routine and gets no exercise, which only makes him more infirm. Plus it dehumanizes him,
leaving him alone all day. I’d treat a dog better.
‘Who are you?’ George rolls over, away from them, without waiting for her to answer.
‘I’m Karen. Your daughter.’ Part of her would like to admit defeat like the nurses, and leave. Then she and her mum could enjoy a cup of tea and a stroll – she’s
left Molly and Luke in Brighton with Simon’s brother, Alan, and his wife for a few hours – and it’s sunny outside, if cold. But her sense of duty is too strong.
‘Let’s get you up, Dad,’ she says, gently easing back the covers.
George pulls them up again, huffing. ‘I’m ill! Fuck off!’
‘Darling . . .’ Shirley shakes her head, exasperated. She and Karen are confident he is
not
poorly – he says this every morning. So Shirley takes over soothing and
placating until eventually her husband relinquishes control of the duvet.
Karen snatches the opportunity. ‘Would you like a drink, Dad? How about some water? You know you’ll feel better if you do . . .’ She reaches for a glass, fills it from a jug on
his bedside table.
Scowling, he raises himself to take a sip. Shirley slips pillows behind his head and the two of them ease him to sitting.
‘Why don’t you swivel round, pop your legs out of bed?’ suggests Shirley. ‘Then we can put on your shoes and socks.’
‘I
don’t
want to get up!’ says George. ‘Who are you? And who’s
that
woman?’ He points at Karen. ‘You’re fat.’
Ouch.
The insults Karen can just about endure, but the lack of recognition makes her want to cry out in pain. It seems he has not known who she is since he and Shirley left Portugal, as if his mind is
like a bicycle chain, and the change of environment has caused it to slip and come off. That he’s so disorientated appears to verify this, but Karen is loath to point this out to her mother.
Shirley worries enough about George as it is.
‘What are those?’ He is pointing at his shoes, which Shirley is placing on the floor beside his swollen feet. ‘Who are they for?’
He gets more confused lately, too. Everything has to be explained to him each time he does it – not once but several times. Getting him dressed is exhausting for anyone involved, let alone
trying to persuade him to have a shower or take a walk round the garden, and he never ventures outside the grounds of the care home. He’s unwilling, and here Karen and Shirley have given up
coaxing. He’s extremely hard to manage in public; he’s inclined to insult strangers at the top of his voice: ‘Your hair looks like a horrible old mop,’ ‘What a rude
waitress you are,’ ‘Why are you wearing those ridiculous trousers?’ – his insightfulness can be excruciating. Plus occasionally he gets aggressive, perilously close to
violent.
Half an hour later, George is dressed and vertical. It takes ten more minutes to lead him with the aid of a Zimmer frame to the communal lounge, where they sit, a trio drinking weak tea, where
only two of them know who all three of them are.
* * *
Michael is in the garden shed when a gentle rap on the door heralds the arrival of Chrissie with a cup of coffee.
‘Thought this might warm you up.’
‘Thanks, love,’ he replies, barely glancing at her. He’s down on all fours, mending one of their kitchen chairs with extra-strong adhesive and string. It’s a relief to be
able to concentrate on something unconnected with work: ever since his encounter with Tim, Michael has been doing his best to contain his anger, but having to be in the shop has made it hard.
‘Brr!’ His wife shivers. ‘It’s nippy. You sure you’re OK?’
‘Mm,’ he grunts. How can he explain how much he likes being in here, regardless? Ryan and Kelly still have their own bedrooms in spite of being away at college, Chrissie has the rest
of the bungalow, and Bloomin’ Hove to some degree belongs to his customers, but this
leaving him alone all day. I’d treat a dog better.
‘Who are you?’ George rolls over, away from them, without waiting for her to answer.
‘I’m Karen. Your daughter.’ Part of her would like to admit defeat like the nurses, and leave. Then she and her mum could enjoy a cup of tea and a stroll – she’s
left Molly and Luke in Brighton with Simon’s brother, Alan, and his wife for a few hours – and it’s sunny outside, if cold. But her sense of duty is too strong.
‘Let’s get you up, Dad,’ she says, gently easing back the covers.
George pulls them up again, huffing. ‘I’m ill! Fuck off!’
‘Darling . . .’ Shirley shakes her head, exasperated. She and Karen are confident he is
not
poorly – he says this every morning. So Shirley takes over soothing and
placating until eventually her husband relinquishes control of the duvet.
Karen snatches the opportunity. ‘Would you like a drink, Dad? How about some water? You know you’ll feel better if you do . . .’ She reaches for a glass, fills it from a jug on
his bedside table.
Scowling, he raises himself to take a sip. Shirley slips pillows behind his head and the two of them ease him to sitting.
‘Why don’t you swivel round, pop your legs out of bed?’ suggests Shirley. ‘Then we can put on your shoes and socks.’
‘I
don’t
want to get up!’ says George. ‘Who are you? And who’s
that
woman?’ He points at Karen. ‘You’re fat.’
Ouch.
The insults Karen can just about endure, but the lack of recognition makes her want to cry out in pain. It seems he has not known who she is since he and Shirley left Portugal, as if his mind is
like a bicycle chain, and the change of environment has caused it to slip and come off. That he’s so disorientated appears to verify this, but Karen is loath to point this out to her mother.
Shirley worries enough about George as it is.
‘What are those?’ He is pointing at his shoes, which Shirley is placing on the floor beside his swollen feet. ‘Who are they for?’
He gets more confused lately, too. Everything has to be explained to him each time he does it – not once but several times. Getting him dressed is exhausting for anyone involved, let alone
trying to persuade him to have a shower or take a walk round the garden, and he never ventures outside the grounds of the care home. He’s unwilling, and here Karen and Shirley have given up
coaxing. He’s extremely hard to manage in public; he’s inclined to insult strangers at the top of his voice: ‘Your hair looks like a horrible old mop,’ ‘What a rude
waitress you are,’ ‘Why are you wearing those ridiculous trousers?’ – his insightfulness can be excruciating. Plus occasionally he gets aggressive, perilously close to
violent.
Half an hour later, George is dressed and vertical. It takes ten more minutes to lead him with the aid of a Zimmer frame to the communal lounge, where they sit, a trio drinking weak tea, where
only two of them know who all three of them are.
* * *
Michael is in the garden shed when a gentle rap on the door heralds the arrival of Chrissie with a cup of coffee.
‘Thought this might warm you up.’
‘Thanks, love,’ he replies, barely glancing at her. He’s down on all fours, mending one of their kitchen chairs with extra-strong adhesive and string. It’s a relief to be
able to concentrate on something unconnected with work: ever since his encounter with Tim, Michael has been doing his best to contain his anger, but having to be in the shop has made it hard.
‘Brr!’ His wife shivers. ‘It’s nippy. You sure you’re OK?’
‘Mm,’ he grunts. How can he explain how much he likes being in here, regardless? Ryan and Kelly still have their own bedrooms in spite of being away at college, Chrissie has the rest
of the bungalow, and Bloomin’ Hove to some degree belongs to his customers, but this
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