The Man Who Didn't Go to Newcastle

by Alison Clink

  *

  After all this interrogation what I really want to know is how Adrian is.

  ‘Well, he’s been in bed most of the day,’ she says as if this is quite unruly. ‘And he hasn’t eaten anything. One of the nurses is washing him now.’

  Eventually I am dismissed and allowed to go into the room to see him. He’s lying in a foetal position, a curve of bones under a thin blanket. There’s an opened book beside him, a biography of Shakespeare by Peter Ackroyd with a picture postcard from Bali marking his page. So at least he’s been reading. He says ‘hello’ but we don’t really converse. He must be so tired from yesterday’s journey and all the events surrounding such a life-changing day. Plus the C.diff must be making him weak. I leave after about half an hour, telling him I’ll return after lunch.

  Once I’ve left I can’t see any point in dining alone in a pub and then going back to St Vincent’s. Adrian probably needs to rest. I carry on driving through heavy rain till I get home and have tinned tomato soup instead, watch most of Countdown and eventually drift off to sleep in front of the telly.

  In the evening Margaret and I go to the theatre in Frome to watch a play put on by the school. It’s a spoof about Big Brother contestants. The plot is clever and it makes me realise I’ve started looking differently at youngsters recently. They are life. They aren’t intruders who are there to fulfil our adult needs or do what we tell them to do. They already own the world – whereas a lot of us old uns are past it.

  When I get home Peter tells me about a programme he watched on TV about a man who made maps relating to small areas in the Lake District.

  ‘It was really good. All about walks in the Lake District. This man, Bradshaw, was famous for the walks he wrote down that people still follow in the fells and the dales.’ Somehow, while he’s talking, I realise we are a good couple. It’s our twenty-sixth anniversary on Tuesday – which he won’t realise as we’ve never celebrated it in the past – but does that matter? We got married five days before Charles and Diana. At least we’ve lasted a lot longer than they did.

  Saturday 21st July 2007

  Rain pours. I splash along the road on my way to see my brother. On the news people are living in floods. Taking boats to work. Some kids are even trapped inside a school. Houses are sinking. Whatever happened to global warming? Or is this its result?

  No one answers the door when I reach St Vincent’s, so, as I have Billy in the car, I walk him round the grounds. I amble across lawns where croquet would surely have been played a hundred years ago by the family who lived here, saunter under the gnarled branches of ancient apple trees, and end up beside an ornamental pond which is surrounded by a slippery, uneven stone path. All very dangerous, especially for the elderly and infirm. But there’s no one around. No sign of life here at all, except a shadowy face at one of the windows which I catch sight of as I eat my sandwich in the car. On closer scrutiny the window reveals an old woman sitting in an armchair, eating and staring out at nothing. This is surely survival at its most basic level.

  The sight of this woman reminds me of something my mother said. Describing one of the other old ladies in the last home she was in, she said, ‘She’s like me. Just waiting.’

  I didn’t need to ask what they were waiting for.

  Leaving Billy in the car I try once more to gain entry to the house.

  Still no one answers and then I notice a sign giving a phone number which I ring. Eventually I am let in by Sister, a pleasant-faced lady who leads me to her office.

  ‘There’s a few rather difficult questions I have to ask you, Mrs Clink,’ she says over her shoulder as we walk along the corridor. We sit down in her cramped office – a mere cupboard compared to Matron’s domain. She begins by asking about my family.

  ‘Well, there’s myself, my husband, my two sons and my twin daughters. We are Adrian’s only family. He’s my brother and he doesn’t have any other relations alive except me.’ My voice falters at the last sentence.

  ‘It’s alright,’ she says, ‘I know exactly how you feel,’ she hesitates, ‘although to be perfectly honest, I don’t really know how you feel because I’ve never lost anyone close.’

  I’m sorry…? At least she’s being honest. She produces a sheet of paper with lots of questions she’s already put to Adrian and his answers which Matron has filled in.

  Is he able to talk about his diagnosis / prognosis – yes.

  Does he wish to be cremated – yes, at Putney Vale cemetery.

  Does he want a priest with him at the end – no.

  Does he want his sister to cancel her holiday – no.

  Does he want his sister by his side holding his hand all the time at the end – no.

  Harrowing questions. My God, is this really necessary? I imagine Matron sitting on his bed jauntily ticking her boxes. And I feel rejected by his answers. The ones about the holiday and the hand-holding. But then why would he want to spoil our family holiday? I’m positive he wouldn’t. And why would he want to inflict more pain on me by asking me to be there when he dies? My feelings of rejection are irrational.

  ‘Look, thanks for all this,’ I say blowing my nose, ‘but Adrian really wants to move somewhere else and my husband and I don’t think this is the right place for him either.’

  Before I leave her, I ask the Sister to write down for me the full name of the hospital superbug, so I can look it up on the internet. It’s called Clostridium Difficile. C.diff for short, she explains. The word difficile is used because the bug is difficult to categorize.

  On a windowsill outside Adrian’s new room is a box of plastic gloves, a pile of aprons and some antiseptic spray. I spray my hands, don the plastic gloves and apron, spray my hands again, then knock and open the door. The room stinks of fresh paint. Adrian is in bed with the curtains closed. We start talking about moving as soon as he’s clear of the bug. The research the woman from Benenden carried out has thrown up a nursing home in Bournemouth. Adrian seems keen to decamp to the coast.

  ‘But the Bournemouth home isn’t by the sea,’ I tell him, remembering those summers on beaches in Bournemouth. ‘I’ve looked it up on the net. It’s in the town. And it would be a lot further for me to travel to visit you.’

  ‘I don’t mind where it is. I just want to get out of this place.’

  We chat about money and Bournemouth. When he asks me to go to a shop for him I leave, relieved to escape the foul smell of paint in his room.

  I return a couple of hours later and it’s harder than ever to get in to St Vincent’s. Again the outside bell brings no response. I try the phone numbers listed until eventually after ten minutes a young nurse appears. I ask her for the code on the door hoping to circumnavigate the rules of Matron.

  ‘Even we don’t know the code,’ she says.

  Oh, well, it was worth a try.

  I return to the hot smelly room and the skeletal figure of my brother on the bed. I’ve been home to collect our kitchen radio, a phone charger and a digi box, which I leave on the floor by the TV, hoping Phil G, who is due to visit tomorrow, may be able to sort out. Then I realise I’ve left the remote at home.

  *

  We sit together, me in the armchair and Adrian in the bed, watching the golf, although he’s watching and I’m reading the paper. He refuses a meal from a nurse at five-thirty. Surely this is too early for an evening meal. I’m beginning to get the impression Adrian hasn’t eaten anything since he’s been here.

  He hobbles out to the loo several times and returns, gingerly arranging himself back into bed. I explain to him a couple of things Matron and another nurse have told me about C.diff but he doesn’t seem interested.

  ‘I’ve had enough,’ he says. ‘I just want to die.’

  ‘I’m sure you’ll start to feel better soon…’ I try, but my words seem so limp. So inadequate. So unlikely…

  We then have a disjointed conversation about the rigmarole of his finances. The conversation is going round in the usual circles and getting nowhere
. The room is so hot, dark and still smelling of paint.

  ‘I’m beginning to feel sick,’ I say.

  ‘You can’t be feeling as bad as I’m feeling,’ he replies. Fair enough, but I leave St Vincent’s feeling low. In the car on my way home I play the scene I’ve just been in over in my mind. The C.diff is already taking its toll on Adrian. I must remember the old Adrian. The real Adrian. The one who’s become lost in the midst of all this shit. I force myself to cast my mind back, to visualise him as he used to be. Eventually, as I drive towards the mini roundabout at Badcox I see Adrian walking towards me, wearing his old brown leather jacket and his Wimbledon T-shirt underneath. ‘Hi Ali!’ he calls out. ‘Are you alright? How’s it going?’ I see him relaxed on one of the loungers on the deck of the Oriana with the latest Alison Weir or biography of Oliver Cromwell propped on his chest. I see him helping Mum to her seat in the restaurant, explaining the menu to her. I see him unwrapping a Christmas present in our lounge – a book, a new checked shirt, a bottle of Armagnac – ‘Cheers Ali, Peter!’ He holds up the gift to show his appreciation…and then watches as the kids open the latest card game or Sims computer game he’s trekked around Regent Street to find for them.

  But of course I don’t see these things – except in my mind’s eye. I will never see them again.

  Sunday 22nd July 2007

  What a difference a day makes. I know that song! Emily and Fran come with me to St Vincent’s today. The weather has changed to warm sunshine with just a smattering of white fluffy clouds.

  ‘He’s sitting outside,’ one of the nurses says when we arrive. This sounds like good news, although the emphasis in her voice implies Adrian shouldn’t be sitting outside. Outside? In the external quarters? Experiencing contact with fresh air? Goodness me. Whatever next?

  ‘He’s not supposed to leave his room, but…’ She trails off. She obviously fears he’ll spread the C.diff to the other residents. Other residents? Apart from the staff, I haven’t seen a living soul since I’ve been coming here, except for the shadowy figure at the window.

  We find Adrian sitting on a veranda at the back of the house. Alone.

  ‘The nurse seems a bit worried about you being out here,’ I tell him.

  ‘Yes I know.’

  ‘Because of the danger of infection. But who are you going to infect? I mean it’s not as if there’s anyone else around.’ I’m trying to be supportive, even though actually I do understand their concern. There must be some other patients hidden away somewhere.

  ‘The others are all in bed. Or, they’ve seen what it’s like here and they’ve fucked off,’ he adds.

  I leave the veranda, which is in shade, and walk down the stone steps leading to the lawn. From here I look up at the house. A square Georgian building of massive proportions. Once somebody’s country pile. As the sun heats up I lie on the grass with the girls, and wonder how many other people have enjoyed this lawn in summers gone by. I look at Adrian too sitting on one of the garden chairs. He’s so much better, it’s unbelievable. He’s dressed and has walked outside unaided. Thursday’s journey combined with the C.diff must have knocked him for six and now gradually he’s getting better. Thank heavens for antibiotics, and the healing power of rest, and time.

  We give Adrian the papers and all the other bits and pieces we’ve bought him on the way here but I realise we forgot to buy an indelible pen to mark his belongings. Name tags are essential in places like this. I’ll never forget the sight of Mum sitting in a chair dressed in another resident’s clothes. And – equally shocking – walking past the room of one of the other old ladies who was wearing a skirt that was so distinctively my mother’s. She’d made it herself – the pattern and remnants of material were still in her sewing cupboard.

  Emily goes off to look for the nurse to see if we can borrow a pen but returns saying the nurse has been rude to her.

  ‘Oh! So I’m expected to do this as well am I?’ the nurse shouted at Em before throwing the indelible pen at her.

  Adrian is quick to empathise with Emily. ‘The staff here are useless. Almost as bad as St George’s. I asked for my bed to be made this morning and it took them two hours to get to the room. I asked for a pillow and the nurse brought some pills. You ask for a pillow and all they bring is more fucking pills. I want out of this place!’

  *

  Martin Phillips rings in the evening – he’s trying to organise a visiting rota with Adrian’s other friends so he’s not left alone while we’re in Portugal. Everyone is being so kind. But I’m still worried about the holiday which is getting uncomfortably near. I know Adrian told Matron he doesn’t want us to cancel, but I fear if we go away he will be stranded in St Vincent’s longer than necessary. He has to have two clean swabs before he can be deemed to be free of the C.diff. Nowhere else would take him with the infection and he is resolved not to move in with us. The all clear will probably come while we are away, thus delaying his release.

  I decide to ask him again about our holiday.

  Monday 23rd July 2007

  CLOSTRIDIUM DIFFICILE IS THE DEADLY SUPERBUG YOU HAVE NEVER HEARD OF UNTIL NOW.

  You are nearly 2.3 times more likely to die of Clostridium Difficile than MRSA in England and Wales and Clostridium Difficile has been linked to:

  • 1214 deaths in 2001

  • 1428 deaths in 2002

  • 1788 deaths in 2003

  • 2247 deaths in 2004

  • 3807 deaths in 2005

  Clostridium Difficile (so called because when it was first discovered it was difficult to grow in the laboratory) is a cause of diarrhoea, which is usually acquired in hospital. Although in most cases it causes a relatively mild illness, occasionally and particularly in elderly patients, it may result in serious illness and even death. The bacterium produces two toxins which are responsible for the diarrhoea and which damage the cells lining the bowel. In addition, the bacterium can form spores which enable it to survive in the environment outside the body and which protect the organism against heat and chemical disinfectants. Source – Wikipedia

  I log off and phone Matron.

  ‘How is Adrian today?’ I ask.

  ‘I haven’t had a chance to see him yet but I think he had a good night.’

  ‘I’d like to get him a laptop as he’s feeling a bit cut off – the mobile phone signal isn’t always good and there’s no land line in the room. Maybe we could have a land line put into the room?’

  ‘Oh, I doubt that would be possible.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s not something we could do. And I think your brother is in denial about what he can and can’t do. He thinks he can live independently which, as we both know, is not the case…’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘He’s talking about moving to a flat or another nursing home. But he has another week on antibiotics and then when the course has finished he has to have three clean swabs before he’s deemed to be clear of the infection.’

  ‘I thought it was two swabs.’

  ‘No, three.’

  I’m beginning to suspect that, despite everything, Matron wants to keep him there. After all, at eight hundred pounds per week, paid four weekly in advance, he’s worth thousands in fees.

  Jill Miller phones in response to an email I sent her last week, asking for help in finding somewhere for my brother to stay. But already the circumstances have changed. C.diff is now the key player.

  *

  Before driving to St Vincent’s I take Billy for a walk to Heaven’s Gate at Longleat. As far as I know, the name of this precipice is taken from a poem, Aubade by Shakespeare, which begins, “Hark! Hark! The lark at heaven’s gate sings…” I can’t hear any larks but standing here looking down onto the magnificent grounds of Longleat House I could be on the top of the world. If I took a run for it I can almost believe I could fly. We could both fly, Billy and I, gliding above Longleat House, waving at the giraffes, the gorilla on his island and the monkeys who are busy dismantling windscreen wiper
s from sightseers’ cars.

  I sit down on a bench leaving Billy to amuse himself with his relentless exploration of the undergrowth. This is a place where people take stock of their lives and the world. A place to ponder the meaning of it all. A couple of elderly men are on the next bench and one is trying to point out two giant footprints on the grass to the other. I can see the ‘footprints’, although the man’s friend clearly can’t. They are like two size 45 imprints of a giant’s shoes in the grass. Maybe God popped down during the night. I’m presuming here that God would have very large feet if in fact He had feet…

  After Heaven’s Gate I head for St Vincent’s. Today I get in with ease. The Brobdingnagian door is opened by a middle-aged man in shorts. I can’t work out whether he’s staff or visitor. If the latter then he’s the first I’ve seen since I’ve been coming here. I go straight to Adrian’s room, tie the apron round my waist, squirt alcohol gel on my hands, squeeze into the gloves, squirt more gel. Since reading the Wikipedian description of C.diff I am taking this infection more seriously, although I’m glad to be able to take these precautions outside the room where Adrian can’t see me.

  Depressingly, he is back in bed as if yesterday had never happened. His face is gaunt. His body reminds me of the victims of Auschwitz who were filmed at the end of the war. He seems low, but not angry. I sense he’s been mulling things over.

  ‘Thanks for coming, Ali,’ he says without making eye contact. ‘Thanks for everything you’ve been doing for me.’

  I brush off his thanks. Nothing I have done has been difficult. He’s the one who has suffered.

  We chat about life in St Vincent’s.

  ‘The people here bring a new meaning to the word slow,’ he says. ‘And when they do bring something they never get it right. I asked for some water, and someone brought some but placed it just there.’ He indicates a spot just out of his reach. ‘The service here is pretty awful, but at least it’s not as bad as the typically three hour wait for anything at St George’s.’