Adam Mars-Jones - Cedilla

Prissie said I should write up my experiences for the local papers — or the national press, why not? It was hard to imagine that such an exposé of low-level misery would find much of a readership. Better, really, from a journalistic point of view, if the inmates were being starved and brutally bludgeoned rather than bossed about and subjected to ominous hoovering.

After the pub closed we went back to the Washbournes’ for a nightcap and to listen to some music. It amused them to be driven home the tiny distance in the Mini. It’s possible that Mum, putting out the bottles for the milkman, could have heard us talking as we left the car, or caught raucous laughter of a familiar timbre wafting over from the open windows four doors down. Neighbours might have asked her if that wasn’t my car parked outside the pub the night before, and seen later at the Washbournes’. Any of this would have given her pain, but there was no remedy for that. The Black Lion was the only pub where there was a welcome for me, and I certainly wasn’t going to stay in the Home in the evenings communing with the zombies.

I didn’t leave the Washbournes’ that night until nearly one in the morning. Despite my bravado I wasn’t sure how I would be received back at Gerrards Cross. I could see no lights from the road. Perhaps I’d been locked out as a way of teaching me a lesson. Even Mr Toad has his moments of doubt, before he sounds the horn — poop! poop! — that summons his welcome.

I needn’t have worried. Out swept a large and very capable woman, very Irish, who introduced herself as Eileen. She had hair dyed black and a face that was dark pink, almost the colour of blackcurrant fool. She looked at me merrily and said, ‘And you must be the bad boy John.’ She was in a high good humour, not in any hurry to have me go to bed. She was happy for me to sit up with her and keep her company.

This was the first time I had properly understood that day staff and night staff are different. They’re as different as night and day. Day staff have too much to do, night staff have too little. Day staff want compliance, but night staff enjoy stimulation. Eileen wanted to know which pub I’d been to, who my friends were, my history and plans (precious few). She didn’t pry. She just wanted to know everything.

Astringent, anti-tussive and vulnerary

During my time in the Cheshire Home the nights gave back what the days took away, what with the Black Lion and the warmth of Eileen’s welcome. She taught me to play backgammon, and also to keep a keen eye on the pieces in case they moved of their own accord, which sometimes happened. We didn’t play for money but for sweets, Maltesers at first and then Smarties for preference since they were less given to rolling.

Eileen couldn’t digest milk properly, or so she said, and would make up mugs of something called Slippery Elm Food. This was a powder which she added to a pan of milk to thicken it, making it porridgy and easier to absorb. It was like glue, in fact — it even said ‘mucilage’ on the packet. She told me she got it from Boots the Chemist. That too became part of our ritual, the sharing of Slippery Elm Food, that potable glue. We bonded.

In our late-night sessions Eileen passed on the lessons which life had taught her. Her habit on holiday, in Ireland and elsewhere, was to look at the local paper and find out the times and places of funerals. She’d made many good friends that way over the years, going to the funerals of strangers, starting off with ‘I’m sorry for your loss’, playing it by ear after that. It sounds rather a splendid exercise, a sort of spiritual party game. Gatecrash the funerals of strangers, and end up recruiting them for your own. Not many funerals are standing-room-only, after all.

She said I should try it myself, though I think she underestimated my personal distinctiveness, my sore-thumb tendency. That was the great thing about Eileen. She would come and help me out of the Mini and into the Home, but nurse-Eileen and chatterbox-Eileen seemed to be separate agents, and she would talk to me about anything. I told her that the only stranger’s funeral I had attended was in India, the pyre on Arunachala. I told her about the necessary piercing of the skull and the rearing-up of the body once combustion was established.

Eileen took in the grisly details without dismay. From the look of her face it was unlikely that she was contemplating the end of human existence. She was probably wondering whether I’d complain if she started frying some rashers. Irish people never seem to say bacon. It’s always rashers.

That first night I didn’t go to bed until well after two, and bedtime could be even later than that on the nights which followed. Then in the morning I’d give breakfast a miss, and not roll out of bed properly until ten or even eleven. This was more than respite, it was close to paradise.

I would probably have met a certain amount of resistance during the day, but luckily Martha Green, who was in charge of the office, turned out to have a soft spot for me. She always wore gypsy scarves, advertising the free spirit within the administrator, and she knew how to keep everyone sweet. I’d call her a breath of fresh air except for her chain-smoking. Her cigarette consumption was conspicuous even at a time when smoking was seen as a human right, and faculty libraries at Cambridge still had designated tables for smokers.

Martha wouldn’t be able to defend me in frontal conflicts with our dear Director, but she could certainly block any complaints that came from Molly. Quite often there’s someone tucked away in the middle of an organisation who quite likes troublemakers, as long as the conflict is amusing and can be contained.

Meanwhile I benefited from what the establishment offered without needing to feel either respect or gratitude. I had a friend at night and a nice balance of forces during the day: an ally in the office and an enemy cleaning the floors.

Molly hadn’t retaliated in any real way for her humiliation at my hands, or so I thought. Just the once she hissed, ‘You think you can live by your own rules, don’t you? You’ll find out soon enough.’ It seemed logical that she would keep her counsel about the incident with the stick and not make waves. There were only two witnesses, Louise and me. It made sense that Molly would keep quiet.

I’m glad I didn’t know that she was phoning Mum up and telling her that I was upsetting everybody in the Home. That I was evil. She must have broken quite a few of the rules of the establishment to get hold of the number. The Director’s office certainly had a lock, as I had pointed out in our interview, but perhaps it wasn’t used very often. Or she had got hold of a copy somehow.

If Dad had happened to pick up the phone, he might have enjoyed the conversation in his own perverse way. I can imagine him hearing this stranger’s voice describe his son as evil, and coming back with something quite unexpected, along the lines of:

‘You don’t have to tell me ! I’ve had years of it. What with one thing or another you’d think John would have learned to fit in by now, but that’s not the way he does things. Gets it from his grandmother, I dare say. Count yourself lucky she’s not in residence where you are! Thank you for bringing me up to date about his activities, my dear. I might have guessed he’d not lose his gift for rubbing people up the wrong way. What did you say your name was?’

But no — she had to get through to Mum. That was bad luck. It could never be that way with Mum, the taking things lightly, making a joke of it. She didn’t have any equivalent of Dad’s oddly slippery character armour. I wonder if Molly called in the evening, when I was actually in the pub down the road from Trees, when Mum might be able to hear me laugh, or the drone of my pontificating on the breeze. Molly had only made the call in the hope of making mischief — she wasn’t to know that the mischief had already been done. You might say it had been done before I made Mum’s acquaintance.