Somebody I Used to Know

by Wendy Mitchell

  We haven’t finished our chat when the iPad rings: Sarah is trying to FaceTime with me. The red and green words – decline or accept – appear on the screen. I panic inside. If I answer now, I’ll forget to say goodbye to my friend on WhatsApp, and so I wait for the ringtone to stop, and end the other conversation. I call Sarah back, her face appearing as always, bright and sunny.

  ‘Hi Mum, how are you?’

  I go to speak, expecting the fluent me who has been zipping instant messages back and forth. Instead, something else happens. A stammer, a hesitation, that search for the right word. When I do say hello, it’s with uncertainty. I sound almost childlike.

  ‘H-hello. Good … th-thanks.’

  Who is this? Who am I?

  Sarah’s tone changes, an unmistakeable difference only a mother would pick up on, and our conversation lasts only a few short minutes. We hang up and the screen goes blank. I see my reflection in the screen, the stranger who now inhabits me. I look back at the WhatsApp conversations, the old Wendy, the one I knew for fifty-eight years. But this one, she is an intruder. I am not used to the two versions of myself crossing paths, but it had felt that, for a split second, they had met one another.

  There is a fleeting thought. Can I go on?

  I extinguish it before it ignites. I know this control I have over my disease is an illusion, a trick I use to get through each day. My friends’ kind words are ringing in my ears – you haven’t changed at all – and yet some days it feels there is little of me left.

  There was always that buzz of excitement down at the bus station so early in the morning, egg sandwiches cut in quarters for the journey, a flask of tea, and whispers about what awaited in Blackpool. There was no M62 back then, was there? Just a bus that cut across the countryside, most people going for their annual holidays during factory fortnight shutdown, you and your mum among the crowds. One case beside you, early enough to be at the front of the queue to get a seat right by the driver. From there you’d wait the whole journey just for a first glimpse of the Blackpool Tower; it felt like the whole bus held its breath in anticipation of it cutting through the landscape.

  ‘There it is!’ someone at the back would say, but it was too early, you knew it would only be a pylon, too shy to contradict but confident you were right.

  Your pockets would be jingling with the pennies you’d saved as spending money and when you arrived at your hotel, you’d split your money into the number of days, dividing it equally so you wouldn’t spend it all at once. You were organised even then.

  You’d nudge your mum excitedly when that famous spire finally came into view, and once you stepped off the coach into the west-coast sea air, the street would be teeming with tourists. People always seemed so happy in Blackpool – laughter and smiles were all around you there. You’d make your way to your digs for the week, happily walking alongside your mum, trying to guess what might be for dinner, although it was always a salad on the first night, served with white sliced bread and margarine, a favourite of yours, something you never had at home, which made your mouth water at the thought.

  Once you’d dropped your suitcase, you’d hop on the tram to theatreland to book tickets to all the shows that week. The trams would mesmerise you, and you’d sit with your nose pressed against the window staring out at the sand and sea, a smile stuck to your face. The theatres were overflowing with famous names of the time: Cilla Black, Cliff Richard, Gerry and the Pacemakers were all regulars, and your mum would be front of the queue to get the best seats so you had a show to go to each evening. You said you’d never forget the night when Cliff Richard looked at you in the front row and told the audience how you’d sat so nicely throughout the whole show. He invited you up on stage to collect a beach ball. I don’t suppose you remember that now.

  Your mum couldn’t walk too much, so she’d sit in the bingo stalls that used to line the front of the promenade and you were allowed to wander off on your own – just for ten minutes before having to return to her side. You’d wander along the colourful arcades, listening to the coins crashing out of slot machines, stopping every now and then to drop a penny into them yourself, but always keeping an eye on your watch. As the week went by, you were allowed out of her sight for longer and you’d run down to the beach and straight up to the sea front, standing on the edge, just out of reach of the surf, thousands of people sitting behind you on the sand. It felt like you were standing on the edge of the world, and it was all yours. You’d race back to your mum, never late, never wanting to break her trust, but you kept your mini adventures to yourself; they were your little secret to keep locked away. Precious memories.

  I’m on a train, looking out of the window as the world rushes by. The weather has promised to be kind for the next few days and so I decided to treat myself to a little holiday – a trip back to my childhood favourite, Blackpool. The train is packed with others heading in the same direction, noisy children chattering excitedly about all the things they are going to do with the coins rattling around in their pockets. Every now and then one or the other of them calls: ‘Blackpool Tower!’ and we all look towards the window, even though it is nothing but a pylon rising from behind a hedge in a field. My eyes are glued to the window too; that same anticipation to wish the journey by, to catch a first glimpse of the Tower myself.

  When the train pulls into the station, I head to the same hotel on the quiet North Shore. The manager there knows me and reads my blog, so I’m always well looked after. I love the familiarity of Blackpool, knowing my way around, the streets and tram routes imprinted on what memory remains. I step out of my hotel and turn left or right and I know I can walk as far as my legs will carry me, tiring only to pick up the tram on the way back to my room. The trams go the same route – Star Gate to Fleetwood – every single day, so even if I ever go in the wrong direction, I’ll always make my way back.

  The trams are people-friendly, no steps to climb, each stop announced by an automated voice and clear big windows to look out of, the conductors patient and friendly, greeting everyone with a smile. One man gets on alone. I know from the way he hesitates – that familiar look in his eyes as he shuffles, how he doesn’t seem to know what to do – that he has dementia. The conductor takes him by the arm and jokes: ‘Let’s get you sat down. If you fell over it would give me a load of paperwork to fill in and I’m no good at that!’

  He sits a few rows in front of me, both of us staring out at the view. The landmarks loom large: North Pier, Central and South, the Big One rollercoaster, and of course Blackpool Tower. I get off and spend an hour with a cuppa watching people of all ages and standards dancing happily around the amazing ballroom, grey-haired waltzing partners filling their retirement years exactly the way they had planned.

  I walk back along the promenade, eavesdropping on conversations as I go, most of them starting with: ‘I remember when …’ Blackpool is full of the nostalgia of years gone by, of the factory shutdown weeks that saw the beaches packed with sun-baked bodies, of first donkey rides in the sand and dips in the freezing-cold sea. I feel safe here for that very reason, because these streets are the same I’ve walked along all my life, memories vying for space in my mind, holidays with my mum and as a mum becoming tangled with all the years they have to share.

  Gemma and I came here last year. We love the rides on the Pleasure Beach best of all. We walked along, me with my walking stick, looking in awe at the carriages full of people on the biggest rollercoaster, 235 feet up.

  ‘Let’s go on,’ I said to Gemma, handing my walking stick to the attendant, both of us chuckling at the shock-horror look on his face, but before he could say anything, I was sitting smiling in my seat. Life doesn’t have to be dull and risk-free just because you have dementia.

  We strapped ourselves in and were thrown around and around, my stomach lurching one way and the other at 70 mph. It was only the next day, when I couldn’t remember why my legs were covered in so many bruises, that I remembered just what fun we’d had. A memor
y made just a year ago, yet sometimes it feels they’re the first to go.

  That’s why I love Blackpool, with all the ghosts from the past that come to walk down the promenade alongside me. The beaches may no longer be filled with as many buckets and spades as the old days, but those happy times cut through the fog.

  A few days later I’m back on the train heading home. I stare out of the window heading across the Pennines; the adults doze while the children swap stories about giant jellyfish found on the beach. Soon the coach is quiet, and if trains could speak, the tales they could tell, of love lost and found, memories made for life, hopes raised and crushed. They zip up and down these lines, all across the UK, holding tight on to all those stories and filling up every day with more and more, never to let go, an endless drive of people’s lives.

  You returned to Blackpool all those years later, this time as a single mum juggling two suitcases and two girls on a train. The three of you stood on the platform, the girls with goody bags in their hands that you’d made to keep them busy on the journey – colouring books and sweeties. They were all smiles, but you just wanted to get on the train and find a seat together, then you could relax. You’d spend the journey just as you had as a child, chattering about all the things you were going to do: the trams, the sea, the arcades, and then the time would come to concentrate on the horizon, a race to see who would spot the Tower first.

  The first tram ride always took you to Pleasure Beach; there were screeches and laughter as you went round and round on the merry-go-rounds, got soaked on the log flumes, but you dried off in time to get a taxi back to the hotel to get changed for the evening.

  Each holiday you’d get the tram to Cleveleys, just a few miles away, and tradition had it that every time you had a day out there, the girls got to choose a cuddly toy each. Do you remember the year when Gemma picked out the little bear with goggles and a flying jacket, and Sarah chose the most enormous gorilla?

  ‘How are we going to get that back home?’ you said.

  ‘He’ll sit next to me,’ she replied. It was simple in her mind, so there was no reason not to agree.

  That train ride home from Blackpool was one you were never meant to forget, Clive the gorilla sharing the four seats around the table, and the girls giggling all the way back beside him.

  The smiling face is chattering before me.

  ‘Nice to see you again, Wendy,’ it says.

  I nod and smile, give them what they want, tell them it’s nice to see them too. I answer their questions, they leave happily a few moments later, and then Sarah turns to me.

  ‘Who was that?’ she asks.

  ‘I don’t know, but they were very nice,’ I say.

  We both laugh.

  ‘Apparently, I met them at the conference last year.’ I shrug, happy to go with the flow as always. This is me now, nodding and smiling, never correcting or questioning. I can’t: my memory doesn’t back me up. The easy option is always to go along with what they’re telling me. It was harder at the beginning. I’d stop and think, wrack a brain that would never come up with the answer, and all the time I did, I’d be missing what they were saying, getting confused, unsure. I felt stupid. Not now. I just give people what they want. I don’t let them know I have no recollection of them, as I sense it would be hurtful – even from someone with no memory.

  It’s surprising how many people don’t consider that I may not remember them, but when they do, it’s quite refreshing. There was one day at King’s Cross station in London, standing out of the way on a busy concourse. Suddenly I picked out a voice in the crowds calling my name. A man was approaching with a beaming face, one that told me he was instantly happy to have spotted me, yet I had no idea who he was. I braced myself for the usual conversation; his assumptions, my pretence. But instead he took my hand.

  ‘You won’t remember me, but I’m Joe. We used to work together sometimes in Leeds at the hospital. I know Helen.’

  Ah, Helen. My friend. An image of her appeared in my head, a point of reference that instantly put me at ease. It was so nice not having to pretend. We had a lovely chat, he introduced me to his colleague, and then he left, leaving me exactly where he found me.

  People are forever starting a sentence with, ‘Remember when we did …’

  Sometimes I do. More often I don’t. If I say, ‘No, I’m afraid I don’t …’ they’ll spend time going over it, and I’ll stand there, none the wiser. So now I just smile and say, ‘Did we?’

  Unless of course it’s Sarah or Gemma, and then I can be myself. ‘Nope, I don’t remember that whatsoever.’ And cue the laughter.

  14

  Each day in the village life goes on, whether I remember it or not. The ducks still swim up to the pond’s edge, grateful to those who’ve stopped at the village shop to buy them tiny bags of food. The postman makes his deliveries, knowing which dog sits behind each door, which letterboxes to put his fingers through and which to avoid. And the village bus makes its journey between Beverley and Hull. Mostly – when I’m not leaving home before it’s even light to get a train up or down the country – I’m on it every morning at 10 a.m. Lots of us congregate at the bus stop for that first bus, people arriving long before it’s due to arrive to catch up on the village gossip, saying good morning, knowing one another’s names, picking up from conversations started over hedges the day before. I stand amongst them, listening to the time the village was cut off by a snowdrift. I can’t remember now how we got on to the subject, but each of them brings the story to life, how even the snow plough had to be abandoned in the lane where I live. Enjoying the moment and knowing, just like the blizzard itself, the memory of the conversation will leave me just as fast.

  ‘Morning, Wendy,’ the driver says as I step on to the bus. He knows everyone by name, which takes me by surprise, because I can’t say I recognise this one. Instead I have to trust his memory instead of my own. After a lifetime of trusting your gut, an instinct that is meant to grow more reliable as you age and have all that experience behind you, it can be hard letting go.

  I say hello to the bus driver, calling him by the name the person in front said, relying on them to be right.

  After giving up my car, I’ve had no choice but to take public transport. But it hasn’t been easy. The village bus doesn’t start until ten and finishes at five, so I often have to rely on taxis out of hours. The firm I use is based at the rail station in Beverley, and in the beginning when the driver arrived late, I used to get very agitated, pacing up and down at my window, unsure whether I was to blame. Had I called and booked it? Had they forgotten or had I? I’d ring up if they were even a minute late. I could often tell by the voice what a nuisance they thought I was. But how were they to know why? I had to put it right: after all, I needed this taxi firm.

  A few days later I was shopping in town and I had an idea. I stopped off at Marks & Spencer and came out armed with all kinds of treats and biscuits. I peered through the glass screen of the taxi office and immediately recognised the voice of the lady answering the phone.

  ‘I’ve brought you all some treats for your tea break,’ I said. She looked suspicious, until she saw the biscuits. ‘I’ve come to apologise.’

  ‘Well, you know how to get round us,’ she said, taking them. ‘But what are you apologising for?’

  ‘I’m Wendy,’ I said. ‘The one who rings even when you’re a minute late.’

  ‘Ah!’ she said, the recognition spreading across her whole face.

  ‘I’ve come to explain why.’

  As I sat inside their tiny office, I explained my dementia to her over a cuppa and a few chocolate biscuits. ‘I panic, you see,’ I explained. ‘And then I think I haven’t booked the taxi.’

  The light went on behind her eyes.

  ‘That’s OK,’ she said. ‘I’ll let everyone know; it won’t be a problem any more.’

  They look after me now, even if my train is late. ‘Just come to the office and wait with us,’ they tell me if the train home
from London gets delayed on the line. They almost always have a car waiting for me.

  They are the only people I use the telephone with now. They know instantly that it’s me; they’re patient and wait for me to say what I need to, repeating it all back to me to put my mind at rest. I’m sure the ready supply of biscuits helps. Who would have thought a packet of custard creams could help me feel so safe?

  People often ask me how can I possibly do all the things I do on my own when I have dementia. The answer is, with difficulty. But nothing is impossible even for someone with a brain disease. The journeys I make up and down the country are the ones that seem to impress people the most: how I can get a train all the way from my tiny village and turn up at a meeting in London at a place I’ve never been before? But so much goes on behind the scenes.

  Today I’ve been invited to Birmingham to set priorities for research. I received the invitation months ago, and as soon as I did, the preparation began. I started by printing. Firstly, a photograph of the hotel where I will be staying; next, a photograph of the venue. I check the route and then print off anywhere that needs to look familiar on the day – perhaps a street I’ll be walking down, or a statue I will pass. That way there will be some degree of familiarity when the day comes. Soon there is a whole pile of pictures, and they all go into my pink file, ready for when I need them.

  I prepare to leave home in the darkness. I’d booked a taxi a few days before. As the time approaches and I see no car from my living-room window, I pick up the phone. They’re not surprised to hear from me, of course, and reassure me that the car is booked and will arrive shortly. The anxiety has already started, though, the clock-watching. I need everything to run to timetable so I make my train. I start working out a plan B, just in case. I factor in time to sit and wait in stations, to collect my thoughts, think of the next step.

  I make my train of course, but there is a second and third change I need to make, and the worry is nibbling away inside. I try to stay calm by taking photographs out of the window on my iPad; the sun coming up behind a field of wind turbines. The third train arrives on time, but it is very busy. I need to keep my suitcase beside me, otherwise I’ll forget I have one, but there is just no room, so I store it in the luggage rack. I find the window seat that I have booked, but someone is sitting there. I would leave them if I could, but looking out at the views that pass and taking pictures is my way of staying calm on a journey that might otherwise be fraught with fear, and so I have to point out that they’re sitting in my seat. Often I am met with tuts and sighs, but today the person is very nice and shuffles over without any fuss. I sit down, feeling happy, and immediately set alarms in my phone to remind me to get off the train when Birmingham approaches, and another to remember to pick up my suitcase.