Caryl Phillips - A Distant Shore

The man next to me will not speak with me. He is an elderly man and his body exudes an unfortunate odour. He does not know how to take care of himself. We drive on in silence and I concentrate upon the traffic. I ignore him. I have no desire to torment conversation out of this reluctant man. I have bought gloves, for occasionally the steering wheel is cold. It is also my hope that the gloves will make the whole business seem more professional. But the man continues to stare resentfully out of the window and he refuses to meet my eyes. I park in the hospital car park, and as he leaves my car he slams the door. He offers no thanks. He says nothing. Yesterday I visited the nurse and informed her that not one person had telephoned me. She appeared somewhat embarrassed, and then she told me that if I came this morning at ten o’clock, then a Mr. Simons would be ready for me to transport him to the hospital. She confided that this man did not possess a telephone, as though this was something that Mr. Simons ought to be ashamed of. I lingered for a moment, for I wondered if there was something further that she wished to say to me. But the truth was there was something that I wished to say to her.

“The lady next door to me. I do not know her name.” I saw the puzzled crease on the nurse’s brow, and so I described the lady’s appearance. The nurse continued to appear confused, and so I shared with her the lady’s address.

“Oh, I know who you mean.” She paused. “You know, I think she actually likes the bus.”

I could not think of anything else to say to this woman.

I look at the gleaming new hospital building. In my country if a man goes to the hospital, then he must bring his own blankets and bandages, and some money to persuade the doctor to attend to him. I understand that in England they do things in a different manner. I run my tongue across my teeth, but they do not feel clean. I miss being able to use a chewing stick, for the toothbrush and toothpaste are a strange invention and they leave an unpleasant feeling in my mouth. When I see Mr. Simons walking towards me, I steal a look at the clock on the dashboard and can see that only ten minutes have passed. Mr. Simons is holding a white paper bag, and I assume that he must have collected some medicine. I lean over and push open the door for him and he gets in. As I drive off he looks across at me.

“Going straight back, right?”

“I will take you back.”

He grunts, as though he wishes to let me know that indeed this is what he desires. None of the letters are signed “Mr. Simons,” although I can imagine that this man feels the same as my letter-writers. There are now seven letters, including the one with the razor blades. Last night somebody introduced dog mess through my letterbox. They must have employed a small shovel, for it lay curled in a neat pile. When I awoke this morning, the sight of it caused my stomach to move and I rushed to the bathroom. These people are unwell, for decent people do not conduct themselves in this way. Writing to me with their filth is one thing, but this is savage. They regard me as their enemy, this much I understand, but their behaviour is unclean. But truly, none of this is the fault of Mr. Simons.

I leave Mr. Simons at the bottom of the hill and drive slowly in the direction of my home. At the top of the hill I pass the girl, who hurries by as though she is late for the bus. I look at her in the rear-view mirror, but she chooses not to turn around. My car is dusty, and I decide that tomorrow I will bathe it. I turn the key in the door and immediately I can smell the detergent that I used to scrub the door-mat this morning. I used the whole bottle. I close the door behind me and a part of me is relieved to find neither more dog mess nor another letter. I can see her sitting in the window. She is at home. Why Mr. Simons and not this woman? I would appreciate somebody to talk with and this is a respectable woman. This is a woman to whom I might tell my story. If I do not share my story, then I have only this one year to my life. I am a one-year-old man who walks with heavy steps. I am a man burdened with hidden history. I look in the mirror and straighten my shirt collar and then I adjust my tie. I leave my bungalow and walk across the neatly trimmed grass towards her house. I knock on her door. She is a respectable woman and perhaps the nurse is wrong. Perhaps this woman does not love the bus. Perhaps her love for the bus is merely temporary. I knock again.

These flowers, they all have a personality, or so it said in a magazine that I once read. Or maybe I heard it on the radio. I can’t remember. It was a long time ago. But I definitely remember that flowers are all supposed to have distinct personalities. I suppose the red ones are angry, and the yellow ones are girls, and the blue ones are boys. I like looking at them, out here in the garden. The nurse puts a chair under the tree for me, but it’s not a very nice chair. It’s wooden, with a straight back, like she’s punishing me by making me sit in it. I’ve no idea what I’ve done wrong that would make her give me such a horrible chair. Mind you, at least she’s sitting in one that’s just the same. It’s not as if she’s put me in this chair and then gone and got a nice comfy one for herself. Her name’s quite long, and I don’t seem to be able to twist my tongue far enough to pronounce it properly. So I don’t bother, but she doesn’t seem to mind. She’s about my age, so she probably understands. I just call her nurse. I’ve noticed that she doesn’t like to sit too close to me. She likes to give me my space, which is, I suppose, how she’d like to think about it. And so she’s sitting where she always sits, about twenty yards away in some shade by the ornamental pond, with a book in her hand. Some days it’s a book, other days it’s a magazine, and once she even brought some knitting. But today it’s a book, although I know she’s not really reading it. I suppose she’d get the sack if all she did was plonk us in the garden and then get lost in a good book. She’s supposed to watch over us and make sure we’re all right, but I can see that she has to strike a fine balance. On the one hand she wants us to be free to be ourselves, but on the other hand she doesn’t want to neglect us. If truth be told, she can’t really win either way.

Today I’ve made a decision to not say anything to anybody, and I can see how uncomfortable this is making her feel, but it’s not really my problem, is it? I’m interested in flowers and she’s not, and that’s about all there is to it. I didn’t ask her to sit with me, so if she wants to go that’s fine. But at least it’s a nice day and we can sit outside. For the past two days it’s been teeming down and it’s been really depressing being stuck inside in the recreation room with the television on, and half-finished jigsaw puzzles everywhere, and people milling about and trying to behave like they’re normal. She doesn’t know how lucky she is to be sitting outdoors in the garden, with her clunky shoes and that silly tight blouse. My feet tend to perspire when I get anxious, but today they are drip-dry. I’m happy here in the sun with my flowers, and sitting under my overdressed tree that’s keen to hide its brittle bones. Winter will be the undoing of it, but as it’s still autumn my tree is allowed to flaunt herself. The nurse has no idea that I’m happy. She sneezes, then discreetly blows her nose into a proper handkerchief. I think she’s got allergies. However, one thing that I can say about her is she’s clean, and around these parts such things count.

I have to give it to them on the cleanliness front in this place. Every day they scrub the showers and the bath tubs, they empty the wastepaper bins, and then they mop and polish the tiles on the floor so that you can almost see your face in them. I can set my watch by the appearance of the two young women, with their long, stringy-haired mops and plastic buckets. Ten o’clock, every day on the dot. First they sweep, then mop, then give it all a good waxed buffing. If cleanliness is next to godliness, then we’re living pretty close to heaven in this home. Except at night. We’re not allowed anything like scissors or a razor or tweezers, even. I’m not used to going to bed untrimmed and unpresentable. But it’s not allowed, so that’s that. And then they come in every hour with their torches, shining them in my face to make sure I’ve not done anything to myself. They try to be quiet, but I always hear them. The breath patrol, listening to make sure that we’ve not slipped over into the next world during the night. I expect that would mess up their bookkeeping. And then in the morning, just like in the real world, I put on my day face. Actually, most of them don’t bother with this part, which is partly why they’re in here in the first place. They just shuffle around looking miserable, as though death has tried to talk to them in the night. Well, it also tries with me sometimes, but you’re not forced to listen. There’s nothing that says you have to pay attention.