Chaplin & Company

by Mave Fellowes

  ‘Thank you for helping me,’ says Vera, looking up at her, with that same embarrassing warmth as a moment before.

  It wasn’t my choice, Odeline wants to say, but doesn’t. Instead she says, ‘You’re welcome.’ Something about this woman makes her feel she has to be falsely nice – maybe it’s because of the free hot chocolate yesterday morning. This is exactly why I never become obligated to people, exactly why I never owe, she thinks.

  Odeline finds herself stepping on after Vera. She loses her balance and clutches Vera’s shoulder – the boat is much less stable than a narrowboat.

  ‘Okay?’ says Vera.

  ‘Yes. Thank you,’ says Odeline. Again, too nicely.

  They go down into the cabin, which has grubby windows in heavily varnished frames. There are dull brass dials on the dashboard and a small wooden steering wheel with an anchor engraved in the centre. Old coins and empty packets of tobacco are jammed in the crevice between the dashboard and the front window. The wood floor is black with dirt and there are some pieces of broken glass in the corner. Vera steps down carefully and opens a low door to the left of the steering wheel. ‘Ugh,’ says Odeline, peering in. Inside is mostly dark but they can see a small shelf with a ball of yellow string and some rusted cans of oil. On the bottom shelf are some stained blue overalls rolled up into a ball. The floor by the door is covered by a mass of twisted clothes, half of which look wet. They can see the corner of an old mattress at the back, with what look like cartons next to it. The smell coming out of this place is babyish, the soured smell of old milk.

  ‘Ugh,’ says Odeline, again.

  ‘It is disgusting,’ agrees Vera.

  ‘Just take the overalls,’ says Odeline, and Vera does, shutting the door quickly. They back up on to the deck, Odeline stooping and holding herself away from the walls of John Kettle’s filthy cabin. Vera takes a plastic bag that is snagged on the corner of the deck and shoves the overalls into it. As she steps off the boat it lurches violently and Odeline has to grab hold of the cabin roof until it subsides and she too can climb down.

  ‘I think we go straight down here for the hospital,’ says Vera, pointing down the towpath. She has hooked the plastic bag over her arm. The soggy overalls are heavy, stretching the handles. Odeline remembers John Kettle’s wet face in the moonlight and shudders.

  ‘Are you okay?’ asks Vera.

  ‘I saw him, just before,’ she says. ‘On the street. He was trying to talk to me. I pretended I didn’t see him.’

  ‘What is he saying?’ asks Vera.

  ‘I don’t know because I couldn’t understand. His words were slurred. I think he must have been drunk.’

  ‘He is a very troubled man,’ nods Vera. ‘Very troubled. Sometimes it seems he is bothering you and all you want is for him and his troubles to leave you alone. To just stay away.’

  ‘Yes,’ says Odeline.

  ‘Shall we walk?’ says Vera, and they turn on to the towpath. There are a pair of ducks paddling by, one leading the other. They bob alongside Vera and Odeline for a few metres, then turn away into the middle of the pool.

  ‘I checked in my A–Z,’ Odeline says. ‘We have to follow the canal and turn off when it bends to the left.’

  ‘Oh, okay,’ says Vera, nodding.

  Odeline takes the A–Z out of her trouser pocket and flicks the pages around the spiral. ‘I’ll get to the page, just to make sure.’

  ‘Good idea,’ says Vera. She is panting slightly. ‘Can we walk a little slower?’

  ‘Here it is.’ Odeline shows her the page.

  Vera nods again, wiping her temples with the cuff of her shellsuit top. Then she stops and grips Odeline by the arm. ‘I can’t do a form,’ she says. ‘When we get there. If we have to fill in a form for him.’

  Odeline pulls her arm away and carries on walking. She is not sure what Vera means. Perhaps she can’t write English. ‘Fine,’ she says, and now they are going under a big bridge, with cars zooming overhead. In the amplified darkness, Odeline can hear the click of her brogues against the background roar of traffic. Vera’s trainers don’t make a sound. As they come into the light, Odeline checks the A–Z page. Two more bridges to go until they turn off. She remembers now the queries she jotted into her notebook this morning, and takes the opportunity to interrogate her companion.

  ‘Underneath carpet squares, are there always floorboards?’

  Vera shrugs, the plastic bag swings. ‘How do I know?’

  Odeline walks faster.

  ‘In boats or in houses?’

  ‘Boats. For example, a narrowboat.’

  ‘I would say probably yes.’

  ‘How much is paint?’

  ‘How do I – for boats?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I don’t know exactly. I think you can get it cheap from the hardware store.’

  They reach a section of canal where two or three narrowboats are moored on either side. Odeline scans the names; none of them is the Saltheart – where has it gone? They are walking next to a length of corrugated fence with cranes sticking up from behind it. On the far bank the towpath is walled by a white office building with small square windows looking on to the canal, and beyond that some wooden warehouses.

  ‘How long does it take for a letter to reach a destination abroad?’

  Vera blows out, tries to catch her breath. ‘Uh, probably a week to Europe. Outside Europe, I would say up to two weeks.’

  ‘Could it be longer? For somewhere really remote?’

  ‘Excuse me. I must stop for one moment.’ She takes off her shellsuit top. Underneath she is wearing a baggy mauve T-shirt. The collar is darkened with damp.

  ‘Could it be longer?’

  ‘I expect so, yes.’ Vera flaps the sleeve of the shellsuit to fan herself, and they walk on.

  ‘Where are details of entertainment agencies listed?’

  Vera squints up, eyes crinkled, shaking her head – she appears amused by this question.

  ‘You are working me hard.’

  ‘Do you know the answer?’

  ‘Are you needing a telephone number?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘There is no computer, but we have a telephone directory in the cafe. You are very welcome to look.’

  Odeline sees the bend in the canal. ‘Turn here,’ she says, sticking her hand rigidly forward to show their route. They walk down a narrow cobbled passage between two buildings and come out facing a line of brown brick buildings, a quiet street with cars parked down the sides. Through a gateway between these buildings Odeline can see the back of an ambulance. She looks down at her A–Z. ‘Left,’ she says, signalling with a straight arm flung out to the side. They walk past a yard with large square plastic bins, and metal trolleys piled with laundry. The tarmac surface looks smooth and newly laid: possibly a good site for roller-skating practice. She could push one of the bins along as a stabiliser. But then she notices the ‘TOXIC CONTENT’ stickers on their sides. Perhaps not.

  Protruding from the centre of the next building is a blue porticoed entrance. It is busy here, with people walking businesslike in and out. They all look perfectly fit and well, and mostly young. This is not how she imagined a London hospital. ‘In here,’ she says to Vera, indicating the entrance, and puts the A–Z back into her trouser pocket.

  Inside there is a smell of antiseptic and everything is lit, almost blindingly, by strip lights in tight rows across the ceiling. They go to the information desk, Vera’s shoes squeaking noisily on the rubber floor, and are told to join a queue. Odeline stands in front of Vera in the queue and picks her pocket watch out of her waistcoat. The ceiling lights make bright bars across its glass face and she has to shield the watch face with her hand. It is five twenty-five. She has better things to do with her life than stand in queues. Time has value too, she thinks, just like money.

  When they at last reach the desk, they are directed to a building further down the street, and as they approach it, Odeline tenses. On a square of pavement outs
ide a set of double doors are an assortment of ill people. Some are in wheelchairs, some lean on crutches and some are attached by tubes to wheeled metal posts like the end of a clothes rail. They are nearly all old and nearly all wearing the same disgusting apricot-coloured tunics, their sickly, scrawny limbs poking out of them as they cluster outside in the sunshine. They look like they have been in the sun too long, wrinkled like prunes. Disgusting. Odeline drops back behind Vera, who doesn’t seem fazed by this sight and is walking towards them quite happily.

  Ugh! Some of them are smoking!

  Odeline feels like retching. She is going to have to cross the paving to get to the entrance. She wills the little army of diseased aliens to wheel off and disappear. Shoo! Vera is still marching on. Stupid fat woman. But Odeline is forced to follow, and as she gets closer she takes a breath and holds it, looking straight ahead at the electric doors, which open to let Vera through. But just as Odeline gets to them, they close, and she releases some of her held breath as she pushes and kicks at the glass, trying to make the door open. A wrinkly hand appears by her hip and she freezes – she can see one of the wheeled poles and a corner of apricot tunic. The hand extends forward and pushes a button, the doors click and open.

  ‘There you are, dear.’ The croaking voice breathes cigarette smoke towards Odeline’s nostrils, and she snorts, pushing it away as she trips through the doors.

  TWELVE

  John Kettle has not been a good patient. This is what he has been told by the ward supervisor, a small Oriental woman who he pretended not to understand. He looked around when he did this but nobody laughed. She pursed her little mouth and clipped off back to her desk. He is fed up with lying here in a paper nightie, his mottled arms sticking out – it’s like he’s wearing a bloody woman’s dress. He feels ropey, his stomach feels uneasy. His tongue is puffy and sour in his mouth. And he doesn’t like being patronised by these bloody doctors. They asked him about ‘feelings of depression’ and he said that being stuck here all day was enough to make anyone depressed. That old boy in the bed next door looks dead already, he said. They didn’t smile.

  Now the doctors have left, all he can hear is the laboured breathing of that bloke next door and the scratching pen of the ward supervisor behind her desk. This is his audience. He thought hospitals were supposed to be busy places. He can hear the low buzz of the strip lights along the ceiling. He feels itchy with the silence, so leans forward to grab his medical notes from the clipboard at the end of the bed.

  Upon admittance the patient’s blood-alcohol level showed at 0.47.

  The patient was monitored for late Cardiac Arrhythmia and administered a dextrose/saline drip.

  The patient has exhibited some gastrointestinal symptoms as a result of swallowing contaminated water. The report recommends tests for E. coli, Faecal Coliform and Faecal Streptococci and a prescription of antibiotics according to the levels of toxicity.

  The patient did not regain consciousness for 6 hours and appeared disorientated and incoherent on waking.

  The patient will be required to complete a psychiatric assessment before being discharged.

  The patient refused to complete the self-report questionnaire and is therefore subject to a psychiatric evaluation interview (PEI).

  He flicks over to the next sheet.

  Psychiatric Evaluation Report:

  The patient exhibits signs of stress and depression manifesting in hostility and attempts to inhibit or frustrate the interview. The patient initially refused to confirm his name, responding to the interviewer’s requests with incorrect identities, for instance ‘Adolf Hitler’, ‘Greta Garbo’. The patient repeatedly evaded the initial straightforward enquiries of the interview, questions such as ‘How are you today?’ were repeated with exaggerated references to the interviewer’s accent and gender. The patient seemed to be playing to an audience in the ward, and when questioned about the incidents leading up to his admittance to hospital became hostile and silent. The patient refused to look at the interviewer and would only answer with head gestures to signify ‘yes’ or ‘no’. The patient does not remember the incident. The patient does not remember where he was drinking on the night he was admitted to hospital or if he was drinking with other individuals. The patient does not usually drink large quantities of alcohol. The patient does not know how much he usually drinks. The patient would not say he was a heavy drinker. There have been no previous incidents of this kind. The patient has not previously discussed any problems of this kind with his GP. The patient would not say he was feeling depressed or frustrated on the evening he was admitted to hospital. The patient is happy and fulfilled in his work. The patient has no financial anxieties. Nothing had occurred to make the patient particularly distressed on that evening. The patient has no history of alcohol in his family. The patient has no family. The patient has no spouse or companion. The patient has a normal network of friends, colleagues and acquaintances.

  Patient 66719343 agreed to attend a community alcohol awareness programme and has named a close friend who will be able to accompany him home from hospital.

  ‘What a lot of balls,’ he says, loudly, and chucks the clipboard down the bed. And then kicks it on to the floor. Some visitors at the other end of the ward look up and murmur at each other. He drums his nails on the bed tray and looks around. Everything is pastel – the walls are lilac and the bedclothes a pale orange, which seems a particularly gruesome colour to cover the grey breathers underneath. They look degraded by it, such an infantile colour.

  He hears the ward supervisor rustle out of her seat and turns to see the squat shape of Vera from the barge cafe and the tall girl, the artist, in the reception area.

  ‘Oh look, it’s Laurel and Hardy!’ he calls out across the ward.

  He sees the weird girl’s lips tighten and feels his joke wither. He is ashamed to be seen like this, especially in front of the girl. Vera is holding a blue bundle in her arms which he recognises as his old overalls.

  The ward supervisor brings Vera and the girl over. He is made to get out of bed in front of them, and walk across to a curtained cubicle to change into the overalls. He feels better in the overalls than the paper frock, even though they are damp and stained. He is given a plastic bag bulky with the clothes he came in with, and picks out his boots from there, even though they are soaking wet. In the cubicle is a small mirror and he tries to sort his hair out a bit. His skin is yellow under the strip lights and his lips darkly purple. He doesn’t look at his eyes, can’t.

  He comes out and the ward supervisor leads the three of them to the lift in silence, her hair in a perky little black bun. ‘Didn’t catch her name,’ he jokes to Vera, jabbing a thumb.

  ‘Are you okay?’ Vera asks him as the supervisor presses the button. There are other people getting into the lift, also going to the ground floor. He mimics her worried expression. ‘Arrr you hokay?’ he says, in a Commie accent. ‘Oh yes. Don’t you worry about me.’ He gives a little laugh. The weird girl sniffs. Nobody speaks while the lift goes down. The supervisor leads them across the foyer to the front desk. ‘You taking us all the way home?’ he asks. She ignores him, clips off behind the desk and comes back out with paperwork.

  In the foyer he waits with the bag of clothes while the two women fill in the forms – for some reason it takes a long time and the girl ends up doing it. Vera walks away from the reception desk saying she is too hot, but then goes outside and stands in the sun. He follows her out and looks around. More of the living dead on the pavement out here, sucking on cigarettes in their apricot tunics. Thank God he’s out of there. A couple walk past with ice creams. ‘Belter of a day,’ he says. Vera doesn’t answer. She is holding her tracksuit top over her arm and her hands are clutched at her waist. She has her eyes closed.

  Odeline marches out and past them. John Kettle and Vera follow her along the street and round the corner on to the cobbled path leading to the canal. They turn on to the towpath: one, two, three.

  They pass the Padd
ington warehouses, which are more like farmyard barns in the soft six o’clock light, old brown planks and corrugated roofs. The water is busy with moorhens and ducks. John Kettle is almost keeping up with Odeline; Vera is wheezing some way behind. Clusters of pigeons are perched on the canal ledge, pecking at something. Tails upturned and with grey wings closed, they look like mussels on a rock.

  Odeline says spikily, without turning round, ‘I think you should find Ridley and thank him.’

  John Kettle scoffs: ‘That gypsy off the Saltheart? I would have thought he’d let me drown. No morals that lot.’ He turns and grins at Vera for confirmation, but she just shrugs.

  Odeline spins round. ‘Well, perhaps he should have. But instead he got in the water to save you.’ Her mouth pokes out with anger. ‘He got in the water, you know. And broke his mobile telephone. And did the resuscitation. You know, in my opinion, he shouldn’t have bothered. You are pathetic. Pathetic. A crude, ungrateful bigot. Typical philistine, chauvinist, middle-aged, offensive, racist bigot. That –’ her eyes blaze – ‘is what you are.’ She spins back round and walks on. John Kettle reels, punchdrunk, his stomach lurches. Closest he’s felt to seasick in forty years living on water.

  Looks at the horizon to steady himself. Follows the line of tower block, bridge, advertisement hoarding. Rotten. How rotten he feels.

  He murmurs something into his beard.

  ‘What?’ Odeline says and stops.

  He can’t speak. She marches off again and now he calls after her, ‘I’m terribly sorry! I’m terribly sorry, Odeline! I know I’m a fool! I say stupid things, very stupid things. I don’t even think. I’m sorry!’ His voice is strangled. But at least Odeline has stopped.