The Writing on the Wall and Other Stories

by Penny Edwards

  Anyway, this woman seemed to know what she was doing. She’d barely sat down before she’d written the first page of this form, though that was partly due to Hilda knowing her National Insurance number off by heart. He was proud of her for remembering.

  “How do you know that?”

  “I just do. It’s the one with the letter at the end of it.”

  “Blimey, I don’t know mine.” He didn’t even know about the letter. It got him thinking. How long would any of us have one of these numbers? Their son, Barry, had said only the other week when he came over, “Dad, twenty years’ time, there won’t even be an NHS.” Mind you, our Barry could be a bit of a prophet of doom. He’d told them years ago their roof would collapse in the next twelve months, but it was OK. Admittedly, a tile had fallen off after a bad storm and landed on Sherlock, their last poodle, which had subsequently incurred a huge vet’s bill, but that was all. Still.

  “Oh, and there was that time when I was in for my knee.” Hilda looked at him, so he came out of his reverie and cast aside thoughts of Sherlock not being much of a detective.

  “Now that was 2006,” he weighed in. “It was during the World Cup,” and he laughed.

  “He’s laughing because he kept missing matches so he could come and see me in hospital.” She looked at him with a mocking sternness. “You weren’t laughing then,” she chided.

  “I was worried about you,” and they both chuckled.

  “So worried you kept going out. To the loo.” She raised her eyebrows and twinkled at the woman, whose name they’d found out was Amanda. “He was ringing Barry, our son, to find out what the score was.”

  He smiled. She loved having the last word. But she was right. He had been heartbroken about the World Cup. All this for a disabled parking badge, he thought. No wonder a lot of people give up. Like George down the road. Couldn’t make head nor tail of it, he’d said.

  Hilda shuffled in her seat. “All right, love?” he checked because he could see she was in pain. Their lives revolved around discomfort. He said as much. He wanted Amanda to put this on the form. He wanted her to write, “We need a bloody badge because my wife’s in bloody agony if she has to walk ten steps, tears streaming down her face and everything.” Or words to that effect. Surely that should be enough. He’d take Hilda up to that swanky council building and get the lot of them to watch her. “All right? Can we have our badge now, please?”

  “Reg, where’s my repeat prescription? Amanda wants my prescription. Where did we put it?”

  He looked at that lovely face he’d adored all these years.

  “Reg!” Hilda came running towards him, squealing with delight the whole time. He gave her a great big hug and lifted her little figure off the road. “You won’t be able to lift me like that for very long,” she laughed.

  “Your prescription. Now where did that go?” He walked towards the dining table, where he shuffled a pile of papers that was strewn across a barely visible, tired and grey tablecloth. “It’s not there. Now, where is it?”

  It took him a good few minutes to locate the green and white slip of paper, which had somehow found its way to the top of their fridge – maybe it was when he’d put it down with the crossed-off shopping list the other day – and all the while he could hear Hilda filling what would otherwise have been an embarrassing silence with a story of one of their travels.

  “We went to Hong Kong, you know. Have you ever been? No? Well, it’s a fascinating place and I’m glad we did it, but oh my goodness, the sweat. It was so humid. Reg used to have a shower in the mornings, and then he’d go out and get a paper. He’d only be all of half an hour and he’d have to have another one when he got back. Sweat dripping all over him. But the views. We were very lucky. We had a room in the hotel that was very high up, so we could look down on all the buildings and the harbour. Amazing place, really, but if you don’t like the heat…”

  “Here it is,” and he waved it in the air with a triumphant smile. “Two blummin’ pages of it. Excuse my French.”

  He handed the prescription to Amanda.

  “Take that, Mr or Mrs Council Worker,” he announced defiantly. “You rattle with the stuff, don’t you?”

  Hilda nodded and wondered if Reg remembered he’d once found her sexy. The thought passed and she entered into the joke.

  “Barry said we’d need a suitcase just for all of this,” and she tapped the prescription. “The last time he said that, I told him he needn’t worry. Fat chance of any travel.” She laughed and Reg asked her what was funny.

  “I was just thinking about what Beryl told us,” and they both chuckled. “A friend of ours,” she explained to Amanda, “pinged as she went through airport security. It was her replacement hip. She said it was the most excitement she’d ever got from a replacement anything. Even better than the replacement telly her children had got her that Christmas. ‘Me, a criminal,’ she said.”

  Amanda began writing down the list of medication on the form. She recognised the tablets for Hilda’s heart condition and presumed the others were for her arthritic arms and legs, and the vertigo she’d described so vividly. How once it had resulted in a bleeding forehead outside the post office – what a commotion that had been – and then the time when she’d fallen here, in this lounge, and nearly done for the coffee table. She’d been on the floor for almost an hour when Reg came in from doing the shopping. “What you doing down there?” he’d said.

  “Do this a lot, do you?” Hilda asked Amanda and when the reply came that she did, Hilda had got what she wanted. It wasn’t just her, then.

  “Have you lived here long?” The question was Amanda’s, who was aware that another awkward silence was developing as she wrote the never-ending long words across the paper.

  “Thirty-two years,” they both said in unison, as if this was a question they were frequently asked. It was a natural question, but sometimes Reg felt he was like an exhibit in a museum. “We bought the house just after they’d finished building it,” he offered. “We were one of the first people in the street.”

  “Yes,” joined in Hilda. “It was us, the Whites and the Robertsons and Joan. I think she was even here before us.”

  “Oh yes, she had a beautiful garden at the front by the time we moved in.”

  “We’re the only ones left standing from the old brigade, though, aren’t we?”

  “Yep, the Robertsons moved about seven or eight years ago. That was when their daughter had a baby. Moved all the way to Manchester, didn’t they? Then Bill and Joyce left because of Bill’s job, and poor old Joan just recently.”

  As Amanda wrote on the form the long, depressing list of her everyday medication, Hilda wondered if there was anything else she did but take the stuff, wait to take it and recover from taking it. She looked closely at Reg, who she’d come to rely on for almost everything and though there was no doubt in her mind that she loved him still, there was something about their more recently established relationship with all of its inequalities that got under her skin. Her never-ending need, requirement almost, to be always grateful made her just the teensiest bit resentful. For instance, she could hardly point out that these days she preferred plain digestives as she found the milk ones too sweet or that she didn’t really like the smell of lemons in her shower gel. It would have seemed churlish, spiteful even, when the poor bloke had bust a gut fighting wind and rain to get to the supermarket and then trundled around pushing a heavy trolley.

  She turned her head because he was becoming aware she was staring at him and she didn’t want him to ask her why. Instead, she looked out of the window at number thirty-five. Empty now because Joan, her friend of thirty years or more, had taken her last breath there. They’d carried her out two weeks last Tuesday at 2.45. Poor Joan. She’d missed her afternoon cuppa.

  She watched Amanda, who was quietly reading out a question about how f
ar she could walk, and thought, God, has it come to this? Yes, it did take her a quarter of an hour nearly to walk a hundred metres and all the while she was in bloody agony.

  She thought about the athlete on those adverts. It had taken him 9.58 seconds to run the same distance. Crikey, it took her longer than that to get out of her chair.

  Amanda went back to the question about the tablets and read them out just to check there was nothing she’d missed.

  “No more medicine you take every day?”

  “No, love. I’m not sure my body could take any more. Do you?”

  There was a small smile from her inquisitor and probably an inner relief that she was in her own shoes and, when needed, could jump out of the chair she was sitting in quick as you like. All the questions were beginning to depress Hilda and she was beginning to seriously regret Reg and her children suggesting one of these badges for the car. If they hadn’t, at least she’d be watching a bit of telly now, lost in a murder mystery she’d seen umpteen times before but only concentrating on the tablets the murderer had used.

  “What’s the name of your GP?”

  “Dr Jones,” she replied and she could see in her mind’s eye the neatness of her doctor, a well-fitted dress hanging beautifully off her slim figure and hair pulled back into a bun so harshly it almost made Hilda want to wince. Everything about her was so taut it was barely possible to imagine her smile and there seemed to be an air of constant irritation about her. The effect this had on Hilda was to always, even though she promised herself the next time would be different, play down the pain or discomfort, which invariably led to a follow-up visit when the current medication wasn’t working, coupled with a look of exasperation on her doctor’s face that seemed to worsen each time. Sometimes, she felt she would be given a detention.

  “Mr Southfield,” she said, as she went through the names of hospital consultants she’d seen. Funny how they become Mr again, she thought. “He had a lovely way about him, didn’t he?” She was looking at Reg, who saw no argument with that statement. “It was as if he had all the time in the world,” she explained. “He obviously didn’t, but he made you feel like he did.” Quite the opposite of sour face, she mused. “Yes, a charming man. He almost apologised for taking up our time, didn’t he? I wish they were all like that.”

  “Anyone else?” Amanda asked.

  “There was that surgeon at the General, wasn’t there? But I can’t remember his name.”

  Reg was stumped as well. He couldn’t even begin to think what that bloke’s name was. It seemed such a long time ago. And they’d thrown away all the paperwork. Didn’t think they’d ever need it again.

  Hilda tried to think of a time without doctors and what her life was like when it seemed years since she’d last seen one. It was probably when the children had left home. She’d quite often had to go with one of them, but once they’d left, there was quite a bit of doctor-free time. That seemed an odd idea now and she smiled at the thought that months, if not years, had passed with no need to ring the surgery.

  “How do I walk?” she repeated the question. “How long have you got?”

  “You don’t really, do you?” Reg joined in.

  “Well, that’s a bit of an exaggeration, but it’s not a pretty sight,” and she laughed because it was the better of two options.

  “She needs me with her all the time, don’t you?” He smiled at his wife, but it lacked an enthusiasm that would have been there had her dependency on him been less than it had become.

  “I do have to have Reg with me, but I’ve also got my walking frame.” It was as if she were simultaneously confessing a crime and arguing extenuating circumstances. “And I have my wheelchair if we go out for the day anywhere.”

  “Yeah, I don’t know where you’d be without them. Not that we go out much.”

  He said, “There’s a pub over there. We could stop for a snifter.”

  “Don’t be daft,” she snorted. “We’ve only been walking an hour. What’s the matter with you? We’ve got to earn it.”

  He looked disheartened and she overtook him, marching almost, not traipsing as he was, and well set up for at least the same distance again.

  “Come on,” she urged, looking back and beckoning him with her left hand. “Get a move on.”

  “Don’t know what you’re made of,” he muttered as they made their way through the village and out into the countryside.

  She laughed. “Oh, stop your moaning. I know for a fact there’s another pub on the other side of that hill. We’ll be there before closing.”

  “Over that hill?” he asked incredulously. The sun was beating down, with only the occasional cloud to shield them.

  “We’ll make it in no time,” she said. “There before two.”

  The questions kept coming. Maybe Reg could see she was getting tired because he’d started to answer for her.

  “No, you can’t walk upstairs, can you? We’ve got a stairlift. I help her in, don’t I?” His head moved quickly from side to side, as if he felt preyed upon and was keeping watch. “Then you just sit there and it does the job, doesn’t it? ‘Going up, Home Furnishings, Cooking and Dining,’ I say, don’t I?” Yes, he did. Sometimes, it was Electricals, particularly if the lift was making a funny noise that day; other times it was Sport and Leisure, something she thought was a bit insensitive in the circumstances.

  Do people really read this? she thought. And if they do, what do they think? Silly old woman? Is she making this up? Or God how awful, who’d live like that?

  “There was that time in the shopping centre.” Reg was still doing the work, but she knew what he was talking about. She had lost her balance. All of a sudden, she’d come over dizzy and had lost her temper with him because she was so frightened. He was fussing and she hated that. She hated him asking her lots of questions when she was in trouble. She was like a little animal and wanted to be on her own, so that day she’d told him that she’d had an altercation with a kid’s fizzy drink. He hadn’t believed her and he knew she knew that, but their charade was better than facing the fact that something was wrong, especially as, up to then, they’d had a lovely time looking for Joshua’s birthday present. What had they bought him?

  “The next questions are about your arms,” Amanda said, turning the page of the form over and then turning to Hilda with pen poised to write.

  It was all something to do with reaching to put money in a parking meter. Fed up with saying she couldn’t do things, Hilda just showed both of them how painful it was to move her arms more than a couple of inches above her lap. Her face creased up and Reg leaned over and carefully put her arms safely back where they’d been. Amanda wrote what Hilda supposed was the vision she saw before her.

  “I do get breathless, yes,” she answered, relieved that she’d been told they were nearly done. “After only about seven or eight steps.” It sometimes felt as though she’d drunk in the worries of the world and couldn’t cope with them, and she’d have to stop and let her body catch up. She remembered Joan telling her off a number of years ago. “The trouble with you, Hilda, is that you take in everyone else’s woes. ‘Breathe out,’ she’d say. ‘Blow them away. Let them all get on with it.’” Her body seemed to be finally rebelling, probably because she’d never been one for taking advice. “Told you so,” it was now saying and each time she had to stop, it gave out a self-satisfied laugh.

  They’d walked at least a couple of miles, sometimes breaking into a run. It wasn’t Agnes’s nature to take things slowly. She enjoyed speeding through life quite literally and hardly ever saw what she was passing. It was crucial to her that her legs moved as fast as they could and Hilda never saw her as happy as when she was on the move. They both loved it and on a sunny day would spend most of it racing against one another, though the competition was always fun and never unfriendly. That afternoon, they were going to do w
hat they often did on a Sunday, which was to take as many apples as they could from Mr Grey’s garden. It was a favourite occupation, the element of danger modified somewhat by Mr Grey’s inability to run very fast, even if he did see them, which he usually didn’t. They wore dresses with big pockets and, between them, managed to escape with around twenty fine Cox’s. That particular afternoon, a beautiful late summer’s day, filled with that slightly melancholy air suggesting things were coming to an end, they hadn’t bargained for Mr Grey’s son, Alfred. As they finished bundling the last apples away, an unfamiliar voice roared from Mr Grey’s dilapidated shed. They were already on the move to “What do you think you’re doing?” and with the loss of one or two of the fruit and no enthusiasm for the sprint ahead, Hilda ran as fast as she’d ever done before, convinced she could never reach the gate before the voice would take hold of her and give her a good hiding.

  The questions ended. She finally took Joan’s advice and let out a deep sigh. The only thing that remained was for her to give permission for any of these officials to talk to Reg, if necessary. Who else would they talk to? Of course that was OK.

  She took the pen off Amanda, who was passing it over to her, and as she signed her name, she suddenly felt as though some things had disappeared forever.

  THE £10 NOTE

  She never really knew her dad. So often, she’d make him up in her mind’s eye. And usually, within that often, he’d look like one of those American movie stars she’d heard her mum and Auntie Betty talking about. All tall, dark, handsome and Brylcreemed. She’d seen the odd photo, of course, and the man her mum showed her looked nothing like that. Every part of the man in these photos seemed to be round: round face; round belly; even round, podgy fingers, which she particularly noticed in the photo where he had her on his lap. The chubby digits were holding one another, forming a human safety belt for her own rotund eight-month belly. Nothing about him suggested a movie star hero. She couldn’t help feeling a bit disappointed. And though he had the appearance of one of the kindest, warmest human beings she’d ever seen captured in black and white, these weren’t qualities an eleven year old was looking for in a father. She wanted a bit of glamour so she could show him off.