Have the Men Had Enough?

by Margaret Forster

  *

  I lay awake most of the night, waiting to hear Bridget return. I slept in the front spare room, where the helpers used to sleep. The light from the headlamps of the taxi lit up the room and I heard that distinctive, deep purring London sound of a taxi engine running while the driver waited to be paid. Bridget would be counting the fare out exactly to get rid of her change, just as Charlie does, and then working out the tip. The cab door slammed. Bridget’s key turned in the lock. She went quietly into her flat. No Karl, only one set of footsteps. The faintest chink of light showed under my door. She would be reading my note, propped against the packet of freshly ground coffee and the bread I had left. All I’d said was, ‘Hope you had a good time. See you tomorrow.’ Would she think it odd that I hadn’t added, ‘Grandma is fine’? She would be too tired to think about it. The faint line of light disappeared. It was straight into bed. Bridget has Charlie’s capacity to go straight to sleep wherever the place, whatever the circumstances.

  So across the hall Bridget slept and I did not. I lay and thought about Grandma in that awful place, totally bewildered, handled brusquely, not known by anyone. In my head Charlie challenged me: ‘handled brusquely’ – how did I know that? I don’t. But I have eyes and ears and feelings and they tell me, unmistakably. Grandma has never been ‘handled’ except with love and kindness and tenderness. I do not need Bridget to tell me those are in short supply in institutions however well-intentioned the staff. And I do not need Bridget to point out that even an animal knows when it is being treated with sympathy and concern. I do agree with Charlie, we are not willing to carry on caring for Grandma, but he is not going to force me into the lie that we cannot. We can. But we are choosing not to, and choosing for very good reasons.

  Reasons which of course Bridget will knock flat. The hard bit for me will be agreeing with her but siding with Charlie. And I will. I have promised. It is the only sensible decision. I will visit Grandma every day in King’s Wood. I will get to know the staff and become their friend. I will get to know the other patients and become their champion. I will be vigilant. I will overcome my instinctive desire to ‘be good’ when in such places. I will complain, criticise, fight to make it better. If there is a Patients-Relatives Group, then I will join and be active and if there is not I will form one. If I can find any other relatives. King’s Wood, I promise, will not be the soft option. Grandma will not become one of the forgotten thousands.

  And still I did not sleep. I went over and over arguments with Bridget till my head ached miserably. I had hundreds of imaginary conversations, giving Bridget different lines every time the better to prepare myself for action. When today is over I can sleep, whatever the outcome.

  Hannah

  WHAT A LUNCH this is. Everyone is more or less silent, the kind of silence that comes after shouting but there hasn’t been any shouting, not that I’ve heard anyway. Bridget smokes and eats. This isn’t allowed and Bridget knows that and never does it, except now. Puff, bite, puff, bite. How can she taste the food? Does she want to taste the food? I don’t think so. It’s a pity because it’s very, very tasty food. All Bridget’s favourite foods (though, like Dad, Bridget loves all food). Garlic mushrooms, fillet of beef done in a delicious wine sauce, sharp Roquefort cheese – Bridget adores that cheese, she can eat half a pound on her own which Dad says is like eating pound notes except there aren’t any pound notes any more, ha ha Dad. The wine is flowing. Puff, slurp, puff, slurp. And nobody says anything.

  Am I supposed to disappear afterwards? I raise my eyebrows at Mum. No response. I say does everyone want to be rid of me. Dad says no, I’m not a child. I say I’m glad to hear it. I ask why the silence. Mum snaps surely it is obvious. Bridget says she assumes I know about King’s Wood. She spits the words and coughs for minutes. When she stops I say I do. Boldly, I say it sounds hell. Dad makes an exasperated noise in his throat. Bridget says it is hell, that is a precise description, that is what it is. Hell. Her mother has been sent to hell. Never hurt a fly in all her life and her sentence is hell. She speaks quietly, for Bridget, but with great deliberation, with venom. Dad says melodramatics won’t help. Melodramatics, echoes Bridget, voice rising. Dad says King’s Wood is a hospital and it has an excellent reputation. Reputation, echoes Bridget, what does Dad think he knows about reputation? Bollocks. She is a nurse, she knows about reputations and King’s Wood stinks. Dad leaps on her, he says it was Bridget who once said that if it came to the worst and Grandma slipped into total senility then the psycho-geriatric ward of a mental hospital would be better than any Home. Bridget says that was years ago, before the Health Service started collapsing, before staff shortages, every kind of shortage, wrecked places like King’s Wood. And anyway she disputes that Grandma has reached that stage. If she has, says Bridget, it’s been bloody quick.

  Mum lowers her head. I feel I should stick up for her. I agree with Bridget but she isn’t being exactly fair to Mum. So I chip in. I say to Bridget that I saw Grandma in hospital and it was quick, she did seem to just change. I say it was nobody’s fault she fell, Mary – Bridget brushes this aside. She says she isn’t blaming Mary or Susan or Mum (she doesn’t include Dad). She’s heard the whole story and nobody is to blame and she’s sure (no conviction in her voice though) she’s sure she couldn’t have handled all these accidents better herself. But, says Bridget, there’s no point in going back over it, she’s only concerned with now, with Grandma in King’s Wood. She cannot believe that is where her Mother is, it is appalling. And she is definitely sure she could have done better, will do better. There are some things not acceptable and quite frankly King’s Wood is one of them.

  Dad says he expected this, he isn’t surprised. He says he would much rather Bridget had been here and in charge but the fact is she wasn’t. Bridget takes that as a criticism, flares up, says does Dad mean she shouldn’t have a holiday once in a century? Dad says don’t be stupid, of course he doesn’t, that Bridget knows quite well he wishes she would have more holidays. All he means is that Bridget cannot possibly appreciate what happened, what the situation was. It’s no good us telling her, she had to be there. And she wasn’t, through no fault of her own. But Dad says he has had enough of being cast as the wicked and heartless villain of this piece, the monster with no feelings. It is, he says, a question of choices. Bridget flashes at him is he saying he chose King’s Wood and my God how’s that for a choice? Dad’s jaw tightens. He says he is looking forward to seeing Bridget do better and good luck to her. Bridget says she will do better, it will not be hard to do better than King’s Wood, and she hasn’t Dad’s resources. Dad says he thought it would come down to money. He pulls a bit of paper out of his pocket and says that as he thought this would be thrown at him he did his homework. He passes it to Bridget, he tells her to study it very carefully. Bridget does. She is visibly shocked. She even stubs her cigarette out. She breathes deeply. She says Christ it’s a fortune, that Dad is right, she had no idea he had spent £140,000 on looking after Grandma in the last five years, excluding the cost of renting her flat.

  Then Bridget rallies. She has never looked finer. She straightens her back, tosses her hair, puts her hands confidently on the table. She says it is obvious what she must do: give up her job. She will look after Grandma at home in her own flat and when her savings are finished, which will be in about two weeks because she hasn’t any – she laughs – she will go on to Supplementary Benefit. Mum is aghast, she says Bridget wouldn’t would she? Bridget smiles, nods. Dad says she is certainly crazy enough. He is watching her carefully, he is trying to spot how Bridget will get him. Bridget says he needn’t look at her like that, she isn’t going to try to make his heart bleed, she isn’t interested in moral blackmail, she’s just going to go ahead and do it. Dad asks why. Bridget says because she thinks their mother is worth it. She thinks if life is about anything, it is about caring for those you love who love you. Dad says well bully for you.

  Mum is deeply unhappy. She is fiddling with the cutlery, toying
with her wine glass (which is still full unlike Bridget’s and Dad’s which have been emptied and filled too many times to count). I know she would like to have said what Bridget has said, it’s Mum’s sort of speech. I think Bridget is brilliant but I don’t want her to make Mum miserable. Bridget turns to Mum, she says, quite buoyant now, can she count on Mum’s help occasionally. Dad says no. Bridget says she was asking Mum, not him. Dad says no again. Bridget waits, looks at Mum. Mum looks up at Dad. She says surely a little visiting would be all right, that she’d be visiting King’s Wood every day, anyway, what’s the difference? Dad says she knows the difference. Bridget says she doesn’t want to cause any marital discord. Dad tells her to shut up. Mum says she can speak for herself. She says the thing is that regardless of what Dad thinks, she doesn’t think it is right to let Bridget give up her career. She thinks that is quite wrong. Grandma could live for years in her present condition and Bridget’s life is more important than Grandma’s. Bridget says that is for her, Bridget, to decide not Mum. Anyway, says Bridget, she’s sorry she asked, she doesn’t need anyone’s help, she can manage on her own if she has to and it looks as though she has to. Well, says Bridget, getting up, she’s quite looking forward to it whatever anyone thinks. She’s never been happy about all these wretched helpers anyway and now she’ll be rid of them. And now she’s going to King’s Wood, to bring Grandma home. Dad says sit down.

  I’m rather disappointed that Bridget obeys. Dad says sit down very angrily but even so I thought Bridget would just ignore him and sweep out. She sits down. I am even more surprised to notice that her hand shakes as she lights her next cigarette. Dad says this is no way to behave, Grandma would be ashamed. He says we’ve got this far, gone right through the last difficult five years without quarrelling, so why do we have to do it now. It is ridiculous. Mum shoots him a look of gratitude, even pride. Bridget says she supposes she spoke too hastily, though she meant every word. She says she doesn’t want to fight either. Good God, Bridget isn’t going to cry, is she? No. Looks bloody near it though. Even Dad has picked that up. He says how about some good, hot, strong coffee. Mum leaps to make it. We leave the table and go next door. I take the opportunity – well, it is a sort of natural break – to ask what Germany was like. Dad is terribly pleased with me, smiles his encouragement. He would much rather talk about Germany than Grandma.

  Bridget puts her feet up on the sofa. She says she’s exhausted, it was a long journey yesterday and she was up all the night before that. I tuck her in with the rug I used to put over Grandma. Dad asks would she like a nap. Bridget says no, she’ll have some coffee (she doesn’t say and then we’ll go to King’s Wood). She says that actually although the holiday was marvellous and she really enjoyed it she doesn’t feel it’s done her any good. She can’t understand it, she feels sort of jaded and she has odd pains everywhere. Probably just her wretched rheumatism again. Mum, bringing in the coffee, says Bridget does look a little pale. But anyway, Bridget says hurriedly, seeing only too well how she is playing into Dad’s hands, she had a good time. The boat trip up the Rhine, or was it down, she can’t remember, was fascinating. Dad says cut the scenery, how was Karl’s mother and how was Karl? Bridget smiles, makes a funny Grandma face. She says she and Karl got on very well, he was good company, and his mother was very kind and hospitable but really she could nevei live in Germany. Or with Karl. The relief when she was on her own last night, just to be on her own. Cheekily, Dad says does that mean it’s over with Karl. Bridget bristles, says certainly not, she likes him very much, more than likes him, but she just wants the luxury of being alone a lot of the time.

  I’m sure Bridget didn’t mean to but straight after the coffee which she was so sure would perk her up she fell asleep. I tucked the rug more firmly round her. Mum gently slipped Bridget’s shoes off. Dad took the phone off the hook. And we all crept out.

  *

  Bridget is ill, but not with rheumatism again. This time she has flu. She has a raging temperature and is hallucinating. The doctor has been and pumped her full of antibiotics and has said she’s brought back with her some particular strain of flu now sweeping the Continent. She’s here, of course, in our house, being looked after by Mum. And she’s furious. She tried to get up this afternoon after the doctor had been and she fainted. Now, she admits she’s so weak she can’t move. She dreams she is in King’s Wood searching for Grandma and when she finds her, Grandma’s face is a skull. Mum says Bridget must just reconcile herself to a week in bed, a week at least. Mum doesn’t add ‘imagine if you had brought Grandma home first’. She doesn’t need to. Nobody needs to say it. Bridget knows. When I sat an hour with her she said, ‘It won’t work, will it Hannah? I can’t do it, can I? It’s no good.’ I didn’t insult her by pretending I didn’t know what she meant. I feel so sorry for Bridget. What can she do?

  I think I should go to King’s Wood. I think I should see it for myself. Adrian looks appalled. He says he certainly doesn’t want to go, he dreads it. But I want to be able to decide whether it is, as Bridget alleges, hell. Mum is adamant that I should not go. Does that prove it is hell? She says it would upset me. Well, maybe I need upsetting. If Grandma is in there then surely I ought to be brave enough to go to see her. Mum says it will give me nightmares and Grandma won’t know me so what is the point of my going through it? Dad says I can go if I want, he accuses Mum of being overprotective, points out I am nearly eighteen. I think Bridget would like me to go, it would somehow make her feel better. And I’m curious, very curious. I’ve never been in any kind of mental hospital. They fascinate me. It would be daring to go. So I’m going, for this mixture of right and wrong reasons.

  *

  I go with Dad. Mum wants nothing to do with it. Dad is quite calm. He has some football match on the car radio and is absorbed in it. One thing I can be sure of: there will be no messy emotional talk from Dad. That suits me. I stare out of the window. We seem to drive through a succession of dismal high streets, all empty and litter-blown because it’s Sunday. Grandma would want to stop and pick up all the paper and put it tidily in a bin. She would wonder where all the people were and make me laugh when she said church. We turn into the King’s Wood drive, go through huge iron gates. There are big trees either side and bushes and beyond those acres of grass. Nobody about but then it’s cold and wet. Dad pulls up at the very end of the enormously long building. He sits a moment, waiting for the half-time score: first things first. Then we get out and he looks at his watch. He says twenty minutes is more than enough. He says he’ll chat the Sister up and I can talk to Grandma.

  Mum told me about the paint, the smell, the locked door. They’re all as bad as she said but I’m prepared. I’m not prepared for Grandma though. My stomach churns when I see her. She is like a lump, a mess of tripe, all loose and collapsed and floppy. She has a hideous dress on and big fluffy pompommed slippers and half of what she’s had for dinner is down her front. I collapse onto a stool beside her. I say, ‘Grandma,’ and choke. She opens one eye, barely interested enough to look at me.

  Where’ve you been, you hussy?

  Nowhere. At home.

  At home, at home, Polly put the kettle on –

  – and we’ll all have tea.

  Yes, please, I don’t mind if I do, how’s your father?

  He’s talking to the Sister.

  Good luck to him, good luck to the boys in blue, yoo hoo.

  He’s coming in a minute.

  Who?

  Dad.

  Dad, dad, mad, mad, pad, pad, had, had, have you ever been had?

  Yes.

  Well that’s a relief, a bloomin’ relief, of Mafeking, do you remember that?

  No.

  No, no, in the name of God, what’s the matter wi’ you, will you stop it.

  The old woman on the other side of Grandma is pulling her dress up. Painfully, in little jerky movements, up, up, until her knickers show and then she starts to pull her knickers down and a girl in an overall shouts at her and says no Elsi
e, stop it Elsie, you’re naughty Elsie. Elsie’s dress is firmly wrenched down. The television is on very loud, it’s the football match Dad is nobly missing. I look for him. He must be in the Sister’s office, doing his bit. I look round surreptitiously. Two of the women are wandering up and down. They see me looking and come towards me. They stand in front of me and I don’t know what to say so I say hello. One nods, one stares. What can I say? So I smile and wait. They go away, resume their walk. Twenty minutes did Dad say? Two have gone.

  Grandma is clutching my hand.

  I can’t be bothered.

  With what, Grandma?

  Grandma yourself, where’s her radiogram, who’s pinched it, all that money, have you any money?

  Yes, why, do you want some?

  What?

  Money.

  Money, money, money is the root of all evil.

  The Sister is here with Dad. ‘Always worrying about money, Mrs McKay, but you don’t need any here, darling.’ Grandma looks at her sourly, asks who she’s darling-ing, and she’ll look after her own money thank you. Sister laughs, says Grandma is a character. Dad asks how she is, Sister says fine, fine, she wasn’t sleeping but she is now, they’ve given her something. She relates some vaguely smutty-sounding joke about Grandma and a milkman which Grandma is supposed to have told her and then laughs and says Grandma is a scream. Dad smiles weakly. I don’t. Sister asks if I’m Mrs McKay’s grand daughter and I’m obliged to say yes. Sister says isn’t that nice, we don’t get many youngsters visiting and the old folk love them. Dad, looking around pointedly, asks if there are many visitors of any sort. Sister says oh yes, today is not typical, Elsie has visitors and Leah and Vera and Ida, they all have visitors. But she adds that most people start off well then get discouraged and it’s either too painful to keep coming or they start thinking it doesn’t make any difference. Dad asks if it does. Sister is emphatic: yes. And for the staff, she says. They like visitors. It is not like a normal ward where visitors bring nurses PRESENTS out of GRATITUDE (well, it seemed to me those two crucial words were in capitals). It is not much fun, Sister says, being on a ward like this. Nobody gets better. It is very depressing being at the end of the line, no thanks, no rewards, all we can do is make them comfortable and it is not pleasant work. Even Dad looks appalled. Sister hasn’t finished. She says they are helpless you see, like babies but twice the trouble.