by Dawn French
And so exits the room probably the only person in Silvia’s present who has no axe to grind, no anger or hate or questions. Winnie wishes only good things for Silvia. Winnie hasn’t even stopped to consider what it might be like to wish good things for herself.
Good things like, perhaps, Ed.
Thirty
Jo
Thursday noon
The quiet fug of the room is shattered by the clatter and clank associated with getting a 92-year-old man into a hospital isolation room like this. Jo has used one of the pound-a-time wheelchairs stored at the front door of the hospital, and they are notoriously unwieldy. She felt misguidedly confident that it would all go smoothly. She picked him up from the Poppy Park care home where he lives and, as requested, the carers there had made sure he was up, fed, washed, shaved and dressed ready to go.
Jo has several times in the past attempted these tasks herself, but she finds it disturbing when her father occasionally slips into a temporary bubble of his dementia and is inappropriately rude or lewd. The carers at his home are used to it and shrug it off, but Jo spends a good deal of the short time she shares with her father dreading the next awkward moment.
She so wishes she didn’t, she wishes she was truly the kind of Earth Mother who can deal with anything that comes her way. She didn’t have kids, so she missed out on the cute, palatable sick and shit and snot that motherhood brings. Instead, she seems to have skipped directly to the entirely intolerable sick and shit and snot of old age that daughterhood brings, and she is immeasurably grateful to the angels at Poppy Park for doing so much of the difficult stuff.
Even better than their patient understanding and handling of crotchety old men, is their patient understanding of crotchety old ex-army men. These are a particular breed of chaps whose needs can be difficult to understand. Men whose lives, in some cases, since the age of sixteen have been ordered and regimented. Men who are used to being ranked and barked at. Men who are more comfortable in male company. Men who speak the same coded language. Men who signed the Official Secrets Act. Men who fought for their countries and their lives side by side. Men who loved each other but weren’t permitted to acknowledge it. Men whose shared broad humour masked a thousand fears and inadequacies. Military men. Men like Stanley.
Most military men are never ‘ex-military’, it’s a lifelong commitment. The army is not a job, it’s a life, and so therefore whilst you are still living, you are army. You are ‘Pongo’ and much as they rarely admit it, absolutely EVERYTHING else comes second, including wives and certainly children.
For Stanley, army life was charging on as it should, the family moving from posting to posting, camp to camp, following his work, until the terrible day he discovered his wife had motor neurone disease. He loved his wife very much indeed, obviously not as much as he loved the army but still, very much. More than any other woman. He hadn’t wanted anyone other than her and was utterly faithful to her, even though some of his more exotic unaccompanied earlier postings presented plenty of racy temptations that various of his oppos couldn’t resist. Not Stanley. He was always fiercely loyal to Moira and his darling daughters, Jo and Silvia.
As the ferocity of Moira’s illness became apparent, Stanley had a shocking epiphany. Once, when she was going through a particularly distressing episode of muscle twitching and painful cramps, he put his arms around her and with all his brute force, he clamped her very close to him until her poor body stopped spasming. She was calm for a moment, and so he released his grip. And as if powered by giant batteries, she started to jerk and twitch once more. Again, he hugged her tight, again she relaxed. Again he released, again she started up. Although it was tragic, the undeniably comic rhythm of it simultaneously struck them both as hilarious and they started to giggle and then laugh uproariously. The juddering and the laughing intermingled and it became a strangely beautiful union that moved him deeply. In that instant he realized that a momentous shift had happened, and for the first time, an astoundingly ironic time, he knew he loved this wonderful vibrant woman more than he loved the army.
And now, now, she was leaving him, in the most achingly traumatic way.
He had to witness the rapid and savage attack of the brutal disease on Moira’s poor body, without being able to protect or defend her in any way. He felt useless, emasculated. As the steady death of neurons in the motor cortex of her brain, her brain stem and her spinal cord kicked in, virtually all voluntary movement ceased, and she became a woeful sight, an exhausted tortured wretch. She could hardly swallow, and her breathing became increasingly difficult. It was at this desperate phase of the violently merciless illness that Moira experienced the particularly cruel symptom referred to as the ‘pseudo bulbar effect’, an emotional incontinence which meant she had sudden and inexplicable episodes of exaggerated, uncontrollable laughter or crying or smiling, usually at complete odds with her mood.
Stanley could see these extremes were very difficult for the girls to deal with, very confusing and upsetting, but there was nothing anyone could do. Least of all him, the husband and father, a man unable to help or save his wife. A useless man. A failed man. All of his dreadful helpless feelings troubled Stanley increasingly until Moira’s harrowing end, and they increased beyond. The sight of his two little motherless daughters was more than he could stomach. His sad situation reconfirmed for him the army mantra that the army comes first. If he had truly lived by that, then surely this wracking agony of loss would be considerably less. He would’ve lost only his second love, not his first. That surely would’ve been more bearable. Anything would be more bearable than this, because this was seven kinds of hell.
He had no idea whatsoever how to cope with it. So he didn’t. He threw himself into army life, into his matey male friendships, and into a large bottle of whisky. There, at least, he could erase for a while the enduring images of Moira in her last, pitiful days, which plagued him in every waking moment. It was during these turbulent times that Stanley’s own mother stepped in and insisted the girls should come to her since he was so clearly not coping. His drunkenness was just about tolerated at work, where his colleagues felt so desperately badly for him that they were prepared to muddle through and cover up when they could. He had a few warnings and was eventually sidelined to a desk job where his deterioration wouldn’t be so public or obvious, and that’s how he limped on until his retirement.
From the day she went to live with her grandmother, Silvia chose not to speak to her father. He had already frightened her with his boozy bluster and bellowing, but through all of that, the truth was, she still wanted him to be her dad. After all, he was the only parent she had left, and she was bursting to be somebody’s daughter. Stanley was, sadly, too drunk to notice and too crushed to care. Silvia couldn’t forgive his rejection.
So, now, Jo eventually manoeuvres Stanley into a corner of Suite 5, with all the concomitant crashes and bangs that go with the likes of Jo in charge of an errant and frankly disobedient wheelchair.
Winnie holds the door open and witnesses it all, wishing she could take over and navigate the chair herself. She has learned the trick, after all these years, of pulling the patient backwards in it, rather than attempting to push it forwards, forcing the badly designed small front wheels to lock. Instead, she has looks on as Jo eventually settles her ancient father into the room.
Winnie sees the strain on Jo’s face.
‘You wan’ cup o’ water? Fe you an’ daddy?’
‘Oh yes, please Winnie, thank you so much.’
Jo takes her coat off and sits herself down in the visitor’s chair, close to her dad. She reaches over and takes his coat which is folded neatly on his lap, and she tidies his collar back under his blazer.
‘There. Better. Very handsome, Dad, very smart. I’m sure Sissy would be very impressed if … she … could …’
Jo looks at her father. She hasn’t properly looked at him today because everything has been such a rush, and she was determined to get him here come hell or
… high … hell.
‘Let me know if you need the toilet, Dad. We’re in the right place, Winnie or one of the other nurses can help, but you need to give me a bit of warning, OK? It’s up the corridor, the Gents is further than the Ladies. Anyway. Here we are …’
She looks again.
The old man is staring at Silvia. He says nothing. He hasn’t said much at all on this journey today. Jo thinks that perhaps he is a bit apprehensive, but she can’t be entirely sure that he knows where he is, or what is going on. He has periods of intense lucidity but, mostly, he is living the winter of his life in a blur of misty confusion. He seemed willing to come at least, so that’s good, but now he is finally here, he is very quiet.
He does indeed look extremely dapper, if a little shrunken, in his grey flannels, crisp white shirt, regimental stripey tie and dark blazer with the beautiful embroidered badge of the 2nd Battalion Essex Regiment emblazoned on the pocket in all its purple and gold glory. For the very first time, Jo looks closely at it, and notices there is a sideways sphinx perched on a block reading ‘EGYPT’ at the top of the image which seems, mainly, to be a castle with a key dangling from it. A sphinx. That’s odd. Perhaps it was a particularly important battle, or something, she has never thought to look closely or ask.
He has had a careful shave, probably one of the carers did it for him, but they have followed very carefully the line of his natty whiskers in the formation he has shaved them for maybe seventy years. He has a good-sized moustache, a bit like Errol Flynn, which, at its sides, joins on to the bottom of his thick sideburns. He still has plenty of hair although it has, of course, receded and is now entirely snow white. He looks very distinguished and irrefutably army.
Today, he has chosen to wear his medals. For display? For armour? Who knows? They are all lined up on a bar, brightly striped ribbons with silver discs hanging beneath, and bronze stars and pewter crosses. Jo doesn’t know what they signify exactly, but they are extraordinarily impressive. War medals, the Burma Star, the Africa Star, his Distinguished Service Cross, his Military Cross and more. A row of shiny honours, hard won.
His face is craggy and his expression is haunted but he is still a handsome man. His heavy-rimmed brown tortoiseshell spectacles sit perched on his nose, the lenses tingingly clean. He looks through those sparkling glasses, right at Silvia, with his milky grey eyes. His gaze doesn’t falter. He is intent on her. His hand is wrapped around the top of the extendable aluminium cane he uses to aid his wobbly walking, and Jo notices his worn and scratched rose-gold wedding ring, which stands proud from his shrinking old fingers. It is tapping against the metal cane as his hand continually shakes.
Tap tap tap.
‘Don’t be afraid to speak to her, Dad, somewhere in there, she can probably hear you. You just have to … sort of … tune into the right channel sort of thing.’
He continues to stare.
Jo realizes that, actually, she does the same thing with him, tries to tune in and find a level at which they can successfully communicate. He too is in a similar limbo to Sissy, somewhere between life and death. Jo is uncertain where either of them reside. They are not yet dead but neither are they fully alive. In a way, she is the last one left from the tight little foursome they once were. She feels a wave of sadness about that. She didn’t expect to be without parents and a sibling, it seems too unfair. She shakes off the thought. Dad and Silvia aren’t dead … yet.
In place of the sadness comes an overwhelming sense of responsibility and, for a brief moment, Jo allows herself to experience being something akin to a mother, or a wife. Something she has never been able to be. Both of these people need her right now, to be their advocate and protector, and Jo guiltily enjoys the position she finds herself in.
It’s good to be necessary, especially after a lifetime of feeling entirely the opposite. It’s a shame the circumstances have to be these, but when you are Jo, you will take all the fulfilment you can get, anywhere you can find it. She settles for a paltry little amount of love, every time. The bar is low, and in this room right now is about as much as she can ever expect, so why wouldn’t she allow herself a tremor of pleasure about it? It’s a bit unfortunate that both participants are captive, and in questionable health, but she can overlook that in order to have her needs met.
Just as Jo is revelling in her importance, Stanley seems to emerge from his daze, and starts to speak.
He is distressed.
‘Has she fallen over?’
‘Well, I suppose in a way, yes, she has Dad. She fell from a balcony, that’s why her injuries are so severe.’
‘What?!’
Jo speaks louder, as if volume will resolve his confusion.
‘SHE FELL OFF A BALCONY! HURT HER HEAD!’
‘This is what happened last week, isn’t it? The first symptoms show in the arms and legs, she has been dragging her foot …’
‘No Dad, she fell off a balcony, she didn’t just fall over.’
‘Yes. That’s right. The twitching starts soon.’
‘No Dad, she fell off a …’
Jo begins to realize that Stanley is imagining Silvia to be Moira. She tries to clarify it for him.
‘Dad. This is Silvia in this bed. Your daughter Silvia …?’
‘Tell Mummy it’s over soon, not long. Not long … darling … settle down … there there …’
His voice peters out as his head slowly falls forward and Jo sees that he is crying silent tears which fall directly down from his stooped head into the glass in his spectacles, which fill up like tiny sad swimming pools.
‘Oh Dad. Come on now …’
Jo goes over to gather her father into a reassuring hug, and as she leans down to him, he raises his stick and starts to strike her. It is sudden and shockingly forceful.
‘No Dad, stop it! Please! That hurts!’
‘Get off me! Get away!’
Jo reaches for the stick to defend herself from the blows, and she wrenches it out of his hand. In the ugly demented chaos of the moment, Jo locks eyes with her father.
Amongst the frenetic confusion, he clearly says, ‘Give us a kiss then.’
‘Stop it Dad!’
Stanley attempts to stand up and reaches out towards her just as Winnie enters the room, carrying the two glasses of water.
‘Wha’s all dis?! Come on grandpa, sit back dung in de chair. You OK Jo?’
‘Yes, yes. He just has … these moments. It’s nothing. He’s confused …’
‘Of course he is, it all a bit much, yes?’
‘Yes. That’s right. Yes.’
Jo doesn’t want to play mum or wife any more. It’s too real and complicated, and she doesn’t have the patience.
Stanley groans a bit, sits back in his wheelchair and gradually calms down. He accepts the water from Winnie and seems placated. He looks at Jo, and although she is nervous to look him directly in the eye again, for fear of him kicking off, she does, and there she sees her familiar kindly old dad looking back at her and smiling.
He says, ‘Shall I treat you to ice cream? You like that, don’t you? Come on then, nipper … you want a flake?’
He slips back into his old skin and she knows there is nothing to fear. For now. How she hates these demented ghostly glimpses of a man she longs to be loved by. He was her closest ally in the young family back along.
She and Daddy.
Sis and Mummy.
That’s how it was …
‘I think I’d best get him back, Winnie. It’s his lunchtime. He’s better off in familiar surroundings.’
‘Yes, yes, h’okay Jo. Yu wan’ some help to put ’im in de car? De porter can do dat.’
‘Yes. Yes please,’ says Jo.
‘Yes please. Ps and Qs, please. And thank you,’ says Stanley, copying her. ‘We should leave Mummy to sleep while she can.’
His voice is croaky and weak.
‘Yes Dad, that’s right,’ says Jo, as she gathers up both of their coats.
Winnie thankful
ly takes charge of the wheelchair, and deftly turns it round so she can get Stanley out of the room backwards, with as little fuss as possible.
As he rolls past Silvia backwards, the last sight he sees of her is her head, the head of his darling Moira, with all the tubes and fuss of the ventilation support attached just as she actually had at the end.
‘Bye honey pie. Sleep tight …’ are his last words to her.
And he is out the door and into the slipstream of the busy corridor.
When Jo eventually gets him safely ensconced back into his room at Poppy Park, one of the senior nurses takes her aside and asks to speak with her on a delicate matter.
It would seem that this month’s cheque has not turned up?
Jo was under the impression that her father’s army pension paid for his care here, so what did she mean?
Oh no, the nurse explains, it all changed five years ago, when Stanley was moved into a different level of care due to his dementia. In order for him to be ‘bumped up to top flight’, a cheque has been arriving each month for the not inconsiderable difference. Stanley said the signee was his daughter, so the nurse has assumed this was Jo.
It isn’t.
It’s Silvia, who won’t be signing any cheques in the near future.
Silvia.
Who sold her family home for no obvious reason.
Silvia.
Thirty-One
Cassie
Thursday 2pm
With the beeping of the ECG machine and the regular gasping of the ventilator as her metronomes, and the visitor’s chair as her dais, Willow is in full voice, performing for ‘The Lady’.
She sings, or rather, shouts.
‘Have you ever had a penguin come to tea? Penguins, attention!’
She salutes, maintaining the demeanour of a penguin at all times.
‘Penguins, salute!’
As she starts the next verse, she vigorously waggles her arm, and continues like this throughout. She starts with one, then increases to waggling both arms on the following verse, then both arms and a leg, then both legs, then both legs and a head and so on, until in the final verse, she is jumping about and jiggling her whole body wildly like kite tails in the wind.
