by Alan Agnew
‘Can I make you a tea or a coffee, Donald?’
Donald continues to his living room and sits in his armchair in front of the television, his head seeping back in slow motion into the cushion. ‘Tea with a drop of milk, I suppose you know where everything is from your last uninvited visit!’ He shouts through, to which I half-smirk, half-grimace.
As I hand Donald his tea, I look for a seat of my own, the only option being behind him tucked into the dining table, and so I kneel on the floor looking up at him as a child would awaiting a story. ‘How are you feeling Donald?’
‘Bored after being holed up in that hospital for so long. Now what’s on your mind Philip, I can see you are itching to ask me something more than would I like a biscuit with my tea.’
I nod respecting his intuition. ‘I have been thinking about what you said in the hospital yesterday, about this other family. I want to reach out to them and thought you might be able to share with me some more information about the freemason who contacted you in the first instance?’
Donald’s face instantly screws up. ‘Did you not find any paperwork in your dad’s belongings? The legal strife was all he could talk about for years.’ My mind goes back to my meeting with Marie and her parting words of offering to help me make sense of things. She also referenced that he was always well-intentioned. I imagine my dad being disturbed by the years of legal strife, and hurt by the supposed injustice.
‘Never mind.’ Donald brings me back to our conversation. ‘Hand me that green file from my desk draw will you, assuming it’s still in my draw and has not been re-housed to the freezer?’
I blush with embarrassment as I open the drawer to find the files covered in cornflakes that I had spilt over them only a few days before. Why? I sweep them away out of sight with my hand and pull out a green file, making a mental note to tidy them when I get a chance. Donald flicks over a couple of pages before handing me a yellow post-it note.
‘Here you go. He stayed in touch with our Lodge for years after, contributed to our benefit evenings and we supported him when he was admitted into the care home a few years ago, I am not certain how coherent he will be these days.’
I look down at the scribbled note, ‘Derek Chase, Jubilee House Care Home, Bournemouth.’
‘Thank you Donald. Did he ever talk about what happened with the family, the court case or events afterwards?’
Donald shakes his head, ‘I never asked, and he never told.’
As I close the front door of Donald’s house, I google the contact details on my phone and I hear the ringing tone before even reaching my door.
‘Hi, I am an old family friend wanting to visit Derek as I am in the vicinity tomorrow, what might be an appropriate time to call in?’
‘Anytime between 9 am and 7 pm is fine to visit,’ the response well-rehearsed.
I pause for a second, torn between asking my next question or not. ‘And can you tell me how he is these days, I mean, is he coherent?’
A short pause, a telling sign the nurse wants to be diplomatic. ‘He has good days and bad days.’
As I hang-up, I cross my fingers and hope tomorrow is a good day.
Chapter Twenty-Eight – 16 days after
I raid my kitchen for breakfast and cook a poached egg on toast with wholemeal bread. I notice a missed call from Caroline and press redial on my phone. ‘Hi Caroline, sorry I missed your call last night, I was sleeping, how are you?’
‘Oh dear, pass out in front of the telly after a bottle of scotch again?’ Her question asked in her now familiar judgemental tone.
‘No, just an early night, I have been busy sorting the house and all the administration for probate, what’s up?’
There is a pause of apprehension. ‘Well we didn’t finish our last call on the best of terms, and I don’t want us to fall out. I am in London for a few days. Maybe we can meet and talk about it?’
I shake my head and close my eyes, not really in the mood for one of her chats about feelings and relationships. And I no longer have to pretend. I stand straight. ‘We are getting a divorce, you are moving to the other side of the world with another man, yes we probably have fallen out, and I don’t see the need to meet up to confirm this. I feel good Caroline, and I am moving on.’
I surprise myself, three weeks ago I would have already been in the car driving to meet her, but today I am driving to Bournemouth and for the first time the present seems more important than the past.
I pull up at Jubilee House, a faceless modern building with flashes of white seagulls swooping from one concrete block to the next referencing my seaside location. I am greeted at the reception desk by the practised smile of a middle-aged woman in nurses’ attire who, without needing to check, tells me room 17 for Derek.
The interior of the home is an institutional beige with an overpowering smell of cooking vegetables even though it is not yet 10 am. Cheap prints of yesteryear adorn the walls, a seaside pier, old cars, a dance hall, purposed to give a crumb of familiarity to those of a particular vintage. I knock on the open door of number 17, greeted by the back of a bald head poking out from a wheelchair.
‘Hello, Derek.’ No answer, not even a stir.
I take a couple of steps into the room and come parallel to the man in the wheelchair. ‘Hello Derek,’ I try again, crouching to his level. I shuffle forward a little more, to move into his eye line. He sits almost frozen in time, mouth open, and eyes without focus, pointed to the window. His face is devoid of colour and bony, years of alcohol abuse etched onto his cheeks and nose, impossible to miss. His mottled scalp is shining through a handful of unkempt long white hairs. I take his shaking hand in mine, slowly so as not to startle, feeling its coldness and fragility.
I sit still, transferring the warmth of my hand to his, repeating my greeting through a whisper. His mouth closes in slow motion, and I see his lips for the first time, the palest of pink colour shrivelled dry. His eyes meet my chest without recognition. ‘Hello Derek, can you hear me?’
His look is one of resignation. As we sit face to face in silence, my eyes are drawn to the door to see a nurse staring down at her clipboard. ‘Oh hello there, you friend of Mr Derek,’ she says with an Eastern European accent.
‘You will get little response from Mr Derek this morning unless you can talk about horse racing. He took medication one hour ago, should be brighter after lunch. You come back then and listen to him talk about horse racing.’
Before I can reply she turns on her heels and walks to the next room. Selfishly I want to wake him, give him a shake, brighten him up now so we can talk, then I can get home. For once, logic gets the better of my raw emotion and I head back to my car and take a drive to the seafront.
I park up next to a trailer swamped by a huge sign attached to its roof reading ‘Andy’s Snack Bar’ with a Union flag fluttering above in the sea breeze. As I approach, the man behind the raised counter greets me with a big smile, more fitting for a best mate in a pub than a total stranger on a deserted beachfront. His jet-black hair is receding, and darkened eyes dwarfed by his prominent rosy chubby cheeks.
‘Hello mate, what will it be today?’ He bellows with such familiarity I wonder for a second if he has me mixed up with someone else.
‘Just a tea please, white, no sugar.’
He gives a nod of understanding. ‘Take a seat, just boiling up the water and will shout when ready bud,’ nodding again towards a couple of old plastic red chairs and a table, its legs chewed at the bottom.
I sit in peace listening to the waves crashing further out to sea, leaving only a soft foam sparkling in the sun. The sea is rhythmically running over the pebbles as it reaches the shore, culminating in a sprinkling of spray skipping over them. I used to love coming to the beach during our holidays. After a long drive, it was always a long drive, Jimmy and I would let off our steam on the beach, tossing pebbles into the sea, skimming them against the surface, always in wonder at the disturbance a single pebble can cause.
Dad
would spend hours with us searching the beach for the perfect pebble and perfect shell. Smooth and perfectly symmetrical were my favourites, Jimmy would seek the shiniest and most exotic in colour. I would come home with pockets full, Jimmy with nothing, his standards not met. He would always hold out for something better than he already had.
We would take our nets for crabbing in the shallow puddles left by the tide, my dad always finding us a catch followed by intricate details about each tiny crustacean, which to us just looked like stones. He would tell us never to take anything at face value, always take a closer look.
Before charging back inside the house, we would be held at the door by dad. A brush down of sand from every crevice and a mumble about his precious cleaning bill: for holidays at least, he was always present, in the moment with us. I wonder if he did the same with Robert and Rachel?
The seat next to me scrapes along the concrete, and I look up to see the same man placing on the table two steaming hot teas in white polystyrene cups. He takes a seat next to me.
‘My favourite time of year this, no crowds.’
I contemplate just for a second. ‘But don’t crowds mean more business for you?’
‘Well yes, but I don’t make too much from this, busy or not, I only do this to get me out of the house. I like a good natter with folk, and I would much rather have local folk, than a bunch of tourists asking me for a skinny soy latte and avocado sandwich. I mean I only have a kettle and basic grill for bacon or sausages. Nah, I prefer it quieter, read my paper and chat with the dog walkers.’
I chuckle inside, thinking that it’s probably his wife that encourages him to do this, just to get him out of the house. I want to tell him we have never met, and while I am not on holiday, I am not local either, but before I can think how to phrase it without offending him, he continues with his ramblings.
‘Not even my business, Andy is my old man.’ Pointing up to over-sized sign. ‘I promised him I would look after it, so the council don’t move us on, just until he got better, and that was two and a half years ago. He is still alive today, but not going to get any better. I just don’t have the heart to close it. He asks about the business every day like I’m running Starbucks here. The things we do for our parents, eh?’
I smile, to hide my shortcomings, unable to relate.
‘I moved away straight after school, joined the army, and while I was in Cyprus my mum passed away, so my dad was on his own for years, so I suppose this is me making it up to him.’
He takes a big gulp of his tea and I take the opportunity to interrupt. ‘Nice that you have the chance to do something for your dad, many don’t have the opportunity or leave it too late,’ I hold up my tea in a mock cheers way reserved for beers.
‘You have to while you can. It must be horrible having regrets of things you didn’t do or didn’t say once they have passed away.’
My eyes fix on the crashing waves, his words repeating in my head, twisting my heart. I turn back but only see the empty chair, he is already back behind his counter, greeting another customer with a black labrador. That will keep him happy.
As I walk back into the reception of Jubilee House, the same lady sits behind the desk, her smile slips as she recognises me and her eyes are quickly drawn back to her keyboard. My walk down the corridor to number 17 is a stark contrast to earlier in the day. There is now a constant chatter and patients taking small steps in the hallway, most commanding the arm of a nurse or companion.
I am drawn to a commotion in one of the rooms as a man dressed in blue pyjamas is being restrained by two nurses. His protests are inaudible above the pleas of calm from the nurses. I slow my pace as I approach number 17 hearing a voice. I cautiously poke my head around the door, relieved to see Derek alone, commanding the same position as this morning.
I knock loudly to break his trance. I say hello again and approach him slowly, as you would a wounded animal,and lean down to his eye level affording him a full view of myself. This time his eyes widen and follow me as I pull over a chair. His fist bangs rhythmically against his knee.
I want his story, but know I first have to gain his trust.
‘Hello Derek, my name is Phil, and I have come to visit you,’ enunciating each word like a primary school teacher. It sounds so basic in my head, but my experience with mum has taught me to do exactly that and give time for him to digest my every word to piece them together, levelling the playing field as much as possible.
‘Have you found my horse racing book and photographs, they took it you know?’
‘Yes, I did,’ is my confident, untrue reply, knowing it is also essential to agree regardless of how trivial or exuberant the statement so as not to cause distress.
I witnessed the pain that accompanies the constant state of confusion with my own mum’s Alzheimer’s, and the key stages that most patients move through. For my mum, it started with denial and her making great efforts to hide her memory loss, often choosing silence or elaborate excuses. She would often seek comfort for herself during this stress by whistling a familiar tune. For others, it might be tapping of a hand or even singing, some element of familiarity as a comfort blanket.
When her memory failed her regularly, she began to lose all sense of direction and would often be lost. She would lose perspective as she became unusually headstrong and stubborn, feeling bullied when I would not let her walk to town in the middle of the night. Her mind was more and more one dimensional without considering the reality, prompting the need for full-time care. It was like she was trapped in a phase of her life, the significance of which I would never know.
She kept asking for Eddie, who was her first boyfriend apparently and asking after her parents’ dog, Cosmo. ‘Had he been for a walk?’ This question was our standard greeting, posed to me twenty times a day, which is where I learned to reply ‘Yes’ to all questions. Her accent was rougher, and vocabulary made up of slang I did not recognise, reflecting a much younger version of herself I presumed.
My mum was always a very calm woman, so it was disturbing to hear her swear in everyday conversation and at times become violent, the mind frustrated by the mist and choosing fight over flight. But even in those final days, there were glimpses of my old mum. A flickering of a candle as she recognised me and greeted me by name, before slipping back to her world once again. When she refused to eat, it was only a matter of time. It had been expected and was almost a relief in the end. I was with her for the final months. That time being both a blessing and chore with excessive travel and time away from work. Dementia is a degenerative disease, forever progressive, and in my mum’s case, she was unable to inhabit reality for long after it took hold.
Derek is bombarding me with questions that I barely understand and have no answers for except my robotic agreement. When he finally settles down and finds peace with my presence, I can begin.
‘Derek, I am a friend of Donald Lloyd from the Freemasons in Baysworth, and I wanted to ask you something.’
He turned to me and looked me up and down all over again. ‘I don’t know a Donald.’
I take his hand in mine and soften my voice. ‘You remember Donald, he helped you once, and you stayed friends, brother Donald Lloyd from Baysworth,’ I see his mind calculating, reaching back into his memory bank and so I continue, ‘He helped you find Robert and Rachel’s dad.’
Derek nods jovially. ‘Pete punched him, he shouldn’t have punched him, Gloria didn’t like him, so Pete punched him,’ Derek shuffles in his chair as if re-enacting the event in his mind.
‘Tell me about Gloria, is she Robert and Rachel’s mum?’
Derek looks me straight in the eye for the first time. ‘Gloria is my sister, the silly cow never visits, but Robbie does, Robbie is a good man. Pete punched him, Gloria’s boyfriend, she had lots of boyfriends and lots of husbands. Pete punched him.’ Derek holds up his wafer-thin arm and clenches his bony fingers together to make a half fist. He continues, only to mumble something about horses, slipping back into his
world once again.
My eyes scan his room looking for family pictures, but there is nothing personal on show, no photographs, no cards, and no pictures. His one shelf under his side table is empty, and a wardrobe full of old clothes squeezed into each shelf. I lean in towards Derek once again to bring him back, but I know it is futile, his eyes are fixed on the arm of his wheelchair and he mumbles to himself about horses again nodding his head frantically.
As I walk out of the room, I catch sight of the nurse from this morning. ‘Hi, I was wondering, do you know Robbie who visits Derek from time to time?’
‘I don’t know him,’ she replies without breaking stride. I ask the same question to another nurse, who was earlier restraining the man in the blue pyjamas, but get the same response. As I head towards the exit, I play in my head how to ask the receptionist without being dismissed quite so easily. As I turn the corner, I see the desk unattended and clear except for a visitor book.
I flick back through the pages searching for names of Derek’s visitors but find nothing. I start again, flicking through slower this time, and see an entry under Mr D. Chase from a month ago by ‘RE,’ time in 12.33 and time out 15.38 with a car registration of BL26 8QP. It is the only entry in the book to visit Derek, although I have mixed feelings if this is one of the twins. Doubt stemming from the formal name afforded to their uncle written in the visitor book. But three hours spent with Derek suggests a family member rather than social worker.
Sitting in my car, I google the number plate without success. I think of contacting the DVLA who would have the owner details, but why would they give it to some random guy contacting them? I scroll through the contacts on my phone, looking for inspiration from the names that may be able to help. I pause at the one number on my phone, which has all the connections. A flash of adrenaline shoots through my body, the growing excitement that I am getting closer.
Chapter Twenty-Nine – 16 days after