by Rosie Harris
Tim had made sure that she would have a couple of days to shop and do anything else necessary before Peter came home, and she took advantage of the time to have her hair done and make one or two changes in the layout of the flat.
The day Peter was due home she cooked his favourite meal of chicken in a lemon sauce and made a sherry trifle, that was another of his favourite dishes. He arrived late afternoon, accompanied by Tim. He was talking animatedly to Tim as they came up in the lift but, when he saw Betty waiting for him at the door of the flat, his face darkened.
‘Who’s that woman and what is she doing here in my home,’ he demanded.
‘It’s Betty, your wife,’ Tim said. ‘She’s here welcoming you home. I understand she’s cooked you a special meal.’
Peter drew in a deep breath and then gave a deep sigh. ‘That sounds good,’ he said. He walked in, straight over to his armchair, sat down and closed his eyes.
‘Thank you for bringing him home,’ Betty said squeezing Tim’s arm.
Tim shook his head and looked worried. ‘Are you sure you are going to be all right? I’m not sure that he knows where he is.’
‘Of course I am,’ Betty said confidently. ‘Now, don’t worry. If I need you then I’ll phone you.’
Thirty-Nine
Betty found that looking after Peter was almost like caring for a young, but inactive child. He seemed to have no idea about doing anything or talking about anything. He was content to simply sit in his armchair and either stare into space or doze.
He ate or drank whatever she put in front of him without comment. If she asked him afterwards if he had enjoyed it, he smiled and nodded. Sometimes Betty wished he would complain just to show some interest.
She took to going out every day, choosing the early afternoon when she knew he would be sleeping after his main meal of the day. She never went very far, or stayed out more than half an hour, but she looked forward to the break from being confined to the flat.
When she encouraged Peter to come down and sit in the garden he showed no interest in the flowers or what was going on. Occasionally, there were other people out there and if they spoke he would completely ignore them, leaving Betty to try and speak for both of them in order to cover up his silence.
Most of the time he was compliant, although he didn’t like visitors; not even Tim. Sally ignored his rudeness but after she had gone he grumbled about her and told Betty to stop opening the door to her. The only other time he seemed to be aroused was when Betty wanted him to do something and he didn’t want to comply. He was loath to take a shower or to shave. Because he was now so thin and gaunt he looked even worse when he was in need of a shave. In the end, Betty compromised and trimmed his facial hair so that it had some resemblance to a beard.
When she held up a hand-mirror so that he could see the results he nodded, as if satisfied. ‘You are very good to me,’ he told her. ‘You feed me and you look after me, what more could I ask.’
As the summer waned and was replaced by the shorter days of autumn, Betty missed their walks more than ever. Soon, she reflected, it would be winter and the chances of getting out would become less and less possible. Stoically, she resigned herself to a new lifestyle. She tried to interest Peter in television programmes that she enjoyed, or listening to plays or talks on the radio, hoping that perhaps it would stimulate him to talk about them afterwards. Usually he simply closed his eyes and went to sleep.
For her own entertainment, Betty started knitting again; something she hadn’t done for many years. To her surprise she found she was enjoying it and it helped to pass the time.
She still went out on her scooter most afternoons and enjoyed the feeling it gave her, whether it was merely a drive round the village or a short expedition.
‘Don’t you think it would be better if you ordered online? I thought you had been impressed with this arrangement?’ Tim asked.
‘I enjoy going out,’ Betty told him. ‘You have no idea what it’s like to be shut up in four walls day after day.’
‘Yes I do,’ he told her with a grin. ‘I am shut up in my office from early morning until evening.’
‘Maybe you are, but there are other people around you, different faces, challenging conversation, stimulating projects.’
As the days became shorter and the weather inclement, Betty realized that what Tim had suggested made sense; it was time to return to the deliveries even if this did mean she had less reason to leave the flat.
Whenever she felt disgruntled about the way her life was going she tried to remember that really, she was very fortunate. The flat was comfortable and easy to manage, Peter wasn’t very demanding, and she went short of nothing. Soon it would be Christmas and then she would see more of the rest of the family, so she had something to look forward to.
It was early in December when overnight everything changed.
She had just made their afternoon cup of tea, brought it in from the kitchen on a tray, which she put down on a low table before gently shaking Peter’s arm to waken him.
Before she sat down in her own armchair she handed him his cup. ‘Be careful it’s hot,’ she remarked as she handed it to him.
He made no reply but immediately took a drink. The next thing she knew was that he had given an angry exclamation and thrown the hot liquid at her, catching Betty full in the face and almost blinding her.
‘There’s no sugar in the damn stuff!’ he shouted.
Betty mopped at her face, her eyes were stinging and so was the skin on her face.
‘No good standing there crying, get me a fresh one,’ he ordered.
Betty stared at him in dismay, he has been so quiet and docile over the past few months that she couldn’t understand his outburst. She had obviously made a mistake and given him her cup instead of the one intended for him, which did have sugar in it. Silently, she passed him the other cup. He tasted it and then sat back in his armchair to drink it without a word.
Betty went back into the kitchen and dabbed her face with cold water to ease the pain. Then she poured herself another cup and wondered if it was safe to take it into the sitting room to drink it. As she sat down in her armchair, she watched him nervously but he was drinking his tea as if there was nothing amiss.
She decided not to tell Tim, but she did wonder if she should speak to the doctor and see if he thought that Peter’s medication should be increased.
A couple of days later, Peter flew into a rage when she tried to tidy up his beard, which looked straggly and unkempt.
‘Get away from me,’ he shouted, and pushed her so hard that she fell backwards, narrowly missing the corner of the table. As it was, she jarred her shoulder as she tried to save herself from falling and this caused a searing pain down her arm and side.
Frightened, she knew she must take some sort of action, but by the time she had pulled herself together Peter was back in his chair, his eyes closed in sleep and looking so peaceful that it was hard to believe he had been so aggressive only a few minutes earlier.
They had a quiet few days; Betty wondered why he had been so upset. Was it something in his diet that had triggered his anger, or was it that he wasn’t feeling well. He was so moody and depressed over the next week that Betty wondered if the darker days had anything to do with it. His outbursts seemed to coincide with rain or bad weather.
It was a bitterly cold, bright, sunny day when he committed his next attack. This time, he lashed out at her with his fist when she woke him because she was about to serve him his main meal of the day. He picked up his plate of food and smashed it against the wall. His eyes glittering fanatically, he then turned on her with his fist curled up.
One blow caught her on the side of her face, before she managed to make her escape out of the flat and into the corridor. She heard him bolt the door behind her, muttering curses all the time he did it. She stood in the corridor, shaking and unsure of what to do. She knew she must contact Tim but how was she going to do that now. She thought about going ou
t on to the street and flagging down a passer-by as she had done previously when Peter had locked her out. She waited a few minutes and then knocked softly on the door to see whether he’d calmed down.
‘Can you let me in, Peter, so that I can get your pudding ready?’ she said, in as steady a voice as she could muster.
She heard the lock being undone and the door open, and felt a huge wave of relief. For a moment she hesitated, wondering if it was safe to go in.
‘What are you doing out there in the middle of our meal?’ he asked.
Betty merely smiled.
‘You want to take your keys with you when you go out,’ he told her as he made his way to the table, and pulled her plate towards him and tucked into it.
Betty went into the kitchen and took the apple crumble out of the oven and dished out a portion for Peter. Her hand was shaking as she poured cream on it before taking it to him.
He pushed aside the empty dinner plate, picked up his spoon and tucked into the pudding. She watched him in silence. What would he do next, she wondered.
She waited until he was back in his armchair and had dozed off, then she rang Tim.
‘Can you come round? I need your help but I can’t explain on the phone,’ she said.
‘Is something wrong, Mother? You sound strange, almost as if you are frightened?’
‘Come round, Tim, please.’
‘I’m on my way.’
‘He really must have professional care, his behaviour is not only erratic but dangerous,’ Tim told her, after he had heard an account of what had happened. ‘Heaven knows what he might do next time.’
‘But he’s been so placid for the past few months,’
‘Well, by your account of what has happened recently, his dementia has taken another turn. Leave it with me, I’ll arrange for him to go back into a nursing home. Just be on the alert until someone comes to collect him.’
Betty didn’t go to bed, she waited for Peter to go to sleep so that she could lie down on the settee and get some rest herself. It was almost three in the morning before he rose from his armchair and made his way to the bedroom. Even then, she waited, afraid to sleep in case he wondered why she wasn’t in bed and came looking for her.
It was several days before Tim found a nursing home that was prepared to take a dementia patient when they heard that he had become violent. It had to be one with staff specially trained to deal with such problems.
Betty kept thinking she was letting Peter down by sending him away, but her thoughts went back to the episode when he had locked her out of the flat and she dreaded something like that happening again. The following day, when he had no idea who she was and again attacked her, his eyes so fierce that she was really scared of him, she knew in her heart that she wasn’t capable of dealing with him and that it really was necessary for him to have professional care.
Forty
It was four days before they would allow Betty to visit Peter. When she was taken into his room he was sitting in a chair by his bed. He opened his eyes and looked at her blankly, then closed them again without even speaking.
‘How are you, Peter?’ Betty asked. She went over to him and kissed him on the forehead when he didn’t answer.
‘Leave me alone,’ he muttered, as he pushed her away angrily.
‘I’ll bring you both a cup of tea, do you take milk and sugar?’ The girl who had brought her from reception asked.
‘Thank you, that would be very nice. Only milk for me but Peter takes both,’ Betty said.
She sat patiently waiting, afraid to touch him and finding it useless to talk to him. She wasn’t sure whether he heard her or not as he made no reply. She hoped that when the tea arrived he might show some interest in what she said. As it happened, he picked up his tea, drained the cup and put it back on the saucer without a word.
Betty scrutinized Peter as she sipped her own tea and thought how he had changed in a few days. He looked so frail and his hair was completely white. The beard that he’d been growing was gone, and she assumed that someone must have shaved him.
She finished her tea and then, once again, tried to hold a conversation with him, but he only stared at her angrily and told her to get out because he didn’t want her there.
Saddened, Betty accepted the inevitable and didn’t visit again for almost a week. This time, she took along some of his favourite chocolates but, instead of her gift pleasing him, it only seemed to anger him. Opening the box, he stared at the contents then threw it at her, telling her that he knew she was trying to poison him.
He made so much noise that one of the nurses came running in to see what happening. Gently, she guided Betty out of the room, leaving Peter still ranting and raving at the top of his voice, disturbing other patients and their visitors, many of whom looked out of their rooms to see what was happening.
Betty was shaking so much that they sat her down in reception and brought her another cup of tea and suggested she rested until she felt calmer.
‘Could you ring my son and ask him to come and collect me?’ she asked.
When Tim arrived, the matron took him to one side and said that she thought it might be better if his mother didn’t visit anymore as she seemed to distress the patient, and afterwards he was so violent that they had to sedate him.
The news distressed Betty. She felt it was both her right and her duty to visit Peter. She took to standing outside the nursing home, looking up at the window of his room, hoping that perhaps he might look out and see her and ask her to come in.
Nothing like that ever happened and after about a month Tim asked the matron if his mother could visit if he came with her.
‘She’s very distressed by this enforced separation,’ he explained.
‘I do understand, but my concern is for the patient and my staff; he becomes aggressively agitated by her visits.’
They discussed the matter at great length and finally the matron agreed that Betty could visit if Tim accompanied her.
‘You must agree that if it causes any disturbance then you accept my ruling that she won’t be allowed to do it again.’
Betty was overjoyed by the news. This time she didn’t take him anything, afraid of what his reaction might be, and she also agreed to let Tim go in on his own first, so that he could assess Peter’s mood. Matron too was taking no chances. She stood with Betty outside Peter’s door to make certain that all was well.
They heard Tim greet Peter who responded and then the two of them participated in a general conversation.
Matron smiled at Betty. ‘Sounds normal,’ she said softly. Then she quietly opened the door and propelled Betty inside.
Betty stood by the door for several moments until Tim noticed she was there.
‘You have another visitor, Peter,’ Tim said in a welcoming tone of voice.
Peter frowned and looked towards the door. When he saw Betty, his eyes narrowed and his hands balled into fists.
‘Get her out of here, I don’t want that woman in my room!’ he snarled.
‘Come on Peter, it’s your wife, you mustn’t be churlish. She has a right to visit you.’
Peter didn’t answer, he was out of his chair and across the room, one arm raised to hit Betty before Tim could stop him.
Matron heard Betty’s cry as Peter’s fist caught her on the shoulder, sending Betty reeling backwards but, before she could enter the room, Tim had grabbed hold of Peter’s arms, holding it in a vice-like grip.
‘Leave us, Mother,’ he ordered.
Betty hesitated, tears streaming down her face from the pain and the sight of Peter struggling in Tim’s arms, then fled.
Other members of staff had heard the commotion and came to help. Peter was sedated before Tim loosened his hold on him.
Tim and Betty were taken into Matron’s study and given cups of tea to help them to recover their composure. This time there was no question of any compromise. Betty was told she must not visit Peter again.
From then on, they wer
e sent a weekly report telling them how Peter was progressing. His health was obviously deteriorating, and in early March of the following year they were sent for because he was so seriously ill with pneumonia that he was in hospital and it was it was unlikely that he would live more than a few days.
Betty was in floods of tears but she agreed to go to the hospital with Tim.
Neither of them were sure if Peter recognized them as they stood, one each side of his bed, in intensive care.
When Tim spoke to him, Peter managed a faint smile, then he turned his head to look at Betty. His hand that was lying on top of the covers seemed to reach towards her. Betty took it, holding it gently and smiling down at him.
‘You’ve been so kind to me,’ he said in a dry whisper. ‘I hope I’ve never hurt you.’
Betty felt too choked to speak, all she could do was gently squeeze his hand and smile at him, shaking her head as if to assure him that he had never harmed her.
He nodded contentedly, then the hand holding Betty’s became limp and Tim gently disentangled their hands and led Betty away from the bedside.
Peter’s funeral was a very quiet one attended by Betty, Tim, Brenda, Mary, Graham, Shirley, and Sally.
Although she had been living alone for quite some time, Betty found the flat felt cold and empty when she returned after the funeral.
As she looked round, things that had belonged to Peter seemed to be everywhere. She spent the evening and the whole of the next day gathering them together and putting them into boxes where she wouldn’t see them.
A week later, Betty told Tim that she had decided to go into a nursing home and asked him which one he though was most suitable.
Tim looked aghast. ‘What do you want to do that for, Mother? You are still able to look after yourself and I’m always on hand if you need any help.’
‘I know, but I am tired of the world,’ she told him. ‘I find coping with the hustle and bustle of everyday life unbearable. I no longer enjoy shopping, I find that even with my scooter it has become more and more difficult to get around. Most of the time I am so lonely, and some days I feel it isn’t worth going on living.’