Ah – that’s
where the mice get in, through the wainscot there.
They must like this glue. Shall I tell her about
it? Not now. What’s she on about? Pass the what?
I just want to sit down and get on with my book and
have a nice feel.
No chance of that now.
Oh, a relief to sit down again, a relief.
Scratch it, scratch my fan, relief too.
Now then, we’re ready to
go. Sarah, then Charlie, then me.
I never win these things,
never have. Here. Don’t even talk
to that cow Ridge. The lucky cow! The
music’s stopped and she’s got first go at opening
it! Music again. Snatch it and give it to Ron. And
you! One of these days. . . .
Sarah’s got it. Go on, Sarah, undo it!
Not quite there.
Here it comes. Quickly to Ridge, quicker it goes the
sooner it’ll come back to me – not while she’s keeping
it though! Pass the parcel! That
shithouse again – wonder she’s allowed in a good clean
House like this. Oh – Ron’s got it undone. What’s in it, Ron?
Ha ha ha – shouldn’t laugh, really. But
can’t help it, ha ha. She said you’d get a lovely
surprise, Ron! Ha ha ha ha ha! And you have, too!
Ho ho ho!
Didn’t we used to go at it! What jousts we
had! Jousts, Ted used to call them, his prick a
great lance he’d charge me with, more like a pink
rubber truncheon it looked with its mackintosh on.
Takes a long while these days.
Longer and
longer. But we get there in the end.
Always!
On the Readicut rug in front of the gasfire, that
was a good one, a particularly memorable one.
Long, that took long, but it was extra special
good when I did come. Chintz we had on the chairs
then, chintz was all the go in Southend at that time.
And making rugs at home. I’d made that rug from a
kit, they sent you all – Exercise?
Like a prison, this is. Exercise time. I like a
good walk, a tramp over the moors. Oh well, I can
finish later, I wasn’t nearly there, anyway. Mrs
Stanton would like a push round, I’ll do her,
sacrifice myself and feel good, because she
smells the worst.
Off we go! Yes, she
does stink! How are you, Mrs S?
No answer. I’ve never heard her speak since I
came here. CAN’T HEAR A THING, CAN YOU,
MRS STANTON? Poor old
girl. Wonder what she was when she was young?
Didn’t prepare herself for this, obviously. I did.
When my Ted went I knew what was coming, so I
prepared myself for it. They say women live
longer than men because they never retire. Men
don’t prepare themselves for retirement, as a
rule. It’s their own funeral. Women are better,
anyway.
Push, how she’s a weight. DON’T GET ANY
LIGHTER, DO YOU, MRS STANTON?
Puffs you out.
Ivy won’t end up in a place like this, I said, Ivy
won’t.
There we were, stuck on this little railway station,
in the middle of nowhere. Oh, you could read the
name of the place well enough, there were lights
on, I’ll say that for them, but it didn’t tell
you anything that mattered. And Ted blamed me
for not looking out for the place, and I blamed
him for wanting his little bit and tiring me
out so that I fell asleep. It was a carriage
with no corridors and we had a compartment to
ourselves, it was tempting at the time, we thought
why not, we were young then. And the only train
stopping at that time of night was going in the
opposite direction, so we had the choice of
nothing, since he had to be at work at nine sharp
the next day, but sleeping on the wooden benches,
and damn me if he doesn’t want another bit there
and then, because he couldn’t sleep, he said, and
it was so funny we both burst out laughing and it
was all right again. Now she’s dropped off.
The things I remember! Push
her over there. All right, Mrs Stanton?
Yes, she’s all right.
Sport! More effort! No, I’m going to sit this
one out, she can’t make me take part if I don’t want
to, I’m going to read my book, here it – Ivy again,
fetch and carry, get the mops. All right, I’ll get
the mops but then I’m going to sit down and get on
with my book. One, two, wet. There.
And at least she thanks me.
Now where’s my book?
Here.
My marker, torn newspaper. Ah,
“A bus is not caught by either my father or myself,
a number eleven, that is, the one we came by, on
our return. We walk down the whole length of North
End Road. We always do this. We enjoy the street
market. Occasionally my father buys something.
Usually it is vegetables. Today he buys some Felixmeat
for the dog. The dog is a perverse dog.
Felixmeat is his delight, nothing can make earth
seem more like heaven than Felixmeat, in his view.
I feel it is fortunate that not more of us have
views like this. I catch with my father a
number twenty-seven bus several minutes after arriving
at the bus-stop in Hammersmith Road at the end
of North End Road. The northern end of North End
Road, that is. We could have caught a number nine
or a number seventy-three, to place them in numerical
order, had either of these splendid numbers been
opportune. But we catch. . . .” What a load of old
rubbish! No story about it. Boring.
Where’s my other book?
Ah. “There was no doubt that Polly
Mallinson was dead. Indeed, there was no doubt that
Polly Mallinson had been murdered. But the mystery
was why anyone should have gone to such enormous
pains to murder her in such a complicated way and
to have her found in such a crowded place.
Ascot racecourse lies about twenty miles
to the south-west of London in pleasant wooded
country that is, alas, fast being eaten into by the
commuter octopus that is the metropolis. Each year
in the month of June the Ascot Gold Cup meeting is
held there, a race which attracts horses of the very
best bloodstock in the world to compete against each
other. It equally attracts the best human bloodstock
to be found in London during that sunny month,
the cream of which clusters into that holy of holies
called the Royal Enclosure. On this particular
Gold Cup day the race was won by Garlic
Clove by a head from Hiatus with Noseylad three
lengths behind, and as Sir William Scadleigh, KCVO,
PC, DSO and Bar, relaxed from the tension of watching
the finish at the crowded rail he became fully aware
of a pressure on him from behind which was natural
during the race but hardly necessary now it was over.
Reacting firmly but in a manner befitting an officer
and a ge
ntleman, he gently eased back. The pressure
ceased, and as Sir William turned he was astounded
to see what had caused it. It was a young girl,
scarcely out of her teens, and she was falling. As
he automatically reached out to grasp her arm and
save her he became aware of several things simultaneously:
that she was wearing very nearly nothing,
that rigor mortis had set in anything up to forty-eight
hours previously, and that before she died
someone had been treating her very inconsiderately
indeed.” This is better, know where you are when
it’s telling you a story. “It was not
possible to tell what colour Polly’s eyes might
have been, for they were now only enlarged, bloodied
sockets. Sufficient remained of her hair, however,
to establish that it was almost cert –” Laugh! Now
what’s she on about? Stupid. Ha ha.
“Sufficient remained of her hair, however, to establish
that it was almost certainly red-gold. It was also
fairly certain that whoever Polly had annoyed enough
to cause to treat her in this way was a smoker, for
he or she had stubbed out innumerable cigarettes all
over her. Not normally a man who could be
easily shocked – he had seen too much of war and its
horrors for that – Sir William gasped as much as any
other member of the crowd which quickly gathered
round what was left of poor Polly Mallinson. Their
idle curiosity was quickly ended by the arrival of two
St John’s Ambulancemen who covered the body with a
blanket and summoned the racecourse police.
There was another reason why Sir William
was more shocked than perhaps he might
otherwise have been: for Polly was his –” Oh!
oh! oh! House Mother’s angry!
Sorry, I’m sorry, I’ll pay attention! Have to
be careful now, or I’ll be out. Don’t want to
cause trouble. That’s why I’m here, they transferred
me from Ravensholm because they said I was
a troublemaker. That wasn’t all. Can’t
look after myself, can I? Nearly froze to death
last time I was on my own. Would have done if that
young fellow from down below hadn’t come about the
wet coming through the ceiling. Fair pair of
knockers on her. Hooray! That’ll show her
I’m still paying attention. Could have
had one together if I’d started again sooner.
In London one summer, it was one of the times
he was on leave, very hot day, he took me to a
night club, forget where it was. Didn’t see much
in it, myself, nor did he. Did a strip for him
myself that night in the boarding house, much more
for him to enjoy. Oh, I was keen on it then! What
would Ted say if he saw me today? He’s well out
of it, that’s certain, well out of it. And he
didn’t have to bear much pain, either, except
right at the very end.
Doggie, doggie,
doggie. Must cost a lot to feed a great brute
like that. How much? Pounds and pounds a
week. This must be it now. Yes.
I could do it like that, once. Used to, often.
Don’t really miss it now, any more. What is it?
What is it to miss?
Listen to her!
No, doesn’t matter
Ron Lamson
age 81
marital status widower
sight 30%
hearing 45%
touch 55%
taste 40%
smell 40%
movement 45%
CQ count 8
pathology contractures; dehydration; incipient hypochromic anaemia; incontinent; inguinal hernia; inoperable rectal carcinoma; among others.
. . . again. The same again. It’s
not as though they tempted me
to eat and risk the agony down
below.
Cutting down
has helped, I was right. The
only way not to inflame the piles
is not to eat. Found that out
first time I had them. Don’t
feel any weaker, I was weak to
start with. Must eat something, though, to show
them, told them I was not a big eater, don’t want to be thrown
out, not on the streets again, couldn’t take it, the ramp, those
dirty Soup is what I should have, a man in my –
She’s taking my dinner! She can have it. . . .
No, the House Mother shouldn’t hit
her like that, that twitcher is a wicked
twitcher
Say nothing, hurts to move, peck at this
I don’t want it,
weakens you, AH! my riveted arse,
aaaa! feels like nothing,
I can think
of nothing but the pain at the
very centre of my arse.
Say nothing
Keep quiet
Bear the pain without
saying
Soon have to move
again
aaaa!
Dropped it, she
has. Mess, mess, it’s all a mess. I’d let
the dog eat it, easiest way to clear up that sort of mess.
Tad would
have cleared it up in no time, Taddie would.
He was a fine dog, Tad, broke my
heart when he had to be put to sleep, there was more of
me in that dog than there was in myself at that time.
They could never understand
it, the way I loved that
Oh, the song, must make
some effort
she must
see me singing
of life continue strong
Throughout old age, however long
If only we can cheerful
stay, And every day.
not what we’ll
What matters most that we’re free
joys of life continue strong
Throughout old age, however long.
Important to do
stay alive
No matter if future’s
knows best, and brings good cheer AAA!
the pain shoots again
again!
Work, no, that
will mean moving. No matter how still I try to
keep my arse, if my hands are moving then it
gives me gyp, aaaa, there.
Careful?
How can you be careful with her scrappy bits
of paper when your arse is giving you gyp all
the time? You can’t keep your mind
on anything, can you?
Just a smear
along one edge, sounds
easy, but she doesn’t take
into account my fingers
aren’t what they used to
be, with this arthritis
liable to finish them off
altogether if – Yes, I don’t care.
That woman’s
language! They are the gentle sex, they say.
Some of them.
Oh. I’ll
try to work, then, it may take my mind off of
it, my arse, though I doubt it, I doubt it very
much.
The red paper, this isn’t the
roller I had yesterday, mine was newer than this,
this is grubby. That slimy old
woman must have been using it, getting her
filthy spittle all over it! Ugh!
But don’t complain, never
complain about such a<
br />
small thing. Never com-
plain about the small
things. Get on with it.
aaaaaaaaaah, the pain shoots, shoots!
I can’t Ivy, it’s my arse. I’m in constant pain
from it. There’s no words to describe it.
Whether I work or not I still get it, nothing I
can do makes it any the easier.
Nothing to lose.
You’re right, Ivy, I’ve nothing to lose, nothing.
The best one? Can’t think what state the others
must be in, then. Have a look.
Yes, the others look pretty lousy, all glued up
and bristles coming out and dirty. For small
mercies.
I’ll just finish this one on my own.
There’s no satisfaction
in it, in any of it, now.
Off we go.
Sloppity glue.
In the mind, mind the
pain shooting up my! Went to the doctor. Piles,
he said at once. No, I’ve had them, not the same
this time. No, he said, doctors know best. Must
ask her if I can see the doctor sooner than Thurs-
day. Can’t wait till then. She’ll not like it,
she hates anyone making a fuss. I can’t do it!
I can’t wait, either, till Thursday.
Keep quiet about it, then.
Ivy understands about my problem, would make
someone a good wife, still, Ivy. Nothing to look
at, of course, she doesn’t even seem to have that
look of peace that some of the other women have.
Did she have a hard time of it?
There’s no telling.
Still hurts to glue, I still have to move even
ever so slightly. How can I think about anything
else, it’s constant, the pain, what else
is there to think about, it goes round and round
in circles, my mind, off it, on it, not very
often off it.
Luxury bed, downy pillows, none of your plastic-
filled articles. Out,
out, he said, and out he took it, left a gap
at the back of my mouth, felt like a bomb
crater, kept poking my tongue in it, all salty
blood, you can’t help it, can you?
Stray,
stray, stray.
And then you don’t know where you are. Still
don’t understand how he swindled me on that deal,
just know he definitely did swindle me. I paid
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