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.’
short term memory loss
owl henry
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.
jim clayton 