It’s a shame the old hospital’s got so run down. It used to be such a lovely, busy place. Like one big family. I think I worked just about everywhere in it. I started off in the kitchens, then I was a porter. I was on the wards for a while, like a healthcare assistant. Then I finished up in the office doing general admin. The whole family worked there off and on over the years. I’m surprised they didn’t name a ward after us. The mortuary, at least.

I remember one year there were loads of people off with the Asian flu. It was really bad. So bad, Mr Reynolds, the surgeon, he comes over and he says to me “Janet, I don’t suppose you’d be able to do us a favour and help us out in the theatre this afternoon, would you?  We’ve got such a lot on and we’re down two nurses.” So I says to him: “What good am I going to be? I don’t know where nuffing is.” And he says: “Oh! You don’t want to worry about that, Janet. It’s only someone to hold stuff. We’ll tell you what’s what. We’ll look a’rter you.” So then when I asks him what they had on the books he says “This and that. The last one is women’s problems. ” Well, I had a strong stomach by that time, and there wasn’t much that’d throw me. Except everyone’s got their blind spots, and mine was down there, you know. So when I tell him that he says: “Oh! Don’t worry, Janet. You won’t have to look. We’ll set everything up so you won’t see nuffing.”

So like a mug I says yes.

Well. I spend the afternoon in the theatre. I’m passing them this and that and it’s all pretty straightforward. Then we get to the last patient, the one with the women’s problems. “It’ll be quick” he says. “All I want you to do is hold this kidney bowl out so I’ve got somewhere to put me swabs.” So I’m standing like this, holding the bowl out with one hand, the other one over my eyes. And my arm’s getting so tired it’s starting to shake, but I’m too scared to look.
Eventually Mr Reynolds taps me on the shoulder.
‘Okay Janet. You can put the bowl down now.’
‘Is it safe?’ I ask him.
‘I think so,’ he says. ‘She was back on the ward ten minutes ago.’

Hilda sits on the edge of her bed, both hands draped over the bars of the zimmer, her head tipped back, looking as mean as a Hell’s Angel relaxing at the lights. An Occupational Therapist writes notes in a folder the other side of the room.

OT: This is Jim! He’s come to do a Health Screen for you!
H: Jim? Is that what you said? He’s called Jim?
J: Yep. Hello! I’m Jim.
Studies me for a second.
H: The last Jim I knew kept ringing me up all times of the day and night asking when I was going to die so he could have all me money. We had the police on him but it didn’t help. He pulled Chas out of his wheelchair and threw him across the room. We had to take a restraining order out. He’s in prison now. I was on pills for me nerves for weeks. I never really got over it.
J: I’m sorry to hear that, Hilda. On behalf of Jims everywhere I can only apologise.
OT: Our Jim’s not like that. Are you?
J: No-o. No. Absolutely not. No.
H: I expect we’ll see about that, shan’t we?

I

Scene: Eric’s bedroom.

-If you’re not going to buy me vodka you can eff off.
I’m not going to buy you vodka Eric because I’m not going to contribute to you drinking yourself to death.
– It’s my choice. I can do what I like.
You’re right. You’re absolutely right. But you must admit it’s difficult for us, coming in every day and seeing you like this.
– I didn’t ask you to come.
I know, but we care about you, Eric.
– Clear off and you won’t have to.
Let me be blunt.
– Please do.
You’re doubly incontinent. You’ve been lying in urine and faeces for the past few weeks. You’ve got dreadful sores on your back, your buttocks, your legs. Any day now they’re going to get seriously infected. If you don’t die from the infection, you’ll die from malnutrition and dehydration. It’s not a nice way to die, Eric. Why don’t you let me call you an ambulance and take you to hospital.
– No!
That way you can get cleaned up, treated for your sores and things and put on the road to detox.
– I’ve been down that road my friend and I’m not doing it again.

Eric’s cat Lionel jumps up onto the bed. Lionel is a Prussian Blue, as beautiful as the bedroom is vile. Lionel rubs up against my gloved hand.

How long have you had Lionel?
– Oh! Is he here? I suppose I’ve had him about six years now. He cost a thousand pounds you know. I’ve left ample provision for him in my will.
I can see how much you love Lionel.
– I do. He’s a great friend to me.
Cats live about fifteen years or so, don’t they? More, probably. If you were to come with me to hospital, you could get better and then come back and enjoy the next ten years cuddling up with Lionel in the sitting room.
– What do you know? You’re just an ignorant fool like the rest. You don’t care about any of this. Look at you. With your fancy jacket and clipboard. Let me tell you something. You’re a very bad listener. That’s your trouble. You won’t listen. Now – will you do what I’ve asked you to do?
Which is…?
– Go to the shop and buy me some vodka.
No. I won’t do it.
– Then get out! And don’t come back.

I go into the lounge – a light and tidy room – to document everything that’s happened, and to report back to the Coordinator. Whilst I’m in the lounge I hear Eric calling a cab company. “Hello?” he says. “Eric here. Could you send someone round to do a spot of shopping? I haven’t got any cash, but I’ll give the driver my card and so on and he can fetch some money, too. Many thanks.”

II

Scene: Outside Eric’s flat, talking to the taxi-driver.

Please. As one human being to another. Don’t go and buy him vodka. He’s drinking himself to death. He’s lying in his own excrement. How can you bear to do it?
– Talk to my boss. Come. Here she is. (hands me his mobile)
–Hello? Who am I speaking to?
My name’s Jim. I’m a health care professional visiting Eric this afternoon. I don’t know if you’re aware of the situation or not…?
— What situation?
Eric has an alcohol problem. He hasn’t got out of bed in weeks. He’s lying there, soiled and starving, refusing all medical aid, and calling taxis to come and fetch him vodka. Now, it’s a free country. He’s perfectly entitled to do what he wants, and so are you. But I’m just asking you to think carefully before you send any drivers here. The other thing is, he’s been giving his card and pin to the drivers. This is a very vulnerable old man. Now I don’t want this to sound like a threat, but if I were you I wouldn’t carry on with this. Anything could happen, and I just don’t think it’s a good idea to expose yourself to the risk.
— Who did you say you were?
Jim. A health care professional involved in Eric’s case.
— Okay. Thank you. Can you hand me back to the driver, please?

I pass the phone back to the driver, pat him on the shoulder, and turn back to my car. A moment later, he reverses and drives away.

III

Scene: Handover at the hospital. A social worker comes into the room, waving a fax sheet.

What’s all this about Eric? People calling the police, the out of hours doctors, community mental health and I don’t know what else. Don’t any of you know him? He’s been like this for years. None of it’s going to do any good. This is Eric. This is what he does. He’s fine, he goes off the rails on a massive bender, he breaks down, and then he goes through detox. He does it all in his own vile time and there’s nothing anyone can do about it. He’s  a colossal pain in the arse and that’s it. He’ll refuse everything, break down, go into hospital, go through detox, go back home to his cat, and then the whole damned thing will start again. Nothing’s going to change. When he’s drunk he just wants vodka and if you refuse to get it for him he’ll tell you to eff off. When he’s sober he’s got capacity, one hundred per cent. It’s just catching him sober that’s the trick. I don’t know what the answer is, but jumping around over the weekend calling all these people isn’t it.

She leaves.

Last call of the day. Given on the fly, scant details other than DEAF / SLOW TO COME TO DOOR. So far the other side of town it may as well be abroad.
Traffic like magma.
Finally make the address. Park up. Check watch. Run across the road.
Ring the bell.
Wait.
Ring.
Knock.
Peer through window.
Ring.
Knock.
Wait.
Eventually go next door.
Hi. Sorry to bother you. I’ve come to visit Mrs Holloway, but she’s not answering the door.
– Oh yes? (laughs)
Yes. I understand she’s a bit slow…
– A bit?
So – I don’t suppose you have a key?
– A key?
Or…
– No.
Oh.
– She’s a bit slow getting to the door, mate. You have to give her plenty of time.
I was waiting a while.
– No, but I’m saying – plenty of time.
Oh.
– She’s probably out back.
Really?
– Yeah. (scratches nose) Feeding her tortoise.

Did you find the can? On the side, by the bread bin? I wouldn’t lift the lid if I were you. There’s every colour you could think of, and more. It’s been weeks sitting there. I just haven’t been able to take it down myself. But if you could stick it in the rubbish with the rest of it, I’d be grateful. And bring me that pile of letters through, could you? I’ll have a sort whilst you’re down the shops.

You know where the shops are, don’t you? You can’t miss them. Out of the door, turn left, a hundred yards and you’ve got three or four. And when I say a hundred yards I mean a hundred yards. They’ve got most of what I need. Three bottles of squash – big bottles – not the stuff you drink ready made. That won’t last five minutes. No – the stuff you make up with water. Don’t care what flavour. You decide. Two packs of sandwiches. Nothing with eggs. Stay clear of eggs. Anything else is fine. Six tomatoes. What else? Oh! Some cheesy biscuits.

If they’ve got any.

Which I doubt.

Mr Wallace sits in his chair by the window, looking out into the garden.

‘When we moved here it was an absolute ruin. Wild as anything. Blackberries, buddleia – an almighty tangle. I worked on it over the years. Janice wasn’t into gardens so much, and I was away a lot of the time, so it took a good while. But I built it up, bit by bit. Gardening’s a slow business at the best of times. Of course just lately I haven’t been able to get out so much. It’s quite steep you know. A lot of steps. I can’t manage it like I used to. But I love to sit here and look out on it all. I’m lucky – I know I am.

‘Look! Just there – by that lily pad! Can you see? One of the fish is just coming up to feed! There are frogs, too. Curious little things. They crawl out of the water and laze about on the pads. Oh yes – there’s plenty to see. A mouse lives under those pots. Just over there. He’ll be out later, scurrying up and down. It’s a private garden. Pretty quiet. You’d hardly know there was anyone else around.

‘I’m the last of the family still going. My eldest brother died a while ago. Of old age. The two youngest died of cancer. And that’s a thing, you see. You didn’t hear about cancer so much a few years ago. There was TB of course, and things of that nature, but cancer? I suppose it’s because we’re living longer – longer than we used to – and these things are starting to show themselves. Maybe it’s that. D’you think?

‘I miss Janice tremendously, of course. I still can’t believe she’s gone. I turn over in bed expecting to see her there and – well – it’s a bit of a shock. I must admit I lost my faith for a while. But now I’m more content. I know I’m lucky to have had my life – to have this garden to look out on. There’s this frightful business with my legs, of course, but I sit here, and I watch that little mouse dashing about the place, the frogs and the birds and all that sort of carry-on, and even though I’m on my own I think to myself – Geoffrey, it’s really not so bad, is it? Hey? It’s not so bad. I read the papers. Listen to the radio. God knows – it could be worse.’

It’s been a shock. That’s all I can say. I was fine before. Driving, working. Next thing you know,  hospickle.

It’s all about the blood, you see. The only way I can describe it. Look. This pen. Imagine this pen is ma’ blood. Your normal blood’s like this – all the way to the top. Mine’s all the way down here. It’s got no water, you see. That’s why I’m so fucked up.

If you’d have told me two weeks ago….driving n’everything. And now I can’t hardly make the toilet. It’s mad. I don’t like it.

They did some x-rays. Apparently they found something, a shadow, in me lungs. I used to work on the docks, you see. They reckon it might’ve been to do with that, all the stuff I shifted then. Bad stuff, you know. The asbestiss. No-one thought anything of it, then. It was the miracle material.  It was everywhere. They’d have put it in the biscuits if they could. Probably ended up in the biscuits anyway.

So that’s me, for what it’s worth.

Am I drinking? No! I’m on a fluid restriction. Seven hundred and fifty millilitres, that’s it. What I could really do with is five pints, but I’m told that’d take me over.

What d’you reckon?

These health screens.
I end up asking the same old questions, falling into them as easily and carelessly as a frog plopping into a pond.
‘How are you feeling, Muriel? In yourself? Eating and drinking okay? How are your bowels?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Your bowels, Muriel. Have you opened your bowels today?’
She widens her eyes, leans forward.
‘Have you?’
‘Me?’
‘Yes! You! How are your bowels today?’
‘Well – I’m pretty regular. I eat a lot of fruit. So they’re fine, thanks. You know. Soft.’
‘Good,’ she says. ‘Lovely. Soft. Write that down.’

It’s been a strange week. And not in a good way. First I had those falls. Then my budgie died. Nine years I had him. I hardly know what’s what anymore. I’m keeping the cage, though – for a while, anyway.

I can’t believe how quiet it is. He was so musical. He could sing anything. Jazz, carols. Such a happy, bright sound. Like he was possessed. And he could talk, too. What’s the matter? I love you mummy. And then he’d hop on my shoulder and cuddle up for the night.  

I’m not a great animal person. I don’t like cats, and dogs scare me. It’s the way they look at you. But birds…. birds are a whole other story.

We had a dog that was eighteen. Well, we think he was eighteen, it was difficult to be exact. We adopted him on Grand Turk when we lived there, and brought him back. He was a little yellow and brown dog. What they called a pot dog, one they used to breed to eat. Poy dog, I think, on the other islands. Big ears, very intelligent. You see, their attitude to animals is quite different to ours. So we brought him back and he lived eighteen years, or thereabouts. Little dogs tend to live longer.

Did you see that programme about wildlife in the city the other day? Fascinating, absolutely fascinating. Sometimes those programmes can be a bit dry. Too many close-ups. But this one was excellent. There was this woman in a tower block, and every night three foxes would appear and all line up. And she’d feed them sausages. ‘Sit!’ she said.  And one of them did. ‘Watch that one!’ she said. She won’t eat the sausage. She’ll take it back to her cubs.’ And that’s exactly what she did. And then in another place, workmen were throwing fish into a canal, and a seal was eating it.