September Starlings

by Ruth Hamilton

  It’s amazing what it does to you, the sight of an almost silent exodus as it pulls away towards the horizon. Grand, Armada-ish ships hoisted sail and flags while fussy little dock boats scurried behind, like ducklings in the wake of a mother. The Liver birds, tall and too bold to need maternal guidance, would have claimed the best view, were no doubt staring down with arrogance upon the labouring sailors. Prop planes did a fly-past, their clever stunts vying for attention with the sea-bound vessels. Helicopters hovered, reminded me of busy insects, dragonflies, perhaps, searching for stagnant water. They were mere babies, these flying machines, could not hold centre-stage for too long. In every British breast there is an affection for the sea, a love that has been handed down in our blood. We noticed the fliers, but we watched the ships.

  The sea-going traffic moved on just as life moves on, no pause, no backward glance at a middle-aged woman and a feeble old man. That’s the way it should be, perpetua mobile, go forth and find the future. The creamed wakes of foam settled, flattened, became one with the sea. How speedily they pass, these moments of pure and painful joy. Soon, a flotilla of smaller vessels scuttled out, prows aimed towards the edge of the world. Too quickly, they would be gone. Some drunken youths staggered along the shore, began to render a maudlin version of ‘The Leaving of Liverpool’, toneless and disparate voices punctuated by heavy belches. They giggled like girls, took another swig of lager, drew breath, tortured the song anew.

  Ben looked chilled, so I wheeled him back to the house, switched on the TV. On screen, eminent people sat on the Albert Dock making comments about steamships and the death of sail. Bearded men in green sweaters were singing sea-shanties on the remodelled and just-too-perfect dock. Silly teenagers jumped about, trying to wave to Mam and Dad. I had been wrong, because not all the ships were gone. A lone Russian remained, crippled, no money to mend her damage. The people of Liverpool would care for her and the crew, would have a collection, see them right. And one or two of the naughty girls would probably address the problem, give themselves to Russia with love. At a knock-down price, of course.

  ‘Did you like the ships?’ I asked my husband.

  ‘No room. Too many of us,’ he replied. ‘The child in the corner is dead. Don’t cry.’

  ‘Ben, where are you?’ I knelt at his feet while the television carried on singing, commentating. ‘Where is this place in your head? Ben, where do you go?’

  He looked at me, through me, his lips moving quickly. ‘We’ll never get home. I don’t want to go back, because there’s no-one there for me. Did you tell them about the fresh vegetables?’ He was not speaking about this home, was referring to some other time, some other location.

  I nodded. ‘Yes. The matron knows that you prefer fresh. What do you think about, darling? When you shout about dogs and stoves, where is that place?’

  Ben smiled, almost fooled me yet again into believing that he might get better. ‘Laura. My mother will like you. She’s down there mending nets. Did you see her? We drank her wine and she wasn’t pleased. When we’ve taken everything from them, they join the other queue. In the strawberry yoghurt.’

  My husband is crackers. He comes home rarely these days, is allowed out for just a few hours. I am lonely. I sit here now, gaze at the empty water, remember the day of the tall ships, think about the effort I made to communicate with him. Hopeless. Well, today I go to see the expert. My own health has a clean bill at last. I am dismissed by the surgeon, sacked by the psychiatrist. Now, I can fight for my Ben.

  Despite the fact that the hair is beating a fast retreat, Gordon Watson-Jones is a very attractive man. He has dark brown eyes that wrinkle in the corners whenever he deigns to award me his full attention, a strong, muscular body and enough self-confidence not to use aftershave. I believe that smell is important, that most of us are attracted to the opposite sex by something subliminal, and that our nostrils play no small part in the pairing-off ritual. Men who smell of perfume have never appealed to me. The truly clean male needs no olfactory signal beyond the one that escapes from his own washed skin. Plain soap allows a man’s honest, yeasty scent to come through, the delicious aroma of uncomplicated masculinity.

  I am not in the market for a partner, but I enjoy window-shopping. This senior doctor is like an expensive hat in a Bond Street window, look but don’t touch. Anyway, he is a mere tool, something I need to use for Ben’s sake.

  He taps the ends of his fingers together, stares down at some notes, blinks just once, clears his throat. ‘How is he behaving these days?’ After a split second, he rediscovers the surname, staples ‘Mrs Starling’ to the end of his question.

  ‘He’s completely haywire. I’m here to ask you to use him as a guinea-pig. There must be some research, some untested drug—’

  ‘He’s getting worse?’

  I nod. ‘He jumps about in time, recognizes me, then scarcely knows me, complains about the food in the nursing home, asks to see his mother. Ben never talked about his past. Nor did I, not often, anyway. For the pair of us, the marriage was a fresh start. So I know nothing about him.’

  ‘And you need to know now?’

  ‘Yes. There’s one particular situation that haunts him. He is spending more and more time locked into some dreadful scenario. I want him out of that.’

  He looks up. A woman could drown in those eyes. Another woman, that is. ‘There’s no way of arresting Alzheimer’s,’ he says.

  ‘Vitamins?’ I ask hopefully, yet without hope. ‘Vitamins, minerals, electrolytes?’

  He smiles broadly, pulls at his collar. ‘You’ve been reading again. Look, everything logical has been tried, everything that’s readily available has been fed to or dripped into patients. We don’t know the answer. It’s important that you accept our limitations.’

  I allow my gaze to wander round the consulting room. If I slow down, I might be able to persuade him to phone America, Canada, anywhere that has control groups being assessed. This is a predictably brown and green room, leather couch, tall antique bookcases, square-paned windows that overlook Rodney Street, the Pool’s pool of medical excellence. My chair is of beige leather and he occupies its twin. Three of the walls are heavy with diplomas and seascapes. ‘He’s had his chips, hasn’t he?’ There’s no need to be formal. Manners won’t help, etiquette won’t buy a reprieve. Anyway, this is just another bloke, the one who is qualified to blow the final whistle, no extra time for injury.

  He takes a deep breath. ‘A few improve. Some stay at the same level for many years, others deteriorate quickly.’

  I will not weep. This consultation is costing £40, so I’d best not waste time with tears. ‘I want you to send us abroad. There’s no worry about money. There must be somebody somewhere who knows something and—’

  ‘Mrs Starling, your husband is in no fit state to travel. You are just out of hospital too, aren’t you?’

  I eye him steadily. ‘The doctors have sacked me. As a patient, I am currently unemployed.’

  Our eyes lock and I no longer find him attractive. There is something cold-blooded about a hanging judge. He won’t even try to save the condemned man, isn’t even making the effort to research the bloody disease. He tunes in to my thinking, opens a drawer, pulls out charts, lists, graphs, photocopies of articles. ‘I do keep abreast of my speciality. I’m sorry. I find myself apologizing every day when I face people like you, men and women whose relatives have no quality of life. All I can tell you is that we’re searching. The whole world is looking for this particular answer. Why does it hit some old people and not others? Why do some fairly young patients develop these symptoms while others continue to a century with their mental capacities intact?’

  I feel my eyes pricking, blink to contain the flood. ‘He’s such a wonderful man, you see. He took me in, took my children in and became a father to them. After doing so much good, why does he have to get this bloody awful thing?’

  He puts a hand to his mouth, drops it after a split second. This small gesture tells me somet
hing, makes me know that he is sharing my pain. Perhaps he is, after all, a human being. ‘Mrs Starling, I would give a lot to be able to help you, to help the next person who will occupy that chair. Apart from anything else, I’d be a very wealthy man if I could cure your husband.’

  ‘He would be better off in some ways if … I wish …’

  ‘No.’ He shakes his head. ‘There’s no cause for that sort of thinking, please don’t—’

  ‘He is suffering. The torture is in his head, in his mind. Look, I’ve had a couple of breakdowns, but they were pieces of pat-a-cake compared to this. He’s haunted, tormented. I don’t even know what it is that crucifies him. I can’t keep him at home, can’t look after him, so he’s with strangers. What sort of an existence is that, when he sits in his own soil till someone cleans him, babies him? You don’t know him, nobody knows him. Ben is a dignified man. No way would he want to be nursed like an overgrown infant. He can’t decide, deduce, remember anything decent. It’s our duty to decide for him, and I know that he wouldn’t want any of this. He’s getting stuck somewhere in the fourth dimension, talking to real people who aren’t there any more. And you tell me he can last for years like this.’

  He allows a short pause after my outburst. ‘Yes, he may live for a while yet. He’s a strong man with a strong heart.’

  ‘And you would condemn him to a half-life, when his particular portion is full of dread?’

  ‘Do you understand the alternative, Mrs Starling? Have you really grasped the concept? Have you?’

  I haven’t. I look at Watson-Jones and I realize that I haven’t even skirted the edges of the idea. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be.’

  ‘It’s just that we don’t let our animals … well, we don’t. Ben is one of the most magnificent people I have ever known. So solid, he was, so kind and dependable without being a bore. We were happy.’

  ‘Yes.’

  I feel a sudden urge to confess, to purge myself and get rid of the guilt that always hovers over me. Like a Catholic in confession, I blurt it all out, not to a priest, but to a man who is paid to listen to me. ‘I took a lover. Ben always said that I should if he became senile. There was no-one there to comfort me, you see. My children are grown, have been in and out of the nest for years, are now gone for ninety per cent of the time. I was hurt, you see. I had pain and I needed to be held.’ I beg myself to stop indulging this unbecoming self-pity, yet I continue regardless. ‘Ben is still my husband and I love him. I became ill myself, was put into hospital, had surgery. It’s awful, because my lover’s wife died of the very disease I survived.’ I think about Carol, think about poor Robert.

  He coughs quietly. ‘Do you feel remorse because you survived?’

  ‘I don’t know. In a sense, the breakdown was born of relief, because I couldn’t believe that I was better, wondered whether I deserved to recover so completely.’ I remember that I said none of this to the psychiatrist. ‘You’re the first person I’ve talked to except for Ruth. She’s my friend. The illness was like a punishment, as if some great being looked down on me and said, “She’s not looking after that sick man, she’s enjoying herself.” So now, I’m even more acutely aware of Ben’s situation. Every time I see him, I try to get through to him, try to find out what he needs.’

  He blinks two or three times. ‘Sackcloth and ashes, Mrs Starling.’ The man leans forward, places elbows on the table. ‘So many people come in here and say exactly what you have just said. “Oh, Mr Watson-Jones, I went out and had a good time, I went to a wedding without her or without him.” This wretched disease spreads like wildfire through the whole family. Comparisons are not terribly useful, but I understand from colleagues that parents of handicapped children often react in the same way. Because one member of the family is infirm, everyone seems to feel guilty unless the suffering is shared. There are homes in this city where families don’t move, don’t go out for a drink or a bit of relaxation. They all sit there sharing the same space as the sufferer, as if it’s wrong to leave the house. Mrs Starling, there is nothing wrong or sinful about seeking respite.’

  I want to believe him, must believe if I’m going to carry on living. And I am going to carry on living.

  ‘They are locked in houses,’ he repeats softly. ‘Locked in, watching sick people. They think it’s the right thing to do. But it isn’t, it’s very wrong. Workers don’t operate seven days a week, twenty-odd hours a day. It’s a full-time job, but holidays and weekends are allowed.’

  ‘Are you telling me to find a life?’

  He nods. ‘Don’t push him out, don’t let him take over. If he were physically ill, would he keep you by his side?’

  ‘No.’

  He looks at his watch, shuffles some papers, signals that my time is almost up. ‘Go and walk round a gallery, look at a painting or two. Or just go shopping.’ He smiles. ‘Shopping is a hobby with many women.’

  I stand, pick up my bag. ‘Goodbye.’ I look at him properly, give him the kind of once-over that I might award to a piece of decorative furniture. ‘If you find any new treatments—’

  ‘I’ll let you know.’

  Perhaps I am, after all, my mother’s daughter. I look at men, weigh them up, play about in my mind with imagined possibilities. Ah well, men have done that to women for centuries, and now that we are equals, females can enjoy similar standpoints. And no, I am not Liza McNally’s daughter, not in my heart.

  I stand on his doorstep, study the brass plaque that announces his position in medical society. It shines like the sun, though there’s a bit of greenish-grey Brasso stuck round one of the twenty-odd letters that squat behind his name. Beneath him, there is a list of others who make their fortune from the mortal illness we call life.

  This isn’t really a doorway, it’s almost a portal, an ornate affair that might have sat well in the shadow of the Parthenon, scrolls on top of pillars, a small stone cherub carved into the inverted V over the top section. The solid wooden door is painted blue, while creamy white paint flakes away from surrounding masonry.

  The Harley Street of the north is pleasant enough during the hours of daylight. It sits, polite and clean, coyly skirting the edge of the red light district, becomes slightly seedier after nightfall. All along the block, windows are dressed with boxes of flowers – lobelia, alyssum, a burst of cheery marigolds here and there. Steps are worn down, sagging in the middle, eroding sedately beneath the weight of the many sicknesses that have staggered up and down the once solid slabs. The blooms in tubs and window-boxes are past their best. Most who enter here are beyond their prime.

  My car is parked on double yellows, sports in its windscreen Ben’s orange disability sticker. Any warden worth his salt might see the disparity here, an ancient Alpine in British racing green, a car that’s difficult to cope with even when its occupants are in the best of health. I drive round aimlessly, heading for home, doubling back along side streets, journeying away from whatever, then towards confusion and traffic signals. There is something I want to see, a place I need to visit. I don’t know why and I don’t know where, so I continue my circular tour through Liverpool, towards Crosby, back to Liverpool. This is a mystery outing at its best, one where the driver doesn’t know the destination.

  I am arguing with myself, speaking out loud. ‘You knew there’d be no new discoveries, Laura. What were you expecting? A miracle?’ I change gear, slow down behind a bus. ‘There’s no harm in asking,’ I reply to myself. ‘He’d be better as a guinea-pig, he’d be better off … better off if he were …’

  A Liverpool cabbie misses my rear by centimetres, gives me the two-finger sign as he swerves into the centre lane. ‘Get yerself a bloody guide dog, luv,’ he yells.

  The weather is warm, yet I am freezing. I am chilled to the bone because I am praying for my husband to be released from prison. I had another husband in prison once, and I prayed then that he would never be allowed his freedom. The prayers worked in a way, as Bernard Thompson suffered a massive heart att
ack in his cell, is prevented by poor health from tormenting me and my children ever again. And now, I pray for release … I am asking God to kill my Ben, am begging for the death of a good man.

  I drive down Bankfield Street, stop on the docks. It’s a ghost road again today, no sound, no movement, just brick upon brick, stone upon stone. This is where my dad’s Irish father first set foot on British soil, where thousands came to start a new life in a place that was up-and-coming.

  There is a terrible stillness about the place. A crisp packet scutters along, driven by a wind that has lost all will to survive, a mere breeze compared to recent weather. A gull cries, his mournful wail seeming like a dirge as it falls along Liverpool’s deserted miles. Here, men waited to be called for work, propped themselves up, disguised weaknesses, hid their infirmities in order to gain a shilling for a meal. Limbs were broken, backs were bent, lives were snuffed out by falling loads.

  On the road that skirts the world’s biggest docks, there is a woman and a crisp packet. Why am I here? The bird swoops again, shouts at me, is joined by a couple of pals. We used to stand here, Ben and I. My children too would come to this place, used to carry biscuits, bread, bits of meat for the gulls. I reach into the glove box, bring out some stale cake, wind down the window, scatter the bounty. Screaming and quarrelling, they pounce on the food. Oh Ben, how you loved the gulls.

  Men perished here, formed unions on this stretch, fought bosses, police, each other. It seems right that I should pray in this pitted, damaged place with its deep scars of iron where trains ran, with its pockmarked cobbles on top of which a few thin bandages of tarmac linger in sad, grey patches.

  Ben, oh Ben. I smile, remember the quickness of it all. I kept house for a week, was courted for a month, was married so quickly that my mother screamed about delicacy and good taste. We had the sort of marriage that Georgina Dawn writes about, one of those happy-ever-after things that drift along all smug and safe until … until a dinner party and some ice that never got crushed.