A Distant Shore

V

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.

I won’t meet the eyes of the nurse. I prefer the flowers, but I know that she wants to talk. She can’t take any more silence. I’m being difficult with her, but I suppose it’s not her fault, none of it is. I look at the poor woman sitting in the uncomfortable chair, and I realise that there’s nothing to be lost by being nice to her, and so I smile at her and then watch her closely as she smiles back in my direction. It occurs to me that there’s nothing much wrong with my exotic nurse that a slash of red lipstick and some make-up couldn’t fix. And then I wonder, perhaps she does have an interest in flowers? Perhaps we can talk about them, and this would give us something in common. And I could share with her my only fear in this regard, which is to do with how secretive they are, for flowers grow so slowly that you never quite know what they’re going to turn into. There’s no talking to them about this, for they’re quite cunning. The nurse puts her book face down so she’ll know what page she’s on, and then she walks out of the shade towards me. She continues to smile. The nurse is trying too hard to be happy. She asks me a question, but I say nothing in reply. I simply look at my nurse. I’ve no desire to keep her here against her will. If she wants to leave, then she’s free to do so. Really.

Dr. Williams has come to visit me. They have a tendency to call him when things are difficult, but it must be very annoying for him because it’s not as if he doesn’t have anything else to do. He’s a very busy man. He’s looking at some papers and occasionally glancing up at me, but that’s about it. He isn’t saying anything. I hear my stomach rumble. I’m hungry, but I hate the dinners because everything in this place is so childish. First, we all have to gather in the dining room, which is also the place where you have to meet for announcements and group activities such as jewellery-making, modelling clay, and art. Sometimes they don’t even bother to clear up the activities things, and they just shove them to one side of the room. Then three orderlies roll metal trolleys of food into the room and you pick up a tray, then squeeze into a space on a bench and plonk the tray on the table top. There are two tables, with long benches on either side. We have to sit and eat off the trays, looking at each other and deciding whether or not we have anything to say to the person opposite who’s watching us gulp our food. There is a colour television set in this room, but during dinner half the residents want it on and half want it off. Eventually the nurses made a decision to keep it off, but when dinner’s over they turn it on whether anybody’s watching or not. At least until midnight, when it has to be shut down for good. That’s their idea of how to do things.

Dr. Williams stops looking at his papers and he glances up at me, then back to the papers, and now he looks at me again. He pushes the papers away and brings his elbows up and onto the table. (“So, Dorothy, tell me how things are?”) I stare at him, but it’s difficult to know where to begin. I feel as though I’m wasting his time, but I’ve got to say something. I think about telling him that there’s a room near here where some of them play table tennis. I pass this games room on the way to my own room, but it’s far too bright to go into it. They have those long neon lights hanging from the ceiling. There’s always a nurse in there, just sitting and watching in case things get a little out of hand. But hardly anyone plays table tennis, except two young girls who look so sedated that it’s a wonder they can lift the bats. They’re thin, and they must have that eating disease. If you ask me it’s a bit of a waste of time having the nurse there. She could be far better deployed in some other part of this place. Or answering the question, where are all the men? There are a couple of men who shuffle around with their trousers half-hanging off, and a younger man who dresses nicely, apart from some stains on his blue polo-neck jumper. They look like food stains. I suppose men drink their problems away in the pub. Or hit people. Maybe Dr. Williams knows why there are so few men in this place. I think about asking him, but instead I begin to laugh at the absurdity of it all.

He says nothing, and he looks at me as though whatever it is that he’s going to say will be difficult for us both. (“You don’t appear to be getting any better, Dorothy.”) But he doesn’t understand, there are good days and there are bad days. I thought today was a good day, but apparently today was a bad day, which is why they called him out. But I am happy. However, I just don’t have the time for this. I’m sorry, but this is a waste of my time. (“Don’t you want to return home?”) I mean, it’s not that I’m not grateful for everything that these people have done for me, but there are things to be done. When I look back at my life, only now do I realise that I’ve thrown away hundreds of days thinking that I could always reclaim them. But, sadly, I now know that this is not the case. There are things to be done. Solomon must have some family. I mean, how would you like it if your son or brother went abroad and you never heard from him again? They’ll be living in pain for ever, unless I go and help them. They’ll want to know that the three murderers are locked up in prison, and that apparently Carla and her mother decided that it was best to leave Weston and settle somewhere in the Midlands. Telling them all the facts is the decent thing to do. It’s compassionate. It gives them a chance to heal. (“You’ll still have to be monitored, but these days there are many care-in-the-community programmes.”) But it hasn’t sunk in with this man, has it? I look at him, but I don’t want to argue. In the past I’ve felt let down by him, but as time’s gone by I’ve grown to understand my specialist, probably better than he thinks. He stands up and I look at him, all neat and tidy. Now that he takes care of himself he reminds me of Solomon. He didn’t used to, but being over forty I can see that he’s finally made the decision to fight back. (“Get some sleep, Dorothy. I’ll stop by and see you later in the week.”) He’s not a bad man. When he goes I know what will happen. I understand the routine. They’ll take me back to my room and give me tablets with some hot milk in the hope that I’ll sleep properly. But I won’t sleep.

I don’t like visitors. Last night, after Dr. Williams left, they decided to skip the tablets and the hot milk and they put me to sleep with a needle. Now the nurse tells me that I have another visitor, but she won’t tell me who it is. I’m still in bed, ensnared in a single twist of cotton sheeting. I slept, perhaps too much. Because of this they make a special exception and offer to help me get myself right. I sit up in bed while the nurse tries to make me look respectable. I remind her that these days I prefer to wear my hair up in a bun, and so she helps me with this. I no longer have to use make-up to cover up the bumps and bruises from where the gypsy woman hit me, for it’s all mended. I’m as ready as I’m going to be, and then I see him. An older, even tubbier, Brian, clutching a bunch of red flowers. His shoes are unpolished. I thought he’d have a bit tucked away by now, but apparently not. He doesn’t know what to do, whether to come to the bed and lean over and kiss me, or remain standing or what. The nurse eventually leads him in the direction of the plastic chair by the side of the bed, and he takes a seat. And then he begins to talk, as if he’s frightened to stop talking. The nurse sits on a chair by the door and buries herself in her book. He tells me that his wife, Barbara, has left him and that he’s back in Birmingham and running a bed and breakfast. He tells me that computer technology has overtaken him so he couldn’t get back into banking, but he doesn’t mind. He’s quite happy. It turned out that Spain wasn’t everything he’d hoped it would be. I can see him looking at me as he continues to jabber on like a crazy man. He’s shocked, that much is clear. And I don’t blame him. I suppose somebody must have called him out of the blue and told him that his ex-wife was convalescing in a home, and he probably thought it’s nothing to do with me any more, and he’s right. But he came anyway. I look at shabby Brian, and I try to turn him back into that slim, impressive posh boy that I met at university, but he no longer fits. However, I’m sure that I don’t fit with whatever it was that he saw when he first met me at university. What were we thinking of? I’m sure that love has never stirred any kind of disorder in poor Brian’s lumpish heart. I look away, but I can feel his eyes upon me, as though he feels sorry for me, but it’s pathetic. I feel sorry for him. He clears his throat and so I turn back ready to hear whatever else he’s got to say for himself. He should have shaved. There’s nothing more unattractive than stubble on a man who’s gone grey. It really brings it home to you that they’re at that stage where they can’t look after themselves. That’s something that’s just around the corner for both Mahmood and a certain Mr. Geoff Waverley. Brian smiles at me. It’s long been over with him. He’s well past his sell-by date. I can’t help it, but I have to laugh. The nurse looks over at me, but I make eye contact with her so she knows that everything is fine. Reluctantly she returns to her book. He reaches out an arm towards me as though he wants to touch me. No fear! I pull back, and I can see it in his eyes. He doesn’t understand. Why don’t I want his grubby hand on me? Why am I laughing? I stop laughing. He’s got to go now. I mean, this is embarrassing. I stare at him, which clearly makes him even more uncomfortable. He forces a smile, but he has no idea how unappealing this is. The nurse puts down her book, and I notice her fold over the corner of the page to mark her spot before she closes it shut. I hate it when people do this. They could easily get a bookmark, or a piece of paper or something. Why damage the book in this way? It shows no respect for the book. I want to tell all of this to her. Perhaps I will, but not now. (“Dorothy.”) I turn and look at him. He’s still smiling. He only said my name to get my attention. Flowers don’t speak. That’s one of the things I like about them. You can sit quietly with them and they don’t have to have your attention. (“Dorothy.”) Again he stops. If he thinks I’m going to help him out, then he’s very much mistaken. I’ve nothing to say to him, especially if he wants to sound like a broken record. Dad always used to say that in the end it didn’t matter what somebody had in terms of money or qualifications. What mattered was manners, and how you respected other people. I mean, after all, without manners we’re no better than animals. In fact, I saw a television programme once about gorillas. It seems to me that some animals have got far better manners than us, and that’s a fact. He should go now. I shouldn’t have to tell him this, or make a fuss in any way, but he’s leaving me no choice. I’m here because my nerves are bad and they’ve collapsed. I’ll admit it. I’m not ashamed to admit it because this kind of thing happens to a lot of people, including many famous people. And they recover, so it’s not as if there’s something unusual about it, or there’s no cure for it. It’s fine, and it will soon just go away and I can get back to normal. That’s what I’m doing. Convalescing. I let Sheila down. I know this now. I was a coward. But right now I just need to be protected, the doctor told me this. I need to feel as though somebody is looking after me until I get my strength back. And sometimes I can’t cope with everything. I’ll admit that too. But I’m not stupid, so why is this man treating me like a fool and repeating my name? He should go now. I don’t like visitors and I don’t want any more. Why don’t they ever listen? I see the book slide from her lap, and I watch her start to run towards me. And now she’s holding her hand over my mouth telling me to be quiet. I begin to struggle because I don’t like the way she’s holding me. I can hear her shouting for help. She’s telling Brian to go and he stands up and begins to back away. As he back-pedals I tumble out of the bed. The nurse is on top of me now. I can see the flowers that Brian brought for me. The red ones are the angry ones. I know that now. They are the only ones that I can see. I can see this man’s feet in his ugly unpolished shoes. He’s walking backwards, and I can see red flowers.

I like to lie on my bed and stare at the ceiling. Particularly at night. Of course, days in this place never really begin. There’s no routine. There’s nothing that you have to do, except take your tablets and your hot milk and behave. A piano would help. Especially now that the years of discord between the keys has been resolved, and I’m once more able to make them speak easily to each other. I’m lucky because the patterns of music that Sheila helped me to discover remain firmly stitched together, as I knew they would. But there’s no piano. There’s no routine. The unit, as they like to call it when they’re being official, is supposed to be a place that’s different from out there. A retreat. Somewhere where you can lick your wounds and gather some strength before going back to the world. A place where you can learn to remember, and therefore understand your life. But what use is that now? They say they’re protecting us. In here, time doesn’t matter. At night they allow me to leave the curtains open and I watch the shadows of the trees making strange shapes against my wall. I know that this is not Weston. Or Stoneleigh. There is no viaduct in the distance. My heart remains a desert, but I tried. I had a feeling that Solomon understood me. This is not my home, and until they accept this, then I will be as purposefully silent as a bird in flight. Sometime before dawn, as light begins to bleed slowly through the night sky, I will ease myself out of this bed and proceed to put on my day face.