Tom lifts up the left leg of Joan’s trousers and tries to pull up the pop-sock that has fallen down and lies wrinkled at the bottom of her ankle. A huge brown age-spot covers much of her calf and because it is beyond the remit of her carers, her leg has not been shaved in the year since her stroke, and it is dotted with thick black hairs. He remembers that she used to have smashing legs, and even in her early thirties after having their two children she’d still looked grand in a mini skirt. Now her legs are those of an old woman, her feet misshapen, contorted by her rheumatoid arthritis. Joan pulls at the leg of her polyester trousers, her twisted fingers tugging insistently.
‘Sto-p it,’ she says.
‘Eh?’
She stares at him, shaking her head. ‘Stop it.’
She makes him feel like he’s been caught peeking at her in the shower or secretly watching her undress. She’s always been a private woman, a bit buttoned up, and he guesses that she doesn’t like him seeing her hairy legs. He goes to pat her hand, but she glares at him again. He gets off his knees and walks quickly towards the door, ignoring her muffled attempts at speech. She tries again, ‘Tel-e-vis-ion – the news.’
He pretends not to hear and walks to the toilet. Once inside he pulls the bolt shut and slams down the lid of the toilet. He sits there for maybe five minutes or so, tears wetting his face and hands, imagining her anger with him, her annoyance at missing the news. Eventually he makes himself get up. He stares in the mirror, his reflection doing nothing to improve his mood. His face is red and blotchy and he looks much older than seventy-eight. In the past year he’s lost a couple of stone in weight and his eyes are sunken; his nose looks too large. He sighs, fills the sink with cold water, splashes his face and runs his fingers through his hair in an attempt to control the few wispy white hairs that he has left.
He walks slowly back into the lounge.
‘Where have you been?’ Her voice is clear, rehearsed.
‘Sorry love, call of nature.’
Her eyes don’t soften. ‘I’m miss-ing the news.’
He switches on the plug at the wall, turns on the television and sits down. They are in time for the weather.
‘Rain!’ she says, her eyes alert, a slight smile on her face. ‘Rain in More-cambe.’
‘We’ll stay in then tomorrow. Have a day in.’
‘Dinn-er,’ she struggles, exhausted by her efforts at speech.
‘In a minute – I just want to catch the local news.’
‘The ov-en!’
He knows that she’s fretting about heating the oven up, but he carries on staring at the television, pretending he’s interested. She glares at him every few minutes until eventually he gives in and switches on the oven – split level, very civilised. Despite his initial reluctance he has to admit that it is much easier living in their new flat, easier to manage Joan’s wheelchair with it all being open plan. The flat’s a bit ugly, perhaps, the 1970s not being the best era for architecture, but it has a balcony and a view of the sea.
When it is ready, he puts a Marks and Spencer’s steak and kidney pie and a portion of ready-made mashed potato into the oven. He sets the timer – easy peasy.
‘I don’t know why you made such a fuss about cooking all those years,’ he yells through to the lounge. ‘Nothing to it. This stuff from Marks is just as good as home-made.’
He hears her sigh. ‘Too ex-pen-sive for four.’
‘Aye, perhaps.’ He carries on fussing in the kitchen, whistling a Glen Miller tune through his teeth, like he does ten or twenty times a day. He knows he must keep cheerful, keep positive.
They hadn’t wanted him to bring Joan home after the stroke. Their daughters, the doctors, even the Vicar thought she would be better off in a home. It was his younger girl, Susan, who had first broached the subject, two months after the stroke when the doctors had said that Joan wouldn’t walk again. ‘We’re just trying to think what’s best, Dad,’ Susan had pleaded when he had got angry, ‘we’re not going to be able to help out much – it’s a long way for us both to travel from London.’
‘Your mum will be right as rain before you know it – don’t you fret. She’s always been a fighter – she’ll not be beat by this. Those doctors don’t know who they’re dealing with – she’ll be walking again before you know it.’
And she did. A few days later she’d walked a couple of steps. He’d been triumphant; she’d proved him right, but when she came home she had shown no desire to walk.
Hearing the cooker timer, he opens the oven door and looks at the pie. It is still pale and soggy-looking. ‘This oven’s broken,’ he snarls. ‘The pastry’s not cooked.’
Joan huffs, but offers no suggestions. He grabs her wheelchair and pushes her roughly over to the oven, takes out the pie and shoves it in front of her face.‘Look, see – it’s not right.’
She tuts and shakes her head. ‘Should be two hun-dred, not a hun-dred,’ she retorts.
He picks up the baking tray, opens the bin and slides the pie into it. Joan glares at him, but he stares back at her, daring her to speak.
Eleven p.m., midnight, one p.m. He can hear Joan snoring in the bed next to him. He’s hungry – they’d only had the mashed potatoes with some baked beans for their tea. Joan had complained, thinking it not much of a meal, had expected something to replace the pie.
‘It’ll do you good having a bit less,’ he said. ‘You’re getting fat, with all this sitting about.’
He feels bad about saying it now, knowing how sensitive she is about her appearance. Until recently, she’d still been naturally pretty, but now her face is badly lined; the stroke has added years to her age. Her useless right arm means that she is unable to apply makeup and she minds this, it seems to him, more than anything that has happened to her. She still goes to the hairdressers for a shampoo and set once a week though, making it possible for him to escape to the pub for an hour for a pint and a read of The Daily Mail. Sometimes when he’s at the pub he meets his olds school-friend George, but even if George is not there, it is his favourite hour of the week.
Five nights it has been now since he has slept properly. He re-plays ‘what ifs’ in his head, pictures himself lying on the floor after a fall, or worse, a heart attack, Joan unable to help. Exhausted he gets out of bed, makes a cup of tea, tries watching television, eats a piece of fruitcake. He knows eventually he will have a large whisky. Some nights he feels like opening his mouth and pouring the contents of the bottle down his throat in an attempt to achieve oblivion, to stop his mind working. That night, he’s lucky and he’s back in bed and asleep by two thirty.
He wakes slowly, disturbed by a noise, a whimper. Confused he looks at his clock – four fifteen. The whimpering gets louder. He swears, struggles out of bed and switches on the main light. Joan is lying in her bed, crying softly.
‘You should have woken me if you wanted the toilet?’ he moans.
‘Sorry.’
He wipes away the tears from her face with the corner of the sheet and helps her to sit upright on to the edge of the bed. He eases off her sodden nightdress, throwing it into the corner of the room, removes a clean one from her chest of drawers and pulls it gently over her head. The easy bit’s done, he thinks. The ‘magic’ manoeuvre gadget that allows him to stand her up and turn her 360 degrees is wrestled with and she is, after a considerable effort, sitting in her wheelchair.
‘What are you shivering for?’ he asks. ‘It’s August – what’ll you be like when we have to do this in winter?’
He strips her bed, replaces the sheets and she is soon lying down again. Once back in his own bed he realises that he has left the sodden sheets and nightdress on the floor. He leaves them.
7.30 a.m. – he wakes to hear Joan calling him. He climbs out of bed slowly. In the hall he meets Anna, a beautiful red headed girl, his favourite of all Joan’s carers. She smiles at him.
‘You alright Mr Green? I were a bit worried when you didn’t answer the bell – thought it best to let myself in…’
‘Yes, sorry, I didn’t … I must have slept through the alarm…’
‘Not to worry. Are them Mrs Green’s sheets? Pass them over and I’ll pop them in the machine.’
‘Thank-you.’
As he hands over the urine-stained sheet he retches. The sheets smell of the cod they had had for yesterday’s lunch.
Anna touches his shoulder. ‘I’ll just put kettle on then get Joan sorted. You have a sit down, you look done in.’
When Anna has washed and dressed Joan, there’s time for another cup of tea and a chat about Anna’s unsatisfactory student boyfriend. Joan is animated, laughing at the stories about Anna’s boyfriend’s feckless behaviour. Tom knows that Joan will be more or less silent when they are alone, that the effort of being sociable will have exhausted her. When Anna leaves, their forty-five minutes allotted time being up, he prepares breakfast. He sees Joan struggling to get the food into her mouth, her left hand shaking so much that she often misses, leaving cold, congealed porridge around her mouth. He tries not to look.
Later that morning, looking out of the window towards the beach he sees that the sky is blue.
‘I fancy an outing along the prom. Are you up for it?’
‘Rain,’ she says.
‘There’s no sign of rain – it’s blue sky out there!’
‘My book – want to fin-ish my book.’
‘You and your bloody books – I’ll not get a peep out of you for the rest of the day. I need to get out, Joan – see other folk.’
‘You go then.’
‘You know I can’t leave you alone – it’s made you selfish, this stroke thing – you’re only interested in yourself. I need a bit of fresh air!’
She glares at him. ‘Go then!’
So he does. He walks towards the beach, his anger making him walk too fast. His heart is pounding and he starts to feel sick, so he slows down and then defeated, finds a bench. Normally he enjoys sitting on the prom, watching what is going on and even today he is soon engrossed in following a cricket match some young lads are playing on the beach. The tide is out, making the beach huge, but even so it’s crowded, full of people of all ages, reading, sleeping, building sandcastles, enjoying themselves. He sees a young couple standing barefoot on the beach, only a few yards from him. They are kissing – not a dirty, grasping kiss like he often sees youngsters doing nowadays, but a tender kiss between two people who are obviously in love. He starts to cry – huge noisy sobs. An elderly couple on the next bench turn to look at him, so he walks away, mopping up the tears with the arm of his anorak.
She’s not reading when he gets back, just sitting, obviously waiting. He takes her hand and kisses her cheek.
‘I love you so much, Joan. You know that.’
There are tears in her eyes, but she kisses him and smiles.
‘I know.’
