Simon's Choice

by Charlotte Castle

  Shoving his list of visits back in the bag and shrugging his jacket on, Simon patted Porridge’s big head. The Labrador looked at him with mournful eyes. He tracked his car keys down, checked the dog’s water bowl and let himself out onto the shaky iron fire escape. Simon wasn't fond of heights. He grimaced as the metal groaned under his weight and the small platform leaned visibly away from the side of the house. Simon stuck his head back into the flat.

  “Bye, Porridge. Have a nice day.”

  * * *

  Simon’s first patient lived in a modest bungalow on a small council estate. A community nurse opened the door. “Dr. Bailey? Come in. We’re having a bit of a bad day today.” The nurse grinned. She’s being a pain in the bum and nothing you or I can say is going to be good enough, was the unspoken meaning.

  Simon nodded his understanding and made his way through the tiny hallway. The house smelled strongly of discarded incontinence pads. A cheap floral air freshener attempted, and failed, to mask it.

  “We’re in here.” The nurse showed him into the sitting room, where her charge sat before a gas fire, a crocheted blanket covering her legs. Oxygen cylinders cluttered the room, already crowded with furniture, knick-knacks and assorted cats.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Beardsley. How are we today?” Simon put down his bag.

  Mrs. Beardsley wheezed. “Been better.” She eyed Simon suspiciously. “Where’s Dr. Calvert?”

  “On holiday, I’m afraid. But I assure you I’m very friendly.” Simon smiled brightly, though his attempt at humor was met with stony silence. “I understand that you haven’t been feeling very well.”

  “I haven’t felt well for ten years.” No, thought Simon ungenerously. If you hadn’t smoked sixty a day for as many years, you might feel a whole lot better. “I hear you have a cold.”

  Mrs. Beardsley wheezed again and took a long pull of oxygen from the mask she held in her lap. “Can’t clear me nose. Can’t get any air in.” She took another drag of oxygen. “Sore throat.”

  “Mrs. Beardsley didn’t like the menthol crystals we tried, Dr. Bailey. Did you, Mrs. Beardsley?” The nurse addressed her comments to the old woman loudly. “Said they made her eyes sting.” The nurse rolled her eyes. “She doesn’t like the honey and lemon for her throat and she’s not keen on lozenges. We have to be careful because of her diabetes as well. I thought I’d better call you to make sure she hasn’t got an infection, because we don’t want an infection, do we, Mrs. Beardsley?” The nurse raised her voice again. “Thought we’d better check if we needed antibiotics, didn’t we, Mrs. Beardsley?”

  Mrs. Beardsley harrumphed breathily, her mouth pursing like a dog’s bottom. “You people fill me so full of pills. I don’t know what any of them are for anymore. Take this, take that. If you’d just leave me alone, I’m sure I’d be much better off.” She sneezed messily and smacked her lips.

  Simon watched the nurse’s cheek muscles flicker in irritation. She spoke with the overly cheerful vigor so often employed by healthcare workers battling a dislike for their patient. “If we didn’t come and keep an eye on you, Mrs. Beardsley, there could be an accident. Remember what happened with your insulin? Honestly, Dr. Bailey. Mrs. Beardsley kept forgetting to take it. She’s still got stores of it dotted around the house. Haven’t you, Mrs. Beardsley?”

  Simon took out his blood pressure gauge and made his way through the occasional tables, stacks of magazines and oxygen trolleys. A large black cat eyed him steadily, clearly challenging Simon to move it from the arm of Mrs. Beardsley’s chair. Undaunted, Simon lifted the cat and placed it on the floor, where it growled and stalked off, flicking its tail at Simon in a gesture which, if it had been human, would have involved a middle finger.

  Mrs. Beardsley offered her arm without complaint and Simon took her blood pressure, breathing shallowly in response to the acrid ammonia smell that emanated from the armchair. Cat piss or old lady pee, Simon could not be sure.

  “Very good, Mrs. Beardsley. Lovely blood pressure.” Simon made a note and the nurse also updated her records. “Now, I’d like to listen to your chest, but before I do, I should wash my hands. Is there anywhere I could …?”

  Mrs. Beardsley wheezed and hawked up a globule of matter into the back of her throat, which she spat into a bucket next to her. She waved her hand in the direction of the kitchen.

  “The bathroom is just next to the kitchen there, Dr. Bailey.” The nurse indicated one of the yellowed, nicotine-stained doors leading off the front room.

  Simon grinned a thanks and, putting away his sphygmo-manometer, went to wash away any cat or human urine from his hands. He felt contaminated in this stuffy little room. No wonder the woman couldn’t breathe.

  The bathroom, whilst clean, was crammed with possessions, just like the rest of the house. The work of the Community Care Team, no doubt, thought Simon. Another cat lay nonchalantly along the back of the bath, its paw dangling off the side like a tiger. A sleek tabby sat primly on top of the loo cistern. Simon slipped his jacket off, rolled up his sleeves and washed his hands, pleased to see that the nursing team had installed a bottle of anti-bacterial hand wash. A stack of blue paper hand-wash towels sat on the windowsill. He dried his hands and shrugged his jacket back on, swearing under his breath as he nudged a tower of old ice-cream tubs that had been balanced on the back of the bath. They contained ancient plastic hair rollers, half-full tubes of toothpaste and hemorrhoid creams, cracked soaps, bath pearls, old toothbrushes, lurid lipsticks and other assorted bathroom detritus, which all now tumbled into the bath, sending both cats fleeing in feline disgust.

  “Everything alright?” the nurse shouted from the sitting room.

  “Yes, sorry. Caught my sleeve. Not a problem. I’ll sort it out.” Simon called back, only catching the end of some rasped rejoinder from Mrs. Beardsley. He leaned over the bath and began piling the various items back into their containers. Nail clippers, nit combs, rusting razors and soggy packets of Disprin - all kept to one side, all stored for decades, just in case.

  Simon paused, his eye caught by a small pharmaceutical box around the size of a cigarette packet. It lay on its side; the cardboard eroded with damp and age. A number of vials of insulin had escaped its confines and the little glass bullets lay scattered on the anti-slip mat in the bath.

  “Are you managing in there?” The nurse’s voice called from the sitting room.

  “Yup, just putting everything back to rights.” Simon scooped up the loose vials, tipping most of the pack of twelve back into the box. His hands shook slightly. Four remained in the palm of his hand. He looked at them. Tiny little ampoules filled with a potent hormone. Its strength, Simon knew, would have increased over the years. Insulin. A lifesaver or a life ender. Four little vials of magic. Four little vials of…

  “Do you want some help, Dr. Bailey?” The nurse’s voice sounded directly behind the door.

  “No.” Simon slipped the insulin into his jacket pocket. “I’ve managed.” He quickly balanced the boxes and ice-cream tubs on the back of the bath where they had come from, then emerged from the bathroom, banging into the nurse, who stood right outside the door. “Sorry about that. My mother always said I’m like a bull in a china shop. I’ve put it all back, though I did find these, Mrs. Beardsley.” Simon raised his voice for the old ladies benefit and handed the insulin box to the nurse, the remaining eight vials sliding around the bottom. “They must be from when you were self-medicating. We’d better dispose of them safely. Do you have a sharps bucket, Nurse?”

  The nurse nodded, and tutting, dropped the box into a bright yellow plastic container that stood by the entrance to the kitchen. The disposal shoot closed with the lid, enclosing the powerful medication within.

  “Good.” Simon smiled at the nurse. “Well then, Mrs. Beardsley. Shall we have a little listen?” Simon tiptoed his way back through the assault course of furniture and cats as Mrs. Beardsley hacked and rasped her irascible answer.

  The glass vials tinkled faintly against each
other in his pocket, the sound audible only to him.

  Chapter 27

  It took no more than a couple of days before he settled into the monotony of the working week, his days punctuated only by his evening visits to Sarah. He left directly from work, battling the afternoon traffic and arriving at Madron by around 6 p.m. Melissa tailored her routine, visiting in the afternoon and returning for the evening only after Simon had left, ensuring that they never met.

  Simon’s visits were watched over by a silent and patronizing presence. A nurse was constantly posted in the corner of the room, their vapid smiles and polite comments poor camouflage for their distrust.

  Sarah was now barely Sarah. The life, the vitality, the spark of individuality had all but been extinguished. The little girl who lay in the bed was an echo. A wisp.

  Simon’s visits were spent in quiet contemplation and in reading the last Harry Potter book. Sarah would lie quite still, smiling slightly at comic moments, frowning at other times. From time to time, she would let out a soft hooting noise, which Simon came to understand as a cry of triumph as the child characters in the book overcame the great tribulations set before them.

  As the book progressed, it also darkened. Simon flinched as he read descriptions of death or grief. Sarah, however, seemed untouched by these passages, intrigued only with the fight of good versus evil. Her own proximity to death seemed unimportant to her.

  At five-to-eight, Simon would gather his things and leave, occasionally passing Melissa’s 4x4 on his way out of the car park, as they handed over shifts. They did not make eye contact. It was as if ‘they’ had never been.

  A walk with Porridge, a few beers in the pub and a kebab/pizza/curry shared with Steve at the bar, and Simon would turn into bed. Another day ticked off, another day completed.

  Life had become a matter of low-level existence, the daily realities and concerns dampened as if played out behind thick glass. The people in the street scurrying about their business, the politicians on the news, the patients in his office and the punters in The Whippet all seemed detached from Simon, as if their lives were taking place on a different plane, a separate level of vibration.

  * * *

  “You coming then, Simon?” Steve reloaded the vodka optic behind the bar, talking to Simon over his shoulder. “Porridge, out. You know the rules.”

  Porridge slunk back out from behind the bar. He was enjoying his tenure as Pub Dog but struggled with the no-going-behind-the-bar-rule.

  Simon called him to heel. “Well, I suppose I’ll be here anyway, so I might as well listen to what he’s got to say.”

  “Load of mumbo-jumbo.” Derek, a staunch regular smacked his lips together and pushed his empty glass tankard towards Steve. “No such as thing as ghosts. If you could talk to dead people, Elvis would never get a moment’s peace.”

  “Ah,” said Steve, refilling the glass, “but he asks for people not to ask for famous people. It has to be someone you have a connection with for them to come forward. He’s a Spiritual Medium. He says that we move on and when we do, some people with the correct channels of vibration, or summat, can continue to pick up little bits of communication. He doesn’t call them ghosts. He says that the energy we create when we’re alive continues. It just moves onto a different plane. The energy goes all the way around the world. So the amount of energy you create when you are still alive hangs around, in the atmosphere, like.”

  “What’s his name again?” Simon dropped a pork scratching for Porridge. The A board outside the pub had proudly announced the forthcoming ‘Evening with a Clarevoyant’ (sic) for sometime, though Simon had paid little attention to it.

  “Gordon something. He’s good. No, honestly. You’ll be eating your words.” Steve addressed a group of regulars who barracked him. “Seriously. He did a reading for my mum and told her all sorts of stuff about me old dad. Stuff he could never have known. And she’s no pushover, my mum. God, no.” Steve shuddered slightly. “You won’t be laughing after you’ve seen him in action. Might open some of your minds, you shallow old bastards.”

  Simon grinned and tuned out of the conversation as was so often his way these days. He grabbed his newspaper, letting the banter wash over him. His mind retreated into the safety of The Times’ crossword puzzle. He worked on the brainteaser steadily, pricking his ear occasionally when he was offered a drink, and offering the occasional snort of derision where it was required. Thankfully, most of the regulars had now received their free medical advice, having treated Simon like a mobile GP’s surgery when he had first moved in. One man had actually ripped off his sock to show Simon an angry bunion, and a normally shy and retiring lady of about fifty had brandished her bosom at him, encouraging him to have a good feel for lumps.

  “Pizza or curry, Simon?” Steve interrupted Simon’s thoughts.

  “Not sure I can do any more curry. I’m a bit over-pizza’d as well. Do they do jacket potatoes at Mamma Mia’s?”

  “Erm,” Steve took out a menu with a flourish, “yes. Though why anyone would want a jacket potato over a fourteen-inch donner kebab and pepperoni pizza is beyond me. Tuna, cheese, beans, cheese and beans or coleslaw.” Steve dropped the flyer on top of Simon’s newspaper. “Is it my turn to pay?”

  Simon took the menu. “Tuna and coleslaw for me. You ring, I’ll pay.”

  “Fair enough.”

  Steve telephoned the takeaway, greeting the person on the other end like a member of his family. Simon chuckled as Steve articulated despair at his dining partner’s choice of a jacket potato and ordered his own impending heart attack with extra cheese.

  He took another look at his crossword and took up his pen, recalling the answer for number seven down. Novel by Sylvia Plath (3,4,3) - “The Bell Jar,” Simon muttered, fitting it into the grid.

  “So will you be coming to the clairvoyant medium thingy tomorrow night?” Steve asked, coming round from the bar and settling himself on a stool beside Simon.

  “Probably. It’s either that or sit in the flat watching Top Gear re-runs. Do you really believe in all that stuff then, Steve?”

  “Dunno really. I mean, I think there must be something. After life, you know? My mum really isn’t one for falling for hoaxes, and she believes in him completely. Also, I’ve had a few funny moments myself over the years. When my dad passed for instance.”

  “What happened?”

  “I was sitting up in bed. He’d died the day before. I was just sitting there, thinking about him, wishing I’d said certain things to him, when I heard someone walk up my stairs. Clear as day. My first thought was that it was a burglar. But then I heard him. My cat was sitting at the top of the stairs, where she always sat – that bitch got my cat as well, but that’s another story – and I heard him speak to her. Like he was never gone.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Hello, Bad Puss.”

  “Not exactly enlightening advice from beyond the veil.” Simon took a sip of beer.

  “Well, no. But that’s what made it so real. It’s exactly what he would have said to her. I was just freaking out a bit when suddenly I was flooded with this white light. It was amazing. I just felt at peace and euphoric. I went to sleep and had the best night's sleep I’ve ever had. Swear down.”

  “Had you been drinking?” Simon grinned.

  Steve grinned back. “No, surprisingly. And it wasn’t no hallucinatory wotsit either. I really did hear him walk up the stairs. I was just looking around for something to clobber an intruder with. ‘Ere, that were quick. Is that our tucker then?” he added as the delivery guy walked in. Simon handed him a tenner.

  “So did you ever hear anything again? Thanks – shall I get plates?” Simon took his food.

  “Nah.” Steve replied to both questions. “That was it. Don’t need a plate, mate – waste of good cardboard and polystyrene. Let’s have a butcher’s at yours then. At least there’s mayonnaise on it. Do you want some salt?”

  “I’m fine. Thanks. What time does the thing start then
?” Simon took the plastic fork provided and attacked his potato.

  “Seven p.m., though he probably won’t actually start until half-seven. Be down here for seven if you want a seat, though. Three quid on the door and you get a hot dog and chips supper thrown in. Porridge can come for free.” Steve lobbed a flaccid piece of kebab at the dog. “Here, you bottomless pit, have a bit of donner meat.”

  Simon watched Steve share his lamb donner meat (hold the salad) with a delighted Porridge. Living in the pub was bad for both his health and the dog’s. Giving up on the crossword, he folded his newspaper and tucked his pen in his inside jacket pocket. The movement created a slight chinking noise.

  * * *

  Gordon Underwood - International Clairvoyant based in Mythlroyd - stood resplendent before his audience in a pink shirt, the buttons straining against his belly. Already, after only a few minutes, he was in full flow.

  “He was a drinker on this side wasn’t he, love? I’m not saying he was an alcoholic or anything, but he loved a drop. He’s telling me to tell you to have one for him. What or who is John? John … James … John Smith! That’s it. He liked a pint of John Smith’s. Well, he’s telling me to tell you that he misses his John Smith’s but he doesn’t miss you. Oh no, dear. Don’t look upset, he doesn’t miss you because he’s with you. He’s by your side right now, Lovey. No, other side. Did you do some washing up this morning? He’s telling me to tell you to be careful with that ring. You nearly lost it? Yes, well he was with you. Oh, and he says he likes your new hairdo. You’ve not had it done? He says you’ve had it done since he passed and he liked it. I’m sorry, love, he’s stepping back now. I’ve somebody else coming forward. Does the letter M mean anything to anybody in this area of the pub? No, it’s definitely over here. M or N ….”