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.’
sketches
freddy
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
‘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
‘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
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
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
‘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!’
normal on critical
The house has no number, just a name in big white letters above the electric gates that’s either a composite of the people who live there or a tribute to a Klingon commander. I want to ask Ella where it comes from, but she’s so stressed there’s no opportunity. She’s waiting for me outside, still in her slippers, arms folded, glancing up and down the street whilst I lock up the car.
‘Hi Ella. I’m Jim, from the hospital,’ I say walking over.
‘I gathered that.’
‘Are you okay?’
‘No. Not really. Mum’s going downhill and no-one seems to care. Not the doctor, the hospital, no-one. She came to stay with us a couple of weeks ago for respite, and ever since then she’s been wasting away. She’s not eating, she’s not drinking. Crying out with pain all hours of the day and night. Honestly, Jim, I’m at the end of my tether. I just don’t know what to do anymore. I just can’t cope.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
‘She had an appointment at the Elderly Patient Clinic tomorrow but she’s just too unwell. I mean – how was I supposed to get her there?’
‘Well – there’s patient transport. They have a tail-lift on the back of the vehicle. They can take her in a wheelchair.’
‘Can they? No-one told me that. I’d better go and see if they’ll reinstate the appointment…’
She turns and hurries inside, and I follow.
‘Mum’s through there,’ she says. ‘Go and introduce yourself whilst I call the hospital.’
It’s a large, comfortable family house, racks of shoes in the hallway, richly patterned rugs on the floor. Ella’s mum Deidre has her own room, off to the left at the end of the hall. She’s lying in an electric bed with the back raised, propped up on half a dozen pillows and cushions, a warm zebra-striped fleece thrown over the rumpled sheets. When I shake her hand she squeezes it warmly and then resumes her original position, something like wistful forbearance, staring out of the french windows into the garden.
I start by explaining who I am, what my job is and why I’ve been asked to come. She nods, and twiddles her fingers, as if yes, this was exactly as she’d been expecting. I work through my usual questions to see how she is, and to clarify the problem; she answers as if there’s nothing the matter at all, or at least, nothing beyond what you’d expect of a woman of her age. She’s even a little bewildered to hear that people are worried about her.
I check her observations. Everything’s normal, unremarkable. I ask her about her eating and drinking, her bowel habits and so on. Again, she seems fine. She looks fine, too, a healthy colour to her cheeks, decent weight and so on. It’s difficult to see the dangerously ill patient that Ella described, even allowing for the possibility that Deidre is confused about everything. And she certainly doesn’t seem confused.
Ella comes back into the room.
‘They never answer the phone,’ she says. ‘So I left a few messages.’
‘A few?’
‘I kept thinking of other things I wanted to say. How is she?’
‘Well – she seems fine, actually. Sorry to talk about you like this, Deidre.’
‘That’s okay,’ she says, staring out of the window.
‘I’m not surprised,’ says Ella. ‘No-one can ever find anything wrong. They always say the same thing. They always say she’s fitter than they are. But they don’t have to live with her. Sorry mum, but it’s true. They don’t see you when you’re crying out in the middle of the night. The doctor’s bloody useless, excuse my French. The last time he saw her – which is a joke for a start, because he may as well have stood outside with a megaphone – the last time, he just upped her citalopram. But it’s not working and we can’t go on like this.’
‘You said Deidre wasn’t eating or drinking.’
‘Hardly anything. She just picks at her food. And I make all her favourites. I have to nag and nag to get her to eat.’
‘What about drinking? Because that’s more important.’
‘Again, nag, nag, nag. And I hate to do it, because she’s my mum, and I don’t want to go on at her like that. But someone’s got to. The carers don’t.’
‘She has carers?’
‘Three times a day. And all they do is put things in front of her, and clear them away again. That’s no good, is it?’
‘So how much would you say she is managing to drink?’
‘Cups of tea, beakers of juice, fortifying drinks. Everything with a straw, though.’
‘So that sounds – quite good, then.’
‘It may sound good to you but it’s not enough, is it? I mean – look at her…’
And I do, and from her throne of pillows and cushions, she looks comfortably back at me, too.
Deidre hasn’t had any bloods for the past two weeks so I run a set, just to be sure. I put them in as urgent. They come back normal. I ring Ella to let her know, and she tells me that – miracle of miracles – the Elderly Patient clinic has managed to reinstate the appointment.
‘Maybe they’ll find something wrong,’ she says. ‘I mean – something has to happen. Otherwise she’ll die and it’ll be too late.’
alice in the underworld
Despite having to work in an office that looks suspiciously like a converted cupboard, Alice, the warden is remarkably upbeat.
‘Have you come to see Terry?’ she says, squeezing past a heap of junk out into the hostel landing. ‘Shall I show you the way? It’s a bit of a warren…’
Even though I have been before, I know how confusing the layout is, so I say ‘That’d be great, thanks.’
‘Poor old Terry,’ she says, locking the cupboard/office door behind her then marching off up a set of stairs so narrowly twisting and creaking it’s like being processed the wrong way through the guts of a dilapidated monster. ‘He’s had such a time of it. We’re a bit worried about him, to be honest. He’s wasting away. I mean – he barely eats a thing, and he’s not going out like he used to. Mind you…’ she says, pushing through a fire door and then on through a series of branching corridors, ‘…at least he’s not seeing Keith.’ She turns and frowns at me, as if to say You know – KEITH, then carries on down the corridor. I feel like I’m in one of those nightmares where the way gets smaller and smaller and you end up on your knees tapping with one finger on a door the size of your hand. But suddenly Alice stops, turns on the spot, raps smartly on the door to her left, and goes in.
She’s right about Terry wasting away. What makes his condition worse, somehow, is the contrast between his emaciated body and the dark luxuriance of his beard and hair, curling upwards and outwards with such vigour you’d think they were wigs, stuck on a cadaver for the contrast. Terry’s still in his green hospital pyjamas, an ID band around his wrist. It says in the notes he self-discharged, against advice. Quite how he made it home I’ve no idea, although maybe Keith helped.
The room is a mess. Someone has had a rudimentary go at clearing some space at least, the piles of trash and bags and boxes and clothes pushed to one side of the room, occupying every spare foot of the galley kitchen surfaces and sink, giving the bedsit a lopsided feel. A light breeze plays in from the sea just a fag-flick away through the window, dispelling to some extent the heavy atmosphere in the room.
‘Sorry it’s in such a two-and-eight,’ says Terry, struggling to sit up on the edge of his soiled bed and then picking at his nails. ‘I haven’t had a chance to tidy up.’
‘We’ll get it sorted, Terry,’ says Alice. ‘Anyway. Listen. There’s a support worker guy coming later with some supplies. So that’s good.’ She pauses a moment, raising her eyebrows and smiling, to let the good news percolate through, I suppose. Terry waves his hand; she nods emphatically again. ‘’Okay! I’ll leave you to it, then,’ she whispers, and quietly closes the door behind her.
‘Damond girl, Alice’ says Terry. ‘They all are.’
‘I like their office.’
‘It’s a cupboard.’
‘I thought so.’
‘They ‘ain’t got no money for nuthin’.’
‘No. I guess not.’
‘They do their best though.’
I’m halfway through the exam when there’s another knock on the door and Jack, the support worker steps inside. Jack’s enormous, a bear in a parka, check shirt and caterpillar boots, holding a carrier bag of shopping in either paw. He’s wearing a face mask, and looks startled to see me there without one.
‘Oh!’ says Jack. ‘We were told we had to wear them. You know – ‘cos of the – thing.’
‘It’s fine,’ I tell him. ‘As far as I can tell. Terry’s being treated so it’s not classed as active.’
‘Oh!’ says Jack again. I expect him to take the mask off, but he stands there a moment undecided. Eventually he carries on, ignoring the fact he’s wearing it, so Terry and I ignore it, too.
‘I bought you a selection of things,’ he says. ‘Honey nut cornflakes, bread, milk, biscuits, tea. Y’know. The basics. Alice gave me a list.’
‘That’s kind of you, mate. Thanks,’ says Terry. ‘I need fattening up.’
Jack looks at him, then at me, then at Terry again, then carries on unpacking. Although it’s hardly unpacking – more like stacking – in the one clear corner of the kitchen he can find. He hesitates before opening the fridge to put the milk and butter away, and I expect he’s glad he didn’t take the mask off.
‘There!’ he says, closing the fridge again. ‘All done! We’ll be back this afternoon to talk about some other stuff, but I’ll let you crack on for now.’
‘Okay mate. Thanks again,’ says Terry. Jack clumps out and shuts the door.
‘I can’t complain,’ says Terry, crooking one leg over the other and crossing his arms. ‘I ‘ain’t got no reason not to get better.’
He starts telling me about his recent past. How he fell in with some big time gangster who let him stay in the cottage in his grounds rent free for a little delivery work.
‘Man – you shoulda seen that place!’ says Terry. ‘The house was like a castle. Actually I think it was a castle. He had this pond in the middle of the lawn, and it was filled with these enormous fish, all flood-lit, swimming about like bastards. Each one of ‘em worth a monkey. And the cars he had. From little fancy Italian sports jobbies to big fuck-off landrovers, all of ‘em in temperature controlled stables.’
‘Didn’t have any horses then?’
‘Horses? Nah! He didn’t like horses. ‘Cept down the track. Anyway, one night I was in the cottage, minding my own, having a little puff, when there was all these flashing lights outside, and I know it sounds stupid but at first I thought some’ink had gone wrong with the fish pond. But then it was all like Police! Open up! And I’m like How do I know you’re the old bill? Anyone can shout anything. So they smashes the door down and they drag me outside. They were after my mate, ‘course. Same old story. They was always trying it on. But they didn’t have nothing. He was a lot of things, but he wasn’t careless.’
‘So then what happened?’
‘It all went a bit Pete, I didn’t have no scratch, so I split.’
He shrugs, then leans forwards on his folded arms to inspect his leg as it kicks up and down.
‘Funny how it goes, innit?’
teeny, tiny sharks
‘We’re going to convert the laundry room into a downstairs bedroom for him. There’s a small bathroom next door, so that’s good. And I think it’s nice with the sun coming in like that, don’t you, Stelios? Plus he’ll be in the action – you know? The comings and goings.’
Elena is bright and charming and matter of fact about the whole situation, the matriarchal engine of love behind the family. Her husband Stelios is lying on a riser-recliner, his left hand draped over the side of his head in an attitude of great forbearance, his right reaching forward, as the nurse and I irrigate the fist-sized cavity in his side.
‘How is it looking?’ says Elena, leaning over. ‘Infection still?’
‘I think it’s improving,’ says Gill. ‘Look – see there…and there? A little sloughy, but not too bad. We’ll pack it out again and see you again tomorrow.’
Gill has a fantastically reassuring manner, easy as a mechanic up to her elbows in the bonnet, as happy to chat about where she went on her holidays this year as the way a post-operative wound should progress.
‘Here,’ she says, sitting back on her heels and smiling broadly at me. ‘You can do the next bit.’
The living room is a family shrine. Large, blurry portraits of babies and children, couples being married, couples on holiday, in boats, shops, university gowns, every portrait mounted in swirly, gold-leaf frames With all the ornate furniture, the marble tops and carriage clocks and yellow and green porcelain pot stands, and with the broad bands of sunshine leaning in through the patio windows, the effect is quite overwhelming, like trying to dress a wound in the Cave of Wonders.
‘That was the first place I ever went abroad, Greece,’ I say, gently probing the deeper recesses of the wound.
‘Oh lovely! Where did you go?’ says Elena.
‘Serifos. A beautiful little island. Nice ferry ride out. I couldn’t get over how clear the water was. I think it was the first time I ever swam in a sea where you could actually see fish.’
Stelios groans a little.
‘Is that okay?’ I say.
He waves his free hand.
‘Is good,’ he says. ‘Please – go on.’
‘Anyway – I remember when we got there, I pretty much ran into the sea and swam out as far as I could, and it was all wonderful. But then I stopped, because I thought oh my god, what about sharks.’
‘Sharks!’ laughs Elena. ‘Little tiny teeny ones, maybe.’
‘I had no idea. So I ended up swimming back really slowly, trying not to make a splash.’
‘That’s funny,’ she says. ‘Jellyfish, maybe. Sharks? No. The worst could happen maybe you get tickled by squid.’
‘Or hit by motorboat,’ says Stelios, groaning some more.
‘Your name’ says Elena. ‘Is Jim, yes?’
‘Yes.’
‘I can’t think what this is in Greek, you know?’
She speaks quickly and emphatically to Stelios, who lifts his hands when and how he can as part of the argument, and it goes on like this for a minute or two, whilst I continue to pack the wound. Eventually, Elena turns to me again and says: ‘Okay. Okay. Is Dimitris for Jim, but Iakovos for James, and anyway some of this depends on what your grandfather was called. It’s complicated. Names can be complicated.’
‘I’ll settle for Dimitris, then. And maybe Iakovos when I’m in trouble.’
‘Are you in trouble a lot?’
‘Don’t get me started,’ says Gill. ‘All done, are we?’
jim clayton 