by P. Z. Reizin
Dr. E laid his clipboard across his knees and placed three items upon it: his watch, a pen, a coin. “Can you tell me what these are?”
Mum looked at him as if he’d just made an improper suggestion.
“Young man, do you suppose I’m completely senile?”
Dr. E’s kindly blue eyes didn’t flinch from inside their thicket. “These three objects.”
“A watch, of course. A rather cheap one, from the look of it. A pen. And. And. And some money. Next question, please.”
“Is there a word for this sort of money?”
There was a long gap while she searched for the mot juste. “Ten pence?”
“A piece of round, metallic money. You’d call it a…?”
“Well, it’s loose change, dear.”
“A coin, Mum! You know what a coin is!”
“Moving on. Can you recall that name and address I asked you to remember?”
For a moment I honestly thought I was losing it too!
“Was it 75 Harcourt Terrace?”
“Mrs. Parsloe…”
“Well, the name’s escaped me. Was it a color? Like blue or green?”
“Mrs. Parsloe…”
“Or Greensmith. I had a bridge partner called Greensmith. She got awfully annoyed with me for not remembering which cards had been played. So even then, you see.”
“Mrs. Parsloe, my apologies. I actually didn’t give you the name and address. I forgot.”
“Oh, thank fuck for that.”
“Daisy!”
“I’m sorry, Doctor.”
He waved away the profanity. “Oddly enough, you were right about the name. It was a color. Brown. John Brown. 42 West Street, Kensington.”
“Well, I don’t remember him at all.”
“You wouldn’t, Mum. He didn’t tell you. He forgot!”
“He forgot? Dr. Eggstain, you really must try to get more sleep. Those dark rings under your eyes. Daisy was the same as a little girl.”
Eggstain and I looked at one another, and it was true, there were dark rings in the space between where his beard ended and his eyes began. Something wry and amused was twinkling inside them.
“Your mother would make an excellent diagnostician. She’s perfectly correct. I barely slept at all last night.”
“A mother always knows!”
“A few more questions, Mrs. Parsloe, if I may.”
“What you need is a good strong cup of tea with lots of sugar. We can’t allow him back on the streets in this state, can we, darling?!”
“You’re very kind. But if you could just read the words on this piece of paper and do what they say.”
He passed her a note. She smiled. “Doctor, heal thyself,” she said. And closed her eyes.
Do I need to tell you what was in the note? (“Close your eyes.”) We all laughed, even Dr. E.
There were more brainteasers. Can you tell me about something that’s been in the news lately? I’m not sure Mum’s reply scored especially highly—“Yes, interest rates. They’ve gone up. Or am I thinking of sea levels?” Who is the present prime minister?—“That chap. You know, him in the suit. Who never answers the question. I didn’t vote for him, but I suppose somebody must have.” Zero points, I’m guessing.
But then he asked her to write a sentence; it could be about anything so long as it contained a noun and a verb. She spent a long time on the calligraphy (“everyone used to tell me I had beautiful handwriting”) and when Eggstain read it, he smiled and passed me the paper.
I got a bit teary when I saw what she’d put.
Life is but a dream, but don’t wake me.
“Very wise, Mrs. Parsloe.”
“My late husband was fond of saying it.”
“He’s not late, Mummy. He’s in Italy.”
“Is he?”
“You know he is.”
“Well, I shan’t need to take any more of your time.”
It was lovely—and at the same time a little heartbreaking—to see flashes of Mum’s old self against the encroaching darkness.
“I do wish he’d do something about that beard,” she said after Dr. E had beetled off to visit the next confused elderly party. “It’s like trying to see someone through a hedge.”
A peculiar episode after Daisy leaves her mother’s house.
I have been a witness to the scene Daisy describes above, and because it’s more interesting than brooding in the cold and dark, I, as it were, “follow” her to Whetstone High Street, where she spies, sitting alone in the window of a local greasy spoon café, this very same Dr. Eggstain, staring into space over the remains of a fried breakfast.
She stops in her tracks, startled perhaps by the sight of the bearded memory man so evidently alone with his thoughts. Taking a pace toward him, she brings off a comedic slow-motion wave through the plate glass—but when the doctor shows no sign of breaking from his reverie, she does something that to my mind is truly extraordinary.
Or nuts, possibly.
It’s for others to decide.
She steps up to the café window and smooshes her face against the glass, rolling her eyes and for a couple of seconds generally carrying on like the town madwoman. The effect from Dr. E’s perspective—he’s certainly noticed her now!—perhaps puts him in mind of one of the gurning monsters at the summit of Notre Dame de Paris, should he have had occasion to visit that city. But his surprise is quickly tempered by amusement when he realizes who is behind the lunatic performance and he waves her inside, indicating the empty chair opposite the ruins of his breakfast. Two cups of tea and two rounds of toast are ordered, and it is at this point we may join the conversation (audio courtesy of Daisy’s mobile; impeccable vision generously supplied by the traffic camera on the lamp-post opposite: establishing wide shot, master two-shot, singles, what more could you ask for?).
“I really don’t know why I did that. You probably think the whole family’s off its trolley now.”
“Not at all. You should probably do something about your face, though.” He hands her a paper tissue from the dispenser. “Dirt from the window.”
Daisy takes a few moments with the forward-facing camera on her mobile phone; a dark smudge of soot lies across her right cheekbone, but her eyes are shining.
“I’m glad we have this chance to talk about your mother.”
The disheveled young physician really is something of a mess today; hair like he’s slept on it, knitted tie at half mast, beard growing in many separate directions. Were Mr. Anil Gupta present—and he cannot be far away!—I feel certain he would have clocked Dr. E’s shoes in an instant, horrible boat-like trainers that along with the baggy trousers and the rest of the ensemble, speak powerfully of the opposite of vanity. As he outlines his early conclusions about Daisy’s mum—a mixed picture is what it boils down to; some impoverishment of vocabulary and a degree of cognitive impairment but plenty of vim in other departments—Daisy’s head, I can’t help noticing, has dropped to one side. A slow smile takes its time spreading itself across the broad map of her face.
The doctor recommends that Chloe undergoes further tests and, depending on the outcome, pills may be appropriate to help arrest the decline. “She has to remember to take them, of course,” he adds.
“Do you mind if I ask you something?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“Do you find your work depressing?”
Dr. E’s eyes are level as they gaze at Daisy through the shrubbery.
“People losing their minds,” she continues. “Doesn’t it depress you how we spend a lifetime accumulating all these memories, and then they’re just nibbled away to nothing? Like a bun thrown to the ducks.”
“That’s a rather lovely image. Well. Yes. It’s definitely a challenge. Both medically, and as a growing problem we face as a society.”
“Doesn’t it make you worry about? You know.”
“One’s own future? There are ways to keep the brain healthy.”
“Crosswords.”
“Crosswords can help, yes. But also learning a language, playing an instrument; exercise is important. Do I sound like a public health film?”
“I’m so shit at crosswords. Month after April. Three letters. That’s my level.”
Eggstain smiles. “They’re working on cures as we speak. By the time you and me reach your mother’s age…” He trails off. Shrugs. “What do you do, Daisy?”
“Me? I’m embarrassed to say.”
“Okay. Let me guess.” He strokes his beard comedically. “So, I’m guessing… construction worker.”
She laughs. “Television producer. Well, assistant producer. I’ve just been sacked, actually.”
Eggstain pulls a face. “Sorry.”
“Oh, you needn’t be. It happens all the time. And it’s not like we’re saving lives or anything. Ruining them, more like.”
“Would it be something I’ve seen?”
“God, I hope not! Helicopter Life Exchange.” A pause. “I can tell it means nothing to you. Phew!”
“Have you heard of a TV performer called Chad Butterick?”
“Of course! Everyone has. Massive wanker. I mean, notorious for being difficult to work with. Actually, they all are.”
“There was a horribly loud party at his house last night. We live directly opposite.”
“Which is why you couldn’t sleep!”
“To be honest, it wasn’t just the evil music. I’ve been tired for months. Years, if I think about it. I shouldn’t have told you that! Doctors are supposed to be. You know. God-like.”
“Yes, you are. Well, not you personally. The profession.”
“I’ve just realized something.”
“What?”
He chuckles. “Why my patient called me Neville.”
“Neville Beardie!”
“Her late husband was Neville. It was obvious, actually.”
“Why have you just realized that now?”
“Talking to you! That conversation with your mum about her late husband. Who isn’t late. Merely living in Italy.”
“Anything else I can help you with today, Doctor?”
Eggstain sighs. Thinks about it for a moment. “You’re going to think I’m crazy.”
“Uh-oh.”
“I read something at the weekend I can’t get out of my head.”
“That happened to me when I read you can cure dandruff by washing your hair in wee.”
“Some research, I think at the University of Cincinnati, about how time speeds up when you get older.”
“Yes! Alan Bennett says by the time you get to eighty, breakfast seems to come round every twenty minutes.”
“That’s exactly it. Well, apparently when you’re twenty, in terms of your subjective experience, in terms of what the passage of time feels like to you, you’re already halfway through; even if you make it to eighty. And if you’re forty—and you live until eighty—subjectively, your life is basically seventy-one percent over. Do you find that shocking?”
The broad central plain of Daisy’s face has become a mask of seriousness. “Jesus.”
“You might expect the effect to be diminished in the demented. An upside, perhaps.”
“But, wait. Say you’re forty, right? And it feels like seventy-one percent of your life is over. And there’s just thirty-nine percent left.”
“Twenty-nine.”
“Right! Twenty-nine. But the next day, say you get hit by a bus. And then there’s nothing left. It turns out the seventy-one was completely wrong. The numbers are screwy.”
“I’m not sure about the research methodology. But the being hit by the bus thing is really encouraging! Thanks.”
“How do they even measure all that stuff?”
“I don’t know. I’ll find out for you.”
Daisy glances at her watch. “Shit. Speaking of time, I’m supposed to be at work like an hour ago.”
Eggstain offers a hand across the toast crumbs. “It’s been good to have this conversation.”
“Yeah. Yeah, it has. But my life’s now basically over. And it’s all your fault.”
“Does that thing about urine shampoo really work?”
“You’re not thinking of trying it?”
“I’m curious for a friend.”
The leaving party was something of a non-event. We held it in the hotel bar where Chantal and I usually went for glamourous cocktails; there were eight or ten of us. Craig Lyons made a sort of speech in which he said I wasn’t famous for my timekeeping, or the particular brilliance of my ideas (cheeky fucker) or my skill with the “punters” (his disgusting phrase for the “real people” we ensnared on to our show, as distinct from the “talent,” the high-functioning sociopaths from Planet Celebrity who get paid indecent sums to present it). Nor was I especially gifted on location (just because I set the crew vehicle’s satnav to Rotterdam instead of Rotherham. That could have happened to anyone). And nor was I any great shakes as a B-roll camera operator (shakes being the operative word apparently. And also because my pictures once came out all green. Once! Greenist bastard). But then—the charmless prick actually said “mood change, people”—what I was brilliant at—stand by to puke into your soup—was being Daisy, and that was why everyone loved me.
People were pissed by then, of course, so everyone went Ahhhhhhh, and there’d been a collection, but they couldn’t think what to buy me aside from a smart alarm clock (ha ha fucking ha) so instead they’d got some John Lewis vouchers and it was hoped I’d use them to buy something that would always remind me of Tangent Television.
I was so tempted to say, yeah, thanks very much, I could do with a new toilet seat!
Of course the boss was very nice (although not as funny) about Chantal, who is about a million times smarter than me and already has a new job lined up with Mishkin-woman’s company; a six part series on the “future history” of the internet for BBC 5. Chantal said they were still looking for people, but I told her the scrawny old trout took against me—the way she doubted whether I could even remember the way out of her office!—so I was fairly sure that was a non-starter.
People began drifting off home after the speeches—in the end it was just me and Chantal and Dylan the baby researcher, who got massively pissed and I think tried to get off with me and Chantal, but it wasn’t clear because he was mumbling and the bar was very noisy and he was sick afterward in one of the posh plants at the entrance but remember his name because one day he will be Director General of the BBC when Chantal and I are drooling in the care home.
I was woken by my mobile at nine the next morning, so badly hungover one of my eyes wouldn’t open. Long and painful story short, it was Mishkin! Not the saluki from Pengelly Avenue, who never really mastered the telephone, but the wraith in the leopard-print trousers. Was I interested on working on a new show they had just been commissioned to make called Why Do They Do That? The series would explore the psychological roots of why people did the jobs they do. Why surgeons get a kick out of cutting into human flesh, why comedians like making audiences laugh, why police enjoy nabbing crims, that sort of thing. Was I free to come in for a chat 9 a.m. Monday morning, and if it was agreed I was a “good fit” for the project, I could start there and then! My job would be to find articulate, self-knowing celebs who—when their palm was crossed with silver—would blab endlessly about their hopeless craving for laughter, applause, etc. If there was some shameful incident in childhood, so much the better; if I could actually get them to cry on camera, then there was a five hundred quid bonus in it for me! (I made up the last bit.)
It was shocking how much up my street this job was—I decided to buy Chantal a big bunch of flowers as a thank you—and I spent the weekend having ideas and generally preparing to kill at the interview. Online I found a fantastic list of top tips for making an impact on a potential new boss.
Tip one: Do a Google “deep dive” about the company, and the person you’re trying to impress. Don’t just look at page one of Google, look at page
ten, where all the bodies are buried! (Discovered that Mishkin—real name, Harriet Vick—began her career on the Stoke Sentinel. Did that count as a buried body? Note to self: Find out where Stoke is. Like on a map.)
Tip two: Read the papers. Know what’s going on in the world, from politics to low culture. Show them you’re not just a work drongo but a well-informed, rounded individual. (Things with North Korea still shitty; MPs still arguing about Brexit; novel written by computer still topping the paperback charts.)
Tip three: Eat breakfast in a hotel. Apparently, it makes you feel like a boardroom big shot. (The full English at the Premier Inn probably doesn’t count.)
Tip four: Sort out your eye contact. Practice maintaining eye contact with a friend or loved one. The longer you can look them in the eyes at an i/v the more confidence, sincerity and authority you convey (without coming across as a total psycho, obvs). The bloke in the Turkish deli on West End Lane liked to chat; I thought I’d try it on him.
Tip five: Punch something! Exercise generally and boxing in particular are recommended for feeling relaxed and up for it. (As an experiment, I thumped the sofa. Hurt my thumb.)
So then it was Monday afternoon and—drum roll—I got the job!
It turned out that none of those interview tips were the slightest use. She didn’t once ask if I’d ever been to Stoke or what I thought about global warming. It was more, was I okay with the money they were offering—very okay!—and could I get to celebs like Chad Butterick?!
So funny you should mention his name, I told her, my mum’s memory doctor lives opposite his house; in fact, there was a horribly loud party there only the other night.
I think she was genuinely impressed at the extent of my showbiz contacts!
Now I was sitting at my new desk—Chantal was in the next office—and funny drunken fetus Dylan was joining us next week. I spent the rest of the day putting in calls to all sorts of entertainment lowlife and their wonderfully ghastly agents. One of them actually told me, “Darling, what you need to understand is Joan doesn’t get out of bed for less than fifty thousand!”
Not too shabby then, all things considered: exit old job Friday; begin new job Monday. Just for a change, I appeared to have landed with my bum in the butter, as they say in Stoke. (They do. I looked it up.)