Before we left, I took Grandma’s case up to her room. The woman in the pink boiler-suit showed me the way, chattering all the time about the difficulties of keeping all the Birchholme Ladies, as she called them, happy. She said the jealousies were worse than in a nursery class and as for the ganging-up, that was diabolical. It made it easy for me to confess my worries as to how Grandma would cope with this. The woman, called Sophie, said, slightly to my alarm, that Grandma might indeed never manage to make any friends but as she was only in a week it was nothing to worry about. I said I thought a week a long time if you were unhappy. Oh, said Sophie, she won’t be unhappy, nobody’s unhappy at Birchholme, except Marjorie and she’s a misery wherever she is.
By this time we were in the room where Grandma was to sleep. It was a perfectly pleasant room with only two beds in it. I asked whom she would be sharing with and Sophie said no one, that they had a few empty beds at the moment. I hesitated, uncertain how to phrase what I felt I had to say: if I said Grandma really could not be left on her own without someone in earshot, they might not let her stay. And I wasn’t sure, in any case, what exactly Charlie had said she was capable of. In the end, I explained that Grandma might wander and would someone be near. Sophie said, of course, there was someone on duty all night, taking half of them back and forwards to the loo. Which reminded me: where was the loo? Sophie showed me on the way back. It was miles from Grandma’s room, she would never get there. I stopped and said to Sophie I really didn’t think this was going to work. Sophie said I would be surprised and that I worried too much.
Charlie was in perfect agreement with this judgement, naturally. All the way home he lectured me on the folly of ‘getting emotional’. He was even against my going to visit Grandma, tried to persuade me it would be far more sensible to leave her for the week. My visits, Charlie said, would unsettle her. Why didn’t I just ring up each day and ask for a report? Bridget, I said. My one defence when Bridget finds out what we did while she was away is that I visited every day, that I saw her mother with my own eyes and was satisfied. And I want to, I said, on my own account too. I felt I had abandoned her brutally and could not live with this for a whole week. Charlie groaned. He said he could not stop me but I must promise not to do anything silly. When I asked what he considered silly he said bringing Grandma home. I said, if I found her unhappy, I would certainly bring her home without any permission from him. Charlie said very well, if I thought she needed bringing home, he wanted to be involved – I must tell him and he would go with me and see what he thought and if necessary we would bring her home together, was that clear? I said perfectly clear.
*
I brought Grandma home today, Thursday, without consulting Charlie. I could not stand her being there a second longer.
On Tuesday when I first went I could not find her. I went into the sitting room, looked around, could not see Grandma, could not think of whom to ask and so went in search of her. I went to her bedroom, so afraid I would find her lying in bed neglected and forgotten, but she was not there. The bed had been made, the candlewick bedspread pulled, smoothly over it. There was no one about in any of the corridors. Wherever I looked, there seemed to be old women asleep and I started tip-toeing instinctively. I tried the Matron’s office but it was quite empty. Finally, I heard far off clattering and banging and tracked the noise down to a kitchen. A boy of about twenty was washing tea pots out. I said I was looking for Mrs McKay, a new – and I hesitated, not knowing whether to say patient, inmate, guest – a new lady who had just come in the day before. He smiled, rather nastily I thought, and said yes, he’d heard of her, she’d been in everyone’s room waking them up for work and she’d got pretty short shrift. I found myself flushing, half with shame (of which in turn I was ashamed) and half with anger. I asked curtly if he knew where Mrs McKay was and he shrugged and suggested I look in the dining room.
She was there. She was sitting, on her own, at a table for four. The room was empty, all the dozen or so tables cleaned and re-laid for the next meal. It was a dull afternoon and the room, although it had a large window, was quite dark. Grandma was motionless, staring straight ahead, slumped in an attitude of total dejection. I rushed up to her, saying her name, but there was not a flicker of response. I came right up to her and said, ‘Hey, it’s me,’ and she looked straight at me with entirely blank eyes. It seemed to me that there was a faintly sickly odour about her and tiny flecks of what looked like foam in the corner of her mouth – but it was meringue, clinging to her incipient moustache. I wiped it away, far too energetically, still talking to her. It took a long time for any recognition to dawn and even then she did not know my name. I wanted to cry. I longed to go and shout at someone and blame them. But there was still no one about. I took Grandma into the far more cheerful sitting room and settled her in a chair and gave her a mint and some of the tea I’d brought in a flask. She was still like a zombie. It was at least twenty minutes before she spoke and then it was, ‘Where’s that Bridget, the hussy?’
Telling Charlie that evening brought little sympathy. He made nothing of her being on her own in the dining room, he said she was on her own at that time of the day in her own home. That was true but there was a difference which Charlie could not see. And, as for wandering at night, she did that too. I said that at home when she did it there was always someone there who got up instantly and attended to her. Imagine her terror when she found a stranger, a stranger who perhaps shouted at her to get out! Charlie sighed and said he’d had enough of my over-active imagination. He said I didn’t know anyone had shouted at her, that I was only assuming it. And, anyway, even if they had, his mother would forget it at once. He rang the Matron, whom I had not managed to see before I left, and reported that she said his mother was fine although there had been some night disturbance. They would give her a sleeping pill that night and that would solve the problem. This had me screaming – Bridget has always been so proud that Grandma is not given sleeping pills. She had explained to me again and again that, although sleeping pills would give us all good nights, the side effects would outweigh the benefit of this. Sleeping pills will make Grandma more likely to be incontinent and it will make her more confused. Charlie said it was only for a week.
Yesterday I went full of apprehension. I went later, reckoning I had gone at a bad time the day before, at the post-lunch time when most of the Birchholme ladies were snoozing. At least, this time, Grandma was not on her own. She was in the sitting room, ostensibly grouped with two other women, but they had pulled their chairs round so that their backs were to her. She seemed asleep when I arrived. When I whispered in her ear, she tried to swat me away as though I were a fly and said she couldn’t be bothered. She told me to go away, she was fed up, she wanted to be left alone. I coaxed and wheedled and tried to humour her into opening her eyes. When she did, I was alarmed. Her eyes were red-looking and a small amount of pus leaked out of one corner. She looked at me as blankly as she had done the day before and then she said, ‘How long is this going on?’
I found the Matron and told her Grandma seemed very miserable and that her eyes looked inflamed. The Matron was quite open. She said yes, Mrs McKay was a little low but then that was not surprising considering she had been in a home environment up to now. She said they did their best but they could not compete with the one-to-one care people received at home. And as for the eyes, well there was unfortunately some mild conjunctivitis around and it was so infectious, they would watch it carefully. I asked if Grandma had slept and the Matron smiled and said they had made sure of that but I hadn’t to worry, the pills they used were not strong and certainly not addictive. So I went back to Grandma and gave her a Duncan’s Walnut Whirl and tried to get her to talk. She wouldn’t. One of the other women, not one I’d seen before, said, ‘She’s sulking, that one. It won’t do, you know, won’t do at all, will get her nowhere, she’d better stop it, stop it sharp.’ Grandma opened one eye and muttered, ‘Get lost.’
I stayed all afternoon. I ga
ve Grandma her tea when it came round but, in spite of some delicious chocolate cake on offer, she would not eat. One of the young women helpers asked her if she was on hunger strike and told her to wake up, we’d got the vote. Then she turned to me and said, ‘You’ve spoiled her, that’s the trouble,’ before she took the trolley away. I sat, holding Grandma’s limp hand, and looked around. Twelve old women in that room and where had they all come from? I wondered how many had also been spoiled and how many, on the other hand, only felt spoiled now. I went round helping to feed them and was astonished at the vast amounts they managed to eat. Where had Grandma’s greed gone? At this rate her great bulk would disappear and we would present a shrivelled shadow to Bridget on her return. When I left at five, Grandma had neither eaten nor drunk and had been barely awake. I sensed a growing dislike of her among all the other women – her despair made them frightened.
So today I brought her home. What was the point of sticking out another four days of this? What were we doing it for? Hour by hour Grandma was retreating into utter dejection and I was driven mad by the evidence of her suffering. I took one look at her today, an abandoned lost heap of years, and I went and packed her case and put it in my car and then told the Matron I was taking her home. The Matron was quite philosophical, not in the least offended. She helped me put Grandma’s coat on her and we walked her between us to the car. Grandma knew she was going home even if she did not understand where from or even what home was now. ‘Is it over?’ she asked and when I said yes she opened both eyes and said she hoped they’d hurry up with the bloomin’ tea after all this time and that she wasn’t going to any more sales, they were a waste of time and she didn’t like the people who went.
Hannah
GRANDMA IS IN fantastic good humour. I come in, chuck my bag in a corner, make some coffee, sit down beside her. She has her specs on, the funny round ones she bought in Woolworth’s in 1930-something and will not be parted from. I tell her I’d forgotten she wore specs. She looks over them at me and says solemnly, ‘Yes, surprising in one so young, is it not?’ Then she holds her hand out to me, palm open and uppermost. She stares at it.
What’s that?
Where?
There.
On your hand?
Yes.
I can’t see anything, Grandma.
Then what are you looking for?
Because you told me to.
I did not.
You did.
Why would I tell you to look at nothing?
I don’t know.
Do you think I’m daft?
No.
Then what’s that?
Finally, she blows off whatever was supposed to have been there and laughs and takes her specs off. She says she will have to get new specs but they are such a price she doesn’t think she’ll bother. I say she’ll get them free on the National Health and she says a likely story. But she is lively, whistling as she chats and making funny faces. It’s quite fascinating, the difference. Mum thinks that in some unfathomable way those three days in Birchholme must have done her good. She has been so cheerful since and alive and trying so hard to join in. Even the old enquiry, ‘Do you like school?’ is said with some real interest and she struggles to take in the answer instead of going off into endless reminiscing. And Mum is more cheerful too. She’s stopped going on all the time about whatever shall we do. Bridget will be charmed.
Bridget comes back next week. Four postcards altogether, between us, and good times being had on all of them. Mum is already making plans to drag Grandma to a hairdresser and get her tarted up for Bridget’s return – she’s dying to show off how well Grandma has been cared for. Nobody will mention the little episode in hospital nor the bigger one in that Council Home – dear me, no. Adrian and I have not exactly been told not to mention them but we hardly need warning. Mum says that she will of course tell Bridget everything but that she wants her to see what great form Grandma is in first. Well, on today’s showing Grandma couldn’t be playing the game better.
I take her home and she actually says it’s nice to get in, nice to be in her own but and ben. I can hardly credit this. She surely has no more idea where she is than she ever had. When the faithful, reinstated Mary comes in, Grandma greets her like a long-lost friend. ‘Hello!’ she cries out. ‘Hello! Hello! Who’s your lady friend. Oh, you are a lady, pardon my French.’ Mary says she is Mary and Grandma says of course she is and how is she and she’s glad to see her back so soon. Mary raises her eyebrows at me. It’s been like this all week, ever since Grandma came out of Birchholme. It’s as though she’s high. In which case, as Mum says, she’ll come crashing down. But there’s no sign of it.
Who’d like a handsome man and a thousand a year?
Not me, Grandma.
You don’t want a handsome man and a thousand a year?
A thousand wouldn’t even keep me in chocolate and why would I want a man?
A handsome man.
Handsome or ugly. I thought you hated men anyway?
What nonsense! The men all liked me.
That wasn’t what I said – I said I thought you didn’t like men.
Oh, I like the men, never had any bother with them.
What’s ‘bother’?
You know – bother. Though once an officer tried to be a bit funny, that time I worked at the NAAFI.
Oooh, Grandma!
He gave me a lift and started – you know – and I said I’d tell my landlady, she was famous my landlady.
For what?
Dealing with bothersome men.
And did you?
No. He left off.
And then you met handsome James McKay.
Who?
Your husband.
Would you like a husband?
No.
Would you like a handsome man and a thousand a year?
It’s all silly but Grandma loves it. She looks at Mary and me coyly. I try to see her as a flirt sixty years ago. I try to see her walking home from the NAAFI to her lodgings and the army officer pulling up and offering a lift to the long-legged Scots girl and Grandma climbing in, thrilled and then the hand on the knee or round her shoulder and Grandma threatening the fellow with her landlady . . . It doesn’t work. I absolutely cannot see Grandma at all. And I cannot sort out this attitude to men.
It’s very easy to go tonight. Mary is quite comfortable – she was nervous the first night back – Grandma is sparkling. She hasn’t got up once since she came home nor has she wet herself. It has all ended so well. Mum says she’s learned her lesson, that she will just let events take their course and stop trying to anticipate them. Bridget will be relieved. Dad says nothing. He was furious when Mum brought Grandma home but since then he has shut up. And he’s pleased, himself, to see Grandma suddenly the life and soul.
*
At least it wasn’t during the night. Mum finds this a comfort, God knows why. And no one was away: that’s another proclaimed comfort. The only really awful bit is that this time it was Susan and not the wonderful Mary.
Eleven o’clock on a Friday morning. I’m at school, Adrian’s at school, Dad’s at work, Mum is shopping at Waitrose. Grandma falls. She is doing a Highland Fling to amuse Susan’s nephews-of-the-day who are strapped into a double pushchair and bawling. Grandma does a little jig and catches herself on the wheel of the pushchair and she falls and as she falls she catches her head on the fender and there is a cut and it bleeds. Enter Susan, exit Susan, screaming. She screams all the way down our road and pounds on our door: no one in. So she screams all the way back and the nephews join in and for once in their lives the actors realise they have to involve themselves because someone is clearly being murdered. They come down, take in the situation. One tries to calm the hysterical Susan while the other rings for an ambulance. Grandma is carted off, alone, and one actor waits with Susan (poor him) while the other waits at our front door for one of us. Most unusually I come home at lunchtime to get a book I’ve forgotten. I go with actor number 2.
He very kindly drives me to the hospital. It’s the same ward Grandma was in before. A nurse tells me not to worry, my Grandmother is as tough as an old boot, she will be fine except she may have broken her ankle – they are waiting for the x-rays – and will have a very big headache for a while.
That’s it. Here we go again. We should get a season ticket to that hospital. Susan makes a meal of it. We hear over and over again how it all happened. No one asks why a bloody double pushchair was slap in the middle of the cramped living room nor what it was doing there in the first place. No one asks Susan why she wasn’t in the room. Susan rolls her eyes and says her heart will never be the same and she will never be able to look after Grandma again because she couldn’t survive another shock like that. That is that, Susan says, and waits. Mum gets out her purse. She thanks Susan, she pays her until the end of the month, in cash. Susan is mollified. She says she will miss Grandma. She says Grandma was very, very difficult to look after though she, Susan, had never liked to say so, but she will miss her. She hopes we know she always did her best. Mum says we are grateful. She runs Susan home (someone, certainly not the actors I’m sure, has already disposed of the nephews). Then we all sit and look at each other.
Have the Men Had Enough? Page 20
