sketches

the longest hour

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

Joan is lying in bed, a beanie wrap-around cushion supporting her neck, her long white hair wild on her shoulders.
‘I’m quite alright as I am, thank you,’ she says fussing ineffectually at the sheets. ‘I don’t want anything.’

Joan is ninety-five, tiny, translucent, tethered to the world by her watch and her will and the pictures on the wall.

‘I had a twin brother,’ she says, not to me, I don’t think, particularly, or anyone else in the room I can see. ‘Flew with the RAF. Never came back.’
‘Sorry to hear that.’
She doesn’t react.

I’ve come to see how Joan is after her fall yesterday. The ambulance picked her up, although a mouse could’ve done it. I can’t imagine Joan falling – or at least, only as a dried leaf might fall, slowly, with a soundless settling to the forest floor.

‘I was an hour older,’ she says, closing her eyes, to bring it clearer to mind. Then adds: ‘It’s a little more than that now.’

behind the glass

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The almshouse cottages are laid out on three sides of an immaculately kept croquet lawn. The white enamel paint is a little chipped on the hoops, showing patches of dark iron underneath. Maybe that’s through being struck with croquet balls over the years, but I’ve never actually seen anyone play. In fact the most life I’ve ever seen on the green is that crow, hopping around in the misty rain like a sexton in a frock coat, his hands under his tails, inspecting the lawn for worms.

Helen won’t be out playing croquet anytime soon, rain or shine. It’s enough of an adventure just making it from the armchair to the bathroom and back. I can imagine she would have been good at it though, sometime before the war, bobbing down to line up the final shot, giving the ball a hearty thwack, snatching off her cap, throwing it in the air, and then jogging over to the judging desk, the croquet mallet balanced on her shoulder. But of course, she wouldn’t have been living in an almshouse then. She would have been in nursing accommodation in London, excitedly practicing the air raid drill, hurrying out to dances, learning her craft.

Seventy years or more have passed since then, and Helen’s world has contracted to the size of a single room. It was small to begin with, but in an effort to stop her from falling the bed has been brought into the living room, leaving just enough room for a commode, a zimmer frame, an armchair and a side table. She still has her shelves of books, of course – one case devoted to Miss Read, whose name is repeated with dizzying regularity up and down the spines – but if you wanted to fetch one out you’d have to move a stack of things first.

Helen has been sitting this whole time with her head resting on the open palm of her right hand. She straightens now and again to look between her daughter Karen and me with an anguished look on her face.
‘I simply don’t understand what it is I have to do,’ she says.
‘You don’t have to do anything, mum. We’re just talking about things we can do to help you get better.’
‘Is it money? I think I have enough. But if you need more I can get another job.’
‘No, mummy. Don’t fret. We’ve got enough money. You’re job is to rest and focus on getting better.’
‘But all these people,’ says Helen, frowning at me. ‘I don’t know who they are or what they want. What do they want, Karen?’
‘They want what’s best for you, mummy. Like we all do. Try not to worry.’
‘But I do worry! I can’t stop worrying!’
Karen goes over to give her mum a hug, but Helen irritably pushes her away and then slumps forward again.

It’s an impossible position for Karen. Not only does she have the grindingly practical business of caring for an elderly mother whilst running a family of her own, she has to do it without the one person she’d naturally have turned to for advice and support, as she did all through her childhood, adolescence and beyond, the single parent who’d trained and worked as a nurse, the woman who’d seen things and suffered things and come out the other side with her hands and her uniform clean, who’d always somehow managed to be just as strong and as resourceful as she needed to be, the woman that was somehow in the room and yet out of it at the same time, as remote as that black and white photograph of a newly qualified nurse in a pristine uniform, sitting with a straight back behind the glass.

‘Anything you could do to help would be great,’ says Karen, smiling weakly at me. Then reaches over to squeeze her mum’s shoulder.

polaroids of pets and their owners

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1.
Geoffrey has two cats. Suki is a heavyweight, silver grey affair, sprawled on the seat of Geoffrey’s four wheeled walker like a luxuriously furred but rather bedraggled cushion, one paw draped over the side, an expression on her face of the purest hatred for the world and everything in it, especially Harry, the kitten. Harry is as hyperactive as Suki is inert, seemingly on a mission to destroy the bungalow, in such random bursts of activity it’s like watching a film that slows one minute and speeds up the next. Harry attacks the curtains, my bag, a pile of rubbish, the TV cables, winding himself up for each assault with a tensioning wiggle of his hips, whipping his tail from side to side, then skittering across the carpet – this time to take out a little stuffed dinosaur, rolling over and over with it, coming to a stop on his back with the dinosaur in its teeth and front paws, brutally pedalling it to death.

‘He’s having a funny five minutes,’ chuckles Geoffrey from his riser-recliner throne, King of Catland, packets of fishy favours to hand on the cantilever table.

But I’ve already been here ten.

2.
‘Are you okay with dogs?’
It’s an article of faith to say yes, because Leila’s brindle staffie Frankie is hurling himself against the baby gate so violently you’d think he hadn’t eaten in a week and a leg of mutton just walked in the door. Before I can answer either way, Leila unlatches the gate and Frankie bursts out. I stand my ground and ignore him – and, thank god, it works. In fact, it’s extraordinary how quickly he changes mode: from Hound of Hell to Snuffly Chump.
I scraggle him behind the ears, and he seems to like that. Then suddenly he’s reminded of something, and hurries off into the sitting room.
‘Oh no,’ says Leila. ‘Wait for it.’
There’s a plaintive squeak or two, then Frankie comes trotting back into the hallway to sit at my feet with a blue ball clamped in his jaws.
‘Oh for God’s sake,’ says Leila. ‘Him and that ball. I wish I’d never got it.’
Frankie bites down on it twice in quick succession, to emphasise.
‘It was funny the other night, though,’ says Leila. ‘He fell asleep with it in his mouth. Then he started dreaming, doing that spooky eye-rolling thing they do, twitching and jerking, and then the ball squeaked, and woke him up, and scared the bejeesus out of him. He fell off the sofa and the ball squeaked some more and he dropped it and ran behind the curtains. I thought that might’ve cured him. But no, he was straight back on it. Poor ol’ Frankie. He’s like me – an addictive personality.’

leila’s recipe for old age

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It’s a broad, bright morning, a little colder than of late but still unseasonably warm, so I don’t understand why Leila’s house should be so dark and cold. It’s in a good position, set back from the road up a steep incline; there aren’t many trees around; it has generous windows front and back. But stepping over the threshold is like stepping into a mausoleum: musty, shadowed and quiet.
‘Have a seat’ says Leila, soundlessly pulling one away from the dining room table. There’s a bowl in the centre of the table piled with glossy ceramic fruit, and it strikes me that all the living things in the room – the large vase of orchids in the fireplace, the cat sleeping in its basket, are all fake. Leila seems a little fake, too, as perfectly made-up and buttoned-up as a lifesize doll. There’s a large painting over the mantelpiece – a fishing scene in a sunny Mediterranean harbour – and somehow it makes the place seem colder.
‘I don’t feel it,’ she says. ‘I’m a December baby.’
I tell her why she’s been referred to the community health team, and she takes the news with a polite but detached interest, like someone being told of a development somewhere that doesn’t particularly involve or interest them overmuch.
‘It’s so kind of you to visit,’ she says. ‘Can I get you anything…?’
‘I was just going to ask if I could get you something! Some tea or toast?’
‘Oh, no!’ she says. ‘I’ve had my breakfast.’
‘What did you have?’
‘Some porridge and a cup of black tea.’
‘Sounds healthy.’
‘Oh – I’ve always eaten well.’
And it’s true, she doesn’t seem malnourished. In fact – environment aside – she seems in pretty good health. The only medication she’s prescribed is for memory loss, but of course, she often forgets to take it, which is one of the reasons Leila’s been referred to us.
Her short term memory is severely compromised. Her conversation is on a loop, on this occasion revolving around two things: how active her mother was into old age, and what happened when she got together with her sister, Dolly.
‘I just think I’ve been rather lucky as far as health goes,’ she says, for the sixth or seventh time already. ‘But you see my mother lived till a fine old age, and I get my old bones from her.’
‘That’s lovely.’
Leila giggles and brushes her skirt a couple of times.
‘Yes! You should have seen it when she got together with Auntie Dolly. They used to play whist, you see, and honestly! They were like a couple of naughty schoolgirls!’
I steer the conversation back to the plan for the next few days, the carers who’ll be coming in, the appointment at the memory clinic and so on. She listens to all of this very seriously, nods to show she understands, then brushes her skirt again.
‘Yes! Well! I just think I’ve been rather lucky as far as health goes,’ she says.
‘I think you must have looked after yourself, too, though, Leila.’
‘Yes. I think I have. And do you know what my secret is?’
‘No. What?’
‘I believe in onions.’
It’s such a shock to hear her say something different that it makes me laugh.
‘You can laugh, but it’s true!’ she says.
‘In what way, onions?’
‘Well,’ says Leila, brushing her skirt again. ‘They bring out the flavour of meat.’

freddy

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Elsa has a history of falls and unexplained blackouts, so when she doesn’t answer the phone I drive straight over to investigate.

The house is a low white building set back from the road, a dark garden to one side with contorted sculptures dotted about and random things strung from branches, giving the place a watchful, witchy feel. I fetch the key from the keysafe and let myself in.
Hello? It’s Jim, from the hospital…
There’s uncollected post right by the door. I pick it up and put it on a stool.
Hell…oooo
Nothing.

Last time I was here the house was full. There was Elsa’s husband, Freddy, his carer, a carer for Elsa, and then two therapists whose visits had unexpectedly clashed. Freddy had been shuffling excitedly up and down the hallway, stirred by all the commotion, presenting random things after looking for them with great enthusiasm, tugging on his braces, marching on the spot in his slippers like a seagull paddling for worms. Elsa had been the quiet centre of it all, sitting on an armchair in her nightie, overwhelmed.

Now the hallway is silent, what little light there is reflecting dully off the parquet flooring.

Hell…ooo. It’s Jim … from the hospital…
Every door leading off from the hallway is shut, which I take as a sign the place is empty. Still, I have to open each one and check that Elsa isn’t on the floor.
Kitchen.
Bathroom.
Closet – ( a shock, to be confronted by coats on hooks, close-up).
Which leaves the door to the sitting room at the furthest end of the hallway.
Hell…ooo
I knock and open the door.
Utterly silent except for the honeyed tocking of a longcase clock. A saturating green light spills in from the garden through the patio windows illuminating an empty leather sofa, dark paintings on the walls, a carved mirror and dining table, a leather bucket armchair with its back to me. And as if my entrance has stirred everything up, the clock suddenly gives a shuddery kind of cough and a kick, and starts grinding out the quarter. And that’s when Freddy decides to swing round in the bucket armchair, his hands spread, his eyes wide.
‘Oh my Jesus Christ!’ I say, falling back.
‘Har hah!’ says Freddy.

little red mathematician

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‘I must say everyone’s been so nice’ says Anthony, staring down at me with his arms folded as I clean the blood off his toes. ‘For the most part. And even then you can see why they might be a bit off. Pressure of work and all that. The hospital was absolute bedlam, of course. People coming and going at all hours of the day and night.’
‘I don’t think they’re very restful places, hospitals.’
‘No. I spent three weeks trying to escape. And it was always the same thing. We’ll tell you when we think you’re ready to be discharged they’d say. We’re just waiting on this result or that review. And on and on it went, absolutely without end. Until one morning a nurse appeared and started shoving things in a bag and said I had half an hour before the transport arrived.’
‘That must’ve been a shock!’
‘I couldn’t believe it. I thought it was a dream. I had such odd dreams in hospital, you see. I couldn’t tell what was real and what wasn’t. I had one particularly vivid dream about bicycles.’
‘Bicycles?’
‘Red ones. Growing out of the ground, like trees. What d’you suppose that means?’
‘I don’t know. It sounds kind of stuck.’
‘Well I suppose so. I was ready to start tunneling my way out with a spoon.’
There’s a knock on the door.
‘Ah! That’ll be June!’ he says, pushing himself more upright on the chair, dragging his cast leg back on the stool. ‘You couldn’t let her in, could you?’

When I open the front door I’m met by a small elderly woman dressed entirely in red. A red tartan shawl with darker red patches and golden thread; a red blouse fastened at the neck with a beetle brooch; a red corduroy skirt; red stockings, and shiny red patent leather shoes. She’s carrying a wicker basket with the handle looped over her arm, and the basket is draped with a white cheesecloth square.
‘Cake!’ says June, smiling at me as innocently as if I was a wolf dressed in a nurse’s tunic. ‘For the invalid!’
I can tell by the way she marches round the corner and into the flat that she’s been here many times before.
‘Helloooo!’ she calls ahead. ‘Only me!’

Anthony makes the introductions when I follow after her into the living room.
‘June is my oldest friend. The best mathematician I know. And I know a few.’
‘Oh now!’ says June, but she doesn’t deny it, giving me a broad, red-lipped smile instead.
‘We’re going to celebrate Anthony’s release with a lovely morning eating cake and talking algebra,’ she says, resting the basket on the table.
‘Well don’t mind me’ I say. ‘I’m all done with the foot. All that’s left is to write up the notes and I’ll leave you to it.’
I pick up the folder and click my pen. ‘And I promise I’ll only chip in if I hear you say anything completely outrageous about the theorems.’
‘Theorems?’ says June, suddenly serious. ‘What d’you mean? What theorems?’
‘Only kidding,’ I tell her. ‘I struggle putting the right number of shoes on in the morning.’
She looks at Anthony, they both laugh, and she sweeps off into the kitchen to divide up the cake.

about a squirrel

~ jim clayton ~ 3 Comments

‘Tell me about the squirrel.’
‘It would never have happened if Sheila were still alive.’
‘Was she good with squirrels?’
‘She was good with everything. I’m lost without her. Lost and lonely.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
‘It’s not your fault.’
‘So go on, then. What’s all this about a squirrel?’
‘I’d just got back from the shops. I opened the front door and came into the hallway, put the bag down, leant the stick in the corner, turned round to close the door when I heard this little skittery noise from the bedroom. Hello I said. Who’s there? Because I thought it might be a burglar. Which, in a way, it was. So I nudged forward a little bit, and there was the skittery noise again, and something falling over, like a glass. So I said Right! I’m calling the police – although the phone was in the kitchen, and anyway, to be honest with you, I had a feeling it was too small to be a burglar. More likely a cat or something. But you say stupid things when you’re on your own, don’t you? Sheila wouldn’t have had none of that. She’d have marched right in there and sorted it out, burglar or otherwise. She was always the same, right from when we met. She weren’t afraid of nothing, except maybe at the end, and that was different. That was more than anyone could’ve coped with. Anyway, there I was, standing in the hallway, wondering what to do, picking my stick up again and holding it out in front of me, when suddenly – wham! Out flies this squirrel. And I know I’ve probably remembered it all wrong, because it happened so quick, but I swear, this squirrel, he ran up the wall, across the ceiling, back down the other side, through my legs and out the front door. And I spun round on the spot to whack him one, and fell over, and I must’ve caught my head on the hall table, because next thing I know I’m sitting on the carpet covered in blood, and my daughter Carol’s standing over me, and shes’s saying Oh my God, Dad. What happened to you? And I told her about the squirrel, and she told the paramedics, and now everyone thinks I’m this crazy old fool who got mugged by a squirrel. But I tell you what, they’re not like they used to be. I remember when a squirrel would tiptoe up to you and maybe take a nut or two out your hand. Now they’re just as likely to steal your car and burn your house down. But things change, I suppose. Life goes on. I just wish I was coping better.’

legging it

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Pine Close is a tributary of a dozen streets, everything leading off from everything else in repeating patterns like a fractal maze, the town planning equivalent of a fern or maybe an ice crystal. All the streets are named after trees, which is odd, because actually there are no trees here at all, excepting one or two brutalised sticks at best, and a scattering of drought-tolerant shrubs. The only characteristic the estate shares with a forest is that it’s easy to get lost. All of the houses are identical, a monotonous procession of red-bricked buildings, shoulder-to-shoulder behind iron railings, green and black and blue bins, cars parked in numbered bays, the only thing to differentiate each from each maybe a variation in the way the net curtains are hung, a plastic heron or a planter with a blob of box and a solar-powered night light, and a sign on the corner of each group to tell you how the numbers are running. I half expect to see a giant hand reach in to push a car around the turning circle, stop, open the boot and pinch out shopping bags of tiny, ultra-realistic shopping.

To add to the unreality of it all, I’ve come to collect a leg.

‘Sorry to ask you’ says Lucy, one of the senior OTs. ‘Only it got left behind when Bill went into hospital. Now he’s gone to rehab and he needs it. There’s a keysafe, so all you’ve got to do is pick it up and take it to Bevan House.’

I slow to read the numbers, attracting the suspicious gaze of three elderly people standing on the corner. They can see my uniform, so I’m hoping they’ll guess I’m legit – although by the way they stare at me it’s like they think I’ve bought the kit off eBay and I’m scouting for mischief.
‘Morning’ I say through the open window as I crawl past.
They stare at me and say nothing.

I park in a space marked with a V (for Villain, judging by the looks I get from the trio), take my diary, and walk along the path in the direction of Bill’s house.

I knock on the door, just in case there’s anybody there, and then start fiddling with the keysafe, which doesn’t seem to work. Then I notice another keysafe, a newer, nicer one, to the other side of the door. I’m just replacing the cover of the old one when a back gate opens and an elderly man appears. His face has a slack and aggrieved look.
‘What are you doing?’ he says.
‘Oh! Hello!’ I say. ‘I’m Jim, from the hospital. I’ve come to collect Bill’s leg.’
‘Who did you say you were?’
‘Jim. From the hospital.’
‘Bill’s not here.’
‘No. I know.’
‘He’s in the hospital.’
‘Yes. Well – no. Actually – he’s just been transferred to a nursing home.’
‘Who did you say sent you?’
‘The hospital.’
The man frowns and pulls back, keeping his hand on the gate.
Meanwhile, the three people who’d been standing at the corner have migrated to the railings behind me.
‘What’s going on, Ted?’ says one of them, a woman in a hat that looks like a tea cosy.
‘He says he’s come to see Bill.’
‘Bill’s in hospital,’ says the woman.
‘He’s been there weeks’ says one of the others, an elderly man with a walking stick that he taps on the ground a couple of times. ‘I saw them take him away. In an ambulance.’
‘What do you want?’ says tea cosy woman. ‘Who sent you?’
I hold up my pass, feebly, an atheist waving a crucifix.
‘I’m Jim, from the community health team. Bill’s been transferred to a nursing home and they asked me to collect his leg.’
‘His leg?’
‘Yes. He’s an amputee.’
I’m suddenly stricken with the thought I’ve got the wrong Bill.
‘He’ll need that,’ says the other of the three, a bored looking man in a voluminous duffle coat. I smile at him, playing my advantage.
‘So let’s get this straight,’ says Ted. ‘The hospital asked you to come and fetch Bill’s leg because he needs it at the hospital. Is that right?’
‘The nursing home. Yes. I think they want to start rehabilitation. I’m sorry but – are you a relative?’
‘His brother,’ says the man, straightening. ‘Why?’
‘Patient confidentiality. Can’t say too much.’
Which sounds ridiculous, even to me. I don’t think it’s helped.
‘Bill doesn’t have any secrets from me,’ says Ted.
‘No, no. That’s not what I meant. Anyway – look – sorry – we’ve got off on the wrong foot,’ I tell him, holding out my hand. ‘Ironically.’
‘Why were you fiddling around with the keysafe if Ted was there?’ says tea cosy woman.
‘Well I didn’t know that, did I?’
‘You could have knocked. That’s what people generally do, you know.’
‘I did knock.’
‘Not very loudly,’ says Ted. ‘It was like you didn’t want me to hear.’
‘Did you hear that?’ says tea cosy woman, turning to stick man.
‘Hear what?’
‘He didn’t want him to hear.’
‘Oh’ says stick man, but he looks confused, and he taps his stick again.
‘So – do you live here, too?’ I say to Ted, as innocently as I can.
‘No. I just came round to have a tidy up.’
‘That’s nice of you. I don’t suppose you came across a leg, did you?’’
‘Of course I did. It’s in the conservatory.’
‘Would you mind if I took it, then? Only…’ I smile and shrug and hold my diary up, in a mime that’s supposed to illustrate how busy I am, what a day, etc, etc. But it’s a tough crowd and they don’t say anything.
Ted purses his lips and shakes his head, as if this is the most unsatisfactory thing that’s ever happened to him.
‘You don’t have to give me the leg if you don’t want to,’ I tell him, hoping it’ll take the pressure off and make him more compliant. ‘I’ll just tell them at the nursing home and they can make other arrangements.’
‘Like what?’ chips in duffle coat man. ‘He needs his leg.’
‘Exactly!’
‘Come on, then,’ says Ted, sighing and retreating. ‘But I’m not happy.’

A couple of minutes later I’m walking back up the path holding Bill’s leg. It’s a below-the-knee amputation, so the leg consists of a large, silicone cup and stocking, an aluminium strut, and a plimsoll on the foot. I carry it in front of me in a self-conscious way, like an olympic runner holding the flaming torch, making my way through the crowds.
‘Don’t drop it’ says duffle coat man. ‘It’ll run away.’

champion

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I’m running late. Jess is opening a charity gig, onstage six thirty. It’ll take forty five minutes to make it there this time of day. I’d been doing so well, too. This decision, that treatment, this referral, that email, this cup of coffee…. frenetically pitchforking my way through the day’s workload like a demented farmer at harvest time. And I thought it was all behind me, and I was good to go. Except the lead nurse caught me and said the district nurses had missed a visit and could I go with David as back-up, because it was in a hostel and that was the policy.
‘It’s just round the corner. Then you can go home from there. You’ll be fine.’
I grabbed my bag and left, calling David on the phone as I went. We agreed to meet outside the hostel. A quick visit. Pretty much a drive-by. I should be out of there in ten.

There is a guy in a dark blue tracksuit and trainers sitting on the steps of the hostel, sipping from a can of lager, watching the cars as they pass along the main drag.
‘Alright?’
‘Champion,’ he says, raising the can. He has buzz-cut hair that highlights the riot of nicks and bumps that cover his scalp. When he smiles, his teeth are gappy and black.
‘I’m waiting for the other nurse’ I tell him, looking up and down the street. ‘He should be here any minute.’
‘Got ya.’
I lean against the railings and try to look relaxed, even though I’m so hyper I wouldn’t be surprised to see the entire building immediately light up behind me and start to tremble.
‘So how are you?’ I ask the guy.
‘S’all good, mate. All good. I’m moving in to a proper place next week.’
‘Great.’
‘Yeah. I was six months sleeping down on the front in a tent.’
‘That’s tough.’
‘I dunno. Some things were. But then y’know what? I’d step out first thing in the morning and there was the sea and the sun, right there, like, and I’d think – shit, man – you’d pay a million quid for a view like this.’
‘Did you ever get any hassle?’
‘Nah. Not much. There were a few of us down there and we looked out for each other. It weren’t too bad.’
‘That’s good then. Still – great to get a place of your own. Especially with winter coming on.’
‘Yep.’
‘I’m in a bit of a rush tonight.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘My youngest daughter’s playing a gig tonight. It’s like this battle of the bands thing, and she’s opening. Doing a couple of numbers on her loop pedal. And I absolutely can’t miss it.’
‘Well it’s your daughter, man. You can’t miss a thing like that.’
‘I don’t want to’
‘No way.’
‘No.’
‘I’m a musician too, y’know?’
‘What d’you play?’
‘Guitar. And I sing, too. Write me own stuff. We’re organising a gig down on the front in a few months. There’s a guy I know might do us a deal.’
‘That’s great. I’ll look out for it.’
‘Please do.’
He takes another swig from the can and studies me with an appraising, sideways squint.
‘Don’t take this the wrong way, fella, but – y’know what? – if it weren’t for the uniform – you look rough enough to fit right in here.’
‘Thanks!’
David comes striding round the corner.
‘Sorry I’m late’ he says. ‘Let’s do this.’
The guy on the steps stands up and to the side.
‘Tell your daughter good luck from me,’ he says, offering me his hand after wiping it twice on his tracksuit top.
‘Thanks. I will.’
And we hurry inside.

the birdbath

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‘Funny – you being called Jim. My mother christened me Stanley but everyone calls me Jim, too. I don’t know why. I must look more like a Jim than a Stanley.’
‘Well I was christened James’, I tell him. ‘But no-one ever calls me that. Unless I’m in trouble.’
‘Two Jims!’ says Jim. ‘That should make it easier.’
‘Oh God!’ says Erica. ‘One’s enough!’
The phone rings, and Erica hurries into the hall to answer it.
‘One of her girlfriends, I ‘spect,’ says Jim with a sniff. ‘There’s half a dozen of ‘em at least. Or there was…’ he says, drifting off slightly and scratching his head.
Erica’s delighted laugh trills through from the hallway. I get the impression she laughs easily and often. She’d laughed when she opened the door to me, when I introduced myself and said what I’d come to do – even when I’d slipped my shoes off.
‘A housetrained man!’ she’d trilled. ‘Well I never!’
They’re both in their nineties. Of the two, Jim is fairing the worst. He’s frail and stooped, tentatively feeling his way from sideboard to sofa like a ghost unexpectedly granted one last corporeal turn about the place. Erica, on the other hand, seems to be intensifying with age, her girlish spirit ringing through the dusty air.
‘Hark at that!’ says Jim, collapsing back into his armchair. ‘She’ll be on the phone for hours now.’
But he closes his eyes as if it’s the sweetest sound imaginable.
Whilst Erica is occupied on the phone I run through the examination and take some blood. By the time she hops back into the room I’m pretty much done, just asking some questions about eating and drinking, how he’s managing with personal care and so on.
‘Are you able to use the shower?’ I ask him.
‘The shower?’ says Erica, leaning over the chair and combing his thinning grey hair with her fingers. ‘Goodness, no! He has a birdbath.’
‘A birdbath?’
‘Yes! You know! He grips the sink with his claws, flaps his wings, and splashes his face with water!’