by Alison Clink
‘Are you okay?’
‘Yes.’
‘Only I thought I could hear you talking.’
‘No.’
‘Goodnight then.’
‘Goodnight, Ali. And thanks.’
I go back to bed, but as I drift off to sleep I can still hear him talking.
Friday 24th August 2007
Adrian and I sit in the garden in the searing heat, waiting for an assessment visit from the District Nurse. Inside, the house has been taken over by Darren the electrician (without doubt the shyest person on the planet) who is working on the lighting and heating for our new bathroom, and Helen, my newly-appointed ironing lady, who is…well, ironing. I’m about to make a mid-morning coffee for everyone.
‘Ali, do you think you could get me a glass of wine?’ Adrian asks. ‘I’d rather have wine than a coffee.’
‘I don’t think drinking wine in the morning is a very good idea.’ I know it seems pointless to encourage him to give up drinking on health grounds at this stage in his life, but his drinking is possibly linked to the continual return of the C.diff.
‘I don’t want you to fall over,’ I add, as if this is the reason I’m refusing him the wine.
He looks disappointed. I’m hurt, I’m embarrassed. I don’t want to turn into the reincarnation of Matron, especially after he’s put so much faith into coming here. Yet, at the same time, I know I’m right.
*
The District Nurse arrives and joins us in the garden. She fills in a form and answers a few questions I have about the pills I have to administer, about the possibility of getting a better bed, a wheelchair, an armchair, and a step up to the house since our house is quite hard to climb up to if you have any disability. I remember Mum finding it a big haul up to the French windows.
I’m having to administer Adrian’s medication. Three times a day I’m to work out from the assorted boxes a cocktail of different coloured pills, pink, yellow, green and the ubiquitous white. I don’t know what they’re all for, although one box is clearly morphine. Some I suspect are anti-depressants, some diazepam, and maybe water tablets. I’ve been putting them into a small cup and then handing them to Adrian with some water. When I asked him what they were he seemed to have no idea. Again this reminds me of Mum and the times when I had to give her the pills she took at various intervals during each day. I hated it for some reason, even though whenever this happened it usually meant we were on holiday somewhere hot. I’m hating it now – it’s so fiddly and I’m afraid I’m going to miss something out. I double check the number each time, terrified of giving him the wrong dosage. As I struggle with the minutiae of this job, a little bit of me wonders why can’t he do it? But now I’m the carer and dishing out pills is part of my job.
I feel tired in the morning and as the day progresses my exhaustion increases. But in view of Adrian’s new-found freedom and release from the dreaded St Vincent’s it’s important we go out. Just because we can. After lunch I help him into my car.
‘Do you know, I don’t feel depressed. In fact, I feel inexplicably quite happy,’ he says once settled in the passenger seat. ‘Not despondent in the way I thought I would.’
I say something feeble, like ‘good’, and put the car into gear, as ever, wondering why I can only come out with trite answers like this when I feel like saying ‘Yes, I’m so glad. I’m enjoying being with you too. I’m enjoying all this sociability with your friends, and you.’
But no, I just say ‘good’.
*
I take him to Orchardleigh Golf Club for lunch, struggling to help him out of the car. Although I’ve parked practically in the flowerbeds, so as to be as near the clubhouse as possible, he finds it a mammoth task to walk along the path to the entrance.
While I go inside to order, he sits outside on a hard wooden bench and I ask the restaurant manager, who I know from the short story competition lunch, if he can find me a cushion for my brother who isn’t well. Instead of a cushion, he brings out a big, soft, comfy armchair. As he places the chair down next to Adrian I notice that same air of shock, sorrow, fear and deference the man in the shoe repair shop displayed when Adrian took his belt in to be altered. Some people are less good at hiding their emotions than others. I ask Adrian what he’d like to drink with his meal.
‘A glass of white wine. Or have I got to have tea and scones?’ he says, an oblique reference to my refusal of the vino earlier. Oh dear. I hate telling people what to do. I order him the smallest measure of Sauvignon, nevertheless.
After we’ve eaten we drive down to the church. St Mary’s at Orchardleigh dates from the middle of the twelfth century, was restored in the late 1800s, and is the only island church in the country. It sits on a small piece of land (the churchyard) which is surrounded by a moat. This church is one of my favourite places in the world.
The church has no electricity and services are conducted by candlelight which makes it a romantic venue for weddings. Half of the island is banked by a lake that glimmers with silver sunlight in summer and is home to superior looking swans and ducks who crash land on the water. I’ve never encountered another human being when I’ve been here. It feels like the closest anyone could get to God without actually ascending to Heaven. The Orchardleigh church is one of the sites on the cross-England ley line of St Michael/Mary where it’s believed spirituality is intensified. The suffix ‘leigh’ is a form of the word ‘ley’.
*
Slowly Adrian manages to cross the bridge over the moat and stands with his weight on the walking stick beneath the shelter of a yew tree. There’s a bench in the churchyard by the lake.
‘We could sit down over there,’ I suggest.
‘I’ll stay here. I don’t think I can make it any further,’ he says. He’s quite steady, even though he’s had two glasses of wine.
I’m keen to tell him about the poet, Sir Henry Newbolt, whose ashes are buried here, just a few feet from where Adrian is standing.
‘Newbolt met his wife on a train. She was the daughter of the Duckworth family who lived in Orchardleigh House. There’s lots of graves over on the other side of the churchyard belonging to the Duckworth family and their servants. There’s a monument too, commemorating a dog that belonged to Sir Thomas Champneys.
‘A dog?’
‘Yes, the dog was called Fidele and Newbolt wrote a poem about him. Newbolt was the Poet Laureate – a very successful and well-known poet. He wrote the words of the first ever broadcast to the nation of a king for George V. I researched him for a project I did a few years ago for an event in the Frome Festival.’
A plaque beside the tree reads:
‘In memory of/ HENRY JOHN NEWBOLT/ poet/ Knight/ Companion of Honour/ 1862-1938/ and his wife MARGARET EDINA/ 1867-1960./ “Death is a gate, and holds no room within: Pass – to the road beyond.”’
I was always fascinated by the story of Fidele’s Grassy Tomb which is the poem by Newbolt relating the story of Sir Thomas Champneys, whose dog, Fidele, saved his life. Champneys ordered his faithful companion to be buried with him when he died. They were buried together, but when the Bishop found out he was horrified and demanded the dog be dug up as an animal had no soul and therefore couldn’t be buried in consecrated ground. The Sexton pretended to remove the dog’s bones, but took the law into his own hands and left them where they were. Later when the church was renovated they discovered the dog’s remains still buried with those of its master.
I look over at Adrian willing him to be as fascinated by this place as I was by the time stones outside the hospital.
‘That’s really interesting,’ he says quietly. ‘I’m surprised you haven’t brought me here before.’
‘I suppose at Christmas we’re always too busy. But you’re right we should have come before. It’s so close.’
The sun is shimmering across the water as we stand amongst the ancient bones. By the church door I notice a plaque on the wall relating to the story of Fidele, which I read out to him, to substantiate what I’
ve just told him.
THE ADJOINING MONUMENT, FORMERLY IN THE PARK, COMMEMORATES AZOR, A FAITHFUL DOG OF SIR THOMAS S. CHAMPNEYS, WHICH DIED IN 1796.
AZOR’S DEVOTION TO HIS MASTER, WHOSE DEATH AND BURIAL IN THE FAMILY VAULT HERE HE IS SAID TO HAVE SHARED, INSPIRED SIR HENRY NEWBOLT’S BALLAD ‘FIDELE’S GRASSY TOMB’ WHICH HAS BROUGHT ORCHARDLEIGH LOCAL LITERARY RENOWN.
THE MONUMENT WAS RE-ERECTED BY LULLINGTON AND ORCHARDLEIGH P.C.C.
IN 1989 FOR ITS PRESERVATION AND IN THANKSGIVING FOR THE LIFE OF ARTHUR DUCKWORTH OF ORCHARDLEIGH, 1901 – 1986.
‘The church is used a lot for candle lit weddings. Tamsin Outhwaite got married here last year.’ I’m so keen to impress him I’m resorting to the fame of an ex-Eastenders star. ‘And Noel Gallagher was one of the guests…’ Finally I feel he is impressed, maybe even captivated by the magic of this churchyard, a place that never fails to enchant me.
*
By the time I get home I’m worn out. This is more tiring than the days when I was lugging two babies around. The amount of physical support Adrian needs to do anything is totally draining. I have to help him into and out of the car, in and out of the back door. I have to support him in virtually every step he takes. Carol is coming tomorrow and I’m looking forward to her visit very much. However, she has had a problem changing her ticket as she’s decided to stay with us overnight on the Saturday. It seems changing is going to involve extra cost.
‘You could offer to pay for her,’ I suggest when Adrian tells me about this, knowing he wouldn’t have thought of doing this even though he’s made a bequest to her in his will. He agrees and texts her.
In the evening, as tiredness attacks and gnaws away, I worry about what I have done. What have I done? Adrian is living here, which is different from the many times he’s stayed before. For a start, he’s in my study. The room I love, the room I write in. My room of one’s own. Yes, I would rather have him here than in St Vincent’s – but I’m terrified I might wish his time away so I can have my space back.
But this is just a fleeting worry. Later I feel better and Adrian and I sit in the kitchen looking at the new programme for the Merlin Theatre in Frome. He notices a play by Alan Ayckbourn coming up. But it’s in November. What can I say? ‘Let’s go together.’ That’s what I’d like to be able to say. And no doubt we’re both thinking the same thing. Let’s go if you’re still here…and able to go.
This has happened a few times recently, like last night when Peter, Adrian and I were watching television. Suddenly every programme seemed to have some mention of death. Previously innocuous comments like ‘Oh, I thought he was dead!’ ‘He bores me to death,’ ‘I’ll kill you…’ All these phrases, either from one of us or spoken by an actor on the television, now make me feel uncomfortable.
*
We watch the ten o’clock news. Other people are suffering as well as us. Madeleine McCann is still missing, her mother still accused of murder. An eleven-year-old boy has been shot dead in a pub car park. As we listen to the news Adrian seems angry about everything. Also another shooting. This time in Letchworth, the sleepy garden city where he went to school.
At night I leave him in bed with his book. When I’m upstairs I can hear him talking to himself again. Maybe this is something to do with the drugs he’s taking.
Saturday 25th August 2007
I wake in the early hours with stomach cramps and loose stools – have I caught C.diff after all? I’m woken again at seven forty-five by the phone ringing downstairs. I don’t like early phone calls and, although I don’t manage to get to the phone in time to answer it, I do a quick mental roll-call of who is here and who is not. All the kids are home so I know the most important people in my life are safe. It rings again before I have a chance to do 1471. It’s Lizzie, Adrian’s new care worker, who is lost and needs directions to the house.
Lizzie arrives, a small bundle of nervous energy, chewing gum, smelling of fags and eager to help. I am again amazed by the NHS / Dorothy House / or whoever arranged this for us (free of charge).
Lizzie washes Adrian, cleans out the urine bottle he’s been using at night, and wipes some wee from the study floor. Someone will be coming to do this every morning, she tells me – including tomorrow, which is Bank Holiday Sunday. Wow.
I will need to be up by eight to let this someone in – not so wow. But we agree it will be good for Adrian to get up early for his wash.
*
Mid-morning I drive him to Westbury to collect Carol from the station. I park outside the main entrance leaving him in the car to wait for her whilst I take Billy for a walk. It’s a hot sultry morning – the kind of morning that makes you feel good to be alive. I’ve noticed a river skirting the road leading to the station many times before, but have never walked there. Why would I? Usually when I’m here it’s in order to catch a train. There are little jetties all the way along the towpath and men fishing in individual spots between trees. I drag Billy along, anxious in case he disturbs the fishermen, or indeed the fish.
A few minutes after I return to the car, Carol’s train arrives. Adrian is in the front seat and she sits in the back, chatting to Adrian, continually leaning forward to talk to him. She is so bubbly and I realise I am hopeless at this kind of thing. Lizzie too has the gift of the gab. Chattering on, filling the silences, eliminating the embarrassment of the situation she’s dealing with. Carol’s the same. She’s so attentive and full of chit-chat, talking about the most routine things non-stop. Once again I understand why Adrian is so fond of her. We stop for lunch in the now blazing sun at The Bell in Buckland Dinham. Peter joins us and then we lounge in the garden at home for the rest of the afternoon with newspapers and conversation.
Just the most perfect day.
*
I’m still feeling a bit off colour so, rather than cook for everyone, we decide to have an Indian takeaway. I go to the Indian and when I come out loaded with a box full of everyone’s choices, I suddenly imagine myself running off and not turning up with the curry. I even divert to the Cheese and Grain to see who’s playing there tonight. It’s the Peatbog Faeries, according to a poster on the door. What’s to stop me abandoning the curry, going into the Cheese and Grain and spending the evening jigging to the Peatbog Faeries? I try to imagine how everyone at home would react if I simply didn’t come back…
…But I do come back…and I feel much better after the meal with so many people, Peter, Adrian, Carol, Jack, Willow and Ed, although Emily and Fran are staying the night at a friend’s house so Carol can use their room.
It’s a mellow, companionable evening. After a few drinks Peter mentions the fact that he’s had to iron his own clothes recently. I look over at Adrian hoping he doesn’t interpret this as a dig at him. He seems oblivious, but Peter’s remark triggers a light-hearted debate about men, women and housework. Adrian doesn’t join in and is quiet for most of the meal which makes me think more and more of Mum at the end of her life, when she stopped joining in. Carol and I keep trying to encourage him to eat but although he’d seemed keen on the curry idea, he leaves most of his on the plate.
Sunday 26th August 2007
I drag myself out of bed at quarter-to-eight to be ready to let little Lizzie in. I finish last night’s washing up while I wait for her, but she doesn’t turn up till ten-thirty by which time I’d presumed she’d changed her plans.
She comes buzzing in, efficiently hurried, chewing hard on the gum, and signs in over the phone. She has to use our house phone to do this as proof she’s here. Then Busy Lizzie gets on and does her stuff.
‘I was here at seven-twenty,’ she says as she walks past me carrying a bottle of urine. ‘But you must all have been asleep.’ At twenty past seven on a Bank Holiday Sunday she’s surprised no one heard her knocking?
After she’s gone Adrian falls asleep. Just before midday while I’m loading the washing machine a loud bang followed by the sound of breaking glass punctuates the Sunday morning silence. I rush outside expecting to se
e cars flung all over the hedgerows, but the road’s as empty as it always is at the weekend. I walk round the house looking for signs of breakage, but all the windows are intact – nothing seems different. I go back inside. The noise came from the study side of the house and has woken Adrian up with a jolt.
‘Jesus, what was that?’ he says. ‘It nearly gave me a heart attack.’
‘I don’t know what it was. I’ll have a look upstairs – it sounded like glass breaking.’
Upstairs everything seems fine. I search the garden once more but can see no sign of anything that might have made such a clatter. It’s only when I go back into the study to tell Adrian I have no idea what it could have been that I notice a blank space on the wall where the Picasso had hung. The picture, which is big and must have been too heavy for the hook holding it up, has slid down the wall by the side of his bed. The frame and the picture itself are completely unharmed but the glass has shattered.
Adrian is upset because this is the Picasso, the Buste de Femme au Chapeau. She’s well and truly bust now. His favourite picture, but at least he can see the funny side. ‘That picture could have killed me,’ he says with a laugh.
*
Peter and I take Carol and Adrian to the Golf Club (again) for lunch and are offered free meals all round as there is a competition going on. Adrian is stronger than he was just two days ago when he’d had such difficulty getting up the slight incline leading to the clubhouse. Now he manages the slope on Carol’s arm.
Carol helps him with everything. She’s such a sweetie and so vibrant, still chatting all the time. She’s unpacked for him and found homes for all his socks and underwear in the study, which was something I didn’t have any energy for on Thursday. At the Golf Club the sun boils above us, Adrian has a sticky flan and cream but when he stands he’s like a child who’s put on his dad’s clothes, and tried to pull them all together with a belt at the waist. At least he eats the flan – good fattening grub. When I leave to take Carol back to Westbury, Adrian and Carol bid each other goodbye, but although they kiss, I notice he doesn’t turn around to watch her go…