sketches

cynthia’s view

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

Cynthia’s flat is above a laptop repair place on the high street.
‘Shame they don’t do people,’ she says. ‘I could do with some of that.’
It’s about as central as it’s possible to be, though, and handy for the shops, if only Cynthia didn’t have to negotiate a set of stairs so steep they may as well be a ladder.
‘I used to run up and down when I was younger,’ she says. ‘Not any more. Not with these knees. But what can you do? At least they match the rest of me.’
Cynthia has been referred to us for help following a bad chest infection, something she’s prone to after years of respiratory problems. By rights she should probably be in hospital, but she refuses to go.
‘I’m not going in just when Ted’s coming out,’ she says. ‘Who’d look after him?’
They’ve been married sixty years, the last three overshadowed by Ted’s dementia. He was admitted after a fall – ‘the bathroom, not the stairs,’ she says, crossing herself – and other complications. ‘He gets so distressed. That’s the hardest thing. Most of the time when he’s home he’s not too bad. He goes downstairs to have a smoke in the street. I have to keep watch out the window to make sure he doesn’t wander off, but he’s only done it a couple of times, and people know him round here. I get so exhausted the end of the day I hardly know what to do with myself. And I know what everyone thinks, the rest of the family, the doctor and everyone. They all think I should just put him in a home. But I couldn’t do it to him. He went into one a while back, to give me a break, and when I went to see him he was so upset I just said right, I’m fetching you back home with me and that was that. One day he had in there, and that was one day too many.’
I tell her we can have a look at how much help she’s getting at home. There are always things to be done.
‘That’s kind of you but don’t worry,’ she says. ‘I’m coping alright at the minute. I mean – he gets up at six! The carers don’t show till nine or half past – and by that time I’ve washed and dressed him myself. So they end up looking around for something to do, and I feel guilty I’m wasting their time.’
I tell her it’s something to bear in mind, though.
‘I went to see him yesterday at the hospital,’ she says. ‘You should’ve seen him. He was sitting on the side of the bed with all his bags packed around him. The nurses said he’d been like that for hours. He keeps telling us he’s got to get home because he’s supposed to be looking after his wife.’
She laughs and shakes her head.
‘Honestly! He’s got no idea. But you know what? I think when he completely loses the plot and doesn’t know me or what’s going on, then I might think about putting him in a home. I don’t think we’re quite there yet, though. I suppose you just have to stay strong and take it a day at a time, don’t you? One day at a time. l mean – nothing lasts forever, does it? Hey?’

I’m guessing Cynthia is sitting in the same seat she uses to keep an eye on Ted when he’s down on the pavement, smoking. She stares out of the window now. It’s a bright, busy weekday lunchtime, and the street is pretty crowded – shoppers, school kids, office workers striding so purposefully their lanyards swing from side to side as they head for the fast food places.
‘Busy,’ I say.
‘Yes,’ she says. ‘But it quietens down at night.’

the hitcher

~ jim clayton ~ 2 Comments

‘Goodness!’ says Ian, opening the door. ‘There must be a line of you waiting out in the street!’
‘It’s like that, sometimes. Especially at the beginning. We all tend to just pile in.’
‘And a jolly good thing it is, too!’ he says, showing me inside. ‘I must say, it’s been rather overwhelming. But in a good way – you know. In a good way.’

He shows me through to his mother, Peggy, who is propped up on several pillows, doing The Times crossword. She sets the newspaper aside to shake my hand, takes off her reading glasses and puts them on the bedside table next to a porcelain saucer with one partially nibbled, white chocolate biscuit.

‘So kind of you to come,’ she says. ‘Do please have a seat. Is there anything we can get you?’
I tell her I’m fine. She smiles and then nods at Ian, who almost seems to give a little bow before turning and quietly leaving the room.
‘I’ll just be out here,’ he says.
‘Thank you, darling,’ says Peggy. Then once he’s gone, she adds: ‘I’d be lost without him.’

Peggy is almost a hundred years old. Although she’s been pretty independent up until a month ago, it’s all suddenly caught up with her, and now her body is starting to fail in earnest, the flesh retreating from her bones in the most cruelly anatomical way, revealing all the hollows and protruberances, the cords of her neck, the scoop of her temples. Her eyes are still bright, though, as I’ve no doubt they always were – she seems such a poised and intelligent woman – but perhaps with a cooler, more intense grade of light, the fire of a star at night.

‘I was just admiring your frogs,’ I tell her after introducing myself and unpacking my things.
‘Yes. Aren’t they a wonder?’ she says. ‘I used to spend hours out there, crouched down by the edge, watching them come and go. I’m sure the neighbours thought I was quite potty. But there’s no shortage of things to admire in nature, don’t you find?’
‘I certainly do. We’ve got a wildlife pond at home.’
‘Have you?’
‘Lots of frogs. Newts, too.’
‘And all those marvellous insects, skimming about on the surface…’
‘You’re right! Plenty of things to look at.’
‘Yes!’
‘Do they make much noise, your frogs?’
‘No, not really. Except in mating season, when they all get terribly exercised. Or when one of the cats fetches one out, which is horrible, of course, and I’ve tried my damndest to stop them. We haven’t got any newts, though, so I’m jealous on that score. I do so love my frogs!’

I conduct the examination and everything is pretty much as expected, given the circumstances.
‘Well, one thing’s for sure,’ says Peggy, suddenly serious. ‘I will not be going to hospital. You can do whatever else you like with me, but I will not be agreeing to that.’
‘No. I understand.’
‘I mean – for goodness sake! Look at me! What ever is the point?’
‘You are the boss of you, Peggy. We’ll do whatever’s best for you.’
‘That’s kind,’ she says. ‘It’s so easy to get swept up in these things sometimes – don’t you find?’
‘Absolutely.’

As I’m filling out the paperwork I ask her what she did when she was working.
‘I messed about in the government during the war. Started off in the typing pool but after one thing and another found myself in the Foreign Office, helping out in the Middle East. All frightfully interesting. I travelled about quite a bit afterwards, of course. There was nothing I liked better when I had a bit of free time than to stick out my thumb and hitchhike. I travelled right the way through Syria like that. Fascinating country. Breaks my heart to see what’s happening there now, of course. Those poor people.’
‘Did you hitchhike on your own?’
‘Of course!’ she says, ‘although, these days…’ and she spreads her arms wide and smiles just as broadly, ‘I don’t suppose I’d get all that far!’

 

the things he’s seen

~ jim clayton ~ 2 Comments

‘Is that a bird in the corner?’
‘A bird?’
‘A blackbird. Or a rat. Could be a rat. Something.’
I go over to check, cautiously moving junk around.
‘No. Nothing here.’
‘Oh. I thought I saw something.’
I put the junk back.
‘Do you think you might be hallucinating?’
‘No, no! I definitely saw it. This place – I don’t know. Sometimes things just come in the door.’

I don’t know what to think. Steve’s had a recent history of infection, and he certainly doesn’t take care of himself, with his heavy drinking, his poor diabetes control, and the general state of his flat. But despite all this his obs are normal, and – so far at least – he’s been pretty rational. And he’s certainly right about the place. A tenement block you could use as a film set for the roughest quarter of New Orleans, with a dark, central courtyard, an old tree in a ruined brick planter, and all around rising up six storeys a crumbling iron fire escape.

‘Anyway. I wouldn’t go to hospital, Jim. Not even if I was dying.’
‘Oh? Why’s that?’
‘My son! I haven’t seen him for ten years and he turns up yesterday.’
‘Wow! That’s great!’
‘Yeah. He’s off with his mates the other side of town. I ‘spect I’ll see him later.’

There’s a map of the world pinned to the wall above Steve’s bed. He tells me about his life as the skipper of a yacht, sailing the world, navigating the oceans through a haze of booze, smoke and other substances until unexpectedly running aground on a reef of detritus in this godforsaken flat.

‘I’ve been through storms like you wouldn’t believe. End of the World type storms. Did you know hurricanes give birth to tornadoes?’
‘Do they?’
‘I’ve seen it. The Devil’s spawn. Evil snakes, twisting you into knots. I was always lucky, though. I’ve got a strong stomach. And a strong grip!’

Later that day, back at the hospital, his blood results come in – as bleak a set of figures as the worst severe weather warning. I book him an ambulance to go to hospital, and then call him to give him the news.
‘I won’t go without seeing my son,’ he says.
‘Can’t you call him on his mobile?’
‘I haven’t got any credit on my phone, and he’s left his at home.’
‘I could call his landline and leave a message.’
‘He lives in El Salvador.’
‘Still, I could try…’
He gives me the number, but the number’s unobtainable.
I ring Steve back and tell him what I think.
‘The ambulance are on a two-hour response,’ I tell him. ‘So there’s time. I’m not going to stand the ambulance down, Steve, because your blood results are so out of whack I couldn’t be responsible for that. Fingers crossed your son turns up between now and then. But your health’s the most important thing.’
‘I don’t care about that,’ he says. ‘I’m not going anywhere till I’ve seen my son again.’

A little later I ring the hospital to check Steve went in. There’s no record, so I ring him to find out what happened. When he answers the phone he sounds loud and emphatic, like he’s speaking in the middle of a storm. I wonder if he’s been drinking.
‘No, Jim! He didn’t show up!’ he bellows. ‘But even if he had I couldn’t possibly go now.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘It’s all these kids.’
‘What d’you mean? What kids?’
‘All these seven year olds! Their mums’ve just dumped them on me. And it’s kinda weird, Jim – you know? Because they’ve done that thing kids do these days. They’ve painted their faces yellow and black. Fierce stripes, y’know! Like wasps…!’

I ring ambulance control again. Get the response time upgraded to immediate.

when the time comes

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Margaret’s daughter-in-law Sandy is standing over by one of the bookcases, casting her eye over the spines, taking the odd book out and idly flipping through.
‘Quite what we’ll do with all these when the time comes I don’t know,’ she says. ‘I mean – it’s a shame. These Dickens might’ve fetched something, but the sun’s got to them and they’ve gone a bit foxy.’

It makes me feel uncomfortable, but it’s my own fault, of course.

I’d started setting up to take blood from Margaret, and Sandy and the two carers had been standing round the bed, saying nothing, just watching.
‘I’ve never had such an audience,’ I said, just to break the tension, because it didn’t really bother me whether I was observed or not. ‘Talk amongst yourselves.’
‘Sorry!’ Sandy said, and that’s when she started to walk round the room, pricing things up.

As it turns out, though, I’m glad the attention has switched to Little Dorrit. Margaret is quite poorly, and getting anything remotely viable is like trying to tap-up a strand of hair. I’m not even sure why I’ve been asked to try. Margaret has steadfastly refused hospital – and I’m completely with her on that. She’s in her nineties, for goodness sake. If I was her I’d be refusing hospital, too. The only thing I might do differently is ask them turn my bed around so I could face out into the courtyard garden and that flowering cherry, so vibrantly and abundantly pink it would gladden even a dying heart.

‘Alright?’ says Sandy, coming back over. ‘Getting any?’

a ten month stretch

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Ten months shy of a hundred.

From the way Miles is sitting, though, I’d say this was less of an ambition and more of a curse. Miles has a graven look to his face, his eyes heavy, his mouth a perfect downward arc, as if he was resigned to sit out those ten months with his arms folded, not moving at all, and then at midnight on the last day, when the last chime has sounded, he’ll stand up, and quietly leave the room.

At this rate, though, I can’t see him making the end of the week. He suffered a fall a few months ago, and although he wasn’t hurt, it’s made him fearful of any kind of movement. Now we’re at the point where the carers are virtually lifting him from the chair to the commode and back again. His eating and drinking have tailed off, too, and it’s a good day if he can finish a beaker of cold tea or half a boiled egg delivered into his mouth one slow spoonful at a time. He’s developing pressure sores. The doctor has called us in to see what we can do.

Miles’ daughter, Janice has reached the end of her ability to cope. She lives some distance away, and has been spending the majority of her time sleeping upstairs in the room she left fifty years ago. Her own life is on hold now whilst she helps the carers and struggles to make things better. She’s utterly worn down from all the day-to-day indignities, the pleading and the hectoring, the constant bargaining.
‘The worst thing is how guilty I feel,’ she says, dabbing at her eyes in the next room.
‘You’re doing an amazing job,’ I tell her. ‘You’re dad’s lucky to have you.’
‘No,’ she says. ‘He isn’t. Now and again I’ll catch myself looking at him and thinking Go! Just go! I mean – he’s not happy. He doesn’t want all this. But what can you do? And all the while everyone’s traipsing through the house, checking his blood, changing his meds stringing him out even longer, and I can’t see any end to it. Am I bad for saying this? I am, aren’t I? I’m bad. I shouldn’t be thinking these things about my own father.’
She cries some more.
I tell her that it’s perfectly understandable and okay to think or say these things. It’s natural. Anyone would. I tell her I think she should seriously think about organising some respite care for Miles, to give herself a break as much as anything.
‘Where would that be? A nursing home?’
‘I think so, yes. Miles needs a level of care now he wouldn’t get anywhere else.’
‘I promised him he wouldn’t end up in a home.’
‘It’s only temporary. It’ll give yourself space to think and get your strength back. You’ve got to look after your health, too, you know.’
‘But a home?’
She screws the handkerchief into a ragged ball and tosses it into the bin with practised ease.
‘Well,’ she sighs. ‘I’ll think about it. For now, though, how can we make things better for Dad here?’
We talk about hospital beds, stand-aids, double-up carers four times a day, physio exercises he can do in his chair, that sort of thing.
‘Gosh!’ she says, then shakes her head. ‘Don’t get me wrong. We’re so grateful and everything. But you wouldn’t want it for yourself, would you?’
‘No,’ I say. ‘I probably wouldn’t.’
‘But what else is there?’
‘I don’t know. It’s difficult.’
We go back into the front room. Miles is still sitting there, as graven as before.
‘Alright?’ I say, going over and resting my hand on his arm.
‘Yes thank you,’ he says, and then turns his head to stare out of the window, at the wide, sunlit street, and the day that’s just starting into life.

owl henry

~ jim clayton ~ 3 Comments

Henry is surrounded by paintings of owls. An owl on a branch, an owl staring out from the hollow of a tree, an owl with a mouse in its beak, an owl silhouetted against the moon.
‘I paint other things’ he says, nodding to a cheetah. ‘But there’s something about owls…’
The paintings aren’t all that good, it has to be said (not out loud, obviously). They’re over-coloured and a bit flat. I get the impression Henry learned to paint owls in the same way Walt Disney learned to draw Mickey: one circle for the head, and two smaller circles for the ears, perfectly round whichever way the mouse was pointing.
‘Great!’ I tell him. ‘You’re quite an artist.’
‘It’s good to have a skill,’ he says. ‘I’m lucky. I’ve always been good at art.’
He rolls up his sleeve so I can put on the blood pressure cuff.
‘You know, when Susan was in hospital I was pretty much living there. I used to tuck myself away in a corner, and I’d make drawings of everything – you know, the drip stands, the beds, all the comings and goings. The nurses would come over, and they’d say What are you up to there, Henry? And I’d say: Well, I forgot the camera, so I thought I’d try drawing instead. And they’d look at the drawings, and they’d say: You don’t need a camera, Henry! These are as good as any photograph…’
He smiles at me as I take the cuff off and he rolls his sleeve back down.
‘All right?’ he says.
‘Fine. Everything’s fine.’
‘Good!’ he says. ‘I feel fine, I must say. Everyone’s made such a fuss of me. It really is quite lovely.’
‘You’re worth it – as the advert says.’
‘What advert?’
‘That make-up one. Loreal. I think.’
‘Oh,’ he says, and watches me for a moment as I write down his observations.
‘What do you think of my paintings?’ he says.
‘Yeah! They’re great! Did you do that cheetah, as well?’
‘I did. But owls are mostly what I do.’
He folds his arms and proudly surveys the room, left to right, as smoothly and comprehensively as – well – an owl.
‘You know – when Susan was in hospital I was practically living up there,’ he says looking straight at me again. ‘I used to tuck myself away in a corner, and I’d make drawings of everything, all the drip stands and the beds and all the people coming and going. And the nurses, they’d come over and stand around me, and they’d say: What are you doing there, Henry? And I’d say: Well, I forgot the camera, so I thought I’d try drawing instead. So they’d look at my drawings, and they’d say: You don’t need a camera, Henry! These are as good as any photograph!’
‘They sound like a nice bunch of nurses.’
‘Oh they were!’ he says. ‘They really were.’
I sign off the sheet and put my things away.
‘Well – that’s me finished, Henry. Do you have any questions before I go?’
He raises his eyebrows, takes the tiniest beakful of water from the glass by his side, carefully puts it back, and then smiles at me. And I just know what he’s going to say.

 

 

lucky, buddy & me

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Lucky’s a hard man.

You can tell immediately – not so much from the ruin of his body, his arms and shoulders the texture of old stilton, veined and nicked and scabbed from years of drug abuse; not from his ill-fitting false teeth, his gold chains or his blurry tattoos – hula hula girl, flaming skull, Ace of Spades; nor from the casually terrible things he says, stories of violence, vendettas, feuds, armed robberies and the like. And it’s not something you’d simply extrapolate from the block-cap note in the front of his folder: DOUBLE-UP VISITS IN THE PRESENCE OF SUPPORT WORKERS ONLY. No. Without any of these things you’d still be able to tell. He carries it deep in his eyes – an unsettling, milky blue, as if the poison of all that hostility rose up over the years and tainted the purer colour. I can imagine him turning those eyes on the face of enemy, warden or wall with the same languorously hostile expression. For now, though, he seems to have accepted my role in this particular scenario, and offers out his paw for the SATS probe with the weighty insouciance of a tiger, claws retracted.

‘The doctor? Nah mate! They don’t send doctors out to me no more. The last one, he said Your old man’s very ill. Oh yes? I said. What the fack’s wrong with the ol’ cant now? I’m afraid he’s got cancer he said. He’s not got long to live much longer. Is that right? I said. So I knocked him out…’

‘The hardest thing about doing time’s the first week. Once you done that it’s easy. Piece of piss. You get in the routine, know what I mean? I’ve done plenty. Most of my life I’ve been one place or the other. You name it, I’ll tell you the crack. I could write a book. Anyway, where I come from, half of us end up inside. Walking round the block was like walking round the old manor…’

‘I think the worst thing they ever did was cut down on the heroin. They jes’ went an made a whole lot of work for themselves. No-one’s going to make any trouble smacked out of their heads, are they? Now they got all this other gear going in, fake stuff that winds you up and makes you punchy. You don’t want that when you’re all banged up, d’you? Stands to reason. But they don’t think like that, do they?’

‘I been in trouble since I was a kid. I got sent to borstal for stabbing-up me eldest brother. I was ready to go and stab him up good n’proper when I got out, ‘cept I was on a bank job and got sent down for a stretch before I got the chance. I haven’t forgotten him though. Once these legs are better I’ll be payin’ the cant a little visit…’

– o O o –

Back in the support workers’ office for the debrief, a mad looking labradoodle is wandering round with a green and yellow plastic turtle. He goes from person to person, squeaking the toy a couple of times, dropping it at our feet, and then backing away with his mouth open and his tail wagging, looking up at our faces and then back down at the toy , as if he can’t believe we’re not as mad for it as he is.

Buddy! Don’t be such a pain!’ says one of the support workers, but she throws the toy for him anyway, and he races after it. After a while he brings it over to me, watching me with an insane expression as I pick it up and turn it over and over in my hands.

I have an image of Buddy behind bars, lights out, squeaking the turtle mournfully, like a harmonica.

I’m glad he’s here, though. Buddy’s like me. I don’t think he’d cope all that well in prison, turtle or otherwise.

‘There you go, Buddy!’ I say, lobbing his toy back over the other side of the office.

We laugh as he crashes after it.

schatz katze

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The key safe is hanging open so I ring the bell instead. I step back and look up at the house whilst I’m waiting – a substantial Regency building, a little down-at-heel and cracking up, perhaps, but still impressive, with a wildly overgrown garden whose depths of shadow hint at stone baths and iron cold frames and other features utterly consumed with ivy.

The door opens and a bright, middle-aged woman in a carer’s uniform steps out onto the cracked mozaic tiles.
‘I’m so glad you’re here!’ she says, showing me in. ‘I think this is one for social services as much as anyone. I’m Karen, by the way!’

I stand with her in the hallway so she can tell me what she’s found so far. Helga is a ninety-five year old with no package of care and generally ‘bumping along the bottom.’ A neighbour looks in now and again. Found her on the floor, called the ambulance, hospital declined, referrals made. Karen points out a sheet of paper sellotaped to the mirror: In Emergency written in shaky green caps at the top, and below it, a handful of names and numbers, the nearest being Munich, the furthest, Hobart, Tasmania.

‘I feel so bad for her, says Karen. ‘There’s hardly any food in the house. Can I leave her with you whilst I nip round the corner and get the basics?’

Helga is lying in bed, stroking a black cat that’s sprawled on top of her, purring so loudly it fills the entire house. In an odd kind of way, it makes the place seem emptier.
I introduce myself, and explain why I’ve come. When Helga reaches out to shake my hand, her hand is so weak and light in mine it’s like the memory of a handshake that happened sometime just after the war.

I start to talk to her about the situation. How she’s feeling, how she’s been coping and so on, gently trying to tease out the facts. Helga doesn’t want to engage, though.
‘Ah! Too tired!’ she says, transferring her attention back to the cat with a philosophical pursing of the lips.
‘Was ist los?’ she says, feebly waggling her fingers under its chin. ‘Was ist los, shatz? Was ist los?’

un oeuf

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If Mariella was a Tarot card, she’d be Queen of Radiators. You could happily take a photograph of her now and use it for the illustration – a pale, slack-faced woman sitting in an armchair, staring straight ahead, wearing flannel pyjammas, two fleece jackets, a thick, towelling dressing gown, thermal socks and a pair of sheepskin booties. Her throne is flanked – not by cheetahs – but by two large, oil-filled radiators, both on full. Of course, the flat thermostat is set higher than a smelting works. All the windows are shut. All the curtains are drawn.
The heat is intense, a physical thing. It brings you up short, like you just walked in to a room filled with super-heated plasma. Blinking brings you out in a sweat. I cannot believe Mariella hasn’t expired from heat stroke long ago, but as things stand, she says she’s just about coping with the cold.
‘Shut the door,’ she says. ‘Where were you born? A barn?’

I work through the examination as quickly as possible, leaving just the bloods to take before I can go. Reluctantly she frees her left arm from the dressing gown and I start preparing, forcing myself to be even more meticulous than usual because I can feel myself puddling-out at the shoes. If I miss the vein they’ll have to send firefighters in with respirators. Maybe a drone first, just to scope the situation. They’re not stupid.
‘Hurry up,’ says Mariella. ‘I’m catching my death.’
The tube starts to fill with blood. Slowly. I wouldn’t be surprised to see steam.
‘I like the new flat,’ I say.
‘It’s okay,’ says Mariella. ‘I’ve got most of what I need.’
‘Must be a nice view’ I say, nodding at the curtains.
‘If you like staring at people staring back,’ she says. ‘Which I don’t.’
The blood is not coming out as fast as I’d like. I reposition the needle. Makes no difference.
‘Bigger than the last place’ I say, feeling the sweat standing out on my forehead. ‘Plenty of room to move.’
‘What are you? A dancer?’
‘I wouldn’t mind learning.’
‘What sort of dancing?’
‘I don’t know. Ballroom?’
I only say that because I imagine an immense ballroom with tall windows. All of them open.
‘I used to go dancing,’ she says.
‘Oh yeah? What sort?’
‘Just the normal.’
‘Oh.’

I have to say – this new flat is quite a bit cleaner than the last. That had been an old building, years past its best, and the crazy temperatures Mariella pursued didn’t help. The place had smelled ripe, cooking in the heat. It was like visiting a patient who’d set up home in a giant cheese. And even though this flat is just as hot – actually more so, as the heating and insulation are higher spec – at least Mariella’s things are more spread out, and it feels less suffocating.
‘Almost done’ I say.
‘How much are you taking?’
‘Enough.’
An old phrase comes to me. Something about French eggs. Un oeuf is enough. I’m actually going to faint. To keep myself together, I glance towards the door, imagining the delicious breezes in the hallway, the blue sky beyond the balcony, the crystalline freshness of the world.
‘Almost done,’ singing it now.
‘Yes,’ says Mariella. ‘You said that already.’

shattered

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There are three goldfish swimming in a round plastic washing-up bowl on the floor.
‘He took the tank down with him when he went’ says Janice. ‘I had to scoop them off the carpet.’

It explains why John’s so wet, the coloured gravel in his pants.
‘Did you hurt yourself?’ I ask him.
‘Only my side where I hit the tank’ he says. ‘It’s nothing really.’
Janice is sitting on the sofa, holding a remote control with such a sense of purpose it looks like she thinks it’ll do more than just turn up the golf.

‘Good job the tank didn’t shatter’ I say, towelling John dry.
It’s sitting on the floor by the washing up bowl, three of the glass sides slid out from the uprights and resting against the furthest arm of the sofa. There’s a greasy-looking deep sea diver exposed in the middle of it, looking a little slumped over, like he’s depressed no-one’s come to take his helmet off.
‘They don’t these days,’ says Janice, staring at the TV. ‘Shatter, I mean.’

Neither of them seem bothered. In fact, to look at them you’d think one or other of them spent most days crashing to the floor covered in fish. It’s really not that big of a deal.

Once John is presentable I run through his obs and make sure everything’s as it should be. He’s due to go to a rehab bed, and really it can’t come soon enough. That’s certainly the impression Janice gives, flicking slack-faced from the golf to a sci-fi film where a man and a woman are being attacked by a giant ant. And then back again.

‘Are you going to be alright?’ I ask him.
He shrugs, starts rolling a cigarette.
‘Have you got one of those personal alarms?’
‘No.’
‘But Janice is here, isn’t she? She’ll be able to call the ambulance?’
I smile at her encouragingly.
‘I’m not well myself,’ she says. ‘I can’t do anything.’
‘Yes, but you could call for an ambulance?’
‘I go to bed early.’
‘Wouldn’t you hear him call out?’
‘I’m a heavy sleeper. Anyway – he’s got his mobile.’
I look back to John, who nods, then starts running his tongue along the edge of the cigarette.

The goldfish continue to swim round and round the washing bowl. I wonder when they’ll get transferred to something better. If they ever will.