‘Do you want your bag emptying before you
move off?’
‘No thank you. I’ll do that myself in the
bathroom once I’ve got my clean pants on.’
‘Righto.’
His wife is sitting in the living room with
her swollen legs raised.
‘I’d help you but...’ she smiles and taps
her bandaged legs.
‘No. You stay there, Mrs Walsingham. We don’t
want another casualty.’
‘I’m afraid that’s all we are these days,’
she says. ‘A couple of old casualties.’
‘Nearly there,’ says Mr Walsingham.
We approach the study, a boxy room with an
unmade bed along the right hand wall, a bookcase, a tidy stack of clear plastic
crates, and a table at the window with a laptop and in/out tray. On the door of
the study is an A4 piece of card, with a No Entry road sign carefully drawn out
in silver and red pen. Underneath the road sign is some careful writing: Important work going on in here. Do not
disturb on any account – AND YES! THIS MEANS YOU!. And then in brackets
underneath: This is meant to be a polite
notice, by the way.
‘I like that,’ I say to Mr Walsingham. ‘Your
No Entry sign.’
‘Jessie, our youngest did that for me one
Christmas. She must have been about eight or nine. She didn’t have any money to
get a present so she made me this.’ He grips the zimmer, leans forwards and
reads the notice again. Just before he begins the laborious effort of forward movement
again, he says: ‘She’s in her fifties now, of course. Head of something
overseas.’
Just above the bed is a large framed photo
of his wife as she was in the sixties - hyper-colourised, coiffed and golden –
a woman in a council chamber or boardroom, awkwardly posing by an ornate chair.
‘Could you fetch me a pair of pants out of
that box, there, please?’ says Mr Walsingham, lifting a hand from the frame to
point and almost toppling over backwards.
‘Sure.’
I hold one up.
‘Which is the front?’
I’m reminded of the disposable nappies I
used to put on the kids, but that feels like ancient history now. I seem to
remember it was something about the pictures, but this is the adult version,
and don’t have any.
‘Here. This way,’ says Mr Walsingham.
Between us we manage to get him changed.
‘Where do you want to go next?’
‘The bathroom, to empty my bag, if that’s all
right, then bed. This whole business has worn me out.’
‘The out of hours doctor says he’ll pop by
later on tonight to dip your urine and see about a prescription.’
‘That’s kind of you. I really don’t think I
could bear another trip to the hospital.’ He stops, and smiles at us. ‘I’ve had
enough of them, and I’m damn sure they’ve had quite enough of me.’
He straightens, takes
a breath, then begins the awful business of turning the frame around.
5 comments:
You could do with one of those signs for the ambulance Spence.
"No entry to aggressive drunks,stupid drug takers,whiners,moaners or general nit-wits.This is not meant to be a polite notice."
Now that is a perfect patient! Too bad most aren't of his ilk.
I know what you mean, Jacks. But I've often thought that signs are a waste of time - the ones who actually read them are never the target audience, so to speak.
Steve - He was a lovely guy - and absolutely mortified that he'd had to call us out, of course.
Wonderfully delicate writing. Really enjoyed this.
Thanks v much, Matt!
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