“Well, William, you are a one!” was her considered verdict, after much thought. “Never thought you were so…” she struggled for an appropriate word, “artistic.”
Many of William’s neighbours found an excuse to call on him in the next few days to see the statue as news of Mr. Penfold’s extraordinary launch into the post-modern art world became generally known. The local newspaper sent a reporter to take photos; they tried to track down the sculptor without success, so made do with a photo of William beaming happily by the side of his new possession.
His public standing was further enhanced by the statue. Already a local hero, on account of his brush with the police, he now became an accepted artistic expert and he was asked to judge the Sculpture and Crafts Exhibition entrants at the local Summer Show. For doing this they actually gave him £20, which pleased him enormously. He gave the top prize to someone who had done a course at the Community Institute in sculpture in stone and produced a small statue of a dog with five legs which William thought was rather good.
CHAPTER 18
A letter came from Mr. Forbes, announcing the date of William’s annual review. It was next Friday at 10 a.m. Again, he had a moderate evening at the pub, just in case, and tidied up his house as best he could. He tried to catch up on his pills and took rather a large quantity of them all on Thursday, but they really had very little effect apart from making him a bit dizzy for half an hour.
Anxiously, he let them all in at 10 o’clock. Mr. Forbes, Denis, Robert, another gentleman, a Mr. Travers, and two ladies, Mrs. Wells and Ms. Foster. He had no idea who they were but they seemed to know him, and he ushered them into his front room.
He didn’t have seven chairs. There were four seats in the front room, two on the sofa, his computer chair, and another rickety old thing. There was a chair in the kitchen and the new chair in the garden, six in all. Well, they would all have to manage as best they could. They’d all got legs, hadn’t they? And he hadn’t invited them after all. They’d invited themselves. He’d try to put the lightest one on the rickety chair.
They arranged themselves round the room with William sitting on the arm of the sofa. He thought about tea or coffee, but he didn’t have anything like seven cups or mugs, not clean, anyway. So he decided against it.
The meeting got under way. First, Mr. Forbes said that he felt that Mr. Penfold had made enormous progress since a year ago. Mr. Penfold had first come to the attention of the Social Services about a year ago, when it became clear that he could no longer look after himself safely and was causing something of a disturbance in the locality. He had had a spell in The Four Oaks Psychological Clinic to help him with his drink and memory problems and he had stayed in the Rehabilitation Section, which had eventually placed him with the Local Authority in accommodation at his current address. This was not regarded as the proper place for him, but it was all that was available at the time. Here he was assisted by two support workers on a regular basis, who did not offer personal grooming but did otherwise assist with shopping, laundry and visits to the doctor etc.
Mr. Forbes felt that Four Oaks had no more to offer Mr. Penfold although Mr. Penfold himself had expressed the desire to discover more about his past history and it was possible they could assist with that. At the moment, the chief concern was how much help at home did they all feel that Mr. Penfold needed and the views of Denis and Robert would be vital in establishing that and, in addition, how was Mr. Penfold doing socially in relation to other people? All the views of those present, including of course Mr.Penfold, would govern how things were to be set up.
William, feeling Mr. Forbes had gone on long enough, although he hadn’t said anything disagreeable, interrupted the proceedings with an abrupt question, which was, “How old am I? I’d like to know, please.”
There was much rustling of papers and searching for information. “69,”said Mrs.Wells, brightly. “Actually, you are 70 on August 14th, that’s next Wednesday, William.”
“Well, I didn’t know that,” said William. “It was rather awkward when I wanted to get a bus pass.”
“You’ve got one now,” said Denis. “I sent it to you.”
“Yes,” said William, “but I need to know where all the buses go, don’t I? I wanted to go to the high street to see the Protect and Save people, not that they are very helpful, they wanted to see my passport you know, when all I wanted was a cheque book, that was something else I didn’t know about, I had another account apparently, anyway the bus went miles in the other direction but that’s alright because now I’ve got Night Vision, which I wouldn’t have otherwise and everyone’s very pleased with it.”
“Night Vision?” inquired at least three of the people at the meeting.
“It’s in the garden,” said William. “Come and see.” William appeared to have taken charge of the meeting.
Somewhat bemused, the group struggled to their feet and, exchanging questioning looks, they all trooped out through the kitchen and into the garden. There they stared in disbelief at Night Vision.
Mr. Forbes made some more notes in the blue notebook, which had made a reappearance.
“You chose this?” said Ms. Foster, faintly. “Yes,” said William proudly.
“It was in a sale. It’s got a chip on the base. Phyllis gave me those red things,” he added, noticing that Mrs. Wells was examining the plant pot which had geraniums in it on the table.
“Who is Phyllis?” asked Mr. Travers.
“Next door,” said William. “She’s not the apple pie lady, that’s Maisie. But she’s very nice. She owns Ginger really.”
“Ginger is the cat,” explained Robert, feeling that he had to interject before it all got too complicated.
“Let us resume the meeting,” said Mr. Forbes, rather pompously. They turned and trudged back to the front room.
When they were all settled again he asked Denis and Robert to give their views on how they thought Mr. Penfold should or could manage in future.
Denis said that Mr. Penfold had continued to show signs of aggressive and difficult behaviour in various places but that had dwindled down a bit since the incident with the police. He seemed fit and able, even when drinking, but the main problem was managing his money and he would soon get through the remaining money in his account, now that he had taken charge of it. He was more rational than he had been at the beginning of their acquaintance. He needed help with prescriptions, doctor’s appointments, laundry and especially with his money, benefits and bills etc. Perhaps it would be a good idea if he could get his own washing machine. He really did not seem to need two carers, just one, so long as the situation did not deteriorate. He did need help with benefits and bills and so on. His drinking continued but not on anything like the scale that he was engaging in before, but they needed to keep a careful eye on it.
Mr. Forbes agreed with this. One carer once a month, with guidance about money and benefits, plus emphasis on his medication, would hopefully see him through. He had a small concern about the statue and, he dimly realised, the paving that had been done but Mr. Penfold had very little money, all told, which would not last long in any case. Why shouldn’t he spend it as he wished?
William took a deep breath. “What about the past?”
Mr. Travers and Mrs. Wells looked at each other.
“What do you want to know, William?”
“I want to know what happened in the days when,” said William firmly.
There was a pause. Mr. Forbes said, “William, I am not sure that you really want to know all the ins and outs of the past. What I am going to suggest is that Mr. Travers and Mrs. Wells give you a brief outline of what brought you here and then, if you want a detailed recounting of your previous life, that you make an appointment to come to the Rehabilitation Centre…”
“That‘s the place with the red curtains?” interrupted William.
“Yes,” said Mr Forbes.
“Right, well, fire away,” ordered William.
Mrs.Wells spoke. �
�When you first came to us at Four Oaks Rehabilitation, William, you were in a dreadful state. It seems that many years ago your wife left you and the flat you shared had to be sold as part of the divorce. There were no children. You then purchased a different flat, not quite as good as your previous one. Your job as administrative manager at a shoe Factory did not go well and eventually you were made redundant. You were without a job for a long time and you lost what money you had left by investing rather badly and by drinking too much. Your flat was repossessed by the mortgage company and you moved into a bedsit in rather a seedy area. You continued to drink too much. Your aggressive conduct got you into trouble, both face to face and on the phone. Eventually you were unable to look after yourself and often had to be picked up off the street. We took you in and tried to help you and restore you to some semblance of normal living as we felt that we could begin to start a rejuvenating process. Your Local Authority and Social Services suggested that we try to help you live in your own home again. That is an outline of the story which you felt you could not begin to remember and did not want to remember.”
William stood silent. So that was the answer to the days when. They hadn’t been so grand after all. He had to balance that against what he had now. A council house in a bit of a tip, some recently made friends, a half-share in a cat, and an interesting statue, plus some help with sorting out money and medication. So, all in all, he wasn’t doing too badly these days.
The meeting watched him. Would there be an explosion? Or a breakdown? Or a silent acceptance?
Quietly, with dignity, he said, “Thank you all very much. If I need to know more I’ll be in touch. When are you coming again, Denis, I think I need to get a washing machine, don’t you?”
“I think we’ll be off now, William. I hope you’re satisfied with what we have established?” said Mr. Forbes. “We’ll see you next year, hopefully. Keep the drinking down.”
They all trooped out. William went to the kitchen and fixed himself a drink. He had a lot of thinking to do, but Ginger was of the opinion he had a lot of eating to do, and made his preferences known. They settled down together in the front room. William fell asleep, exhausted with the worry of the meeting and the results of his questions.
Later, he went to the pub, in a quieter, more thoughtful mood than usual. Bill Watson asked him what was up and he replied that he was growing old and didn’t like it. He would be 70 next Wednesday. He buried his face in his beer and slammed it down on the table.
Bill studied him intently. “William, what is 70? It’s the new 57, innit? It’s nothing. Look at you. I’ve seen you perk up no end, you know. You walk straighter now than you did and if you keep this up you can have a full life for the next twenty years or so. I reckon you’ve had a bit of a going-over, one way or another. I think you’re due a birthday party. We’ll all be there, 7 o’clock on Wednesday. Hear that, lads?” he said to the small group at the table. And so it was agreed. The street was going to turn up at William’s, with something to eat and something to drink and they would all drink a toast to William and the Dalek, as the statue was called locally.
Later that night, William sat in front of his computer, trying to work out what sort of mood he had been in when he first got in touch with the Top God. How desperate, how angry he must have been. How he had longed for – what was it? Ah, yes. Serene comfort. Now, these days, that was what he had found. Well, of a sort. He was as near to serene comfort as he was ever going to get. He needed to find the words to say thank you, to express his gratitude – yet where had the ideas, the strange solutions come from? It was as if they had always been there, within himself. Slowly, he nodded to himself. Yes. They had always been there. This mysterious Top God had drawn them out of him. He knew now that he need not fear ‘in the days when’. Nor did he need to think that things were better ‘in the days when’. That wasn’t true. They weren’t. All that belonged to a different life – that was then, this is now. He didn’t need to find out more. He knew enough to know he wasn’t going back to the days when. He wondered, briefly, if he had any family of any kind. Did he have relatives of any kind? Were they still alive? No. Sod the days when. Been there. Done that. He was himself. On his own, but alright.
And, he remembered, I’ve got a birthday coming up!
He opened up his emails. He wanted to say ‘thank You, thank You, thank You! I’m doing fine, Your message received and understood’. The list of messages was still there and the last one was still plain and definite but, as he watched, the words seemed to fade to a shimmering misty grey. Within a few seconds they had all gone.
I’m seeing clearly alright, he thought. Night Vision! He laughed.
There were no emails, none of them, all gone as if they’d never been, but he did not grieve at their disappearance. It’s been special – utterly, unbelievably special – but nothing lasts for ever. I was lucky to have had them. My special secret. I can manage without them now. My amazing emails!
But two thoughts remained and would not leave him. Could he manage without his special guidance? And, more troubling, who, or what, was this Top God person?
He had a sudden, very clear mental image of a woman with long dark brown hair and creamy skin, staring directly at him. She was very angry and rather defiant. She said, in a definite sort of tone, “Today, William, is the first day of the rest of my life.” He heard a door slam. The memory was startlingly clear.
Oh hell, no, he thought. Not that. Not the days when. I can’t remember her but she’ll come back. I know she will. They’re all going to come back and spoil things. I’m not having that. I don’t mind knowing what went on if they want to tell me but I’m not going to remember off my own bat. So there!
But it wasn’t really clear-cut, was it? Maybe the memory thing was not in his hands to control. Maybe he would need the Top God to help him out, after all.
“Dear God, Ginger,” he said. “I don’t half need a drink!”
For more information on Josephine Falla,
please visit her website:
www.josephinefalla.co.uk
Dear God Page 11
