I pull alongside the scene and put the side lights on. They illuminate Taz, lying on his side on the pavement, his legs drawn up, his bloodied head pillowed on his arm. A young girl is shouting and pulling at his jacket: Don’t do this to me, Taz; Come on breathe, mate. Stay awake.
A large woman in a wide brimmed hat is parked alongside on a mobility scooter. She backs up a little so her shadow doesn’t overlie the scene, then rests forward on her handlebars, smoking a fag and taking in the action with the equanimity of a frontier Marshall.
‘It was one of Sam’s in-laws,’ she says as we walk in. ‘Weren’t it, Taz?’
‘Yeah. Something like that,’ he mutters. ‘Just leave me alone.’
Frank taps the girl on the shoulder and asks her to step aside.
‘The paramedics’ll take care of you now, Taz. Let them do their stuff. They’ll fix you up.’
‘I don’t want nothing,’ he says. ‘I just want to be left alone.’
Frank squats down.
‘Keep nice and still, mate’, he says, placing his blue gloved hands around Taz’ head. ‘Just in case you’ve hurt your neck. Now – no, no, quite still – whilst we give you the once over. Tell me what happened.’
‘Fuck knows. I was coming out of the party. And the next thing I know this geezer starts battering me. I went down, and he kicked me in the head.’
‘He’s an animal,’ says the girl. ‘A fucking animal. No way he deserved that. No way.’
The woman on the scooter laughs and flicks her cigarette away.
‘I’m off home, Taz,’ she says. ‘Good luck mate. See you later.’
‘Yeah, later.’
‘Were you knocked out, d’you think?’ says Frank.
‘I’ve no idea. I don’t remember.’
‘He was completely out of it,’ says the girl. ‘I thought he was dead.’
Frank sends me back to the truck to get together the trolley, scoop, vacuum mattress, head blocks – all the kit for immobilising a trauma patient.
‘Now Taz,’ says Frank. ‘You’ve had a lot to drink, you’ve been assaulted, fallen to the floor, maybe lost consciousness. All of that means we have to keep you nice and straight for the ride in to hospital, so the doctors there can see if you’ve damaged anything. Okay?’
‘You’re joking,’ spits Taz. ‘I just want to go home.’
‘Maybe later,’ says Frank. ‘But you need some attention in hospital.’
‘He’s a paramedic,’ says the girl, ‘Don’t you give him no trouble and do what he says. I’m gonna call Sam to meet us up there.’
‘No – don’t. I’ll see her later.’
But the girl turns away with her phone.
‘Oh man!’ says Taz. ‘This is fucking unreal. I can’t believe he did that. One minute it’s all happy, happy, falling out of the party, the next he’s like a fucking mentalist. I tell you what, mate – first thing I’m doing when I leave hospital is go straight round there and rip his head off.’
‘Yeah? Well if you keep waving your head around your ripping days are over,’ says Frank. ‘So keep still. I know it’s uncomfortable, but it’s for your own good.’
‘Yeah, easy mate – whatever.’
The police are on scene now. Two of them interview the girl and some bystanders; one helps us parcel Taz up and get him onto the stretcher.
‘Fuck me,’ says Taz. ‘This is too fucking weird.’
Whilst we strap him to the trolley the police officer who helped us takes off his bloodied glove, pulls out a notebook and leans in.
‘All right, Taz?’ he says. ‘Who did this?’
‘Ask Kelly. She’ll tell you,’ he says. ‘Wanker. I weren’t doing nothing.’
‘So why did he start, then?’
‘I don’t know. I’ve got no idea. I was coming out of the party, messing about, then suddenly he comes up, stands next to me and he’s like: Oh, so – that’s how it goes, is it? and he lamps me as hard as he can and I go down. He’s fucking dead, mate. I tell you that much for free.’
Frank sighs and shakes his head.
‘Who knows why these things happen?’ he says. ‘Come on, mate. A few bumps.’
We load Taz onto the ambulance. Kelly finishes her phone call, but just before she climbs up into the back she pauses and bends her leg back to look at the sole of her shoe.
‘I think I’ve stood in dog shit,’ she says.
‘Here. Put some gloves on and wipe them with this,’ I say to her.
‘Nah. Cheap Primark specials.’ She slips them off and chucks them out behind her where they clatter away into the dark street. She climbs in barefoot and plumps herself down in a seat facing the trolley.
‘Is he going to be all right?’ she says, crossing her legs, resting her phone on her knee and flicking through the screen.
‘I expect so. This is all precautionary.’
‘What d’you mean? I’m always all right,’ says Taz. ‘I’m better than superman.’
‘Show us your pants then, darling,’ she says, her laugh as light and sharp as her ear-rings.
‘I’m not showing you no fucking pants.’
‘Thank god for that,’ says Frank. ‘Now, Taz. It’ll feel a bit weird riding like this in to hospital, but it’s important we keep you flat. If you feel like you’re going to be sick, let me know and we’ll deal with it. Okay?’
‘Okay boss.’
‘Okay.’
‘This is dead exciting,’ says Kelly, flicking her fringe. ‘I’ve never been on an ambulance before.’ Then she bends back over her phone, scrolling through options, searching for something.
Frank nods to me and I turn to jump out and drive. But just as I’m pulling my gloves off, Kelly says: ‘I knew you shouldn’t have done it, Taz, mate.’
‘Done what?’ he says.
‘Booted that hedgehog.’
‘It was a joke,’ he says. ‘And anyway - what the fuck it’s got to do with him, I don’t know.’
Friday, September 09, 2011
Monday, September 05, 2011
overdose
Barbara speaks on the intercom with a strangely conversational tone, as if it was the most natural thing in the world for an ambulance to be calling by at six in the morning.
‘Ye-es?’
‘Ambulance.’
‘I suppose you’d better come up. But please - be very careful not to slam the door.’
We trudge up a neatly carpeted flight of stairs to her front door, a single pane of security glass with a floor-length cream curtain hung behind it. Barbara meets us at the door, a pale and pouchy, middle-aged woman whose dark bob of hair seems to accentuate the bitter fall of her mouth. Despite her comfortable clothes and polite speech there is an edge to her that glimmers beneath the bright hall light.
‘Hello. Ambulance,’ I manage to say. It’s been a long night. My lips are fat and my boots dipped in concrete. Any vitality I had has been rolled flat by the relentless passage of the shift, but this must surely be our last patient. That happy thought gives me just enough power to say: ‘Can we come in and chat?’
‘Oh. Okay. If you think.’
She lets go of the door and we drift after her into the sitting room.
‘Please excuse the mess,’ she says. ‘Organised chaos. But at least I know where everything is.’
In fact, the flat is as tidy as you could want. There is a laptop on an antique pine blanket chest, a large art book on the sofa, a blue bowl of fruit as tastefully set as the charcoal and pastel study of the nude above it. From the polished brown leather sofa to the tie-backs on the floral curtains, everything has the brisk domestic sheen of a Sunday Supplement article – except it feels off, as if, despite all the care, someone had come along and spoiled the photo by writing a terrible sentence – a bad thought, a dreadful curse - in small print somewhere.
‘Please. Have a seat,’ she says, taking one herself, perching on the edge and folding her hands neatly in her lap. ‘Now. What’s all this about?’
‘I understand you’ve taken an overdose. Is that right?’
She pauses, and self-consciously moves a few strands of hair away from her face. When she does speak again, she speaks in a close, low whisper, a slightly fussy tone, like a stressed teacher counselling difficult parents. She does not look up, but addresses the carpet between us.
‘Now. This is how things are, as I see it,’ she says. ‘Please – bear with me. I’ve had an awful lot of experience in these matters, both as a patient and as a friend of mental health professionals.’
‘Okay.’
‘I – well – from the beginning, I suppose. Last night I decided, for reasons I won’t go into now, because you’ve got better things to do, and so have I, and these things are complicated enough – and I know you’ve got a job to do, and I don’t want to take up any more of your time than I already am. I am in good health. I only suffer with a couple of things, one of them being depression. As you could no doubt have guessed.’
‘That’s the information we were given.’
‘Really? Fine.’ Her mouth seems dry, and she forms her words with that overly precise articulation you get with alcohol or drugs.
‘Firstly, yes, it’s true. I have taken an overdose. I have taken a packet of anti-depressants. Yes – I told this to the people on the phone, presumably part of your – erm – network. But as I explained, there’s nothing I want from anyone. It’s a decision I have made, and I’m perfectly within my rights to make it. So I don’t know what papers you’ve been reading, or to what rule you think you might be operating. But this is my house, these are my rights, and I know exactly what I can or can’t do. Let’s be clear on this before we go any further, or I’ll have to ask you to leave.’
‘Barbara – I’ve not met you before, so I’m completely in the dark about what’s happened today.’
‘Are you? Completely? Well that’s not much use.’
‘No. So let’s start with the basics. We need to know exactly what you’ve taken, how much of it, and when.’
‘Hm. This is interesting. So you want me to tell you exactly what it is I’ve overdosed on? Is that correct?’
‘Yes.’
‘I see. And on what study have you based this – erm – conclusion?’
‘It’s not really based on any study, Barbara. It’s a basic fact we need to establish before we can carry on. We just need to know the nature of the overdose.’
‘Yes. I can see what you’re getting at. But before we come to that, let me just go over a few things. Because as you know this is my house and I’m perfectly entitled to do or say whatever I want in my house without fear of you or anyone else telling me what I should or shouldn’t say. Is that clear? I didn’t want you here. I didn’t ask for you to come, I didn’t want you to come. I simply phoned the helpline for some information – information that I wasn’t managing to find myself. The person on the helpline offered to send me your good selves, acting as their representative, who might be able to help me understand a few things and if not make things better, at least move things forward to a more satisfactory outcome for all concerned. Now, if you’re telling me that you’re unable for whatever reason to keep your end of the bargain, I think I would have to apologise for calling you out like this, say good morning and draw this interview to a conclusion.’
‘Barbara. Let me be as clear as I can. We work for the ambulance service.’
‘Yes. I am aware of that.’
‘Our job is to make sure you’re okay. We were told you may have taken an overdose. If you have, we need to know what you’ve taken, when you took it, and how much.’
‘Yes. Go on. I follow.’
‘But the fact is, we can’t treat you here. It’ll invariably mean a trip up the hospital.’
‘I’m not going.’
‘We haven’t the equipment or the skills to treat you for any of the harmful side effects that you might suffer.’
‘I’m not going.’
‘Plus there’s the reason you took the overdose in the first place. Can I ask – was it to do yourself harm?’
‘No – it was to kill myself. I was looking up on-line at the thing to take, and that was why I phoned the helpline.’
‘Well you see, Barbara – the fact that you’re quite clear about wanting to kill yourself is another reason why we’d like to take you to hospital, quite apart from any tablets you may have taken.’
‘I am not going to hospital. I have wasted too many months of my life in awful places like that and I don’t intend to waste any more. If all you can do is threaten to cart me off to some unspeakable ward somewhere, you can forget it.’ She stands up and starts looking around for something. ‘If I’d thought that’s all you were going to do, I’d never have agreed to let you in. You’ve made me feel quite anxious and upset. I’d like you to leave, please.’
‘Of course. But Barbara – just let me say this before we go. If you were diabetic and your blood sugar was low, you’d be distressed and out of sorts, wouldn’t you? You might well struggle to stop us helping you.’
‘You’re making me extremely anxious now. What do you mean “struggle”? Just what are you planning?’
‘Nothing. I’m not planning anything, Barbara. I’m just trying to be clear and open with you. I’m trying to find an example that might help you see things from our point of view. The fact is, you suffer with depression. And depression is just as much an illness as diabetes. I don’t have a problem with you accepting or refusing help, but I do have a problem if I think you’re not making that decision rationally, because of your illness. We’re supposed to act as the advocate for your healthy self, Barbara. We’re supposed to look after your best interests. And if you’re so depressed that you’re thinking of killing yourself and taking an overdose, I’d have to say that doesn’t look like a rational decision.’
‘Please. I’d like you to go.’
‘Do you have a CPN, Barbara?’
She snorts derisively.
‘CPN! The last place I lived virtually all my friends were CPNs. And if you think I’m going to offer up my life for them to dissect and gossip about endlessly you have another thing coming. Please. I think it’s high time you were going. I’m sure you’ve got better things to do.’
‘We will go, Barbara, but I wish you’d come with us.’
‘No. Thank you.’
She flashes me a look and wets her lips.
‘What will you do now?’ she says.
‘I’ll contact the out of hours doctor, tell them what happened, and leave it up to them to decide what to do next.’
‘Fine. Let them. Good bye.’
She holds the door open as we go out, then comes to the top of the stairs as we descend.
‘And please don’t slam the door on the way out,’ she says.
‘Ye-es?’
‘Ambulance.’
‘I suppose you’d better come up. But please - be very careful not to slam the door.’
We trudge up a neatly carpeted flight of stairs to her front door, a single pane of security glass with a floor-length cream curtain hung behind it. Barbara meets us at the door, a pale and pouchy, middle-aged woman whose dark bob of hair seems to accentuate the bitter fall of her mouth. Despite her comfortable clothes and polite speech there is an edge to her that glimmers beneath the bright hall light.
‘Hello. Ambulance,’ I manage to say. It’s been a long night. My lips are fat and my boots dipped in concrete. Any vitality I had has been rolled flat by the relentless passage of the shift, but this must surely be our last patient. That happy thought gives me just enough power to say: ‘Can we come in and chat?’
‘Oh. Okay. If you think.’
She lets go of the door and we drift after her into the sitting room.
‘Please excuse the mess,’ she says. ‘Organised chaos. But at least I know where everything is.’
In fact, the flat is as tidy as you could want. There is a laptop on an antique pine blanket chest, a large art book on the sofa, a blue bowl of fruit as tastefully set as the charcoal and pastel study of the nude above it. From the polished brown leather sofa to the tie-backs on the floral curtains, everything has the brisk domestic sheen of a Sunday Supplement article – except it feels off, as if, despite all the care, someone had come along and spoiled the photo by writing a terrible sentence – a bad thought, a dreadful curse - in small print somewhere.
‘Please. Have a seat,’ she says, taking one herself, perching on the edge and folding her hands neatly in her lap. ‘Now. What’s all this about?’
‘I understand you’ve taken an overdose. Is that right?’
She pauses, and self-consciously moves a few strands of hair away from her face. When she does speak again, she speaks in a close, low whisper, a slightly fussy tone, like a stressed teacher counselling difficult parents. She does not look up, but addresses the carpet between us.
‘Now. This is how things are, as I see it,’ she says. ‘Please – bear with me. I’ve had an awful lot of experience in these matters, both as a patient and as a friend of mental health professionals.’
‘Okay.’
‘I – well – from the beginning, I suppose. Last night I decided, for reasons I won’t go into now, because you’ve got better things to do, and so have I, and these things are complicated enough – and I know you’ve got a job to do, and I don’t want to take up any more of your time than I already am. I am in good health. I only suffer with a couple of things, one of them being depression. As you could no doubt have guessed.’
‘That’s the information we were given.’
‘Really? Fine.’ Her mouth seems dry, and she forms her words with that overly precise articulation you get with alcohol or drugs.
‘Firstly, yes, it’s true. I have taken an overdose. I have taken a packet of anti-depressants. Yes – I told this to the people on the phone, presumably part of your – erm – network. But as I explained, there’s nothing I want from anyone. It’s a decision I have made, and I’m perfectly within my rights to make it. So I don’t know what papers you’ve been reading, or to what rule you think you might be operating. But this is my house, these are my rights, and I know exactly what I can or can’t do. Let’s be clear on this before we go any further, or I’ll have to ask you to leave.’
‘Barbara – I’ve not met you before, so I’m completely in the dark about what’s happened today.’
‘Are you? Completely? Well that’s not much use.’
‘No. So let’s start with the basics. We need to know exactly what you’ve taken, how much of it, and when.’
‘Hm. This is interesting. So you want me to tell you exactly what it is I’ve overdosed on? Is that correct?’
‘Yes.’
‘I see. And on what study have you based this – erm – conclusion?’
‘It’s not really based on any study, Barbara. It’s a basic fact we need to establish before we can carry on. We just need to know the nature of the overdose.’
‘Yes. I can see what you’re getting at. But before we come to that, let me just go over a few things. Because as you know this is my house and I’m perfectly entitled to do or say whatever I want in my house without fear of you or anyone else telling me what I should or shouldn’t say. Is that clear? I didn’t want you here. I didn’t ask for you to come, I didn’t want you to come. I simply phoned the helpline for some information – information that I wasn’t managing to find myself. The person on the helpline offered to send me your good selves, acting as their representative, who might be able to help me understand a few things and if not make things better, at least move things forward to a more satisfactory outcome for all concerned. Now, if you’re telling me that you’re unable for whatever reason to keep your end of the bargain, I think I would have to apologise for calling you out like this, say good morning and draw this interview to a conclusion.’
‘Barbara. Let me be as clear as I can. We work for the ambulance service.’
‘Yes. I am aware of that.’
‘Our job is to make sure you’re okay. We were told you may have taken an overdose. If you have, we need to know what you’ve taken, when you took it, and how much.’
‘Yes. Go on. I follow.’
‘But the fact is, we can’t treat you here. It’ll invariably mean a trip up the hospital.’
‘I’m not going.’
‘We haven’t the equipment or the skills to treat you for any of the harmful side effects that you might suffer.’
‘I’m not going.’
‘Plus there’s the reason you took the overdose in the first place. Can I ask – was it to do yourself harm?’
‘No – it was to kill myself. I was looking up on-line at the thing to take, and that was why I phoned the helpline.’
‘Well you see, Barbara – the fact that you’re quite clear about wanting to kill yourself is another reason why we’d like to take you to hospital, quite apart from any tablets you may have taken.’
‘I am not going to hospital. I have wasted too many months of my life in awful places like that and I don’t intend to waste any more. If all you can do is threaten to cart me off to some unspeakable ward somewhere, you can forget it.’ She stands up and starts looking around for something. ‘If I’d thought that’s all you were going to do, I’d never have agreed to let you in. You’ve made me feel quite anxious and upset. I’d like you to leave, please.’
‘Of course. But Barbara – just let me say this before we go. If you were diabetic and your blood sugar was low, you’d be distressed and out of sorts, wouldn’t you? You might well struggle to stop us helping you.’
‘You’re making me extremely anxious now. What do you mean “struggle”? Just what are you planning?’
‘Nothing. I’m not planning anything, Barbara. I’m just trying to be clear and open with you. I’m trying to find an example that might help you see things from our point of view. The fact is, you suffer with depression. And depression is just as much an illness as diabetes. I don’t have a problem with you accepting or refusing help, but I do have a problem if I think you’re not making that decision rationally, because of your illness. We’re supposed to act as the advocate for your healthy self, Barbara. We’re supposed to look after your best interests. And if you’re so depressed that you’re thinking of killing yourself and taking an overdose, I’d have to say that doesn’t look like a rational decision.’
‘Please. I’d like you to go.’
‘Do you have a CPN, Barbara?’
She snorts derisively.
‘CPN! The last place I lived virtually all my friends were CPNs. And if you think I’m going to offer up my life for them to dissect and gossip about endlessly you have another thing coming. Please. I think it’s high time you were going. I’m sure you’ve got better things to do.’
‘We will go, Barbara, but I wish you’d come with us.’
‘No. Thank you.’
She flashes me a look and wets her lips.
‘What will you do now?’ she says.
‘I’ll contact the out of hours doctor, tell them what happened, and leave it up to them to decide what to do next.’
‘Fine. Let them. Good bye.’
She holds the door open as we go out, then comes to the top of the stairs as we descend.
‘And please don’t slam the door on the way out,’ she says.
Saturday, September 03, 2011
the real thing
The fog has really come down now. It slides through the park, an implacable wall of grey, wiping the form and substance from everything, absorbing the shouts of the children, the muted chatter of the diners at the outside tables of the restaurant, the candles in their red glass bowls pulsing like the hearts of strange flowers with ragged petals of dark.
The ambulance thrums into place by the bins and boxes at the back of the café. A shadowy figure is there to meet it, the manager of the place, hugging his arms against the chill, smoking a cigarette.
‘He was sitting on a bench opposite for ages, then I saw him stagger off up the hill a little way and lay down on the path.’ He takes a generous pull of smoke, exhales, and for a second you could imagine here was the source of the fog. He smiles and taps the glowing end out to the side. ‘I think he must be pretty whacked out on something or other, but you’re the experts. You can just make out his shape – there!’
‘Thanks. Do you know who he is? Is there anyone with him?’
‘I haven’t seen him before and no, I think he’s alone.’
We walk up the path.
Children stop playing on the green in front of the restaurant. They stand strangely still, turning their whole bodies along with their eyes to watch us as we go.
Jez is lying on his back, his right hand across his forehead. As we approach he shouts out:
‘I’m not a bad person! I haven’t hurt anyone! Please! I haven’t done anything!’
‘It’s okay. We’ve only come here because people are worried about you. What’s your name?’
‘I’m not violent! I haven’t done anything wrong!’
‘No-one’s said you have. But you can understand how worried they were when they saw you lie down on the path. They think you’re not well.’
‘I’m not well. I’m mentally ill. Look!’
He bunches up the sleeves on both arms and even in this light you can make out the thickened stripes of white flesh where he’s cut himself in the past.’
‘That looks bad,’ I say. ‘You’ve obviously had a lot to put up with. But first things first. What’s your name?’
‘Jez. Jez. They know me there. They know me at the hospital.’
‘Okay, Jez. My name’s Spence and this is Frank. Our ambulance is parked just behind the café there. Will you come with us and have a chat about what’s going on tonight? It’s perfectly safe. There’s nothing to worry about. But you can’t be very comfortable down there. It’s a bit chilly to be lying on the floor.’
‘Help me up!’ he says, raising his left hand. ‘I’m frightened.’
‘Come on then.’
We help him up.
As soon as he’s upright he grimaces and pushes the heels of both his hands into his face. We both take a step back.
‘I’m not a violent person!’ he shouts. Then makes an incoherent growl of a noise, flecks of saliva playing about his small, white teeth.
‘Jez! Jez! Just try to ease off a bit, mate. Look. I believe you when you say you wouldn’t hurt anyone. But when you shout and carry on like this, you do come across as violent. I want you to try really hard to calm down.’
‘I’d never hurt you! I just want to hurt myself! I want to die!’
‘Jez. Look – there are lots of children in the park. Can you see - just about! All the children? You’ll scare them if you carry on like this. I know you don’t want to scare the children, do you? Hey?’
‘No. I don’t want to scare the children. But I’m losing my mind!’
He looks around him, a strangely melodramatic movement, sweeping his arms out and to the side, arching his back and throwing wide-eyed looks to the right and left. ‘The fog!’ he gasps. ‘It makes everything so – different!’
We manage to calm him down and head back to the ambulance. As we walk along the path, a child stops bouncing a ball and clutches it to her, staring at the strange procession. Jez twitches and makes a turn as if to shout something to her, but we discretely lead him away, all the time finding the kind of bland encouragements you might make to a jittery horse. Frank opens the side door of the truck; the bright light from within spilling out suddenly, cutting a square of yellow in the cool, grey air around us. Jez draws back.
‘It’s okay,’ I say.
He looks at me, and I feel myself tense up, anticipating an attack. But instead he smiles, puts a hand on my shoulder and starts singing: You to me are everything, the sweetest song that I can sing, oh baby. Oh baby….
‘The Real Thing,’ says Frank. ‘Nineteen seventy six.’
We climb into the ambulance, and he shuts the door as gently as he can behind us.
The ambulance thrums into place by the bins and boxes at the back of the café. A shadowy figure is there to meet it, the manager of the place, hugging his arms against the chill, smoking a cigarette.
‘He was sitting on a bench opposite for ages, then I saw him stagger off up the hill a little way and lay down on the path.’ He takes a generous pull of smoke, exhales, and for a second you could imagine here was the source of the fog. He smiles and taps the glowing end out to the side. ‘I think he must be pretty whacked out on something or other, but you’re the experts. You can just make out his shape – there!’
‘Thanks. Do you know who he is? Is there anyone with him?’
‘I haven’t seen him before and no, I think he’s alone.’
We walk up the path.
Children stop playing on the green in front of the restaurant. They stand strangely still, turning their whole bodies along with their eyes to watch us as we go.
Jez is lying on his back, his right hand across his forehead. As we approach he shouts out:
‘I’m not a bad person! I haven’t hurt anyone! Please! I haven’t done anything!’
‘It’s okay. We’ve only come here because people are worried about you. What’s your name?’
‘I’m not violent! I haven’t done anything wrong!’
‘No-one’s said you have. But you can understand how worried they were when they saw you lie down on the path. They think you’re not well.’
‘I’m not well. I’m mentally ill. Look!’
He bunches up the sleeves on both arms and even in this light you can make out the thickened stripes of white flesh where he’s cut himself in the past.’
‘That looks bad,’ I say. ‘You’ve obviously had a lot to put up with. But first things first. What’s your name?’
‘Jez. Jez. They know me there. They know me at the hospital.’
‘Okay, Jez. My name’s Spence and this is Frank. Our ambulance is parked just behind the café there. Will you come with us and have a chat about what’s going on tonight? It’s perfectly safe. There’s nothing to worry about. But you can’t be very comfortable down there. It’s a bit chilly to be lying on the floor.’
‘Help me up!’ he says, raising his left hand. ‘I’m frightened.’
‘Come on then.’
We help him up.
As soon as he’s upright he grimaces and pushes the heels of both his hands into his face. We both take a step back.
‘I’m not a violent person!’ he shouts. Then makes an incoherent growl of a noise, flecks of saliva playing about his small, white teeth.
‘Jez! Jez! Just try to ease off a bit, mate. Look. I believe you when you say you wouldn’t hurt anyone. But when you shout and carry on like this, you do come across as violent. I want you to try really hard to calm down.’
‘I’d never hurt you! I just want to hurt myself! I want to die!’
‘Jez. Look – there are lots of children in the park. Can you see - just about! All the children? You’ll scare them if you carry on like this. I know you don’t want to scare the children, do you? Hey?’
‘No. I don’t want to scare the children. But I’m losing my mind!’
He looks around him, a strangely melodramatic movement, sweeping his arms out and to the side, arching his back and throwing wide-eyed looks to the right and left. ‘The fog!’ he gasps. ‘It makes everything so – different!’
We manage to calm him down and head back to the ambulance. As we walk along the path, a child stops bouncing a ball and clutches it to her, staring at the strange procession. Jez twitches and makes a turn as if to shout something to her, but we discretely lead him away, all the time finding the kind of bland encouragements you might make to a jittery horse. Frank opens the side door of the truck; the bright light from within spilling out suddenly, cutting a square of yellow in the cool, grey air around us. Jez draws back.
‘It’s okay,’ I say.
He looks at me, and I feel myself tense up, anticipating an attack. But instead he smiles, puts a hand on my shoulder and starts singing: You to me are everything, the sweetest song that I can sing, oh baby. Oh baby….
‘The Real Thing,’ says Frank. ‘Nineteen seventy six.’
We climb into the ambulance, and he shuts the door as gently as he can behind us.
Friday, September 02, 2011
ruth
The job comes through as an adult / male, hit by car, giving as the location an estate agent in the high street. We’re not far from the scene; as Frank turns into the road, we expect to catch the tail end of the jam and see flashes of blue ahead. But the traffic is flowing as smoothly as ever, and the concourses free of the usual thrill of incident. The update comes through just as we pull up outside the shop: injury longer than two days, followed by a lower grade response code. There’s no time to call Control up for a chat about this; someone is waving to us from between all the housing cards in the window.
As we cross the threshold there is a low, rumbling growl off to our right, where a man is bent over a telephone on the desk by the window. The paws and snout of a giant Alsatian poke out from between the legs of his chair. It growls again, and I can almost feel it through the floor.
The estate agent, a glossy blond efficiently packaged in scarlet blouse and grey two piece, smiles wanly and backs away to the safety of the photocopier at the rear of the shop.
‘He just - came in,’ she says, and nods towards the man.
The subject of her horror is obviously still on the phone to the call-taker. I tap him on the shoulder; he almost leaps out of the chair.
‘We’re here,’ I tell him. ‘You can hang up now.’
He lurches round and faces us from the chair. A rheumy scoop of a guy, he flicks his head as he blinks, struggling to locate the can of super strength right in front of him on the desk. His hair quivers in clumps like the last remaining feathers on a stressed fowl, and his jacket and jeans are so spattered and filthy they could have been dredged from a swamp.
‘Hello Tony,’ I say.
‘Hello Tony?’ he says, slopping the can between us. ‘Hello Tony? I’ve had an accident. I’ve been run over. And that’s all you can say, Hello Tony? I can’t walk! I’m badly injured. I was hit by a car and I can’t do anything.’
It’s always difficult to keep pace with Tony. His speech pattern is as chaotic as his appearance, lurching from one state to another, one moment the traumatised patient, the next, pleasantly conversational.
‘So, where’re you from?’ he says, crossing his legs. ‘Do I know you?’
‘Tony – I want you to slow everything down for a minute and try to concentrate. No – just listen and answer my questions. How did you get here?’
‘Well I walked, obviously. The dog’s not mine. I’m looking after her. And now this! Don’t do this to me. Please. I’m badly hurt. I can’t feel my legs.’
He dry-cries, and then pushes the can up into his nose.
‘Let’s have that,’ I say, taking it off him. I hand it to Frank, who smiles and hands it back to the woman, who takes it with two fingers and arms a mile long in the direction of the bin.
‘Tell me about the accident, Tony.’
He reaches inside his jacket and pulls out a crumpled square of yellow card.
‘Ring Sheila. There – that number. She knows what’s what.’
‘Yep, I will ring her, Tony but first I want you to tell me why we’re here. What’s all this about you being hit by a car?’
He leans forward and puts his face in his hands.
‘Why won’t you listen?’ he moans. ‘You don’t care. You’re heartless and horrible. I’ve told you everything I know. What do you want from me? Why won’t you do anything?’
‘When did you have this accident?’
‘Yesterday. The day before. I can’t remember.’
‘Did you go to hospital?’
‘No.’
‘Did you have the ambulance out to you?’
‘Yes. No. I don’t know. Look I just need help but you don’t seem willing to give it for some reason. I can’t walk and someone has to get the dog back home. Ring Sheila. That number – there.’
I look back at the estate agent, who has sat down at her desk and buried her head in her computer.
‘Can I use your phone?’
She looks up, nods, gives her head a little shake, and ducks back down again.
Sheila answers on the third ring. A pleasant voice, kind and calm.
‘Tony lives a couple of doors down from me,’ she says. ‘I’ve known him for years, but I must admit he’s getting worse. It’s the drinking, more than anything. Don’t worry about the accident story. It’s – how shall I put it? – one of the aspects of his problem. I expect you’ve seen him before, have you? He’s often up at the hospital. Discharges himself after an hour. I’m so sorry to waste your time.’
‘Whose dog is this, Sheila?’
‘Oh – has he got his dog, Ruth, with him?’
‘I must admit I’m more worried about the dog. We can’t take her in the ambulance with us, and he’s quite a way from home.’
‘I’d come and get her but I’m out of town working. I won’t be back till this afternoon.’
‘Never mind, Sheila. We’ll sort something out. Thanks for your help.’
I hang up.
‘Who was that?’ says Tony.
‘That was Sheila. She says this is your dog. Ruth.’
‘Of course this is my dog. I told you.’
I turn to Frank.
‘How far away are we from Mannings Crescent? I can’t remember.’
And then to the estate agent.
‘I don’t suppose you’ve got a map book handy, have you?’
She gives me a look that’s barely one degree warmer than the look she’s been giving Tony, and it’s only then that I notice the gigantic map of the city centre spread across the wall facing me.
‘Oh. Good. That’s handy.’
Frank reaches out and taps Mannings Crescent, about two miles up the road.
‘You ought to get yourself a saddle,’ he says to Tony. ‘She’s so big you could ride her home.’
‘Fine!’ he says, standing up and lurching off towards the door. ‘If that’s all you think I’m worth. Come on, Ruthie. Thanks for nothing.’
He clatters out of the door.
‘Sorry about all that,’ I say to the woman. She smiles and stands up.
‘I think he might have spilled a little of his beer over here, so watch out. If he comes back in, call the police.’
She reaches out and steadies herself on the computer screen.
Outside, we both look up and down the street. Tony is immediately apparent, sitting on a table outside a tatty pub a few doors along, waving his arms and talking energetically to a couple of drinkers who, even though they are as derelict as you could wish to see, are appalled at their new companion, and shift uncomfortably on their seats. Ruth is already stretched out on the pavement in front of them; Tony doesn’t see us go, but Ruth – she raises her dark and massive head, and watches us intently all the way back to the ambulance.
As we cross the threshold there is a low, rumbling growl off to our right, where a man is bent over a telephone on the desk by the window. The paws and snout of a giant Alsatian poke out from between the legs of his chair. It growls again, and I can almost feel it through the floor.
The estate agent, a glossy blond efficiently packaged in scarlet blouse and grey two piece, smiles wanly and backs away to the safety of the photocopier at the rear of the shop.
‘He just - came in,’ she says, and nods towards the man.
The subject of her horror is obviously still on the phone to the call-taker. I tap him on the shoulder; he almost leaps out of the chair.
‘We’re here,’ I tell him. ‘You can hang up now.’
He lurches round and faces us from the chair. A rheumy scoop of a guy, he flicks his head as he blinks, struggling to locate the can of super strength right in front of him on the desk. His hair quivers in clumps like the last remaining feathers on a stressed fowl, and his jacket and jeans are so spattered and filthy they could have been dredged from a swamp.
‘Hello Tony,’ I say.
‘Hello Tony?’ he says, slopping the can between us. ‘Hello Tony? I’ve had an accident. I’ve been run over. And that’s all you can say, Hello Tony? I can’t walk! I’m badly injured. I was hit by a car and I can’t do anything.’
It’s always difficult to keep pace with Tony. His speech pattern is as chaotic as his appearance, lurching from one state to another, one moment the traumatised patient, the next, pleasantly conversational.
‘So, where’re you from?’ he says, crossing his legs. ‘Do I know you?’
‘Tony – I want you to slow everything down for a minute and try to concentrate. No – just listen and answer my questions. How did you get here?’
‘Well I walked, obviously. The dog’s not mine. I’m looking after her. And now this! Don’t do this to me. Please. I’m badly hurt. I can’t feel my legs.’
He dry-cries, and then pushes the can up into his nose.
‘Let’s have that,’ I say, taking it off him. I hand it to Frank, who smiles and hands it back to the woman, who takes it with two fingers and arms a mile long in the direction of the bin.
‘Tell me about the accident, Tony.’
He reaches inside his jacket and pulls out a crumpled square of yellow card.
‘Ring Sheila. There – that number. She knows what’s what.’
‘Yep, I will ring her, Tony but first I want you to tell me why we’re here. What’s all this about you being hit by a car?’
He leans forward and puts his face in his hands.
‘Why won’t you listen?’ he moans. ‘You don’t care. You’re heartless and horrible. I’ve told you everything I know. What do you want from me? Why won’t you do anything?’
‘When did you have this accident?’
‘Yesterday. The day before. I can’t remember.’
‘Did you go to hospital?’
‘No.’
‘Did you have the ambulance out to you?’
‘Yes. No. I don’t know. Look I just need help but you don’t seem willing to give it for some reason. I can’t walk and someone has to get the dog back home. Ring Sheila. That number – there.’
I look back at the estate agent, who has sat down at her desk and buried her head in her computer.
‘Can I use your phone?’
She looks up, nods, gives her head a little shake, and ducks back down again.
Sheila answers on the third ring. A pleasant voice, kind and calm.
‘Tony lives a couple of doors down from me,’ she says. ‘I’ve known him for years, but I must admit he’s getting worse. It’s the drinking, more than anything. Don’t worry about the accident story. It’s – how shall I put it? – one of the aspects of his problem. I expect you’ve seen him before, have you? He’s often up at the hospital. Discharges himself after an hour. I’m so sorry to waste your time.’
‘Whose dog is this, Sheila?’
‘Oh – has he got his dog, Ruth, with him?’
‘I must admit I’m more worried about the dog. We can’t take her in the ambulance with us, and he’s quite a way from home.’
‘I’d come and get her but I’m out of town working. I won’t be back till this afternoon.’
‘Never mind, Sheila. We’ll sort something out. Thanks for your help.’
I hang up.
‘Who was that?’ says Tony.
‘That was Sheila. She says this is your dog. Ruth.’
‘Of course this is my dog. I told you.’
I turn to Frank.
‘How far away are we from Mannings Crescent? I can’t remember.’
And then to the estate agent.
‘I don’t suppose you’ve got a map book handy, have you?’
She gives me a look that’s barely one degree warmer than the look she’s been giving Tony, and it’s only then that I notice the gigantic map of the city centre spread across the wall facing me.
‘Oh. Good. That’s handy.’
Frank reaches out and taps Mannings Crescent, about two miles up the road.
‘You ought to get yourself a saddle,’ he says to Tony. ‘She’s so big you could ride her home.’
‘Fine!’ he says, standing up and lurching off towards the door. ‘If that’s all you think I’m worth. Come on, Ruthie. Thanks for nothing.’
He clatters out of the door.
‘Sorry about all that,’ I say to the woman. She smiles and stands up.
‘I think he might have spilled a little of his beer over here, so watch out. If he comes back in, call the police.’
She reaches out and steadies herself on the computer screen.
Outside, we both look up and down the street. Tony is immediately apparent, sitting on a table outside a tatty pub a few doors along, waving his arms and talking energetically to a couple of drinkers who, even though they are as derelict as you could wish to see, are appalled at their new companion, and shift uncomfortably on their seats. Ruth is already stretched out on the pavement in front of them; Tony doesn’t see us go, but Ruth – she raises her dark and massive head, and watches us intently all the way back to the ambulance.
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
ghosts
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.”
‘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.”
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.
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