A Book at Bedtime

by Barrie Shore

  Wednesday, 8th March, 1961

  And was she happy later that night? When they stood arm in arm in the nursery that smelled of fresh plaster and paint; as they admired the little cot, the cupboard and chest, the miniature bookcase with its brand new collection of baby books, was she happy then?

  ‘It’s a nice room,’ she said. ‘Our boy will be happy here.’

  ‘Yes, he will.’

  Jack put The House at Pooh Corner into the bookcase; Eva put the baby clothes away in the top drawer of the chest: the matinée jacket, matching mittens and tiny bootees, threaded with ribbon.

  ‘I’ll start on his bonnet tomorrow,’ she said. She tucked the teddy bear into the cot to keep him warm, made a little face and put her hand to her belly as the baby kicked.

  First time gravid at her age, there’s bound to be trouble.

  ‘Are you all right, my dear little Piglet?’

  ‘I’m perfectly perfect, dear Eeyore of mine.’

  But the Giant was lurking in a corner of the room.

  Thursday, 8th December, 1960

  The record had finished, its last echoes faded away. The scratch of the needle, the click of the knitting furnishing the silence. He closed his book, smoothed his finger backwards and forwards over its cover. Looked at the stranger on the other side of the hearth, head bent under the lamplight.

  ‘Shall we listen to the other side?’

  ‘Yes, if you like.’ Click.

  He turned the record over, blew dust from the stylus, set it to play. Waited for the March of the Priests. Wandered to one of the windows, watched the last of the sun setting behind the rooftops across the street. ‘Shall I close the windows?’

  ‘If you like.’ Click, click.

  O Isis and Osiris.

  Shut the windows. Closed the curtains. Went back to his chair. Picked up his book.

  Click, click.

  ‘I like your hair.’ Liar. ‘It suits you.’ Liar, liar.

  ‘Thank you.’ She finished a row of her knitting and started counting the stitches.

  ‘I’m glad you’re back.’

  She smiled. Still counting.

  ‘I thought perhaps…’ Chipping at the edge of leather on the book’s spine with his thumbnail. ‘I thought perhaps you’d left me for good.’ Attempting a laugh that didn’t quite work.

  She turned the knitting and started a new row. Click, click.

  ‘I wouldn’t have blamed you.’ He put the book back on the table beside him. Took off his glasses, held them up to the light. ‘The fact is, I haven’t been myself just lately, I suppose I’ve been…’ He puffed on the lenses, polished them with the hem of his pullover. ‘I’ve been in a sort of decline.’

  ‘A decline.’ Click. ‘Is that what you call it?’ Click. ‘You sound like a Victorian maiden with an attack of the vapours.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I’m not very good at explaining these things.’

  ‘No, you’re not.’

  She came to the end of her ball of wool, bent to her knitting bag and took out a new skein, surprised when he knelt at her feet, took the skein, stretched it round the backs of his hands, dipping his arms from side to side as she wound the wool into a ball.

  ‘Mother used to knit.’

  ‘Did she.’

  ‘When she died, I… it wasn’t that I missed her exactly… well, I did in a way, she was my mother after all. But, if I’m honest, I was relieved.’

  She paused in the winding.

  ‘I wanted her dead.’

  ‘Gor blimey, guvner, he wanted her dead.’ She wasn’t talking to him, she was talking to the ball of wool. ‘Well, fancy that.’

  She started winding again. He dipped again from side to side.

  ‘I’ve shocked you.’

  ‘Me? Shocked? By your matricidal tendencies?’ She stopped winding once and for all. ‘Oh, Jack… if I had only known, I would have sharpened the blade myself, I’d have mixed the poison, I’d have loaded the gun with bullets of steel. I’d have…’ She stopped with a little gasp, clutched at her stomach, the ball of wool dropped from her hand and rolled away.

  ‘Eva, darling…’ He reached for her hand in a muddle of wool.

  ‘Oh, oh…’

  ‘What is it? Are you in pain?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What then?’

  Her face lit up in a glorious smile. ‘He kicked me, Jack. The baby kicked me.’

  Wednesday, 8th March, 1961

  And later that night? Sitting side by side in the brand new double divan with its sprung mattress and feather-filled pillows, Eva leafing through the latest edition of Mother and Baby, was she happy then? And was he? Immersed in a copy of Dr Spock, wondering, worrying, anxious to learn: ‘What good mothers and fathers instinctively feel like doing for their babies is usually best…’ Heavens. What instincts did he have? What did he know about being a father? What did he know about anything at all? And what if…

  ‘First time gravid at her age…’

  And the Giant whose name was Despair sitting in the corner of the room.

  Eva turned a page of her magazine. ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Then why are you frowning?’

  ‘I was just thinking about poor old Moxie, how horrid she’s become.’

  ‘Wouldn’t you be, stuck in a wheelchair like that? At least she’s still got her wits about her.’ She laid the magazine aside. ‘Just imagine, losing your teeth, your mind, everything about you that makes you… well, you. What could be worse? Like a living death.’ She yawned lazily, dismissing the possibility that either of them could ever succumb to old age and decrepitude.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he said, ‘I’ll always look after you, whether you’ve got your marbles or not.’

  ‘Bet you you won’t.’

  ‘Bet you I will. And anyway, we’ll have lots of children by then, half a…’

  ‘Don’t say that, it isn’t funny any more.’

  ‘No.’

  They looked at each other, both of them guilty, both defensive, both starting to speak at the same time.

  ‘What?’ she said.

  ‘No, you go first.’

  ‘I love you,’ she said.

  ‘Do you? I can’t think why.’

  ‘No, neither can I, but I do.’ She kissed him quickly, turned her back and settled for sleep.

  And the Giant was gone.

  So was he happy then? As he lay curled round the warmth of her back, his hand resting on the mound of her belly, feeling the baby’s restless proddings, until they too subsided. Our boy. Our baby, hers and mine. My baby.

  Of course he was happy. He was determined to be.

  Sunday, 3rd December, 2006

  ‘Ba, ba, ba, ba…’

  What on earth is it she’s trying to say? Baby? Biscuit? Bugger and damn? She used to swear in the old days when she was angry, and by golly she’s angry now. Not smiling any more, clutching a half-eaten biscuit, beating the arm of her chair, and chanting.

  ‘Ba, ba, ba, ba…’

  Or was it the name of that girl this morning, what was she called? Charlotte? Shirley? She was a bit of a daftie whoever she was. Sharleen, yes, that’s who she was, Sharleen Baines.

  Baines… Baines… where has he heard that name before?

  And shouldn’t he be pleased that she’s trying to speak after such a long time? Apart from that yum this morning? And what does it matter? Baby, biscuit, bugger, Baines, none of it means anything at all, she’s only trying to annoy him.

  ‘Ba, ba, ba, ba…’

  He tries his best to distract her, wheels her about in the living room, backwards and forwards, turning her round, forward and back.

  ‘Ba, ba, ba, ba…’

  ‘Oh, do shut up, my dear old pudding.’r />
  ‘Ba, ba, ba, ba…’

  ‘Hush now, there’s a good fellow.’

  But she won’t be quietened and her cries are distressing him.

  ‘Ba, ba, ba, ba…’

  And he’s got a stitch in his side from the blasted biscuit.

  ‘Ba, ba, ba, ba…’

  And his knee is hurting.

  ‘Ba, ba, ba, ba…’

  And why won’t she…

  ‘Ba, ba, ba, ba…’

  Why doesn’t she…

  ‘Ba, ba, ba, ba…’

  …ever shut up?

  ‘Ba, ba, ba, ba…’

  ‘You’re plainly a patient man, Mr Carter, but I’m warning you, there’ll be times when you reach the end of your tether…’

  ‘Ba, ba, ba, ba…’

  ‘Times when you feel…’ The psychiatrist gave a little trill of a laugh to take the sting from her words… ‘When you feel that you want to kill her.’

  ‘Ba, ba, ba, ba…’

  ‘You’d do well to consider residential nursing care…’

  ‘Ba, ba, ba, ba…’

  ‘Put her in a home, that’s what I tell him…’

  ‘Ba, ba, ba, ba…’

  ‘But does he listen?’

  He’s never listened before but he’s listening now. To the persistent nag of Margaret’s voice that suddenly seems so seductive.

  ‘Put her in a home… put her in a home… put her in a home…’

  Sunset Lodge is an imposing edifice of modern construction built in Victorian Gothic style (with a dash of twenty-first-century supermarket for added appeal). The very brickwork inspires confidence in the beholder, the gleaming windows seem to exude a spirit of hope, while the smiling face of the clock tower atop the roof assures that time never hangs heavy here but passes pleasantly, nay, joyfully, for the forty or so elderly residents within, who may rest in the sure and certain knowledge that their every need, both physical and spiritual, will be catered for at Sunset Lodge.

  Jack stands, Scrooge-like, at the gate, admiring the immaculate garden, the trim lawn criss-crossed with weedless gravel paths, the beds of symmetrically planted perennial shrubs; listening to the pleasant plash and tinkle of the water feature; and wondering how he has come to be here. Led by some obliging spirit perhaps? Not of the Past, nor of the Future, but of what the Present might be if only he weren’t quite so curmudgeonly? So bloody-minded, as Margaret would have it.

  And, lo, what vision is this? Through a French window can be glimpsed a plastic conifer tree twinkling with lights; a group of ancients encircled about, their persons adorned with paper hats and sprigs of tinsel, raising their voices in tremulous song: ‘God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen!’

  For, yea, it is Christmastide! And the halls of Sunset Lodge are decked with holly and seasonal joy.

  And now, what spirit is this that comes to haunt him? Can it be Jack himself who approaches? It can’t be, but it is! Not the Jack he knows, unwashed, down-at-heel, at the end of his tether; this is the Jack he might have become, neat of dress, brisk of step, whose face lights up when he spots the tired old man at the gate.

  ‘Hello there,’ he cries, ‘how splendid to see you. How are you keeping, my dear old friend?’

  ‘Oh, you know how it is,’ says Jack, with a rueful smile. ‘“I grow old… I grow old…”’

  ‘“I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.”’ The man laughs in a kindly way but with an edge of condescension that Jack doesn’t miss.

  ‘And you?’ says Jack, politely. ‘Do you still have the shop?’

  ‘Good heavens, no, I disposed of the old place long since, and not before time. I’m in sheltered accommodation now, just round the corner in Acacia Drive, do you know it? A perfectly marvellous place: my own room with bathroom en suite, laundry collected and delivered once a week, cleaner available on request, meals provided whenever required, the warden on call at any hour of the day or night should the need arise. Mrs Du Pre, a widow, a most understanding and erudite woman, we play chess on a regular basis. And I have my books, of course, all my old favourites, Dickens, Thackeray, James, and dear old Hardy, one can’t forget him… although I have to confess I don’t have as much time for recreational reading as I would like. I’m studying for a degree with the Open University, don’t you know, a BA in English Literature. Not the Oxford College that once I planned but a most stimulating course, I assure you. Oh, and I write a little: poetry, a short story or two, and I’m planning my memoirs. I’ve led a most interesting life, one that, at the risk of immodesty, I can’t help feeling should be recorded for posterity, as I’m sure you’ll agree.’

  Jack is beginning to feel heartily sick of this litany of achievement. ‘And what about your wife? How do you manage to look after her in this busy life that you lead?’

  A momentary shadow seems to cross the man’s face, the man that is Jack without a care in the world. ‘You touch a sensitive nerve, my friend. It was the hardest decision I ever made bringing her here, but it had to be done in the end, otherwise I might have… well, let’s say there came a time when I found myself tempted to violence and realised I could no longer cope with her demands. And I have to confess, it’s turned out to be the best decision I ever made: the care she receives here is far better than anything I could provide and…’ The man breaks off with a smile. ‘Oh, look, there she is.’

  Eva, for it is she at the window, accompanied by an attentive nurse, both of them wreathed in tinsel and smiles and waving merrily.

  ‘I’ve never seen her so happy, have you?’

  Jack watches the man disappear into the haven of Sunset Lodge with a pang of envy. On the other hand, there’s something about him he doesn’t quite like: a smugness, an air of self-satisfaction, a man so pleased with himself and his sheltered life that he cares not a whit about anyone else, least of all his wife.

  ‘Ba, ba, ba, ba..’

  His wife. Who isn’t smiling and waving but sticky with chocolate, half-eaten biscuit still in her hand, and yelling at the top of her voice.

  ‘Ba, ba, ba, ba…’

  He wheels her out to the landing and on to the bathroom, and stops, tempted to go in. She’ll surely shut up in the bathroom, won’t she? Play with the taps, splash him with water, forget whatever it is that’s upset her so much. But… but what if his mother appears in the mirror again, and…

  ‘Ba, ba, ba, ba…’

  Bedroom? Is that what she’s after? Why bedroom? The bedroom’s for night and this is still morning. Isn’t it? Or has he missed the whole day and it’s bedtime already? Or is it tomorrow? Morning again and the carers due, and he still wearing his tea-stained pyjamas?

  ‘Ba, ba, ba, ba…’

  Bing, bong, bing, bong…

  The grandfather clock strikes the three quarter, four minutes slow.

  ‘Ba, ba…’

  Bing, bong…

  Three quarters past what? Does it matter? Who cares? Eva, that’s who. Eva cares about something or other, if only he knew what the devil it was.

  ‘Ba, ba, ba, ba…’

  He pushes on to the end of the passage, starts to turn into the bedroom; but she drags her feet on the floor, braking the chair, hurls the biscuit up in the air, helplessly, hopelessly, shrieking with rage.

  ‘Ba, ba, ba, ba…’

  ‘Shut up…’

  ‘You’re a patient man, Mr Carter, but there’ll be times when…’

  ‘Ba, ba, ba, ba…’

  ‘Shut up, shut up…’

  ‘Times when you feel that you want to kill her.’

  Now. Yes. To hell and damnation with Sunset Lodge. Kill her. Now.

  ‘Ba, ba, ba, ba…’

  Pillow over her face, suffocate her. Seize her by the throat, throttle her to death. Slowly, painfully, the slower the better.

  ‘Ba, ba, ba, ba�
�’

  Now, do it now.

  On the other hand…

  Did it ever occur to the psychiatrist, that oh, so young, so-called specialist in the problems of old age who knew dementia in theory but nothing of its grinding reality; did it ever occur to her that the carer in question (in this case Jack), the supposedly sane one (in this case Jack?) might not be the only one with murderous intent? That Eva, trapped in her wheelchair, trapped in her mind, might want to kill him too? And that the real tragedy is that she can’t. All she can do to vent her fury is to beat the arm of her chair with her fists, to stamp her feet and yell, yell at the top of her voice.

  ‘Ba, ba, ba, ba…’

  He can do whatever he likes and no one will blame him: slap her, leave her to scream like a child in a tantrum till she wears herself out; wheel her off and away to Sunset Lodge or its nearest equivalent, now, at once; abandon her there, walk away into a sunset of his own, alone. But she wins. She’s entirely at his mercy, so of course she wins, and he has no alternative but to concede defeat.

  ‘Ba, ba, ba, ba…’

  He shifts the wheelchair round and about in the narrow space at the end of the passage, backs into their bedroom and out again till they face the opposite door. The door to the room that he never opens, the door that he sees every morning and refuses to see; the door that’s part of the wall with nothing beyond it; the door that’s closed, always and ever; the door that’s inexplicably open now, just an inch or two. Oh, but not inexplicable at all, at all. This is Margaret’s doing. ‘Time you cleared out that spare room of yours.’ Forcing his hand. ‘We need more space for the pads and stuff.’

  Well, to hell with Margaret, and Eva too: he will not give in, to Margaret’s bullying or Eva’s cries, no matter how loudly either insists.

  ‘Ba, ba, ba, ba…’

  He grips the wheelchair and starts to draw back, but Eva forestalls him, kicks out with both of her feet and, as the door swings open, slowly, slowly revealing the room, the spare room, the room that’s needed for nothing (except for the pads and stuff), she stops screeching at last.