Two o’clock in the morning, and Nerys is outside resus, standing by a trolley piled with equipment, scrubbing a head block. The department is strangely quiet, a vista of empty trolleys beyond her, and despite some quiet movements and murmurings from the cubicles, not a person in sight.
‘Hey Nerys. What’s up?’
She straightens and smiles. Frank goes on past her to hand over at the desk; our patient lies sleeping on the ambulance trolley, anaesthetised with booze.
She nods at him.
‘They’ll be starting to come in now, I expect.’
‘Yep. So it begins.’
She smiles again, but seems pale and wrung out, her eyes as blue as her tunic.
‘Are you okay?’
She puts the block down.
‘I just saw a ghost,’ she says.
‘A ghost? What – literally? Where?’
She glances behind her at the swing doors of the resus room, absently wiping her gloved hands with the cleansing wipe as she talks.
‘It was so weird. Resus is empty - which god knows is weird enough. I thought I’d take advantage and catch up on some cleaning. I was half way through when I felt this wash of cold go through me. I looked up because I thought the doors must have blown open, and saw this shape moving through the room.’
‘What sort of shape?’
‘Definitely a person, but just a blurry outline. I don’t know – it’s difficult – like if you press too hard when you do a drawing and it comes through underneath. All I did was just stand there and say ‘Hello?’, and watch it pass out of the room.’
‘Through the doors do you mean?’
‘Well – kind of the gap between them, actually. I was so freaked I brought all my stuff out to work in the corridor.’
She smiles thinly and picks up another head block.
‘Maybe I’m going crazy,’ she says.
‘I don’t think you’re crazy. Maybe you did see a ghost.’
‘Have you ever seen one?’
‘Me? No. Well – not that I know of. I try to talk myself out of all that stuff because I know I’d freak out if I let myself believe in it. I get so spooked out when I hear stories like this. Look at these goose bumps.’
‘Sorry.’
‘So how did the ghost seem to you, Nerys? Sad? Evil?’
She raises her eyebrows and thinks about it for a moment. Eventually she sighs and says:
‘I don’t know. Lost. Like it had somewhere to go but couldn’t remember where.’
Suddenly a deep, slurry of a voice speaks between us.
‘Ghosts exist all right,’ it says.
My heart twitches, but in that same instant I realise it’s just my patient, who has woken up and raised himself on one arm to look at us both. He closes an eye and drills the corner of it with a filthy finger, smacks his lips together, then wriggles about to make himself more comfortable.
‘Are you all right?’ I say to him, but smile at Nerys because I can see he made us both jump.
‘I had this job in an off licence,’ he says when he’s settled. ‘Part of a big old building, used to be a bakery in the nineteenth century. Apparently the baker murdered his wife and bricked her up in the cellar. Anyway, when I got the job the manager was walking me round the place telling me about this and that, you know, the alarms, the toilet, what the job was, you know, when he slips it in all casual-like about the ghost. “What do you mean? What ghost?” I says. “Oh, don’t mind her,” he says, “but she’s got some rules and it’s as well you know about them.” “Okay, fine, what rules?” “Well, for a start, she doesn’t like anything hidden, so don’t bother trying. The last guy was supposed to set up a Hamlet cigar display in the shop, but he didn’t like it so he hid it under some boxes in the cellar and locked the door. When he came back in the morning the door was still locked, but the display was sitting right in the middle of the shop.” “Okay,’ I says to him, “What else?” “Well,” he says, “She throws things around sometimes if she’s in a strop, so just don’t piss her off.” The first day I worked there I was just finishing locking up the back when the bell rang at the front. I thought whoever it was would go away when they saw we were closed, but the bell rang more persistent like, so in the end I went out. But there was no-one at the door and the street was empty. Then the bell goes down in the cellar. All I thought was, someone messing about, kids or something. Anyway, I went down there and opened the little door that leads out into the back yard, but that was deserted too. Then I remembered about the ghost. So I just stood there and said out loud I know it’s you, ghostie. It’s nice to meet you and everything. I’m new here, I want to make a go of it, but I don’t want us to start off on the wrong foot. I’ll be around all day, but you can have the run of the place at night, and that way we’ll get along just fine. If there’s anything else you need, just let me know and I’ll do my best. And from that day on I didn’t have any trouble, apart from the usual ‘footsteps on the stairs’ and ‘cold shivers’ and ‘floating bottles’ and stuff. But I didn’t mind. It was a bit of company.’
‘Floating bottles? What do you mean?’
Suddenly he begins coughing, an eruption of rattles and dinks, like someone shaking a bag of marbles. I sit the back of the trolley up. He dredges a gloop of dreadful matter and flops it into the bowl. I hand him some tissues. When the moment has passed, he carries on.
‘I was doing a stock take when suddenly a bottle of Old Plymouth slid off the shelf and hung there in front of me, in mid-air. I just looked at it. A good couple of minutes it was hanging there, all shivery in the light from the window, and I couldn’t understand what the hell was going on. Then suddenly it fell to the floor and smashed. “Great” I thought. “You know who’ll get the blame for that.” I’d just fetched the dustpan and brush out and was starting to clean it all up when the door burst open and Carrie came running in. She was always running in with one thing or another, but this time she goes: “You won’t believe the news.” “Oh yeah? Try me” I say. “They’ve just found Old Nellie Ellington dead in her flat,” she says. Then she looks down at the floor and sees all the mess and says “Blimey. What happened here?” And it suddenly made sense. And I said to her: “It’s the ghost. I think she’s trying to tell us something about Old Nellie.”
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
Saturday, August 27, 2011
MOI
Mrs Rickson is lying in the hallway, her head propped up on pillows.
‘How did you come to be on the floor?’ asks Frank, crouching down beside her like an Indian scout reading the trail in a corny western.
‘What?’
‘My wife’s not got any short term memory,’ says Mr Rickson, leaning in and laying a hand gently on Frank’s shoulder. ‘She’s under the doctors for it – waiting on a scan.’ He withdraws discretely and folds his hands in front of him.
‘I see,’ says Frank. ‘Do you have any pain at the moment, Mrs Rickson? Any new pain?’
She winces and reaches round to the small of her back.
Frank looks up at the husband, who closes his eyes and shakes his head a little.
‘Always has pain there,’ he says. ‘Nothing new. When I saw she was going I helped her down gently. Nothing jarred.’
‘Good,’ says Frank. ‘That’s good. Now – is there anything else I should know about before we move you?’
Mr Rickson leans in and touches Frank on the shoulder again.
‘She has a lot of trouble with that,’ he says, pointing to her leg. ‘She’s had all kinds of work. Pins and whatsits. Operations – you know.’
‘Oh? What happened there, then?’
‘It’s a long story,’ says Mr Rickson, extending his jaw forwards to free it from his starchy collar. ‘She did it the same time as she did her back. We were driving on the motorway.’
‘Ah!’ says Frank. ‘An RTC.’
‘A what you say?’
‘A crash. You had a car crash.’
Mr Rickson frowns.
‘No. No – we were driving on the motorway when Dorothy said she was desperate for the loo. I said to her I said “Can’t you hold it? We’re almost there”, but she said she couldn’t. So I pulled over. Onto the hard shoulder.’
‘Ah. Right. So - you got hit by a car on the hard shoulder.’
‘No.’
‘A trip, was it?’
‘How d’you mean?’
‘Did she trip when she was getting out of the car?’
‘No. No. She got out of the car, quite safely, and she was looking around for somewhere to go, because as I say, she was desperate. And she saw this bush just a few yards from the car, so she decided to go behind that.’
‘Right.’
‘Except it wasn’t a bush – it was the top of a tree. She fell twenty feet into a gulley, and the fire brigade had to fish her out.’
‘How did you come to be on the floor?’ asks Frank, crouching down beside her like an Indian scout reading the trail in a corny western.
‘What?’
‘My wife’s not got any short term memory,’ says Mr Rickson, leaning in and laying a hand gently on Frank’s shoulder. ‘She’s under the doctors for it – waiting on a scan.’ He withdraws discretely and folds his hands in front of him.
‘I see,’ says Frank. ‘Do you have any pain at the moment, Mrs Rickson? Any new pain?’
She winces and reaches round to the small of her back.
Frank looks up at the husband, who closes his eyes and shakes his head a little.
‘Always has pain there,’ he says. ‘Nothing new. When I saw she was going I helped her down gently. Nothing jarred.’
‘Good,’ says Frank. ‘That’s good. Now – is there anything else I should know about before we move you?’
Mr Rickson leans in and touches Frank on the shoulder again.
‘She has a lot of trouble with that,’ he says, pointing to her leg. ‘She’s had all kinds of work. Pins and whatsits. Operations – you know.’
‘Oh? What happened there, then?’
‘It’s a long story,’ says Mr Rickson, extending his jaw forwards to free it from his starchy collar. ‘She did it the same time as she did her back. We were driving on the motorway.’
‘Ah!’ says Frank. ‘An RTC.’
‘A what you say?’
‘A crash. You had a car crash.’
Mr Rickson frowns.
‘No. No – we were driving on the motorway when Dorothy said she was desperate for the loo. I said to her I said “Can’t you hold it? We’re almost there”, but she said she couldn’t. So I pulled over. Onto the hard shoulder.’
‘Ah. Right. So - you got hit by a car on the hard shoulder.’
‘No.’
‘A trip, was it?’
‘How d’you mean?’
‘Did she trip when she was getting out of the car?’
‘No. No. She got out of the car, quite safely, and she was looking around for somewhere to go, because as I say, she was desperate. And she saw this bush just a few yards from the car, so she decided to go behind that.’
‘Right.’
‘Except it wasn’t a bush – it was the top of a tree. She fell twenty feet into a gulley, and the fire brigade had to fish her out.’
Thursday, August 25, 2011
bikes
The morning has grown in stature until it stands warm and wide and cloudless blue with everything before it. Even the sun wears shades; it pushes them further up its nose and leans in to scrutinise the bustling summer commerce of the city below – the cars and vans, bikes and buses, the pedestrians, joggers, buggies and wheelchairs, the skateboarders and bikers on the ramp, the early picnickers through the trees, the tennis players, toddlers, dog walkers and street sweepers, and that ambulance, like a wedge of pure sunshine, indicating to move over into the lane that leads to the park.
Inside the cab, Frank reads out the latest job to come through.
Man fallen from bike.
‘Not another one,’ he says. ‘How many of these are we going to do today?’
‘It’s the nice weather, Frank. Everyone gets their bike out.’
He writes the incident number on the sheet and tosses the board onto the dash.
‘If you ever see me on a bike,’ he says, ‘It’s not me. Call the police.’
But then the update comes through and he straightens in the chair.
‘OK. That would explain it. Cardiac arrest.’
Luckily we’re just a few streets away. As I pull round the corner we can see a group of people leaning over a figure in the road. I park up just beyond and protect the scene with the truck; Frank jumps out and when I join him he’s already giving CPR. As I stick on the defib pads Frank is asking the distraught woman leaning over him what her relation is to the patient – wife – what happened – he complained his arm had gone numb then he pitched off the bike – what he suffers with – angina. He tells her that her husband’s heart has stopped working but we’re doing what we can. I nod at the man who made the call, and he gently leads her to one side to give us more room.
‘VF. Hands off.’
Frank lifts his hands.
‘Clear.’
I deliver a shock. The man’s body gives a convulsive shudder, then Frank is straight back on the chest.
Another crew turns up to help.
A minute further and we shock the man again. This time a viable rhythm settles in to the monitor. A pulse at the neck, increasingly effective breathing. We cluster round the man’s attempt at life with the care of primitives tending a flame. Every bit of kit that could possibly keep the fire going is out on the road now. Until finally, incredibly, it seems as if his condition has stabilised sufficiently to package him up and load him onto the truck. The second truck tidies up and follows with the patient’s wife. At hospital he is stabilised further in Resus, then taken to the cath lab. He finishes the day in CCU.
‘Like I said,’ says Frank, taking a sip of his coffee and studying the sky, the light needling from the rims of his dreadful seventies sunglasses, ‘If you ever see me on a bike...’
Inside the cab, Frank reads out the latest job to come through.
Man fallen from bike.
‘Not another one,’ he says. ‘How many of these are we going to do today?’
‘It’s the nice weather, Frank. Everyone gets their bike out.’
He writes the incident number on the sheet and tosses the board onto the dash.
‘If you ever see me on a bike,’ he says, ‘It’s not me. Call the police.’
But then the update comes through and he straightens in the chair.
‘OK. That would explain it. Cardiac arrest.’
Luckily we’re just a few streets away. As I pull round the corner we can see a group of people leaning over a figure in the road. I park up just beyond and protect the scene with the truck; Frank jumps out and when I join him he’s already giving CPR. As I stick on the defib pads Frank is asking the distraught woman leaning over him what her relation is to the patient – wife – what happened – he complained his arm had gone numb then he pitched off the bike – what he suffers with – angina. He tells her that her husband’s heart has stopped working but we’re doing what we can. I nod at the man who made the call, and he gently leads her to one side to give us more room.
‘VF. Hands off.’
Frank lifts his hands.
‘Clear.’
I deliver a shock. The man’s body gives a convulsive shudder, then Frank is straight back on the chest.
Another crew turns up to help.
A minute further and we shock the man again. This time a viable rhythm settles in to the monitor. A pulse at the neck, increasingly effective breathing. We cluster round the man’s attempt at life with the care of primitives tending a flame. Every bit of kit that could possibly keep the fire going is out on the road now. Until finally, incredibly, it seems as if his condition has stabilised sufficiently to package him up and load him onto the truck. The second truck tidies up and follows with the patient’s wife. At hospital he is stabilised further in Resus, then taken to the cath lab. He finishes the day in CCU.
‘Like I said,’ says Frank, taking a sip of his coffee and studying the sky, the light needling from the rims of his dreadful seventies sunglasses, ‘If you ever see me on a bike...’
Tuesday, August 23, 2011
fact / fiction
Roger leans back in his computer chair and half of his pastry disappears in one convulsive mouthful. He stares at me as he chews and swallows, then with the remaining half poised to follow the first, says: ‘I suppose you just believe everything you’re told, do you?’ He hangs for a second more before snapping it down, crumpling up the greasy bag and tossing it in a perfect arc across the room into the bin. He sucks his fingers clean. ‘Do you?’
Roger loves an argument as much as a fruit Danish.
He turns back to the computer.
‘Me?’ he says. ‘I like to make my own mind up.’
I can’t help being drawn in. I’m like that Danish, helplessly poised over the abyss.
‘Based on what? The internet?’
He swivels round to look at me again.
‘Based on facts, fella. Facts that are out there, if you know where to look. Straight from the coal face, people like you and me. Who live this shit, day in, day out. Come on! You’re not scared of the internet are you? Because there’s nothing they’d like more. They’d love you to think it’s the bogeyman and stay quietly in your corner. But you know it’s just another way for people to talk to each other. And at the end of the day, what’s more dangerous than that? It’s what governments spend billions trying to stamp out. The thing about the internet is it doesn’t have anything to sell. Well, the heart of it doesn’t. The soul of it. The soul that’s still intact despite all their best efforts to rein it in. Basically it’s a window out onto the world, Spence. Where you can find stuff out. From real people, working people who couldn’t give a shit about the bottom line or the mission statement or any of the rest of that poisonous stuff the management like to shovel out. Open your eyes, Spence. Look around. It’s all there for you, if you’d only let yourself see it. You’ve just got to read with a bit more of a question in your heart. And I don’t mean all the official bullshit they put out, the newspapers, the TV – all that sterile, boneless crap. What do you think they’re going to say? Do you think they want you to know the real reason they do stuff? All they want is that you keep doing what you’re doing, pulling on the oars and looking out the window whilst they bang the drum and keep their eye on the real destination.’
There’s a smoothly pulsating rhythm to Roger’s speech that’s completely sedating. I am Mowgli, caught in Kaa’s coils, staring into the concentric circles of his eyes.
I try to snap myself out of it.
‘At least with the stuff you read in books and newspapers you get to see who wrote the thing,’ I say, squirming. ‘At least there’s a chance you could hold them to account.’ As soon as I say it I realise what a fraud I am. Who writes a blog? Who uses a pseudonym? But Roger doesn’t know about any of that. I’m a worm in the apple of his tree.
‘Yeah? So how long has it taken a big fancy paper like The Guardian to bring News International to account? How easy was that for them, with all their money? How easy would it be for you, do you think?’
I shrug.
He turns back to his computer again.
‘I can’t believe you’re so naïve, fella,’ he says, perfectly pleasantly. I don’t reply, and after a while I become conscious of the hum and drone of the servers. Roger surfs a few sites, then logs off and folds his arms.
‘I don’t suppose you’ve heard about the ambulance X files, then?’
‘The what?’
‘The ambulance X files. All those jobs that are so devastating they’d blow your little world apart if you heard about them.’
‘And where did you hear about them? On the internet, I suppose?’
‘No. This was even better. I got this from a friend of a friend who knows one of the crew. Over East way.’
‘So what happened?’
‘Apparently, they got sent to a possession. A young girl, possessed by the devil. That’s how it came over on the notes. So of course they rang Control straight back but didn’t get anything different. You know, assess and advise. And they were giving it all the usual chat on the way over. Yeah, right. Possession, blah, blah. The usual lines from The Exorcist. But when they pulled up outside the house they felt terrible, like some dread hand had been lain across their soul. And when they went into the house it was dark, and completely trashed, and colder than a fridge. And there was the girl, standing in the middle of the room smiling at them. And then suddenly the door slammed shut and a sofa – a sofa – flew across the room and flattened them both. They screamed their heads off and got out as fast as they could, even though one of them had a broken leg. Months off work. Months. Therapy, the works. And they were forbidden to tell anyone anything on pain of their jobs.’
‘That’s a good story, Roger. I like that one. How did you hear of it?’
‘Frank told me.’
‘Frank?’
And just at that moment he walks in the computer room.
‘What?’ he says.
Roger loves an argument as much as a fruit Danish.
He turns back to the computer.
‘Me?’ he says. ‘I like to make my own mind up.’
I can’t help being drawn in. I’m like that Danish, helplessly poised over the abyss.
‘Based on what? The internet?’
He swivels round to look at me again.
‘Based on facts, fella. Facts that are out there, if you know where to look. Straight from the coal face, people like you and me. Who live this shit, day in, day out. Come on! You’re not scared of the internet are you? Because there’s nothing they’d like more. They’d love you to think it’s the bogeyman and stay quietly in your corner. But you know it’s just another way for people to talk to each other. And at the end of the day, what’s more dangerous than that? It’s what governments spend billions trying to stamp out. The thing about the internet is it doesn’t have anything to sell. Well, the heart of it doesn’t. The soul of it. The soul that’s still intact despite all their best efforts to rein it in. Basically it’s a window out onto the world, Spence. Where you can find stuff out. From real people, working people who couldn’t give a shit about the bottom line or the mission statement or any of the rest of that poisonous stuff the management like to shovel out. Open your eyes, Spence. Look around. It’s all there for you, if you’d only let yourself see it. You’ve just got to read with a bit more of a question in your heart. And I don’t mean all the official bullshit they put out, the newspapers, the TV – all that sterile, boneless crap. What do you think they’re going to say? Do you think they want you to know the real reason they do stuff? All they want is that you keep doing what you’re doing, pulling on the oars and looking out the window whilst they bang the drum and keep their eye on the real destination.’
There’s a smoothly pulsating rhythm to Roger’s speech that’s completely sedating. I am Mowgli, caught in Kaa’s coils, staring into the concentric circles of his eyes.
I try to snap myself out of it.
‘At least with the stuff you read in books and newspapers you get to see who wrote the thing,’ I say, squirming. ‘At least there’s a chance you could hold them to account.’ As soon as I say it I realise what a fraud I am. Who writes a blog? Who uses a pseudonym? But Roger doesn’t know about any of that. I’m a worm in the apple of his tree.
‘Yeah? So how long has it taken a big fancy paper like The Guardian to bring News International to account? How easy was that for them, with all their money? How easy would it be for you, do you think?’
I shrug.
He turns back to his computer again.
‘I can’t believe you’re so naïve, fella,’ he says, perfectly pleasantly. I don’t reply, and after a while I become conscious of the hum and drone of the servers. Roger surfs a few sites, then logs off and folds his arms.
‘I don’t suppose you’ve heard about the ambulance X files, then?’
‘The what?’
‘The ambulance X files. All those jobs that are so devastating they’d blow your little world apart if you heard about them.’
‘And where did you hear about them? On the internet, I suppose?’
‘No. This was even better. I got this from a friend of a friend who knows one of the crew. Over East way.’
‘So what happened?’
‘Apparently, they got sent to a possession. A young girl, possessed by the devil. That’s how it came over on the notes. So of course they rang Control straight back but didn’t get anything different. You know, assess and advise. And they were giving it all the usual chat on the way over. Yeah, right. Possession, blah, blah. The usual lines from The Exorcist. But when they pulled up outside the house they felt terrible, like some dread hand had been lain across their soul. And when they went into the house it was dark, and completely trashed, and colder than a fridge. And there was the girl, standing in the middle of the room smiling at them. And then suddenly the door slammed shut and a sofa – a sofa – flew across the room and flattened them both. They screamed their heads off and got out as fast as they could, even though one of them had a broken leg. Months off work. Months. Therapy, the works. And they were forbidden to tell anyone anything on pain of their jobs.’
‘That’s a good story, Roger. I like that one. How did you hear of it?’
‘Frank told me.’
‘Frank?’
And just at that moment he walks in the computer room.
‘What?’ he says.
Friday, August 19, 2011
mrs ramstein
An ancient woman opens the door to us. She is smiling serenely, perfectly insulated from the buffetings of the world in a full length, bottle green quilted house jacket.
‘Are you the patient?’ I ask her.
She shakes her head and moves sideways without a sound; her coat is so long, you would think she was on casters.
‘Upstairs,’ she beams.
The house is so perfect it’s like we’ve been miniaturised and put inside a Regency dolls house. At the foot of the stairs is a white door. I open it, and we go up.
‘Ambulance,’ I call ahead.
A fierce voice answers.
‘For Gott’s sake, here, here, bitte. How long must you be in the coming? In here. Why do you take so long about it?’
‘Okay. Almost with you.’
We follow the sound of intense muttering, and find another elderly woman sitting on a lounge floor in her nightie, both legs straight out in front of her, supporting herself on her arms. She looks straight at us as we come in the door, a savagely uncompromising squint.
‘What is the matter with you? Can you not see the trouble I’m in? Look. Qvick. I tell you what to do and you help me because I’m in such pain.’
‘First things first. My name’s Spence, this is Frank. What - ?’
‘I don’t care who you are. Why won’t you listen? I’m telling you what to do. Now. Move that chair. Come here.’
‘I need to know your name, though.’
She sighs explosively and sinks an inch. After a murderous pause she fixes me with her eyes again and says: ‘You will address me as Mrs Ramstein.’
‘Mrs Ramstein. Thank you. Now. How can we help?’
‘How can we help he says. Mein Gott, if you would only listen you would know. I have fallen down onto my sitting bones and I am unable to stand. Now. If you would both take hold and give me assistance, I can get off the floor and in to bed. Do you think it is comfortable here? Do you?’
‘Why did you fall, do you think?’
‘I fell because I fell! What is this nonsense you are asking?’
‘Was it because you lost your balance, or did you pass out?’
‘Come on. Enough. Take my arms. This is ridiculous.’
‘Okay. But let’s quickly see if you’ve hurt yourself.’
‘I’ve already told you I hurt myself. I fell down on my sitting bones and I have brrr-oosed them.’
‘Can you just lift this leg for me?’
‘I know what you are thinking, but let me tell you, I have forty years a nurse been. Do you think I do not know what is the difference between a fracture, a dislocation, a haematoma or some simple brrr-oosing? Now will you stop all this nonsense and get me up.’
‘Sure.’
We help her up.
‘There,’ says Frank. ‘Good as new.’
‘Good as new,’ spits Mrs Ramstein. ‘What do you think? How many years you been ambulance?’
‘I’ve lost count,’ says Frank. ‘It’s all a pleasant blur.’
‘Well let me tell you something. In all my years I have never met such incompetence. Now. You will help me to the bedroom and I will rest on my bed. Not that way – this way. More slowly! Mind that!’
We help her into her bedroom – a forensically tidy space, with starched and ironed squares of pure white linen draped over the brushes on her dressing table, the books and pill packets on her trolley, and even over the top half of a cheval mirror.
‘On to the bed. No! Pull the qvilt to one side first. Not like that. In half, neatly, down the middle. Who taught you to make beds?’
‘Come on, Spence, sharpen up,’ says Frank.
‘There. Now. Gently down. Gently…gently….ahh.’
She stretches out, closes her eyes and folds her hands across her stomach.
After a moment – in which you would think she had fallen instantly to sleep – I dare to speak again.
‘We just need to do some basic observations, Mrs Ramstein, then we’ll leave you to rest.’
The eyes snap open.
‘Be qvick,’ she says.
Frank writes out the ticket as I canter through some obs.
‘Never in all my years have I met such incompetence, she says, but her voice is easier now – albeit the ease of a sated lioness. As I check her over I cannot resist finding out a little more about her.
‘So. Are you from Germany, Mrs Ramstein?’
The lioness roars.
‘Germany? No! I am Austrian. I would have thought you would have known that, at least? Are you really that stupid?’
Around us on the walls are some family photos – recent colour pictures of young women graduating; older, more faded photos of family groups with a stout blond matriarch in the background; a black and white photo of an athletic blond woman in a bathing suit waving cheerfully by a lake, and a dim, sepia photo of two dark figures posing side by side.
‘My mother-in-law’s German,’ I say.
Frank smacks his head and hides behind the clipboard.
‘German? I’ve already told you – I am not German, I am Austrian! What will it take to get through to you? You seem completely unable to understand anything.’
But she is frowning at me like a ferocious beast whose interest has been piqued by an unexpected titbit. As I finish taking her blood pressure and unwrap the cuff she says: ‘Where for in Germany is this mother-in-law from?’
‘Prussia.’
‘Where for in Prussia?’
‘Stolp. Well – used to be Prussia.’ And I add as an afterthought, as if someone had been careless: ‘They moved the borders.’
‘Stolp?’
‘Stolp.’
‘I have not heard of Stolp.’
I put the cuff away. ‘Everything checks out,’ I say.
‘Is your mother in law there now?’
‘No. She left in 1939. Well – I say left. She escaped with her life. She’s Jewish, you see.’
Frank groans.
Mrs Ramstein adjusts her position and examines me more closely from the bed.
After a pause she sighs and says: ‘They were difficult times. Terrible times. I was just a girl. I expect your mother in law was the same. It is terrible the things that happen in the name of politics. I escaped with my life also. From the Russians. I came to this country after a while here and there. A woman at the hospital was kind enough to get me some training. How is your mother in law?’
‘Yes – she’s good. Health problems, but an incredibly resilient and resourceful woman.’
‘You had to be. We all were. It was the times. Terrible times. You wouldn’t believe.’
The moment passes. Even Frank seems a little more comforted, more confident. He hands me the clipboard, then notices a cat peacefully grooming out on the landing. He squats down, puts his hand out and makes kissy kissy noises.
‘Hello mate,’ he says. ‘You’re gorgeous, aren’t you?’
Mrs Ramstein’s eyes blaze.
‘Jessie! She must not be up here! Who let her up? You must have left the door open! My Gott – has she come up? Quick. Take her down. Take her down.’
Jessie looks up disdainfully, then carries on licking her paw.
Frank moves towards the cat to pick her up.
‘No! Don’t pick her up!’ shouts Mrs Ramstein. ‘If you just simply walk she will run ahead. Drive her out! And make sure you shut the door so she doesn’t come back.’
Frank disappears with the cat.
‘Anything else we can do for you tonight?’ I say after a while.
She relaxes into the bed. ‘No. You have done qvite enough.’
Frank comes back into the room.
‘Jessie has left the building,’ he says, then picks up the bags ready to go.
‘Pull the quilt over me a bit more. That’s it. Now I sleep.’
And with her eyes closed she says: ‘You know, till recently I would get up at six and go schwimming. But now? I am fit for nothing.’
‘Maybe you could do with a little more help. We could sort something for you. At least get the wheels in motion.’
She opens her eyes.
‘There is one thing you could do perhaps,’ she says. ‘And that is make sure I don’t wake up in the morning.’
‘Well – that’s a little beyond our remit, Mrs Ramstein.’
‘Ach!’ she spits. ‘Hopeless ambulance.’
***
As we shut the white door carefully behind us, the sweet old lady who greeted us is standing in the hallway.
‘Everything all right?’ she says.
‘A little brr-ooosing, but she’s resting in bed now.’
‘Good!’ says the woman. Behind her on an immaculate Regency chair, Jessie looks up from a busy grooming of her tail with her back leg in the air, and I could swear the expression on her face was the same as the expression on the face of the old woman in the housecoat.
‘Thank you so much for coming,’ she beams.
‘Are you the patient?’ I ask her.
She shakes her head and moves sideways without a sound; her coat is so long, you would think she was on casters.
‘Upstairs,’ she beams.
The house is so perfect it’s like we’ve been miniaturised and put inside a Regency dolls house. At the foot of the stairs is a white door. I open it, and we go up.
‘Ambulance,’ I call ahead.
A fierce voice answers.
‘For Gott’s sake, here, here, bitte. How long must you be in the coming? In here. Why do you take so long about it?’
‘Okay. Almost with you.’
We follow the sound of intense muttering, and find another elderly woman sitting on a lounge floor in her nightie, both legs straight out in front of her, supporting herself on her arms. She looks straight at us as we come in the door, a savagely uncompromising squint.
‘What is the matter with you? Can you not see the trouble I’m in? Look. Qvick. I tell you what to do and you help me because I’m in such pain.’
‘First things first. My name’s Spence, this is Frank. What - ?’
‘I don’t care who you are. Why won’t you listen? I’m telling you what to do. Now. Move that chair. Come here.’
‘I need to know your name, though.’
She sighs explosively and sinks an inch. After a murderous pause she fixes me with her eyes again and says: ‘You will address me as Mrs Ramstein.’
‘Mrs Ramstein. Thank you. Now. How can we help?’
‘How can we help he says. Mein Gott, if you would only listen you would know. I have fallen down onto my sitting bones and I am unable to stand. Now. If you would both take hold and give me assistance, I can get off the floor and in to bed. Do you think it is comfortable here? Do you?’
‘Why did you fall, do you think?’
‘I fell because I fell! What is this nonsense you are asking?’
‘Was it because you lost your balance, or did you pass out?’
‘Come on. Enough. Take my arms. This is ridiculous.’
‘Okay. But let’s quickly see if you’ve hurt yourself.’
‘I’ve already told you I hurt myself. I fell down on my sitting bones and I have brrr-oosed them.’
‘Can you just lift this leg for me?’
‘I know what you are thinking, but let me tell you, I have forty years a nurse been. Do you think I do not know what is the difference between a fracture, a dislocation, a haematoma or some simple brrr-oosing? Now will you stop all this nonsense and get me up.’
‘Sure.’
We help her up.
‘There,’ says Frank. ‘Good as new.’
‘Good as new,’ spits Mrs Ramstein. ‘What do you think? How many years you been ambulance?’
‘I’ve lost count,’ says Frank. ‘It’s all a pleasant blur.’
‘Well let me tell you something. In all my years I have never met such incompetence. Now. You will help me to the bedroom and I will rest on my bed. Not that way – this way. More slowly! Mind that!’
We help her into her bedroom – a forensically tidy space, with starched and ironed squares of pure white linen draped over the brushes on her dressing table, the books and pill packets on her trolley, and even over the top half of a cheval mirror.
‘On to the bed. No! Pull the qvilt to one side first. Not like that. In half, neatly, down the middle. Who taught you to make beds?’
‘Come on, Spence, sharpen up,’ says Frank.
‘There. Now. Gently down. Gently…gently….ahh.’
She stretches out, closes her eyes and folds her hands across her stomach.
After a moment – in which you would think she had fallen instantly to sleep – I dare to speak again.
‘We just need to do some basic observations, Mrs Ramstein, then we’ll leave you to rest.’
The eyes snap open.
‘Be qvick,’ she says.
Frank writes out the ticket as I canter through some obs.
‘Never in all my years have I met such incompetence, she says, but her voice is easier now – albeit the ease of a sated lioness. As I check her over I cannot resist finding out a little more about her.
‘So. Are you from Germany, Mrs Ramstein?’
The lioness roars.
‘Germany? No! I am Austrian. I would have thought you would have known that, at least? Are you really that stupid?’
Around us on the walls are some family photos – recent colour pictures of young women graduating; older, more faded photos of family groups with a stout blond matriarch in the background; a black and white photo of an athletic blond woman in a bathing suit waving cheerfully by a lake, and a dim, sepia photo of two dark figures posing side by side.
‘My mother-in-law’s German,’ I say.
Frank smacks his head and hides behind the clipboard.
‘German? I’ve already told you – I am not German, I am Austrian! What will it take to get through to you? You seem completely unable to understand anything.’
But she is frowning at me like a ferocious beast whose interest has been piqued by an unexpected titbit. As I finish taking her blood pressure and unwrap the cuff she says: ‘Where for in Germany is this mother-in-law from?’
‘Prussia.’
‘Where for in Prussia?’
‘Stolp. Well – used to be Prussia.’ And I add as an afterthought, as if someone had been careless: ‘They moved the borders.’
‘Stolp?’
‘Stolp.’
‘I have not heard of Stolp.’
I put the cuff away. ‘Everything checks out,’ I say.
‘Is your mother in law there now?’
‘No. She left in 1939. Well – I say left. She escaped with her life. She’s Jewish, you see.’
Frank groans.
Mrs Ramstein adjusts her position and examines me more closely from the bed.
After a pause she sighs and says: ‘They were difficult times. Terrible times. I was just a girl. I expect your mother in law was the same. It is terrible the things that happen in the name of politics. I escaped with my life also. From the Russians. I came to this country after a while here and there. A woman at the hospital was kind enough to get me some training. How is your mother in law?’
‘Yes – she’s good. Health problems, but an incredibly resilient and resourceful woman.’
‘You had to be. We all were. It was the times. Terrible times. You wouldn’t believe.’
The moment passes. Even Frank seems a little more comforted, more confident. He hands me the clipboard, then notices a cat peacefully grooming out on the landing. He squats down, puts his hand out and makes kissy kissy noises.
‘Hello mate,’ he says. ‘You’re gorgeous, aren’t you?’
Mrs Ramstein’s eyes blaze.
‘Jessie! She must not be up here! Who let her up? You must have left the door open! My Gott – has she come up? Quick. Take her down. Take her down.’
Jessie looks up disdainfully, then carries on licking her paw.
Frank moves towards the cat to pick her up.
‘No! Don’t pick her up!’ shouts Mrs Ramstein. ‘If you just simply walk she will run ahead. Drive her out! And make sure you shut the door so she doesn’t come back.’
Frank disappears with the cat.
‘Anything else we can do for you tonight?’ I say after a while.
She relaxes into the bed. ‘No. You have done qvite enough.’
Frank comes back into the room.
‘Jessie has left the building,’ he says, then picks up the bags ready to go.
‘Pull the quilt over me a bit more. That’s it. Now I sleep.’
And with her eyes closed she says: ‘You know, till recently I would get up at six and go schwimming. But now? I am fit for nothing.’
‘Maybe you could do with a little more help. We could sort something for you. At least get the wheels in motion.’
She opens her eyes.
‘There is one thing you could do perhaps,’ she says. ‘And that is make sure I don’t wake up in the morning.’
‘Well – that’s a little beyond our remit, Mrs Ramstein.’
‘Ach!’ she spits. ‘Hopeless ambulance.’
***
As we shut the white door carefully behind us, the sweet old lady who greeted us is standing in the hallway.
‘Everything all right?’ she says.
‘A little brr-ooosing, but she’s resting in bed now.’
‘Good!’ says the woman. Behind her on an immaculate Regency chair, Jessie looks up from a busy grooming of her tail with her back leg in the air, and I could swear the expression on her face was the same as the expression on the face of the old woman in the housecoat.
‘Thank you so much for coming,’ she beams.
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
spiderman
Midnight. My skin feels as waxy as the leaves on this umbrella plant in the humid night air.
I reach out, ring the bell and we wait.
Only Mr Rendell has lights on; the rest of the houses in the street are shut up, utterly still.
Frank unclips his radio to call Control for advice when Mr Rendell shuffles slowly into view behind the striped glass panels of the door. ‘Ambulance,’ I say. The rattle of a bolt. It opens.
He stands there a moment, staring out at us. He moves an inch, winces and crumples slightly on his right side.
‘How can we help?’
He regards us with a baleful expression.
‘You’d better come in.’
He releases the door, turns and pads solemnly into a bright and neatly ordered kitchen.
Frank helps him move a chair so he can sit.
‘I understand you’ve had a fall,’ I say, taking a seat opposite. ‘What’s happened?’
‘I have this fear,’ he says, his voice as thin and gray as a night sweat. ‘Well. A little more than that. A phobia, actually.’
He pauses, his eyes glisten and for a moment I think he might cry.
‘Okay,’ I say, as softly as I can. ‘What kind of phobia?’
His jaw drops, like someone gagging on an unpleasant taste. Finally he is able to say: ‘I can’t bring myself to use the word. So I hope you understand me when I say Arachnids.’
He hesitates again, and the horror of the subject percolates through him, scalp to slippers. Finally he gathers himself sufficiently again to tell us the rest of the story.
‘I had got myself ready for bed and was just settling down to read my book when I noticed a dark shape sitting on the wall by the chest of drawers. A disgusting, massive thing. Well. Normally my wife would take care of it for me, but she’s away visiting relatives, so it’s just me on my own. I had to force myself, even though I felt really sick and panicky.’
‘Take your time, Mr Rendell. Let me feel your pulse whilst you talk. That’s it. So. What happened next?’
‘I got out of bed - as carefully as I could - came downstairs, found some newspaper, then came back up. The - erm - visitor – had gone. I looked about, and then I saw it, further up the wall, on the ceiling. I had to climb onto the bed to reach it, and I was just about ready to stretch out and get it when it moved!’
‘How awful.’
‘I’m afraid I screamed, toppled forwards and landed on a chair. I think I’ve hurt my side.’
He leans to his left and pulls his dressing gown aside to show me. A nasty looking haematoma on the lower aspect of his chest wall.
‘We need to get you to hospital to see the extent of the damage, Mr Rendell. Frank’s just going to go upstairs and have a look at how far you fell and what sort of chair it was. I’ll check you over whilst he does that, okay? But you’ll definitely need to come with us to hospital. Just to be on the safe side.’
‘If you think.’
‘For some good pain relief, if nothing else.’
‘What would my wife say?’
‘She’d just be glad you were looking after yourself.’
***
With Mr Rendell safely delivered over to the hospital, we tidy up the ambulance and then stop for a coffee.
‘I didn’t say anything at the time,’ says Frank, handing me a cup, ‘because I didn’t want to give him a stroke, but my god, you should’ve seen the size of that spider.’
‘Big, was it?’
‘Big? As big as my hand. Well – the palm at least.’
‘Yeah?’
‘God, yeah.’
‘Did you kill it?’
‘No. I’d have needed a lump hammer. So I just left it.’
He takes a sip of coffee and stares off across the empty car park. ‘With its legs up reading the newspaper.’
I reach out, ring the bell and we wait.
Only Mr Rendell has lights on; the rest of the houses in the street are shut up, utterly still.
Frank unclips his radio to call Control for advice when Mr Rendell shuffles slowly into view behind the striped glass panels of the door. ‘Ambulance,’ I say. The rattle of a bolt. It opens.
He stands there a moment, staring out at us. He moves an inch, winces and crumples slightly on his right side.
‘How can we help?’
He regards us with a baleful expression.
‘You’d better come in.’
He releases the door, turns and pads solemnly into a bright and neatly ordered kitchen.
Frank helps him move a chair so he can sit.
‘I understand you’ve had a fall,’ I say, taking a seat opposite. ‘What’s happened?’
‘I have this fear,’ he says, his voice as thin and gray as a night sweat. ‘Well. A little more than that. A phobia, actually.’
He pauses, his eyes glisten and for a moment I think he might cry.
‘Okay,’ I say, as softly as I can. ‘What kind of phobia?’
His jaw drops, like someone gagging on an unpleasant taste. Finally he is able to say: ‘I can’t bring myself to use the word. So I hope you understand me when I say Arachnids.’
He hesitates again, and the horror of the subject percolates through him, scalp to slippers. Finally he gathers himself sufficiently again to tell us the rest of the story.
‘I had got myself ready for bed and was just settling down to read my book when I noticed a dark shape sitting on the wall by the chest of drawers. A disgusting, massive thing. Well. Normally my wife would take care of it for me, but she’s away visiting relatives, so it’s just me on my own. I had to force myself, even though I felt really sick and panicky.’
‘Take your time, Mr Rendell. Let me feel your pulse whilst you talk. That’s it. So. What happened next?’
‘I got out of bed - as carefully as I could - came downstairs, found some newspaper, then came back up. The - erm - visitor – had gone. I looked about, and then I saw it, further up the wall, on the ceiling. I had to climb onto the bed to reach it, and I was just about ready to stretch out and get it when it moved!’
‘How awful.’
‘I’m afraid I screamed, toppled forwards and landed on a chair. I think I’ve hurt my side.’
He leans to his left and pulls his dressing gown aside to show me. A nasty looking haematoma on the lower aspect of his chest wall.
‘We need to get you to hospital to see the extent of the damage, Mr Rendell. Frank’s just going to go upstairs and have a look at how far you fell and what sort of chair it was. I’ll check you over whilst he does that, okay? But you’ll definitely need to come with us to hospital. Just to be on the safe side.’
‘If you think.’
‘For some good pain relief, if nothing else.’
‘What would my wife say?’
‘She’d just be glad you were looking after yourself.’
***
With Mr Rendell safely delivered over to the hospital, we tidy up the ambulance and then stop for a coffee.
‘I didn’t say anything at the time,’ says Frank, handing me a cup, ‘because I didn’t want to give him a stroke, but my god, you should’ve seen the size of that spider.’
‘Big, was it?’
‘Big? As big as my hand. Well – the palm at least.’
‘Yeah?’
‘God, yeah.’
‘Did you kill it?’
‘No. I’d have needed a lump hammer. So I just left it.’
He takes a sip of coffee and stares off across the empty car park. ‘With its legs up reading the newspaper.’
Monday, August 15, 2011
cosa
Alex, the manager of the language school, meets us at the door. He waits, ministerially clutching a radio and clipboard, whilst below him on the stairs a cluster of teenagers argue about where to go tonight; they scarcely seem real, as sharp and freshly made as the office blocks, restaurants and loft-style apartments that tower above them.
‘Can we talk a moment in the office, please?’ says the manager.
The students part to let us through. Alex leads us inside.
A secretary smiles as we pass through the security point into her glass-fronted domain. Some more students wait on one side to let us through. When they show the secretary their passes, she resumes her usual demeanour, glowering through the glass, checking her list, ticking names, depressing a lever with her foot. They all try to see past her into the office as they jostle through the turnstile. A young Chinese boy stops and says: ‘You know, I’m feeling perfect tonight, Miss Angela.’ Before she can look up, he throws himself through the gate and hurries out to mass with the others in the street.
‘I want to keep this as low key as possible,’ says Alex, sighing, and putting his radio and board down on the desk. ‘Matteo is sixteen. He’s only been with us two weeks, but no trouble up till now. Here are his medications – some kind of anti-depressants. As you can see he’s not up to date. This evening when he came down for his mail he was acting a bit strangely.’
‘In what way?’
‘Going up to people – people he doesn’t know – and smiling. Right in their faces. A bit aggressive, actually. We had a special package to give him – a plane ticket, to join his father in Italy later this month. He ripped it up and scattered the pieces all around. When we tried to talk to him he was laughing and shouting, very loudly, upsetting the other students, which we cannot have. As I say, he’s only been here a couple of weeks, so I can’t say I know him all that well, but he’s certainly done nothing like this before. It’s very out of character. We didn’t want to call you, but I’m afraid in the end we had to act in the best interest of Matteo and the other students. We’re not sure what he might do, you see.’
‘Have you spoken to his parents?’
‘I spoke to his mother, briefly. She’s on a plane to Cyprus so the line went off. I’m afraid I’ve only managed to get voicemail for the father, but I’ve left a message. He’s on some kind of European business trip at the moment.’
I look at the pills container that Alex has given me.
‘Any chance you could look up on the internet and see what these are?’ I ask the secretary.
She swivels on her chair.
‘Chuck ‘em here,’ she says.
Alex folds his arms. ‘We have almost four hundred students boarding with us at any one time. We have a lot to think about. I can’t take risks with anybody’s welfare.’
‘That’s fine.’
‘Anti-psychotic,’ says the secretary, leaning back from the screen and tossing the pills back to me.
‘Brilliant. Thanks for that. Shall we go and see Matteo, then?’
‘Of course.’
He leads us through a main corridor to the lifts. Whilst we wait there, a student comes up to me and asks about a sore on her eyelid.
‘Is it bad, do you think? Do I need hospital?’
‘It looks like you might have a sty coming.’
‘A sty?’
‘A sty. An eye infection. It’s not serious. But maybe you should see your doctor, anyway.’
‘My doctor?’
Alex frowns at her and shakes his head.
‘The nurse is on duty at eight thirty, Ruksana. Speak to her then.’
She shrugs and moves off with her friend, just as the lift arrives. I hear her say sty? again, and they put their heads together and laugh.
Alex leads us along to Matteo’s front door.
‘He’s probably sleeping now,’ he says, hesitating with the master key.
‘I’m afraid we have to talk to him, though.’
He nods, pauses, raps smartly on the door, calls out Matteo? then opens the door and we go in.
Matteo is face down on the bed, the uncovered duvet rucked up around him in a deep V. The way he is sprawled there, with this pattern of discarded clothes, a shoe, phone and iPod, books and empty Coke bottles right and left, he is something like a spaceship crash-landed on a foreign planet.
‘Matteo?’
A groan.
‘Matteo – we need to talk to you. Sit up, please.’
Alex reaches over and tentatively shakes him by the shoulder.
‘No history of trauma? No falls, no banging of the head or anything like that?’
‘Not so far as I know.’
‘And the only past medical history you have is of some kind of mental health problem.’
‘That’s all we have on record.’
Alex puts his radio and clipboard down on the bed and shakes Matteo by the shoulder again. When he talks to him he talks in Italian. It gets more of a response. Alex stands back as the boy slowly pushes himself into a sitting position.
‘He says he's sleepy.’
Matteo sits there on the bed, his cheeks flushed, his dark eyes shining in the hard overhead light of the room. His black jeans are ripped across one leg; he has one brown suede pixie boot on, the other foot is bare; his velvet shirt is heavily creased.
‘Matteo?’ says Alex. ‘Matteo?’
‘Can you translate for me, Alex?’ I say.
‘Of course.’
The room falls silent for a moment. Suddenly there is the sound of laughter out in the corridor, a shout, the chorus of a song. Matteo pushes his heavy fringe away from his eyes, and slowly looks up at us as the voices die away.
'Cosa?' he whispers.
‘Can we talk a moment in the office, please?’ says the manager.
The students part to let us through. Alex leads us inside.
A secretary smiles as we pass through the security point into her glass-fronted domain. Some more students wait on one side to let us through. When they show the secretary their passes, she resumes her usual demeanour, glowering through the glass, checking her list, ticking names, depressing a lever with her foot. They all try to see past her into the office as they jostle through the turnstile. A young Chinese boy stops and says: ‘You know, I’m feeling perfect tonight, Miss Angela.’ Before she can look up, he throws himself through the gate and hurries out to mass with the others in the street.
‘I want to keep this as low key as possible,’ says Alex, sighing, and putting his radio and board down on the desk. ‘Matteo is sixteen. He’s only been with us two weeks, but no trouble up till now. Here are his medications – some kind of anti-depressants. As you can see he’s not up to date. This evening when he came down for his mail he was acting a bit strangely.’
‘In what way?’
‘Going up to people – people he doesn’t know – and smiling. Right in their faces. A bit aggressive, actually. We had a special package to give him – a plane ticket, to join his father in Italy later this month. He ripped it up and scattered the pieces all around. When we tried to talk to him he was laughing and shouting, very loudly, upsetting the other students, which we cannot have. As I say, he’s only been here a couple of weeks, so I can’t say I know him all that well, but he’s certainly done nothing like this before. It’s very out of character. We didn’t want to call you, but I’m afraid in the end we had to act in the best interest of Matteo and the other students. We’re not sure what he might do, you see.’
‘Have you spoken to his parents?’
‘I spoke to his mother, briefly. She’s on a plane to Cyprus so the line went off. I’m afraid I’ve only managed to get voicemail for the father, but I’ve left a message. He’s on some kind of European business trip at the moment.’
I look at the pills container that Alex has given me.
‘Any chance you could look up on the internet and see what these are?’ I ask the secretary.
She swivels on her chair.
‘Chuck ‘em here,’ she says.
Alex folds his arms. ‘We have almost four hundred students boarding with us at any one time. We have a lot to think about. I can’t take risks with anybody’s welfare.’
‘That’s fine.’
‘Anti-psychotic,’ says the secretary, leaning back from the screen and tossing the pills back to me.
‘Brilliant. Thanks for that. Shall we go and see Matteo, then?’
‘Of course.’
He leads us through a main corridor to the lifts. Whilst we wait there, a student comes up to me and asks about a sore on her eyelid.
‘Is it bad, do you think? Do I need hospital?’
‘It looks like you might have a sty coming.’
‘A sty?’
‘A sty. An eye infection. It’s not serious. But maybe you should see your doctor, anyway.’
‘My doctor?’
Alex frowns at her and shakes his head.
‘The nurse is on duty at eight thirty, Ruksana. Speak to her then.’
She shrugs and moves off with her friend, just as the lift arrives. I hear her say sty? again, and they put their heads together and laugh.
Alex leads us along to Matteo’s front door.
‘He’s probably sleeping now,’ he says, hesitating with the master key.
‘I’m afraid we have to talk to him, though.’
He nods, pauses, raps smartly on the door, calls out Matteo? then opens the door and we go in.
Matteo is face down on the bed, the uncovered duvet rucked up around him in a deep V. The way he is sprawled there, with this pattern of discarded clothes, a shoe, phone and iPod, books and empty Coke bottles right and left, he is something like a spaceship crash-landed on a foreign planet.
‘Matteo?’
A groan.
‘Matteo – we need to talk to you. Sit up, please.’
Alex reaches over and tentatively shakes him by the shoulder.
‘No history of trauma? No falls, no banging of the head or anything like that?’
‘Not so far as I know.’
‘And the only past medical history you have is of some kind of mental health problem.’
‘That’s all we have on record.’
Alex puts his radio and clipboard down on the bed and shakes Matteo by the shoulder again. When he talks to him he talks in Italian. It gets more of a response. Alex stands back as the boy slowly pushes himself into a sitting position.
‘He says he's sleepy.’
Matteo sits there on the bed, his cheeks flushed, his dark eyes shining in the hard overhead light of the room. His black jeans are ripped across one leg; he has one brown suede pixie boot on, the other foot is bare; his velvet shirt is heavily creased.
‘Matteo?’ says Alex. ‘Matteo?’
‘Can you translate for me, Alex?’ I say.
‘Of course.’
The room falls silent for a moment. Suddenly there is the sound of laughter out in the corridor, a shout, the chorus of a song. Matteo pushes his heavy fringe away from his eyes, and slowly looks up at us as the voices die away.
'Cosa?' he whispers.
Saturday, August 13, 2011
lampwick
As I walk out into the bright sunlight of the ER loading bay, another ambulance is just pulling in. It parks up, rocks about, muffled shouts and sounds from inside, then suddenly the back door is flung open and Rae jumps down, stern words from behind her. Will you stop that? Hey! No! Come on!
‘Spence. Jesus. Christ. You couldn’t help us get this guy out, could you? I’ve just about had it.’
Her partner Colleen emerges from the cab. ‘You’re going to like this,’ she says, pulling on a fresh pair of gloves.
‘You think?’
Rae grimaces and lowers the tail lift. When she swings open the main door I can see the long, lean figure of a man sprawled on the stretcher, his hands cuffed, a policewoman leaning over him from the side.
‘What’ve you got, then?’
‘A guy off his tits on something or other. The police called us to the shopping centre. I can’t tell you - he’s been such an incredible pain in the arse.’ She pushes some strands of hair back from her face with the back of her gloved hand. ‘But watch yourself, Pen. Now and again he’ll go for you.’
As I step up onto the back the patient senses the change in his environment and looks up. His blond hair stands out around his head like a sweated mane; his mouth is slack, and he rolls his head from side to side in a panic that his wide eyes cannot see the danger and he has to catch the scent of it instead. At the same time he blows air out through his loose lips, scattering flecks of white foam into the air.
‘Will you stop that?’ says the police woman, jerking his hands reprovingly.
A strong, square woman with a tattoo emerging from her shirt sleeve that looks like it was copied off an old dinner plate, she seems less like a police officer and more like a farmer controlling the stock.
‘So what’s the plan, d’you think?’ she says.
‘He's not going to walk in, presumably.’
The police woman makes a face.
‘So in on the trolley, strapped down as much as possible. I’ll control his legs.’
‘Watch out.’
On cue, the man makes a sudden wrenching attempt to break free, snatching his arms forward, kicking his legs and jerking his head up from the trolley.
‘Easy! Easy!’ says the police woman. She has one of his wrists turned back on itself, and squeezes a little more pressure on to subdue him with the pain. It takes all my strength to control the legs, gathering up the material of his trousers into a handle and using the weight of my body to smother his movement. Without the trolley straps and the handcuffs, though, he’d be smashing his way out of the ambulance.
We wait until the spasm subsides, then carefully off load the trolley and run him inside. There’s a receiving room for volatile patients just inside the door. We take him into it, and with the help of another crew and a couple of porters, we bundle him onto the hospital trolley. The policewoman repositions her cuffs, and we use some spare straps to restrain him more effectively until the nursing staff can take him in hand.
In the struggle to put him on the trolley, a wallet and passport have fallen onto the floor. Rae picks it up and cautiously goes through it.
‘Well we’ve got a name, a nationality...’ Then she pulls out a sepia coloured business card, snorts then waves it in the air.
‘And guess what he does for a living?’
‘Drug advisor?’
‘Reflexology and cranial osteopathy.’
Just at that moment the patient makes another desperate bid to break free. He writhes and arches his back, slams his body from side to side, the sweat running on his bare torso, his eyes flaring.
Horse! he screams. Horse!
He rages against his restraints, ramming and pulling and writhing, spreading his fingers wide then bunching them into fists. Horse! he screams again - and then holds himself still, and stares at his fists in horror, as if he could see them turning, curling in and down, hardening, darkening into hooves.
‘Spence. Jesus. Christ. You couldn’t help us get this guy out, could you? I’ve just about had it.’
Her partner Colleen emerges from the cab. ‘You’re going to like this,’ she says, pulling on a fresh pair of gloves.
‘You think?’
Rae grimaces and lowers the tail lift. When she swings open the main door I can see the long, lean figure of a man sprawled on the stretcher, his hands cuffed, a policewoman leaning over him from the side.
‘What’ve you got, then?’
‘A guy off his tits on something or other. The police called us to the shopping centre. I can’t tell you - he’s been such an incredible pain in the arse.’ She pushes some strands of hair back from her face with the back of her gloved hand. ‘But watch yourself, Pen. Now and again he’ll go for you.’
As I step up onto the back the patient senses the change in his environment and looks up. His blond hair stands out around his head like a sweated mane; his mouth is slack, and he rolls his head from side to side in a panic that his wide eyes cannot see the danger and he has to catch the scent of it instead. At the same time he blows air out through his loose lips, scattering flecks of white foam into the air.
‘Will you stop that?’ says the police woman, jerking his hands reprovingly.
A strong, square woman with a tattoo emerging from her shirt sleeve that looks like it was copied off an old dinner plate, she seems less like a police officer and more like a farmer controlling the stock.
‘So what’s the plan, d’you think?’ she says.
‘He's not going to walk in, presumably.’
The police woman makes a face.
‘So in on the trolley, strapped down as much as possible. I’ll control his legs.’
‘Watch out.’
On cue, the man makes a sudden wrenching attempt to break free, snatching his arms forward, kicking his legs and jerking his head up from the trolley.
‘Easy! Easy!’ says the police woman. She has one of his wrists turned back on itself, and squeezes a little more pressure on to subdue him with the pain. It takes all my strength to control the legs, gathering up the material of his trousers into a handle and using the weight of my body to smother his movement. Without the trolley straps and the handcuffs, though, he’d be smashing his way out of the ambulance.
We wait until the spasm subsides, then carefully off load the trolley and run him inside. There’s a receiving room for volatile patients just inside the door. We take him into it, and with the help of another crew and a couple of porters, we bundle him onto the hospital trolley. The policewoman repositions her cuffs, and we use some spare straps to restrain him more effectively until the nursing staff can take him in hand.
In the struggle to put him on the trolley, a wallet and passport have fallen onto the floor. Rae picks it up and cautiously goes through it.
‘Well we’ve got a name, a nationality...’ Then she pulls out a sepia coloured business card, snorts then waves it in the air.
‘And guess what he does for a living?’
‘Drug advisor?’
‘Reflexology and cranial osteopathy.’
Just at that moment the patient makes another desperate bid to break free. He writhes and arches his back, slams his body from side to side, the sweat running on his bare torso, his eyes flaring.
Horse! he screams. Horse!
He rages against his restraints, ramming and pulling and writhing, spreading his fingers wide then bunching them into fists. Horse! he screams again - and then holds himself still, and stares at his fists in horror, as if he could see them turning, curling in and down, hardening, darkening into hooves.
Tuesday, August 09, 2011
i love you
Cynthia is sitting in her dressing gown on the edge of a luxurious, scallop-backed, aquamarine and corn yellow armchair, anxiously knitting and un-knitting her withered fingers. On every surface and every level around her, on bookcases, display cases, the mantelpiece, low tables, high shelves and deep window ledges, hundreds of porcelain Twenties figurines, every one a debutante, every one throwing the same coquettish backward glance over her right shoulder.
‘I’ve got tummy ache,’ she says.
‘How long has that been going on for?’
‘Months. Years.’
‘Worse today?’
‘Not really.’
‘Does your doctor know about it?’
She nods.
‘And what does he say?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘No idea what it might be, what you should do about it?’
She shakes her head.
‘Okay. Can you describe this pain for me?’
She untangles her fingers, then shakily moves her hands right and left over the lower part of her.
‘Down there.’
‘And what’s this pain like?’
‘I can’t put up with it anymore. I’m scared.’
‘Okay. Well let’s have a think about what to do.’
Frank gets back up off the sofa. ‘I’ll look for the folder,’ he says.
‘Do you have any help, Cynthia? Does anyone come in to help you with stuff?’
‘No. Not really. No.’
‘What about your family?’
‘He’s in Australia.’
‘No-one else?’
‘My husband died. I miss him.’
There’s a small framed photo on a space of wall to her left, the only real picture amongst a spread of Aubrey Beardsley posters, Art Deco mirrors and old adverts for Cartier and Coco Chanel. In the photo, a young couple: the man in a tweed suit and tie, leaning back from the camera, looking away, as if he had something more important to be doing, or was embarrassed; the young woman, holding on to his arm, leaning in to the lens, a strangely intent look on her face, as if it wasn’t exactly a photo she was expecting from this but something else, something altogether more illuminating.
‘Let’s do your blood pressure and whatnot, and take it from there. Have you had the ambulance out before?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Recently?’
‘No.’
‘Do you have any medical problems? What do you suffer with?’
‘I’m supposed to be going to a group at the hospital.’
‘Oh? What’s that for?’
‘My nerves.’
‘Okay. Well – you’re blood pressure’s absolutely fine. You don’t have a temperature or anything. So that’s good.’
‘Yes.’
Frank comes back in.
‘No folder,’ he says. ‘I found the meds, though.’
He hands me a faded plastic bag with something for AF and a couple of psych meds. In the bag is a scrap of paper – a worn kind of list, half shopping, half general notes. It’s been added to over time, in different coloured pen, starting out with patterned toilet paper, oven gloves, cake cases, then degenerating into a diffuse scattering of spidery capital letters – Ghana misspelled three times and then crossed out; Wembley, nr London, and in black and white underlined. Beneath that, a jumble of incoherent words and letters.
‘Someone’s been breaking in and leaving me presents,’ she says. ‘Things I like.’
‘Who has?’
‘I don’t know. I’ve never seen him before. A man.’
‘What’s he been doing?’
‘He left me a bar of chocolate. With some writing on the wrapper. I love you.’
And a shudder passes through her, from the top of her head to her feet. Her left foot stays planted on the carpet, but the right one starts to move – a curiously independent little dance, backwards and forwards along the fringed line of the armchair, toe / heel, toe / heel, toe / heel, and then back again: heel / toe, heel / toe, heel / toe. Backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards, whilst Cynthia knits her fingers in her lap, stares at me, and waits.
‘I’ve got tummy ache,’ she says.
‘How long has that been going on for?’
‘Months. Years.’
‘Worse today?’
‘Not really.’
‘Does your doctor know about it?’
She nods.
‘And what does he say?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘No idea what it might be, what you should do about it?’
She shakes her head.
‘Okay. Can you describe this pain for me?’
She untangles her fingers, then shakily moves her hands right and left over the lower part of her.
‘Down there.’
‘And what’s this pain like?’
‘I can’t put up with it anymore. I’m scared.’
‘Okay. Well let’s have a think about what to do.’
Frank gets back up off the sofa. ‘I’ll look for the folder,’ he says.
‘Do you have any help, Cynthia? Does anyone come in to help you with stuff?’
‘No. Not really. No.’
‘What about your family?’
‘He’s in Australia.’
‘No-one else?’
‘My husband died. I miss him.’
There’s a small framed photo on a space of wall to her left, the only real picture amongst a spread of Aubrey Beardsley posters, Art Deco mirrors and old adverts for Cartier and Coco Chanel. In the photo, a young couple: the man in a tweed suit and tie, leaning back from the camera, looking away, as if he had something more important to be doing, or was embarrassed; the young woman, holding on to his arm, leaning in to the lens, a strangely intent look on her face, as if it wasn’t exactly a photo she was expecting from this but something else, something altogether more illuminating.
‘Let’s do your blood pressure and whatnot, and take it from there. Have you had the ambulance out before?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Recently?’
‘No.’
‘Do you have any medical problems? What do you suffer with?’
‘I’m supposed to be going to a group at the hospital.’
‘Oh? What’s that for?’
‘My nerves.’
‘Okay. Well – you’re blood pressure’s absolutely fine. You don’t have a temperature or anything. So that’s good.’
‘Yes.’
Frank comes back in.
‘No folder,’ he says. ‘I found the meds, though.’
He hands me a faded plastic bag with something for AF and a couple of psych meds. In the bag is a scrap of paper – a worn kind of list, half shopping, half general notes. It’s been added to over time, in different coloured pen, starting out with patterned toilet paper, oven gloves, cake cases, then degenerating into a diffuse scattering of spidery capital letters – Ghana misspelled three times and then crossed out; Wembley, nr London, and in black and white underlined. Beneath that, a jumble of incoherent words and letters.
‘Someone’s been breaking in and leaving me presents,’ she says. ‘Things I like.’
‘Who has?’
‘I don’t know. I’ve never seen him before. A man.’
‘What’s he been doing?’
‘He left me a bar of chocolate. With some writing on the wrapper. I love you.’
And a shudder passes through her, from the top of her head to her feet. Her left foot stays planted on the carpet, but the right one starts to move – a curiously independent little dance, backwards and forwards along the fringed line of the armchair, toe / heel, toe / heel, toe / heel, and then back again: heel / toe, heel / toe, heel / toe. Backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards, whilst Cynthia knits her fingers in her lap, stares at me, and waits.
Monday, August 08, 2011
the arabesque
The foyer of the Excelsior at four a.m. has the dreary depth of an underwater cave, the dracaenas in their pots standing around like giant sea anemones, quietly filtering the thick air, waiting on the tide. There is a discrete spill of light coming from the porter’s room behind the desk, some music from a radio. He emerges, moving stiffly from the hip. He listens to the reason we are here with his eyes closed and his head tilted mournfully to one side, then points to a discrete lift set back from the rest.
‘That one,’ he says. ‘For the permanents.’ Then he turns and shuffles back into the light.
Molly is waiting for us, standing in her bra and shift in the doorway of their flat on the twenty-ninth floor. It’s surprising to see her like this, but Molly doesn’t seem at all awkward. I wonder if it’s because she’s distracted, or because she’s used to getting dressed in public. Her bra is so brilliantly laundered, so cleverly engineered it seems to be holding her whole body upright; the flesh is only slightly rolled up around the straps, with the inevitable slackness of age.
‘I’m so sorry to call you out like this but I’ve tried explaining things to him and he just won’t listen to me anymore. I’m at my wits end.’
‘Is it a relative of yours?’
‘He’s my husband. And I’m sorry I’m only half-dressed. You were much quicker than I thought you’d be.’
‘We were only round the corner.’
‘Thank you for coming.’
She leads us into a broad and modern flat, something like the bridge of a liner, with a spread of windows on two sides overlooking the city.
‘He’s in the bedroom. I can’t talk to him,’ she says, buttoning a blouse.
Gerald is sitting on the edge of the bed, gripping the mattress either side of him as if he were just about to spring up.
‘You’d be upset,’ he says as we walk in. ‘It’s not a nice thing. Not nice at all.’
‘So Gerald. I understand you’ve had a bit of a nosebleed tonight.’
Molly comes in and quietly sits in a wicker chair. ‘You’ll have to shout,’ she says, ‘He’s quite deaf.’ Then she cries quickly and cleanly into a wad of kitchen towel, a spasm of distress as surprisingly dramatic as a sneeze.
‘It must be difficult,’ I say.
Molly blows her nose and regains control. ‘I just don’t know what to do anymore,’ she says. ‘He’s got Alzheimer’s so it’s almost impossible to reason with him. He just doesn’t understand.’
‘I see.’
Gerald looks about a hundred years older than his wife. The only features about him that seemed to have escaped the ravages of time and illness are his slate blue eyes and his moustache, a tightly clipped article that rides his upper lip with parade ground precision.
‘If you had a nosebleed it seems to have stopped now.’
‘What?’
‘I say if you had a nosebleed, whatever you did to stop it seems to have worked. It’s not dripping or anything.’
‘It wouldn’t stop,’ he says. ‘I woke up covered in blood. It’s not a nice thing, you know. You wouldn’t like it.’
‘I wouldn’t. Horrible. But it’s stopped now.’
‘What are you going to do about it?’
‘Shall we check you over, Gerald? Is that okay?’
‘You wouldn’t like it.’
‘I wouldn’t. Especially late at night.’
‘What?’
‘Especially at night.’
He looks at me with utter vacancy.
‘It’s not a nice thing,’ he says, finally.
Molly beckons me into the kitchen area. When she’s quite sure Gerald hasn’t followed us, she pushes a little Tupperware box of meds towards me across the counter, then supports herself with both hands on the counter.
‘I didn’t want to call you but I couldn’t think what else to do. I know he’s all right physically. The bleeding stopped quite quickly so I’m not worried about that. I don’t want him to go to hospital, but I just couldn’t calm him down. He won’t listen to me. I can’t reassure him.’
‘Do you get much help, Molly?’
‘Oh – family and such. But they’ve got their lives.’
‘It sounds like you need more help. There’s two of you to think about. It won’t help things if you fall ill with the worry of it.’
‘I’m all right.’
‘But still. Maybe even a little respite care. Just to get things back on the level.’
‘Whatever you think.’
‘Let’s make a plan.’
She looks away across the flat to the wide, black windows and the glittering city beyond. Molly is quiet whilst I quickly write down the meds, then says: ‘I was a professional skater.’ She leads me over to a framed black and white picture on the far wall: a young woman flying towards the camera on one leg, the other stretched out in the air behind her, her arms winging out either side to the very tips of her fingers, her tutu flaring like smoke. Despite the heavy Fifties’ make-up, her smile is as brilliant as her blades.
We both look at the picture for a while, then she reaches out, and gently touches the frame.
‘That one,’ he says. ‘For the permanents.’ Then he turns and shuffles back into the light.
Molly is waiting for us, standing in her bra and shift in the doorway of their flat on the twenty-ninth floor. It’s surprising to see her like this, but Molly doesn’t seem at all awkward. I wonder if it’s because she’s distracted, or because she’s used to getting dressed in public. Her bra is so brilliantly laundered, so cleverly engineered it seems to be holding her whole body upright; the flesh is only slightly rolled up around the straps, with the inevitable slackness of age.
‘I’m so sorry to call you out like this but I’ve tried explaining things to him and he just won’t listen to me anymore. I’m at my wits end.’
‘Is it a relative of yours?’
‘He’s my husband. And I’m sorry I’m only half-dressed. You were much quicker than I thought you’d be.’
‘We were only round the corner.’
‘Thank you for coming.’
She leads us into a broad and modern flat, something like the bridge of a liner, with a spread of windows on two sides overlooking the city.
‘He’s in the bedroom. I can’t talk to him,’ she says, buttoning a blouse.
Gerald is sitting on the edge of the bed, gripping the mattress either side of him as if he were just about to spring up.
‘You’d be upset,’ he says as we walk in. ‘It’s not a nice thing. Not nice at all.’
‘So Gerald. I understand you’ve had a bit of a nosebleed tonight.’
Molly comes in and quietly sits in a wicker chair. ‘You’ll have to shout,’ she says, ‘He’s quite deaf.’ Then she cries quickly and cleanly into a wad of kitchen towel, a spasm of distress as surprisingly dramatic as a sneeze.
‘It must be difficult,’ I say.
Molly blows her nose and regains control. ‘I just don’t know what to do anymore,’ she says. ‘He’s got Alzheimer’s so it’s almost impossible to reason with him. He just doesn’t understand.’
‘I see.’
Gerald looks about a hundred years older than his wife. The only features about him that seemed to have escaped the ravages of time and illness are his slate blue eyes and his moustache, a tightly clipped article that rides his upper lip with parade ground precision.
‘If you had a nosebleed it seems to have stopped now.’
‘What?’
‘I say if you had a nosebleed, whatever you did to stop it seems to have worked. It’s not dripping or anything.’
‘It wouldn’t stop,’ he says. ‘I woke up covered in blood. It’s not a nice thing, you know. You wouldn’t like it.’
‘I wouldn’t. Horrible. But it’s stopped now.’
‘What are you going to do about it?’
‘Shall we check you over, Gerald? Is that okay?’
‘You wouldn’t like it.’
‘I wouldn’t. Especially late at night.’
‘What?’
‘Especially at night.’
He looks at me with utter vacancy.
‘It’s not a nice thing,’ he says, finally.
Molly beckons me into the kitchen area. When she’s quite sure Gerald hasn’t followed us, she pushes a little Tupperware box of meds towards me across the counter, then supports herself with both hands on the counter.
‘I didn’t want to call you but I couldn’t think what else to do. I know he’s all right physically. The bleeding stopped quite quickly so I’m not worried about that. I don’t want him to go to hospital, but I just couldn’t calm him down. He won’t listen to me. I can’t reassure him.’
‘Do you get much help, Molly?’
‘Oh – family and such. But they’ve got their lives.’
‘It sounds like you need more help. There’s two of you to think about. It won’t help things if you fall ill with the worry of it.’
‘I’m all right.’
‘But still. Maybe even a little respite care. Just to get things back on the level.’
‘Whatever you think.’
‘Let’s make a plan.’
She looks away across the flat to the wide, black windows and the glittering city beyond. Molly is quiet whilst I quickly write down the meds, then says: ‘I was a professional skater.’ She leads me over to a framed black and white picture on the far wall: a young woman flying towards the camera on one leg, the other stretched out in the air behind her, her arms winging out either side to the very tips of her fingers, her tutu flaring like smoke. Despite the heavy Fifties’ make-up, her smile is as brilliant as her blades.
We both look at the picture for a while, then she reaches out, and gently touches the frame.
Sunday, July 24, 2011
two weeks!
something else entirely
We force a path through the heavy lunchtime traffic heading out for the suburban reaches east of the city and the scattering of boxy white bungalows overlooking the sea. With the morning so wide and blue, the sea such a pearlescent green, it seems incredible we’re in England and not racing along a coast road high above the Aegean. Some notes come through on the job. I have to shield the screen with my clipboard to read them: son forced entry; life status questionable.
Frank turns up into a steeply sloping road. At the far end is a police car, and a gathering of neighbours nearby.
‘Is everything all right?’ one of them asks as we park and jump out.
‘Let’s hope so,’ I say, hauling out the resus and drugs bags.
A police officer stands in the garden talking into his radio. He gives us two nods as we approach – one to acknowledge, one to direct. He carries on without any kind of break in his conversation.
Inside the bungalow, another police officer is talking smoothly and quietly to a bearish man whose distraction is so profound it threatens to swallow everything – me, Frank, the policeman, the religious icons on the walls, the mirrors and trinkets, books and paintings – the walls of the house itself, every last thing – teetering on the black precipice of his grief.
‘It’s no good,’ he sobs. ‘She’s gone. She’s gone.’
‘In the bedroom, guys,’ says the police officer. ‘Just through there.’
We haul our bags past them both and go into the room.
Mrs Davis is lying on the bed, curled up on her left side, her left arm and wrist crooked up under her cheek, her right hand clutching at the bed clothes by her hip, the sheets riding up round her legs. Mrs Davis’ eyes are papery and fixed, staring out over a long, black and brackish stain that runs from the lower corner of her mouth, out across the mottled flesh of her arm, down over the pillow corner and to a dried pool on the sheets beneath.
The police officer comes in from the hallway and stands beside us.
‘When was the last time anyone spoke to Mrs Davis? Or saw her?’ I ask him.
‘The son spoke to her on the phone last night just before she went to bed. No sign of anything untoward. They were meant to be going shopping today. When he got here and found all the curtains still drawn he knew something was up and broke in.’
‘Have you checked her over yet?’
‘No, not yet. We thought we’d wait for you guys to call it, even though it’s obvious.’
‘What was her health like, do you know? Anything much wrong with her?’
‘No. The usual old age things – but actually, not too many of those, it sounds like. Active and independent.’
‘It looks like she’s had some kind of upper GI bleed, but other than that, who knows?’
‘Will you tell him?’
‘Yep.’
We walk out of the bedroom and into the lounge where the son is sitting on the sofa. He looks up.
‘It’s bad news, I’m afraid,’ I say. ‘Your mother has died.’
He gives a deep sigh and looks down at his hands, turning them over and moving the fingers as if they didn’t quite fit.
‘I know,’ he says.
‘I’m so sorry for your loss. Can I get you anything? A cup of tea? Glass of water?’
‘Some tea would be nice. Thanks. And one for yourselves, too.’
I leave Frank to finish off the paperwork and go through into the kitchen. The police officer waves a gloved hand when I offer him a cup; he has been joined by the officer in the garden, and the two of them go back into the bedroom.
The kitchen is meticulously tidy, everything falling to hand. There is a calendar stuck to the boiler above the fridge – a portrait of the Virgin Mary, her arms outstretched. Beneath her, the month’s events carefully written out in block capitals. On the counter by the sink, a Sudoku puzzle book lying open, a pen resting in the spine. I finish off the teas, put them on a tray, and go back into the sitting room.
Over by the window a parakeet is gripping onto the bars of its cage, jerking its head from side to side to get a better view. I put the tray down on the table in the middle of the room, hand out the cups, then find a place to sit down, as conscious as anyone of the empty armchair and its little wooden work stand, carefully laid out with a remote control, a magazine, a bundle of wool with two needles sticking out of it, and a dish of toffees.
‘She was supposed to be going on a pilgrimage next week.’
‘Oh?’
‘To Walsingham. Norfolk. She went on quite a few of those. Here and abroad. She was pretty active considering.’ He pauses, takes a sip of his tea, then puts the cup back in the saucer without making a sound. ‘That’s someone else I’ve got to ring,’ he says.
There is a pause. Frank writes a few more things down on the form. Suddenly the parakeet squawks in the cage, a fierce and rasping sound, then leaps across from one side of the cage to the other. It hangs onto the bars there, scrutinising us fretfully, whilst its little plastic mirror swings from side to side behind it. We all look at it. Finally the son says: ‘And that’s something else entirely.’
He takes another sip of tea.
Frank turns up into a steeply sloping road. At the far end is a police car, and a gathering of neighbours nearby.
‘Is everything all right?’ one of them asks as we park and jump out.
‘Let’s hope so,’ I say, hauling out the resus and drugs bags.
A police officer stands in the garden talking into his radio. He gives us two nods as we approach – one to acknowledge, one to direct. He carries on without any kind of break in his conversation.
Inside the bungalow, another police officer is talking smoothly and quietly to a bearish man whose distraction is so profound it threatens to swallow everything – me, Frank, the policeman, the religious icons on the walls, the mirrors and trinkets, books and paintings – the walls of the house itself, every last thing – teetering on the black precipice of his grief.
‘It’s no good,’ he sobs. ‘She’s gone. She’s gone.’
‘In the bedroom, guys,’ says the police officer. ‘Just through there.’
We haul our bags past them both and go into the room.
Mrs Davis is lying on the bed, curled up on her left side, her left arm and wrist crooked up under her cheek, her right hand clutching at the bed clothes by her hip, the sheets riding up round her legs. Mrs Davis’ eyes are papery and fixed, staring out over a long, black and brackish stain that runs from the lower corner of her mouth, out across the mottled flesh of her arm, down over the pillow corner and to a dried pool on the sheets beneath.
The police officer comes in from the hallway and stands beside us.
‘When was the last time anyone spoke to Mrs Davis? Or saw her?’ I ask him.
‘The son spoke to her on the phone last night just before she went to bed. No sign of anything untoward. They were meant to be going shopping today. When he got here and found all the curtains still drawn he knew something was up and broke in.’
‘Have you checked her over yet?’
‘No, not yet. We thought we’d wait for you guys to call it, even though it’s obvious.’
‘What was her health like, do you know? Anything much wrong with her?’
‘No. The usual old age things – but actually, not too many of those, it sounds like. Active and independent.’
‘It looks like she’s had some kind of upper GI bleed, but other than that, who knows?’
‘Will you tell him?’
‘Yep.’
We walk out of the bedroom and into the lounge where the son is sitting on the sofa. He looks up.
‘It’s bad news, I’m afraid,’ I say. ‘Your mother has died.’
He gives a deep sigh and looks down at his hands, turning them over and moving the fingers as if they didn’t quite fit.
‘I know,’ he says.
‘I’m so sorry for your loss. Can I get you anything? A cup of tea? Glass of water?’
‘Some tea would be nice. Thanks. And one for yourselves, too.’
I leave Frank to finish off the paperwork and go through into the kitchen. The police officer waves a gloved hand when I offer him a cup; he has been joined by the officer in the garden, and the two of them go back into the bedroom.
The kitchen is meticulously tidy, everything falling to hand. There is a calendar stuck to the boiler above the fridge – a portrait of the Virgin Mary, her arms outstretched. Beneath her, the month’s events carefully written out in block capitals. On the counter by the sink, a Sudoku puzzle book lying open, a pen resting in the spine. I finish off the teas, put them on a tray, and go back into the sitting room.
Over by the window a parakeet is gripping onto the bars of its cage, jerking its head from side to side to get a better view. I put the tray down on the table in the middle of the room, hand out the cups, then find a place to sit down, as conscious as anyone of the empty armchair and its little wooden work stand, carefully laid out with a remote control, a magazine, a bundle of wool with two needles sticking out of it, and a dish of toffees.
‘She was supposed to be going on a pilgrimage next week.’
‘Oh?’
‘To Walsingham. Norfolk. She went on quite a few of those. Here and abroad. She was pretty active considering.’ He pauses, takes a sip of his tea, then puts the cup back in the saucer without making a sound. ‘That’s someone else I’ve got to ring,’ he says.
There is a pause. Frank writes a few more things down on the form. Suddenly the parakeet squawks in the cage, a fierce and rasping sound, then leaps across from one side of the cage to the other. It hangs onto the bars there, scrutinising us fretfully, whilst its little plastic mirror swings from side to side behind it. We all look at it. Finally the son says: ‘And that’s something else entirely.’
He takes another sip of tea.
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
mum and dad
Guy is waiting outside in the garden. As soon as I’m close enough I ask him if he’s the patient. He nods, shifting from side to side, his hands up to his face to gnaw at the corner of his thumb, and then down, and then up again, all the while glancing along the street and shifting from one foot to the other like the film portrait of an anxious man, run through the camera at double speed.
‘Shall we have a chat on the ambulance?’
He almost sprints to the vehicle. Frank just has time to clear the blankets aside and put the back up before he clambers on.
I shut the door quietly.
‘Or would you rather I left it open?’
He nods. I open it again.
‘What’s been happening then, Guy?’
‘My heart started racing and I couldn’t control it. I couldn’t breathe. I got a crackling feeling up and down my arms, my hands – I couldn’t control it. I got tight across here. I thought my head was going to explode. I’ve got these lumps. See? Here – and here. All along here. I went to the chemist and he said I’ve got lymphoma. Do you think I’ve got lymphoma? I looked it up on the internet and I’ve got all the symptoms. Jesus fucking Christ I don’t want cancer. I’m scared – d’you know what I mean? Look. Here – here. I itch all the time. I can’t sleep. I can’t eat. My girlfriend’s stuck in a traffic jam because there’s been a crash. And the chemist said I’ve got lymphoma. Do you even know what that is?’
‘Guy? Just slow your breathing down. Nice and slow, like this – in through your nose – hold it – then out through your mouth. Nice and slow. You’re breathing too fast and that’s what’s giving you the funny feelings in your hands and arms and the tightness in your chest. Do you suffer with anxiety, Guy?’
‘What? What do you mean? Look. Look at these lumps. What are they?’
‘Guy – slow, slow, slow. Your heart rate’s fine. You’re getting plenty of oxygen. What you’re having at the moment is an anxiety attack. You just need to spend a minute or two slowing your breathing down. Okay? Nice and slow.’
‘But what do you think? I looked it up. On the internet. It’s all there – I’ve got all the symptoms. What about these lumps? Here, and here.’
‘Well to be honest Guy I can’t see or feel that there’s much there. I mean it’s a bit red where you’ve been scratching it, but nothing major. Maybe a mild touch of heat rash, but nothing I’d describe as lumps.’
‘But the chemist?’
‘Maybe you misunderstood. I’d be surprised if a chemist came out with a diagnosis of lymphoma over the counter.’
‘So you don’t think I’ve got lymphoma?’
‘I think it’s extremely unlikely, Guy. Have you spoken to your doctor about any of this?’
‘Yesterday. I told her I thought I had cancer.’
‘What did she say?’
‘She changed the subject. She didn’t want to talk about it.’
‘Did she prescribe you anything yesterday?’
‘She gave me something to help me sleep and chill me out.’
‘And have you taken those?’
‘No. She just wants me to leave her alone. She knows I’ve got cancer and she’s too scared to do anything about it. Oh Jesus Christ!’
‘Have you ever had anything like this before, Guy?’
‘What? The lumps?’
‘No. These anxious feelings?’
‘I had a nervous breakdown a couple of years ago. I got sectioned. My mum and dad were killed in a car crash. They never came home. I ended up in a police cell. You won’t take me there, will you? You won’t take me to a police cell? I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t go back there.’
‘We’re not taking you to the police station, Guy. But I think we’d like to take you up the hospital, just to make sure you’re okay and safe, and maybe find you someone to talk to about how you feel.’
The trolley creaks as Guy perpetually changes position, crossing and uncrossing his legs, grabbing on to the little black rails, dropping his head back to stare at the ceiling, jerking back upright again.
‘Just try to slow things down for us, Guy. Nice and slow.’
He gnaws his thumb again and stares at me. Finally he says: ‘I’ve tried ringing them but I get no answer.’
‘Who?’
‘Mum and Dad.’
And he looks away from me to the open door.
‘Shall we have a chat on the ambulance?’
He almost sprints to the vehicle. Frank just has time to clear the blankets aside and put the back up before he clambers on.
I shut the door quietly.
‘Or would you rather I left it open?’
He nods. I open it again.
‘What’s been happening then, Guy?’
‘My heart started racing and I couldn’t control it. I couldn’t breathe. I got a crackling feeling up and down my arms, my hands – I couldn’t control it. I got tight across here. I thought my head was going to explode. I’ve got these lumps. See? Here – and here. All along here. I went to the chemist and he said I’ve got lymphoma. Do you think I’ve got lymphoma? I looked it up on the internet and I’ve got all the symptoms. Jesus fucking Christ I don’t want cancer. I’m scared – d’you know what I mean? Look. Here – here. I itch all the time. I can’t sleep. I can’t eat. My girlfriend’s stuck in a traffic jam because there’s been a crash. And the chemist said I’ve got lymphoma. Do you even know what that is?’
‘Guy? Just slow your breathing down. Nice and slow, like this – in through your nose – hold it – then out through your mouth. Nice and slow. You’re breathing too fast and that’s what’s giving you the funny feelings in your hands and arms and the tightness in your chest. Do you suffer with anxiety, Guy?’
‘What? What do you mean? Look. Look at these lumps. What are they?’
‘Guy – slow, slow, slow. Your heart rate’s fine. You’re getting plenty of oxygen. What you’re having at the moment is an anxiety attack. You just need to spend a minute or two slowing your breathing down. Okay? Nice and slow.’
‘But what do you think? I looked it up. On the internet. It’s all there – I’ve got all the symptoms. What about these lumps? Here, and here.’
‘Well to be honest Guy I can’t see or feel that there’s much there. I mean it’s a bit red where you’ve been scratching it, but nothing major. Maybe a mild touch of heat rash, but nothing I’d describe as lumps.’
‘But the chemist?’
‘Maybe you misunderstood. I’d be surprised if a chemist came out with a diagnosis of lymphoma over the counter.’
‘So you don’t think I’ve got lymphoma?’
‘I think it’s extremely unlikely, Guy. Have you spoken to your doctor about any of this?’
‘Yesterday. I told her I thought I had cancer.’
‘What did she say?’
‘She changed the subject. She didn’t want to talk about it.’
‘Did she prescribe you anything yesterday?’
‘She gave me something to help me sleep and chill me out.’
‘And have you taken those?’
‘No. She just wants me to leave her alone. She knows I’ve got cancer and she’s too scared to do anything about it. Oh Jesus Christ!’
‘Have you ever had anything like this before, Guy?’
‘What? The lumps?’
‘No. These anxious feelings?’
‘I had a nervous breakdown a couple of years ago. I got sectioned. My mum and dad were killed in a car crash. They never came home. I ended up in a police cell. You won’t take me there, will you? You won’t take me to a police cell? I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t go back there.’
‘We’re not taking you to the police station, Guy. But I think we’d like to take you up the hospital, just to make sure you’re okay and safe, and maybe find you someone to talk to about how you feel.’
The trolley creaks as Guy perpetually changes position, crossing and uncrossing his legs, grabbing on to the little black rails, dropping his head back to stare at the ceiling, jerking back upright again.
‘Just try to slow things down for us, Guy. Nice and slow.’
He gnaws his thumb again and stares at me. Finally he says: ‘I’ve tried ringing them but I get no answer.’
‘Who?’
‘Mum and Dad.’
And he looks away from me to the open door.
Friday, July 15, 2011
getting through
‘Wait a minute. I’ll just give Barbara a call.’
Dorothy is holding a scrap of paper with something like runes written on it in shaky black marker pen.
‘The number’s upside down,’ says Frank, reaching across and turning it the right way up for her. ‘Would you like me to dial?’
‘No. Thank you. I can manage.’
She picks up the receiver, puts it to her ear suspiciously to check the tone, scrutinises the scrap of paper a nose and a half distant, then extends a withered finger. ‘Eight.... four....zero....’
It’s been a while since I’ve seen an old phone with a circular dial. I love the way Dorothy jabs a finger in each number hole, drags it round with that congested whirring noise inside, then pulls it out and lets the dial wind backwards with a clatter. It all seems so mechanical, agricultural. Amazing that anyone should be on the other end. And of course, they’re not.
‘Out,’ she says, replacing the receiver. ‘Still at work, I ‘spect.’
‘You can always ring them from the hospital.’
‘Can I?’
‘Yes.’
She looks pained.
‘What’s the matter, Dorothy?’ says her friend Sylvie from the opposite chair. ‘What are you worrying about?’
‘Where’s my purse?’
‘In the kitchen under the monkey. Shall I get it for you?’
‘Could you, pet? And whilst you’re there, could you fetch me in my glasses? And a dress – the white cotton one, not the one with pleats. And my best slippers. And I’ll need a coat. And shut the window ‘cos I’ve left it wide open.’
Dorothy is ninety three but only looks seventy. She’s had hip pain all week, but today it’s much worse and she hasn’t been able to go outside. She could see Sylvie waiting for her on the bench down in the square, and shouted out the window for her to come up.
‘I’ve never seen her like this,’ says Sylvie, her head waggling from side to side with the excitement of it all. ‘Never. She’s normally such a fighter.’
‘Yes. Well. I am a fighter.’
‘I know.’
‘But sometimes you just run out of fight.’
To illustrate the point, she sighs, and rests her head back on the cushions Sylvie has plumped up behind her. After a second or two when everything goes quiet and nothing seems to happen, she opens her eyes and lifts her head again.
‘Oh – and while you’re in there, can you bring me my green cardy hanging off the back of the door? And a bottle of water out of the fridge?’
Sylvie smiles and crowbars herself out of her chair with her walking stick. She seems even more decrepit than Dorothy, even though she’s twenty years younger – a fact that Dorothy has emphasised at least four times since we got here.
‘It’s bad,’ says Dorothy, ‘Very bad. I’ve never known pain like it.’
‘If you had to give the pain a score out of ten, with ten being unbearable pain and nought being nothing, what would you give it, Dorothy?’
‘Well I wouldn’t say it was unbearable.’
‘So – marks out of ten?
‘It’s not too bad when I sit still like this.’
‘No – but when you move, what score might you give it?’
‘Score? I don’t know. What do you think?’
‘It’s not what I think. It’s what the pain feels like to you.’
‘Excruciating hot. Right deep in here.’
‘Does it go anywhere else?’
‘Right in deep.’
‘And what mark would you give it out of ten? You know. For the pain. Marks out of ten.’
‘Shocking.’
‘Okay.’
Sylvie comes back in with an armful of stuff.
‘Where do you want it?’ she says, breathing heavily.
‘Oh I don’t know,’ says Dorothy, holding the scrap of paper up to the light again and almost pressing it to the tip of her nose. ‘I just wish I could get through to Barbara.’
Dorothy is holding a scrap of paper with something like runes written on it in shaky black marker pen.
‘The number’s upside down,’ says Frank, reaching across and turning it the right way up for her. ‘Would you like me to dial?’
‘No. Thank you. I can manage.’
She picks up the receiver, puts it to her ear suspiciously to check the tone, scrutinises the scrap of paper a nose and a half distant, then extends a withered finger. ‘Eight.... four....zero....’
It’s been a while since I’ve seen an old phone with a circular dial. I love the way Dorothy jabs a finger in each number hole, drags it round with that congested whirring noise inside, then pulls it out and lets the dial wind backwards with a clatter. It all seems so mechanical, agricultural. Amazing that anyone should be on the other end. And of course, they’re not.
‘Out,’ she says, replacing the receiver. ‘Still at work, I ‘spect.’
‘You can always ring them from the hospital.’
‘Can I?’
‘Yes.’
She looks pained.
‘What’s the matter, Dorothy?’ says her friend Sylvie from the opposite chair. ‘What are you worrying about?’
‘Where’s my purse?’
‘In the kitchen under the monkey. Shall I get it for you?’
‘Could you, pet? And whilst you’re there, could you fetch me in my glasses? And a dress – the white cotton one, not the one with pleats. And my best slippers. And I’ll need a coat. And shut the window ‘cos I’ve left it wide open.’
Dorothy is ninety three but only looks seventy. She’s had hip pain all week, but today it’s much worse and she hasn’t been able to go outside. She could see Sylvie waiting for her on the bench down in the square, and shouted out the window for her to come up.
‘I’ve never seen her like this,’ says Sylvie, her head waggling from side to side with the excitement of it all. ‘Never. She’s normally such a fighter.’
‘Yes. Well. I am a fighter.’
‘I know.’
‘But sometimes you just run out of fight.’
To illustrate the point, she sighs, and rests her head back on the cushions Sylvie has plumped up behind her. After a second or two when everything goes quiet and nothing seems to happen, she opens her eyes and lifts her head again.
‘Oh – and while you’re in there, can you bring me my green cardy hanging off the back of the door? And a bottle of water out of the fridge?’
Sylvie smiles and crowbars herself out of her chair with her walking stick. She seems even more decrepit than Dorothy, even though she’s twenty years younger – a fact that Dorothy has emphasised at least four times since we got here.
‘It’s bad,’ says Dorothy, ‘Very bad. I’ve never known pain like it.’
‘If you had to give the pain a score out of ten, with ten being unbearable pain and nought being nothing, what would you give it, Dorothy?’
‘Well I wouldn’t say it was unbearable.’
‘So – marks out of ten?
‘It’s not too bad when I sit still like this.’
‘No – but when you move, what score might you give it?’
‘Score? I don’t know. What do you think?’
‘It’s not what I think. It’s what the pain feels like to you.’
‘Excruciating hot. Right deep in here.’
‘Does it go anywhere else?’
‘Right in deep.’
‘And what mark would you give it out of ten? You know. For the pain. Marks out of ten.’
‘Shocking.’
‘Okay.’
Sylvie comes back in with an armful of stuff.
‘Where do you want it?’ she says, breathing heavily.
‘Oh I don’t know,’ says Dorothy, holding the scrap of paper up to the light again and almost pressing it to the tip of her nose. ‘I just wish I could get through to Barbara.’
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
clang! pow! thunk!
When another job appears on the screen, the student paramedic riding in the back of the truck stuffs his head through the hatch.
‘Anything good?’ he says.
I’ve been wincing so much this shift I’m developing a twitch. The student means well, but carries himself awkwardly, like a kid in dressing-up clothes pretending to smoke with a pencil. When he speaks to the patients it’s such a disaster I half expect to see comic book sounds in the air. Clang! Pow! Thunk!
To the alcoholic: ‘How many units of alcohol do you drink a day?’
‘What do you mean? Units?’
‘Well how much do you drink, then?’
‘How much do you drink?’
‘Obviously not as much as you.’
Clang!
To the woman who took an overdose:
‘What made you take the pills, then?’
‘My husband of thirty years decided he doesn’t want me anymore. He’s moved in with the lodger.’
‘Where does she live?’
‘In the room across the hall.’
‘Oh. So are you moving out, then?’
Pow!
To the old woman who just wants to die at home.
‘Let me do your blood pressure.’
‘I’m not going to hospital. I will not go to that place again. I would rather die here in my chair and be done. I’m ninety one, for goodness sake. What’s the point of dragging things out? I’ve had my time. I’ve enjoyed it – I’ve had a lovely marriage, three beautiful children, and I simply think it’s time for me to move on. All I do is sit in this chair staring out of the window. Where’s the life in that? Ouch! That cuff’s rather tight again.’
‘Well if you’d only stop talking for a moment I might be able to hear.’
Thunk!
***
Three o’clock in the morning. Six years of shift work heavy inside me like the fossilised remains of something. I can feel it sitting there, as scuffed and cold as the moon that drifts up over the sea. I climb into the cab with a cup of tea, look for my book, click on the overhead light, settle back for a five minute read.
The door opens.
‘Do we have a traction splint on the vehicle? Did you check that earlier?’
‘What?’
‘A traction splint. I need to have a look at one to get it signed off in my book.’
‘Look – I, erm – I really don’t want to be getting any kit out right now.’
‘But I need to get it signed off.’
‘It’s three o’clock in the fucking morning.’
‘It’s got to be done.’
‘Some other time, mate. The day time.’
‘I’ll ask Frank.’
He closes the door again.
‘Good luck with that,’ I say to myself, then settle down lower – much, much lower – so low it’s apparent to anyone, even to me, that I am now more chair than man.
‘Anything good?’ he says.
I’ve been wincing so much this shift I’m developing a twitch. The student means well, but carries himself awkwardly, like a kid in dressing-up clothes pretending to smoke with a pencil. When he speaks to the patients it’s such a disaster I half expect to see comic book sounds in the air. Clang! Pow! Thunk!
To the alcoholic: ‘How many units of alcohol do you drink a day?’
‘What do you mean? Units?’
‘Well how much do you drink, then?’
‘How much do you drink?’
‘Obviously not as much as you.’
Clang!
To the woman who took an overdose:
‘What made you take the pills, then?’
‘My husband of thirty years decided he doesn’t want me anymore. He’s moved in with the lodger.’
‘Where does she live?’
‘In the room across the hall.’
‘Oh. So are you moving out, then?’
Pow!
To the old woman who just wants to die at home.
‘Let me do your blood pressure.’
‘I’m not going to hospital. I will not go to that place again. I would rather die here in my chair and be done. I’m ninety one, for goodness sake. What’s the point of dragging things out? I’ve had my time. I’ve enjoyed it – I’ve had a lovely marriage, three beautiful children, and I simply think it’s time for me to move on. All I do is sit in this chair staring out of the window. Where’s the life in that? Ouch! That cuff’s rather tight again.’
‘Well if you’d only stop talking for a moment I might be able to hear.’
Thunk!
***
Three o’clock in the morning. Six years of shift work heavy inside me like the fossilised remains of something. I can feel it sitting there, as scuffed and cold as the moon that drifts up over the sea. I climb into the cab with a cup of tea, look for my book, click on the overhead light, settle back for a five minute read.
The door opens.
‘Do we have a traction splint on the vehicle? Did you check that earlier?’
‘What?’
‘A traction splint. I need to have a look at one to get it signed off in my book.’
‘Look – I, erm – I really don’t want to be getting any kit out right now.’
‘But I need to get it signed off.’
‘It’s three o’clock in the fucking morning.’
‘It’s got to be done.’
‘Some other time, mate. The day time.’
‘I’ll ask Frank.’
He closes the door again.
‘Good luck with that,’ I say to myself, then settle down lower – much, much lower – so low it’s apparent to anyone, even to me, that I am now more chair than man.
Sunday, July 10, 2011
the little details
Miss Ellingham is lying on her side on the rough path that runs above the harbour. A woman is crouched down beside her holding a golfing umbrella to shield her from the sun; the woman’s husband stands beside them both with a border terrier straining impatiently on a lead. There is an audience of tourists outside the café, sunning themselves like seals on the ice flows of the picnic benches. They nudge each other and raise their ice creams as we approach.
‘It’s my stupid arm,’ says Miss Ellingham. ‘Or to be more anatomically precise, my wrist. I think I may have fractured it.’
‘First of all, let’s make sure you haven’t hurt yourself anywhere else.’
‘Of course. Yes. I know you have your routine. I’m a first aider myself.’
When everything looks okay, we help her into a sitting position.
‘Of course my instinct was to go onto all fours and push myself up, but that was impossible with this injury. One feels so stupid.’
The tourists nod, pointing out details to each other, enjoying the scene as much as the cones that they turn expertly round and round.
‘Thank you so much for your help,’ says Miss Ellingham, squinting up at the umbrella woman as Frank ties a triangular bandage. ‘Most kind.’
‘Are you okay to walk over to the ambulance?’ I ask her.
‘Yes. I only lay there because I knew you would expect me to. I would’ve been quite happy to have got myself up and sat on a bench. As soon as I fell I checked myself over mentally and I knew it was just the wrist. But I’m fully aware of the procedure. I’m a first aider myself you see and I’m used to giving directions. I asked this kind lady to take my rucksack off me and use it as a pillow, then lay still and waited for the emergency services to give the all-clear. Look – could you clip my hip pack back around my waist again? It’s got all my essentials and I need to have it on me at all times. I like to be ready to go. When I’m hostelling I sleep with it over my pyjamas. Well – if there’s a fire in the middle of the night and you have to walk straight out, at least I’d have my essentials. I might not have any clothes but at least I’d have my essentials. That’s why I don’t go swimming in the sea. I wouldn’t want to leave them on the beach.’
‘Come on. Let’s get you on board.’
‘Thank you.’
I half expect the tourists to clap and throw coins.
***
‘I like to get out and about,’ says Miss Ellingham. She is eighty going on twenty, her lank, grey hair cut in a youthful bob and held in place with a flowery clip. She wears an arctic fleece and walking boots so massively squared off with tread she could be trekking in the Kush. But despite her survivalist presentation she looks at us with a brittle, slightly pained expression, like an ancient girl-guide used to making the best of it.
‘I suppose it’s fractured,’ she says.
‘I think so. It looks like a Colles’ fracture. Just here at the end where your radius joins the wrist.’
‘Yes. I know. Well. What a nuisance. I suppose they’ll be putting it in a cast, then? So I won’t be able to go for my swim tomorrow. I won’t be up to much with my wing in a sling, will I?’
She smiles, a thoroughly brave affair, and then looks blankly around her as she carries out a further audit. ‘No cycling,’ she says eventually. ‘No St Johns. Baths will be tricky so showers instead. Half my clothes won’t fit. Still. When you live on your own you get used to coping with these things. I suppose many of your customers would be feeling pretty down on their luck. But what’s the point? It’s happened, there you are. Deal with it. At least it’s only my wrist. And at least I fell where there were people to help. What would’ve happened if I’d been way out on the shore? And fell more heavily, so I couldn’t get up? And my phone was broken. And the tide was coming in?’ She grimaces at the thought of that. ‘Well – I suppose I’d have got up somehow in that instance. But the important thing is I’m here, it’s done, minor injury, there you are. We’re coping. Have you got my bag?’
I point to the trolley.
‘I’ve got my essentials in my hip bag.’ She adjusts her pack with her good hand and smiles at me again. ‘You might think I’m too independent but I say there’s no such thing. I never have appreciated fuss. I’ll be eighty one in December and I’ve just learned the front crawl. I did a quarter mile the other day. John is doing his best to get me to do what he likes to call alternate breathing but I have to admit I pretty much drown if I don’t stick to the right, but I do understand what he means about balance. I’ll get there. If you set your mind to it you can do it.’
I put my hand on her shoulder and apologise when the ambulance goes over a bump, but the rough road only seems to be shaking more words out of her.
‘I’m particularly interested in geology, you see. I used to be an accountant but now I’ve got the time and opportunity to look at other things, things that really interest me, so why not? I’m doing one of those degrees at the university of the third age. Earth Sciences – how the land was formed, rocks and fossils and so forth. That’s why I like to get out, to see as much of it as I can, to see how it was all made. I’ve always liked the outdoors. It’s one of the benefits of living on one’s own. You don’t have to think about anyone else. You can just take off wherever you like and please yourself. It may sound selfish but I enjoy it. It’s how I live. It’s how I’ve always done it. You don’t suppose I could have a sip of water do you? I’ve got a sports bottle there in my rucksack?’
‘Just a little sip to wet your mouth,’ I say, passing her the bottle.
‘Thanks.’ I offer to pull the tip of it out for her but she shakes her head, bites it out, and takes a slug.
‘How long will I be in a cast?’
‘A few weeks,’ I say. ‘And then some kind of physiotherapy, maybe.’
‘Damn,’ she says, and takes another slug of water. ‘I feel so stupid. Still – that’s accidents for you.’ She pushes the tip of the bottle back into place with her chin and then hands the bottle back to me.
‘Thank you,’ she says. ‘I’ll be going home from a different train station. I wonder if they’ll honour my ticket?’
‘Oh, I’m sure they will. You’ll have your arm in a cast. You’ll have the paperwork. I can’t think they’d worry about a little detail like that.’
‘Ah yes – but you see, it’s just precisely the little details one worries about.’
‘It’s my stupid arm,’ says Miss Ellingham. ‘Or to be more anatomically precise, my wrist. I think I may have fractured it.’
‘First of all, let’s make sure you haven’t hurt yourself anywhere else.’
‘Of course. Yes. I know you have your routine. I’m a first aider myself.’
When everything looks okay, we help her into a sitting position.
‘Of course my instinct was to go onto all fours and push myself up, but that was impossible with this injury. One feels so stupid.’
The tourists nod, pointing out details to each other, enjoying the scene as much as the cones that they turn expertly round and round.
‘Thank you so much for your help,’ says Miss Ellingham, squinting up at the umbrella woman as Frank ties a triangular bandage. ‘Most kind.’
‘Are you okay to walk over to the ambulance?’ I ask her.
‘Yes. I only lay there because I knew you would expect me to. I would’ve been quite happy to have got myself up and sat on a bench. As soon as I fell I checked myself over mentally and I knew it was just the wrist. But I’m fully aware of the procedure. I’m a first aider myself you see and I’m used to giving directions. I asked this kind lady to take my rucksack off me and use it as a pillow, then lay still and waited for the emergency services to give the all-clear. Look – could you clip my hip pack back around my waist again? It’s got all my essentials and I need to have it on me at all times. I like to be ready to go. When I’m hostelling I sleep with it over my pyjamas. Well – if there’s a fire in the middle of the night and you have to walk straight out, at least I’d have my essentials. I might not have any clothes but at least I’d have my essentials. That’s why I don’t go swimming in the sea. I wouldn’t want to leave them on the beach.’
‘Come on. Let’s get you on board.’
‘Thank you.’
I half expect the tourists to clap and throw coins.
***
‘I like to get out and about,’ says Miss Ellingham. She is eighty going on twenty, her lank, grey hair cut in a youthful bob and held in place with a flowery clip. She wears an arctic fleece and walking boots so massively squared off with tread she could be trekking in the Kush. But despite her survivalist presentation she looks at us with a brittle, slightly pained expression, like an ancient girl-guide used to making the best of it.
‘I suppose it’s fractured,’ she says.
‘I think so. It looks like a Colles’ fracture. Just here at the end where your radius joins the wrist.’
‘Yes. I know. Well. What a nuisance. I suppose they’ll be putting it in a cast, then? So I won’t be able to go for my swim tomorrow. I won’t be up to much with my wing in a sling, will I?’
She smiles, a thoroughly brave affair, and then looks blankly around her as she carries out a further audit. ‘No cycling,’ she says eventually. ‘No St Johns. Baths will be tricky so showers instead. Half my clothes won’t fit. Still. When you live on your own you get used to coping with these things. I suppose many of your customers would be feeling pretty down on their luck. But what’s the point? It’s happened, there you are. Deal with it. At least it’s only my wrist. And at least I fell where there were people to help. What would’ve happened if I’d been way out on the shore? And fell more heavily, so I couldn’t get up? And my phone was broken. And the tide was coming in?’ She grimaces at the thought of that. ‘Well – I suppose I’d have got up somehow in that instance. But the important thing is I’m here, it’s done, minor injury, there you are. We’re coping. Have you got my bag?’
I point to the trolley.
‘I’ve got my essentials in my hip bag.’ She adjusts her pack with her good hand and smiles at me again. ‘You might think I’m too independent but I say there’s no such thing. I never have appreciated fuss. I’ll be eighty one in December and I’ve just learned the front crawl. I did a quarter mile the other day. John is doing his best to get me to do what he likes to call alternate breathing but I have to admit I pretty much drown if I don’t stick to the right, but I do understand what he means about balance. I’ll get there. If you set your mind to it you can do it.’
I put my hand on her shoulder and apologise when the ambulance goes over a bump, but the rough road only seems to be shaking more words out of her.
‘I’m particularly interested in geology, you see. I used to be an accountant but now I’ve got the time and opportunity to look at other things, things that really interest me, so why not? I’m doing one of those degrees at the university of the third age. Earth Sciences – how the land was formed, rocks and fossils and so forth. That’s why I like to get out, to see as much of it as I can, to see how it was all made. I’ve always liked the outdoors. It’s one of the benefits of living on one’s own. You don’t have to think about anyone else. You can just take off wherever you like and please yourself. It may sound selfish but I enjoy it. It’s how I live. It’s how I’ve always done it. You don’t suppose I could have a sip of water do you? I’ve got a sports bottle there in my rucksack?’
‘Just a little sip to wet your mouth,’ I say, passing her the bottle.
‘Thanks.’ I offer to pull the tip of it out for her but she shakes her head, bites it out, and takes a slug.
‘How long will I be in a cast?’
‘A few weeks,’ I say. ‘And then some kind of physiotherapy, maybe.’
‘Damn,’ she says, and takes another slug of water. ‘I feel so stupid. Still – that’s accidents for you.’ She pushes the tip of the bottle back into place with her chin and then hands the bottle back to me.
‘Thank you,’ she says. ‘I’ll be going home from a different train station. I wonder if they’ll honour my ticket?’
‘Oh, I’m sure they will. You’ll have your arm in a cast. You’ll have the paperwork. I can’t think they’d worry about a little detail like that.’
‘Ah yes – but you see, it’s just precisely the little details one worries about.’
Tuesday, July 05, 2011
investment opportunity
A man appears at the ambulance window, raps twice, then casts a look up and down the road. When I lower the window, he discretely pulls a bundle of folded white documents from hip pocket and rests them on the edge. It feels as if we’re suddenly in a spy thriller.
The oranges will be ready early this year in Seville
Yes, but many villagers pray for rain.
Instead he says: ‘Hello.’
‘Are you the social worker?’
He nods. ‘My name’s John. Thanks for coming. I don’t know if our man is at home. We’ll just take pot luck, shall we?’
We jump out of the cab and follow him across the road.
John is a relaxed, pleasantly crumpled individual. In his loose black bowling shirt and scruffy chinos he looks as if he’s just been called away from his newspaper and espresso.
‘I don’t know if you’ve been told,’ he says, as we walk up the littered pathway to the main entrance of the block. ‘Mr Gerhardt is a Section Three. No history of violence, but won’t want to go, so be prepared for a lot of discussion. I think we can manage without the police, but of course that’s always an option.’
Mr Gerhardt’s flat looks out front onto a small swatch of grass. All the windows are shut and the curtains drawn, except for a central window that is cracked just enough to let out a hosepipe, which snakes across the patch. At the end of the pipe and spreading all around are dozens of roughly dug holes with dried sticks poked into them. By each stick is a crudely cut notice as big as your thumb, with strange characters inked out in black.
‘His flat’s filled with maps and models,’ says John. ‘He’s just started work on the main event out back. I don’t know what all these sticks mean. Part of the overall scheme in some way. He’s looking for forty million pounds to build a ship to take him to Mars, where he’s been elected to represent earth at the interplanetary Olympics. Him and Tutankhamen.’
‘Worth a punt,’ says Frank, trying to peer in at the window. ‘He could go on Dragon’s Den.’
‘Let’s see if he’s in, first,’ says John, pressing the flat number. After a few goes, he turns back to us.
‘Shall we have a look round the back?’
The C-shaped housing block has at its centre a cracked and scrubby patch of ground, more like an exercise yard than a communal garden. The yard is ringed by a rusty chain-link fence. A family sits out on their balcony as we crawl through a hole in the fence and walk over to the back of Mr Gerhardt’s flat.
‘He’s not in,’ shouts a woman. ‘He went out about ten minutes ago.’
‘You’ll have to catch him later,’ says her friend. ‘With a big net.’ But neither of them laugh. They smoke and stare, and the heat hangs over the yard like the haze on a dry griddle.
John smiles and raises his hand in thanks.
‘Oh dear,’ he says. ‘We might have to re-think.’
Just outside Mr Gerhardt’s back door is the beginnings of a large, crude structure. Planks of wooden decking, bound together at right angles with gaffer tape, and beside it, a pile of scavenged pots, boxes, tangles of string, half a skateboard and some pram wheels.
A woman comes out of the neighbouring flat.
‘Have you come to do something about Hans?’ she says. ‘Because he’s not right.’
‘Yes,’ says John. ‘We’re going to get him some help, but unfortunately he doesn’t appear to be in.’
‘He was out here all last night, moving stuff about, cursing, carrying on. I put my head out the window and I said Hans, please! Some of us are trying to get to sleep. There’re children live here, too, you know. But he just carried on like I wasn’t there. It’s about time something was done. I’m not well myself.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that. But don’t worry. We’ve got things in place, now. Guys – sorry to have called you out for nothing. I’ll stand you down and we’ll have a re-think.’
The woman folds her arms and watches us as we climb back through the fence.
Outside the front of the block again, John has one last look up and down the road.
‘So what does this Mr Gerhardt look like?’ says Frank.
‘Oh – about six foot four. Powerful build. Shaven head. And a rather – I don’t know – intense look about him.’
‘I bet,’ says Frank.
The oranges will be ready early this year in Seville
Yes, but many villagers pray for rain.
Instead he says: ‘Hello.’
‘Are you the social worker?’
He nods. ‘My name’s John. Thanks for coming. I don’t know if our man is at home. We’ll just take pot luck, shall we?’
We jump out of the cab and follow him across the road.
John is a relaxed, pleasantly crumpled individual. In his loose black bowling shirt and scruffy chinos he looks as if he’s just been called away from his newspaper and espresso.
‘I don’t know if you’ve been told,’ he says, as we walk up the littered pathway to the main entrance of the block. ‘Mr Gerhardt is a Section Three. No history of violence, but won’t want to go, so be prepared for a lot of discussion. I think we can manage without the police, but of course that’s always an option.’
Mr Gerhardt’s flat looks out front onto a small swatch of grass. All the windows are shut and the curtains drawn, except for a central window that is cracked just enough to let out a hosepipe, which snakes across the patch. At the end of the pipe and spreading all around are dozens of roughly dug holes with dried sticks poked into them. By each stick is a crudely cut notice as big as your thumb, with strange characters inked out in black.
‘His flat’s filled with maps and models,’ says John. ‘He’s just started work on the main event out back. I don’t know what all these sticks mean. Part of the overall scheme in some way. He’s looking for forty million pounds to build a ship to take him to Mars, where he’s been elected to represent earth at the interplanetary Olympics. Him and Tutankhamen.’
‘Worth a punt,’ says Frank, trying to peer in at the window. ‘He could go on Dragon’s Den.’
‘Let’s see if he’s in, first,’ says John, pressing the flat number. After a few goes, he turns back to us.
‘Shall we have a look round the back?’
The C-shaped housing block has at its centre a cracked and scrubby patch of ground, more like an exercise yard than a communal garden. The yard is ringed by a rusty chain-link fence. A family sits out on their balcony as we crawl through a hole in the fence and walk over to the back of Mr Gerhardt’s flat.
‘He’s not in,’ shouts a woman. ‘He went out about ten minutes ago.’
‘You’ll have to catch him later,’ says her friend. ‘With a big net.’ But neither of them laugh. They smoke and stare, and the heat hangs over the yard like the haze on a dry griddle.
John smiles and raises his hand in thanks.
‘Oh dear,’ he says. ‘We might have to re-think.’
Just outside Mr Gerhardt’s back door is the beginnings of a large, crude structure. Planks of wooden decking, bound together at right angles with gaffer tape, and beside it, a pile of scavenged pots, boxes, tangles of string, half a skateboard and some pram wheels.
A woman comes out of the neighbouring flat.
‘Have you come to do something about Hans?’ she says. ‘Because he’s not right.’
‘Yes,’ says John. ‘We’re going to get him some help, but unfortunately he doesn’t appear to be in.’
‘He was out here all last night, moving stuff about, cursing, carrying on. I put my head out the window and I said Hans, please! Some of us are trying to get to sleep. There’re children live here, too, you know. But he just carried on like I wasn’t there. It’s about time something was done. I’m not well myself.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that. But don’t worry. We’ve got things in place, now. Guys – sorry to have called you out for nothing. I’ll stand you down and we’ll have a re-think.’
The woman folds her arms and watches us as we climb back through the fence.
Outside the front of the block again, John has one last look up and down the road.
‘So what does this Mr Gerhardt look like?’ says Frank.
‘Oh – about six foot four. Powerful build. Shaven head. And a rather – I don’t know – intense look about him.’
‘I bet,’ says Frank.
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
a waste of a beautiful day
The two decorators who found the body are smoking out on the stoop. The brilliant afternoon sunshine picks out the white of their overalls and the white flecks of paint in their hair and beards. There is already an ambulance parked outside; a diamond blue haze ripples around it.
‘They’re up there,’ says one, screwing up his eyes and studying us, as if he meant something more than he was actually saying.
‘Way up there,’ adds his mate, gesturing straight up at the sky with his cigarette. ‘The very top.’
‘Okay. Thanks.’
We head inside. This Georgian building was converted into flats many years ago, and only a few flamboyant scraps of cornicing and ceiling rose survive. They sit like architectural ghosts, haunting the shadows beyond the alarm console, fire extinguishers, and the notice that says Absolutely NO visitors. Contravention of this rule will result in immediate eviction. The old staircase rises up in front of us like the abused backbone of a magnificent fossil, crudely over-painted, the treads shod with lino, the edges conscientiously nailed with strips of corrugated plastic.
We climb six flights until a brisk nip at the top and the staircase narrows into something more discrete, the access to a garret, presumably where servants would have slept under the roof.
Voices.
‘In here, guys.’
A tiny landing of curious angles, an open door – and lying on the floor inside, curled up on his side, the body of a man, his face congested, scrunched up, as if he died trying to push something out, and the effort overtook him, puffed him up, and turned him into the veined approximation of a person.
‘We were just about to stand you down,’ says Jack, one of the two paramedics first on scene. ‘He’s still warm but of course it’s hot up here…’ he pushes the hip at the body and the whole thing rocks ‘… it’s rigored, we’ve got pooling here, and here. So – thanks for coming, guys. And sorry for the long haul up.’
‘No worries.’
We turn and walk back down.
The hostel feels vacant. It feels as if every living thing has been carried away, leaving just a corpse upstairs and random bags of trash by the doors on some of the landings. Reaching the top of the last flight down, the fierce afternoon sunshine scours the street just beyond the doorway. The two decorators are standing at the top of the stoop now, looking in. One of them is making a phone call; the other nods and smiles as we come out.
‘The police will be here soon,’ I say to him as I pull off my gloves. ‘They’ll want a word about all this.’
‘No worries boss.’ He takes off his cap and shakes out his long black hair. ‘It was a waste of a beautiful day, anyway.’
‘They’re up there,’ says one, screwing up his eyes and studying us, as if he meant something more than he was actually saying.
‘Way up there,’ adds his mate, gesturing straight up at the sky with his cigarette. ‘The very top.’
‘Okay. Thanks.’
We head inside. This Georgian building was converted into flats many years ago, and only a few flamboyant scraps of cornicing and ceiling rose survive. They sit like architectural ghosts, haunting the shadows beyond the alarm console, fire extinguishers, and the notice that says Absolutely NO visitors. Contravention of this rule will result in immediate eviction. The old staircase rises up in front of us like the abused backbone of a magnificent fossil, crudely over-painted, the treads shod with lino, the edges conscientiously nailed with strips of corrugated plastic.
We climb six flights until a brisk nip at the top and the staircase narrows into something more discrete, the access to a garret, presumably where servants would have slept under the roof.
Voices.
‘In here, guys.’
A tiny landing of curious angles, an open door – and lying on the floor inside, curled up on his side, the body of a man, his face congested, scrunched up, as if he died trying to push something out, and the effort overtook him, puffed him up, and turned him into the veined approximation of a person.
‘We were just about to stand you down,’ says Jack, one of the two paramedics first on scene. ‘He’s still warm but of course it’s hot up here…’ he pushes the hip at the body and the whole thing rocks ‘… it’s rigored, we’ve got pooling here, and here. So – thanks for coming, guys. And sorry for the long haul up.’
‘No worries.’
We turn and walk back down.
The hostel feels vacant. It feels as if every living thing has been carried away, leaving just a corpse upstairs and random bags of trash by the doors on some of the landings. Reaching the top of the last flight down, the fierce afternoon sunshine scours the street just beyond the doorway. The two decorators are standing at the top of the stoop now, looking in. One of them is making a phone call; the other nods and smiles as we come out.
‘The police will be here soon,’ I say to him as I pull off my gloves. ‘They’ll want a word about all this.’
‘No worries boss.’ He takes off his cap and shakes out his long black hair. ‘It was a waste of a beautiful day, anyway.’
Saturday, June 25, 2011
a pretty tight ship
June had been late coming down for the weekly trip up town, so Jack had knocked on her door. There was no answer and he thought he could smell burning, so he called Susan who had a spare key, and together they went in. They found her lying on the floor of the sitting room, her trolley tipped over on its side, drinks spilled, cushions, clothes, newspapers and address books scattered about. There were a couple of blackened poached eggs on the cooker which Jack dragged from the hob and doused with a cup of water. All in all the flat was in a riotous state. June was conscious but unable to talk; she lay there, naked from the waist down, breathing noisily, reaching up with her left hand and making blind, shaky gestures into the space between them. Susan called for an ambulance.
‘What’s wrong with her, do you think?’ Susan asks, as Frank checks her over and I clear a path to the door for the chair.
‘It looks like June may have had a stroke. Do you know her past medical history?’
‘No. Not really. I know she suffered with her joints, like we all do. Apart from that, nothing. Clear as a bell.’
‘Heart problems? Blood pressure?’
‘Oh yes, she had a few heart attacks. And her blood pressure wasn’t all that good. But apart from that, nothing to speak of.’
‘Did she have carers come round at all?’
‘No. We’re all pretty self-sufficient here. All good sturdy stock.
‘That’s good.’
‘Yes, it is.’
‘Any relatives around?’
‘I know she has a daughter in America.’
‘A son in Leicester,’ shouts Jack from the kitchen.
‘And a son in Leicester, apparently,’ says Susan.
We pick June off the floor and put her into the chair. She fights us, and we wrap her tightly in our blankets to stifle her struggles. I give the pink bedspread they had covered her with back to Susan.
‘Oh dear,’ says Susan. ‘Is she going to be all right?’
‘She’s not too well at the moment, but they’ll take good care of her at the hospital,’ says Frank. ‘Okay? Let’s be off.’
We pass quickly out of the flat and in to the strange lift that runs from this mezzanine to the ground floor. Once we’re outside, Frank says: ‘I didn’t get her date of birth. Once we’re on the ambulance, can you scooch back inside and get it for us, Spence?’
‘Sure.’
All the doors are shut by the time I make it back. I ring June’s flat again, and when there is no reply, about every other button I can find. Eventually someone lets me in.
Jack and Susan are still there tidying up the flat.
‘Oh. I wondered who it was ringing,’ says Jack.
‘I just needed to get June’s date of birth. Do you happen to have it?’
Jack slaps me on the shoulder.
‘Come with me,’ he says.
He leads me out into the hallway and back onto the mezzanine lift. As we travel slowly down he rocks backwards and forwards with his hands lightly clasped in front of him, smiling strangely and smacking his lips, like a vicar struggling to make small talk.
‘I’ve got everyone’s birthday. On my calendar,’ he says eventually.
‘That’s nice and organised.’
‘Yes. I run a pretty tight ship.’
‘Great.’
The lift shudders to a halt and I open the door for him.
‘Just in here,’ he says, and fiddles around with the keys to his front door. ‘Excuse the mess.’
‘I have to be pretty quick, Jack.’
‘Yes. Yes. Won’t be a moment.’
He disappears into what looks like a converted larder, and after an age of harumphing and throat clearing, re-emerges with an unfeasibly large glossy calendar. He struggles to find a clear space to put it down, then fiddles around with some glasses that hang round his neck on a chain.
‘Now then. June... June.... birthday in September, I think. Or is it July? Mm. June... June.... I know I’ve got it down somewhere.’ He looks down his nose at the calendar, licks his index finger, and slowly flips the pages.
I start to feel prickly with the need to get away.
‘Honestly. It’s okay if you haven’t got it, Jack. It was just if you had it somewhere handy.’
‘Now just a minute. I know how important these things are. June... June.... Not September – of course. That’s Sheila. Definitely not August, because that’s when mine is, and I’m almost sure no-one else here has a birthday in the same month.’
‘Honestly, Jack. It’s okay. I’d better be off.’
‘Just a minute. June... Mm. Got it! December. That’s why! I was getting her muddled up with Cynthia.’
‘Great. December the what?’
‘The what?’
‘What day in December?’
‘Tuesday.’
‘What date is that, Jack?’
‘Oh. December the fourth.’
‘Lovely. And the year?’
‘Oh – I don’t write the year down on the calendar,’ he says, flipping it shut. ‘But looking at her I’d guess she’s about eighty-two. Wouldn’t you?’
‘What’s wrong with her, do you think?’ Susan asks, as Frank checks her over and I clear a path to the door for the chair.
‘It looks like June may have had a stroke. Do you know her past medical history?’
‘No. Not really. I know she suffered with her joints, like we all do. Apart from that, nothing. Clear as a bell.’
‘Heart problems? Blood pressure?’
‘Oh yes, she had a few heart attacks. And her blood pressure wasn’t all that good. But apart from that, nothing to speak of.’
‘Did she have carers come round at all?’
‘No. We’re all pretty self-sufficient here. All good sturdy stock.
‘That’s good.’
‘Yes, it is.’
‘Any relatives around?’
‘I know she has a daughter in America.’
‘A son in Leicester,’ shouts Jack from the kitchen.
‘And a son in Leicester, apparently,’ says Susan.
We pick June off the floor and put her into the chair. She fights us, and we wrap her tightly in our blankets to stifle her struggles. I give the pink bedspread they had covered her with back to Susan.
‘Oh dear,’ says Susan. ‘Is she going to be all right?’
‘She’s not too well at the moment, but they’ll take good care of her at the hospital,’ says Frank. ‘Okay? Let’s be off.’
We pass quickly out of the flat and in to the strange lift that runs from this mezzanine to the ground floor. Once we’re outside, Frank says: ‘I didn’t get her date of birth. Once we’re on the ambulance, can you scooch back inside and get it for us, Spence?’
‘Sure.’
All the doors are shut by the time I make it back. I ring June’s flat again, and when there is no reply, about every other button I can find. Eventually someone lets me in.
Jack and Susan are still there tidying up the flat.
‘Oh. I wondered who it was ringing,’ says Jack.
‘I just needed to get June’s date of birth. Do you happen to have it?’
Jack slaps me on the shoulder.
‘Come with me,’ he says.
He leads me out into the hallway and back onto the mezzanine lift. As we travel slowly down he rocks backwards and forwards with his hands lightly clasped in front of him, smiling strangely and smacking his lips, like a vicar struggling to make small talk.
‘I’ve got everyone’s birthday. On my calendar,’ he says eventually.
‘That’s nice and organised.’
‘Yes. I run a pretty tight ship.’
‘Great.’
The lift shudders to a halt and I open the door for him.
‘Just in here,’ he says, and fiddles around with the keys to his front door. ‘Excuse the mess.’
‘I have to be pretty quick, Jack.’
‘Yes. Yes. Won’t be a moment.’
He disappears into what looks like a converted larder, and after an age of harumphing and throat clearing, re-emerges with an unfeasibly large glossy calendar. He struggles to find a clear space to put it down, then fiddles around with some glasses that hang round his neck on a chain.
‘Now then. June... June.... birthday in September, I think. Or is it July? Mm. June... June.... I know I’ve got it down somewhere.’ He looks down his nose at the calendar, licks his index finger, and slowly flips the pages.
I start to feel prickly with the need to get away.
‘Honestly. It’s okay if you haven’t got it, Jack. It was just if you had it somewhere handy.’
‘Now just a minute. I know how important these things are. June... June.... Not September – of course. That’s Sheila. Definitely not August, because that’s when mine is, and I’m almost sure no-one else here has a birthday in the same month.’
‘Honestly, Jack. It’s okay. I’d better be off.’
‘Just a minute. June... Mm. Got it! December. That’s why! I was getting her muddled up with Cynthia.’
‘Great. December the what?’
‘The what?’
‘What day in December?’
‘Tuesday.’
‘What date is that, Jack?’
‘Oh. December the fourth.’
‘Lovely. And the year?’
‘Oh – I don’t write the year down on the calendar,’ he says, flipping it shut. ‘But looking at her I’d guess she’s about eighty-two. Wouldn’t you?’
Friday, June 24, 2011
cold
Henry, ninety-one, had been watching the tennis. When Leyton Hewitt reached for a deep pass, Henry reached for the remote and fell out of the chair. We pick him off the floor an hour later and settle him back in bed. The carers on scene - two raucous women who clean him up, smear his genitals with cream and haul on a fresh pair of pyjama bottoms, all with the bonhomie of a pair of blousy witches – flop back onto the sofa and suck busily on the teats of their energy drinks.
All Henry’s obs are fine. Frank writes out the sheet. I sit by the bed, and fetch down a photo of Henry as a young man of twenty, glaring into the camera, striding across Piccadilly with a suitcase in one hand, fag in the other.
‘Where were you off to in this photo, then, Henry?’
‘That photo?’
‘Yes.’
‘I dunno mate. China, probably.’
‘How long were you in the navy?’
‘Twenty year.’
‘Enlisted?’
‘Yeah.’
He chews for a moment, then turns his head in my direction.
‘We were up in the Arctic circle,’ he says. ‘Colder than hell. Colder than you can imagine. Everything iced-up and frozen. Equipment, men – everything. One night, I was on watch. And this fucking great shadow rolls by. German cruiser. Just like us – frozen solid. There was nothing anyone could do. You couldn’t work the guns. You couldn’t do nothing. Everything frozen solid. The only thing you could do was stand on the deck and salute. So that’s what we did. Stood to attention and saluted, as this German cruiser passes by in the night.’
He sucks his cheeks furiously for a moment.
‘Fucking hell it was cold’ he says.
All Henry’s obs are fine. Frank writes out the sheet. I sit by the bed, and fetch down a photo of Henry as a young man of twenty, glaring into the camera, striding across Piccadilly with a suitcase in one hand, fag in the other.
‘Where were you off to in this photo, then, Henry?’
‘That photo?’
‘Yes.’
‘I dunno mate. China, probably.’
‘How long were you in the navy?’
‘Twenty year.’
‘Enlisted?’
‘Yeah.’
He chews for a moment, then turns his head in my direction.
‘We were up in the Arctic circle,’ he says. ‘Colder than hell. Colder than you can imagine. Everything iced-up and frozen. Equipment, men – everything. One night, I was on watch. And this fucking great shadow rolls by. German cruiser. Just like us – frozen solid. There was nothing anyone could do. You couldn’t work the guns. You couldn’t do nothing. Everything frozen solid. The only thing you could do was stand on the deck and salute. So that’s what we did. Stood to attention and saluted, as this German cruiser passes by in the night.’
He sucks his cheeks furiously for a moment.
‘Fucking hell it was cold’ he says.
trouble at the mardi gras
There is a middle-aged woman waiting for us by the front door of the Mardi Gras bed and breakfast. She gives us a terse smile.
‘Thank you for coming,’ she says, then looks down and begins searching in her soft leather shoulder bag for something. ‘The police are in there with Emanuel. I expect you’re aware - it’s a Section Three. Twenty-five years old. Very paranoid. Thinks he’s in the SAS. He’s been on the phone to the police on a daily basis about death threats and so on. Not violent, as such.’
‘As such?’
‘So far.’
‘Right.’
The social worker has an unfortunate manner, brittle and administrative, like a harassed teacher collared by a parent when all she wants to do is get home to her cats. I wonder if it’s just the stress of this situation that’s making her so unapproachable – or maybe the deeper, longer term effects of intervening in awful situations like this. She finds the section papers and waves them briskly in front of us.
‘Okay? His mum’s with him.’
‘Is there anything medically wrong with Emanuel?’ asks Frank, as neutrally as he can. The social worker straightens an inch. ‘No. Why do you ask?’
‘Because if there isn’t any medical need for an ambulance, it might be safer if he went in a police vehicle.’
‘No. Absolutely not. Sections must always travel in an ambulance. That’s the agreement.’
‘I only ask because if Emanuel’s a bit feisty and needs restraining and so on, it’ll be easier to load him onto a police van. The back’s lower, both doors open nice and wide, and there’s less equipment for him to grab in the back.’
‘No. The police are never to be used to convey. It’s inappropriate. No.’
‘Okay. I just thought I’d point out how it’s been in the past sometimes. Of course we’re happy to take the patient.’
The social worker looks at Frank with a glittering focus that reminds me of the robot Gort in The Day the Earth Stood Still.
‘It’s the agreement,’ she says finally, then turns and leads us inside.
Frank sighs and shakes his head. We follow.
We pass through a narrow reception area to a bare-boarded dining room. Between the neatly stacked shelves of breakfast cups, plates and aluminium tea pots, are a series of energetic paintings, as frenetic as if a carnival parade had reached a pitch of excitement, exploded and splashed against the canvases.
Emanuel is sitting at a bistro table outside on a sunny patio, smoking a filter tip cigarette and speaking urgently into a phone. Two female police officers stand in the room watching him, along with a small, capable looking woman in a blue housecoat.
‘It’s just that there are details that concern me,’ says Emanuel. ‘It doesn’t add up and I’m ringing you for clarification.’ He pauses momentarily to suck in more smoke and to throw us all a glance over the top of his purple-tinted glasses. ‘No. No. Listen to me - please. It’s vital that you understand. There are people here pretending to be the police and I believe they intend to do me harm. All I require from you is verification. Why won’t you give it to me?’
‘Immy, darling’ says his mother, holding a jacket out in his direction. ‘It’s okay, Immy. I’ll be coming with you.’
‘Come on, Emanuel,’ says one of the police officers. ‘We’ve shown you our warrant cards. Look. The paramedics are here. They’re the ones who’ll be taking you to the hospital.’
Emanuel holds up his hand. ‘Wait a moment. Just wait,’ he says. Then back into the phone: ‘Why won’t you? I am a citizen of this country and I have my rights. I’m telling you my life is in danger. I need you to reassure me that these people are in fact police officers. Because their numbers don’t add up, they have the wrong uniform, and I know for a fact that they are here to do me harm, perhaps even to kill me.’
‘Immy!’ says his mother. ‘Immy – I’ve got your jacket.’
‘Let’s go, Emanuel,’ says the Social Worker. ‘We’ve talked about this. We have to go now.’
‘No,’ he says, standing up and stepping warily into the breakfast room to be nearer to his mother. When he talks into the phone again, it seems they have hung up. ‘Wait a moment – just wait!’ he says, as the police officers move a little closer. ‘Wait! I just want to ring Control again. You have to let me ring them again. It’s my right. I just want to check something.’
‘Look. Emanuel. We’ve shown you our warrant cards and we’ve played along with this for long enough. I know you’re upset and that’s perfectly understandable. But you have to come with us now. We can’t stay here any longer.’
‘No. You can’t make me.’
‘I’m afraid we can. That’s why we’re here. You really do have to come with us to the hospital. Once we’re there, we’ll leave you with the staff. We’ll go as soon as we know you’re safe. But it’s our job to make sure you come with the social worker and the paramedics to the hospital. Okay?’
‘No. Don’t you dare come a step closer. And don’t you lay a finger on me. I just have to make this phone call. Please. Just let me make the call.’
‘No. No more phone calls, Emanuel. Let’s go.’
‘No!’
He goes to hit redial on the phone, but the police officer takes it off him.
‘That is assault!’ he says. ‘Mummy!’
‘No more phone calls.’
‘Give it to me!’
‘Come on, Emanuel. Let’s go out to the ambulance.’
‘No! You cannot take me if I don’t want to go.’
‘I’m sorry, Emanuel,’ says the social worker. ‘That’s why we’re here. You’re not well and you need treatment.’
‘No!’
‘Emanuel? Listen to me. I want you to walk out to the ambulance quietly and calmly. Will you do that for us? Come on.’
‘No! Don’t you touch me. Don’t you touch me! No. Get off. Get off.’
‘Put your hands down, Emanuel. Hands down.’
‘Please don’t fight them, Immy,’ says his mother, laying her hands on his arm. ‘Please don’t.’
‘No!’
He resists, pulling back from her, confronting the police officers with his fists clenched, and then suddenly lurching off to the side as if he had seen something he could defend himself with. The two officers jump on him, spin him face down onto a sofa that lies against the far wall, and eventually manage to turn his arms behind him using wrist locks. One of them produces a pair of handcuffs and snaps them on.
‘Nice and calm, now,’ she says. ‘Just slow it all down.’
‘You’re hurting me,’ he roars into the cushions. ‘I can’t breathe. You’re breaking my arms.’
‘Calm it down, Emanuel,’ she says. ‘As soon as you relax we’ll stand you up and you’ll feel more comfortable.’
‘I’m calm,’ he pants. ‘I’m calm. All right? Sorry. I was just upset.’
‘I know. It is upsetting,’ she says. ‘Okay? Ready to stand up, then?’
‘Yes. Please. Ow! You’re hurting me.’
Between them they help him to his feet. They are all breathing heavily, but of the three of them, Emanuel seems the most exhausted. His tongue keeps flicking out to wet his dry lips; his glasses have slid down his nose, and he scrunches up his face to try to edge them up again. He has the outraged, bedraggled look of an animal that’s been captured by vets at the zoo.
‘My baby,’ says his mother, gently stroking his face and helping him with his glasses. ‘I’m coming with you.’
***
The ambulance lurches from side to side.
‘Sorry it’s so uncomfortable,’ I say to Emanuel. He is sitting on one of the side chairs, his arms still cuffed behind his back.
‘Can you take these things off me?’ he asks the police officer.
‘No. Not until we get you to the hospital,’ she says. ‘Not long now.’
‘Please.’
‘No. Sorry.’
‘I need to make a phone call.’
‘No more phone calls.’
‘I need to call Papa and tell him goodbye.’
His mother is sitting in the chair next to him. She strokes his knee. ‘I spoke to Papa this morning, darling. He knows all about it. He’ll be coming to visit you later.’
‘I need to tell him goodbye. He’ll be upset.’
‘It’s okay. I told him all about it. He knows.’
‘Please.’
‘No. Sorry,’ says the police officer.
The ambulance lurches again and I put out my hand to steady Emanuel.
‘Almost there,’ I say.’
We travel in silence for a while, Emanuel periodically scrunching up his face and casting his eyes around above his specs.
‘Lovely little bed and breakfast you have there,’ I say to his mother. ‘Keeps you busy, I expect.’
‘Oh – in the summer it’s mad. Quietens down a lot over the winter months, though. We usually manage to get away then.’
She smiles and pats Emanuel on the knee again.
It has been raining all afternoon, but suddenly the weather lifts, and we’re riding through streets drenched in sunshine.
‘Do you know – it’s twenty years since I was last in an ambulance,’ says his mother, smoothing strands of hair away from Emanuel’s forehead. ‘Not nearly as nice as this one, though. Twenty years – imagine that. Just about to give birth to Ivan, his younger brother. All this equipment you have now. It’s amazing. Something for every eventuality, I expect.’
Emanuel tenses and looks across at the police officer again.
‘Please? Can’t I just phone Papa?’ he says.
She shakes her head.
‘Thank you for coming,’ she says, then looks down and begins searching in her soft leather shoulder bag for something. ‘The police are in there with Emanuel. I expect you’re aware - it’s a Section Three. Twenty-five years old. Very paranoid. Thinks he’s in the SAS. He’s been on the phone to the police on a daily basis about death threats and so on. Not violent, as such.’
‘As such?’
‘So far.’
‘Right.’
The social worker has an unfortunate manner, brittle and administrative, like a harassed teacher collared by a parent when all she wants to do is get home to her cats. I wonder if it’s just the stress of this situation that’s making her so unapproachable – or maybe the deeper, longer term effects of intervening in awful situations like this. She finds the section papers and waves them briskly in front of us.
‘Okay? His mum’s with him.’
‘Is there anything medically wrong with Emanuel?’ asks Frank, as neutrally as he can. The social worker straightens an inch. ‘No. Why do you ask?’
‘Because if there isn’t any medical need for an ambulance, it might be safer if he went in a police vehicle.’
‘No. Absolutely not. Sections must always travel in an ambulance. That’s the agreement.’
‘I only ask because if Emanuel’s a bit feisty and needs restraining and so on, it’ll be easier to load him onto a police van. The back’s lower, both doors open nice and wide, and there’s less equipment for him to grab in the back.’
‘No. The police are never to be used to convey. It’s inappropriate. No.’
‘Okay. I just thought I’d point out how it’s been in the past sometimes. Of course we’re happy to take the patient.’
The social worker looks at Frank with a glittering focus that reminds me of the robot Gort in The Day the Earth Stood Still.
‘It’s the agreement,’ she says finally, then turns and leads us inside.
Frank sighs and shakes his head. We follow.
We pass through a narrow reception area to a bare-boarded dining room. Between the neatly stacked shelves of breakfast cups, plates and aluminium tea pots, are a series of energetic paintings, as frenetic as if a carnival parade had reached a pitch of excitement, exploded and splashed against the canvases.
Emanuel is sitting at a bistro table outside on a sunny patio, smoking a filter tip cigarette and speaking urgently into a phone. Two female police officers stand in the room watching him, along with a small, capable looking woman in a blue housecoat.
‘It’s just that there are details that concern me,’ says Emanuel. ‘It doesn’t add up and I’m ringing you for clarification.’ He pauses momentarily to suck in more smoke and to throw us all a glance over the top of his purple-tinted glasses. ‘No. No. Listen to me - please. It’s vital that you understand. There are people here pretending to be the police and I believe they intend to do me harm. All I require from you is verification. Why won’t you give it to me?’
‘Immy, darling’ says his mother, holding a jacket out in his direction. ‘It’s okay, Immy. I’ll be coming with you.’
‘Come on, Emanuel,’ says one of the police officers. ‘We’ve shown you our warrant cards. Look. The paramedics are here. They’re the ones who’ll be taking you to the hospital.’
Emanuel holds up his hand. ‘Wait a moment. Just wait,’ he says. Then back into the phone: ‘Why won’t you? I am a citizen of this country and I have my rights. I’m telling you my life is in danger. I need you to reassure me that these people are in fact police officers. Because their numbers don’t add up, they have the wrong uniform, and I know for a fact that they are here to do me harm, perhaps even to kill me.’
‘Immy!’ says his mother. ‘Immy – I’ve got your jacket.’
‘Let’s go, Emanuel,’ says the Social Worker. ‘We’ve talked about this. We have to go now.’
‘No,’ he says, standing up and stepping warily into the breakfast room to be nearer to his mother. When he talks into the phone again, it seems they have hung up. ‘Wait a moment – just wait!’ he says, as the police officers move a little closer. ‘Wait! I just want to ring Control again. You have to let me ring them again. It’s my right. I just want to check something.’
‘Look. Emanuel. We’ve shown you our warrant cards and we’ve played along with this for long enough. I know you’re upset and that’s perfectly understandable. But you have to come with us now. We can’t stay here any longer.’
‘No. You can’t make me.’
‘I’m afraid we can. That’s why we’re here. You really do have to come with us to the hospital. Once we’re there, we’ll leave you with the staff. We’ll go as soon as we know you’re safe. But it’s our job to make sure you come with the social worker and the paramedics to the hospital. Okay?’
‘No. Don’t you dare come a step closer. And don’t you lay a finger on me. I just have to make this phone call. Please. Just let me make the call.’
‘No. No more phone calls, Emanuel. Let’s go.’
‘No!’
He goes to hit redial on the phone, but the police officer takes it off him.
‘That is assault!’ he says. ‘Mummy!’
‘No more phone calls.’
‘Give it to me!’
‘Come on, Emanuel. Let’s go out to the ambulance.’
‘No! You cannot take me if I don’t want to go.’
‘I’m sorry, Emanuel,’ says the social worker. ‘That’s why we’re here. You’re not well and you need treatment.’
‘No!’
‘Emanuel? Listen to me. I want you to walk out to the ambulance quietly and calmly. Will you do that for us? Come on.’
‘No! Don’t you touch me. Don’t you touch me! No. Get off. Get off.’
‘Put your hands down, Emanuel. Hands down.’
‘Please don’t fight them, Immy,’ says his mother, laying her hands on his arm. ‘Please don’t.’
‘No!’
He resists, pulling back from her, confronting the police officers with his fists clenched, and then suddenly lurching off to the side as if he had seen something he could defend himself with. The two officers jump on him, spin him face down onto a sofa that lies against the far wall, and eventually manage to turn his arms behind him using wrist locks. One of them produces a pair of handcuffs and snaps them on.
‘Nice and calm, now,’ she says. ‘Just slow it all down.’
‘You’re hurting me,’ he roars into the cushions. ‘I can’t breathe. You’re breaking my arms.’
‘Calm it down, Emanuel,’ she says. ‘As soon as you relax we’ll stand you up and you’ll feel more comfortable.’
‘I’m calm,’ he pants. ‘I’m calm. All right? Sorry. I was just upset.’
‘I know. It is upsetting,’ she says. ‘Okay? Ready to stand up, then?’
‘Yes. Please. Ow! You’re hurting me.’
Between them they help him to his feet. They are all breathing heavily, but of the three of them, Emanuel seems the most exhausted. His tongue keeps flicking out to wet his dry lips; his glasses have slid down his nose, and he scrunches up his face to try to edge them up again. He has the outraged, bedraggled look of an animal that’s been captured by vets at the zoo.
‘My baby,’ says his mother, gently stroking his face and helping him with his glasses. ‘I’m coming with you.’
***
The ambulance lurches from side to side.
‘Sorry it’s so uncomfortable,’ I say to Emanuel. He is sitting on one of the side chairs, his arms still cuffed behind his back.
‘Can you take these things off me?’ he asks the police officer.
‘No. Not until we get you to the hospital,’ she says. ‘Not long now.’
‘Please.’
‘No. Sorry.’
‘I need to make a phone call.’
‘No more phone calls.’
‘I need to call Papa and tell him goodbye.’
His mother is sitting in the chair next to him. She strokes his knee. ‘I spoke to Papa this morning, darling. He knows all about it. He’ll be coming to visit you later.’
‘I need to tell him goodbye. He’ll be upset.’
‘It’s okay. I told him all about it. He knows.’
‘Please.’
‘No. Sorry,’ says the police officer.
The ambulance lurches again and I put out my hand to steady Emanuel.
‘Almost there,’ I say.’
We travel in silence for a while, Emanuel periodically scrunching up his face and casting his eyes around above his specs.
‘Lovely little bed and breakfast you have there,’ I say to his mother. ‘Keeps you busy, I expect.’
‘Oh – in the summer it’s mad. Quietens down a lot over the winter months, though. We usually manage to get away then.’
She smiles and pats Emanuel on the knee again.
It has been raining all afternoon, but suddenly the weather lifts, and we’re riding through streets drenched in sunshine.
‘Do you know – it’s twenty years since I was last in an ambulance,’ says his mother, smoothing strands of hair away from Emanuel’s forehead. ‘Not nearly as nice as this one, though. Twenty years – imagine that. Just about to give birth to Ivan, his younger brother. All this equipment you have now. It’s amazing. Something for every eventuality, I expect.’
Emanuel tenses and looks across at the police officer again.
‘Please? Can’t I just phone Papa?’ he says.
She shakes her head.
Sunday, June 19, 2011
jinxed
The worst fears of the neighbours gathered outside on the pavement are realised: Jack is, in fact, dead. Once the door is broken in and we step inside the house calling his name, we find him sitting in his chair, one leg crossed over the other, his head tilted back and his eyes half open, looking like a man pretending to be asleep so he can keep an eye on proceedings. The two police officers go back outside to tell the crowd what’s happened and to find out any more information.
I start looking for personal details – date of birth, registered doctor, medication and so on. There are hundreds of packs of toilet roll and cleaning products neatly stacked in the mahogany cabinet, the utility cupboard and over the fridge. Just as I find a Tupperware container with his medications and repeat scrips, we hear voices in the hallway. The brother has arrived. We hear the policewoman ask him to take a seat on the stairs.
‘I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news,’ she says. ‘Your brother Jack has died.’
There is a ghastly, muffled sob, and the policewoman says: ‘I’m sorry for your loss, Harry. I know it’s not much consolation, but it looks like Jack died peacefully. Do you want to come in and see him?’
After a pause, the door slowly opens.
Harry stands on the threshold of the room, peering across to where his brother is sitting.
‘Let’s make a bit of room here,’ I say, and move a couple of things. Harry must have visited this room a thousand times over the years but now he shuffles uncertainly across the threadbare carpet like he doesn’t know the place at all. He stands quietly in front of his brother, and then stoops forward, as if he’s going to kiss him, but seems to change his mind, and reaches down to pat him gently a couple of times on the shoulder instead. He lets his hand rest there a moment, then turns and looks helplessly back at us.
‘I think it was quick, Harry,’ I say. ‘You can tell by the way he’s sitting. No sign of any distress or pain or anything. I’m sure he died sleeping in the chair.’
‘Yes. Well. He liked his chair.’
‘Would you like to sit down, Harry? Can I get you a drink of water or a cup of tea?’
‘No. Thank you. The taxi’s outside waiting.’
‘We’ll sort that.’
‘You’ll tell him?’
‘Don’t worry. Come and sit a while.’
‘All right.’
Frank helps him into a chair. He perches on the edge of it.
‘I came over as quick as I could. Do you think - if I’d got here sooner...?’
‘Jack’s been dead a good few hours I should think.’
‘I couldn’t get hold of him on the phone. I don’t know why I waited – I knew something wasn’t right. I should’ve come over sooner.’
‘It wouldn’t have made any difference.’
It wouldn’t surprise me if Jack suddenly gave a little snort and sat up. But aside from the obvious pooling of blood in his arms there is something else, something more unsettling - a cold vacancy, a complete absence of those myriad ticks and traces of life we subliminally read but never really notice till they’re gone.
‘He only ever used to go shopping at night,’ says Harry, and we all nod as if it explained something. ‘Fifty years as a machine operator for Cluttons in Bedale Street. We grew up together. I’ve known him all my life.’ He shifts uncomfortably in the chair. ‘Obviously.’
‘What do I do about the paperwork? You know – the certificates,’ he says.
‘The coroner’s office will give you a call tomorrow,’ says the policewoman. ‘Don’t worry about that now. Just get some rest for now.’
‘Right. And they’ll call me, will they? I don’t need to call them?’
‘No. They’ll call you. I’ve got your number.’
‘Right.’
He struggles to stand up and the policewoman gives him a hand.
‘I’ve got a taxi waiting,’ he says, then glances once more across to his brother, and shuffles back out.
‘Look at this,’ says the policewoman after a moment, pulling a wad of forms out of her pocket. ‘I’ve got all the paperwork on me already. This is my fourth in as many days. I’d stay that side of the room if I were you, guys. I think I’m jinxed.’
I start looking for personal details – date of birth, registered doctor, medication and so on. There are hundreds of packs of toilet roll and cleaning products neatly stacked in the mahogany cabinet, the utility cupboard and over the fridge. Just as I find a Tupperware container with his medications and repeat scrips, we hear voices in the hallway. The brother has arrived. We hear the policewoman ask him to take a seat on the stairs.
‘I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news,’ she says. ‘Your brother Jack has died.’
There is a ghastly, muffled sob, and the policewoman says: ‘I’m sorry for your loss, Harry. I know it’s not much consolation, but it looks like Jack died peacefully. Do you want to come in and see him?’
After a pause, the door slowly opens.
Harry stands on the threshold of the room, peering across to where his brother is sitting.
‘Let’s make a bit of room here,’ I say, and move a couple of things. Harry must have visited this room a thousand times over the years but now he shuffles uncertainly across the threadbare carpet like he doesn’t know the place at all. He stands quietly in front of his brother, and then stoops forward, as if he’s going to kiss him, but seems to change his mind, and reaches down to pat him gently a couple of times on the shoulder instead. He lets his hand rest there a moment, then turns and looks helplessly back at us.
‘I think it was quick, Harry,’ I say. ‘You can tell by the way he’s sitting. No sign of any distress or pain or anything. I’m sure he died sleeping in the chair.’
‘Yes. Well. He liked his chair.’
‘Would you like to sit down, Harry? Can I get you a drink of water or a cup of tea?’
‘No. Thank you. The taxi’s outside waiting.’
‘We’ll sort that.’
‘You’ll tell him?’
‘Don’t worry. Come and sit a while.’
‘All right.’
Frank helps him into a chair. He perches on the edge of it.
‘I came over as quick as I could. Do you think - if I’d got here sooner...?’
‘Jack’s been dead a good few hours I should think.’
‘I couldn’t get hold of him on the phone. I don’t know why I waited – I knew something wasn’t right. I should’ve come over sooner.’
‘It wouldn’t have made any difference.’
It wouldn’t surprise me if Jack suddenly gave a little snort and sat up. But aside from the obvious pooling of blood in his arms there is something else, something more unsettling - a cold vacancy, a complete absence of those myriad ticks and traces of life we subliminally read but never really notice till they’re gone.
‘He only ever used to go shopping at night,’ says Harry, and we all nod as if it explained something. ‘Fifty years as a machine operator for Cluttons in Bedale Street. We grew up together. I’ve known him all my life.’ He shifts uncomfortably in the chair. ‘Obviously.’
‘What do I do about the paperwork? You know – the certificates,’ he says.
‘The coroner’s office will give you a call tomorrow,’ says the policewoman. ‘Don’t worry about that now. Just get some rest for now.’
‘Right. And they’ll call me, will they? I don’t need to call them?’
‘No. They’ll call you. I’ve got your number.’
‘Right.’
He struggles to stand up and the policewoman gives him a hand.
‘I’ve got a taxi waiting,’ he says, then glances once more across to his brother, and shuffles back out.
‘Look at this,’ says the policewoman after a moment, pulling a wad of forms out of her pocket. ‘I’ve got all the paperwork on me already. This is my fourth in as many days. I’d stay that side of the room if I were you, guys. I think I’m jinxed.’
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
proof
A wash of aquamarine draws up across the dark margin of houses and trees. There is a stunned clarity to the air - birds are beginning to sing themselves back into the world, and the sound is profoundly refreshing after the long night shift.
I ride in Frank’s wake to the front door and watch as he buzzes the intercom. After a moment the catch releases and we step into the lobby of a retirement block so perfectly squared away we could be stepping into an architect’s three dimensional plan. The lift runs us up smoothly to the third floor, the door hushes aside and we find ourselves in a hallway the exact copy of the one downstairs. If it wasn’t for the fact that an aspidistra had been switched for an umbrella plant, there’d be no proof we’d moved at all – that, and the higher numbers on the doors. As we follow them to the right, we meet a middle aged woman standing in the middle of the carpet. I feel like a sleepy mouse who turned a corner and met a Kite. She makes a smile, then tears through the facts.
‘Before we go in let me tell you about my father,’ she says. ‘It’s tricky.’
‘Okay.’
‘I got a call to come down yesterday around supper time. The cleaner found my father on the floor, confused and complaining of some vague pains here and there. My sister’s away so I came over – miles, actually – and whilst I was on my way the cleaner called you people, the first crew. They did a marvellous job because I have to warn you, he’s not the easiest of customers. They checked him over, couldn’t find any injuries from the fall, but his legs are very swollen and he’s not in terribly good shape. They got him back on his feet and sat him in the lounge – which took an hour. I got here soon after. Normally Daddy’s as sharp as anything but there’s something not right. I’ve been abroad and I haven’t seen him these past few months and I have to say he doesn’t look good. The thing is, he can’t get up on his own, can’t do the basics, but he’s refusing to go to hospital. The other crew were here for a couple of hours trying to persuade him. We tried everything. Reason, bullying, begging – everything, but nothing worked. He’s stubborn and he flatly refused to go. So your colleagues arranged for the out of hours doctor to visit, and they left. The doctor’s in there now, and it looks like he’s finally persuaded Daddy to go with you. And that’s the story so far. Except to say you’ll have to forgive him if he seems a little – abrupt. He’s got it into his head that the first crew manhandled him. So I’m sorry if he causes offence. Just please try not to rise to it. It’s taken such a huge effort to get him this far.’
‘Of course. Shall we go in and say hello?’
She shows us into the flat.
Mr Williams is sitting in the middle of a neat yellow sofa with a stick planted firmly between his legs, both hands draped magnificently over the bone handle. He is a wild and withered version of his daughter, the same raptor profile, his oiled grey hair quivering from the tension of keeping his body erect. He smacks his lips together and raps the cane on the floor like a tetchy magician trying to turn us all into birds.
‘Who are you?’
The out of hours doctor, a plump and friendly man we’ve met many times before, makes the introduction.
‘This is your transport, sir. Your transport has arrived.’
‘Transport? Transport where?’
‘To the hospital. Do you remember? We talked about it.’
‘I’m not going to the hospital. It’s far too late. I’ll make my way there on my own next week, when it’s more convenient.’
‘We discussed all this, Mr Williams. Do you remember? I’m not at all happy with your condition.’
‘My condition?’
‘Your blood pressure is very low. Your legs are swollen. You’re so weak you can’t get yourself up off the sofa to get to the bathroom or take care of yourself. You need someone to look after you.’
‘I am perfectly able to take care of myself. I just need a little time. So will you please stop all this nonsense, leave me alone and let me get to bed. Who are all these people?’
‘The ambulance, Mr Williams. They’ve kindly come over to take you to hospital. Look. They’ve even brought a special chair.’
Mr Williams shakes his head.
‘No. It’s completely unacceptable. The last lot picked me up and threw me across the table. I couldn’t believe it. Threw me – across the table. I shall be making a formal complaint.’
His daughter folds her arms.
‘But Daddy they didn’t.’
‘They did. You weren’t here.’
‘I was right here. You’re seeing things.’
But she sits down on the corner of a table in the hallway, and seems less certain.
‘I’m not crazy,’ he says. ‘I’m in full control of my faculties.’
He glances at me.
‘You. Give me the alphabet – backwards.’
‘It’s way too early in the morning, Mr Williams.’
‘Would you like me to recite it for you?’
‘Okay.’
And he does, closing his eyes and racing through the letters.
‘...E,D,C,B,A. There. As I explained. I am in complete control of my mind, and as such insist that you leave me be.’
His daughter unfolds her arms and makes a desperate gesture with her arms: Scoop him up! Put him in the chair! But the doctor picks up his briefcase instead.
‘Mr Williams. I’ve made my position clear. You need urgent treatment at the hospital and it’s not a rational decision to refuse it. My next step is to get a mental health team out to assess your capability with a view to taking you, regardless. I’m very sorry it’s come to this, but we’ve tried everything else.’
‘What are you saying?’
‘We’re going to leave you now, but the team will be in touch within the next couple of hours.’
‘Who?’
The daughter stands behind the sofa and puts her hands onto the backrest for support.
‘You mean you’re not taking Daddy now?’ She seems brittle, ready to fly into pieces. ‘You’re leaving him here?’
‘Who is?’ says Mr Williams.
I ride in Frank’s wake to the front door and watch as he buzzes the intercom. After a moment the catch releases and we step into the lobby of a retirement block so perfectly squared away we could be stepping into an architect’s three dimensional plan. The lift runs us up smoothly to the third floor, the door hushes aside and we find ourselves in a hallway the exact copy of the one downstairs. If it wasn’t for the fact that an aspidistra had been switched for an umbrella plant, there’d be no proof we’d moved at all – that, and the higher numbers on the doors. As we follow them to the right, we meet a middle aged woman standing in the middle of the carpet. I feel like a sleepy mouse who turned a corner and met a Kite. She makes a smile, then tears through the facts.
‘Before we go in let me tell you about my father,’ she says. ‘It’s tricky.’
‘Okay.’
‘I got a call to come down yesterday around supper time. The cleaner found my father on the floor, confused and complaining of some vague pains here and there. My sister’s away so I came over – miles, actually – and whilst I was on my way the cleaner called you people, the first crew. They did a marvellous job because I have to warn you, he’s not the easiest of customers. They checked him over, couldn’t find any injuries from the fall, but his legs are very swollen and he’s not in terribly good shape. They got him back on his feet and sat him in the lounge – which took an hour. I got here soon after. Normally Daddy’s as sharp as anything but there’s something not right. I’ve been abroad and I haven’t seen him these past few months and I have to say he doesn’t look good. The thing is, he can’t get up on his own, can’t do the basics, but he’s refusing to go to hospital. The other crew were here for a couple of hours trying to persuade him. We tried everything. Reason, bullying, begging – everything, but nothing worked. He’s stubborn and he flatly refused to go. So your colleagues arranged for the out of hours doctor to visit, and they left. The doctor’s in there now, and it looks like he’s finally persuaded Daddy to go with you. And that’s the story so far. Except to say you’ll have to forgive him if he seems a little – abrupt. He’s got it into his head that the first crew manhandled him. So I’m sorry if he causes offence. Just please try not to rise to it. It’s taken such a huge effort to get him this far.’
‘Of course. Shall we go in and say hello?’
She shows us into the flat.
Mr Williams is sitting in the middle of a neat yellow sofa with a stick planted firmly between his legs, both hands draped magnificently over the bone handle. He is a wild and withered version of his daughter, the same raptor profile, his oiled grey hair quivering from the tension of keeping his body erect. He smacks his lips together and raps the cane on the floor like a tetchy magician trying to turn us all into birds.
‘Who are you?’
The out of hours doctor, a plump and friendly man we’ve met many times before, makes the introduction.
‘This is your transport, sir. Your transport has arrived.’
‘Transport? Transport where?’
‘To the hospital. Do you remember? We talked about it.’
‘I’m not going to the hospital. It’s far too late. I’ll make my way there on my own next week, when it’s more convenient.’
‘We discussed all this, Mr Williams. Do you remember? I’m not at all happy with your condition.’
‘My condition?’
‘Your blood pressure is very low. Your legs are swollen. You’re so weak you can’t get yourself up off the sofa to get to the bathroom or take care of yourself. You need someone to look after you.’
‘I am perfectly able to take care of myself. I just need a little time. So will you please stop all this nonsense, leave me alone and let me get to bed. Who are all these people?’
‘The ambulance, Mr Williams. They’ve kindly come over to take you to hospital. Look. They’ve even brought a special chair.’
Mr Williams shakes his head.
‘No. It’s completely unacceptable. The last lot picked me up and threw me across the table. I couldn’t believe it. Threw me – across the table. I shall be making a formal complaint.’
His daughter folds her arms.
‘But Daddy they didn’t.’
‘They did. You weren’t here.’
‘I was right here. You’re seeing things.’
But she sits down on the corner of a table in the hallway, and seems less certain.
‘I’m not crazy,’ he says. ‘I’m in full control of my faculties.’
He glances at me.
‘You. Give me the alphabet – backwards.’
‘It’s way too early in the morning, Mr Williams.’
‘Would you like me to recite it for you?’
‘Okay.’
And he does, closing his eyes and racing through the letters.
‘...E,D,C,B,A. There. As I explained. I am in complete control of my mind, and as such insist that you leave me be.’
His daughter unfolds her arms and makes a desperate gesture with her arms: Scoop him up! Put him in the chair! But the doctor picks up his briefcase instead.
‘Mr Williams. I’ve made my position clear. You need urgent treatment at the hospital and it’s not a rational decision to refuse it. My next step is to get a mental health team out to assess your capability with a view to taking you, regardless. I’m very sorry it’s come to this, but we’ve tried everything else.’
‘What are you saying?’
‘We’re going to leave you now, but the team will be in touch within the next couple of hours.’
‘Who?’
The daughter stands behind the sofa and puts her hands onto the backrest for support.
‘You mean you’re not taking Daddy now?’ She seems brittle, ready to fly into pieces. ‘You’re leaving him here?’
‘Who is?’ says Mr Williams.
Friday, June 10, 2011
the ex
Tanya is sitting on a stub of wall outside the pub, leaning forwards with a wad of cloth pressed to the side of her face. A steady trickle of blood runs out beneath the heel of her hand, curls off the point of her chin, and falls to the pavement.
A policeman stands next to her.
‘Tanya’s been assaulted with a knife,’ he says. ‘She’s got a nasty cut to the left side of her face, but no other injuries as far as we can tell. We’ve got the guy who did it - over there…’ he says, nodding in the direction of a screaming man pinned face-down on the ground beneath a security guard and three other officers. ‘Her ex,’ he adds, then carefully peels off his gloves so he can take out his pocket book.
On the ambulance, we take a look. A grievous work of butchery, laying open the left side of her face from the corner of the mouth to the cheekbone. I clean it up as best and as quickly as I can, then cover it again with dampened gauze.
‘I told him it was over but he wouldn’t have it,’ she says. ‘He took all my stuff. My CD player. My methadone scrip. He tried to get me yesterday but I ran off. I didn’t do nothing.’
She turns in the chair to show me the jagged rip in the back of her jacket where he’d swiped at her: as she turns, the white foam stuffing rucks and rides out of the hole.
A policeman stands next to her.
‘Tanya’s been assaulted with a knife,’ he says. ‘She’s got a nasty cut to the left side of her face, but no other injuries as far as we can tell. We’ve got the guy who did it - over there…’ he says, nodding in the direction of a screaming man pinned face-down on the ground beneath a security guard and three other officers. ‘Her ex,’ he adds, then carefully peels off his gloves so he can take out his pocket book.
On the ambulance, we take a look. A grievous work of butchery, laying open the left side of her face from the corner of the mouth to the cheekbone. I clean it up as best and as quickly as I can, then cover it again with dampened gauze.
‘I told him it was over but he wouldn’t have it,’ she says. ‘He took all my stuff. My CD player. My methadone scrip. He tried to get me yesterday but I ran off. I didn’t do nothing.’
She turns in the chair to show me the jagged rip in the back of her jacket where he’d swiped at her: as she turns, the white foam stuffing rucks and rides out of the hole.
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