B. Johnson - House Mother Normal

empty ones here until it’s three-quarters full –

three bottles pour a quarter out of, that is, until

this one’s also three-quarters full, and when you’ve

got them all three-quarters full then top them up

with water from your tap. All right?

But please be careful not to stain any of the labels

with drips, there’s a good trusty, my old Charlie?

No, I know you haven’t, I

know, Charlie. Now Sarah, I want

you to do a similar job for me, though not quite the

same. You see these little bottles? I’d like you

just to soak the labels off, make the bottles quite

clean afterwards

No, I don’t want the labels kept for

anything, no, so you can get them off any way you

like, tear them, scrape them with your nails, oh?

Yes, by all means

use a knife from the washing up.

Everyone happy, then? Ivy, see that everyone

has a pot of glue and enough to get on with .

All right, friends?

I’m going to work, too, get on with my own

work up on the stage .

Talk by all means, but let’s not have too much

noise, eh? Bless you .

My children. From this dais

I am monarch of all I survey. This is my Empire.

I do not exaggerate, friend. They are dependent

upon me and upon such minions as I have from time

to time. Nothing is more sure than that I am

in control of them. And they know it. They

vie with each other for my attention. This is

especially noticeable on the tablet round

each night and morning. On the weekly medical

round their attention is divided between the

good doctor and myself: they are undecided as

to whether to play for the once-a-week prestige

of his attention, or for mine that it may

perhaps be available more than once a week,

perhaps even daily. Oh, how comic that is!

For I love only Ralphie, Ralphie is my darling!

Where are you, Ralphie?

Ralph, come here at once! The dirty doggie,

licking at that mess under poor old Mrs Stanton!

Hope it’s only water. Perhaps it’s gravy from

dinner. There, there, Ralphie, there’s a good

dog, that’s my hairy darling.

There are always complaints, of course. Complaining

is one of the few activities into which they put

some genuine feeling. It is good for them, of course.

I listen very carefully to their complaints. And then

do nothing. There is nothing for them really to

complain about here. They would be so much worse off

if they were not in here. The hazards of hypothermia,

falls, neglect. But it does not worry me if

complaining is their favourite occupation. It is

also a way of vieing for my attention. I fondle

Ralphie in front of them and that keeps up their

interest. It frustrates them and gives them a

reason to be going on. What would become of them

if I took this away? Oh, I did not study for five

years for nothing, friend, or waste my time as an

abject disciple of Frau Holstein, no! It gives them

something to worry about instead of worrying

about their reactions not being as sharp as they

were, their voices not quite so resonant, that

they are forgetful, and confused, and so on and

so forth. And then there are the diversions I

provide, as well. The Sally Army comes round

collecting several times a month. They enjoy

that, it is one of their favourite treats. Come

and join. Then we have the Olde Tyme Evening

provided by the Council once a year, too, when

they’re not too busy. Oh, to them it must seem

like one mad merry-go-round! And a schoolchildren’s

choir every now and again. Then there’s always

the telly, when it’s working — that reminds me,

must get it repaired again: it’s over two months,

now. In return, they do these little jobbies for

me. Handicrafts, felt toys last month. And now

Christmas crackers, in due season.

They seem to be getting on reasonably well. Of

course, I can’t expect Mrs Stanton and George to

do very much. But the important thing for them is

that it is there in front of them to be done if they

do wake up or otherwise become capable of doing

it. That really is the important thing, we all agree.

All the books agree. I give

Mrs Stanton about three weeks, and George could

pop off any minute.

But I must get down to my work, too. Here, Ralphie!

Come and lie comfortingly on

my feet while I work on my accounts.

Have to be careful with these, no names, no initials

either, or at least not the right ones.

Frederick, first names will do. Do I

need to keep accounts? Yes, for my own benefit.

Frederick, then, 350 boxes filled with felt toy bits,

how much, at fivepence a box, five hundred pence a

hundred boxes, a fiver a hundred boxes, three-and-a-

half fivers are seventeen pounds and a half, fifty

pence. So. That he still

owes me. When will he be round with another lot?

Can’t tell. It’s that sort of business. He must be

on some big purchase tax fiddle. Income tax, too,

I shouldn’t wonder.

Then there was the penicillin. Lump sum for

altering that lot. Twenty pounds. Shipped abroad,

no doubt, as something or other that it isn’t. But

that’s none of my business, it doesn’t worry me,

either. My job is to keep my friends happy, and,

if it makes money, then so much the better. Do

you not agree, friend? Oh, again, do not think

I have to justify myself!

Seventeen plastic ashtrays: one pound exactly,

a job lot. Contacts are all-important

in this business. It is not enough just to ad-

vertise in the trade papers. I must write to a

number, a large number, of likely sources of

employment. I must point out to them the unique

advantages of my methods of outworking. This

should — Ah, Charlie, my old trusty, I can tell

when you have that lost look on your face that

you are not puzzling over some problem of

philosophy, or even of filling those bottles, but

merely and genteelly trying to fart without Sarah

or anyone else noticing. Charlie.

Ralphie warm on my feet.

What you do not understand, I think,

friend, is that what we imagine they want for them-

selves is not actually what they do want. I do

not know what they want, either. But I do know

that they are certainly not as we are, and that

therefore by definition they do not want what we

want. How does anyone know

what anyone else really wants? Multiply

that by the diffusing effect of time, friend,

which alters with every day, every minute,

virtually! When I was eight I wanted to be a fairy

in a ballet, ho ho ho! he he he! ha ha ha! heh!

heh! heh! and similar printers’ straitjackets for

the gusty, exploding liberation of laughter.

But I forget myself. Where was I?

Yes, the Divisional Officer asked me whether I

would like to undertake a week’s exchange with

a seaside House. Really, I said to him, don’t

you think that would be rather absurd with my

group of friends? Besides (though I didn’t tell

him this) I had my Stationery Goods quota to

meet that week. Which reminds me: how many

sets of pens and rulers was it he still owes

me for? Look it up.

Yes, 230. I’ll have to mention that to

him when he comes, whenever. Can’t be too careful.