by Sylvia Smith
A member of staff looked down the admission list and said, ‘Mr Sundu is on “S” ward. Would you like me to put you through?’ I replied, ‘Yes please.’ A few seconds later I spoke to the sister on Ali’s ward. I said, ‘I understand you have Ali Sundu with you?’ She replied, ‘Yes, I have. He had his operation yesterday.’ My heart pounded even faster and I said, ‘Operation! Is he alright?’ She replied, ‘Yes, of course.’ I asked, ‘Can I see him this evening?’ She replied, ‘Yes, but visiting hours finish at eight thirty.’
I raced down the stairs and found another coin and phoned for a minicab, telling them it was urgent. Twenty minutes later I was in the hospital Reception. I had to wait several nerve-wracking minutes for the receptionist to finish a telephone call. Eventually she gave me the directions to ‘S’ ward. I ran through the roadways of the vast hospital thinking to myself ‘That nurse said visiting hours finished at 8:30 and I don’t know what the time is.’ I soon got lost but fortunately another nurse sent me in the right direction and I finally found ‘S’ ward. As I hurried along the corridor I saw Ali lying in the second bed on the left. I calmed down completely when he saw me and smiled.
I sat down on the chair beside him and held his hand. He tried to tell me what had happened in his broken English but I didn’t fully understand him. A middle-aged woman visitor sitting in the chair by the next bed interrupted and said, ‘I’m here every day seeing my husband and I saw Ali when he came in. I couldn’t miss overhearing so I can give you all the details.’ I said, ‘I would be very pleased if you would.’ She continued, ‘The police came with an an interpreter and through the interpreter Ali said he’d been crossing the road to catch the bus to take him to work and a woman driver in a red car drove in to him. She stopped and reversed and drove in to him again. Then she drove away. Ali said he thought his leg was shattered so he crawled out of the road onto the pavement. The bus driver saw what happened and called the police and an ambulance and Ali has been here for ten days now. Before he had his operation the doctor got the interpreter back and he told Ali he had to have two metal splints put into the side of his right leg and one behind his right knee. Then he’ll be on crutches for a while and in two years’ time he’ll have to have another operation to take the metal splints out.’ I asked, ‘He will be alright again won’t he?’ She replied, ‘Yes, of course he will but it’s going to take time.’ I thanked her and turned back to Ali.
Ali said to me, ‘Me no like hospital. Me no like operation. Me no like nurses. Me no like food. Me hot. Me pain. Me cry.’ By this time I realised there was nothing seriously wrong with him and I thought to myself, ‘You big baby! I’ve just had the shock of my life thinking you were in some terrible car crash and had to have a life-saving operation and here you are with a busted leg!’
I went to see Ali every day while he was in hospital and I discovered that visitors could see patients from 11 a.m. until nine thirty at night as long as they did not hinder the nurses. So I need not have rushed that first evening. Ali was always smiling and joking with the other patients and visiting times were fun. He was discharged from hospital two weeks later and he spent the following six months on crutches. The surgeon did an excellent job on him and Ali made a complete recovery.
The police were unable to trace the woman driver in the accident and she never came forward. Also, despite seeing a solicitor, Ali was unable to get any type of compensation. He told me the solicitor was going to give him his bill. Ali said, ‘Me run over, me operation, me sick, me no work and me pay solicitor?’ Fortunately his solicitor decided to waive his charges.
My opinion of the accident was that possibly it was Ali’s fault. He had been crossing the road to catch the bus to take him to work and in his haste he may have looked left instead of right and stepped out in front of the oncoming car.
1992
PAUL C
Paul was thirty-nine. I was forty-seven. We met at a disco. He was a ladies’ hairdresser. Unfortunately, although I liked him I found him to be very effeminate. I didn’t like his slightly bouffant, permed hairdo and our conversation was similar to that I would have with one of my girlfriends and not that of a man and woman. We went out together once.
Paul owned a very large house in Hornsey. He lived on the ground floor and let all the other rooms out, earning himself five hundred pounds a week in rents from his tenants. I asked him, ‘Don’t you ever have any trouble being a landlord?’ He replied, ‘When I see everyone we just say “hello” or “goodnight” and they pay their rent and that’s the end of it, but I did have a man commit suicide in one of my rooms upstairs. I smelt gas outside his door and as I couldn’t get an answer from him I got the keys and went in. I found him dead in bed with a plastic bag over his head with a tube inside connected to the gas oven, I called the police and they had him taken away but it was a grisly experience for me.’
Paul told me, ‘I did have my own unisex hair-dressing salon until recently. I employed a male hairdresser and let him work without cards and then he decided to leave and work for someone else and he took half my customers with him. He cost me about three hundred pounds a week. As he ruined my business for me I told the tax people he’d been working full-time, claiming housing benefit and unemployment pay, and I suppose he’s going to have to repay the authorities. If he hadn’t taken my customers away I would have let him go without causing any trouble.’
1992
THE GROPE
I was aged forty-seven.
Every Monday evening for several months I went to an over-twenty-five’s disco in Enfield with a group of girlfriends. The men were all very attractive and aged from thirty-five upwards. My girlfriends and I were frequently asked to dance but as soon as the DJ played a series of slow numbers the lights would go down and all my dancing partners expected me to be a willing party to an instant embrace and necking session and they all seemed surprised at my reluctance.
One Monday evening I was asked to dance during the slow numbers by a foreign man I decided was French and aged about thirty-six. He followed me on to the floor and held me very tightly as we danced. His hands wandered up and down my back and over my rear. He buried his face in my neck and started to kiss me whilst breathing heavily in my right ear. We had known each other for approximately twenty seconds and I didn’t like his attentions at all. I broke free of his caresses and I said to him, ‘I said yes to a dance, not a grope.’ He didn’t reply but we started dancing in a normal manner. When the record had finished I said, Thank you’ to my partner and returned to my table.
Approximately fifteen minutes later my Frenchman came up to me. He said, ‘I am sorry for our dancing. Please forgive me.’
1992
JEAN
lean was thirty years old and a colleague of Pat, aged forty-eight. Pat was a friend and neighbour of Nancy, aged forty. I was a friend of both Pat and Nancy. I was aged forty-seven.
I went to see Nancy one Wednesday afternoon for our usual cup of tea and gossip. We settled down with our mugs and she said to me, ‘Pat has taken in a lodger called Jean. She’s one of her workmates and she’s just finished living with a boyfriend and didn't have anywhere else to go. Pat said she’s really easy to get on with and it’s nice to have some company so Jean can live there indefinitely. Apparently Jean lived with her boyfriend for three years and all they did was argue. They’re still going to see each other occasionally as friends, but she’s on the look out for someone else.’
Jean joined the three of us on our weekly date at a local disco.
I continued seeing Nancy on a Wednesday afternoon. A few months later she said to me, ‘I’ve got some really juicy gossip! Jean has brilliantly got herself pregnant by her ex-boyfriend! She’s going to have the baby and her and her ex are going to rent a house in the country and live together with the child. I think they’re both crazy. If I had been Jean I would not have got myself pregnant with someone I’d finished with, and to go back and live with a boyfriend I didn’t get on with at all for the sake of th
e baby is stupid. It will never work.’
Eighteen months later Jean left her boyfriend and started life anew in London with her daughter.
1992
THE BORROWER
I was forty-seven and staying with my parents. Our visitor was aged about thirty.
One winter’s night the street doorbell rang. I went to answer it, followed by my elderly father, as it was a late hour to have a caller. I opened the door to see a young black man wearing a duffle jacket. He said, ‘I’m really sorry to disturb you and I don’t like ringing on your door but I’m lodging at No. 58 and I’ve shut myself out. I’ve left my keys in my room with my money and no one is in so I can’t get in to the house. Could you please lend me two pounds fifty so I can get a Travelcard because I haven’t got any cash on me and I’m on the night shift at Fords of Dagenham. I’ll give it back to you tomorrow evening.’
I felt very sorry for him and replied, ‘Wait a minute and I’ll get my purse,’ and shut the door. My father asked me, ‘Do you know this bloke?’ I replied, ‘No, but I think I can help a neighbour in trouble.’ He said, ‘You must be crazy. You’ll never see him again.’ I ignored my father’s protests and returned to the street door with three one pound coins and gave them to the black man. He said, ‘Thank you very much.’ I asked, ‘You will give this back to me?’ He replied, ‘Yes, of course. I’ll put it in an envelope tomorrow and post it through your letterbox.’ I closed the door. My father said, ‘You amaze me. You won’t see that feller or your three pounds ever again.’
Two nights passed without the return of my money and on the third evening I began to wonder if my father had been right. It also occurred to me if the black man lived at No. 58 why didn’t he knock on No. 56 or No. 54, as we were No. 46 and some distance away from him. I determined to find out. I donned my outdoor clothing and knocked on No. 58. An old lady opened the door. I asked her, ‘Can I speak to your lodger please?’ She replied, ‘I haven’t got any lodgers, dear. I live here all by myself.’ I told her what had happened. She said, ‘Oh, you silly thing. You won’t see your money now.’
1992
ROOGIE AND JAMES
I shared a furnished house owned by a Nigerian family. The two other tenants were a woman called Roogie, aged thirty-two, from the Gambia, and James, aged thirty, a big, burly Irishman with sparkling blue eyes and soft blond curls. I was forty-seven.
I found living with Roogie and James to be extremely unpleasant. I considered them to be odd because they didn’t like conversation. When they returned from work in the evening it was perfectly alright to say ‘Good evening’ and tell them of any telephone messages but they did not like to talk further. We shared a TV lounge and I was expected to sit in total silence all evening whilst we watched the programmes. At weekends the three of us would attend to our various jobs without saying any more than ‘Good morning’ and my attempts at chatter would upset them. Unless it was relevant, conversation was not allowed.
Roogie would have a bath every evening. She would wrap a towel around her waist and walk about the house topless. If she met James or me she would say ‘Excuse me,’ and cover her bare bosom with her arm.
James was extremely bad-tempered. If either Roogie or I asked him to fix something he would do the job, usually very minor, but it would anger him. Both Roogie and James thought it quite normal to have a flaming row, calling each other names, then three hours later resume friendly terms as though nothing had happened.
We soon found we had a cat problem. If we left the house without shutting all the downstairs windows we would return to find our black dustbin-bag of rubbish scattered over the kitchen floor. Sometimes the adjoining bathroom door was ajar and we would arrive in time to see a fat tabby cat running along the side of the bath, making dirty footprints, as he escaped through the small top louvre. We tried securing the house before leaving but frequently we would be at home and the cat would still manage to rummage through our refuse. This happened so many times James said, ‘If I ever get my hands on that blighter I’ll murder him.’
I was hanging out my washing one Saturday morning. I was startled to see our tabby catlaying flat on his back with his paws in the air underneath a large bush at the back of the garden. He was quite obviously dead. I went into the house and told Roogie. She said to me, ‘James killed that cat.’ I said, ‘You must be joking!’ She replied, ‘No. Didn’t you hear doors banging last night and a cat screaming?’ I thought for a moment and replied, ‘Yes, I did but I thought it was a cat fight.’ Roogie said, ‘No, it wasn’t. James caught the cat and killed it.’ I could not believe this and asked her, ‘Did you see him do it?’ ‘Yes,’ she replied. When I saw James I asked him, ‘Did you kill the cat?’ He replied, ‘No,’ and walked away from me. I thought about the situation and concluded that James was probably quite skilled at killing chickens, rabbits and possibly other small animals as he had been brought up in the countryside of Ireland. Also the cat fight I thought I’d heard had only lasted two minutes, and how often do they kill each other? I decided Roogie had told me the truth. When I recovered from the shock I said to her, ‘That certainly solves our cat problem, doesn’t it!’
Although I disliked the eerie atmosphere, I lived in the house for seven months before moving because I was unemployed and the social services had not sorted out my housing benefit. I didn’t trust them not to get confused if I changed addresses. Finally I could stand nomore of the silent Roogie and James and found myself other accommodation. I informed the authorities. To my great relief I soon received a large cheque covering my oustanding rent.
1993
PAUL
Paul was aged thirty. He lived in a bedsit in the furnished house we both shared. I was forty-eight.
Paul knocked on my door one evening, holding a striped shirt in his hands. He asked, ‘Sylvia, could you repair the cuffs on this shirt for me please?’ I replied, ‘Come in and sit down but make sure you leave the door wide open.’ I examined the article and said, ‘All this needs is just a bit of gathering then about ten minutes’ machining. It’s quite a simple job so I’ll do it for you.’ He told me how he had tried to shorten the sleeves by cutting the material above the cuffs but had been unable to finish the work. It was some ten minutes later that he said in a very aggrieved tone, ‘I don’t see why I should leave the door open, Sylvia. It’s not as though I’m going to pounce on you.’ I laughed and replied, ‘I was only joking, Paul.’
I successfully repaired his shirt and received an expensive box of white chocolates in return.
1993
THE FLOWER SELLER
For twenty years he sold flowers from a stall outside our local hospital He was approximately forty years old. I was forty-eight.
As I crossed the High Street I noticed the flower seller riding past on his bicycle. I returned his ‘Hello’ and continued on my way. Thirty yards further down the street I heard the ‘ting ting’ of a bell. I turned to see the flower seller straddling his stationary bike with his left leg over the crossbar. Encouraged by my smile he asked, ‘Can I take you for a cup of tea?’
I declined his offer.
1993
RON, BILL AND RICHARD
Next door to my furnished accommodation lived an elderly widower and his two sons. Ron, the father, was sixty-seven, his eldest son, Bill, was thirty-eight, and his youngest son, Richard, was thirty. Their house was rented and they did not keep it very clean. I was forty-eight.
I was walking home with my shopping one summer’s afternoon when Richard suddenly appeared beside me. ‘Have you got twenty-nine pence?’ he asked. I delved into my purse and gave him the money. I lived next door to him for four years but he did not repay me.
I was woken one Sunday morning at approximately 1.45 a.m. by Ron and one of the neighbours returning home drunk from their Saturday night out at the local club. Ron was fumbling in his pockets for his street door key but was unable to find it. By now his friend was nearing his own house a few doors away. Ron yelled to him, ‘I’
ve forgotten me fucking key!’ Ron staggered up his pathway. He pounded his fists on the door and bellowed through the letterbox until one of his sons let him in. He stumbled into his hallway shouting to his waiting friend, ‘I’m alright now mate,’ slamming the street door behind him.
I repeated Ron’s escapade to Lynne, who lived in the flat adjacent to mine, and she said, The two brothers had a fight in their kitchen the other Sunday morning over a bit of bacon. Apparently Richard had nicked Bill’s bacon and Bill punched him on the nose. I heard Richard shout, “He’s broken me fucking nose again,” and the old boy said, “Stop this fighting, you two are supposed to be brothers.”’
Bill was divorced and his wife had custody of their three young children. He had a long-term girlfriend who lived with him at weekends. My neighbour, Rene, whose bedroom adjoined Bill’s, said to me, ‘When they have sex you can hear her howling through the wall.’
Lynne’s live-in boyfriend, Dave, said to me, ‘One Saturday morning I was sitting in the back garden with one of me mates and Bill and his girlfriend had their bedroom window open and you could hear her groaning away louder and louder and when she had her orgasm me mate clapped his hands and cheered.’
