Home From Home

Mrs Ellington put her head round the open door and said, 'I heard that, Vincent! Your language is very offensive. You will be upsetting other Guests'. I apologised and explained that my computer was ignoring my instructions and turning English words into strange chemical or algebraic formulae. The word 'truth' for example, just here, see?, Mrs Ellington, is transformed into 't56r4ut6h' and this is irritating, time-consuming (and here Mrs E had left, closing the door and is surely well down the corridor) and an absolute effing, sodding whatsit, Mrs Ellington!.

What am I writing?

I'd like everyone, anyone, to be fully aware of Life as an Inmate. They call us Guests or Clients here at Fir Tree Homes, one of the best (must be one of the oddest), no complaints, well, not many. It's a huge advantage living here. The food is mostly good, too. But yesterday I said to Mrs Ellington (call me Angela, do, Vincent, please) 'Mrs Ellington', I said, 'Call this cooking? May I speak to the chef?'

I once visited Alcatraz. There I saw each prisoner had been given a cell containing a bed, a toilet and a table, all to themselves. I understood they were encouraged to read, knit, do embroidery and the like, presumably in order that they should re-enter main-stream American Life with commercial skills after their years of swindling, violent abuse, near murder and rape -  'that's a darling quilt you've made there, Mr Capone!'. But their food was obliged by law to be nutritious and wholesome. I've now told this to our chef here. Let Nutritious and Wholesome be your watchword, Monsieur, I said.

The other day Mrs Ellington hissed in my ear, 'You don't fool anyone, Vincent'. I ignored her.

I'm not sure how long I've been here. Six months? More, maybe. Time means little to me. Ah, through my window I can see the lovely Helen in her long glamorous housecoat distributing crumbs to the feathered locals.

Fir Tree Homes isn't cheap. The accommodation is good and we Inmates can wander off into town, arrange to visit relations and friends. They may be invited back; there's even a Guest Room at a modest fee for those visitors journeying from distant lands so there must be stabling somewhere nearby for car, camel and horse. The ill, the feeble and the lame can lie a-bed. The bus and the train into London are easy if you time the journey right. I trot off there at least once a fortnight but few other Inmates seem to want to stir beyond the wide mahogany and stained glass door. More than half the inmates here are like me, not too infirmed or decrepit but able to pay for the privilege of being looked after, fed, laundered, brushed, pressed, polished. Fir Trees is, I suppose, half-care half-retirement home.

I like the rambling garden here.

Of all the staff John's the best of the bunch, nothing is too much trouble, big white smile. 'Do you miss Africa, John, miss being a witch-doctor?', I asked him. 'I was born in North London, Vincent', he said, 'and my parents came from Barbados. I am working my way through University'. I told him I was disturbed by a report on the radio about hundreds of babies being stolen and murdered in Uganda, their bodies and blood used by witch-doctors to increase the prosperity of their clients. 'In this day and age, too, John, unbelievable', I said to him.

I asked him if Mrs Ellington had suggested anything like this so that Fir Tree Homes might also prosper. Told him I didn't want to feel at some sort of risk. He said not to worry.

I said that I was prepared to recommend a fellow Inmate for sacrifice if and when the time came. 'In strictest confidence, of course, John. Just between you and me'.

Valerie of the rich auburn hair I can talk to. Valerie is efficiency personified; she as good as runs this place by herself. She said she didn't like to be called Ginger. I told her that the love of my life had had her colouring and I always called her Ginger. 'You have, I said, much of the same heart-breaking beauty, the same allure'. She said, 'You don't know when you're well off, Vincent'.

Valerie is Irish and she has a strange fey something about her. I am more careful of her since my sudden illness during which, late at night, she entered my room clad in a white dressing gown, rose up onto the coffee table, flung the gown open and then immediately somersaulted backwards and vanished. I asked her about this the next morning as she was giving me some medicine. She smiled and confided it was a trick she'd learned back in Ireland from the Little People but not to tell Mrs Ellington.

'Did you like the look of my body, Vincent?' she asked. I said I couldn't recall the details well and would welcome an opportunity to be reminded at a more convenient time.

Once a week Creeping Jesus calls. No, that's not fair, that's the name we schoolboys called our Religous Education teacher all those years ago, an ingratiating little man nobody trusted. The Reverend Pickering is always pleasant and asking if there's any help he can offer. He means well; he looks sad. I used to hear the unaccompanied singing of hymns from the sitting room, an eerie baying sound that reminded me of the soundtracks of horror films. The Reverend must have thought so too and has done away with singing. He visits those of us unable or unwilling to stagger along to join in. He's started bringing a tray with tea and cakes. This obliges me to chat and this promises to create both stimulating and difficult conversations.

The last time he was here I said, 'Reverend Pickering, do you know whether memory loss means that you can no longer dream?'. He said, 'That's a very interesting question; I will do my best to find out. Do you have much memory loss, Vincent? And do you dream?'.

I told him I never know what day of the week it is and never know the date despite the calender on the wall and that's because the days mean nothing to me anymore, the Sunday Lunch being the only marker of Time's Chariot that frighteningly now runs hell for bloody leather. Not really bothered what the day is or what the date is. Apart from that, I told him, I do have a black hole over certain words and some things but often I retrieve lost words later in the day. There's a name for a particular common, make-do item of food that's been missing for over a week and refuses to return. And yes I do still dream.

Then I asked him, 'Reverend, on Judgement Day when The Good Lord reawakens the Believers in the Great Resurrection, will it be with our memories totally restored? Otherwise I can see those who kicked the bucket with total memory loss will all be blundering around unable to recognise Mum and Dad. This worries me enormously. And I would not wish to be claimed by a childless couple banking on my memory loss'. He gave me a reassuring smile and said, 'Vincent, I'm sure the Good Lord will have taken all that into account. You really mustn't concern yourself, mustn't worry yourself'.

He was just about to leave when I had another thought. Looking anxious I said, 'It's going to be a bit unnerving for those of us who's parents died much younger than we did, sitting down to a meal of fried manna with Mum and Dad who are twenty years younger than oneself. And, Reverend, thinking further: it'll be no good asking someone with memory loss if they had a dream last night because they won't remember. We may never, never, ever know the truth!'.

He said, 'Well, that's an interesting thought, too. Whatever you do, don't brood upon it. You really mustn't worry yourself, Vincent'.

I said I'd do my best not to.

Well I dream. Seldom anything to smile about. Lots of unease in them. Memory may not be what it was but the brain goes on working gleefully and accurately in the midnight hours to construct real cityscapes, high streets, buildings, all for me to walk through. Shops above high pavements, steps, handrails, transport. A wonderful morning sun carpets a park with a golden green. That awful broken, filthy and doorless toilet just when needed. Warrens of delapidated and abandoned premises, night-time rooms peopled by some I might know, even wide beds of duvets and pillows shared with past wives and ladyfriends but no hanky-panky, a finger merely tracing a cheek bone. Missing the train, seeing the car leave without me, aboard the wrong bus, in the exam room looking out of the window. This is the wrong staircase, surely! Walking, getting nowhere, out in rolling countryside, a man in a pale shirt crossed with braces walking way, way, way ahead of me on the curving path that rises towards the hills, with daylight fading and clouds soon to hide the low evening sunshine. Yes, I dream.

Everyone is telling me not to worry so it makes me feel there's a lot of hidden risks lying in wait. This morning Nurse Kovich told me not to worry. In my room, as I turned to my elevense's tray (an amber tea and a warm almond croissant, exactly as I like them) Helen stood at my door looking daggers. Helen is, I reckon, in her mid-sixties and must have looked a stunner in past days; she still looks beautiful. Ladylike, she looks wonderful from early morning, her silver hair cleverly piled high and subtle make-up all there from years of expert practise. God knows what time she rises to look like that. I said, seated at my table, 'Good morning, Helen, how's things?'.

She said, 'You're a bastard, Charlie, and don't think I don't know about that little cow Monica or about the florist or about that goody-goody Mrs Hunter who's no more than a tart'.

I said, 'Helen, do you have their telephone numbers?' just as Nurse Kovich appeared behind her and said, 'Your tea's getting cold, Helen'. Nurse turned her away down the corridor and said to me, 'Not to worry, Vincent'. I wondered how it was that Helen had hit the bottle so early. 


I rather fancy Helen.

The beautiful Helen, when sober, is a delightful companion around the dining table. I think, if I find the sitting room pretty empty or Helen alone and sober, I'll chat her up, ask about her late husband. I'll say, 'You must miss Charlie dreadfully, Helen'.

A few minutes before Valerie beat the huge dinner gong in the hall, fat emphesemic Tony had put his head round the door to tell me there's football on the box this afternoon. Tony very sensibly rations his words since they come out competing with a parallel sound as of the scraping of snow off the pavement. Thus this particular sports news was conveyed by a minimalist, 'ITV, 3pm, football!', this information given with a beaming smile ending in a fit of coughing. Now this is worrying since I'm always expecting him to collapse to the floor in terminal wheezing and I know I'll not have the strength to raise him into a sitting position and pound his back. Thinking on it, I realise I can't be sure a back-pounding is the clinically correct procedure to restore breathing. It might wreck what's left of his lungs and wind-pipe, play havoc with his spine. I don't think, in his imitation of a steam boiler about to explode, that Tony would be able, at that vital moment, to advise for or against the back-thumping treatment.

Would I be charged with manslaughter? Surely not?

Now Tony can only be my age at the most and I reckon he's ten years younger. So why does he dress almost exactly like my father and uncles dressed? Always a tie, a vee-neck pullover (usually pea green or maroon) beneath a sports jacket (peat coloured and textured), grey trousers pressed with a crease to the front, neat grey socks disappearing into polished, toe-capped black shoes. What's left of his hair is annointed and parted as was my father's. The planning and the energy taken to prepare himself for public viewing is surely out of all proportion to the oxygen intake required or, for that matter, to the admiration it will receive at breakfast. I can't picture him in jeans or a track suit, wearing trainers; I bet I know exactly what his pyjamas look like.

Got caught out in one of the sitting rooms this morning, searching for a newspaper. Amy Dodds gently, elegantly perched herself alongside me on the sofa and gave me a sweet smile. Can't think why she's here other than she got fed up with housekeeping and sees this place as a cheaper version of a good hotel. She vanishes off to London at least once a week, I know, for exhibitions and the theatre. She looks about sixty, smart and much younger. Her clothes are expensive and well chosen. She said, 'Hullo, Vincent, you're looking very sporty'.

Unlike Tony I wear a track suit a lot of the time, one of two supplied by my nephew at my request, so convenient to pull on and off. I returned her smile and said, 'Just got back from my half-marathon'.

She gave a pouty smile and said, 'A man should keep himself in good physical condition; a good body needs proper maintenace. Nothing worse than the sight of a man who's let himself go. What does that tell, us, Vincent, of the emotional side of his life?'. And then she mused, 'Very sad to see a woman who has to settle for a huge waddling man about the home'.

She settled back and folded her arms, pulled a face and said, 'The same goes for husbands of elephantine women, too, of course'.

I thought I'd change the way the conversation was going. In my concerned voice I said, 'Helen indicated that her marriage or partnership hadn't been pain free. Still troubles her, it seems, poor soul'.

Amy Dodds sat upright and whispered fiercely, 'Don't waste your sympathy on Helen. God Above, so inhibited, so repressed! No wonder her husband went with other women. Get Helen a bit tipsy and out it all comes, Vincent, believe me! As far as I gather, and I venture an interpretation here, she restricted conjugal relationships to only five minutes once a month. Well, frigid, Vincent!'

I said, 'Frigid. Is that what she told you?'

'Not really, no. Just instinct, Vincent, instinct. Frigid is my interpretation.' She stumbled on, 'You and I, Vincent. What I mean is'. Amy Dodds crossed one leg over the other and hugged herself. She shut her eyes.

After a few moments had passed, I said, thinking of a frigid Helen, 'What you never had you never miss, Amy'.

She said, 'Too damn right, Vincent. I had a lot of all of it, all sorts, and I miss it terribly'. Then she said, 'Did you know Helen is visited regularly by several members of her family who all bring her a bottle of sherry in the belief that they are the only one's cheering her up with her favourite tipple, probably with an eye to her estate?'. She bent down to retrieve her handbag and checked through the contents. She said, 'Catching the two-fifteen into London. A Royal Court thing.A five star play according to the press. Full of filthy words, it seems. Sounds fun. Won't stay for lunch. Bye-bye, Vincent'. And she left to the sound of the dinner gong throbbing through the house.

Bad news about Helen if Amy is correct. Must reconsider my approach, my modus operandi. Commanding or coy?

I complained again about lunch. 'Mrs Ellington', I said, 'a light lunch is all I need but not one so lacking in style and substance. And I will be glad to instruct Monsieur in the construction of very simple and tasty dishes that will have the Inmates baying for Seconds. Let me describe my Macaroni Cheese (and here she sighed and leaned on the back of a spare chair): No ordinary School Meal, this, Mrs Ellington, believe me - cream, bacon, onions, tomatoes, all lifting the milk, cheddar and macaroni into the realms of Haute Cuisine, mouthwatering and so very, very healthy. And does the dish Haslet mean anything to you, Mrs Ellington? A dish of pork sausage meat plus sage and onion stuffing studded with small tomatoes on the top and baked. It can be served cold, hot, fried, diced into a wok of vegetables. How about my Bread and Butter and Marmalade Pudding? An absolute five-star dish. Monsieur has only to ask. The only disadvantage for you, Mrs Ellington, is that any Inmates on a fixed contract will decide to live longer. Talk it over with Monsieur, please'.

Mrs Ellington said, 'Kevin is a first class, qualified chef, Vincent, and won't take kindly to you taking over his duties. But I am prepared to ask him to cook requested dishes for my guests. I'll organise a little get-together for you'.

Well, I thought, that's a victory.

I saw Helen sitting by herself after lunch and was just about to approach and embark on a confidential, illuminating discussion about her married life when Old Beaky was wheeled in near her and I could see he'd begun an animated discussion with her to judge by his jerky head and the waving of both handfulls of distorted fingers. Paloma came into view with a tray of tea to put between them so this would likely turn into a lengthy chat. Another time, Helen.

Which was just as well because on returning to my room there was Valerie with Dr Henley in the doorway. 'There you are', said Valerie.

'I am', I said.

Dr Henley said, 'Thought I'd drop in, Vincent, see how you are. Valerie says you're in fine fettle'. I told him, yes, I am absolutely fine and fully fettled. He said, 'I reckoned your prescription of Quinine Sulphate is due for renewal. All done', and he gave me the two boxes. I felt somewhat guilty at my flippant attitude. I said, 'Thank you so much, Doctor. Very remiss of me not to have checked. Very grateful indeed. And while you're here, Doctor, do you know if someone with severe Memory Loss has the wherewithall to dream?'

Dr Henley stared at the floor. He said, 'Good question. Don't know the answer, Vincent. Try Googling it'. I said, 'Of course, how silly of me'. Afterwards, Valerie said, 'I've never seen you so cringingly humble, Vincent'.

I like someone who gives as much as she gets. Yes, Valerie is on my Okay List.

Couldn't discover the answer to memory-loss and dreams on Google or on Wicky-picky.

The garden is a refuge. I'm much impressed by it. William is the keeper of the glades. Comes up from the village once a week, I'm told, more often in the Spring and again in the Autumn when there's lots to do. Smallish and with a cheerful, smiling face and always willing to stop and talk and discuss suggestions from the Inmates for the garden's improvements. I think the sight of his raking, sawing, clipping, the shoulder's swing, bare to the waist in the summer's heat, brings a nostalgic yearning, a reminder to the Inmates of what the human body is designed for before it drifts away into curling arthritis, inflates through sedentary living, wastes away from the scourge of cancer.

But there is Exercise, twice a week, taking place in the larger sitting room, chairs and sofas pushed out of the way. I've looked in. A blonde named Debbie, also up from the village, takes the class wearing professional looking clothing, tight leggings with an astonishing anatomical verisimilitude about the crotch and a teasingly clingy vest thing that must put certain heart conditions on Red Alert. Several of the women, Amy Dodds in particular, take it very seriously and look to have been long-time frequenters of a Gymnasium. The really decrepit ones merely swing their arms about and raise them up and shift their weight from one foot to the other with silly smiles on their faces. All this is done to the pop-music of the day which alone keeps me out of the class.

I wish I could still run with springing steps. Long out of the habit. Too old. Envy and admiration for the gazelle runners bounding through the parks and over the city's pavements.

Something has happened to one of the Inmates. Someone will tell us in due course, I expect. One of the corridors was closed off and soon an ambulance drew up to the front door. Those Inmates who weren't stuck in their rooms drifted into the two connected sitting rooms. They were quite subdued and small wonder for who knows who's next? Fat Tony was drumming his fingers on the arms of his chair. He really should be worried at this reminder of the lurking, sniggering Grim Reaper. Helen said to me, 'Whoever it is, it could be anything, stroke, heart attack, maybe nothing final'.

Later that afternon Valerie and Paloma came in with the tea trolley. Valerie announced that Mrs Bolt had collapsed and had been taken away breathing with an oxygen mask. Valerie smiled and said, 'She's as tough as old boots. We'll see her back soon, you bet'.

I said very sweetly, 'Do please give Mrs Bolt our best wishes, Valerie, and do keep us in touch with her progress. And, oh!', I added, 'she'll be so pleased to hear Liverpool won their football match this afternoon. Be sure she knows that'.

The rooms cleared after a while leaving two Inmates unconcious at opposite ends of the rooms and Helen seated by herself in front of the imitation log fire. She looked thoughtful rather than semi-sloshed, looked as if a caring, concerned and experienced therapist would be the perfect companion. I sat at the further end of the sofa, smiled as she looked up. I said, 'Helen, at times like this it's good to know there's someone, a soul mate, whose shoulder you can lean on, feel comfortable with, share your feelings'.

She looked dubious at this and said, 'You?'.

I sharply turned the steering wheel the other way and said, 'No, no no. I meant you, Helen. Between you and me you seem to be a woman one can confide in, someone with a wealth of human experience, someone I could talk to if the need arose.

Helen sounded suspicious. She said, 'What sort of need, Vincent?'. 

I crumpled and looked mournfully at the fire; I put praying hands together over nose and mouth then I sighed and said, 'Apologies, Helen, I had no intention of imposing upon you. Sometimes though. Well, there it is. Please, please forget everything I. Just feeling a bit low, Helen. Usually (and here an embarrassed little smile) I'm seen as a tower of strength, a support, someone to rely on'.

I said, 'I'll be myself again very soon'. I left the room without looking back.

What does Dr Henley think when he makes his visits? He and his side-kick, Dr Mary Peters of the cold hands and the fashionable patterned tights and short skirt? They must look knowingly around seeing kidneys full of gravel, joints full of grit, veins and arteries clogged with saturated, unsaturated and that plain old-fashioned fatty fat of my youth, seeing malfunctioning electric circuits, guts in a state of rebellion. There's heartburn, painful bladders, hearing loss, failing sight. Under pullovers, in bras and Y-fronts cancer is looking for a chink in the walls of wrinkled flesh. If their stethoscopes are properly tuned then a weak heartbeat might just be detected albeit with a jungle rhythm. Listening to Fat Tony's chest must be unnerving no matter how long you've been a doctor. I imagine most of their visits are concerned with the hundreds of feet of the small intestines and, more urgently, with matters of the large intestines, the contents of which, I guess, will be exhibiting either worrying, uncontrollable bouts of panicky claustrophobia or the stubborn opposite. I don't envy the two doctors.

A number of the Inmates have computers and I feel certain Blogging or Squeaking or Chirping, whatever it's called, to the outside world comes far, far behind the obsessive trawling of sites for medical information with which to peevishly challenge the decisions and prescriptions, to demand the latest chemical intervention of Doctors Henley and Peters. A dog's life for the medicos. It will be a wonderful moment for both Doctors when one of them pronounces Know-All Keith dead.

Know-All was a scientist in his previous life, something to do with water conservation and irrigation for a branch of the United Nations. Been all over the world but mainly Africa.

I told him, 'You'll have a lot in common with Voodoo John. I believe he used human sacrifice to encourage rain in times of drought. On the other hand he may have been thoughtfully reducing the population to be in line with a village's low water supply'.

Know-all Keith said sourly, 'Most likely the latter. More logical'.

Keith arrived here soon after I did. A car accident had physically damaged him badly and certainly scarred him mentally. An ex-wife visits regularly with a son and a daughter, too, but these family get-togethers draw no smiles from Keith, just a glowering, grim expression. You can see the coversations are without joy. There's no consolation for either the visited or the dutiful visitor. From a distance the body language tells you everything. Parting has no pleasing ritual. Keith looks even more mournful when they've gone.

Know-All Keith can't let a slip-shod remark go uncorrected. He knows which of Brazil and Argentina speak Spanish or Portuguese, he knows Swahili to be a more subtle language than English, he knows which of the Tropics of Capricorn and Cancer are above or below the Equator, he knows what a quadratic equation is, when and for what it is used. I avoid him most of the time.

Up very early this morning. No noise anywhere in the house though the kitchen staff must be starting on breakfast. I could hear the comforting sound of a distant vacuum cleaner. I pulled on a tracksuit and went out into the garden to feel the crisp Autumn air. A few trees had lost early leaf, others remained in full fancy dress. Returned to see Helen outside, wrapped around by her dressing gown and distributing crumbs around the shrubbery. She is far too good-looking at sixty-three to dump herself in a home. She said, 'Do you fancy a proper cup of coffee, Vincent?'.

She has a neat, small coffee machine on a sidetable. There's no sign of any sherry bottles anywhere. Within minutes she delivers a cup of rich expresso coffee; from a tin she produces biscuits. 'Won't spoil your breakfast, this, Vincent?'.

Perhaps it is because she was in her own room that she looked and sounded less anxious, less defensive. She said, 'The last time we chatted you seemed to be a little upset. Mrs Bolt had been carried off to the ambulance. These events can be unsettling, I know, brings fears back. They can throw anyone, Vincent'.

I was uncertain how to carry the conversation forward. I shrugged and said, 'How to answer that, Helen? Well, you know how thoughts leap-frog over each other. I think, I think, I think I had been pondering on the fact that I hardly knew the Bolt woman, hadn't really met her, just the odd Good Morning and How Are You stuff. Then, Helen, I started thinking how, here in Fir Tree, there was nobody that I truly knew or knew me, not in that warm, intimate way one was used to, with family, long-time friends, let alone, Helen, with one who shared your bed, ones you knew inside and out'.

I made a quite prissy mouth in sipping the coffee, saucer held perfectly beneath the little green and gold cup. Knees together, perching on the edge of the chair. 'God Above, Helen, I said, don't we all miss a bit of nookie?'.

While she stared at the carpet thinking I stood up and thanked her for the delicious coffee, telling her I must get ready for breakfast. Helen didn't arrive for breakfast.

A busy morning out there in Reception. Saw a newcomer arrive with presumably son and daughter as the strong-arm relocation team, big faltering man with two sticks, large case and several large boxes, Mrs Ellington buzzing around.

Then Mrs Bolt returning from hospital via a taxi and bringing with her a walking frame, John and Paloma gingerly accompanying her into the house. I can foresee the approach for dinner will soon resemble Piccadilly Circus at rush hour, walking sticks, zimmer frames, wheelchairs all clashing in the corridors and doorway. I might provide the frames, sticks and wheelchairs with hooters and bells at my own expense just to liven up the place.

That morning proved to be a bit of a shaker. About ten-thirty I went into the sitting rooms to hunt for a newspaper hoping nobody had taken The Guardian. At the far end of the sitting rooms were the two old biddies whose names I can never remember, both in a low burbling simultaneous conversation, probably exactly the same as the one I last overheard. Their mishearing and subsequent misunderstanding always results in fierce looks of distrust and voices coloured with anger. They seem to take it in turns to end their fireside chats by indignantly rising and leaving in what they imagine is a furious stomp of a walk.

Fat Tony was asleep in the big wing-back chair facing the big window and the garden. My chosen newspaper had fallen onto his lap. I thought I could easily slide this away without him waking. I was very careful. I had a smile ready in case he awoke. When he's asleep there is always that sandpaper breathing though of a low level and as I opened up my trophy I became aware of his silence. I looked at his sleeping face and then at what passes for a chest and then the mound of stomach to see no lazy rise and fall. 'Hiya, Tony!' I said loudly. Then I went and pressed the buzzer next to the door and sat down feeling shakey. Within minutes Nurse Kovich and Voodoo John had wheeled the chair and its contents away.

Valerie brought my tea (amber with another croisant) to my room. She said, 'We're so pleased at the way you handled Tony's death this morning, Vincent. Nobody else was aware of the event; nobody noticed, nobody got alarmed or distressed. Well done. Are you feeling okay?'.

I said, 'Only ever seen two dead bodies before. One, my mother in hospital and the other only briefly as we passed a road accident, a medic about to drape a blanket over the victim. Neither of these worried me. But being in Tony's company, though hardly lively company, well, I don't know why it affected me. I think it was a reminder of things to come'. Valerie said, 'Please tell nobody, Vincent. Mrs Ellington will make an announcement this evening after dinner'.

Lunch sees a full house. Today is the Macaroni Cheese Day, first time, preceded by soup. I am happy to find a table to myself. The Twins almost identically dressed are babbling away, Nigel at their table. Nigel's sword-hand shakes as if he were polishing his shoes. He can eventually fork into a chip and most solid things by taking a few stabs at it and getting it into his mouth but soup requires the use of someone else's hand. Know-All is saddled with Bernard. Amy not here, probably gone to London. Nor is Beaky. Neither is Helen, probably having a liquid lunch in her room. The Newcomer is seated with Mrs Ellington, several sheets of paper being exchanged. The large corner table has five Inmates around it being joined late by Mrs Bolt amidst little cries and cooing sounds. The other Inmates must be eating in their own rooms. Valerie, John, Paloma and Tatyana are smoothly delivering the meals. The chopped pointy cabbage that comes with the Macaroni Cheese is garnished with a little butter and pepper and some other herb. Well, I have to admit that I couldn't have made a better dish, Monsieur having added chopped coriander to the picturesque macaroni dishes that rested centre table. When Mrs Ellington passed by I said, 'Please do compliment Monsieur for me, Mrs Ellington, and if the Haslet also comes up trumps then please, please, please extend his contract'. She said,'Happy you're satisfied, Vincent'. I have a surprisingly good appetite in view of the morning's events.

And that evening there was a rearrangement of tables. They were placed to make one very large dining table. 'Is it someone's birthday?', one or two voices called out.

Monsieur had been overworked that day for the evening meal was a fine roast. Bottles of red and white wine were also being poured into glasses at which came another tremulous squeak, 'It must be somebody's birthday!'. Wine is a tricky addition to mealtimes here at Fir Tree Homes since one glass can cheer these Inmates quite fantastically but the second so often gives rise to mental confusion and badly affects those parts of the ears responsible for balance.

The dessert was a rarely seen creme brulee. I'm sure the production of two dozen of these must have been a difficult feat. More little twitterings of delight from parts of the table. Valerie, John and Tatyana refilled glasses.

Mrs Ellington appeared and called, 'May I have your attention for one moment, please' and when the various conversations died away she said, 'I'm sorry to announce that Dear Tony passed away this morning in his sleep, a very, very comfortable death you'll be relieved to hear. He will be much missed, I know'.

Silence all round while the news sank in. One of the twins then called out, 'I'm sorry, I didn't catch a word of what you said. Exactly whose birthday is it?'. Mrs Ellington sighed and repeated her message word for word. Practice makes perfect, I thought. Then she said, 'I think we should raise a glass in memory. To Dear Tony, resting now in peace'. Glasses were shakily raised to a chorus of 'To Tony' and a solo 'Happy Birthday!'.

As Mrs E left words began to flow. The bespectacled Newcomer gazed around at the faces and said, 'Christ! I've only been here about nine hours!'.

Other words floated out and up and away; 'Who is Tony?'.'I spoke to him at breakfast! Or perhaps it was yesterday'.'He had only himself to blame'.'Had we known we could have brought a present along.'

Helen was biting her lip; Beaky had fallen asleep giving those around him fearful thoughts. I left for my room and the television set. Chelsea's mid-week game against Arsenal was already thirty minutes into the match. Fat Tony would have been looking forward to that.

Within three days Tony had been forgotten. Blame the short-term memory losses for that though washing, shaving, dressing, wrestling with tights and bras, dealing with the stairs, remembering things, making a decision are all draining acts of every day. I heard only one 'Anybody seen Tony lately?'.

I don't often spend time chatting to Bernard as it does neither of us any good. He clearly gets very anxious that his line of thought will go awry and this makes the listener's response a diplomatic problem. There is something impressively residual in Bernard's mind, an ability to read doubt, frustration, any patronising tone to your conversation as you explore a way of handling the thread of his words and this may produce a tantrum quite out of character with his usual quiet demeanour. Most of us have a technique of engaging him in trivial chat that avoids any response from him other than a Yes, a No, a Please or a Thankyou. We smile a lot.

But today he looked particularly needful, a look that caught at your sleeve. 'How's things with you, Bernard?', I said in my most concerned voice. He looked up at me with a bright eye. He said, 'I want to go home'.

I said, searching for the right words, 'Well, Bernard, is that. Bernard would you be able to look after yourself okay? How would you get home?'. I was floundering.

He said, 'Three and eight, thirty-eight bus; Islington Green Dilly-dilly. Short walk. Easy-peasy'.

I'm sure he saw admiration in my voice and eye as I said, 'Bernard, all that grey-matter in there has some spots of Day-glo colour. Good man! Chat it over with Mrs Ellington. That's what she's there for. Now, can I get you another cuppa?'.

I know Bernard has been here a long time. Nobody visits.

Elevenses in the far sitting room, looking out at the sunshine, enjoying the view of the garden. Paloma finds me with my amber tea and warm croissant. Looking through to the larger sitting room I see John is wheeling in Old Beaky to join Bernard. Beyond, having nothing to do with the company on offer, sits Know-All. He turns his chair slightly to avoid being drawn into any conversation. The new man, Oswald, is further on, standing with his newspaper spread wide. I return to my cup and plate to find Helen standing there giving me a sweet smile, looking slightly dazed. She is wearing her long Japanese house-coat thing that brushes the floor. She says, 'Hullo again, Vincent!', and gives a wider smile, hair back in its clever pile and with eyes and cheeks subtly enhanced, lips painted perfectly in a pale browney-red. I'm beginning to wonder if she is wearing any clothes beneath the swirling indigo patterns.

I say, 'Helen you look an absolute picture. Small wonder the Greek army went to Troy to find you'. She withdraws one hand from the wide sleeves and places it over yet another smile. She draws in a full breath and puffs it out. She says, 'Vincent, it would be lovely to have a long natter with you. My room's full of sunshine and I have an almost full bottle of vodka waiting (or is it sherry?). What do you say? After lunch? Just come along'.

What does one say? I said, 'That sounds delightful, Helen'.

At one-thirty I strolled along to Helen's door unseen and tapped discreetly with my fingernails. After a couple of minutes I used my knuckles. No reply, no sound. I decided my share of the vodka, or was it sherry, had also been consumed and that Helen was now unconcious across the bed. On my way back to my room it occurred to me that Helen might have been in the toilet so I collected a piece of paper, wrote the words, 'Another time, Helen' and returned. Still no answer so I slipped the message under the door

I'm used to being here. I get on well enough with the whole household despite my own faults which, I think, are few. I avoid those who irritate me. I take refuge and pleasure in my computer, updated and given a shake up by my nephew in his visits. I am creating this diary and gathering information with which to combat the Evangelical Right of the United States, the world of the Catholic Church and the burden upon the taxpayer of the Royal Family, the sheer absurdity of Royalty (being as you may have guessed, a Republican).

I've been twice now into London with the loaded Amy Dodds to see good plays. On the second occasion we stayed overnight at a pricey hotel but it wasn't a success. She said, 'Never mind, Vincent, it's not all that important'

I have yet to sit down with Helen, share a bottle of sherry and discuss the intimate details of her marriage.

We regularly have the Macaroni Cheese and the Haslet which has also been a great favourite in all it's guises. Monsieur now invents around these dishes.

Voodoo John comes and goes as terms and holidays revolve. I will be sorry to see him finally leave for the Secret Service, possibly Politics, even Banking. I have made a present to him of the books required in his last year. 'Don't thank me, John. That big white smile is all I need', I told him.

Valerie is soon to be married. She said, 'From now on I won't be bothering to enter your room at night, disrobe and turn backward somersaults off the coffee table, Vincent. Sorree!'. I said, 'As long as Mrs Ellington doesn't take your place'.

The Reverend Pickering doesn't bother to call in on me any more since I told him I was an atheist. He must have known. I told him I was a great fan of J.C., though. I said I took what I think is the Islamic position on the wise prophet Jesus.

Know-All is clearly entering a depressed state. We hear him groaning. The increasingly rare visits of his family now break up with visually exciting and theatrical arguments.

Mrs Bolt has finally left to join Fat Tony in the Care Home in the Sky. I didn't witness this but I did hear her go. I'm told she went spectacularly on the two steps leading down to the hallway en route for the dining room. The complicated manoeuvre of getting the Zimmer Frame down those two steps was to blame, it tilted forward pulling Mrs Bolt into a brief horizontal position on the top of the frame to project her like a missile as it toppled forward, her head striking the dinner gong first and then its heavy oaken frame. She died that night in hospital. I wondered who would dare beat that gong at lunchtime the next day. I watched out for that and saw Valerie looking thoughtful before she struck it.

Early summer is here now. The garden will soon be a place to sit and read. The sun that now stands at about forty degrees behind the copse that forms the rear of the garden makes a glittering pattern of black and green from my window. This reminds me of a bedroom window when a child, one of those many windows as we moved around the country, one looking out at the woods that lay behind our back fence and beyond which a train ran invisibly, clickety-click four times a day. The sun shone into my bedroom through the tangle of branches in winter; in full-leaf summer the room stayed mostly in shadow. Yes, that window, of course, from which I saw my father for the last time. Flat cap, braces across a pale shirted back and he turned and looked up at me with a smile on his sunburned face and mouthed the words, 'Go back to bed, Vincent'.

I look at last Christmas's gift of a desk diary and wonder why I need one. I wonder whether next year's diary will have any relevance at all. Valerie said, 'I'd order one if I were you. Why not? You never know your luck, Vincent'.