sketches

bogie the ghost dog

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

It doesn’t matter how many times I visit Canterbury Court, I always get lost.

Outside by the keysafes there’s a gravestone to a dog incorporated into the wall. Bogie – Most faithful of animals. Died 1905. I wonder if one of the keysafes is for Bogie, because I’m certain that most faithful of ghosts would be able to take me straight to Beatrice’s flat.

The problem is, Canterbury Court fundamentally and demonstrably does not make sense. It has mezzanine anomalies called -1 or +2. It has one main staircase leading up to the first mezzanine, then other, smaller stairways leading off from that, in ways so random you’d have to think, in the event of fire, the idea was confuse the flames not confine them. I can only imagine it was put together by a team of architects who were at war with each other, or possibly one architect having an existential crisis. Either way, Canterbury Court is a living nightmare to navigate.

A postman passes me on one of the landings. He looks haggard, a marine veteran of the labyrinth, gripping his bag with a thousand-yard stare, marching with a death or glory kind of vigour towards the lift. He must surely know the way to flat fourteen, so I stop him to ask. He pulls the ear buds out of his ear (I think he’s listening to a self-development app: You are a confident and generous human being, afraid of no-one and nothing … ). He frowns, then nods dismissively to the far end of the corridor. ‘Take the stairs’ he says, then screwing the buds back into place, he crosses himself, turns and throws himself into the lift as the doors slide shut.

On the next floor the numbers pass in illogical sequence, like one of those intelligence tests where the answer could be anything from 27 to a chicken on a bike. But luckily enough – before I run out of water and die – I find myself standing outside Beatrice’s door. I knock quickly, in case the magic ends and the door changes again. Beatrice answers. I go inside.

I’m sure if Bogie the ghost dog had been leading the way, he’d collapse down in a grateful heap in front of Lovejoy. (It’s always Lovejoy when I come to see Beatrice – which sounds like a particularly cruel kind of Purgatory, but there’s actually a perfectly rational explanation: Beatrice always has her Tinzaparin injection this time of the morning). Or maybe with one howl of anguish, when he realised what it was he was watching, Bogie would jump up and throw himself through the window. Even if he did stay, though, he wouldn’t be able to help me over the next hurdle. Finding Beatrice is a cinch compared to understanding Beatrice.

The stroke Beatrice suffered a few years ago has affected her speech. That, coupled with a strong Norfolk accent and the fact that Beatrice only has one, large tooth displayed as flagrantly in the middle of her mouth as Bogie’s headstone in the wall outside – all this means that I find it almost impossible to understand what she tries to tell me. It doesn’t help that Beatrice gets irritated with me, too, and speaks more quickly, so that in the end I’m desperately using every sense I have to divine what it is she wants. Mostly I’ll just ask her to speak a little more slowly, or write down what it is she wants. But today for some reason I steam ahead and try to understand by letting the sounds wash over me and the sense filter down by weight.

Beatrice shakes a handful of opened letters at me.
‘You want me to file them?’
– – – – – – – – (shakes the bundle)
‘You want me to throw them away?’
– – – – – – – – (shakes the bundle harder)
‘You want me to recycle them?’
– – – – – – – – (holds the bundle forwards / pulls the bundle back / shakes the bundle)
‘You want me to check the letters to make sure there’s nothing important in them, and THEN recycle them?’
(big sigh / shakes head / hands me the bundle)
‘Okay then.’
I look through the letters. The first one has a marmalade sandwich in it.
‘What do you want me to do with this, Beatrice?’
She raises her eyebrows.

portia and the cricket

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

Portia. Sounds like Porsche – appropriate, actually, because she works so quickly. She’s stylish, too, with a bright, economic kind of aesthetic that perfectly complements her therapist’s uniform: henna-red hair cut in an angular bob; red nails, and a pair of round sunglasses in a turtle green frame.
‘Are you’s okay, eJim? Wha’s the matter? You seems a bit flat.’
‘Yeah – I’m okay, thanks Portia. This patient we’re going to – it’s difficult. And when I got back to the office to speak to one of the lead nurses, everyone was so stressy and snippy. It didn’t help that manager was wandering around with her notepad, giving me the evil eye.’
‘I’m sure she was too a-busy thinking about her looshus ass to worry about poor little Jimminy Cricket’
‘Yeah’

It’s fantastic that Portia’s agreed to come with me for this follow-up visit. It’s such a depressing case of self-neglect, I feel in need of psychic protection. The patient had cried when I spoke to him quite firmly about what it might mean to his health if he continued to refuse help, slumped on his chair by the window, the room so rank, run-down and malodorous, it felt like I’d been pitched blue-gloves first into an ante-room in Hell.

And of course, Portia is as dynamic and effective as ever. It’s a pleasure to watch her, effortlessly moving through the place, as refreshing and galvanising as the breeze through that window she opened so discreetly. The patient opens to her, too, irresistibly drawn – as everyone is – by her frank and life-affirming demeanour.
‘There you go my lovely!’ she says, shaking his hand. ‘Is a pleshur to meet you. Take care, and we see you soon, okay? Okay!’
And we’re out of there.

Back in the car, she turns to look at me.
‘Feeling not so flat now?’ she says.
‘Yeah! Thanks for helping me out.’
‘Of course!’ she says, then resting an elbow out of the car window, drops her round sunglasses down and gives me a big, lipsticky smile. ‘So come on, Jimminy Cricket! Less’ go!’

ralph’s owl

~ jim clayton ~ 2 Comments

Ralph reminds me of that paleolithic fertility statue, the Venus of Willendorf, updated for the modern age, with trackie bottoms, steel-rimmed glasses and a wild beard.
‘I just want to be left alone’ he says.
‘I’m sorry you feel like that,’ I say, squatting down near to him, mostly because I don’t want to intimidate him by standing tall, but also because there’s nowhere clean to sit. ‘We’re worried about you. That’s all.’
‘I just …. don’t appreciate … all this fuss.’
I can understand why he feels exposed. Whilst he was away in hospital a deep clean team stripped the place. I hadn’t seen what it was like before, but a trainer they missed is a giveaway. I found it when I moved the coffee table to make room for his zimmer. The trainer is caked in brown matter, a ghastly combination of dust, dirt and accumulated awfulness, the inside of the shoe spilling over with ropes of web so thick even a spider would shake its head and walk on.
‘You can always say no,’ I say. ‘You don’t have to have any of this.’
‘I just wish … I could say … what I want… to say.’
‘Take your time.’
I leave lots of room for him to try, but he’s too distressed to speak. He sits there gripping the arms of the chair, taking anguished gasps of air, puffing his toothless cheeks in and out and rolling his lips.
‘Don’t worry,’ I say. ‘It’s okay.’
I can’t even make Ralph a cup of tea. All he has in his cupboard are cupasoups and instant porridge sachets; the only things in his fridge, a couple of pens of insulin. There’s a scattering of medication strips on the windowsill, which make me question the accuracy of the ‘competent to take meds independently’ description on his discharge summary. In fact, I’d have to question much of what’s on that paper. Ralph lives up a flight of stairs (the paper said basement); he has a keysafe, because he couldn’t possibly answer the door (the paper said no keysafe), his phone number is carefully transcribed (he hasn’t got a phone). You’d hardly think it was the same patient at all.
‘Who does your shopping?’ I ask him, looking around.
‘Alfred. He helps out now and again.’
‘That’s good! D’you mind if I give him a call?’
‘I don’t have his number.’
‘Do you know where he lives?’
‘He’s not far’
‘If you give me the address I could pop round.’
‘I don’t know where he lives. I don’t even know his last name. All these questions…’

It’s a difficult assessment. The thought of anyone living like this is depressing, especially someone with Ralph’s limited mobility, sitting for hours and hours in a dilapidated armchair by the window, his skin breaking down, his only company the radio or the hum of the flies circling impatiently overhead. Ralph could be a poster boy for the Self Neglectful.

One of the most difficult things to accept in community health is the business of mental capacity. Essentially, so long as you understand the consequences of your actions, you’re perfectly at liberty to live however you like, whether or not it’s bad for your health. A free climber is perfectly free to jump up on El Capitan with nothing but a bag of chalk and the strength in their fingers between them and certain death; similarly, Ralph is free to live in this filthy flat with one crapped-up trainer and nothing in the fridge and no-one to see him, and he has every right not be pestered by nurses and therapists and social workers.
‘Maybe you could write a list of the things you want to say,’ I tell him. ‘You could take a while, and have a good think, and put it all in two columns – what I want, and what I don’t want.’
‘Just… I don’t…. oh’
‘It’s okay. There’s a lot going on at the moment. The deep clean must have been stressful.’

They’ve left one thing on the walls, though: a crude, blockish, primary coloured tapestry of an owl, staring out of its grimy frame with an outraged expression. Tucked into the frame is a polaroid of something that looks like a glass owl on a mantelpiece, but the picture’s so faded I can’t be sure.
‘I like your owl,’ I say. ‘How long have you had that?’
‘Thirty year,’ he says. ‘My wife did it. By numbers.’

angus the demon

~ jim clayton ~ 2 Comments

Angus, the focus of all this Scottie dog memorabilia, is lying on his tummy on a Scottie dog patterned rug. I’m relieved that he IS a Scottie dog, otherwise everything surrounding him – the Scottie dog toy in the white plastic alcove hung with fairy lights; the hundreds of Scottie dog pictures hanging on the walls, some as hyper-colourised 3D versions, where the eyes open and the tongue lolls out as you pass; the Scottie dog tea-towels neatly draped on a rail; the Scottie dog biscuit tin, the Scottie dog cushions, the Scottie dog puzzle half-completed on the table, with (ominously) only the eyes to complete – well, if you walked into a flat like this and found a doberman, you’d probably lose your mind.
‘Don’t go near him,’ says Jean. ‘He bites.’
‘He’s so sweet,’ I say.
‘Only when he’s sleeping,’ says Melanie, Jean’s daughter. ‘He bites me, too.’
‘Oh.’
‘I wonder what he dreams about?’ says Jean, yawning.
‘Biting,’ says Melanie.
I go to put my things down. Angus looks up. He’s so old, his fur has a rubbed, slightly greasy look.
‘Fifteen’ says Jean, anticipating my question.
‘Wow! Fifteen! Well!’ I say – then after a pause, where I can’t actually bring myself to say that he looks good for fifteen, I manage instead: ‘We’ve got a dog.’
‘Oh yeah? What sort?’
‘A lurcher.’
‘How old?’
‘I think she’s about ten.’
‘Ah!’ says Jean. ‘Long-legged dogs don’t live nearly so long.’
‘No. I’ve heard that.’
Angus may have lifted his head, but that’s as much as he’s prepared to do.
‘Angus! GET over here!’ says Melanie.
‘Oh – he’s alright’ I say. Too late. Melanie has already pushed herself clear of the sofa. She reaches down to scoop him up, and immediately his eyes spring open, revealing two black buttons of insanity. He bares his teeth, as thin and brown and horribly curved as the teeth on a deep sea angler fish, and he begins paddling furiously with his paws to turn and tear a lump out of her arm. It’s a horrifying spectacle, like watching someone pick up a scatter cushion and finding it transformed into a demon.
‘Oh no you don’t, you little bastard’ says Melanie, expertly wrestling Angus into a non-biteable position, and then sinking back onto the sofa with him, where she smothers the dog into submission. Eventually he taps out with a paw, Melanie cautiously relaxes her hold, and Angus sits there huffing and gasping and catching his breath, all the while watching me with an expression of the purest hatred.
‘Good boy,’ says Jean.

next stop market street

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

All I’ve done is asked Ken to stand up for me. I’ve asked him as gently as possible, making it clear that I need to see for myself exactly what he can and can’t do.
‘Righto’ says Ken, and gets himself ready.
‘I’m not staying here to watch this,’ says his son, Barry. ‘I can’t be doing with all of this.’ And swiping his coat from the back of a chair, he slams out of the room. Barry’s wife, Jean, is equally tense.
‘I’ve told you. He can’t stand. If he could stand, he wouldn’t ‘a pissed himself in the chair. ‘Scuse my language. They’ve sent him home too early. He should never’ve been let out like this. They just don’t give a damn. All they care about is the beds and kicking people out. They don’t give no thought for anybody else.’
Meanwhile, I’ve put Ken’s zimmer frame in front of him and stood to the side, just in case he needs a hand.
‘Okay, then. Right, then,’ says Ken, and stands up.
‘Of course he does it for you,’ she says. ‘He’ll do it for a uniform. But how’s he supposed to manage when there’s no-one here? We’re supposed to be going away on holiday tomorrow. How’s he going to cope then?’
Whilst Jean is talking I’ve discreetly checked the seat of the chair, which doesn’t appear to be damp in any way.
‘Well that’s the next step,’ I tell her. ‘That’s what we need to find out.’
I rest a hand on Ken’s shoulder. ‘How do you feel about a trip to the bathroom?’
‘Oh, yes!’ says Ken. ‘Fine. I’ll give it a go, like. Y’know – I used to be a tram driver before the war. Next stop market street! Hold on very tight…’
‘Just concentrate on what you’re doing,’ says Jean.
‘Righto,’ says Ken.
He starts walking with the frame in the direction of the bathroom. He looks pretty steady, so I go ahead and clear some bags and things out of the way. He makes it there in good time, manages to turn round safely, lower himself onto the toilet, and get himself back up again.
‘That’s great!’ I say. ‘There are a few bits and pieces of equipment that’ll make it even easier, but I think you’re pretty good.’
‘You think so?’ he says. ‘Because I don’t want to be a bother to anyone.’
‘It’s no bother. Come on. Let’s get you back to your chair.’
Whilst I’m helping him back there, Barry comes back in, followed by a waft of smoke.
‘He’s only gone and got him to walk,’ says Jean.
‘Have you?’ says Barry. ‘Who the hell are you? Jesus Christ?’
‘Me? No. I’m his more talented brother.’

jean in black

~ jim clayton ~ 2 Comments

Stephen is telling me about the dream he had last night. He’s sitting in his chair looking left towards the windows with his eyes tightly shut, his bony fingers laced in his lap, one long leg crossed over the other, the foot gently bouncing up and down, as if he’s judging the weight of the slipper hanging from the toes.
‘I’ve been having these vivid dreams,’ he says. ‘They’re so real it takes me a while to wake up from them. I wondered if it might be the medication.’
‘Possibly. What kind of dreams?’
‘Last night I was floating in a warm, deep sea. And there were all these people splashing about around me, laughing and shouting. Some I knew, some I didn’t. And then I started to sink, down and down and down, not drowning exactly, but not happy about it either. And no-one tried to help me or seemed all that bothered, and everything was getting far away. It was such an odd, lonely feeling. I can’t say it was a nightmare, exactly, but I didn’t like it all that much. And when I woke up, I found I’d … had an accident.’
He opens his eyes at that point and twists his mouth into a one-sided smile, cartoon-like, superficial. I can’t help thinking he’s spent his whole life practising it.
‘The last time I wet the bed must have been seventy years ago, so you can imagine how surprised I was. Still,’ he says, his slipper falling to the floor,’ I’ve put something on the mattress tonight, in case I have the sea dream again.’
I pick his slipper up and hang it back on his foot.
‘Thank you,’ he says. ‘Now – what else do you need to know?’
We go over his medical history, medications, recent admission to hospital.
‘And of course, no sooner have I come out than Jean goes in. We’re like those funny little people on a weather clock.’
‘So why has Jean gone to hospital?’
‘Didn’t they tell you?’ he says, closing his eyes and turning his face to the window again. ‘I fell on her. She was helping me down the stairs and I lost my balance. Broke her arm in three places. And then they found other things wrong with her, too, in that way they have. So all in all it’s been a bit of a disaster.’

* * *

Later on, when I’ve finished all the tests and I’m writing them up, Stephen asks me where I live.
‘Oh really?’ he says. ‘Well it’s a shame Jean isn’t here, because I think I’m right in saying that’s where her grandfather came from. He was a policeman – oh! I’m talking years ago, before the war. I remember her telling me about him. He used to ride around on a motorcycle, like he owned the place. And everyone hated him and his dreadful moustache, which is why they had him killed.’
‘Killed? Really?’
‘Apparently. And they all showed up at the funeral, lining the streets with their heads bowed and their hands in front of them, and all of them thinking the same thing. Glad to be shot of him.’
‘I’ll have to look into that.’
‘It was a long time ago. The old police station’s flats now, apparently. Called Peelers, I think. Funnily enough, that’s where I met Jean. At a funeral. She’s not my first wife. My first wife died unexpectedly.’
Stephen suddenly opens his eyes and stares straight at me.
‘It wasn’t her funeral we met at,’ he says. ‘I don’t want you getting the wrong idea.’
‘No, no,’ I tell him. ‘I didn’t think it could’ve been.’
‘Good,’ he says. ‘Because I know how it sounds.’
He finds another cartoon smile, then resumes his blind inspection of the window.
‘Yes. Jean looked wonderful in black. She was a shorthand typist, down from Scotland. We got chatting over the cold meat selection, and then shared a cab back to mine. And do you know what I tell people?’
‘No? What do you tell them?’
‘I tell them it was the only one-night stand I ever had, and so far it’s lasted ten years.’

aggie’s gift

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Aggie looks like the police photo of a ruined children’s clown finally busted for drugs. All she needs is a handheld name board and number. To the side. Full profile. Washed out, no make-up, hair still out in banded clumps. Dark brown eyes screwed up against the flash. Heavy lower lip rolling out from ill-fitting, tobacco stained dentures.

‘I went up that eye hospital,’ she says. ‘The doctor there, he turns round to me and he says I need an injection. What for, I says. Well, he says, you got that much pressure building up, if you don’t have it done soon your eye’ll pop out. Oh, I says. Yes, he says. I’ll make you an appointment. Well – if you’re that worried you think my eyeball’s gonna explode, why don’t you give me the injection now? I’m here, aren’t I? Oh, he says. Alright. So then he gets out this needle and he jabs me in the eye. Not just once, mind. Four times. Four times! It’s no wonder you give people a bit of a run-up, I says. It might be a little sore he says. Sore? He might as well have scooped my eye out and jumped on it. Anyway, I was on my way back into the waiting room when I saw this little old woman sitting on her own, looking pretty cheesed off. So I went over to her and I give her an orange. Honestly – she was so pleased. It was like I’d given her the world. I said to her, I said It’s just an orange, love. Don’t worry about it. I’m sure someone’ll do the same for me when I’m sitting there as old and hopeless as you.’

what would mellie say

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‘Phew! I can’t tell you how relieved I am to get that essay out of the way!’ says Rachel, dropping an armful of files and folders on to the desk next to me and then herself into the chair. ‘It took me right back to when I was a student. And not in a good way.’
‘Writing essays?’
‘I just find it so stressful. But there! It’s done. And you know, the other good thing? It reminded me of Mellie’
‘Who’s Mellie?’
‘She was great, in an odd kind of way. I could never quite figure her out, whether she knew she was being odd, or she just was.’
‘It’s hard to know sometimes.’
‘Our first day, the tutor told us to introduce ourselves with our name and then one interesting fact.’
‘I hate that.’
‘Yeah. Me too. I think I said something lame about how I fell off my skateboard and knocked myself out when I was ten. And that was pretty much how it went round the circle till we got to Mellie. After this strange little pause she always did, y’know? It always slightly put you on edge. After one of her little pauses she said, really quietly: I’ve got a dog. And then there was this silence. And then the tutor said, really gently, like he’s encouraging someone terribly shy: And what’s your dog called, Mellie? And she said Jism.’
‘Jism?’
‘I know!’
‘That’s great! Mind you – there’s a teacher at Jess’ school called Mr Chisholm.’
‘Euch! You’d change your name, wouldn’t you?’
‘What to?’
‘I don’t know. Spunkmeyer? Anyway. That’s what Mellie was like. We did this session on diabetes once. An introductory thing, looking at the equipment and stuff, and the tutor held up the blood sugar machine and said What would you tell the patient if you had a reading that just said High? So Mellie put up her hand. Yes. Mellie. What would you say? And Mellie put her head on one side, like she was doing an impression of someone being sympathetic, and she said I’m sorry to have to tell you but you’ve got diabetes?’
‘That’s hilarious.’
‘You just couldn’t figure out if she was being serious or not. The worst thing time was when we were taking the psychiatric module. We had this tutor who was completely insane. I mean – my god! She always looked as if she was on the edge of something – y’know? Her hair out here, her eyes…’. Rachel widens her eyes, twists her mouth and leans towards me. ‘Her hands in her pockets. Anyway, she completley terrified us. And she had this trigger light temper, and anything would throw her into a rage. Anyway, she’d set us some reading to do, some incredibly heavyweight and tedious article about something or other, and we’d all been out that night and no-one had read it. That session we were all sitting in the classroom, and she started asking us questions about the article. And it was obvious really quickly that no-one had read it. So instead of moving on or making some general comment about how disappointed she was or how important it was to keep up with the reading that she set, she started to make this big personal deal, going round the whole room to see who had read it or not. Everyone said no and looked away, because the more people she asked the more furious she got, until I really thought she’d explode. Then she got to Mellie. And what about you? she said to her, fumbling in her pocket like she’s got a knife in there and she’s getting ready to use it. Did you read my article? So Mellie paused like she used to, looking a bit pale and vacant, and then she said Yes, I did. Oh? said the Tutor. I see! Finally! At least one person as the common courtesy to do as I asked. And she was about to move on, but then she stopped, and turned back to Mellie. And what did you find most interesting about my article? she said. And we were all willing her to say something smart. But instead she put her head on the side like she did in diabetes, and she said The bit at the beginning?’
‘What a legend! I wonder what she’s doing now?’
‘Last I heard, she was working in intensive care. Which is something else. I mean – imagine coming out of your coma and seeing Mellie leaning over you with her head on one side. God knows what she’d say…’

the good neighbours

~ jim clayton ~ 2 Comments

I’d been worried about taking this assessment so late in the day. There are often snags, so many things that can go wrong, and you can find yourself struggling to make it all right long after your finishing time. But as I hurry back to the car with all my things, checking my watch, rehearsing the best route to the hospital to beat the evening traffic, I can’t help thinking it had all gone so much better than I could have hoped. In fact, it had been an ideal kind of assessment. Maud had been a charming patient, radiantly pleased to be home again after a couple of weeks in hospital, stroking the arms of her favourite chair like she fully expected them to close around her in a welcoming hug. The Red Cross ambulance crew that brought her home had been as meticulously kind and attentive as you could possibly get without actually hiring them from a catalogue called Angels in the Community. They’d even bought a week’s shopping for her, ready meals, bread, margarine and long-life milk, and put it all neatly away. There had been no medical complications. There was mention in the hospital referral of neighbours who were active in her support. So all in all, it had taken very little sorting out, and I had a reasonable chance of finishing on time.

I’m sitting in the car with the window down, putting my sunglasses on and turning the engine over ready to set off, when a door across the road opens and an anguished woman hurries out. Her hair is dyed a dusky yellow and held in a clump straight up by a thick green band, making her look like an anguished pineapple. She is barefoot.
‘Have you seen Maud?’ she pants.
‘Yes. I’ve just finished there. I’m from the hospital.’
‘Good. Then I need to talk to you,’ she says – and then waits for me to turn the engine off again and get out of the car, glancing up and down the street, one hand on the roof, like she’s ready to hold me back if I decide to make a dash for it.
‘What’s the problem?’ I say when I’m out, leaning back against the car.
‘A terrible thing happened,’ she says.
‘What terrible thing? When?’
‘We’ve known her for years. We all of us have. We’re in and out all the time. Well it’s like that round here. It’s a friendly street. We look out for each other. I must have twenty keys in my kitchen. Can you feed the cat? Can you water the plants?’
‘That’s what you want’ I say. ‘So – what’s this terrible thing?’
‘We couldn’t do enough for her. There’s me, there’s my husband Nikolai. There’s Enda. She’s a retired nurse. Her nerves are shot. We’ve picked Maud off the floor. We’ve gone to the supermarket twice a week. Got the paper, fixed her water when she had that flood. We’ve moved furniture. We’ve done just about everything for that woman…’
‘Sorry – I don’t even know your name…’
‘Gloria. I’m Gloria,’ she says, holding out her hand. I shake it. It feels soft and damp.
‘Do you think we should talk about this inside, Gloria?’
‘Yes, of course.’
She pads back across the road with the high, tentative steps and arms out to the side like a holidaymaker on the beach. Her husband Nikolai – I’m guessing it’s him – has appeared at the door. He’s the exact opposite of Gloria – monosyllabic, graven. He squeezes my hand in his great, fleshy paw of a hand, whilst dropping his other hand weightily onto my shoulder at the same time, making me buckle on that side.
‘Come!’ he says. ‘Would you like drink? Eat?’
‘That’s kind,’ I say, starting to feel desperate. ‘But I can’t be long.’
‘Nonsense!’ says Nikolai. ‘I get you something.’
He thumps off into the back kitchen whilst Gloria carries on with her frantic monologue in the lounge.
‘‘… because of course we none of us mind doing any of these things for Maud. I’ve had elderly parents. Nikolai’s father. The Tremletts next door, the Parkinsons at number eight. We’ve been there for them. Because that’s what we’d expect for ourselves, and we’d do it all again in a heartbeat. But then this thing happened and I can’t tell you… it’s horrible…. awful….’
‘What happened? I have to be quick, only…’
‘All these years. Thirty eight years. And the irony is, we’ve paid out quite a bit. We ran a kind of tab, you know? A week’s shopping, bits and pieces for the house. She’d get one bill or another and of course she doesn’t have any cards or a bank account so it’d be Gloria – do you think you could sort this out for me and we’ll settle up at the end of the month. And sometimes she would, and sometimes she wouldn’t.’
‘Has she accused you of stealing money?’
Gloria blanches and stops talking, and for a second I think she’s going to faint.
‘It was awful,’ she says. ‘Terrible. Horrible. You see, she’s so paranoid about burglars. She’s getting worse. Isn’t she, Nikolai?’
He’s coming back into the room with a tray of tea and a plate of tiny square pastries.
‘Here. Come,’ he says, putting the tray on the coffee table and then gesturing to the sofa. I sink down onto it, take a pastry. And maybe it’s because I’m hot and a little wired, but this pastry is far and away the driest, sweetest thing I’ve ever put in my mouth, a triple honey, sugared pistachio desiccant sachet.
‘Mmm,’ I say, half-choking and hurriedly reaching for my tea. ‘Thanks. So – then what happened?’
‘We went to see her in hospital. Didn’t we, Nikolai?’
‘Ye-es!’ he says, spreading his hands. ‘Of course!’
‘So she was saying all this and that about her house. How many people knew she was away. Who had a key and who didn’t. So I said to her: Come on, Maud. We’ve all been friends for donkeys years. And she said Yes, but I don’t know – you might have relatives who are burglars.’
Nikolai pops a pastry in his mouth like it’s really nothing at all, and smacks his hands.
‘Aah!’ he says, then wipes his beard.
‘No, Nikolai,’ says Gloria, like she understands the real meaning behind that gesture. ‘I know she’s ninety-five, but there’s nothing wrong with her up here,’ she says, tapping the side of her head. ‘Nothing at all. And that’s what makes it so hard to take. I mean it’d be alright if she had dementia. If you know what I mean.’
‘I know what you mean,’ I say, red in the face. The tea is superheated, but I have to drink as much of it as I can so as not to appear rude.
‘So then she says Oh Gloria – I’ve got all that money upstairs. And all my rings. Could you take care of it for me? So I said Of course I will, Maud. And the first thing I did when I got back from the hospital, I went over there, and I got it all together in one big envelope – and it had to be a big envelope, because there was eleven hundred pound in total – eleven hundred! – and you can count it yourself if you don’t believe me. And I put it all safe here. And the next day when we went back to see her, I told her what I’d done. And honestly, Jim – you should’ve seen her face. I didn’t tell you to take my money! she said, everyone looking, all the nurses and people. What have you done, stealing all my money! I’ve a good mind to call the police on you. Well! I felt so sick. I wanted the floor to open up and swallow me whole.’
‘She was upset,’ says Nikolai, closing his eyes and slowly shaking his head.
‘I said to her I’m perfectly happy to put it all back for you, Maud. I was only trying to help. So I came straight back, got the envelope and put everything back how it was. And I haven’t been in to see her since, because I can’t have that hanging over me. I can’t expose myself to accusations like that, can I? I mean – what d’you think? You do your best for someone and then this happens.’

I tell her that she’s quite right to withdraw contact, at least for the time being, until things settle down. I tell her I’ll report back to the nurse in charge, and we’ll come up with a plan.
‘We’ll be putting in temporary care and so on, so you don’t have to worry about that. And I’ll have a word with the social workers to see what they think.’
Gloria tells me about the effect all this is having on the other neighbour, Enda, and Nikolai starts to pour me another cup of tea – so I have to act decisively if I’m not to be caught here for another hour.
‘Thank you so much for the tea and everything – and for being so frank about what happened,’ I say, backing towards the door, the two of them standing together and advancing on me. I reach out and shake their hands in an effort to underline the fact that the meeting is over. Nikolai holds on to my hand, though, alternating a squeeze with a nod of his head and a closing of his eyes. I squeeze his hand back, but still he doesn’t release, and it goes on for an interminable length of time, until I manage to free my hand and move purposefully to the front door.
‘Bye then.’
Gloria follows me outside and across the road, still in her bare feet.
I open the car door by touch and slip inside, winding down the window to make some allowance for the fact that Gloria’s still talking.
‘That’s fine,’ I say, starting the engine. ‘I know it’s easy for me to say, but try not to worry. I think Maud’s been upset by her stay in hospital. It can be quite disorienting, and she is pretty elderly. Anyway – it’s been lovely to meet you.’
I put on my sunglasses.
‘I’m really sorry, though, Gloria – I have to go now.’
‘Yes,’ she says. ‘Of course. You do understand, though, don’t you? We’ve always had her best interests at heart.’
‘I can see that,’ I tell her. ‘I can see you’re good neighbours. Try not to worry.’
When I drive away, I catch a glimpse of her in the rear view mirror, standing forlornly in the middle of the street in her bare feet, looking back at me.

a two o’clock monster kinda deal

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

Minnie opens the door.
‘Good morning,’ she says. ‘Please. Come in.’
As soon as I’m in the hall I slip my shoes off.
‘My word! You are domesticated!’ she says, then formally gestures to one of her kitchen chairs.
‘Do take a seat,’ she says.

Despite the painful crook of her back, the palsied tremor of her head and the general wear and tear of her ninety-eight years, Minnie is remarkably chipper.
‘I was a dancer,’ she says as I go through the examination. ‘Ballet first, then contemporary. Although you wouldn’t think it to look at me now.’
I don’t agree, though. There’s a poise to her that suggests years of training and performance. It certainly goes some way to explaining her sparkling demeanour. I imagine she’d jump up if I asked her and attempt a pirhouette on the spot, sweeping all her medications off the table with a velcro slipper.
‘And when my performance days were done I went into dance therapy. D’you know, when I used to say that to people they’d often say Ah yes! That’s when you put your arms out and tell them to be a tree. Be a tree, they’d say! But of course, they’d got it completely wrong. The only thing that can be a tree is a tree! No – what you say is: Think about a tree. Now – hold that feeling, and let it start to move you. D’you see the difference?’
I tell her I do, that it’s a subtle distinction but a good one.
‘Or they’d say Be a boat on a wavy sea! What utter nonsense! They don’t know what they’re talking about.’

We go through the examination. Apart from some recent dizziness, everything seems pretty good.
‘Yes, well, the family was blessed with old bones. Or cursed, I’m not sure,’ she says, buttoning up her sleeve. ‘My two elder sisters are both gone now, poor souls, but they lived to their hundreds. I don’t doubt Agatha could’ve gone on a lot longer, but she fell out with her doctor, threw out her pills and that was that.’

At the end of it all I shake her warmly by the hand.
‘Lovely to meet you, Minnie,’ I say.
‘You too, dear,’ she says. ‘Now don’t forget your shoes.’

*

Back at the hospital, I’m in the middle of handing over my patients for the day.
‘Ah, now – Minnie!’ I say, pulling out her report. ‘She was an absolute delight!’
Jess, one of the nurses, is sitting right behind me. She turns round in her chair and leans forward to look over my shoulder.
‘Thought so,’ she says. ‘There aren’t too many Minnies around. Thank God.’
‘Why? What d’you mean? Didn’t you like her?’
‘No. She was absolutely vile. Her and her daughter.’
‘What happened?’
‘I phoned her up to arrange an appointment. Two o’clock alright? I said. Fine, lovely. Great. See you then, sort of thing. So I get there dot on two and knock and knock and ring the bell. Nothing, no reply. I phone the landline. No answer. And I’m looking around, wondering what to do, just about to call the office to get some advice when I hear a rumble from inside, and when I look through the letterbox I can see someone coming down on the chair lift. Well – eventually after about ten years the door flies open. What the hell d’you think you’re playing at! she says. I was upstairs having my nap. So I say how sorry I am to have disturbed her and everything, but I did phone and ask what time. She completely ignores that, of course. You people just think you can barge in any time of the day or night. Rah rah rah. To be honest I’m so shocked by all of this I just stand there and take it – and that’s when her daughter comes running over from the Co-op. Have you met Minnie’s daughter?’
‘No. I saw a picture of her on the wall though. She looks nice.’
‘Nice? Satan in a bad wig and red lippy nice. She comes racing over, stopping the traffic, apples everywhere. What d’you think you’re doing? she’s shouting. Who are you? Why wasn’t I informed? and so on. And everyone in the street’s stopping to look, like I’m some kind of evil bailiff or something, come to turf them out of their house.’
‘Oh. Well. I’m shocked.’
‘So go on, then. How come she was nice to you and so horrible to me?’
‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘Maybe she’s worse when the daughter’s there?’
‘Hmm,’ says Jess, turning back to her desk. ‘Maybe. Or maybe it’s just a two o’clock monster kinda deal.’