CHAPTER 8
He slept well and woke up early in the morning; he was instantly alarmed, not recognising where he was for a minute. Then he went to the bathroom and discovered he had soap but no towel. He wondered where he kept the towels. Did he have towels, plural? What had he done with the one that had been there? Carefully he began the dangerous descent down the stairs, impeded in this by the efforts of Ginger, whose aim in life, like all cats, was to trip him up on the way down. Once down, he washed himself in the handbasin of the downstairs loo, where there was one reasonable towel. He made himself a cup of tea, fed the cat, and then realised he would have to upstairs again to retrieve his clothes. Damn!
Grimly, he ascended the stairs, made his bed and got dressed. He found he urgently needed a drink. A proper drink. After a precarious trip downstairs, he found his jacket on a hook in the hall, with his baseball cap, which he placed carefully on his head.
He was just opening a can of beer when the doorbell went.
It was the men from Social Services. Two of them this time. One was older, a bit portly and had a moustache. The other was younger and scruffier. He vaguely remembered them from a previous visit some time ago. The scruffy one held a folder in his hand.
“Hello, William. We are your carers, from the Social Services.”
He didn’t remember giving them permission to call him William. He drew himself up and gave them a frosty look.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” he said.
“How are you getting on, William?”
“I’m alright. I’ve had a bit of trouble with an artichoke. You ought to speak to that manager, you know. He has no idea about customer relations.”
The men stared at him and then at each other. William opened the door wide and they followed him into the kitchen.
“Where’s the table, William?”
“In the garden,” said William.
“Why’s that then?”
William thought for a moment. “I needed to clean the floor,” he said. They all inspected the floor. It hadn’t been cleaned in months.
The cat came in. William gave it some food and a little milk. The men looked puzzled.
“Is this your cat, William?”
“No,” said William.
“William,” said the older one “We need to know how you are managing. Are you still drinking rather a lot? Are you eating? Are you taking all your medications regularly?”
William considered. “I’m drinking what I want, because I like it. I have had some sausages and an artichoke, which wasn’t a great success. And beans. And I’m not sure about the pills, not the blue ones, that is. What are they for?”
There was a brief silence. Then, “Well, you need something to help keep you on an even keel,” said carer number one, the portly one. “We can get you some more this morning. Where do you keep your medication?”
They inspected the patch behind the toaster and the awful truth was revealed. It was clear that William had not been following his prescribed issue of pills. Carer number two, the scruffy one, made some more notes in his folder.
“Shall we help you get the table indoors?” asked the portly one. He opened the back door and the two men went out to bring the table back in. “What’s that plank of wood doing there against that window?” said one of them.
“That’s for the cat,” explained William.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Well, I like it, and so does the cat,” said William, suddenly belligerent.
“Are those new trousers?” asked one of them, noticing William’s new attire.
“Yes,” said William, cautiously. He wanted to avoid the subject of money. “Got them in a charity shop.”
“And the jacket?”
“Yes.”
“You did well.”
They inspected the state of the washing and decided to pay a visit to the launderette, leaving one of them there in charge of the washing. After that, they would go to the chemist with a pre-prescribed prescription. Then they would go to the bank. Finally, they would call in at the launderette to collect the washing and then do some food shopping. The expedition was to be in the portly one’s car, which would make it difficult for William to remember the route to the bank, which he particularly wanted to do.
“What I want to know is,” said William, “is this house mine or yours?”
“The house is council property, Mr. Penfold. We became involved when it appeared you were unable, er, having difficulty with running your previous property and with looking after yourself satisfactorily.” The carer’s voice sounded neutral and rather prim.
So that was settled. He supposed they made sure he kept himself alive and on the right side of the law. They checked that he got all the benefits he was entitled to and paid what he could towards the bills. Presumably he had salvaged a few things from his previous life such as his jacket and the computer, bits of furniture and so on.
He wondered briefly where he had been before the Social Services got him, but he pushed the thought away firmly. They’d be on about the past in no time, given half a chance. What he needed to know was had he got any money of his own and could he get his hands on it? Without their knowing?
“How are you feeling, William?”
“Feeling about what?”
“Well, about managing on your own, for instance. Are you still drinking a lot?”
“What do you mean, a lot?”
He found he was still holding a just-opened can of beer as he spoke.
“Do you start drinking early in the morning, for instance?”
“Mind your own business,” said William, suddenly exasperated. “I just happened to have this can handy.”
“I suggest we get all the washing together,” said the portly one.
“What about the stuff upstairs?” asked William. “The bed things?”
“You’ve been upstairs?”
“And there’s my old trousers.”
William was giving them surprises, he could see.
“And,” he said, emphasising his words, “I wish to buy some pyjamas.”
“Right, well, William, let’s get going.”
They got going. They stopped off at the launderette and left the scruffy one in charge of the washing, whilst William and the portly one went to the chemist. Then they were off to the bank. William tried hard to remember the roads and the name of the bank, which was a building society called the Protect and Save Society. Guided by his carer William eventually arrived at the front of the queue. He dutifully signed the form thrust at him by the portly one, who gave it, folded inside a red passbook of some description, to a bored-looking cashier.
“How much have I got?” asked William.
“Beg your pardon?” said the cashier, who had jumped slightly at William’s abrupt question.
“I said how much have I got?” repeated William loudly.
“Well, you have all the benefits paid in this month, but do you have any other account?”
“I don’t know, do I?” said William. “Could have a lot somewhere else, stashed away, which I don’t know of. Secret nest egg they haven’t told me about.”
“Just a minute, William,” said the portly one. “I think you do have another account, but it’s your savings you know, not very much, well under the limit, if you go too high you won’t get any benefits and if you take too much of it out that’s it, all gone, so it’s best…”
“Are you telling me I can’t have my own money?” shouted William, about to launch into one of his manic rages.
“Of course you can but have you got the number of the other account, or the other passbook?” asked the cashier.
“I don’t know the number,” said William, “how am I supposed to remember all this? Nobody tells me anything. It’s as bad as the artichoke. You tell me what I’ve got.”
“Have your, er, friends got the passbook?” asked the cashier.
The portly one looked alarmed. “Well, yes, I expe
ct it’s in your folder. Robert’s got your folder with him,” he said weakly.
“Well, this is a disgrace. A disgrace,” shouted William, excitedly. “All this time I’ve had money, I’ve even asked God for it, and you’ve kept it from me. We’ll have to go back to the launderette and get it from what’s-his-name.”
“Just a minute,” said the cashier. “I can tell you what you have in your other account. Can you prove who you are?”
“Why should I do that?” asked William, thoroughly enraged now. “I know who I am.”
“Have you got your passport with you? Or a credit or debit card? Or a utility bill?”
William did have a credit card with him, but he wasn’t going to let on about that. “No, I haven’t. I don’t take my passport round with me just to please idiots in banks.”
“Please don’t be abusive, Mr. Penfold, “ said the cashier. “I’m sure your friend will vouch for you and you are in receipt of benefits. Do you have anything to prove Mr.Penfold’s entitlement, Sir, which I can use as proof of identity?” she asked of the carer.
“Oh dear. All the paperwork is in the folder. At the launderette.”
“It’s a disgrace,” said William. “An absolute disgrace. Probably illegal. That’s my money and I can’t get it. I shall,” he paused, searching for something really threatening, “consult my solicitors,” he finished triumphantly.
“Can you people get a move on?” said a disgruntled voice from the now extensive queue behind him.
“Let’s just get you your money for now,” said the portly one, pacifically, “then we’ll go and get the rest of the paperwork from Robert later. This they did, with the portly one taking charge of the proceedings.
CHAPTER 9
Eventually they left the bank, William still shouting and waving his hands in the air and demanding a drink to help him cope with all these idiots, and the portly one all flustered and trying to be soothing at the same time. They made two stops on the way to the launderette, once to the chemist’s to collect William’s prescription medication, where he created another scene of put-upon fury, demanding to know why he had to wait so long to get his blue pills and demanding to know what they were for, then not believing the chemist, and secondly to a men’s outfitter’s, where he became involved in a fierce argument with the shop assistant about elasticated waists as opposed to cords which had to be tied on the pyjamas that he most liked. The portly one, who volunteered the fact that he was called Denis, had had enough by now and steered William out of the shop and to the launderette, where they collected Robert and his folder and William’s laundry.
Denis took them all back to William’s house before it could be suggested that they all went back to the bank. They seemed to forget about the shopping that they usually did.
They were greeted by Ginger, who had taken yet another sausage onto the rug in the living room. William, in a placatory mood now, offered to make them a cup of tea, which seemed to amaze them, and they settled down, Robert on a rather rickety chair and Denis on the sofa, to discuss how Mr. Penfold was getting on, looking at all the utilities bills they had accumulated, which they seemed to be on top of, and to reinforce the idea of him taking all his medication, at the right time. They even made him out a daily list, which they wanted to put in a prominent position somewhere near the toaster. They discussed his benefits and told him exactly when they would call again. William really wanted them to drink their tea and go; he needed to sort his money out himself and decide what to do with it, but they were still reluctant to leave without establishing a few more facts.
William could contain his impatience no longer. “Well, where’s my passbook then?”
Robert fished it out of the mass of papers on his lap.
“Look,” said William, excitedly, “I’ve got £3,465 here. It’s mine. I could have had two pairs of those pyjamas,” he said accusingly to Denis.
“And no doubt another artichoke,” said Denis pointedly. “That isn’t the question, is it? The point is...”
“The point is, it’s mine. Do I get a cheque book with this?” he asked suddenly.
“Well, no doubt you could have one, but listen, William, £3,000 sounds a lot of money, but it wouldn’t last long. It’s all you have. It’s all you have left over from – ”
“From the days when,” said William.
“Yes, well, it wouldn’t keep you going for long, would it? Do you think you might be better off in a Home, and not having to bother with all this?”
William stared at him, open-mouthed.
“I mean, you are obviously doing so much better with the drinking so you might find you get on better with people now…” but even as he spoke memories of the scenes in the bank, the chemist’s and the gent’s outfitter’s reminded Denis that this was not true.
“You want to put me in a Home?” roared William. “In a Home?” His face turned purple, which frightened the two carers somewhat. He looked round for a weapon but all he could find was his new long umbrella, which he picked up and waved in a wild manner.
“Get out of my house this minute,” he said, “and don’t come back ever again. Until I need a new prescription,” he added hastily, thinking of that and all those bills he might have to deal with once they had washed their hands of him. “I’m alright here and so’s the cat. Go away, go on, go away.” He shooed them out of the sitting room.
The two men retreated hastily to Denis’ car, where they sat for a long time, talking and filling in forms from Robert’s folder. Had William ‘got religion’? Denis remembered his reference to God. And there was the curious mention of artichokes. That did not fit in with any known personality disorder that they could identify. William glared at them from the front room window, waving his umbrella.
Then he sat down and started to consider the position. How much money did he have and what was the best way to spend it?
He thought for a moment of why he had told God that not having money was his principal problem, because he didn’t have enough to spend on drink. He wasn’t absolutely sure that that was absolutely true any more. However, the thought of drink sidetracked him somewhat and he went to the kitchen to find something to slake his thirst. The cat also came and began to demand attention. He fed it and gave it some milk, after which it went out for a breath of fresh air and William began to prepare a meal for himself.
After some bacon, eggs, sausage and fried bread, with a can of lager, he felt very much better, less angry, more self-satisfied. A Home indeed! I expect they helped me a lot just after the time when, he thought. But I’m better now. I can manage. Well, most things. Not the paperwork things perhaps. Which reminded him about the money. He had decisions to make.
How much did he owe to the credit card company? How much actual cash did he have at his disposal? He’d told God he was going to pay off the debt but it would still leave a lot which he could do what he liked with.
Firstly he looked again at the credit card company’s letter. It told him he owed £4,097 or a minimum of £125; there was an envelope with in which he could post his payment. He then looked in his pockets for the remains of the £75 he had started out with some time ago. There were very few remains; he had £12.27 left. He then studied the large brown envelope which contained the lorry driver’s £5,000, which, he now realised, Denis had been sitting on all afternoon. Lastly, he looked at his passbook from the Protect and Save Society. He had £3,465 in there. It was both satisfying and worrying, satisfying because he could buy a few things and not have to be too bothered about the cost but worrying because he knew, somehow, that it would all eventually disappear and there was no discernible way of increasing it.
Then of course there was the money that the Social Services had left him to live on. They had totted up what he would have to pay for the electric, the gas, the water, the rates, the rent and all that stuff and left him with £300. That was for food and drink, haircuts, clothes and so on. When would they turn up again? This time they had said…what? He couldn’
t remember. He remembered that they had left in a hurry, because he had thrown them out. Why did he do that? Thinking back, it was something to do with something they had said, but it had all gone now. Stupid fools, bothering a respectable, law-abiding citizen like him. Were they coming back in a month’s time? Or two weeks? No, it was no use, it had gone.
All this money business was a great worry. Well, how much should he give the credit card company? On balance he decided to pay it all off, seeing as how he had got his own source now. Then he wouldn’t be afraid of someone finding out about the scooter. He’d still have the card and he could buy things from time to time. God would be pleased.
The thought of God reminded him about his electronic communications. Warily, he eyed the computer. There was, he discovered, an email in his inbox. Cautiously, he opened it. There was an email from God. It said:
There is more to life than artichokes. Try to do more.
As usual, William flew into a rage. What use was this sort of advice! Do more what? A cookery course? What sort of life was He talking about? He was already feeding a cat for Christ’s sake. That was quite enough to cope with. He’d been involved in a terrible accident and nearly mown down by an errant white van driver. And he was persecuted by these Social Service men who wanted to put him in a Home! The memory came flooding back at this point. They also kept on trying to get him talking about the Past, which he was not going to do. The Past was obviously dreadful and he had no intention of raking it all up, just to please them, interfering so-and-so’s.
He got up and stormed towards the kitchen, in a tottery sort of way, flailing his arms about as he went. There he found a couple of cans of lager and the cat, who appeared to be hungry and thirsty again. Grumbling to himself, he fed it and gave it some milk, then went back to the sitting room, where he hunted around for the credit card letter. Eventually, he found it. It had an empty reply letter inside it, into which he started to put £4,000 from the big brown envelope from the lorry driver but then he remembered it would be better if he could send all the correct money by cheque, if he could get a cheque book from the Protect and Save branch. All he had to do was remember where the branch was.
William's Startling Emails Page 5
