The Convalescent Page 13

  It was when he turned into the next corridor, unlit for some reason, that William began to feel anxious. And began to worry about his walk. How should he proceed along these distressing corridors? Enter these blighted lounges?

  His adjutant’s walk was unthinkable, for combined with his white jacket it suggested self-satisfied super-efficiency. A rangy walk suggested that he was chafing to be outdoors, digging ditches. A quiet stroll that he had no more than a casual interest in the place. A fast excited walk that he expected to find someone dying round the next corner. Was he a man without a walk? And was such a man a man without a point of view? He tried to remember how he had walked in his twenties, but – like trying to remember how the world had seemed to him then – it was impossible. Coming to the end of the corridor, he realised that he was stumbling slightly. Was this his walk, then – a species of stumble?

  Breakfast was over and the elderly, against a background of bright sunshine and blown leaves, were already on their way. Standing by the dining room door, William had the fancy that they were going round and round – out this door, in another, in and out of tables, chairs, out this one again. Fatigues for the fatigued. Bending forwards slightly, hands behind his back, he waited for an opportunity to present himself. Some of the patients paid no attention to him, others looked at him as if they thought that they ought to know him. He smiled at them all, not just out of pity, but out of a sense that he must not misjudge this first presentation of himself. As well one as another, or should he wait until the spirit moved him? (What else moved here but the spirit and wasted bowels?) The eyes, hinting at no past and at no future beyond the next four steps, gave him no help. The set of the mouth, where a mouth remained, was a better guide. This mouth, for instance, seemed to be savouring a delight which only the old lady in question knew would never die. Eagerly William put his hand under her arm and asked could he be of any help. She didn’t seem to know or care, however, where she was going.

  “The north lounge, William,” Sophie said, overtaking him. “That’s where she always goes. Isn’t it, Miss Black? Along to the end there, then left, then first right. Get her to show you; she really knows.”

  “Good morning, William,” matron said, also overtaking him. “You’ve missed your breakfast. We have tea at eleven.”

  “You’ve missed your breakfast?” Miss Black said, as though she couldn’t make up her mind whether to do so was an act of daring or madness. “You’ve missed your breakfast! Bad luck. I didn’t miss mine. I had fish, I think, or was it eggs?”

  Her voice was low and slow, always failing, and it had the effect of making William want to bend low beside her as he walked. Once, in fact, he did so, but it appeared he was about to pick her up in his arms and run for the nearest exit, and so he desisted.

  It took him about ten minutes to get her to the north lounge and about three to settle her in her chair. She said then that she would be all right. Looking back at her from the door, however, he saw that she was staring straight ahead, fingering the hem of her skirt. He couldn’t bear it.

  “Can I read to you, Miss Black?” he asked, bending over her, noticing that she hadn’t registered that he had gone. Her voice in its abandoned lowness had the quality of dust settling.

  “That would be nice. Thank you.”

  The only book he could find in the lounge was Prester John. He began to read it, his voice quiet and firm. Once he looked up. If Miss Black was not actually listening, she was not ignoring him, either. Her parched skin, he oddly felt, would have received the morning if it could have done and her dry lips spoken a refrain if she could have recalled one. He read on, as encouraged as if she had placed the book in his hands.

  “She’s not listening, William,” matron said, suddenly above him. Absorbed in his reading, he hadn’t heard her come in. He read on, fearing that if he looked up he would see her – hands taut, birdlike – preparing to ruffle her hair. Or could he hear her doing it already, a dry, abrupt sound, irritation and excitement in equal measures? “There is the garden. It is beginning to let us down.”

  “At the end of the chapter, matron,” William said.

  “Very well. But she isn’t listening, you know. And remember to leave your white jacket indoors.”

  “Yes, matron.”

  By the end of the day William was exhausted. After reading to Miss Black, he did some gardening, and after this he talked in turn to Miss Watson, Mrs Walker and Mr Clow. Then, after some more gardening, he read to Miss Parsons (The History of Mr Polly) and helped serve tea in the north lounge.

  It was part of Sophie’s faith, he discovered, that if you didn’t talk to the elderly or read to them they would sleep. If you talked to them they ate more. They read more. They were more inclined to go for little walks. They lived longer. What was the point of the long afternoon sleep so reminiscent of death? The lounge that matron was in charge of was full of slumbering figures, apparently. Sophie called it the lounge of the sleepers. Whenever she could, she slipped in there and woke them, talking to them, telling them stories, reading to them. A few times, she said, she had found that the long afternoon sleep had passed over into death without anyone noticing, and this she took as proof of her theory. William was shown this lounge, standing with Sophie outside the glass doors, feeling the force of her will as she silently regarded the sleeping figures, the sacrificial throats and necks.

  “They could have been sleeping for years,” William said.

  “Exactly. I’m sure that’s what some of them feel.”

  “Isn’t matron very busy, though?”

  “You could say so. Her accounts are endless.”

  “Isn’t that the minister’s job?”

  “They work at them together,” Sophie said, starting to smile. “He checks her figures, she checks his, God applauds.”

  He had managed to encourage some reminiscences in the course of the day, and to follow them even when they wandered, as they often did. He seemed to have a talent for it. With his own past shifting and oblique, he was well placed to understand what was happening. Miss Watson told him that she had been born in Brighton in a large house and that she would soon die there. Brighton to Brighton – she saw it as a perfect circle. On her way, she had nearly been married three times but had always held back (her bad breath, her unreliable eyesight and her fear of the black stick). She had worked as a secretary in Paris, a minor diplomat in Marseilles and a fashion designer in Nice. William remarked that her French must have been perfect and she said that it still was, giving him a demonstration in English. A dashing inconsequence ruled her memories. William listened affectionately, encouraged to find that there were others who moved from moment to moment, event to event, with little regard for links. Now and then, therefore, on this first day, this day of initiations, he recalled episodes from his own past, sometimes sharing them, sometimes not. Conversation among the elderly, he saw, was more a dovetailing of reminiscences than an exchange of impressions or ideas. The best moments were those when, side by side, memories vindicated each other. Similar coins on the windblown slope. Miss Parsons, for example. She had worked with Girl Guides until she was fifty and on one of her weekends with her girls there had been a thick mist. She remembered the penetrating silence and how no one had felt that she should break it. William understood, for once, out birdwatching, he had been caught in just such a mist. He remembered his feeling that the mist would lift if he could only keep still. “That’s it!” Miss Parsons said. “I told us to draw our legs up and sit tight.” And Mrs Walker: she had been a drinker too, it seemed, particularly after the death of her husband. She had a nice turn of phrase, telling William that she had entered the Montgomery on a tide of gin which, once out, had unfortunately never come in again. “I am beached, William, beached with obscure companions.” The word “obscure” she spoke very carefully, as if just discovering it, or as though persuaded that, perfectly spoken, it would release her somehow. William hung on these attempts at the triumphant pronunciation, speaking the word
inwardly (thinking how he had lost touch with too many words) as the old lips humorously pursed themselves. “Open wide and keep still,” Mr Clow had to say four times in his high-pitched voice before William realised that he was in the presence of a retired dentist. It explained the shining envy in his eyes: he wanted to be allowed to put on William’s jacket. And, eighty-eight years old, he did so, bending over William and telling him that his teeth were rotten, his gums even worse. Behind, playing the part of the dentist’s assistant, was Sophie. “Pull them out, dentist,” she said. “Pull them out and make him start again.”

  “Terrible neglect,” Mr. Clow muttered. “Terrible. You’re too young to have a mouth like that.”

  He had been in the garden for about forty minutes – feeling his teeth with his tongue for evidence of the decay Mr. Clow had spotted and working at one of the rockeries with a hoe Sophie had found for him – when matron approached.

  “It’s been months since anyone worked at the garden,” she said. “Months. Your predecessor wasn’t keen on it and then of course he left so suddenly. But if you’re determined you may make it again one of the most beautiful gardens in this corner of Lanarkshire. In the days when the Montgomery was an estate, you know, this garden was famous. Distant days!”

  She was wearing a blue cape and brown leather boots. It was drizzling slightly and William realised that she wasn’t on her way anywhere but had come out especially to see him. Holding the cape at her neck, she looked as if she was protecting more than just herself. And the word “protectress” came to him. It was part of her idea of her role, apparently, that she should try, now and then, to turn herself into a symbol. It was one of the things that made dealings with her awkward: these switches from the personal to the impersonal were unpredictable. She moved a hand out from the cape and ruffled her hair, but lazily, looking at William as if to say she was only doing it because he was taking so long to speak.

  “Matron?”

  “Yes?”

  “Is there a lawnmower?”

  She turned, smiling, and walked to a hut which stood against the high wall which surrounded the Montgomery. She had the key to it in her pocket – one of many on a huge key ring – and William noticed that, using it, she was careful to keep the other keys from jingling together. The hut smelled of oil, grass and dampness. He was invited to look inside. There was a selection of gardening tools, two lawnmowers, a large hose, a folded trellis fence and a wheelbarrow. He stooped to inspect the lawnmowers, while outside, holding the door to stop it from swinging shut, matron made another remark about the garden’s former glory. Down on one knee, William ran his forefinger along the blades of the lawnmowers and stood up.

  “I’ll oil them,” he said, “and cut the grass when it’s dry.”

  They returned to the rockery, where William took up the hoe again. It was her impression, matron remarked, that he had created quite a stir. He would be popular. He smiled, working with the hoe, wondering what it was about her manner that prevented him from being more pleased. He didn’t speak. There was a knock then on a window behind them. Matron ignored it. But William could see that it was Sophie, holding up a cup of tea, mouthing between smiles that he should come in out of the drizzle and enjoy it.

  “Young Sophie,” matron said without turning. “The drizzle is certainly getting heavier.”

  April 2nd, 1982

  I’m on holiday this week. I can’t quite understand why, but I am. Was it perhaps suggested that I take a break? Possibly. My work has been ragged, I have to admit, but no more so than that of others. Anyway, I’m on holiday, whether it was my choice or not. It may be that the distinction between free and unfree acts can no longer be drawn in my case. That might be a comfort. Let it slide!

  Margo is in and out, which is just as well, for I’m ill at ease. And then, at the end of the week, Kathleen is off school. She was sick in the night, apparently, four times. The doctor is called, but it is not I who see him. Margo is better at describing symptoms, crisper in her sense of what is wrong. I have a tendency to exaggerate symptoms, even to invent them. I stay out of sight until Dr Purvis has gone and then offer to go for the medicine. Margo says that I can combine it with a trip to the school to fetch Kenneth. Believe it or not, I haven’t done this before; I have always been working. I note the fact with acute resentment: I have always been working!

  It’s a pleasant day, early spring. There is a pub across the road from the pharmacy and I sit there for more than the twenty minutes I’ve been told the prescription will take. I have had a good lunch, so I will not become erratic. On the contrary, by the time I rise to leave I am steady, steady and as if on a summit. There must be some way of fixing oneself at such a pitch. (All these pills and drugs, and the fearless moment, the moment of unabashed friendliness, cannot be maintained?) The girl in the pharmacy asks me my address and after a pause – a pause filled by my smiles (licked by them, one might almost say) – I give it. She smiles back as she reaches the medicine in its white paper bag over the counter to me. Perhaps it’s as simple as this: one customer in every ten is a phenomenon of some kind, to be smiled at or grieved over. This girl sees that I’m not to be grieved over. And that’s good. That’s as it should be. As any sensible girl would have it.

  Ten minutes early for Kenneth, I station myself at the entrance to the playground and wait, wondering how he will react when he sees me. Sees that it is me and not his mother. I hope he’ll not be embarrassed. Probably amused at such a departure from the normal. At worst, smilingly suspicious. I’m rather awkward with him, so it’s well to be prepared. I rehearse questions and jokes and observations – enough to get me through three such meetings – and find that, doing so, I’ve grasped one of the railings and that rust has come off on my fingers. It’s a long ten minutes. I look at my watch rather like one of those elderly people you see: that haunted preoccupation with something whose function is no longer quite grasped. They’re not so much looking at the time, it seems, as for an explanation why there should be time-pieces at all. I’m glad – if this is really how I’m looking at my watch – that there are no other parents about yet.

  A bell rings and I hear, for quite some moments, sounds of muffled preparation. The huts in which the children have their lessons are below me. My vantage point is perfect. I have a momentary anxiety, though, that in the press and crush of excited children I’ll miss Kenneth. I make myself conspicuous, therefore, lounging at the side of the gate, an attitude of jovial readiness and responsibility. I enjoy the attitude; there may be something to be said for acting. I even have the impression that were the children to appear now I would be able to be a convincing father, inspired by my pose, persuaded by its implications. A well held pose, I reflect, may be a launching pad of sorts. Ought I to act more then?

  The children don’t come. Why am I the only parent up here, anyway, enjoying the spring breeze? It’s all very silent. Maybe there will be a second bell; maybe not. I go down a flight of steps and approach the huts. A teacher comes out. Trotting towards her with my hands in my pockets (my pose has not entirely deserted me), I ask where are the children. She says they’ve gone, pointing away from us, in front of us. I thank her, as if I’d fully expected her to say this, and, still with my hands in my pockets, trot round the huts and into what I now see is the main playground. Sweetie papers and crisp packets and orange-juice cartons (almost as if they too are packing up for the week) retreat before the breeze, making a light scattering sound, and teachers in twos and threes move towards the main gate. The main gate! It is where I should have been all the time. Why wasn’t I told? My hands come from my pockets. Was I told? I am suddenly distressed and, outside the gate now, begin to run. The trouble is that I don’t know which way Kenneth has gone. I run and run, looking into side streets, looking into lanes. I run until I can run no more. Such foolishness! It all comes from not being prepared. I call Kenneth’s name, or rather a cry with his name in it is wrung from my throat. The sound alarms me: I run again – run until, almos
t crying, I enter our street.

  Reaching the front door, I hear laughter, and opening it, I see Kenneth. “Where were you?” he asks. “Didn’t you see me?” I reply. “You weren’t there,” he says simply. Margo comes into the hall and asks if I was at least able to get Kathleen’s medicine. I hand it to her, saying in a low, apologetic and suddenly broken voice that I waited at the top gate. Looking at me closely, she says that she can see that I’ll not make the same mistake again. (I have to say that she never rubs one’s nose in one’s mistakes. If you want to discuss them, she’ll do so; but if you don’t, she’s happy to say nothing. Fierce with herself when she fails, she’s not so with others.) She says that she and Fiona Gardener, the mother who kindly brought Kenneth home, are having tea and asks me to join them. I don’t want to, but I feel that I deserve to be made uncomfortable. I sit silently while Fiona tells me about comparable mistakes made by her husband. She finds them terribly amusing. Poured out soup thinking it was dishwater; bought rice instead of flour; forgot where he’d parked his car; put damp sheets on the children’s beds; took his son up a mountain in the summer without food or drink; locked himself out of his house and his office on the same day. She would have gone on – on into outright scorn perhaps – had not Margo lifted a hand to silence her. I do not deserve such loyalty and consideration from my wife. I am careful not to show my appreciation, however, for in some of its forms it excites her contempt. Recently, for example, she asked me who was writing the script for my life these days – a social scientist or a superannuated priest. (A reference, I suppose, to my fatalism on the one hand, my curious moralising and philosophising on the other.)