A Distant Shore (35 page)

I point outside, although it occurs to me that from where the young woman is sitting she cannot see my car. “Yes, I have my own car.”

“I see. Good.” She is happy now and she pushes a pad and a pen across the desk. “You just write down your name and phone number. What we do is whenever a patient needs a lift into town, then we get them to give you a call to see if you’re free.”

I begin to write down my details. As I do so, she continues to talk.

“That way you’re not bothered by having to chase people up. And don’t be afraid to say ‘no’ if you’re busy. You’re a volunteer, not a taxi driver. They have to understand that you’ve got your own life to be getting on with.”

I push the pad and pen back in her direction and I stand. I hold out my hand for her to shake, but hers is a limp handshake.

I sit in the dark with my hands embracing a cup of coffee. I feel safe in my bungalow. The letter is still here, but I feel safe. First, I will complete this cup of coffee and then I will begin my patrol. I venture out with my torch in the early evening, just when the sky begins to darken. Later, when the sky is black, I will go out for a second time. Usually this is around midnight, after people have returned home from their drinking and when the village is becoming peaceful for the night. The moonlight catches the photograph of Mike that sits on my mantelpiece. If he were alive today, Mike would have an alternative to the pub, or staying in with Mr. and Mrs. Anderson. He could always come here and keep me company. We could talk about Mike’s experiences growing up in Ireland, and how his father begged him not to fight against the English, and how he first came to England on the Holyhead ferry, and how he found himself trapped into marriage against his will. My friend repeated these stories many times, but I liked to hear the sound of his voice. And, of course, listening to the sound of my friend’s voice meant that I did not have to answer any questions about myself. I look at Mike’s friendly grin and I feel sadness beginning to flood my body.

The phone call in the middle of the night roused me from a deep sleep. And then I heard Mum scream, and then I listened to Mr. Anderson trying to calm Mum down, but I dared not rise from my bed. It was Mr. Anderson who knocked on the door and who came in and sat down on the solitary chair. With a heavy heart, Mr. Anderson conveyed to me the news that Mike had been involved in a road accident and that he would no longer be among us. My body felt cold, and I looked away from Mr. Anderson. Of all the people to die in a road accident, Mike seemed the least likely. Mike was an extremely fine master of roadsmanship. And for this tragedy to occur during his first European trip was too cruel. Mike had been very excited about taking his lorry to Germany and “going into Europe.” I could also see that Mr. and Mrs. Anderson were very happy, and not only for Mike. After forty years, Mr. Anderson was leaving the contracting business and they were both retiring to run a small hotel in Scotland, which was the part of the world where Mum had originated. And now that I was “legal,” Mr. Anderson had secured for me a position as a night-watchman. He had spared me the anxiety of having to invent a reason why I would be leaving their home. And then the difficult phone call in the middle of the night robbed us of our great joy, and for days afterwards my dreams became unpleasant.

I remembered walking north, to the left of the sun’s rising. It was not possible for me to remain loyal to the cleared paths, and so my secret journey took many weeks. Eventually I reached my family’s house, but soon afterwards the bloodthirsty government troops arrived. My father pushed his only son into a cupboard and begged me to remain quiet, no matter what happened. He stumbled over his words and his breath was ripe with the stench of alcohol. “Gabriel, if one man must survive, it must be you.” There was no time for me to argue, and to do so would have been disrespectful. As the government troops kicked at the door to our family house, I entered the cupboard and my sad father closed the leaves of wood in my face. I watched without fear. I watched with ice in my heart. I remembered my mother lying on a floor in my now far-off country with blood pouring from her wounds. I remembered my father and my sisters being shot like animals. My dreams contained my history. Night and day I tried not to think of these things any more. I tried not to think of these people any more. I wanted to set these people free so that they might become people in another man’s story. I wanted to stop dreaming of them at night, or thinking about them in the day, but after Mike’s death I was very disturbed and I could escape neither myself, nor my country, nor my family. For three full days and three full nights before the funeral I was a miserable man. A coward. But I could not return to my country, for there was nothing for me to return to. I possessed no family. Each time I opened my eyes I heard Mum crying. I was a coward who had trained himself to forget. I accepted from people. From Mr. and Mrs. Anderson. I was no longer “Hawk.” I was no longer my mother’s Gabriel. It was Solomon who learned of Mike’s death. It was Solomon who was lying in a warm bed in a strange room among these kind people. It was Solomon. I was Solomon.

The funeral was difficult, for not only did I bid farewell to Mike, I was also forced to sever my links with Mr. and Mrs. Anderson. After Mr. Anderson presented me with the keys to Mike’s car, he handed me a piece of folded paper with their new address and telephone number in Scotland. He did not instruct me to make sure that I visited. He was simply setting me free. To visit or not visit would be my decision. This was Mr. Anderson’s way. Mum was too distraught to say anything, and even the prospect of a return to her beloved Scotland could not raise her spirits. As the sky wept, she also wept. After they left I walked back to their house feeling the weight of Mike’s car keys in my pocket. Mike was a good driver, and I later learned that the accident had not been his fault. A car had lost control and crossed the centre of the road. Mike had swerved to avoid the car and turned his lorry over. All of this happened in Kent, so Mike never did leave the country. Before the funeral, Mr. Anderson gave me a framed photograph of Mike. That same night, I placed the photograph of Mike on the mantelpiece of my new bungalow. I put Mike’s car keys next to the photograph. Mike was in general mild, affable, generous, benevolent and just; he was to me a friend. Thank you, Mike, I said. I looked around. You have given Solomon a new home. In England.

The man next to me will not speak with me. He is an elderly man and his body exudes an unfortunate odour. He does not know how to take care of himself. We drive on in silence and I concentrate upon the traffic. I ignore him. I have no desire to torment conversation out of this reluctant man. I have bought gloves, for occasionally the steering wheel is cold. It is also my hope that the gloves will make the whole business seem more professional. But the man continues to stare resentfully out of the window and he refuses to meet my eyes. I park in the hospital car park, and as he leaves my car he slams the door. He offers no thanks. He says nothing. Yesterday I visited the nurse and informed her that not one person had telephoned me. She appeared somewhat embarrassed, and then she told me that if I came this morning at ten o’clock, then a Mr. Simons would be ready for me to transport him to the hospital. She confided that this man did not possess a telephone, as though this was something that Mr. Simons ought to be ashamed of. I lingered for a moment, for I wondered if there was something further that she wished to say to me. But the truth was there was something that I wished to say to her.

“The lady next door to me. I do not know her name.” I saw the puzzled crease on the nurse’s brow, and so I described the lady’s appearance. The nurse continued to appear confused, and so I shared with her the lady’s address.

“Oh, I know who you mean.” She paused. “You know, I think she actually likes the bus.”

I could not think of anything else to say to this woman.

I look at the gleaming new hospital building. In my country if a man goes to the hospital, then he must bring his own blankets and bandages, and some money to persuade the doctor to attend to him. I understand that in England they do things in a different manner. I run my tongue across my teeth, but they do not feel clean. I miss being able to use a chewing stick, for the toothbrush and toothpaste are a strange invention and they leave an unpleasant feeling in my mouth. When I see Mr. Simons walking towards me, I steal a look at the clock on the dashboard and can see that only ten minutes have passed. Mr. Simons is holding a white paper bag, and I assume that he must have collected some medicine. I lean over and push open the door for him and he gets in. As I drive off he looks across at me.

“Going straight back, right?”

“I will take you back.”

He grunts, as though he wishes to let me know that indeed this is what he desires. None of the letters are signed “Mr. Simons,” although I can imagine that this man feels the same as my letter-writers. There are now seven letters, including the one with the razor blades. Last night somebody introduced dog mess through my letterbox. They must have employed a small shovel, for it lay curled in a neat pile. When I awoke this morning, the sight of it caused my stomach to move and I rushed to the bathroom. These people are unwell, for decent people do not conduct themselves in this way. Writing to me with their filth is one thing, but this is savage. They regard me as their enemy, this much I understand, but their behaviour is unclean. But truly, none of this is the fault of Mr. Simons.

I leave Mr. Simons at the bottom of the hill and drive slowly in the direction of my home. At the top of the hill I pass the girl, who hurries by as though she is late for the bus. I look at her in the rear-view mirror, but she chooses not to turn around. My car is dusty, and I decide that tomorrow I will bathe it. I turn the key in the door and immediately I can smell the detergent that I used to scrub the door-mat this morning. I used the whole bottle. I close the door behind me and a part of me is relieved to find neither more dog mess nor another letter. I can see her sitting in the window. She is at home. Why Mr. Simons and not this woman? I would appreciate somebody to talk with and this is a respectable woman. This is a woman to whom I might tell my story. If I do not share my story, then I have only this one year to my life. I am a one-year-old man who walks with heavy steps. I am a man burdened with hidden history. I look in the mirror and straighten my shirt collar and then I adjust my tie. I leave my bungalow and walk across the neatly trimmed grass towards her house. I knock on her door. She is a respectable woman and perhaps the nurse is wrong. Perhaps this woman does not love the bus. Perhaps her love for the bus is merely temporary. I knock again.

V

These flowers, they all have a personality, or so it said in a magazine that I once read. Or maybe I heard it on the radio. I can’t remember. It was a long time ago. But I definitely remember that flowers are all supposed to have distinct personalities. I suppose the red ones are angry, and the yellow ones are girls, and the blue ones are boys. I like looking at them, out here in the garden. The nurse puts a chair under the tree for me, but it’s not a very nice chair. It’s wooden, with a straight back, like she’s punishing me by making me sit in it. I’ve no idea what I’ve done wrong that would make her give me such a horrible chair. Mind you, at least she’s sitting in one that’s just the same. It’s not as if she’s put me in this chair and then gone and got a nice comfy one for herself. Her name’s quite long, and I don’t seem to be able to twist my tongue far enough to pronounce it properly. So I don’t bother, but she doesn’t seem to mind. She’s about my age, so she probably understands. I just call her nurse. I’ve noticed that she doesn’t like to sit too close to me. She likes to give me my space, which is, I suppose, how she’d like to think about it. And so she’s sitting where she always sits, about twenty yards away in some shade by the ornamental pond, with a book in her hand. Some days it’s a book, other days it’s a magazine, and once she even brought some knitting. But today it’s a book, although I know she’s not really reading it. I suppose she’d get the sack if all she did was plonk us in the garden and then get lost in a good book. She’s supposed to watch over us and make sure we’re all right, but I can see that she has to strike a fine balance. On the one hand she wants us to be free to be ourselves, but on the other hand she doesn’t want to neglect us. If truth be told, she can’t really win either way.

Today I’ve made a decision to not say anything to anybody, and I can see how uncomfortable this is making her feel, but it’s not really my problem, is it? I’m interested in flowers and she’s not, and that’s about all there is to it. I didn’t ask her to sit with me, so if she wants to go that’s fine. But at least it’s a nice day and we can sit outside. For the past two days it’s been teeming down and it’s been really depressing being stuck inside in the recreation room with the television on, and half-finished jigsaw puzzles everywhere, and people milling about and trying to behave like they’re normal. She doesn’t know how lucky she is to be sitting outdoors in the garden, with her clunky shoes and that silly tight blouse. My feet tend to perspire when I get anxious, but today they are drip-dry. I’m happy here in the sun with my flowers, and sitting under my overdressed tree that’s keen to hide its brittle bones. Winter will be the undoing of it, but as it’s still autumn my tree is allowed to flaunt herself. The nurse has no idea that I’m happy. She sneezes, then discreetly blows her nose into a proper handkerchief. I think she’s got allergies. However, one thing that I can say about her is she’s clean, and around these parts such things count.

I have to give it to them on the cleanliness front in this place. Every day they scrub the showers and the bath tubs, they empty the wastepaper bins, and then they mop and polish the tiles on the floor so that you can almost see your face in them. I can set my watch by the appearance of the two young women, with their long, stringy-haired mops and plastic buckets. Ten o’clock, every day on the dot. First they sweep, then mop, then give it all a good waxed buffing. If cleanliness is next to godliness, then we’re living pretty close to heaven in this home. Except at night. We’re not allowed anything like scissors or a razor or tweezers, even. I’m not used to going to bed untrimmed and unpresentable. But it’s not allowed, so that’s that. And then they come in every hour with their torches, shining them in my face to make sure I’ve not done anything to myself. They try to be quiet, but I always hear them. The breath patrol, listening to make sure that we’ve not slipped over into the next world during the night. I expect that would mess up their bookkeeping. And then in the morning, just like in the real world, I put on my day face. Actually, most of them don’t bother with this part, which is partly why they’re in here in the first place. They just shuffle around looking miserable, as though death has tried to talk to them in the night. Well, it also tries with me sometimes, but you’re not forced to listen. There’s nothing that says you have to pay attention.

I won’t meet the eyes of the nurse. I prefer the flowers, but I know that she wants to talk. She can’t take any more silence. I’m being difficult with her, but I suppose it’s not her fault, none of it is. I look at the poor woman sitting in the uncomfortable chair, and I realise that there’s nothing to be lost by being nice to her, and so I smile at her and then watch her closely as she smiles back in my direction. It occurs to me that there’s nothing much wrong with my exotic nurse that a slash of red lipstick and some make-up couldn’t fix. And then I wonder, perhaps she
does
have an interest in flowers? Perhaps we can talk about them, and this would give us something in common. And I could share with her my only fear in this regard, which is to do with how secretive they are, for flowers grow so slowly that you never quite know what they’re going to turn into. There’s no talking to them about this, for they’re quite cunning. The nurse puts her book face down so she’ll know what page she’s on, and then she walks out of the shade towards me. She continues to smile. The nurse is trying too hard to be happy. She asks me a question, but I say nothing in reply. I simply look at my nurse. I’ve no desire to keep her here against her will. If she wants to leave, then she’s free to do so. Really.

Dr. Williams has come to visit me. They have a tendency to call him when things are difficult, but it must be very annoying for him because it’s not as if he doesn’t have anything else to do. He’s a very busy man. He’s looking at some papers and occasionally glancing up at me, but that’s about it. He isn’t saying anything. I hear my stomach rumble. I’m hungry, but I hate the dinners because everything in this place is so childish. First, we all have to gather in the dining room, which is also the place where you have to meet for announcements and group activities such as jewellery-making, modelling clay, and art. Sometimes they don’t even bother to clear up the activities things, and they just shove them to one side of the room. Then three orderlies roll metal trolleys of food into the room and you pick up a tray, then squeeze into a space on a bench and plonk the tray on the table top. There are two tables, with long benches on either side. We have to sit and eat off the trays, looking at each other and deciding whether or not we have anything to say to the person opposite who’s watching us gulp our food. There is a colour television set in this room, but during dinner half the residents want it on and half want it off. Eventually the nurses made a decision to keep it off, but when dinner’s over they turn it on whether anybody’s watching or not. At least until midnight, when it has to be shut down for good. That’s their idea of how to do things.

Dr. Williams stops looking at his papers and he glances up at me, then back to the papers, and now he looks at me again. He pushes the papers away and brings his elbows up and onto the table. (“So, Dorothy, tell me how things are?”) I stare at him, but it’s difficult to know where to begin. I feel as though I’m wasting his time, but I’ve got to say something. I think about telling him that there’s a room near here where some of them play table tennis. I pass this games room on the way to my own room, but it’s far too bright to go into it. They have those long neon lights hanging from the ceiling. There’s always a nurse in there, just sitting and watching in case things get a little out of hand. But hardly anyone plays table tennis, except two young girls who look so sedated that it’s a wonder they can lift the bats. They’re thin, and they must have that eating disease. If you ask me it’s a bit of a waste of time having the nurse there. She could be far better deployed in some other part of this place. Or answering the question, where are all the men? There are a couple of men who shuffle around with their trousers half-hanging off, and a younger man who dresses nicely, apart from some stains on his blue polo-neck jumper. They look like food stains. I suppose men drink their problems away in the pub. Or hit people. Maybe Dr. Williams knows why there are so few men in this place. I think about asking him, but instead I begin to laugh at the absurdity of it all.

He says nothing, and he looks at me as though whatever it is that he’s going to say will be difficult for us both. (“You don’t appear to be getting any better, Dorothy.”) But he doesn’t understand, there are good days and there are bad days. I thought today was a good day, but apparently today was a bad day, which is why they called him out. But I
am
happy. However, I just don’t have the time for this. I’m sorry, but this is a waste of my time. (“Don’t you want to return home?”) I mean, it’s not that I’m not grateful for everything that these people have done for me, but there are things to be done. When I look back at my life, only now do I realise that I’ve thrown away hundreds of days thinking that I could always reclaim them. But, sadly, I now know that this is not the case. There are things to be done. Solomon must have some family. I mean, how would you like it if your son or brother went abroad and you never heard from him again? They’ll be living in pain for ever, unless I go and help them. They’ll want to know that the three murderers are locked up in prison, and that apparently Carla and her mother decided that it was best to leave Weston and settle somewhere in the Midlands. Telling them all the facts is the decent thing to do. It’s compassionate. It gives them a chance to heal. (“You’ll still have to be monitored, but these days there are many care-in-the-community programmes.”) But it hasn’t sunk in with this man, has it? I look at him, but I don’t want to argue. In the past I’ve felt let down by him, but as time’s gone by I’ve grown to understand my specialist, probably better than he thinks. He stands up and I look at him, all neat and tidy. Now that he takes care of himself he reminds me of Solomon. He didn’t used to, but being over forty I can see that he’s finally made the decision to fight back. (“Get some sleep, Dorothy. I’ll stop by and see you later in the week.”) He’s not a bad man. When he goes I know what will happen. I understand the routine. They’ll take me back to my room and give me tablets with some hot milk in the hope that I’ll sleep properly. But I won’t sleep.

I don’t like visitors. Last night, after Dr. Williams left, they decided to skip the tablets and the hot milk and they put me to sleep with a needle. Now the nurse tells me that I have another visitor, but she won’t tell me who it is. I’m still in bed, ensnared in a single twist of cotton sheeting. I slept, perhaps too much. Because of this they make a special exception and offer to help me get myself right. I sit up in bed while the nurse tries to make me look respectable. I remind her that these days I prefer to wear my hair up in a bun, and so she helps me with this. I no longer have to use make-up to cover up the bumps and bruises from where the gypsy woman hit me, for it’s all mended. I’m as ready as I’m going to be, and then I see him. An older, even tubbier, Brian, clutching a bunch of red flowers. His shoes are unpolished. I thought he’d have a bit tucked away by now, but apparently not. He doesn’t know what to do, whether to come to the bed and lean over and kiss me, or remain standing or what. The nurse eventually leads him in the direction of the plastic chair by the side of the bed, and he takes a seat. And then he begins to talk, as if he’s frightened to stop talking. The nurse sits on a chair by the door and buries herself in her book. He tells me that his wife, Barbara, has left him and that he’s back in Birmingham and running a bed and breakfast. He tells me that computer technology has overtaken him so he couldn’t get back into banking, but he doesn’t mind. He’s quite happy. It turned out that Spain wasn’t everything he’d hoped it would be. I can see him looking at me as he continues to jabber on like a crazy man. He’s shocked, that much is clear. And I don’t blame him. I suppose somebody must have called him out of the blue and told him that his ex-wife was convalescing in a home, and he probably thought it’s nothing to do with me any more, and he’s right. But he came anyway. I look at shabby Brian, and I try to turn him back into that slim, impressive posh boy that I met at university, but he no longer fits. However, I’m sure that I don’t fit with whatever it was that he saw when he first met me at university. What were we thinking of? I’m sure that love has never stirred any kind of disorder in poor Brian’s lumpish heart. I look away, but I can feel his eyes upon me, as though he feels sorry for me, but it’s pathetic. I feel sorry for him. He clears his throat and so I turn back ready to hear whatever else he’s got to say for himself. He should have shaved. There’s nothing more unattractive than stubble on a man who’s gone grey. It really brings it home to you that they’re at that stage where they can’t look after themselves. That’s something that’s just around the corner for both Mahmood and a certain Mr. Geoff Waverley. Brian smiles at me. It’s long been over with him. He’s well past his sell-by date. I can’t help it, but I have to laugh. The nurse looks over at me, but I make eye contact with her so she knows that everything is fine. Reluctantly she returns to her book. He reaches out an arm towards me as though he wants to touch me. No fear! I pull back, and I can see it in his eyes. He doesn’t understand. Why don’t I want his grubby hand on me? Why am I laughing? I stop laughing. He’s got to go now. I mean, this is embarrassing. I stare at him, which clearly makes him even more uncomfortable. He forces a smile, but he has no idea how unappealing this is. The nurse puts down her book, and I notice her fold over the corner of the page to mark her spot before she closes it shut. I hate it when people do this. They could easily get a bookmark, or a piece of paper or something. Why damage the book in this way? It shows no respect for the book. I want to tell all of this to her. Perhaps I will, but not now. (“Dorothy.”) I turn and look at him. He’s still smiling. He only said my name to get my attention. Flowers don’t speak. That’s one of the things I like about them. You can sit quietly with them and they don’t have to have your attention. (“Dorothy.”) Again he stops. If he thinks I’m going to help him out, then he’s very much mistaken. I’ve nothing to say to him, especially if he wants to sound like a broken record. Dad always used to say that in the end it didn’t matter what somebody had in terms of money or qualifications. What mattered was manners, and how you respected other people. I mean, after all, without manners we’re no better than animals. In fact, I saw a television programme once about gorillas. It seems to me that some animals have got far better manners than us, and that’s a fact. He should go now. I shouldn’t have to tell him this, or make a fuss in any way, but he’s leaving me no choice. I’m here because my nerves are bad and they’ve collapsed. I’ll admit it. I’m not ashamed to admit it because this kind of thing happens to a lot of people, including many famous people. And they recover, so it’s not as if there’s something unusual about it, or there’s no cure for it. It’s fine, and it will soon just go away and I can get back to normal. That’s what I’m doing. Convalescing. I let Sheila down. I know this now. I was a coward. But right now I just need to be protected, the doctor told me this. I need to feel as though somebody is looking after me until I get my strength back. And sometimes I can’t cope with everything. I’ll admit that too. But I’m not stupid, so why is this man treating me like a fool and repeating my name? He should go now. I don’t like visitors and I don’t want any more. Why don’t they ever listen? I see the book slide from her lap, and I watch her start to run towards me. And now she’s holding her hand over my mouth telling me to be quiet. I begin to struggle because I don’t like the way she’s holding me. I can hear her shouting for help. She’s telling Brian to go and he stands up and begins to back away. As he back-pedals I tumble out of the bed. The nurse is on top of me now. I can see the flowers that Brian brought for me. The red ones are the angry ones. I know that now. They are the only ones that I can see. I can see this man’s feet in his ugly unpolished shoes. He’s walking backwards, and I can see red flowers.