‘Ah yes, I was going to say I bumped into her. She was just starting her shift.’
‘At the pub, yes. I told you she’d got a job, didn’t I?’
‘You did. You said a bar job. You didn’t say which bar.’
‘Does it matter? She’s gone out and found herself some paid employment for the first time, and she’s sticking at it. I think it’s commendable.’
‘Have you ever been in the Lounger?’
‘No.’
‘I have.’
‘From what Paula said, you didn’t need to.’
This, then, is the source of the displeasure: Douglas, a bit tipsy in broad daylight, has caused embarrassment to her daughter and by extension to Sonya. Secretly I am quite pleased. It means she still feels a connection.
‘It was my birthday. Aye, I’d had a drink, but I wasn’t drunk. Anyway, I’m concerned about Paula working in a place like that.’
‘Why? She can look after herself.’
‘Couldn’t she have got a job in Tesco or somewhere?’
‘Oh, don’t be so boring, Douglas. Everyone works in a bar at some stage when they’re young. It’s a rite of passage.’
‘I didn’t.’
‘Well, quite.’
‘I just don’t think it’s a good place for Paula to be.’
‘How can you say that on the strength of one short visit? If it’s not right she’ll find something else. It’s experience anyway. She says she’s enjoying it.’
I remember Barry. ‘Has she got a boyfriend?’
‘I’m not sure. It’s none of my business. Why?’
‘I just wondered.’
‘Well, it’s none of your business either.’
The waitress returns with my food. My cheese-and-ham toastie, compared with Sonya’s sandwich, looks old-fashioned and morally suspect, and my apple juice looks, yes, boring alongside her smoothie.
‘So what else have you been doing?’
‘Oh, this and that. I’ve been offered some work, actually.’
‘Gosh, you and Paula both?’ (I ignore the wee dig.) ‘That’s good. What kind of work?’
‘For the Spear. They want me to write a feature or two, do some interviews. John Liffield, the editor, had me in yesterday. He seems serious about upping the quality of the paper’s content.’
‘Well, about time! Who are you going to interview?’
‘Have you ever heard of Rosalind Munlochy?’
She shakes her head. For the first time since entering the café, I have an advantage over her, knowledge, as they say, being power. I immediately begin to abuse that power. I find myself not quite telling lies, but exaggerating, elaborating. I talk to Sonya about what a major national figure Munlochy is, or would be if she hadn’t suffered such scandalous neglect. In spite of her impressive array of achievements, her critically acclaimed writings (‘Have you not heard of her memoir, Some Life?’ – waving it at her), her political career and activism, her feminism and all-round progressive credentials, she has been almost entirely forgotten. Now, though, the wheel has turned full circle, and she is going to be famous again, because by good fortune she is still alive, and about to enter her one-hundredth-and-first year. And it has fallen to me to interview her and write about her, and thus pluck her from obscurity.
Why do I say all this? Bluntly, because Sonya is more likely to lend me her car if my mission has an aura of cultural significance about it. That, at any rate, is the theory I am working on.
‘Perhaps,’ she says, gathering fugitive crumbs and salad debris with a lightly moistened fingertip, ‘Rosalind Munlochy doesn’t want to be plucked from obscurity. She may like it there.’
‘I intend to establish whether that is the case this evening. I hope to speak to her on the phone.’
‘How do you know if at her age she can even come to the phone, let alone hear you or be heard on it?’
‘If she can’t come to the phone, the phone can surely be taken to her. I have no reason to believe that she is mentally or physically so incapacitated that she can’t have a conversation.’
‘She’s a hundred!’
‘Ninety-nine. Perhaps we should be thinking of age as approximate. Years don’t matter, only seasons.’
‘That’s rubbish.’
‘Is it? It’s been well established by behavioural ecologists that other species, if they conceive of time at all, think of it not as linear but as a circular progression of seasons. And why not?’
‘Douglas, you just made that up. Anyway, we are not “other species”.’
‘Aren’t we? Think of my father. Man or ape? He notices the time of year – he sees winter coming – but he doesn’t care what year. And even though he’s seventeen years younger than Rosalind Munlochy, I bet she’s in better shape than he is.’
‘You can’t possibly know that.’
‘It’s highly likely. She’s had boundless energy all her life. Dad had energy once but he used it all up fetching boxes of screws and lengths of pipe for joiners and plumbers. No reserves. It’s a genetic thing, probably. There’s high-octane blue blood in her veins, dirty diesel in his.’
‘You are so full of crap, Douglas. How is your father, by the way?’
‘Much the same. As before, I mean. That is, he has his ups and downs. When I saw him on Tuesday he had some of each. I’ll drop in on my way home this afternoon.’
‘Give him my best wishes.’
‘I will. He might not remember who you are.’
‘Really?’
‘He didn’t on Tuesday.’
‘I should go and see him myself.’
She’s been saying this ever since he went into the Home. I know she isn’t going to go. So does she. Only Dad doesn’t know, and he doesn’t care. They never got on that well. Relations were always polite but strained. He didn’t – probably the right tense, since he has forgotten who he is – like Magnus much; thought he had, as he put it, a good conceit of himself for no good reason. And then, when he was becoming ill, he made that lewd remark about Paula’s breasts, and that pretty much put an end to communications between Sonya and Tom. That he couldn’t help himself only made it worse, because that implied that what he had said was not just offensive but sincerely meant.
I suggest to Sonya that while a visit from her would be kind, it wouldn’t necessarily be appreciated. She shouldn’t feel under any obligation.
‘I won’t,’ she replies, and this time her smile is warm and, I assume, genuine. Now, surely, is the moment to make my pitch. I clear my vocal cords with a sip of apple juice.
‘Rosalind Munlochy does live quite a long way from here. Up in the wilds of wildest Argyll. Very difficult to get to on public transport. Almost impossible, in fact. I was wondering, do you think I could have the car for a couple of days?’
Note the subtle use of the definite article. This is because ‘the car’, a Volkswagen Polo in a rather fetching shade of red, is actually a shared asset. We paid for it together, and I am still a named driver on the insurance. Admittedly, we bought it quite a few years ago, and its value has plummeted in the interim, but nevertheless there is a principle at stake. The trouble is, the car has always lived outside Sonya’s house, it is the car in which Magnus learned to drive and which he also uses from time to time, and a myth, which I should have challenged in its infancy, has morphed into an article of faith: that it really belongs to Sonya. Until now, this has never bothered me. I never need the car around the city. I don’t even particularly like driving. But it would be very convenient to have the use of it for my proposed excursion to the West Highlands.
Give Sonya her due, she doesn’t prevaricate. She comes back at me without a second’s hesitation. Not, unfortunately, in quite the way I hoped.
‘I’m sorry, Douglas, it’s out of the question. Magnus needs it this weekend – he has an away game, and it’s his turn to drive some of his teammates.’
‘How is Magnus?’
‘He’s fine.’
‘Give him m
y best wishes.’
‘I will.’ (‘He might not remember who you are,’ she doesn’t add.)
‘I wouldn’t want to interfere with his rugby plans. I was thinking I could take the car next week some time. I’ll work around your schedule.’
‘Oh.’ Again, she barely falters. ‘No, I’m sorry, I need the car next week. We have a couple of out-of-town presentations to make and a lot of materials to transport. I’ve volunteered to drive. It will make a change to get out of the office for a day or two.’
‘What days would those be?’
‘What days were you thinking of going?’
‘That depends on Mrs Munlochy.’
‘Oh, that’s too vague, Douglas. No, I’m sorry. You’ll just have to hire a car.’
‘I’d been hoping I could avoid that expense.’
‘Won’t the paper cover you?’
‘Fuel costs but not car hire. The budgets are all shot.’ I suspect this is true, but I haven’t actually asked John Liffield because there is another problem, which Sonya has either forgotten about or doesn’t think is a problem. A year ago, driving through the Borders visiting various locations for an article on tourism, I was pulled over for speeding – only 10mph over the limit, but that was enough. When they inspected the vehicle – Sonya’s car, our car, the car, call it what you will – the police discovered that one of the tyres had insufficient tread on it. As a consequence, I have six penalty points on my licence. I’ve been checking, and thanks to those points I won’t be able to hire a car from most rental firms, and the ones that might do business with me will charge extra premiums or impose massive excesses on the insurance. Basically – and I don’t want to say this to Sonya, whose instinct is always to reinforce a defensive position once she has adopted it – if she doesn’t help me, I am stuffed.
She sucks the last of her blood-and-bruises-coloured smoothie from the bottom of her glass. It is her way of drawing a line under that part of our conversation.
‘So you can’t help out next week? What if I postpone the interview till the week after?’
‘And then how long would you want the car for? That’s no good either, Douglas. Sharing a car when we live independently, in different parts of town, isn’t going to work.’
‘Is that what we’re doing now? Living independently?’
‘Now?’ she says. ‘You moved out months ago.’
‘At your request.’
‘It was a mutual decision, Douglas.’
‘I didn’t put up a fight, if that’s what you mean.’
‘No, you didn’t. But then, that’s not really you, is it? You don’t ever put up much of a fight. And let’s not forget the other reason why you went back to your parents’ house. Or rather, why you never officially left it. Money, Douglas. Didn’t that play a part?’
Three times in the space of half a minute she has used my name. This is a sign. I affect an affronted tone, partly to distract myself from the element of truth in her hurtful observations.
‘If you are referring to the fact that I part-own the house, then you are being unfair. The fact that my parents transferred half the title to me ten years ago is fortunate in the present circumstances, I accept that, but the present circumstances didn’t exist back then.’
‘You were planning for them, though, or something like them.’
‘I didn’t plan for anything, but as things have turned out, you can’t deny that it was a wise decision. Otherwise, as you well know, the authorities would treat the entire house as part of Dad’s assets and it would have to be sold to meet his care costs. Then you’d be stuck with me whether you want me or not – which, evidently, you don’t.’
‘If you’d ever demonstrated that you really wanted to make a commitment – to me, to us – sorting out your father’s care costs wouldn’t have been a problem,’ she says. ‘We could have worked it out. But you never did make that commitment, did you?’
‘I always paid my share of our bills. Yours and mine, I mean.’
‘Exactly. You’re always calculating. There’s always been a credit column and a debit column in your head. You’re like an old-fashioned grocer.’
‘It’s how the world works.’
‘One house against the other. Theirs against mine. Yours against ours. That’s not commitment, that’s accountancy.’
Sonya, you are beautiful when you are mean, is what I am thinking.
‘I thought you weren’t going to discuss our relationship in public,’ is what I say. As soon as I do I regret it, for it gives her a perfect cue to leave.
‘You’re right,’ she says, ‘but actually that wasn’t about our relationship, it was about you.’ She gathers her coat and bag. ‘Anyway, I have to go now.’
‘Wait!’ This comes out a little too loudly, and with a hint of desperation in it that I really don’t intend.
‘What?’
‘Dogs or cats? Which, on the whole, would you say are cleverer?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Sonya says, returning to a familiar refrain, but this doesn’t stop me plunging on, or even breenging in.
‘Most people would probably plump for cats, but if you think about it, dogs are more adaptable. They learn, and they don’t forget what they learn. And also they collaborate.’
I don’t know what I am talking about either. Sonya stands, gives me another of the pitying glances, this one laced with a little revulsion, and says, ‘Cats, every time. Goodbye, Douglas. It was nice to see you, I think. I’m sorry about the car, but I’m sure you’ll sort something out. Now I must go.’ She bends as if to kiss my cheek, thinks better of it halfway down, bobs up again and swishes out of the café.
I have eaten only half of my toastie and even that was too much. I knock back the last of my apple juice and leave too. Outside, the loose pages of countless bus and train timetables are falling from a ponderous, grey sky.
A TWELVE-POINT INCIDENT
‘Oh, Mr Elder, you’ll be in to see your father. Could I have a quick word?’
Beverley Brown, the Don’t Care Much Home manager (although I usually think of her as a shade on a paint chart: I was once in the Yorkshire town of Beverley on a dull autumn day, which probably accounts for it), comes out of her office as I enter the building. She ushers me in and closes the door behind us. This is ominous.
‘Please have a seat, Mr Elder.’
‘Call me Douglas. Is something wrong?’
‘Not really, but I do want to talk to you about your father’s behaviour.’
So something is wrong.
‘As you know, he can become quite distressed sometimes. Agitated. Not himself.’
‘That’s why he’s here, though, isn’t it? Because he’s not himself.’
‘Yes, I suppose you could put it like that.’
‘I did.’
She throws me a look. ‘Well, anyway. We feel we’ve got to know Tom – your father – very well in the time he’s been with us. Now, when he’s in one of his calmer moods he’s absolutely no trouble at all. He’s very amenable. That’s when he is most content, most at ease with himself. Would you agree?’
‘No. We can’t be sure of that. He might be most content when he’s stirring things up. Which I know he does from time to time.’
‘Don’t apologise.’
‘I didn’t. Has he been agitated today?’
‘Yes, rather. And I wanted to tell you that before you saw him. You’ll probably find him … not very communicative. Quite sleepy. And what I should explain is that it is our policy to manage our residents’ behaviour with care and consideration, and to work with them to help them through any difficulties they may be having. It is absolutely not our policy, as far as possible, to medicate in order to calm somebody down. However …’
‘However, sometimes you have to.’
‘If they are a danger to themselves or to others.’
‘I understand. Believe me, I know what he can be like.’
‘Often all that’s re
quired is a mild sedative, a settler.’
‘Not a chemical cosh, then?’
‘Certainly not. Who do you think we are?’
‘A good question. I often ask it myself. “Who do I think we are?” ’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Don’t apologise. There’s no easy answer. “My name is Legion, for we are many.” ’
‘Mr Elder –’
‘Douglas. Please go on. I interrupted you.’
‘The difficulty is persuading someone to take medication when they are in a confused or, shall we say, non-cooperative state of mind.’
‘I see. What was my father doing?’
Beverley Brown refers to a page in a ring-binder lying on her Beech Blond desk. I realise that Dad’s misdemeanours have been written down. A record of all the drugs they give him is also supposed to be kept but, being one who cowers behind parapets, I’ve never asked to see it. I wonder how many bad-behaviour penalty points he has accumulated, and if there is an upper limit which triggers an automatic ban on – well, on what? Physical movement? Continuing to be himself, whatever or whoever that is? Life?
‘Well, he didn’t want any lunch. In fact, he didn’t want it so much that he threw it against the wall.’
‘Oh dear.’ (Six points at least.)
‘Something had clearly upset him.’
‘Clearly. What was it?’
‘Scotch broth, and mince and potatoes. Quite a lot ended up on him.’
‘I meant, what had upset him?’
‘Ah, if only we knew. He came along to the dining room readily enough but when he got there he seemed to think he’d come for something else. Not a meal, I mean.’
‘Well, that can’t be unusual, surely?’
‘No, but he thought he’d had a trick played on him and he didn’t like that. Then he refused to leave. He is surprisingly strong when he doesn’t wish to move.’
‘It is surprising, isn’t it? He’s not that big a man. Was he shouting?’
‘Oh yes.’ (Another three points.)
‘Swearing?’
Beverley allows herself a smile. ‘Spectacularly.’ (Three points redeemed for creativity.)
‘Lashing out if anyone went near him?’
To Be Continued Page 12