In October

In October the old man became ill and was taken to hospital. He recovered but now the wheels were in motion. ‘No next of kin’, ‘a danger to himself’, ‘twenty four hour care’. Inside, he understood it all but was too weak to protest.

In early November he was admitted and shown to his room. The walls were a light green; he had a bed, two plastic chairs, a wardrobe and a small table. There was an adjoining bathroom which he was ‘lucky to get’, and a window looking onto the car park. Once alone, he unpacked and carefully placed his clothes in the four drawers. He hung up his suit and placed his razor and soap on the shelf above the sink. He put their wedding picture and his medals next to the bed. As night came, he changed into his pyjamas and slipped under the thin, white covers.

The first morning she came in, he was surprised there was no knock. “Right, Mr Sommers is it?”

He sat up in bed and fished for his glasses.

“My name is Nurse Webster. Can you hear me, Mr Sommers?”

He looked up at the stiff, white uniform. She was a tall woman, tall with large feet and large hands. He smiled to himself, never trust a woman with big hands, his father had told him, you don’t know the damage they can do.

“Yes, yes I can hear you, Nurse. And please, call me Bob.” He extended his open hand which was ignored.

“I prefer to keep things professional, Mr Sommers. Now, I’ve prepared your schedule and medication. Breakfast is served until eight thirty so I suggest you get up and go down to the dining hall, you are mobile I believe?”

“I am what?” He smiled as he spoke, he’d win her over; he’d always had a way with the ladies.

“Mobile, Mr Sommers. Can you walk or do you need help?”

He laughed, “No, I’m mobile alright, Nurse. Want to see me do the hundred yards?” He winked conspiratorially.

Nurse Webster looked down, her lips pinched, “Mr Sommers, you have a room with a bathroom. That’s quite a coup in here.” She picked up his comb and examined it briefly before staring back at him, “We wouldn’t want you to lose that privilege, would we?”

At first he walked a lot in the home: to the meeting room, the dining hall, even out into the small garden. But it was always so quiet, so hushed. He tried to talk to the others but was soon advised not to: too tiring for them. So he chatted to the cooks and the maintenance staff who seemed to welcome his company until a nurse would pass by. Then the eyes went to the floor and they remembered they had work to do.

The weeks passed by and the old man grew tired. Tired of being told to finish his food, to brush his teeth and to wipe himself. He grew to understand that Nurse Webster enjoyed it and that nothing was sacred. She would bath him and make jokes about his naked, fragile body.

The smell of the place, of strong, dark urine, burned against his nose and throat. He longed to be able to open the window and let some fresh air into the place. And always the relentless, dull silence. “We like it nice and quiet in here, Mr Sommers. Nice and peaceful.”

He spent most days in bed or sat on a plastic chair, listening to his radio. In December the snow came and a cold winter blew against the window. He was sleeping more now, to escape her, and it was usually dark when he awoke. For a few days, families arrived and took relatives away to spend Christmas. “No one coming for you, Mr Sommers?” She asked, smiling.

On Christmas Eve she was drunk. As usual the food was cold and, as she put the tray on the table, swaying slightly, she looked him squarely in the eye before spitting a long, thin green pool into the centre of his soup. Holding his gaze, she took a spoon and stirred it in, then made him eat it all. She lifted the turkey, roast potatoes and sprouts and brushed them into the toilet. “Come on, you. Flush your filth away.” Laughing, she picked up her bottle and turned before leaving, “Happy Christmas, you old bastard. Probably your last, eh?”

In January he stopped talking so they increased his dose. Now deemed non-responsive, his case was reviewed. They wheeled him in and she said her piece. Terms like difficult, high maintenance and disruptive. He grumbled in protest, his words - clear in his mind – came out choking and harsh. It was agreed and signed off; she explained that he was a Section One now, no more private room, no more bathroom. To be moved tomorrow.

He watched her as she pulled down his case from the top of the wardrobe and started to pack up his few possessions. With a tight grin, she then marched into the bathroom and twisted open both taps. “One last bath, eh, Mr Sommers? Get you nice and clean for the ward.”

She carried him through to the bathroom, undressed him, and put him in the chair, ready to be lowered into the bath. Before she did this, however, she looked at him. It was the only time she really paid him any attention. She didn’t watch him when she fed him; didn’t watch him when he took his pills, and hadn’t seen him exchanging notes with the janitor. Had no idea about the extension cable that ran from the bedroom through to the radio in the bathroom.

She never saw the old man reach for the exposed wire as she lowered him into the water, didn’t see as he reached up and, with a broad smile, finally shook her hand.