands on either handrest, an occasional table to her side with a plate of biscuits covered with a draped square of kitchen towel. The room is remarkably empty, with just a television, a small table and two chairs, and Dorothy. There’s a white and black plastic globe on the mantelpiece just exactly like a giant cartoon eye, which I’m guessing is a security cam.
‘Hello!’ I say. ‘I’m Jim, from the rapid response team, come to see how you are this evening.’
‘Hello,’ she says, severely. ‘Have you come to give me my pills?’
‘Yes. And anything else you need.’
‘The pills are on the top of the kitchen cabinets above the cooker,’ she says.
Dorothy watches me closely as I put my bag down and go into the little galley kitchen. It’s as bleak and empty as the rest of the flat. Above the work surfaces and the cooker are a line of cupboards. The door over the cooker looks like the cover to an extractor fan, so I ignore that and open the cupboards left and right: stacks of plates, a few cups, but no pills.
‘Not there!’ she shouts. ‘Above the cooker!’
There are some packets of pills on the very top of the extractor fan cover, although why someone would put them there I’ve no idea. It’s too high for me to reach, so I come out of the kitchen to fetch a chair.
‘What are you doing?’ she says.
‘I’m not tall enough.’
‘What do you mean, not tall enough?’
‘I need a chair.’
‘No one else needs a chair.’
‘Well – they’re probably taller than me.’
It’s odd, though. Even the tallest in our team would still struggle to reach those pills.
I go back into the kitchen and go up on my tippy toes to illustrate how far out of my reach the top of the cupboard is.
‘But they’re not up there!’ she shouts. ‘They’re in the cupboard!’
‘What – this?’ I say, pulling on the extractor fan cover.
‘Dear God – yes!’
It opens. It’s not an extractor fan cover. It’s a cupboard, with a yellow folder and a blister pack of medication.
‘Oh!’ I say, taking them out.
‘Oh,’ says Dorothy, imitating me. ‘Oh.’
Both Dorothy and the security cam scrutinise me as I check the MAR chart against the pills in the blister pack, tick the relevant boxes and dish them out.
‘I swallow this one and crunch that one,’ she says. ‘With these…’ exposing a set of yellowing teeth and clacking them rapidly.
‘Shall I get you some fresh tea?’
‘No,’ she says. ‘I like it cold.’
She takes her pills.
‘All gone!’ she says, poking out a chalky tongue.

When the visit’s all done and I’ve helped her to bed – the bedroom and the bathroom both with the same, giant eyeball cams – I turn out the lights and leave the flat. The floor lights snap on automatically, a vista of identical doors, identical landscape prints on the walls.

I decide not to use the lift, because it’s only three floors up, I need the exercise, and anyway, because of the pandemic, you shouldn’t use the lift unless it’s really necessary.

I open a door that seems to lead to the stairs but instead leads to a laundry room. The door next to it is even worse, opening onto a tiny space that doesn’t seem to have any purpose at all, except maybe as a priest hole. Back out onto the corridor, I decide to follow the exit signs. A white figure striding purposefully through a white door, on a green sign that says EXIT. It couldn’t be clearer. And yes – thankfully – it does lead to a staircase. A staircase that goes straight down, two flights per level, to a deadend landing where the EXIT door is locked with a shatterglass handle FOR EMERGENCIES ONLY. I figure there must be a staircase either end of each landing, the one at the other end leading to the foyer and the real way out. So I go back up to the landing above, and follow the corridor round, past endlessly anonymous front doors, to the EXIT sign at the far end. I reason that because I started up from the Lower Ground, I’ve just walked up to the ground floor, so to get to the Lower Ground exit I need to walk back down. So I’m completely confused to find more flats where the foyer should be. It’s only later I realise that because the block is built into the side of a hill, the EMERGENCY EXIT is actually on the ground floor. And what also doesn’t help is that although there are two flights of stairs per floor, there’s an extra, shorter flight down to the EMERGENCY EXIT. In my disoriented state I hadn’t realised that, because of the hill, I only needed to go up one flight of stairs to get to Ground level, then walk along that corridor to the other end and descend two flights of stairs to get back to the entrance on the LOWER GROUND. It’s simple, really, when you draw a diagram. And slow your breathing.

At the time, though, the only way I could escape from the block was to find the lift and press the button for LG with the shakily written EXIT sign taped next to it. I felt like writing something there myself. Thank you.

Back outside, the crisp Spring air never felt so wonderful. I stand a moment filling my lungs, wanting to throw my arms out to the side like Tim Robbins in The Shawshank Redemption. When I look back down I notice a squirrel, perched on the railings of the adjoining park. It has been staring at me as it chews a nut, but when it sees that I’ve seen it, instantly stops. Its tiny, Squirrel Cam eyes zoom in. Then in one clean motion, it grips the nut between its little yellow teeth, flashes its tail, flips on the spot, and vanishes.

wizards, ghosts, vampires

Every time I visit Cutter Street I think of Platform 9 3/4 in Harry Potter. It takes the same crazy leap of faith to make the turn off the busy main drag, to shut your eyes and swing a right between the Pottery Play Barn and the Natural Funeral shop, where no sane person would ever think to hang a right without catastrophically jamming the nose of the car into an alleyway even a cat would pull its whiskers in to enter. But amazingly, the brick walls either side seem to lean away, like they respect anyone mad enough to come through. And the path quickly widens in a magical, funnel-like way, and suddenly you’re parking-up in a generous courtyard with an office block one side and a housing block the other, both of them dropped fully formed from the sky by a giant who wanted to keep them secret.

And all of this seems to fit, because I’ve been asked to come and see a patient who’s seeing ghosts.

The GP is querying a UTI. When they’re bad they can give you hallucinations, so it has to be the most likely explanation – certainly in Gerry’s case, who’s had them before, more vulnerable since he was fitted with a catheter a couple of years ago. The GP has already sent over a short course of antibiotics, just in case, and then asked for us to take bloods and get some more information.

I buzz Gerry’s number. He sounds confused when he answers through the intercom, but there’s a lot of crackling and interference. He doesn’t buzz the main door open, though, so I’m forced to go to Plan B, which is to ring the neighbour in the flat next to his. After a minute or two an elderly guy in a Chelsea football shirt and jogging bottoms appears. It’s strange to see him in those clothes, like he aged seventy years on the journey from his flat to the main door.
‘You’ve come for Gerry,’ he says.
‘Yes. Sorry to bother you. The doctor sent me.’
He bats the air – whether to say it’s no bother or he doesn’t believe in doctors, it’s hard to say.
‘This way,’ he says, turns and leads me in an odd, shuffle trot through the deserted lobby to the foot of the stairs.
Gerry is standing at the top, looking down.
‘Oh!’ I say. ‘You must be Gerry!’
‘I found him outside’ says the guy in the football kit. ‘Says the doctor sent him or something.’
‘I was coming down to let you in,’ says Gerry.
‘That’s great!’ I say. ‘Are you alright if we go to your flat and have a quick chat?’
He stands there, holding onto the rail, thinking about it.
For some reason I say:
‘Permission to come aboard, sir?’ and salute.
Football guy laughs.
‘I’ll pipe you up,’ he says, and makes a toothless whistle.
Gerry salutes, too, which I take as a good sign. Football guy slaps me on the shoulder, says: ‘If you want me I’ll be in my flat. Flat number one.’
‘I rang flat five though,’ I say.
‘Oh. That’s right. I meant five. What did I say?’
‘No. Five. Flat five. I’ll be in flat five.’
I’m not sure if he’s confused or covering for something, but I don’t have a chance to form more of an idea because he turns on the spot and shuffle-trots off.
‘Come on then,’ says Gerry, turning and walking off down the hallway. I sprint up the steps to catch up with him.

Gerry’s flat is lush. It’s filled with dark wooden antiques, old prints of The Great Exhibition and whatnot, marble busts, fern jardinieres and dominating the whole thing, centre stage on a circular, teak dining table, a huge ceramic parrot.
‘How are you feeling?’ I ask Gerry as he settles down in his armchair.
‘Fine,’ he says. ‘I don’t know what all the rumpus is about.’
‘I think the doctor was worried you might have an infection or something.’
‘Why would they think that?’
‘They said you were seeing things. Is that right?’
‘Yes,’ he says. ‘But I’ve been seeing them since I was six.’
‘What kind of things?’
He raises his shoulders, purses his lips, raises his eyebrows, shakes his head repeatedly from side to side, then completely relaxes again. It’s a funny, all-in-one expression, like he’s concentrating all his confusion into one, short mega-shrug.
‘Oh… people – mostly,’ he says.
He strokes the leather arms of his chair.
‘But I’ve always been interested in… you know… what’s it called…?’
‘Yes. That’s it. The occult. I used to be in a group… a whaddyacallit?… god, my memory… ?’
‘I don’t know. A coven?’
‘No. When you all come together and summon the spirits.’
‘A seance?’
‘Is it? Anyway, I’ve always had the gift.’
‘Do the ghosts worry you?’
‘No. Not at all. Yesterday it was my mum, dad and sister. They’ve been dead twenty years but they were drifting through the flat.’
‘That must’ve been quite nice to see them.’
‘They didn’t stay long.’
I’m tempted to make a crack about that, but I hold off in case it doesn’t help.
I take his blood pressure, temperature and so on. Everything checks out.
‘The doctor wants some blood, too,’ I say.
‘Typical vampire,’ says Gerry.

the rabbit in the room

Rosie isn’t answering the intercom or her phone, and there’s no keysafe, so it’s a stroke of luck that at that exact moment, Frieda, the scheme manager, arrives.

Frieda is a formidable figure. Tall and broad, her thick black hair tightly pulled back and fixed with a comb, her fingers knuckled with silver rings of amethyst and turquoise. ‘Show me ID’ she says, waggling them at me.
‘Come’ she says, after comparing me with the photo.
I follow her in.
Frieda’s office is a converted broom cupboard to the side of the main entrance. There’s really only room for Frieda, a desk, a chair and a filing cabinet, and all her movements have a practiced economy. She unlocks the door with a huge bundle of keys, turns on the PC, grabs sheaves of paper out of the filing cabinet, hangs her gilet up on the back of the door, runs her finger down a wall planner – the whole time talking to me about the problem they’re having with Rosie, one of their residents.

‘It happen from last September,’ she says, slamming the filing cabinet drawer shut with a vigorous sideswipe of her hip. ‘They take her to hospital for scan of head, but she totally freak out. She thought they were going to put the machine in her, and not other way round. So. They never find out what is going on in here…’
She raps her temple twice with her mobile work phone. It makes an audible clunk.
‘For example – did you hear about budgie?’
‘What d’you mean? What budgie?’
‘Rosie have budgie bird. In cage. She love it. The budgie is a very sweet little bird if you like that kind of thing. Anyway, Rosie accidentally smother this budgie.’
‘She smothered it? How?’
‘We not sure. We think she got some idea about budgie and wrapped it up in blanket. And .. well … turns out, not such a good thing for budgie. So Rosie very upset and we had funeral and everything. I had just finish jar of coffee so we put it in that, and we bury in garden. All very nice and so on. But then she was still upset, so we got plastic budgie and put it on perch. And now she think this is still same budgie, and we even have to buy it seed, although we only pretend that part, and use same box.’
‘That’s a shame!’
‘Yes. Whole thing a shame. We’ve been trying to get this thing sorted out but the doctors never do nothing. Social workers, the mental health people, they phone up, they say this meeting will happen…. that meeting will happen … but at end of day nothing happen, and Rosie is still in her flat never eating, and seeing things, and we don’t know what to do.’
‘That’s where we come in. We’ll certainly do our best to move things along.’
‘Yes? You move things along? Well. I like that, but I believe it when I see it.’
She pushes her mask more fully over nose, and glares at me over the top of it.
‘Come,’ she says. ‘We see her now.’

She body-steers me further into the hallway, turns and locks the office door.
‘I am like jailer,’ she says, twirling the bunch of keys with her index finger through the carabiner clip. ‘Good job for you I am here. I do not think she would let you in otherwise.’

Riding up in the lift, Frieda makes a couple of calls to some other residents. She’s ruthlessly pragmatic.
‘They answer phone, hello, they still alive, good,’ she says, pressing the call off. ‘Move on.’
She tells me Rosie had bloods done the day before. I knew this because I’d checked the results on the system and everything had come back as normal. It looked as if the increasing confusion Rosie was experiencing had other, less reversible causes.
‘She’s not coping,’ says Frieda as we step out of the lift. ‘If it were not for me and Junie in flat next door buying food and getting her to eat, she would be dead by now.’
‘You are good,’ I say.
She shrugs, rattles her keys.
‘Is job,’ she says.


Out on floor five and Frieda sweeps down the long corridor like the spirit of the place she is, with me trailing in her wake. Midway down there’s a workman kneeling, getting ready to hang a new fire door.
‘Eric’ says Frieda. He starts, almost scuffing the hinge recess with his chisel.
‘Oh!’ he says. ‘Jesus! You made me jump.’
‘Just checking you not sleeping on job,’ she says.
‘No,no,’ says Eric, but it makes me think maybe that’s a thing with Eric.

Eventually we arrive outside Rosie’s door.
Frieda gives me a look that her mask only emphasises, then knocks, loudly, twice.
‘Rosie? Hello darling! Is Frieda, Manager.’
She swings up the bunch of keys, finds the master instantly, and unlocks the door.
‘How are you, darling? I have nurse person with me today to see how you are. Is okay to come in…?’

I follow her into a dark and narrow hallway, doors closed either side and straight ahead, with one door open to the right. We go through into a tiny sitting room with a large birdcage on a coffee table with a plastic budgie taped in the middle of the perch. There are cuddly toys everywhere: rabbits, bears, mice, a knitted woolly mammoth, all of them lined up or arranged in precarious groups on shelves, on a rocking chair, on the top of the telly, on the back and arms of the sofa, on the coffee table – and in the middle of it all, in the last, clear spot of carpet, stands Rosie, her hair wild and her eyes wide, as tiny and frail and bewildered as an embroidered mouse whose plush has rubbed and whose stuffing is lost and whose whiskers, such as they are, twitch anxiously.
‘Hello my darling!’ says Frieda. ‘Is good to see you! This is Jim. He nurse assistant from hospital or something, come to see how you are and move things along.’
I nod and wave as harmlessly as I can. Rosie flinches, blinking quickly and precisely.
‘Hello, Rosie!’ I say.


After winning Rosie’s trust with a round of marmalade toast and a cup of tea, she lets me take her blood pressure, temperature and so on. Despite her malnourished state, her lack of personal hygiene and the fact she threw her medication away months ago, her health is surprisingly good.
‘So you’re sleeping on the sofa?’ I say.
She nods.
‘Yes. I can’t go into the bedroom any more because of all the people in there.’
‘Oh? That’s a shame! Who are they?’
‘I don’t like to ask,’ she says. ‘I keep out of their way.’
‘Shall we have a look in there now? I’m here to protect you.’
‘Well… if you think,’ she says.

I open the door into the bedroom. A pair of heavy, red velour curtains are drawn across the opposite windows. Even though it’s a bright Spring day outside, the best the sun can do is make the curtains glow, filling the room with a deep, blood-red gloom. It seems pretty neat, though – a wide, wooden double bed made up with a patchwork quilt, a line of embroidered pillows and scatter cushions at the head end, and propped up on the pillows, a large toy rabbit.
‘What a lovely bedroom!’ I say. ‘Shame you have to sleep on the sofa. And I love the rabbit!’
‘Who’s done this…?’ says Rosie, ignoring me, going up to the rabbit and fussing round it with the pillows.
‘No wonder he’s grumpy,’ I say, but my bonhomie dies a little behind my mask, because in the hectic red shade of the room, it’s hard to dodge the feeling that the rabbit is staring straight back at me, his eyebrows lowering, as Rosie fusses and clucks around it.
‘Shall we draw the curtains?’ I say. ‘Just a little. To let in some light…?’

the king

I’ve seen plenty of Elvis clocks before, clocks made from painted plates where the hands sweep over his portrait; clocks where the dial is set in a golden record beneath a selection of silhouette poses; clocks where his wooden legs swing from side to side at the hip. But I’ve never seen an Elvis clock like the one just above Janet’s head. It’s a brutal, plain cream affair, curved at the top, square at the bottom, like a jukebox I suppose, except without the colour or the interest. There are no likenesses or photos or signatures, just his name above the dial, The King below it, and either side, at nine and three o’clock, 1935 and 1977. You may as well have his gravestone up there on the wall, marking out the time.

The only reason I can think of for having it up there is that Janet was given it as a present. But then – she’s put it in a prominent place, on the wall immediately behind her chair, and not tucked away in the hallway. And to be fair, the other Elvis memorabilia is so awful it’s a relief to have somewhere else to rest your eyes, other than the comedy plastic figure on the mantelpiece doing the jailhouse rock on the mantelpiece in a blade of sunshine, and certainly not the Elvis mirror to the left of it, where the artist has reduced the smoulder to an evil sneer.

It doesn’t help that Janet has a thyroid condition that makes her eyes bulge, or that she’s a little anxious and grips the arms of her chair so tightly her knuckles whiten. In the close, hectic atmosphere of her front room, it’s hard to resist the feeling we’re in some kind of domestic diving chamber, coming up to the surface too quickly.

‘He was only forty-two when he died,’ I say, doing the math from the clock. ‘Such a shame.’
‘Yes,’ says Janet. ‘And do you know how he died?’
I stop myself mentioning anything about giant hamburgers or pills or toilets, and go for something blander than the clock.
‘Heart attack?’
She nods.
‘Forty-two,’ she says again.
And then: ‘Terrible.’
Elvis sneers at me from the mirror.

I’d been asked to accompany the nurse on the visit. I couldn’t see any specific risk on the system, but sometimes you have to dig deep to find the original cause, and frankly, I didn’t have time. Plus the visit rounded the day off nicely, so I was happy enough to tag along. It was a simple visit, too, so there really was nothing for me to do other than sit opposite Janet and talk to her about this and that, and make her some tea, and generally ease things along whilst the nurse cantered through her review. For now she was in the bathroom, dipping a sample of urine, and I was sitting in the front room, marking time with the clock.

‘I went to Graceland,’ says Janet.
‘Did you?’
‘Wow! What was that like?’
‘I went with the club. It was a long time ago, before they let you in the house. I saw the gardens. I saw the swimming pool. I saw the grave.’
‘That’s amazing! The grave!’
‘Yes. I saw it all.’
‘So that was a little while ago…?’
‘Nineteen eighty-two. But then my aunt died and I was left all alone.’
‘Oh. I’m sorry to hear that.’
The nurse strides in from the bathroom, waving a dipstick in the air.
‘All clear!’ she says.
Janet turns her enormous eyes in her direction.
The clock ticks loudly on the wall.

can I move

Callum is watching Butch Cassidy & The Sundance Kid. Butch and Sundance have escaped to Bolivia and are trying to get hired as guards on a mule train. The foreman wants to know if Sundance can handle a gun, so he throws a rock a little way off. Sundance adopts his gunslinger stance, but the foreman says he just wants to see if he can shoot, taking the gun out of Sundance’s holster and putting it in his hand. Sundance misses. The foreman turns away, but then Sundance says : ‘Can I move?’, draws his gun, shatters the rock, spins the gun around and slips it back in his holster. ‘I’m better when I move’ he says.

If there is a subliminal message in this for Callum, he quickly shoots it down – as ruthlessly as Sundance – with a remote control instead of a pistol.

‘Alright?’ he says, returning the remote to a pocket slung like a holster on the side of the recliner.

I couldn’t tell you how many times we’ve seen Callum. It always follows the same pattern. Callum falls over, the ambulance picks him up, then refers him to our team for review. Callum is middle-aged and morbidly obese, dividing his time between the recliner, the bed and the floor. He’s locked-in to a self-destructive loop of ill health and dependency, his whisky drinking and poor diet making him heavier and more unwell, which makes him less mobile and more likely to fall, exacerbating his depression, driving him back to the whisky. The change he most needs to make is to stop drinking, of course. Callum knows that as well as anyone. It’s difficult though. The drinking long ago stopped being a way of making him feel more relaxed and comfortable in the world; these days he drinks just to stay level. Mentally, anyway.

We check him over, talk through what happened, review his equipment, read through his notes. Environmentally his flat is as good as it gets: clean and clutter-free, with plenty of room to move with his walker, more grab rails around the place than a cross-channel ferry, emergency pull cords, carers coming in three times a day.
‘It’s embarrassing,’ he says. ‘I hate being like this.’
We talk about the possibility of another referral to the substance abuse service.
‘I’ve done all that,’ he says. ‘Nothing happened’ – as passively as if he were describing a trip to the garage to have a new exhaust fitted, and for some reason they didn’t bother. ‘I don’t know what to do.’

We end the visit as we always do, telling him we’ll update his GP.
‘Good luck with that,’ he says.
I shrug.
‘It’s easy for us to come back,’ I say. ‘You know how it goes.’

As I write the notes he puts the TV back on again. It’s the last scene. Butch and Sundance are badly wounded, reloading their pistols, crouching behind a wall. Meanwhile, dozens of Bolivian soldiers have taken up position around the place, ready to shoot. We know Butch and Sundance are doomed, but still, they share some more cute banter, something about Australia and a future we know they’ll never see. Suddenly Butch says ‘Wait! Did you see Lefors out there?’ Sundance says he didn’t. ‘Good,’ says Butch, relieved. ‘For a minute I thought we were in trouble.’ They run out into the open. There’s a volley of shots. The film freezes. The closing music plays.
‘Thanks a lot, guys! See you later!’ says Callum.
And he pours himself another drink.

junk epiphany

I’ve never seen so much food. Walking into the kitchen I stop and shake my head in wonder. I’m like Howard Carter stumbling into the tomb of Tutankhamun, suddenly confronted by shelves piled high with fabulous riches: sweet chilli noodles; party packs of M&Ms; currant pastries; catering packs of crisps and cheetos (not for resale); a Colin the Caterpillar, happily gutted from the middle out; cream cheese n’chive pretzels; a plate of fruit (untouched); chocolate biscuits; chocolate rolls; chocolate truffles, chocolate for injection (I think) – and as if that wasn’t enough sugar, a shrink-wrapped twelve-pack of energy drinks.

It’s a perfect storm of junk food, and the reason for it is that there’s been a perfect storm of people leaving.

There are always good reasons to go. It might be the exorbitant cost of accommodation in the south. It might be better job offers elsewhere, better opportunities to train, or upgrade, or move into management. It might be the need to do something different, to shake things up, to rediscover what it was that drew you to nursing in the first place, or confirm what it was that made you want to quit. It might be burn out, ill-health, retirement, whatever. The fact is, though, if you take a step back, and breathe, and cast your eyes over the broader picture, you have to think this team’s retainment record is shot. It’s the kind of graphic you’d hastily click through in a presentation, or – ideally – omit from the slideshow altogether.

Honestly? I don’t know why things are so bad (national pandemic aside). Nursing in the community isn’t for everyone, that’s a given. You don’t have the immediate support you have in a hospital. You’re not surrounded by doctors and nurses and administrators and cleaners in a well-lit building with every kind of machine and every kind of clinician to work them. In a community health team, every day you’re stepping out into the medical wildlands, with only a kit bag, a nose for danger and a phone. It’s a level of responsibility that has some practitioners quickly developing a twitch, but for some it’s the perfect place to practice their skill. You’re forced to improvise, to adapt to the crazily different scenarios you walk into: environmental, social, medical. And until they develop a drone that will hover at your shoulder and offer reassurance and advice, YOU are the drone, and you’re flying by yourself.


It’s late in the evening. I’ve swapped hats, from nursing support to office administrator, helping on the phones, taking referrals, troubleshooting. I’ve just come back from the sugar nirvana of the kitchen with a handful of M&Ms, and I’m busy tossing them down my beak with one hand whilst I work through the patient list with the other. And suddenly – whether it’s something in the blue M&Ms, or that lucent kind of tiredness you get when you’ve been concentrating for hours – but I have a sudden moment of insight, and I’m not just scrolling through names on a screen anymore but through a landscape of scenes, drifting through them like a tiny, shiny, sugar-coated ghost. The woman who was discharged home to die, and promptly did die, that very afternoon, before any of us had a chance to see her. The man who self-discharged from hospital after an overdose, and went back to his boat to drink whisky and consider his options. The woman struggling to look after her husband whose dementia means he punches the cot sides all night and day. The man who took out his phone to film the occupational therapist when she called on him to see what he needed. The woman who nursed her husband through his last years, and now faces her own decline completely alone. The woman who cannot cope at home, but doesn’t want to leave her home, and the exhausted daughters who want us to simply put her in a home. The woman starving herself, staying in bed so long she has pressure sores. The woman with the new stoma, who died on the table, and saw God, and came back, and how angry she is about that, and the business of wearing a bag. Each scene merging into the other, blurring on the screen, until it’s not one or two patients anymore, but a never-ending roll call of problems, because for every one we solve and discharge from service, another two referrals come in.
‘GP on the line’ says April, the call taker in the hub. ‘Wants to know if we’ve got capacity for a faller…’
I toss down the last of the M&Ms, smack my hands clean, pick up a pen.
‘Put ‘em through.’

Because – I don’t know – what else is there?

the thaddeus affair

I only realised I’d met Thaddeus before when I squeezed through the gap in the hedge and walked up the path. The entrance to his house is ridiculously narrow, with two wooden panels left and right – the left one bolted shut – a step down into a porch just big enough for one person, then a step up to a front door that can only open so far because of all the clutter. It’s such a struggle forcing my way inside, it makes me feel like a calf being born, breech, only in reverse.

The last time I’d seen Thaddeus was a couple of years ago. He’d waved to me from his armchair in the front bay window, a cheery academic in some kind of bibliographic lighthouse, surrounded by hefty works on history, art, art history, philosophy and so on. He’d been having trouble with his mobility back then – a feature of his increasing age and frailty, and the number of books lying around. As I go through into the lounge, I see that his armchair and the books are still there, the eclectic range of pictures on the walls, Frieda Kahlo, Napoleon’s retreat from Moscow, a yellowing certificate from the Sorbonne, and so on – but the man himself was gone, wheeled through to the backroom and the hospital bed newly installed there.

‘Ah!’ he says. ‘Welcome! Do come in! Lovely to see you! How are you?’
He seems lighter than before. Even his beard seems thinner, the flesh of his face pale and drawn down.
‘Do take a seat,’ he says. ‘I’m afraid you find me in rather straitened circumstances.’

I’ve come with Dipna the OT to review the use of a stand aid that’s been delivered, but it quickly becomes apparent that Thaddeus needs cleaning up, the bed changing and so on. A quick set of obs also makes the idea of anything other than bed care inadvisable. I set up a cleaning station with a trash bag, a bowl of warm soapy water, wipes, towel and barrier cream, and set to work, Dipna assisting with log-rolling as the clean advances and we figure out how to change the sheets. It’s a complex, ruthlessly practical business, but Thaddeus takes it all in good heart, maintaining a commentary of such a wide-ranging and erudite character it’s difficult to keep up. At one point, though, amongst all the French and Latin and what have you, I make out the name Dreyfus.

Sometimes, when you’re watching a quiz like ‘University Challenge’ or ‘Mastermind’, you instinctively respond to the toughest question because it hooks something out of you that you didn’t know you knew. And because you say it so confidently and naturally – like it was nothing at all, something anyone would know – it suddenly makes you look incredibly smart, even though for most of the time you’ve been watching the quiz with your mouth slack, because you’re too lazy to get up and look for the remote. And the truth is, maybe you saw the answer years ago, in an advert, maybe, or overheard it on the train, and it lodged for some reason, like those people who get shot in the war and it’s only years later when they go for an x-ray to investigate migraines and the radiographer points to the pale outline of a bullet. And maybe you have a whole mess of other scraps in there, too, a mess it would take a lifetime of quizzes, or maybe some kind of truth drug, to clean out.

The point is, Thaaddeus says Dreyfus.

‘Ah!’ I say, tossing a wipe. ‘The Dreyfus Affair!’

Thaddeus grabs my gloved hand.

‘I thought I recognised those eyes above the mask! Esterhazy! So it was you!’ he says. ‘Mon Dieu! Now I see it! You’ve been using your time travelling skills and your schmutzig Deutschmarks to foment bitterness about the world! Will you never be satisfied?’
‘C’est vrai!’ I tell him. ‘C’est moi!’

And I just hope he doesn’t expect any more French than that.


When I phone to check if it’s okay to visit, a dog barks so loudly it’s as if the dog has answered and not Eileen. There’s the sound of a desperate struggle – which is either Eileen trying to wrestle the receiver out of the dog’s paw, or Eileen dropping the phone, grabbing the dog by the collar and dragging it off into the kitchen. I’m guessing it’s the later, because after a long pause when all I can hear is the sound of muted, non-specific threats, more barking, doors slamming, and then the sound of slippers and heavy breathing approaching, the phone gets swept up again and Eileen answers with a gasp: ‘Who is it?’
‘My name’s Jim. I’m a nursing assistant from Rapid Response at the hospital. I’ve been asked to come take some blood this afternoon, if that’s okay.’
‘Fine,’ she says. ‘So long as you don’t mind dogs.’
‘I like dogs.’
‘Do you?’ she says. ‘You might change your mind after this one. I’ll put him in the kitchen before I let you in.’
‘Honestly – I’m good with dogs.’
‘Yeah?’ says Eileen. ‘Well there’s dogs and there’s dogs.’
We settle on a time.
I look forward to proving her wrong.


From the outside at least, the bungalow looks innocent enough. None of those chintzy warnings you sometimes see: I LIVE HERE! with a picture of a dachshund or something; a door mat with a fake bite taken from one corner: Beware of the Dog! , or one I saw recently, which was a silhouette of a doberman against the words: I can make it to the door in two seconds. Can YOU? and so on.
I knock, and take a step back. There’s an urgent skittering of paws, a crash against the door, and an enormous barking so resonant I feel it more than hear it.
‘Nero! Nero!’ shouts Eileen. ‘No Nero! C’mere!’
More scuffling and cursing. It’s strangely subdued, though, like the violence is quite routine, two bad tempered wrestlers going through the motions.
‘Jes’ a minute! Jes’ a minute!’ wheezes Eileen – although whether to me or Nero it’s impossible to say.
It takes about ten minutes for her to drag him away and bang him up in the kitchen. Eventually she shuffles back to the door and opens it.
‘Hello,’ she says, straightening her wig. There’s the sound of an enormous nose sniffing under the kitchen door – which is actually more of a flimsy screen, and would struggle to hold a rabbit.
‘He’s a bastard,’ says Eileen. ‘He’s not even my dog.’
‘Whose is he then?’
‘My son’s, but he’s away.’
‘How long for?’
‘Too long. C’mon in. Let’s get this done quick before he wrecks the place.’

The sitting room is dominated by a gigantic portrait of an Alsatian, and I wonder if Eileen’s baby-sitting this, too. It’s such a funny, formal pose – upright, three-quarter length, the kind of outraged frown you might see on a High Court judge. I wouldn’t be surprised to see the artist had added a houndstooth waistcoat and a pocket watch.
‘Yeah. That’s ‘im,’ says Eileen, collapsing back on the sofa, her legs kicking up so violently her slippers almost fly off. ‘His eyes follow you. Like real life.’
‘He certainly looks like a Nero,’ I say. ‘Very intelligent.’
‘You think? Well if he’s so smart, how come he failed the police exam?’

the summerhouse

Angelina has already said ciao a number of times, to her team, to us, to the office plants. She’s already put on her oversized coat and knitted hat, hooked a mask round her ears, picked up her bags of dressings and things, her laptop bag, her folders and what have you. It’s only then she remembers what it was she wanted to tell us.

‘Ooooh! My God! Listen to me! I have a story to tell you! You will love this story! It is soooo creepy!’

Everyone stops what they’re doing and waits whilst she puts everything back down again.
We know it’ll be worth it. Angelina tells a great story. Her enthusiasm, her playfulness, her Italian accent – the musical way it swoops, stops unexpectedly, tumbles enthusiastically on again – it all rushes together into a fast flowing river of words, carrying you along at breakneck speed and dumping you over a waterfall.

She puts all her things back on the desk, but leaves her hat and mask on. It’s like watching a great actress tell a story from inside a letterbox.

‘Weeeellll! You know Mrs Carpenter, the little old lady who live in the nice flat by the park? Yes? You know her? Well! She told me what happen to her. She used to live in a big old house with her mother, on the other side of the park. In fact, she was born there, and never went nowhere else. Just upstairs, downstairs, in the garden, out to work. She got on fine with her mother, they were very happy in their world. The daughter she do all the shopping and so on. Went to market. Went to work. Happy Christmas. Happy Easter. Like that for many, many years, and no-one coming round much, except a few friend for the book group and whatnot. All very nice and thank you very much and that is it. She told me they had a nice little summerhouse at the end of the garden. Not a shed for the lawn machines or the spades, but a nice little wooden place with windows and a little veranda for the mother to snooze in her lounger on sunny day and do the knitting and watching the apple blossom falling on the grass. So. Then. What happen was, the old lady died, suddenly. In her chair. Mrs Carpenter found her when she took her out some tea. Lying on the lounger, dead. Boom. So. What would you do? Mrs Carpenter panicked. She picked the phone up. She put it down again. She picked it up. She put it down again. She tell me she didn’t want anyone taking her mummy away, because she’d be on her own in the big house. So – she say – she need time to think. So she wrap her mummy up in a blanket, and closed the door of the summerhouse, and went back down the garden. And the more days went by, the more she couldn’t bear to think of her mummy being taken away. She was comfy on her lounger. It wasn’t too bad. And more time passed. She didn’t go inside and disturb the blankets when she went down there, so she didn’t see what happen. But she did go down every day when she finish work, and stand on the veranda of the summerhouse , and say through the door: ‘How are you mummy? How was your day? Mine was okay, thank you for asking…’ Like that. For ten years! TEN YEARS! Until she had to sell the house. She got so used to her mummy being down in the summerhouse she didn’t worry when the estate agent come round to say how much for the place. ‘That’s a nice little summerhouse at the bottom of the garden’ he said. ‘Oh yes,’ she say. ‘My mummy live there’ she say. ‘Your what?’ And oh my God! I would love to have been there when she took him down to say hi! I would LOVE it!’

‘I expect she was a mummy by that time!’ says Andrei.
‘Yeeeees! A big scary mummy, wrapped up in blankets, with a cup of tea and maybe a hat. I ask her if she get in trouble from the police, but she say ‘No – a pathologist took a look at her and didn’t think she had been murdered. So I only got a fine for failing to notify the coroner of unexpected death.’ So she sell the big old house and she move to this sheltered place. And now her mummy is propped up by the door with her arms out – like this – so you can hang up your coat when you go in.’

‘You’re kidding!’
‘Of course I’m kidding. They buried her in the local cemetery. What you think – she CRAZY?’

the foreman

Jack moves like a marionette where the puppeteer got pissed, broke into the theatre, hung a puppet on stage and delivered a long and confusing monologue to a row of empty seats. I definitely get the feeling I may as well not be there. When I’ve gone, no doubt he’ll slide the door chain back into place, pat it once or twice, then drop down on the spot, his strings piled on top of him.

If he is a puppet, the artist carved him with a pretty blunt chisel. A prominent nose-and-chin. Two thickly lidded eyes that blink audibly, out of sync, one in 2021, one in 1958. Two ears made of improvised hubcaps nailed unevenly either side.

Jack doesn’t want any help. He’s happy as he is – rolling unsteadily down the corner shop with his three wheeled walker. Stocking up on Teachers. Rattling back. His daughter drops by occasionally with microwave meals, but I get the impression she’s at her wit’s end. She’s not here for the assessment. She’s home nursing a migraine.

Jack leans forward in his chair. His right hand swings to the front; his left swings round to meet it.
‘First job,’ he says. ‘I was fifteen. I turn up at the yard, and there are all these other guys standing round. And I say ‘Alright?’ and they say ‘Yeah’. Then the foreman turns up in his big, black coat. He looks at me and he says: ‘What do YOU want?’ And I say: ‘I wanna job, don’t I?’ ‘Oh’ he says. ‘Well – how about Foreman?’ And I says; ‘Yeah. That’ll do me.’ ‘Oh,’ he says: ‘Like that, is it? So come on, then. What’s the first thing you’d do if you was the Foreman?’ So I look around, and I see this dustcart parked in the yard. And I shout out: ‘Oi! What’s that bleedin’ great thing doin’ there?’ And the Foreman says ‘Sorry! We didn’t know what to do with it.’ So I say: ‘Right! Get that bastard thing outta here!’ So he give me the job. Five and six a week.’

He blinks, left, then right. Then takes a deep, sighing breath, and carries on.

‘This was the Foreman’s flat, y’know. He give it me. He was sat where you’re sitting now. In his big, black coat. Things got difficult for him. Money this, money that and I don’t know what. He knew it was only going to get worse. So he come in here, took his scarf. Then him and his wife got in the bath. And he tied the scarf round both their necks, and they lay down, and put the taps on, and that was them. Gone. The council come along. Drained the water. Unscrewed the bath. Took ‘em both out in it.’

He gives such an emphatic nod I feel like putting my hands out to catch his head. Then he blinks, gives a throaty sniff, and smiles at me.

‘That’s weird!’ I say. ‘Why did they take them out in the bath?’
‘They emptied it first.’
‘But still. It seems like a lot of work.’
‘That’s the council for you.’

He takes a sip of the tea I made him, then screws his face up. ‘I thought that was whisky,’ he says. ‘Blaargh!’
I take the mug off him before he spills it, then take my chair again.
Jack sits forward. The hands swing round, ready.

‘Next day,’ he says, ‘they send the Foreman over. He’s standing there in his big, black coat. He says to me ‘Jack,’ he says, ‘What do you want? Another bath? Or maybe a shower this time?’ And I say to him ‘You’ve only just taken the bloody bath out of here!’ So he says ‘Alright, alright. Don’t make a fuss.’ So I say ‘Go on – put a shower in. But I want the tiling done nice.’ So they send round this kid, who stands there looking about. And after a while I say to him: ‘So what’ve you come to do, then? Apart from stand there with your thumb up your arse.’ And he says ‘The tiling.’ So I say, ‘D’you know how to do tiling?’ And he says ‘No, I’ve only been here a week. I haven’t done the course yet’. So I say ‘Come here!’ And I did it.’

He flops back in the chair.

‘But that’s the council for you,’ he says, smiling so broadly the tip of his nose and the point of his chin almost meet. ‘That’s the council, right there.’