Have the Men Had Enough?

by Margaret Forster

  I stayed the night with Grandma, glad to, really, glad to make amends. I read Burns to her and joined in her recitations and let her have as many cups of tea as she wanted even if it was going to mean a wet bed or being up six times in the night. We listened to a Scottish play on the radio and I did not mind a bit that Grandma talked all the way through. I sat on her bed till she went to sleep and was still there, reassuring, when she woke with a start after ten minutes. She asked if her mother was in yet and I said yes and if her father had gone to work and I said yes and if the children were asleep and I said yes. She gave a great sigh of contentment: all was well in her world. Sleepily, she gave me four verses of ‘Man Was Made to Mourn’ before she fell asleep again. I tucked her up securely. When she woke me at two in the morning because she needed change for the milkman whom she could hear coming, I did what Bridget does, I got into bed with her. I could not actually bring myself to cuddle up to her, as Bridget does, as she likes, but I lay as close as I could and held her hand and that was enough. She did not waken again. She snored the rest of the night away and I lay there wondering who would do this for her at St Alma’s. What a hope. All she could respond to, all that meant anything to her, was tenderness and that kind of intimate care would be entirely lacking if we took her to St Alma’s or any other Home, however good. We would deprive her of all that was meaningful.

  It was so lucky I stayed the night. At seven o’clock Bridget came in, all cheerful, feeling much better. She pinched Grandma’s cheek as she stood looking down at her, still in bed, and said, ‘Have they been good to you, pet?’ just as Grandma does and Grandma laughed and I was so proud to have her in such a happy state and for Bridget to see it. And Grandma, always crystal clear in the early morning for the fleetest moment, said distinctly, ‘Jenny’s been a treasure so she has.’

  How can we ‘put her away’, as she would call it? How can we?

  Hannah

  GRANDMA IS HERE again, as she has been every day this week. Mum’s at screaming point. All Dad’s fine phone calls have achieved nothing in the end. Cynthia isn’t talked about and neither is the agency woman who came two nights. Bridget is better so Mum had to tell her about this woman Dad had got, from an agency called Lifeline, and she was appalled. I don’t suppose the woman had a chance with Bridget popping in and out all the time to see Grandma wasn’t being maltreated. This confused Grandma so much that naturally she wouldn’t go to bed and of course she got up about six times and wet the bed in spite of it. By the third night Bridget was back doing her stint. What is going to happen when we get to her two nights off I don’t know and neither does anybody else. Meanwhile, Lola has given up, as expected and Susan has said she can only do mornings. So Grandma is here again.

  A woman from this Home under consideration, St Alma’s, is coming in an hour or so to assess Grandma. Bridget doesn’t know but Mum says firmly that she’s not trying to conceal this plan. Oh, yeah? Not much. Mum and Dad want to get Grandma on this waiting list without Bridget having the faintest idea and then they’ll present her with a fait accompli when the time comes. They’re being sensible, no doubt about that, very sensible. I follow the reasoning. But whether it’ll do any good is harder to work out. Mum has appealed to me to help. She wants me to be here when this woman comes, she wants me to help ‘keep Grandma rational’. Now that is a laugh. There’s nothing rational about Grandma, how can there be? Mum insists that I know what she means. Sometimes Grandma can appear perfectly charming and civilised and even bright and at other times she’s loony. But how on earth does Mum think I can help to make it one of her better days? And what I want to know is this:

  Is it right to make Grandma seem saner than she is?

  Is it right to get her on any waiting list under false pretences?

  Do I even want her to be on a waiting list?

  Whose side am I on?

  *

  The woman – ‘call me Jean’ – is very pleasant. About forty, plumpish, spectacles, moon-like face but sharp eyes, plainly dressed in grey and white, laughs rather too much and easily. The laughing goes down well with Grandma who asks this Jean if she knows ‘The Laughing Policeman’ which is one of Grandma’s favourites. Grandma starts to sing, or rather to laugh, the song and ends up paralytic. She says she likes a good laugh. Jean says she does too. At least this has put Grandma in a good mood. She’s looking quite perky. Jean asks her how she is.

  Fine, except for my back. And yourself?

  Oh, I’m fine.

  You’ve got over your trouble then?

  Which trouble were you thinking of, Mrs McKay?

  You mean you’ve more than one?

  Haven’t we all?

  Oh, I look on the bright side myself.

  That’s the best way. (Pause.) Have you lived here long?

  Depends what you call long.

  Well, how long have you lived here?

  Longer than you think.

  Oh, Grandma is on form. This could go on hours. I smile surreptitiously at Mum, who looks away. We haven’t had Grandma like this for a long time. She’s smart, she’s fencing, she’s going to give nothing away. A basic cunning and intelligence is going to put her on her guard. Is Jean up to it? Jean tries again, asks if she has always lived here.

  No, I was born in Glasgow.

  When did you leave?

  When I was twenty.

  And where did you go?

  To Perth.

  You worked there, did you?

  I did, and bloomin’ hard. I’ve worked hard all my life, nothing wrong with that.

  No indeed (Pause.) Could you pour me some more tea, Mrs McKay?

  (Incredible tension on the part of Mum as Grandma looks for the teapot, locates it, grasps the handle, and to our astonishment does indeed pour tea for Jean, spilling it only slightly.)

  Will you take sugar?

  Yes, please.

  (Grandma passes Jean the biscuits. Mum knows, I know, that she thinks it’s the sugar but Jean thinks it’s an extra and reaches for the sugar herself when she’s taken a biscuit.)

  Thank you. You haven’t drunk your own tea, Mrs McKay.

  It’s too hot, and it isn’t polite to blow on it in company.

  It’s very nice tea. What sort is it?

  Brooke Bond. I get it at the Co-op.

  Is there a Co-op near here?

  Just up the road.

  So you do your own shopping?

  Who else would do it?

  I thought maybe your daughter-in-law –

  Oh, I can do my own shopping, I hope.

  You find it easy to get about?

  I take my time, slow and steady wins the race.

  Everything’s going so well. Grandma’s enjoying herself. She’s positively sparkling. She looks so jolly in her bright red jumper and her Fair Isle cardigan and tartan skirt – nothing vacant or sullen or lost about her. Can it last? Jean is laughing less and looking more reflective. She clearly knows she hasn’t got Grandma’s measure exactly. She asks Grandma how many children she has. We hold our breath again.

  Three.

  Girls or boys?

  Two boys and a wee girl.

  And your husband?

  Oh, I had a husband, good heavens, I had one of those.

  Are you a widow, Mrs McKay?

  Aye.

  When did your husband die?

  He didn’t die, he was killed in the war.

  I’m sorry.

  It was a long time ago.

  Grandma has got everything right but unfortunately the very words ‘war’ and ‘widow’ and ‘killed’ have caused one of those strange, violently sudden changes of mood we dread. Her face clouds. The film comes down over her eyes. Has Jean noticed? Then Grandma starts struggling to get up. In one way this is good. She mouths she wants to go to the lavatory: Jean will know she is not normally incontinent. I take her. Presumably while I’m gone Jean chats to Mum. Grandma takes hours in the loo muttering ‘bloomin’ bowels’. When she comes out she’s sour. She says
she wants to go home. I tempt her back into the kitchen with promises of tea. The minute she sees Jean she glares and pulls back and tells me she doesn’t like strangers. But she goes and sits down docilely enough. At least Jean has seen she can walk on her own, surely that scores highly. The minute Grandma has sat down, she starts to get up again.

  I’d better go, the men will be in for their tea.

  You’re expecting someone, Mrs McKay?

  My father will be in from his shift soon and my mother will be looking for me to get the tea. (Pause. Jean’s face is a study.)

  Grandma has found her coat. I don’t know whether to help her or not. She tries to put it on and fails completely. Trailing it by the sleeve she pulls the coat behind her as she shuffles off into the sitting room. Mum says quickly that of course this isn’t her own flat, that if she was in her own place she would have no trouble with direction. Jean says Grandma is obviously confused but not too much so. She says maybe a trial would be a good idea then we could all be sure she was suitable for the waiting list. Mum brightens. Jean gets out an appointments book and says how about for the day, a week on Wednesday? Just bring Grandma along and leave her for the day, she’ll enjoy it. Before she leaves, Jean says, carefully, that of course getting on the waiting list is not in itself a guarantee of admission when the time comes – if applicants have – er – deteriorated since they were assessed, especially if the assessment was quite some time ago, which it might well have been considering how long the waiting list is, then – er – Mum says she understands.

  Jean says goodbye to Grandma and Grandma says hello. While Mum walks Jean to her car, I sit with Grandma. She’s on the sofa facing a large oil painting which hangs on the opposite wall. It’s a beach scene, two adults and four children on a beach, an impressionistic sort of thing. The children are building sandcastles, the adults lying prone. It’s all fuzzy yellows and blues. Grandma’s waving at it. She’s saying ‘yoo-hoo’. I plonk down beside her and look. One of the children in the picture is facing to the front. It’s a girl of about four. She has one arm in the air, to attract attention, I guess. Grandma is waving at her.

  Has she had her tea?

  Who?

  The wee lassie, she looks hungry.

  It’s only a picture, Grandma.

  So?

  Well, you can’t feed people in pictures.

  Why not? I suppose they get hungry like anyone else.

  Don’t be silly.

  You mind your mouth.

  You know it’s a picture Grandma.

  So?

  Stop waving. Why are you waving?

  At the wee lassie. Has she had her tea?

  I can’t stand it, can’t just laugh, treat it as a joke. I bounce up and turn the painting to the wall. My stomach churns. I go and tell Mum when she comes back in. Mum doesn’t turn a hair. She says Grandma has been doing this for a while. Mum says it’s worse with photographs. She kisses them and says they’re cold, surely I’ve seen her? No, I haven’t. Bridget comes in, much earlier than arranged. Mum goes white at the near squeak. Bridget asks sharply, where Grandma is. I tell her she is through in the sitting room waving at pictures. Bridget says first, oh that’s nothing, and second what’s she doing on her own. She bustles through, all noise and chatter. I stand in the doorway and watch. Bridget cuddles Grandma and then lights a cigarette for herself and another for Grandma. She asks Grandma how life’s treating her. Grandma says terrible, she’s seen nobody for weeks, they’re all a wash-out, she’s like the last rose of summer left etc. etc.

  Where’ve you been anyway?

  Working, Mother.

  A likely story, gallivanting more like.

  Oh, now, Mother!

  With your fancy man.

  Is that what you think of me?

  No, you’re a good girl, mind you stay one.

  Don’t you worry, Mother.

  Where’ve you been anyway?

  Bridget tells Grandma a story about a little boy in her ward with a harelip and the operations he’s going through. Grandma is enchanted. She makes noises of consternation, of sympathy, of outrage, of distress. She says the world’s a cruel place and man’s inhumanity to man etc. etc. In short, she’s quite cheered up.

  We go through the performance of getting Grandma into her coat and bidding goodbye as though she’s off to the North Pole. Bridget draws it out even further by chatting to Mum and forgetting to concentrate on Grandma who promptly uses the opportunity to take her coat off again. This happens several times. Finally, Bridget goes off down the street, Grandma complaining of the bitter cold (on this mild afternoon) and prophesying snow. How odd they look, Bridget so tall and upright and dramatic in bearing and colouring and Grandma so bent and bowed and shabby and grey. I watch them. When Grandma stops, I know why: she wants to pick up some bit of rubbish. Bridget is patient. Stop, start, stop, start. Hours and hours it seems until they disappear round the corner. What I want to know is:

  How can Bridget stay so cheerful?

  How can she forsake Karl for Grandma?

  How does she manage to spend any time with Karl at all?

  Why does she not want to spend more?

  *

  At nine o’clock Mum says Grandma’s phone is out of order and so is Bridget’s. Since Bridget is with Grandma tonight this is of no consequence but on the other hand Mum wants to remind Bridget that she’s taking Grandma to buy some new shoes tomorrow and will Bridget please see Grandma has her thickest stockings on and is ready for Mum to collect at nine o’clock. Mum has fixed up to take her to a local shop when there will be no one else there and the assistant will have all the time necessary to cope with Grandma. Mum says she’s even forgotten to tell Bridget Susan isn’t coming in the morning. I say I’ll pop along and tell her. My head swimming with all Mum’s boring, trivial arrangements and counter-arrangements, I go along to impart this vital information to Bridget.

  I know Grandma is likely to be in bed or about to go to bed so I just rap on the window to let Bridget know there’s someone coming and then, as I let myself in, I call out softly. No reply. They’ll be in the bedroom. I pad in, go through to Grandma’s bedroom, hoping I won’t give them both a fright, and peep round the door. The curtains are drawn, the light out and I can hear Grandma snoring before I see her white head on the pillow. The bathroom door is open: no Bridget. I go back to the kitchen and then I notice the phone is off the hook. Bridget must have been answering it when Grandma needed her. I replace the receiver then lift it again, checking. The tone sounds fine. Bridget must have gone into her own flat for something. She’ll be back in a minute but I don’t want to wait. I go through into the joint hall and knock on Bridget’s door and go in, calling out. I am halfway across her living room when a door bangs and Bridget hurtles into the room, wrapping a dressing gown round her. I point to her phone and say Grandma’s receiver was off too and Mum’s been thinking both phones were out of order. Bridget distinctly says, ‘Shit,’ and then smiles and says, ‘Caught in the act, eh?’ I’m the one who blushes. I deliver Mum’s idiotic message and turn to go away. Bridget follows me. She says, hurriedly, from behind me, that she was just going back into Grandma’s, that I must not think she was going to leave her all night, there was no harm in going back to her own flat. I say of course there isn’t, I didn’t think there was, no need to explain. Bridget doesn’t say please don’t mention this to your parents but I know she wants to. She goes back into Grandma’s side of the house as I go out of the main door.

  What bothers me most is the phones being off the hook. Oh, I can see why. If Grandma’s phone rang and no one answered it would eventually waken her and she’d be alarmed to find she was on her own. And if it rang and wasn’t answered the caller would wonder where Grandma’s companion was. So it makes sense. Bridget’s receiver being off makes distinctly less sense. Bridget taking her phone off the hook seems to me to indicate she wasn’t going to be in her own flat just a short while. She was going to be there a long while and didn’t w
ant to be contacted. And why should she? Grandma is asleep, she’s safe. Why shouldn’t Bridget go into her own flat and do whatever she wanted? Well, there are reasons I could think of, that Bridget would certainly think of, if it was someone else doing it. Obvious reasons. The carers have always had it impressed on them that Grandma must never, never be left. It’s not just that she’s a danger to herself but that she would be so frightened. What would Bridget say to that?

  Bridget would say she would hear Grandma. Even through several thick, old doors? Even then. And, anyway, Grandma would just go back to bed. What if she didn’t, what if she wandered into the hall? Well, then, she would try Bridget’s door and go in and that would be fine. Why do we employ people to stay all night then? Well, because Bridget must have some privacy, she must shut herself off some time and not have the responsibility.

  I don’t tell Mum. I just tell her that the phone had got knocked off the hook somehow. I say I delivered the messages. I say everything is fine. But I can’t help thinking what a comfort it would be to Mum to have proof that Bridget is less than perfect. And Dad would crow.

  *

  Adrian sits in his filthy track suit and starts taking his muddy trainers off in the kitchen and Mum screams at him and I think what a pity Grandma isn’t here because she loves the sight of Adrian after football – it is manly – and she loves hearing Mum yell at him – that is womanly. Adrian says he’s just seen Bridget in the street with a man, who is he, what is going on? Mum refuses to tell him till he has got some newspaper and put his shoes on it and dropped his track suit trousers there too. Then she says it isn’t really any of his business but in case it comes up in conversation Bridget has a friend called Karl. That’s all. Adrian asks if she’s going to marry him. I say don’t be stupid. Adrian says why is it stupid, it would be normal. Bridget should be married, he would like to think of her married, it would do her good, she could stop work and have kids and Grandma could live with her. We stare at him. Mum says, ‘Adrian, Bridget is forty-three, she is unlikely to have children, and she loves her work.’ Adrian says he’s sorry he spoke and stumps off.