Even though we’re
carrying just about every bag we can think of, there’s still room in the lift
for the workman and his big pot of paint.
‘Much to do?’ I
ask as we go up.
‘Snagging,’ he
says. ‘A couple of pipes here and there and we’re done.’
‘Must’ve taken a
while.’
He shrugs.
‘Couple of years,
give or take.’
There are so many
flats in this block, he was probably a young man when he started. His hair and
moustache are wiry and gray, like he fashioned them from old brushes.
The lift stops at
our floor and the man steps out to give us room.
‘Take it easy,’
he says. ‘Hope everything’s all right.’
‘Thanks’
Mr Westland’s son
Kevin lets us into the flat. He seems sad, a little strung-out but otherwise
quite chatty.
‘I wasn’t
expecting this,’ he says, leading us through. ‘I told them on the phone I knew he
was dead. I just needed the doctor to come and write the certificate.’
His father is
lying back on the bed, his hands in his dressing gown pockets, his legs crooked
over the side with the feet planted evenly and neatly side by side on the rug.
Except for his ghastly pallor and unnaturally slack expression, you would think
he had sat on the edge of the bed and then lain back for a snooze.
‘He died yesterday,’
says Kevin. ‘But I knew nothing would be open so I waited a bit.’
Mr Westland is
fully rigored, and I know the Coroner’s people will have a job getting him out
in this position.
I say to Kevin
that we just need to finish our paperwork and follow procedure, so could we do
that in the lounge? He nods and shows us through.
The flat is
scrupulously tidy, the only decoration on the walls a silver and black
silhouette of a man and a woman kissing in the middle of a heart-shaped motif,
and then two oil paintings, both science fantasy themes, one, the surface of an
alien moon with a ringed planet low on the horizon; the other, a castle keep
set against a deep blue sky, a line of sunlight rising up its side.
‘I used to dabble
in oils, things like that, you know,’ he says, taking a seat. ‘It’s good ‘cos
you can keep going back and adding stuff.’
We explain that
as Mr Westland hadn’t seen a doctor in a while, it was classed as an unexpected
death. The next step would be to get the police along, who’d handle things from
then on.
‘Oh. Okay,’ says
Kevin. ‘Things are more complicated nowadays, don’t you think? I mean – he died
of old age. I just wanted to get the doctor along, not all this. I’m sorry to
waste your time.’
He tells us he’s
been looking after his dad for the last five years. Mr Westland had
Alzheimer’s, so it was a little difficult, especially lately.
‘He wouldn’t talk
so much as make odd noises, you know. I had to feed him, wash and shave him,
keep him cheerful. It was quite hard work. And there’s no-one else around. I
didn’t ever marry, so that was that. My mother died a while ago, all my nephews
and nieces live around the globe, in Australia and the Far East. So I’m it –
the last of the line. Sad, really, you know.’
There’s something
so tentative and self-effacing about the way Kevin talks, the dry tone of his
voice, the padding of all the conversational you knows and that sort of
thing that, combined with the heat and quiet hum from the radiator and the
muted city sounds from a hundred feet below us, the effect is intensely
soporific. I struggle not to yawn, especially given the sensitivity of the
situation. It only makes it worse, so I get up and walk about, using as an
excuse the view from the window.
Rae rings for an
ETA on the police.
A little while, apparently.
I stare out of
the window, at the seagulls gliding through the air.
‘Sometimes they
land on the balcony and look in,’ says Kevin. ‘I think they’re interested in the
plastic bags out there. They want to know if there’s any food inside.’
‘Beautiful birds,
when you get up close.’
‘Huge great
beaks.’
‘I wonder what
they’d be like to eat?’ says Rae. ‘I wonder if they’d taste of plastic?’
Kevin laughs.
‘Pizza and kebabs
and plastic,’ he says. ‘And that sort of thing.’
‘Mmm.’
‘Great view of
the sea from up here.’ I say. ‘It’s so – interesting.’
‘Did you know
that sound travels faster underwater than through air?’ says Kevin. ‘I read
that in a book.’
‘Does it?’
‘Yeah. So when
whales sing to each other, it travels miles and miles. But then I was thinking
– wouldn’t that make the sea really noisy?’
‘I suppose it
depends how many whales there are. And whether any other creatures sing.’
‘You’ve got all
those crabs giving it plenty of that’ says Rae,
making clack-clack gestures with her fingers.
I rub my eyes, then
sit down again.
‘Just a few more
questions about your father,’ I say, picking up the board again.
‘Go on,’ says
Kevin.
‘Was he
complaining of feeling unwell? Any pain, or sickness?’
Kevin shakes his
head.
‘He stopped
eating and drinking a couple of weeks ago. Then his breathing got shallower. It
got to the point where I could hardly make it out at all – and then I really couldn’t, and I knew he’d gone. Old
age, I suppose. He didn’t want to carry on any more, and I can’t blame him. He’d
had enough.’
‘And you didn’t
report it because you were waiting for the surgery to open, is that it?’
‘Pretty much. I
couldn’t see the point. He didn’t like a fuss.’
Kevin watches me
fill out the rest of the form.
‘Dad moved in
here thirty years ago. Now I s’pose I’ll have to find somewhere else. But I
can’t blame the council. Flats like these are in short supply. Never mind. I
‘spect something’ll turn up.’
There are more
shrieks from outside. We all stop to watch as the seagulls come round again,
gliding past on cupped wings, flicking their heads, past the bedroom with the dead man, past the
living room, the edge of the tower block, and on and out across the intricate
and anonymous muddle of the city below.
4 comments:
A sad tale Spence.
You'd like to think the council would show a bit of understanding with Kevin,but I suspect not.
That's what I thought, Jack. Esp given that Kevin had looked after his Dad like that & saved the state a ton of money. But I expect in these tougher-minded times they'll be turfing him out in short order... :/
Sounds like Kevin hasn't quite come to realise what has happened. Hope, it won't be too hard. What with him being alone and all.
This is so sad!
It's hard to imagine just how hard it is for Kevin - to have been the sole carer for his dad for that long, and to face the change now he's gone. Even though it must have been quite a strain looking someone with Alzheimers. Maybe after the grief Kevin will find the wherewithal to start again, somewhere better for him?
Meanwhile, the tower block gets painted, the seagulls fly, life goes on ...
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