Have the Men Had Enough?

by Margaret Forster

  We say goodbye to Grandma. She doesn’t seem to care if we are going or not. Her hand falls limply as I let it go. The door is unlocked for us to go out. The man stands with the keys. Two of the old ladies, the two who had come to stare at me, the two who patrol all the time, try to go through the open door. A nurse rushes, says, ‘Not you Doreen, not you May, not today.’ Doreen says she has a car waiting. May says she’s just going to empty the rubbish. We go out. The door is locked hurriedly. Out through the smelly corridor, past a huge trolley laden with clothes, heaps of them, presumably on the way to the laundry. Oh, the fresh air! It isn’t even a good day, it’s almost dark and raining a little but the air is so sharp and cleansing. We get in the car. Dad puts the radio on and fiddles with it. We don’t talk. I’m bursting with anger but we don’t talk. Dad whistles, the music on the radio fills the car. I think of Grandma in that place. I think of her being given her tea, having bread and butter rammed in, tea poured down her throat. Then what do they do? Sit? Again? Until bedtime. Is there an electric blanket? Does she get a hot water bottle? What about her six big blankets? And does anyone say sleep tight mind the horses don’t bite?

  Mum looks at me anxiously as we come in. She asks how it was. I say, I hope flatly, that it was dreadful. I say I don’t want to talk about it. Mum says she knew I shouldn’t have gone. I say, furiously, that of course I should have gone and that I will keep going and that I have to know what it is like. Mum says I’m too young. I ask for what. Too young to know there’s something nasty going on? Too young to know about the old? I say on the contrary, I’m not young enough. Maybe if I was it would seem nothing to do with me. But it is, it is to do with me. If Grandma’s fate is what is round the corner then I’d rather not grow up, thanks. Mum says I am upset. I laugh. I shout naturally I’m upset. Dad says we are all upset and I turn on him. You? You’re upset, I yell. Dad is firm. He says yes, he is. He might not shout or yell or cry but yes, he is upset. He says he is probably more upset than me because, whereas I am not in any way responsible for Grandma being in King’s Wood, he is. So that upsets him more. But, Dad says, it doesn’t make him change his mind. We have been through the reasons why Grandma is where she is a thousand times and he has had enough, he is not going through it again. He has made the decision: it may not be the right one but it is made. He goes out of the house, banging the door in the way he tells us not to.

  Mum says I should not be so hard on Dad. She says he is no ogre and I know it etc. Then she says will I please go easy with Bridget. I ask her what she means, knowing damn well. Mum says there is no need to prejudice Bridget against King’s Wood, no need to go into details or say how despairing and helpless Grandma seems. It will only distress Bridget who isn’t well enough to go and see for herself. Mum says she isn’t asking me to lie (not much) but just to be non-committal. She says it would be cruel of me to tell Bridget what I think. I say, okay. I will be as vague as possible but I tell Mum there’s no hope of fooling Bridget. And when she does go and see Grandma she will hold it against me that I didn’t tell her how she had deteriorated, she’ll get more of a shock. Mum tells me not to be so silly. Nothing will prevent Bridget being shocked but it’s something to stave off as long as possible.

  *

  The staving-off is over. Bridget is not exactly better but she’s better enough to go to King’s Wood or so she insists. But she concedes she isn’t better enough to bring Grandma home. She agrees she isn’t yet strong enough to cope, that a week in bed has left her shaky. She’s only going to visit and then she will bring Grandma out next week when she has made arrangements. She doesn’t announce what these arrangements are and neither Mum nor Dad asks her (though looks are exchanged). Mum says she will accompany Bridget. Bridget is quick to turn the offer down. She says Mum has done quite enough what with looking after her and visiting Grandma every day. I think I should offer, but of course I know Bridget will want to go on her own. I offer. Bridget accepts. I have to become suddenly very busy finishing my breakfast to hide my confusion. And Mum is not pleased. She hesitates, wondering whether to say anything. In spite of saying last Sunday that I would keep on going to King’s Wood I haven’t been since, not once this week, but then I have been at school. It’s a genuine excuse.

  Bridget says we’ll go after lunch, at about two. Mum says that is actually not a good time to visit, it is an inconvenient time for the staff. Bridget rudely says, ‘Bugger the staff.’ Mum flushes, not at the swearing, but at Bridget’s attitude. She says she would have thought Bridget, as a nurse, would understand the staff’s point of view. Bridget says she understands it perfectly, she says throughout hospital wards in the whole country this idea of putting staff convenience first has been swept aside: the patient comes first in her ward and then the visitor and then the staff. A happy patient, Bridget says, is one whose relatives and friends are encouraged to support. So don’t give her this stuff about staff convenience. Mum is even more annoyed. She says Bridget is just being awkward, that she never for one moment suggested staff were more important than patients or visitors. Bridget says it doesn’t matter anyway, that she simply wants it made clear that she will visit her own poor mother whenever she bloody well wants.

  Mum really hates Bridget when she comes on strong like that – well, maybe not hates, dislikes. She feels put down by Bridget and the injustice really goads her. It is true Bridget represents herself as the knight in shining armour, the person with high moral principles who acts on them too. The trouble is, that’s the role Mum covets and she can’t have. Dad, of course, doesn’t try, he isn’t interested in virtue or high moral principles, his dear sister is welcome to both. He’s only interested in practicalities and Bridget has little grasp of those except in her professional life (Dad doesn’t actually believe Bridget can run a ward). He half wants, I know he does, to see Bridget get in the most appalling mess over these arrangements to do with Grandma that she refers to. Then he will come along and say he told her so and enjoy picking up the pieces.

  Bridget has dressed with care. This is not so much unusual as odd: why dress carefully for King’s Wood? She’s wearing very bright colours as though determined to be seen from a long way off – shocking pink sweater, purple skirt, pink tights, scarf patterned in mauve and pink and blue, and on top a white flying jacket. She’s even put on make-up which she hardly ever does – the old eyes are weighed down with eyeliner and the lashes with mascara. As we get into her car her perfume is strongly evident. I ask her what it is. She says Chanel No. 5, Karl bought it for her on the plane, she would never have bought it herself, waste of good money. She is smoking, of course, gets through two cigarettes before we are half way to King’s Wood. I have to direct her though she swears she has been before and knows the way. She has no sense of direction at all, always turns left if I say right. When we turn into the gates she says she’s dreading this. She says she knows what it will be like and she’s dreading it. She says once she’s in there, it won’t be so bad, but the first sight of Grandma is going to make her crack up.

  I tell Bridget we have to ring the bell and point to it. She puts her finger down hard on it and says, ‘Bloody bell.’ The man takes his time coming and peers suspiciously round the door when he does open it – visitors to King’s Wood aren’t usually so demanding – Bridget smiles over-brightly and says good afternoon in what I know is her best sarcastic manner. She sweeps in, her eyes raking the chairs where the old ladies are sitting. She tightens her lips, looks furious, says, ‘For Christ’s sake where have they dumped her?’ I touch her arm, nod over to the far corner. Bridget says, ‘In the name of God, what have they done to her.’ She marches across the room, me scuttling behind, embarrassed by her air of authority. Grandma is half in and half out of an easy chair, her right shoulder falling over the side and her head lolling. One leg is up on a stool, the other awkwardly splayed out under it. Bridget says, ‘Mother! Mother! For heaven’s sake,’ and hauls her upright and into the chair properly and snaps at me to get a cushion. I haven’
t the faintest idea where to get a cushion from. I go to the Sister’s office. I knock. There are four of them there drinking tea. One of them comes to the door reluctantly, but then I remind myself I’m interrupting a precious tea break. I say my aunt was wondering if there was a cushion around to make my Grandma more comfortable. I hate the sound of my apologetic voice, my Mother’s voice and tone. I should be like Bridget. The nurse looks puzzled but in the background Sister says, ‘Give her a pillow – won’t do any good but give her a pillow.’ I’m taken to the dormitory. My heart thuds, with fear, what else, as we pass six corpses in chairs. I dare not look at them. Is there no mortuary? But then a creaky-cry sound comes from one, the nurse says, ‘Don’t start, Ruby,’ as we go on. She goes to what must be Grandma’s bed and hands me the pillow.

  Bridget snatches it impatiently. She pummels it and puts it behind Grandma’s back and arranges Grandma against it and puts both her feet on the stool, neatly together. ‘Leaving her like that,’ Bridget says. Then she sits on another stool beside Grandma and talks to her, entirely uninhibited by the surrounding old women. Grandma won’t open her eyes. Bridget pats her hands, which she is holding, both of them, in her own. She keeps saying, ‘Mother, heh, Mother it’s me.’ Grandma makes no response. Bridget swears under her breath and then begins to rage about Grandma’s clothes. ‘What have they put on her? Where’re her clothes? My God, what rubbish is this, where are her own slippers?’ Grandma opens her eyes. They’re bleary. Bridget peers at her, says, ‘Heh, Mother,’ again. Grandma stares. She struggles to speak but all that comes out is an unintelligible murmur. ‘What Mum? What?’ Bridget shouts, ‘What was that?’ Grandma tries again. To me, it sounds as if she is saying, ‘low bridges’ but Bridget is triumphant, says, ‘There you are, she’s saying hello Bridget, and hello to you Mum. What have they been doing to you eh? Eh? Mum? How are you keeping? Come on, tell me, tell me?’ Grandma mumbles. I only catch, ‘legs’. Bridget interprets. Grandma is saying her legs are sore. Bridget examines them. (Grandma has stockings on but they’re rolled down to the ankle.) She says, ‘Bloody hell, she’s bruised, she’s bruised.’ She stands up, flushed. She tells me to stay where I am, she’s going to see Sister Grice. But at that moment Sister appears, a bag of jelly sweets in her hand.

  It is a very awkward tableau. Grandma is in a corner chair with another occupant on either side and we are in front of her. I am by now on the vacant stool so Bridget and Sister seem to tower over me. Sister offers Grandma a sweet. Grandma doesn’t respond (though only a month ago she’d have snatched the whole bag). Sister selects a red jelly – ‘see, they’re soft’ – and shoves it into Grandma’s mouth, expertly gettting it through her closed lips. Grandma chokes slightly, but then starts sucking. ‘There you are,’ Sister says, ‘she’s happy.’ And then it’s like a tennis match. Bridget serves first.

  My Mother doesn’t seem happy to me.

  Oh, goodness, she’s fine, she’s a bit in the dumps today, but they all have their days you know.

  I’m a nurse myself, a Sister.

  You’re the daughter, then?

  That’s right.

  The one that’s been on holiday a month? Very nice, where did you go?

  Germany. But what I wanted to ask you about were these bruises.

  What bruises?

  There, and there.

  Oh, they’re nothing, they bruise easily at this age, I expect she knocked her leg on a chair.

  But my sister-in-law says she doesn’t walk on her own any more.

  That’s true, but we walk her, we keep her going, don’t we Mrs McKay, don’t we, darling?

  And I was wondering where her clothes are?

  Being name-taped, they’ll be back soon.

  I’d like her to be in her own clothes.

  But they’re awkward, they’re not as comfortable as these, not as easy, look you see, Velcro, easier for the old things.

  How is she sleeping?

  Fine. She was restless at first, but she’s settled now.

  How is she eating?

  Not much, but she’s plenty of fat on her yet, you don’t need to worry, she won’t starve.

  Well, she won’t be here much longer.

  Won’t she?

  No. I’ll be taking her home next week.

  Will you now, well you’ll have a struggle, she can’t do anything for herself now, you know. It’s a full time job.

  I know. I’ll do it. Just as soon as I’m properly better.

  I thought you’d been on holiday?

  I have but then I was ill, with flu.

  Oh, bad luck. You won’t have to be ill when you have your mother home.

  No.

  You’d be sunk then, but you’ve got your sister-in-law of course, you’re a lovely family. I wish you luck, you’ll need it. Another jelly, Mrs McKay?

  All this time Bridget has been glaring and Sister meeting her glare and deflecting it and ignoring it and needling Bridget. It is game, set and match to Sister. She implies, without saying a single word, that Bridget is deluding herself, that she really knows she will never take Grandma home. And she isn’t in the least worried at what Bridget implies, that Grandma is somehow being ill-treated or at least not supervised carefully enough. Bridget, I’m sure, expected Sister to be on the defensive but she isn’t, not a bit. She doesn’t give a damn what Bridget thinks. She wanders off, doling out sweets, going from one slobbery old mouth to another without once even wiping the finger she inserts into them. The television blares. Doreen and May patrol, Leah squawks. Bridget stands fuming. She makes a decision. She pursues Sister. I hear her ask if there is a wheelchair. Sister nods, points. Bridget gets the wheelchair and we try to get Grandma into it. We fail. Sister saunters over. She puts an arm lock on Grandma and has her into the wheelchair in no time. She tells Bridget there’s a knack, that nursing the senile demented is a specialised skill. And she smirks. She knows Bridget doesn’t possess it. We wheel Grandma away, but where to? I don’t know, Bridget doesn’t know. Sister comes to the rescue. She says we can use the office, she won’t be in there for half an hour. Bridget is obliged to thank her but not in the effusive way Mum would have done. The office is quite pleasant. There are posters, plants and a few old, but quite attractive, chintz-covered chairs. It’s obviously Sister’s sanctum and we are privileged. I venture to point this out and Bridget snaps at me. She says it’s a disgrace not to have some kind of day room. I say that is hardly Sister’s fault, probably not King’s Wood’s either. Bridget says, ‘Oh shut up, you sound like your mother.’ I am startled to see tears in her eyes. Just as I’m wondering how to cope with this, Grandma speaks. She says, quite distinctly, ‘Is there any tea left in that pot?’ We both stare. There is a brown tea pot on Sister’s desk and Grandma is looking straight at it. Bridget bounds up, feels the pot, looks around for a mug, finds one, fills it, finds milk and sugar and lovingly takes it to Grandma who slurps thirstily. Bridget strokes her hair as she does so, crooning over her. When the mug has been drained, Grandma looks at Bridget as though seeing her for the first time. She says, ‘You took your time, you hussy,’ and shakes her fist at Bridget in thepretend-fierce way she used to. She smiles. Bridget smiles. They are beam-to-beam, their faces very close together as Bridget bends down over the wheelchair. I feel an intruder. I should go away. This is private. They don’t even notice me slip out or if Bridget does she makes no sign. And when I’m out, although still in the ward, I feel so relieved, like being really out, in the fresh air.

  *

  On the way home Bridget swears she will have Grandma out ‘in no time’. She is flushed, at her most manic. I don’t say a word. She changes gears with a crash. Before we are half way home, she has to pull up at the side of the road and light a cigarette with a trembling hand. She hits the steering wheel, bangs it, several times without speaking. She inhales deeply. Will I ever be in this state over Mum? No, I won’t. I’ll take Mum out and shoot her if I can find a gun. But why a gun? I’ll give her pills, neater, cleaner, mor
e suitable for someone like Mum. Why doesn’t Bridget do that? She’s a nurse, it would be easy. Why doesn’t she do it? I’m afraid to ask. Maybe Bridget understands something I don’t. Finally, I blurt out, ‘Bridget, do you wish Grandma was dead?’ Bridget laughs, she seems to relax. She says no, she wishes Grandma was well, that’s what she wishes. She wishes Grandma could enjoy a decent, natural end. She wishes she could be cared for with love and tenderness until she dies. Even a dumb animal, Bridget says, recognises love and tenderness. And Grandma isn’t getting it. None of them in King’s Wood are getting it. They are cattle, shunted off to the slaughter house and given a long drawn-out tortured death. But not for long, Bridget says, I’ll have her out in no time.

  Bridget explodes into our house. She repeats to Mum and Dad that she will have Grandma out of King’s Wood in no time. Then she starts shouting. Bridget asks how Mum and Dad can stand it, how as human beings, they can stand Grandma being put through all that, how can they? Dad says Bridget is exaggerating, he says Grandma is well looked after – this is a mistake, just what Bridget wants. She asks Dad to analyse ‘well looked after’, she invites him to say what this means in his opinion. Dad says Grandma is fed and washed and kept warm and comfortable. Bridget spits at him. She says ‘comfortable’ with such a sneer it sounds like torture. She says comfortable is the last thing Grandma is, that she is covered in bruises and those bruises can only have come through rough handling. She says that far from being comfortable, Grandma is in agony. Mum demurs. She says Grandma got bruised even when we were looking after her, that Grandma’s own joke had been she bruised easily, like gardenias. Mum says if Bridget really thinks Grandma is being roughly handled, she must report it. Bridget says she wouldn’t waste her time. Dad says she shouldn’t waste it shouting at him either. Bridget controls herself, says very well, she won’t. She says she is going home now to her own flat. She is better. She thanks Mum for looking after her. She turns to Dad and her parting shot is that he can give notice to the landlord of Grandma’s flat, and save some money. Dad says there’s no need to be insulting, that he doesn’t give a damn about the money and he has had enough of Bridget’s insinuations. ‘Bring Mum home then,’ Bridget flashes at him, ‘and pay for her to be properly looked after in her own home.’ Then it’s Dad’s turn. He shouts. He roars, ‘No!’ He says no money in the world would be enough to balance the awful responsibility. He yells at Bridget that that is what he wants to be rid of, the sheer crippling responsibility of organising and coping. ‘And we,’ he finishes, ‘we, Jenny and I, we have borne most of that.’