Adam Mars-Jones - Cedilla

If the Director called in on the dining room people would actually eat faster (both those who needed help and those who could manage by themselves) as if to ingratiate themselves with him with a show of appetite.

Early on in my stay I was trying to strike up some conversation when everyone went quiet. ‘What’s the matter?’ I said. ‘Why the two minutes’ silence? Armistice Day isn’t for months.’

‘Shh! Mr Giles is walking past.’

‘Yes I see that. So what?’

‘It’s not respectful to talk when he’s doing his rounds.’ Apparently we were supposed to be good little girls and boys, however grown-up we were.

‘I see. We have to KEEP QUIET! when the director WALKS PAST!’ Intentionally I raised my voice, so that everyone winced. ‘So much for the home from home.’ As far as I was concerned this was a Cheshire Far From Home. A Cheshire un-Home.

What the establishment needed was to have all its moral windows opened, every cobwebbed corner swept with a dynamic broom. I volunteered. Since the prevailing mood was of cringing, I set myself to swagger. Let everyone else impersonate refugees if that’s what they wanted. I would behave as if I owned the place. Obviously I had advantages — I was just passing through, and I had more mobility than some. It seemed worthwhile to show them that abasement wasn’t a necessary condition of life.

I wasn’t trying to be popular. It was fine by me if I was hated by the other residents, just as long as I got the message across that we were worms by consent, and could just as easily choose to be pests.

The Director wasn’t actively a bully, but his régime inflamed those who were. One cleaner called Molly had the knack of looking as wholesome as a pear on a dish as long as there were other staff members around, but came nastily alive when she was on her own. She carried the shark gene, the one that delivers sure knowledge of what can be got away with.

She had no more right to tell people what to do than the postman, though I suppose she could legitimately ask someone to move so that she could clean where they were. Everyone lived in fear, though, and she took full advantage. She would hiss to some rather faded lady with multiple sclerosis, ‘I don’t want you talking to him . I won’t tell you again.’ Him being me.

If I ignored her she would hoover immediately behind the wheelchair for an exaggeratedly long time, so that it was impossible to think of anything but the grimaces she must be making, or the passes with an imaginary knife.

Everyone let her walk all over them, saying ‘Anything for a quiet life’ to themselves until they had no life left. Louise, the woman with multiple sclerosis, would wait until Molly was long gone from the day-room before she dared to whisper, ‘You know what? I wish I could whack her on that bum of hers.’

‘It’s a big enough target. Would you like me to do it for you? Save you the trouble?’

‘You … wouldn’t … dare!’

‘I think you know that I would. I will. Shall we sell tickets? Everyone will want a ringside seat.’

‘No. Just do it for me. Make sure I have a good view.’

‘Agreed. It will be a royal command performance, just for you.’

So the next time Molly was in range (and bending over) I whacked her with my stick. Louise watched goggle-eyed as I undertook my little swing. The impact was less than mighty, and not only because of the padded nature of the target. My arms can only describe a brief arc, and to land the blow at all I had to lean over at a precarious angle. There was a muffled thwack, though I tried to convey by way of a certain solemnity that this was a community reprisal rather than an act of individual impulse.

Weakness is not a weakness. Lack of physical force is not a character flaw. These formulas need work before they can turn into inspiring slogans, though on some deep level they are so clearly true. Till then, the strong must be whacked whenever the opportunity arises.

Molly spat with rage, but I stood my ground. ‘There’s more where that came from,’ I told her. ‘I’m not afraid of you, and I’m only doing what everyone here would like to.’

The ladder of pain relief

Which was true, though my status as a visitor protected me. If I made a bad smell I didn’t have to sit in it indefinitely. I could trundle away, drive away if necessary, from any repercussions. The difference between me and most of the inmates made me feel virtually able-bodied, which was almost intoxicating. As long as I played the part of the resident vigilante I could forget that I was a resident at all.

It was perversely invigorating to encounter actual opposition rather than passive difficulty. A level of energy which was hardly enough to meet the challenges of student life seemed prodigious in this setting. I fizzed with it. By my standards the inmates had hardly stuck their heads over the parapet of the day before they began to shrink back down towards sleep.

The doctors attached to the Home earnestly collaborated on the goal of a quiet life. They prescribed with a free hand. I clambered up quite a few of the rungs on the ladder of pain relief in my time at the Cheshire Home.

Under Flanny’s guidance I had broken with Ponstan and Doloxene, and had struck up a rewarding relationship with Fortral (pentazocine). She wasn’t trigger-happy with her scripts, though, and she knew what she was dealing with. She said, ‘We’ll try you on this stuff but you’ll need to be a bit careful. It’s not quite DDA but it’s not far off.’ DDA meaning Dangerous Drugs Act. That worked fine for quite a while, but now I needed something stronger.

At the Cheshire Home Dr Pye started me on Omnopon (papaveretum) after I’d sweet-talked him a bit. Any gardener will tell you that the papaver - bit means poppy. You’re homing in on an opiate.

Under Dr Pye’s guidance I learned to inject an ampoule of Fortral intramuscularly. I’d do it in the top of the leg. That provided exemplary pain relief, and even the ghost of a buzz. Ampoule — is there a more seductive word in the language?

The nurse said, ‘He seems to manage it quite well,’ and Dr Pye said, ‘Let him have one whenever he wants.’ I became quite a dab hand with the needle. There was definite satisfaction in doing a neat job. I was making great strides in my effort to play doctor as well as patient, the worm Ouroboros medicating his own tail.

The other inmates had their routines, and I had mine. On the first evening, after supper, I sang out, ‘So who’s for the pub?’ I didn’t really expect an answer, though I wasn’t quite prepared for the shocked quality of the silence that followed. It’s true that I would have been stymied if some of the residents had taken up the suggestion (Louise, for instance) but some of the cerebral palsy cases were more or less roadworthy. Their paralysis was largely psychological.

I dare say that from the point of view of the more settled residents I seemed to be carving out a syndrome of my own, as a florid psychotic with delusions of invulnerability.

My show of initiative shocked the staff as much as the residents. A nurse asked timidly, ‘When will you be back?’ To which I replied with enormous satisfaction, ‘Don’t know. Late. I don’t see that it matters. There’s a night nurse, isn’t there?’

‘Well, yes.’

‘There you are, then. Don’t wait up! ’

My exit would have been even more impressive if I hadn’t needed a certain amount of help to get into the car, but after that I was launched on the open road, destination the Black Lion in Bourne End.

I was pretty sure that Malcolm and Prissie Washbourne, veterans of the Battle of Trees, would be there. If they weren’t I would chivvy the barman to roust them out with a phone call. They were there. Perhaps because they were already a few drinks to the good, they greeted me entirely without surprise. That’s the whole virtue of a local — people are always popping in. I ordered my usual lime juice cordial and mounted (with help) the stool next to Prissie’s. From that narrow throne I started to pontificate in the style which the elevation of the furniture seemed to demand.