Morag Joss - The Night Following

During the day I stayed up in the attic, sleeping or drowsing, and often brooding about the nurses I could hear downstairs. They had taken to arriving in pairs so that, I had no doubt, one could attend to Arthur while the other snooped around. I resented their unearned and undeserved power to administer to him. I imagined their irreverent hands on his skin and fumed at the squandering of such a privilege; they were ignorant of the value of what they were being allowed to touch.

If I had happened to sleep through until the evening, I could tell as soon as I woke that they had been in the house. From the top of the stairs, the eddying of Arthur’s lately unheeded protests tautened the air; I would follow the wraith of his spent distress wafting from room to room. The wrong doors would be hanging ajar, chairs disarranged. I could also tell at once where in the house Arthur had chosen to lie to recover from their invasions. He didn’t make any noise; I knew his whereabouts from waves of silent keening, as if from someone contemplating his wounds after the aggressor has moved casually on. This was when he would be at his quietest and most elusive. Not until I had got to work and begun to wash the memory of the intrusion out of the place would he be able to stir. Then I would hear him come back to life, creaking along the landing to the bathroom in his slippers, dropping papers, whistling birdcalls above the noise of running taps.

The nurses also kept leaving letters and forms and leaflets to do with evaluations and qualifying for things such as transport and home care. There was no end to it. On most of them they had already done the filling-in except on the line awaiting Arthur’s signature, which they fenced at each side with bright red crosses. Arthur left these out for me, next to his letters, and after I’d read them I tore them up and threw them away, as he clearly intended I should.

27 Cardigan Avenue

Dear Ruth

Was caught going down for drink of juice around 4 pm. Mrs. M hovering at the front and she sees me through the door. She’s got a saucepan in one hand, MAD look on face, frantic bitch. I’d ignore her as usual, only she starts calling out and banging till I fear for the glass, pays no attention when I shout at her to go away. So I open door to shout again and make sure she hears. Doesn’t even look at me, barges past to the kitchen, she’s says she’s got something hot for me and she has to put it down before it burns her hands. Transparent ruse to get in and nosy around.

Anyway once there-oh, transformation, face lights up. Sniffs. Sticks bosoms out, actually wiggles them (sorry you have to hear this dear, but you ought to know the kind of woman she is). Then she says, Well, you ARE full of surprises! I’m impressed!

She says, Obviously you’re getting somebody in! and then, smirky smirky-Naughty of you keeping it dark, I haven’t seen anybody coming or going.

And does she have to remind me-finger wag wag-all I had to do was ask her for a hand, I needn’t have gone to the length of paying someone. I don’t answer, just look in her saucepan.

Brought you some soup, she says.

Some soup. Smells of sausages boiled in grass. I make no comment. Wait for her to leave, but no, hands go on hips and speech coming, I can tell. She just wants to help and Ruth wouldn’t like to see me like this and no good just giving up and just makes you more miserable hiding yourself away etc.

Still, she says, looking round again, she won’t scold anymore, as this is a VERY GOOD START.

I tell her yes, I have got somebody coming in. And I’ve told you that till I’m blue in the face, I add. And I’ve told the nurse, I’ve told all of them including the foreign one, what’s her name, something like Clinger but it can’t be that. I’ve been telling you all for weeks somebody’s coming in and none of you listen to a word I say.

SHE’S coming in. RUTH’S coming in.

All I get is her Oh-we’ve-been-here-before face.

Now look, she says. Don’t undo all this good work (waves hand around kitchen like she’d done it herself). Don’t keep on with this silly talk. She moves in close and her voice goes quiet (I think it’s because she thinks you might hear). Arthur, I’m speaking frankly now. You know this is silly, I know this is silly. But these people are trying to help you and they’re getting the idea you’re mentally ill. Arthur, you are your own worst enemy.

Ruth, if her and her ilk won’t listen, why should I care? It’s none of their business. So I tell her that, but does this have desired effect? Oh no, we’re off again.

She wants to get off the silly talk and back to sensible talk. If I won’t tell her who I’ve got coming in, how much, may she ask, am I paying her, my mystery cleaner? She says, probably over the odds, because people have no qualms about asking what they think they’ll get away with, it’s criminal, there are people round here who get away with mur- oh, pardon me, she says. Oh, dear, poor Ruth… I didn’t mean…

Well? Didn’t mean WHAT? Get away with MUR??? HAH!! Y ou tripped yourself up there, Mrs. M!

She says, Well, clearly I’ve caught you at an inconvenient time. I’ll call for the pan tomorrow.

I go to front door and open it.

I’ll say good afternoon then, she says. Good afternoon!

And I’ll say fuck off then, I say. Fuck off!

She pretends not to hear.

I know you heard me, though. You were pretending it wasn’t funny. You were trying not to laugh. You never liked the woman, did you?

Still, you might have left a word. On the letter. I’m going to leave all the letters out so you can’t miss them. Just add. a little note, then we’ll really show her.

Arthur

Later: That window cleaner turns up right outside kitchen window, radio on, blaring. That lump of rag he uses is filthy, how’s that supposed to get anything clean? Looks like he’s wiping the windows with a drowned squirrel.

He’s very cheery. Thinks I’ve forgotten about last time. Shouts at me, am I keeping well? Say nothing, no point wasting words on the likes of him. I walk into conservatory so he gets full view, raincoat plus legs-I point down to my bandages. He says something, makes some gesture I don’t get. So I open the door and tell him to fuck off, too. Leave him in no doubt.

PS Should have stayed in bed, going back there now.

PPS Leave me a sign.

“Hurry up, Grace!” Evelyn cried, patting her hands over the surface of the eiderdown, trying to locate her other glove. She had just heard the honk of a car horn from the street outside. “Are you ready, love? It’s here, the car’s here!”

She found the glove and pulled it on. Her new summer gloves, bought for this special day, were made of some new stretchy fabric, non-wrinkle, fully washable, and, or at least as they had promised her in the shop, gleaming white. Today, Uncle Les was sending a car right to the door that would convey them to the convalescent home where, as he had written in his postcard, he was settling in fine after just a week and already feeling the benefit.

It was so long since Evelyn had been out anywhere that she was as excited as a young girl. When had she last gone for a spin through the countryside? It was years, and that was by bus. The thought of being taken in a private car was almost more excitement than she could bear. She was vague about where exactly Uncle Les’s convalescent place was, but that didn’t matter. In fact she liked the mystery. It was an extra thrill to feel that only the driver had to know the route. She could just sit back and be taken to her destination, like a duchess! It didn’t do any harm to feel like a bit of a swell, once in a blue moon. It was only pretending, and life was ordinary enough the rest of the time for it not to turn her head.