sketches

on all fours

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

The cottage that Jenny has shared with her mother for thirty years is a narrow, two-storey affair, squashed between its neighbours, a knocked-through living area at ground level, Jenny’s bedroom and a spare room on the first, her mother’s bedroom and the bathroom on the second, the whole thing connected by a staircase as bare and steep as a spinal column. Over the years the two of them have held onto everything that came their way – books, pictures, papers, nick-nacks, cables, lamps, linen, plates, cameras, typewriters, spools of thread, film, whatever – the whole lot either stuffed in carrier bags, strapped in old suitcases or packed in plastic crates, everything piled-up, stuffed-in, balanced-on, walled-up, to the extent that you turn round on the spot looking for somewhere to put your bags, complete a full circle, and end up standing there smiling bravely instead.

‘I’m so sorry about the mess – I’ve been trying to have a bit of a tidy up since mummy became ill – well, I say ill – I should say iller – if that was a word – is that a word? – maybe I just invented a word! – because you know I’m not the full ticket myself – I’m half worn out – you should see me going up those stairs – on all fours half the time – like a goat! – well, not a goat, more like a monkey – a monkey with a bad back – you see, I had a cancer scare – I’m sixty after all – I suppose you’ve got to expect these things – it’s a shock when they happen, though – don’t get me wrong – you know about mummy’s cancer, don’t you? – riddled with it I shouldn’t wonder – but she won’t let them look – she won’t listen to anyone – never has – look at this place! – but if I threw out one little scrap she’d know and have a fit – come in a bit, I need to lock the door behind you – I never know whether lifting the handle on its own is good enough – best not take chances…’

It’s a test of spatial reasoning to figure out how Jenny is to get past me and my three bags of kit without one of us either burying ourselves, or both going outside and coming back in again in reverse order. Meanwhile, Jenny talks constantly through the whole, complex procedure. It strikes me that her conversation is a verbal representation of the house, lacking any kind of editing function, any random thought or memory as good as the next, no clear space, nothing to point. The stress of the situation doesn’t help, of course. It sounds as if their relationship has been pretty difficult over the years. As Jenny’s monologue continues, an image slowly develops behind it, like a Polaroid picture moving from ghostly impression to something more solid, something with colour and depth, a long face, thin lips, guarded expression.
‘Straight up – right to the top – well, I SAY the top….we’re coming mummy!…’
Jenny follows behind, on all fours.

please welcome on stage…

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Buddy Holly is sprawled on the back of the sofa, Eddie Cochrane is staring down at me from the top of the wardrobe, and Elvis Presley is lying on the floor with his paws in the air, waiting to be tickled.
‘That’s so Elvis,’ I tell Pat, leaning in.
‘He’s still quite kittenish,’ she says. ‘You wouldn’t think he was twelve.’
Elvis grabs my hand with his front paws and rakes me with his back, but keeps his claws retracted. His mouth gapes, his eyes deepen to perfect circles of black, and his ears flatten.
‘He loves that,’ says Pat.
‘He totally looks like Elvis’ I tell her. ‘Maybe in his cape years.’
‘I thought about making him a cape once,’ she says. ‘But I didn’t want him swallowing the rhinestones. He eats most everything else.’
‘Okay. Enough now, Elvis. What about you, Pat? How are you feeling today?’
‘Oh I’m alright,’ says Pat. ‘I’m always alright. I don’t know what all the fuss is about.’
‘I think it was because you fainted and broke your hip.’
‘Yes but – these things happen.’
‘Do they know why you fainted?’
‘I got up too quickly. Eddie and Buddy were fighting and I had to sort them out. Next thing I knew I was staring up at them, and when I tried to get up my hip was agony.’
‘Did you have a carelink button then?’
‘No! It’s only since. No – I had to crawl to the phone. It was only on the hall table but it may as well have been the moon. Luckily Ian across the way has a key, so the ambulance didn’t have to break the door down.’
‘That’s something anyway.’
‘I was in hospital for ages. It was torture. My poor cats. I was worried sick.’
‘Did Ian look after them?’
‘No. He’s allergic. If he sees a cat on the telly he sneezes. No – they had to go to a cat hotel, out in the country.’
‘Sounds lovely.’
‘It wasn’t. It cost me an arm and a leg. And I don’t know what they spend the money on because it certainly isn’t food. They were half starved when I got them back.’

I can’t imagine any of these cats half-starved. I struggle to imagine how Eddie Cochrane makes it up to the top of the wardrobe without a hoist.

I run through the usual observations, blood pressure, temperature, SATS and the rest. Everything checks out. Pat’s blood pressure drops a little when she stands, but not precipitously, and ever since the accident she knows to do things slowly, in stages.

‘I’m guessing you like rock and roll then,’ I say, taking the pressure cuff off her arm and nodding in the direction of Buddy Holly, who’s sitting staring at me from the kitchen with such a fixed expression on his face I feel unaccountably possessed by the urge to walk over and open a tin.
‘Not particularly,’ says Pat. ‘I got them all as kittens, and they were so funny, I could just see them jumping around on stage, playing guitar.’

a matter of life and death

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I know I know Mr E; I just don’t know where from.

‘Shall I come through to the sitting room?’ he says, struggling to rise from the dinner table. ‘Or would you like me to stay here? Actually – d’you know what? – I’d like to come through to the living room if you don’t mind. The light’s better there and we’ll all be more comfortable. How does that sound? Alright? Marvelous! Let’s go!’
If I didn’t know any better I’d go through that whole finger-wagging, face-pulling, Wait a minute… I know you….! charade. But I was with a colleague once when he did exactly that, and it was so excruciating I didn’t know where to look.

I was working for patient transport then. We’d been sent to pick up a patient from a busy London hospital, and we’d met a famous actor coming out of a ward.
Hang on a minute! I know you…. Paul said, wagging his finger. Don’t tell me, don’t tell me….
The actor was incredibly tolerant, given the provocation. He glanced at me, as if to say: And what about you? Are you going to join in with this, too? All I could manage was a sympathetic smile and a blush as fierce as a blast furnace. Who knew what family difficulties the poor man was going through? It was a high dependency ward, after all. His jacket was rumpled, his eyes were red and his hair was flattened on one side, as if he’d been sleeping in one of those high-backed chairs with wings. God knows what was going on.
Paul said a name.
The actor shook his head.
Paul tried another.
The actor shook his head again, absent-mindedly straightening his hair, as if that might help.
‘You’re kidding!’ said Paul.
‘No,’ said the actor. ‘I don’t think so, anyway.’
‘Give me a clue.’
‘I’m afraid you’re on your own with this one.’
‘A cop show? Something about ships? That sitcom…?’
‘I’m sorry’ said the actor, and moved on.
‘Typical,’ said Paul. And then shouted after him: ‘I’ll get it when you’re gone!’
A janitor appeared, and quietly mopped my puddled remains into a bucket.

It’s unsettling, recognising a famous actor. You think you know them – and in a way, of course, you do – but then, fundamentally, you really don’t. It doesn’t matter that you’ve seen their faces in close-up a hundred times, internalised their physical quirks, the idiosyncratic texture of their voice, so that if a mimic reproduced any of these things you’d immediately snap your fingers and say Hey! That’s Mr E! But you don’t know them, and they don’t know you. It has all the intimacy and immediacy of a lucid dream, and like a lucid dream, it vanishes the moment you open your eyes in the real world, leaving you feeling wrong-footed, and strangely older.

We chat as I dress his leg.
‘What line of work were you in before you retired?’ I say.
‘I was an actor,’ he says.
‘I thought so!’
I tell him the films and shows I liked him in.
‘Thank you,’ he says. ‘That’s nice to hear! Actors! We’re a funny old bunch! It doesn’t matter how old we get or how sick, we still need to be told we’re liked!’
‘It must be odd, being on show all the time.’
‘It can make one a little self-conscious. You know, I remember working with David Niven once. You’ve heard of David Niven, haven’t you?’
‘I saw him in A Matter of Life and Death. He was really good in that.’
‘He was, wasn’t he? Well – there he was, David Niven, the world famous actor, and I was right alongside him. At that time poor David was pretty sick, coming to the end of his life, actually. And something he said struck me at the time. We were working on a little scene, and afterwards he said to me he was worried because he thought the director didn’t like him. “Of course he likes you, David,” I said. “He loves you. We all do.” “Well, why does he keep glancing down to the side when we’re doing the scene, then? It’s like he can’t bear to look at me.” And I’m sorry to say but I laughed. “David” I said, “You’ve got it all wrong! He’s just checking the monitor, to see how the shot’s being framed.” So, you see – here was one of the world’s most famous actors, who’d won all kinds of honours, who’d won an Oscar, for goodness sake, written marvelous books, a man who’d had the most glorious career, coming to the end of his life, and yet he was STILL worried what some penny-halfpenny director thought of him.’
‘That’s amazing!’ I said. ‘It must be a funny profession. You’ve got to be sensitive enough to portray a character, but thick-skinned enough to take all the rest of it.’
‘Oh – it’s not so bad!’ says Mr E. ‘I can’t complain. Now tell me – how’s the old leg looking?’
‘All done! How does it feel?’
‘Like a million dollars!’ he says. ‘I’d give you a standing ovation, only…’
And he makes a gesture I’ve seen him make many times before, only – actually – this is the first time I’ve ever seen him do it.
‘Great!’ I say, tidying up. ‘I’d sign it, only…’

my monk

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I tell Aleksy I’ve applied for another job.
‘What job?’ he says.
‘Kind of a counsellor. Using CBT. It comes with a year’s post-grad training, so it’d be an amazing opportunity. There’s no way I could afford to do it privately.’
He frowns at me steadily.
‘You want to do this job?’
‘Yeah. I think so.’
‘Isn’t it a bit – how do you call it? – conceited?’
‘How d’you mean, conceited?’
‘Well…’
He puts his head on one side, spreads his hands.
‘You have problem. You come to me with this problem. I tell you how to solve problem. Because I know best.’
‘Maybe. I suppose it’s more that you learn some techniques to help the patient break out of unhelpful thought patterns. That’s the idea, anyway. You work on finding a solution to the problem together.’
‘Hmmm,’ says Aleksy. ‘I’m not so sure.’
‘It’s not for everyone.’
‘No. That’s true. You know – one time – a long time ago now – I was feeling a bit difficult, y’know? So I went to this counsellor. And we sat around in chairs talking. Or at least, I did a lot of talking. Until I thought – what am I doing? Coming here to this place, talking to complete stranger, someone I don’t even know? So I stop going, and I sort problem out myself.’
‘Fair enough. Like I say, it’s not for everyone. It’s just one way of addressing a mental health issue. There are others.’
‘I went to monastery,’ says Aleksy.
‘Did you? Wow! A monastery!’
‘Why you say wow? What so wow about monastery?’
‘Nothing – it’s just – it sounds great.’
He shrugs.
‘Well. It wasn’t like I was there for years. Just one month. I spent long hours going into my head.’
‘Meditation.’
‘Yes. Meditation. Because there was this lot of noise in my head. It took long time to clean it all out.’
‘I’ve been using a meditation app.’
‘An app? What app?’
‘Headspace. You get these guided meditations.’
‘And you do this every day?’
‘Every day. For ten minutes.’
‘Is not enough. Ten minutes is not enough. When do you find the time?’
‘In the lunch break. I put my sunglasses on and sit in the car. People think I’m just zoning out listening to music.’
‘Is not enough. Ten minutes wouldn’t even begin to do it for me.’
‘You can do longer. I just always seem to stick at ten.’
‘I have so much noise in there,’ he says, winding his hand in the space above his head. ‘There is such a lot of fuss. Ten minutes wouldn’t do anything.’
‘Maybe I’ll try longer.’
‘You could join monastery like me.’
‘I’d love to.’
And it’s true. I would.
I can imagine Aleksy as a monk. With his shaven head, steady gaze, deliberate movements, his economy of being. I can imagine the monastery, high in the mountains. Attacked by warriors in the moonlight. Aleksy deflecting spears with balletic moves, bodies falling like leaves from the cell window. Aleksy calmly putting on a cloak, wandering the desert in search of justice.
‘Send me the link,’ I say.

how I met my wife

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Parkinson’s disease has robbed Alan of facial expression, but from his sparkling eyes I can tell he’s very keen to tell me how he met his wife. Her pictures are everywhere in the flat, a studio portrait of a young woman leaning forwards in a serious, three-quarter pose; shots of her in a wedding dress; cuddling babies; making a speech; holding a hat on her head on the deck of a boat – all with a kind of Doris Day glow, and vastly outnumbering the various other family photos dotted about the place.
‘She died ten years ago,’ he says. ‘I just want to be with her now. Not in a creepy way. It’s just how it is.’
‘I can understand that.’
‘Do you want to know how we met? It’s a funny story. Have you time?’
I tell him I definitely want to hear it, but can he sit down first. ‘Because honestly, Alan – if I hadn’t been standing here with my wicket keeper’s mitts on you would’ve pitched head first into the bookcase. I can fetch whatever you need. Come on! Let me help you to a chair.’
‘Just a sec,now – just a sec,’ he says, turning stiffly on the spot and almost plunging backwards into a pile of records.
‘Whoa! Look – why not have a seat here? I’ll make you a drink and then we can talk about what to do next. And you can tell me how you met your wife.’
He seems to accept this, but instead of heading for the nearest sofa, leads me across the cluttered flat to a dangerously low Ottoman.
‘This’ll do,’ he says, shuffling carefully into position, and then, whilst he’s still miles away, unexpectedly launches himself backwards stiff as a puppet whose strings have been snatched up to throw it back in the trunk. He catches me off guard. I grab the front of his shirt to stop him whacking his head on the wall. The shirt makes an impressive ripping noise.
‘Sorry Alan!’
‘Don’t worry! Don’t worry!’ he says. ‘It’s a cheap old thing. I’ve got hundreds. I’ll just go fetch another…’
He starts trying to get up again. It’s a job to stop him.

* * *

What with one thing and another, Alan needs to go to hospital. Whilst we sit together waiting for the ambulance, he finally gets round to telling me the anecdote about his wife.

‘You wouldn’t think to look at me now, but back then I wasn’t entirely hopeless. I was studying architecture at university. A good friend of mine was doing medicine. C’mon Alan! he said. There’s a party at the local hospital. All the hot nurses will be there. Well I couldn’t say no to that, could I? Turns out it was a big old psychiatric hospital in the suburbs, which put me off a bit, but – well – hot nurses and all that. So we sneaked inside, and there was a long, long corridor, the kind of corridor you see in your dreams, that goes on forever. And coming down this corridor, floating towards us out of the light, were two of the most gorgeous nurses you’d ever seen in your life. One a redhead, the other blond. And we were both so dumbstruck we couldn’t do or say anything, we just sort of stepped helplessly to the side. Except there was fresh wax on the floor under the radiator, and I was wearing my shoes with the shiny soles. So I went flying arse over apex and ended up kicking the blond one in the rear. Two years later we were married. So whenever anyone asks me, How did you meet your wife? I tell them I was in a psychiatric hospital and I kicked one of the nurses.’

partworks

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Isla is sitting with her stork-thin legs up on a stool, watching telly. It’s another property programme, the kind where stressy couples are helped to find somewhere to live. I don’t know where this particular couple have gone – maybe to weep in the garden – but the experts, a man in a tailored beard and mohair coat, and a woman in primary colours and teeth so white they look like gum shields, are sauntering shoulder-to-shoulder down the hall, the man being enthusiastic about the coving, the woman scathing about the electrics.
‘Look at him!’ says Isla. ‘Who’d buy a house off him?’
‘I wouldn’t even buy a coat.’
‘My husband was handy with a screwdriver.’
‘Was he?’
‘He’d sort that place out in no time.’
‘Sounds like someone to know.’
‘That’s why I married him. One of the reasons. Now then. What have you come to do? More blood, I expect. Why’s everyone so interested in my blood? What’s so special about it?’
‘They just want to see how your kidneys are doing.’
‘My kidneys? I’m ninety-five. How d’you think my kidneys are doing?’
‘Quite. Still – you can always refuse. You don’t have to have these things done, Isla. Just so long as you understand what it is you’re refusing.’
‘Oh I understand alright. I understand all too well. Come on if you’re coming, then. You’ve got a job to do. I don’t want to get you in trouble.’
She bunches up her sleeve and stares at the telly whilst I set up.
‘What did you do before you retired?’ I ask her.
‘I was a writer, dear.’
‘Oh really? What did you write?’
‘They were called partworks. I don’t suppose you know.’
‘Isn’t it where you buy a magazine every month on a particular subject? And you get stuff with it, like bits of a model car or a boat or something, and you gradually put it all together, until by the end you’ve got a model of the Ark Royal that cost pretty much the same as the original.’
‘You’ve got it! A friend of mine did one about planes. You’d get a sweet little balsa wood version, which looked quite fun to chuck around outside but mine always crashed first time, so it was a bit of a swizz.’
‘Did you have a specialist subject?’
‘Not really. Fashion. Arts and Crafts. Hobbies, that sort of thing. Knitting. It paid the bills, and I liked digging around in the library. Ouch! That smarts!’
‘Sorry.’
‘I thought you were supposed to say sharp scratch? I should know. I’ve watched enough hospital programmes.’’
‘I thought I’d get you whilst you were distracted.’
‘Well it didn’t work, did it?’
‘No.’
‘Maybe I should write something about nursing and you should read it.’
‘Every little helps.’

Isla’s friend June coo-ee’s, knocks and breezes in. She’s as emphatically made-up as the housing expert on TV, with orange lipstick, tan coloured foundation that ends in a line just below the chin, and hair that seems to stay pointing forwards when she turns to close the door behind her.
‘Just thought I’d pop by,’ she says. ‘I didn’t know you had company…’
‘I don’t,’ says Isla. ‘He’s taking blood.’
‘Oh. Well. That’s nice. I won’t get in your way.’
‘New blouse?’ says Isla, rolling up her sleeve and buttoning the cuff.
‘Yes! Do you like it, Isla? I got it at the market. I was worried it might look a bit hippyish. And I wasn’t sure about the fit. You can’t really try these things on there, can you? Not with everyone walking by.’
She smiles at me, like she’s just caught me walking by. I blush.
‘Paisley,’ says Isla.
‘Yes! That’s right!’ says June. ‘Gosh – don’t you know a lot about a lot? Isla used to be a writer,’ she says to me.
‘Yes. She was just saying.’
‘Persian,’ says Isla. ‘The pattern, I mean.’
‘I thought it was Scottish.’
‘That’s just where they started making them in the eighteen hundreds or thereabouts. The soldiers brought back shawls from the East Indies, and the Paisley weavers copied the design.’
‘Oh! How fascinating!’ says June, smiling at me so broadly her lipstick crackles. ‘Isn’t that wonderful?’
‘Have you still got the receipt?’ says Isla.

good boy

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‘Ah’m on ma owen, as yoo ken no dowet see fer yerseln. Ma gel-fren, she’s garn ta see them there Lady Boyz. So there ye hav’it. S’it. End of. A sorry tale, en’no mistakun. But ah’m very happy fer any’in yous tous can do ta help, y’kno wha ah mean? Ah’m ver’ grateful.’

Rufus speaks so slowly it’s like he’s thumbing each word out in plasticine. Not only is he drunk but he has a strong Glaswegian accent, so it’s almost impossible to understand what he’s saying. The only way I can manage it is to completely relax, watch his mouth, and try to take clues from his inflections and sudden, wildly uncoordinated gestures. He’s naked on the bed, which would be worrying if he wasn’t so completely unbothered by it – in fact, much less self-conscious in his nudity than I am in my uniform. I can’t help thinking about Rufus’ girlfriend, sitting in the audience watching the immaculately made-up Lady Boys, their choreographed gestures, perfect diction, and wonder what she makes of the contrast.

Rufus smiles, exposing a mouth of greying stumps.

‘[Translation] I suppose you’ve come to dress my wound? I’m sorry for the state I’m in, but I’ve had a few drinks and I lost track of where I was. I’m an alcoholic, you know. I’m cutting right down. I only had four cans. The doctor knows all about it. I’ve been on detox three times but nothing worked. That’s just the way it is. Sometimes you just have to accept how things are I suppose. Do you know what I mean? Anyway – what about you? How are you? Thanks for coming. I really do appreciate everything you do.’

I’ve come with Jasmine, one of the Filipino nurses. To be honest, she’s almost as hard to understand as Rufus. She speaks lightly and quickly, barely moving her mouth, strange intonations, swallowing some vowels, stopping unexpectedly on others, and ending every other sentence with an isn’t it or a long, drawn-out aaaaah. Her small stature and delicate features completely belie her tough approach, though. She’s small and busy and she’s used to working fast. She tears open dressings kits, snaps gloves on and off, probes, irrigates, photographs, packs, re-dresses – all with a positivity that overwhelms any resistance. It’s not that she’s cold or harsh. Far from it. She has a kind of tough, Catholic love for everyone, including Rufus. Despite the alcohol I think he can feel it, too.

‘I’m nah hurting you am I?’ she says, roughly prodding Aquacel into the wound.
‘[Translation] No. You’re alright. You carry on. I’m used to it. You’re doing a fine job.’
‘You know, you gah to take better care of yourself isn’t it? It very durty down here, too much durty… How you ever going tah geh better? You listen tah me now. You geh wash now. I hep you.’
‘[Translation] No. You’re alright. Thanks for the offer but I’ll just put on some clean underpants and have a wash later. It’s no bother. You did a grand job. Thanks.’

I hand him some clean-ish Minion boxer shorts from a heap of clothing on the floor. By the time Rufus and I have figured out which way round they should go, Jasmine has packed her stuff away, disposed of the rubbish bag and started writing up her notes. She pauses to watch us, sighing heavily through her nose.
To be honest, anyone would sigh watching Rufus get his boxers on. He rolls around on the bed, waggling his long legs in the air, trying to put both through one hole, then taking them out and trying to put them both through the other hole, the whole time displaying with alarming clarity that which normally should not be displayed.
After a minute or two of this Jasmine sighs again, throws down her notes and intervenes.
‘Give me dat,’ she says. She slaps his legs down, rolls him onto his side, guides his left leg, then his right leg, says ‘You bridge now…’, and as soon as he does, she whips the boxers up with a satisfying snap of elastic.
‘All done!’ she says, winking at him. ‘You guh boy.’

june bug

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Her name is June Bergh so of course I write Bug.

She drifts around the house like a June Bug, too – a hapless bumping into things that’s as much to do with cataracts as anything else. She’s perfectly happy in spite of her ailments, though.

I wish I could say the same for her husband, Derek.

‘Now what?’ he barks as the phone rings, glaring at me from the thickets of his eyebrows as if he’s wondering whether to answer it or strangle me with the cord. I offer to help him out of the chair, but he bats me away. ‘I’m not senile yet!’ he says – then spends the next couple of minutes waggling himself forwards in the chair, paddling his great slippered feet, rocking backwards and forwards with his arms on the armrests to get some momentum going, then pitches forwards so alarmingly I can’t help reaching out to stop him plunging head first into the fireplace. ‘I’m perfectly alright!’ he snaps again, finding his balance, then trudges away to answer the phone, which I can’t believe is still ringing (although I’m guessing they’ve rung before and know to wait).

June and Derek are both in their nineties, married for seventy, as moulded together in their ways as two ancient EPNS tablespoons back of the cutlery drawer. I’ve come to dress the wounds on June’s legs and see how she is generally, which I have to say is pretty good.

‘Oh no,’ she says. ‘I never go to the doctor’s and he doesn’t come here. I couldn’t tell you the last time I saw him. I don’t even know if it’s a him.’

The long-term care of June’s legs should really fall to the District Nurses, but they’re the most stretched of any of us and have to triage their workload ruthlessly. Anyone remotely capable of leaving the house will simply be referred to their local surgery and the practice nurse. June has already told me she goes out from time to time – for hair appointments, to see a friend a few miles down the coast, occasional shopping trips and so on – all by taxi, or one of a circulating cloud of nieces and great-great whatevers. When I suggest she sees the practice nurse once a week, she pulls a face.
‘I’m ninety-four!’ she says. ‘I don’t go to the doctor’s! Besides, you can’t get an appointment.’

Derek is shouting into the phone by this point. It’s obviously about something clinical, and I’m tempted to intervene to clarify, but he turns his back for privacy, so I take that as a no.

‘You try ringing them!’ says June, warming to her theme. ‘You can be sitting there with the phone in your hand dead-on half past eight and it’ll still be engaged. And when you finally get through there’s nothing left. No! I’m sorry! If they want me, they know where to find me.’

Just as I’m wondering how to change my line of approach, Derek hangs up and lumbers back to his chair.

‘Who was that, dear?’ says June.
‘The lobotomist.’
‘The who?’
‘The LOBOTOMIST!’
‘Well what on earth does HE want?’
‘He wants to come and take your blood. So I told him. Good luck with that.’

James the First

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Rosie is more confused than usual, according to Rosie – the other Rosie, I mean, the one who lives at the end of the road and comes in most days to help. The fact that her husband Jim has the same name as me only adds to the confusion. He’s amiable enough, placid as an old turtle who swapped his shell for a corduroy jacket. If Rosie Two hadn’t introduced him as her husband, I’d think he’d tagged along by mistake. When she asks him to fetch in Rosie One’s address book from the kitchen, he wanders back in, flicking through a photo album.
‘Look at you in front of the Sphinx, Rosie!’ he says. ‘Well, well.’
‘Oh for heaven’s sake,’ says Rosie Two, and goes to get the address book herself.

Rosie One is sitting in her armchair, held in place by an enormous, ash-gray cat. The cat stares at me, its head bobbing up and down and its eyes pulled wide in time with the vigorous strokes. It extends its front paws onto her lap, presumably to spread the impact.
‘Poor Jonesie!’ says Rosie One. ‘I fell on him, you know. Squashed him flat! Broke my fall, though, didn’t you, Jonesie? Hey? You broke mummy’s fall, didn’t you? You clever thing!’
‘Tripped you up, more like,’ says Rosie Two, striding back in from the kitchen and handing me the address book. ‘That cat. It’s an absolute monster. Anyway. There! Karen’s number. The next of kin. Apparently.’
Jim Two has drifted over to the bookcase, tutting and exclaiming as he makes his way along the shelves with his head crooked so far to one side his ear is practically on his shoulder.
‘Well, well!’ he says, carefully sliding a book out. ‘Who’d have thought!’
‘Jim!’ says Rosie Two. ‘You’re supposed to be making breakfast!’
‘Am I? Oh, right,’ he says. ‘Absolutely. Of course. Breakfast. Yes.’
And he wanders away in the opposite direction to the kitchen with a book in his hand. Rosie Two goes after him.
‘Nothing’s the same since my darling husband died,’ says Rosie One.
She’s looking at a portrait on the sideboard, a broad-faced, smiling man in a white naval uniform.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘What was his name?’
‘Jim’
‘Jim? Not another one!’
‘Well,’ she says, turning back to me. ‘My Jim was the first.’

bibi the bird

~ jim clayton ~ 2 Comments

Melvin is as landed and unfortunate in his armchair as a hippo in the dry season. An affable hippo, though, in a taut, custard yellow, California Dreamin’ t-shirt and grey jogging bottoms, his enormous hands restlessly picking at the padding of the arm rests, as if he’s gauging the right moment to tear them off and throw them.
‘What were you saying?’ he says. ‘I lost the thread.’
He laughs, exposing a few raw and stumpy teeth. If I had a head of cabbage I’d chuck it, watch him crunch it down, waggle his ears.
‘He does that a lot,’ says Bibi, Melvin’s wife. ‘Lose the thread, I mean.’
If Melvin is the hippo in this relationship, Bibi is the little bird that rides on his head. A trim, quick figure, she’s constantly up and down, repositioning cushions, fetching beakers of juice, a towel, a diary, a snack, another beaker of juice. She smiles at me and surreptitiously touches the side of her head, turning the gesture into an innocent scratch of her eyebrow when Melvin unexpectedly glances her way.
‘So what’s the plan, chief?’ says Melvin. ‘What’re you going to do with me? Drag me off to the knackers yard, I ‘spect. I’d make a lot of glue. ’
‘Don’t say that!’ says Bibi, jumping up again to move the stool so he can reposition his feet.
‘Ahh!’ he booms. ‘Thanks Beebs.’

The situation has been a long time coming and it’s hard to know where to start. Diabetes, joint damage, skin infections, kidney and liver issues – the list neatly packaged-up in the phrase comorbidities. Things were difficult enough before his latest fall, but he’s been discharged from hospital with a bandaged foot and the results of an MRI confirming mixed dementia. There’s a lot to think about.
‘Today’s a good day,’ says Bibi. ‘Isn’t it darling?’
‘Every day’s a good day,’ says Melvin.
‘Well,’ says Bibi. ‘Mostly.’

She’s doing her best to cope, but it’s a struggle. She’s already told me about his mood swings, how he’ll be fine one minute and raging the next. There’s a shine to her eyes that’s so brittle I don’t know if she’s ready to sob, scream or laugh out loud.
‘But where are my manners?’ she says. ‘Can I get you anything?’
‘No, no! That’s kind of you but I’m fine, thanks.’
‘Just let me know. It’s no trouble.’

Melvin is sitting in front of a large white blind. The blind has been pulled down to shield him from the midday sun. Now and again the shadow of a seagull glides across the blind, so clearly you can even see the toes of its webbed feet and the way it flicks its head from side to side. Down in the street some workmen have finished lunch. They’re shouting and swearing, starting up the mixer, tapping off bricks for a new wall.
‘Hear that?’ says Melvin. ‘I expect that’s the seagull, building his nest.’
We all laugh.
He clasps his hands across his belly, waggles his ears.