Dear God (11 page)

“Four hundred,” said William. “That’s mine.”

“Gawd,” said Ed. “I’ll do it next week. Monday. What’s that plank doing there?”

“It’s for the cat,” explained William.

“You need a cat flap,” said Ed. “One of my men’ll put one in for you in your back door. Can’t have that plank there.”

“Alright,” said William.

“£420 then,” said Ed. “Plus cost of cat flap,” he added hastily.

He and William shook hands and William offered him a drink as they went back through the kitchen. William had to give Ed a deposit, which he managed from the £1,000 he still had left from the lorry driver. He put the remainder in his wallet. The conversation seemed to have suited both of them and they parted amicably.

Well, that’s going to make a hole in my £1000, thought William. On the other hand, it would solve the garden problem in one go. “You can’t take it with you,” he said philosophically, as he considered his purchase.

Well satisfied with his morning’s encounter, he returned to the front room. Before he could make himself ready to go out, he saw that he had received some post. There were two letters. One was from Denis and Robert, who had sent him a new bus pass and given him a date for their next visit in two weeks’ time, which would coincide with the annual review of Mr. Penfold’s case. They also warned him that there would shortly be a visit from a Mr. John Forbes from the Psychiatry and Counselling Outreach Department. He would prepare a report of William’s case to be considered at the annual review, at which several people would be present from the Social Services. There was also a letter from Mr. Forbes, who said that he would be visiting Mr. Penfold next Friday at 2 o’clock in the afternoon and hoped that would be convenient.

William began to consider his position. He didn’t like the sound of the Psychiatric Department. Were they thinking of sending him back to the place with the red curtains? He was getting on quite nicely these days. Yes, he did drink a lot, but nowhere near as much as he used to. He was eating better and looking after himself and Mrs. Brenner’s cat. He’d made friends. He’d bought a sugar bowl. He knew he hadn’t got on with Denis and Robert as well as he might. They were a bit daft in his opinion but they had tried to be helpful. So long as he didn’t tell them about the motor scooter episode and the credit card and money he had found in his jacket they couldn’t find anything to complain about, could they?

None of it was his fault. But he would certainly keep quiet about the emails from God. That would put the cat among the pigeons.

The bus pass cheered him up. He wondered what he had done with the previous one. He must have been stupid to get rid of it. Now he could go to the Protect and Save building society place and demand a cheque book. Not that he actually intended to use it, given that that was all he had. Still, you never knew, he felt he ought to have one. And he could track down the dressing gown shop and try to get it into his head where the pharmacy was. He had no idea where his doctor’s surgery was, he realised, but then he didn’t want to go there.

Also, he suddenly realised, he could go to see Mrs. Brenner, on the hospital bus. He had seen that outside the newsagent’s. He could take Ginger in his covered cat carrier. The world was wide open!

That afternoon he walked to the library and from there he discovered where the Community Institute was, more or less next door, where they held all the classes. He went in and found a small queue with the sign ‘Enrolment’ above them. He’d had a sudden brilliant idea. When it came to his turn he said, quite loudly, “I want to sign up for a class.”

“Certainly, Sir. Which class was it?”

“Sculpture in stone.”

The signing-up assistant hesitated. One had to be so careful. Classes were open to everyone, of course, but here was an elderly gentleman who seemed to be not so very steady on his feet and who did smell somewhat of alcohol, wanting to join a class that was perhaps a little strenuous for him. Gently she attempted to put these considerations into tactful words and William reacted, as he always did to opposition of any kind, with a furious response. He said he was perfectly capable of hauling bits of stone around and carving it up and he was having his garden specially paved over so that his statues would have a safe home. He could see very clearly (there he paused, as the phrase jolted his memory a bit) and he knew what he was doing, which was more than the Community Institute did. Did they expect him to go to silly things like bridge or line dancing? She explained he would have to manage all sorts of tools, some of which might be dangerous, and there would be dust flying about, which might cause irritation, and your hands had to be very steady indeed. The row began to escalate, as rows do, and a senior person arrived on the scene. He was more adamant and hostile from William’s point of view and despite William waving his umbrella and threatening to consult his solicitors about his human rights, he got nowhere.

Eventually he signed on, reluctantly, for cookery, at £50 for 11 weeks, which partially calmed him down. “Only if they know something about artichokes,” he snapped at them. The assistant assured him that the teacher knew everything there was to know about artichokes and, with that, he had to be content.

CHAPTER 14

After this disquieting conversation William got on the No. 74, intending to go to the Protect and Save building society. He dutifully showed his bus pass and took a seat. But it was some while before he realised the bus was going in the wrong direction and he was almost out of the town. It was approaching leafy lanes and a huge garden centre on his right before he managed to get off the bus. Swearing to himself he decided to enter the garden centre as it offered a café and cream teas, which he felt he needed. The centre was not his sort of place at all, “Full of bloody plants,” he muttered, but he enjoyed the cream tea that he bought in the café. Wandering through this, to him, alien world, he saw a sign directing him towards Statuary and Garden Ornaments. There he entered an area brimful of all sorts of stone creations, everything from garden gnomes to ducks, dogs, cats, meerkats and larger, more original statues.

One in particular attracted his attention. It was taller than he was, 6’ to 7’, and seemed to be of two figures, though what exactly they were doing was not absolutely clear. One had a raised arm which held a bit of wire or something. The other had a rather twisted foot, though you couldn’t be sure whose foot it was. You couldn’t really tell where one figure ended and the other began nor even what gender they were. You had to make your own mind up. There was a long piece of red-painted metal going across the middle, almost through the centre of the statuary, though it was difficult to see the relationship of the bar to the rest of the design. William walked round it several times, gazing intently. It was called Night Vision. He couldn’t see why it was called Night Vision. He tried to look at their faces but one was half-hidden in some drapery and the other looked quite blank. One of them held a sort of remote control in his or her hand but what that was controlling was not obvious.

I like that, thought William. I really do. If they won’t let me make my own statue I’d like that one. I could put that in my paved-over garden. I wonder how much it is.

He asked a garden assistant. The assistant said he would find out. It is possible no-one had ever asked him that before. Mostly people wanted gnomes and ducks and meerkats and things. He came back and told William that the statue was in the sale, as there was a very slight chip on the base, and so it would cost only £110 which was, he assured him, a massive reduction from the original price of £250.

William asked how long it had been for sale and the assistant, who was very young and not the sharpest pencil in the box, replied that it had been for sale for a very long time, for months, actually, and there had been no interest in it, not like the lovely meerkats, would the gentleman like to consider some of the other products?

William, fresh from his triumph with Ed that morning, and spurred on by his anger at being rejected from the sculpture class, was gaining in confidence every minute. He said, “You go back to your manager and offer him £75 for Night Vision.” The assistant scuttled off and William sat down on a nearby stone seat to wait for his reply.

Back came the assistant, this time accompanied by the manager. “Good afternoon, Sir. So nice to see someone taking an interest in our fine statue. This is an original piece by a local craftsman. I think my assistant told you about the slight chip on the base, otherwise this really would not be in our sale. I’m afraid £75 is really far below what this is worth.”

“Why is it called Night Vision?” inquired William.

“Well, I don’t really know,” admitted the manager. “Artists see things in a different way,” he offered up lamely.

“£110 is far too much for me,” said William, as sadly as he could. “Senior citizens see things in a different way, too.”

“Oh dear,” said the manager, thinking rapidly. The unsellable statue had been there taking up space for far too many months now. “I will come down to £85 but that’s all I can do.”

William knew when he was beaten. “Alright. £85 it is. But can you deliver it?”

“Certainly, Sir. It will cost £20 though if you live local. We will need two men at least to manage that thing, er, that statue. Are you paying by credit card, Sir?”

“Cash,” said William firmly. He still had the rest of the £1,000 in his pocket as he had had to pay Ed a deposit earlier.

So the statue project cost William £105 in all, but he felt relatively satisfied with his purchase. The statue he ordered to be delivered in 10 days’ time, as he needed to be sure to have the paving done first.

He caught the No. 74 to go home, stopping off at the Protect and Save, but once again they were closed. He decided to leave it till the two Social people were with him although he did read their opening and closing times carefully before again catching another No. 74 to get him back to the library. Only then did he realise he had forgotten to pinpoint the whereabouts of the dressing gown shop. Never mind, he thought, I’ve had a very satisfactory day, one way or another.

Ginger was in and met him enthusiastically. William felt, if not on top of the world, at least steady and pleased with his day. Now all he had to get through were these two visits from the psychiatrist man and the review people, which included the two Social men he knew already.

“Two more hurdles to go, Ginger, and we’ll be alright.” Thursday evening he had a very cautious session in the pub explaining to Jimmy that he needed his wits about him the next day.

Friday dawned. William had been thinking about this meeting all night. What exactly was it for? He must remain on his guard, not give this Forbes person any sort of reason to shove him off to the place with the red curtains. That was the worst that could happen. But there were other possibilities. Supposing he went on about how William would be better off in a Home? He had to show that he was perfectly able to conduct his own satisfactory life by himself. Granted he did need the help of Denis and Robert, or at least one of them, he wasn’t sure he would manage the pills and the financial things without them, but by and large he’d get by. Well, sort of. There must be plenty of people in a worse state than him. He had to prove he wasn’t drinking to excess any more. No more total blind-drunk wipe-outs lying on his doorstep, unable to put the key in the lock. Where did that memory come from? he suddenly thought. Was that how he had been?

His mind dwelt on all the awful possibilities and he tried hard to suppress the growing rage inside his head. Keep calm. Be yourself. That’s what God had said. The Top Guy knew what he was talking about. Don’t pretend, be yourself. But don’t mention the Top God.

Anyway, this Mr. Forbes might be as big an idiot as the two Social men; might be someone he could run rings round. After all, he had been an administrative manager, hadn’t he? That must have meant he had to manage people. And he must not get into a rage. That was when things went wrong. He promised himself to keep calm.

There was a ring at the door. Forbes was here. He and Ginger went to open the door and let in their visitor, Mr. Forbes. He was a tall man, dressed in a neatly-tailored suit, good shirt, smart tie. He had a direct gaze with a keen, intense, assessing sort of look. William felt instinctively that there would be no running rings round this one.

William, who had on his jacket and a fairly clean T-shirt and his cream trousers, invited his visitor into the front room. There they faced each other, Mr. Forbes on the sofa and William on his computer chair. Mr. Forbes had a blue notebook with him.

“Well, Mr. Penfold – may I call you William? – it’s a long time since we met. In fact you may not remember me.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Well, your troubles really overwhelmed you about a year ago and I was instrumental in attempting to sort it all out then. How have you been getting on here?”

“Very well indeed, thank you. I’m alright.”

“Are you taking your pills?”

“Yes, well, I don’t always get them right. The Social men write it down but I do miss one or two occasionally.”

“Where have Denis and Robert written it down?”

It was a simple question but it flummoxed William. He’d used their sheet of instructions to write something down on. What was it? Damn and blast it. Thankfully he remembered at last.

“You’re sitting on it,” he said at last. “I was making a list. For reference.”

Mr. Forbes fished out William’s list as he spoke. Oh no, thought William. What did I put on that list? “You must keep this safe and readily to hand, William. It is very important that you take all your medication at the right time.” Black mark, thought William, but that’s not too bad. He hasn’t turned the medication sheet over.

“What about your drinking?”

“Oh, much better, much better. I don’t drink nearly as much as I did. Honestly.”

“How much per day do you think you drink?”

“Oh, just a few bottles, a pint or two. Perhaps three.” Mr. Forbes stared at him. “Or four or five. Depends. Perhaps more, sometimes,” he added, weakly. William felt that he wasn’t doing very well.