Homeward Bound, page 2
“I think Bernard needs a rest. He always starts talking nonsense when he’s tired.”
“Really? He sounds to me like the only one who’s made any sense since I’ve been here.” George jerked his hand free, determined this time to leave.
“Well, we hope we’ll see you again.”
“I hope not.” He didn’t look back but headed towards the warren of corridors, feeling both a sense of relief at leaving and guilt at abandoning Bernard.
“How old am I?” he heard from behind. He didn’t look back, but hurried on, turning a corner and, pushing open a door labelled ‘Fire Exit’, stepped into a gravelled courtyard, where a plaster Venus dribbled water into a weed-choked pond.
“So there you are.” Bridget emerged from a door on the opposite side.
“I expect you hoped I’d be locked up here forever.”
“Dad, please don’t be like this.”
“Like what?”
“So difficult. And swearing at Mrs Williams.”
“Swearing? If she can’t stand a bit of Anglo-Saxon…” He turned away from her.
Bridget’s tone softened a little. “I think you’ll find ‘bugger’ is Middle English.”
George turned back, revealing a reluctant half-smile on his face. “I knew a university education would be a dangerous thing. You’re wasted on him, you know.”
He gestured behind her, towards Toby who was now striding into the courtyard from a third door, Mrs Williams having apparently de-materialised.
“What the bloody hell are you playing at?” he growled through clenched teeth when he caught up with them.
George cupped his ear. “Pardon? I can’t quite hear you over the musical tones of trickling water and the sound of people waiting to die.”
“Don’t be so bloody sarcastic.”
“Tut tut, my boy.”
“And I’m not your boy, as you were quick to remind me.”
George considered saying ‘Touché’, but that might have sounded conciliatory, which was the last thing he was feeling. “I’m leaving.”
“There’s no point in staying. Mrs Williams has withdrawn the offer.”
Bridget flashed a warning look that Toby missed. George didn’t.
“Offer? What offer?” George turned on his daughter. “Bridget, what’s been going on behind my back?”
“Dad, can we please go back to the car?”
“Or were you expecting to leave me here? Did you book me a space in the communal graveyard while you were at it?”
Toby grunted, turned and stomped off in the direction he’d come. In an act of defiant independence, George headed back towards the door he’d used, only to find it locked from the inside.
“This way, Dad.” Bridget’s resigned tone was matched by an apologetic gesture, pointing at Toby, striding away from them. Together, they followed.
By the time they reached the car park, the conga had become a straggling crocodile, with Toby still pacing out in front, Bridget in his slipstream and George reluctantly behind, not because he didn’t want to leave quickly but because he was now having a job keeping up. Considering he’d been having trouble with his breathing for some time, he’d done well so far. But the heavy cold that’d turned to pneumonia before Christmas was catching up on him. And his hands were shaking, something he noticed happening from time to time.
It all would have been OK if Evelyn had still been around. ‘Tell me if we’re ever any trouble to you,’ she’d confidently instructed their daughter a couple of years back. ‘The last thing we want to be is a burden.’ Bridget had laughed and said that would never happen. Now Evelyn had passed away and he didn’t need telling that he had become a burden. After the funeral, Bridget had persuaded him to spend a short while with her, Toby and Tara. To help him come to terms with his bereavement, she’d said. It’d seemed a good idea at the time. But the short while had stretched to twenty weeks. From the way Toby was carrying on, George knew he’d overstayed the welcome by at least nineteen. Yet how was he ever going to get away and still keep his records? Not to mention his piano, his papers, Hunter.
Chapter 2
“How’d it go, then, Dad?” Tara looked up from Teen Tips.
“Don’t ask.” Toby dropped into the driver’s seat and slammed the door shut.
“How’d it go, then?” Tara repeated as her mum slid in beside her at the back.
“Not a great success, darling. Your dad’s a bit frustrated.”
“You can say that again. And I wish he’d get a bloody move on. We’ve another four to get to.” Toby thrust the key in the ignition.
“Four? I thought you promised Gramps a cream tea by the beach.”
“We will, dear, if we get time.”
“There won’t be any time if he doesn’t get a move on. What’s he doing now?” They watched as George stopped to lean against a crumbling, rotted wooden sign, its pale, faded lettering welcoming visitors to Lastdays and introducing the rest home’s ‘proud supporters’.
“That’s appropriate, don’t you think, Mum? The sign. Falling apart. Past its best.”
Toby drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “Look, he’s sitting on it. I think he’s doing this on purpose. If he breaks it, he can pay Mrs Williams for a replacement.”
“I’m more worried about how frail he’s looking.” Bridget was tapping her knuckles against her lips.
Tara screwed up her face. “Why’s he have to go into a home at all?”
“Just look at him.” Toby’s drumming became more agitated.
“Your dad’s worried about your grandfather’s health.”
“Not just his health,” Toby muttered.
“Dad thinks he’s becoming a bit… forgetful.”
“I like him living with us.”
“How would you know, you’re always in your bedroom.” Toby’s fists were now pummelling the steering wheel. “This’ll get him moving.” He turned the ignition key and the car burst into life.
Bridget leaned forward to restrain him. “Please, give him time.”
“He’s pretending to read the bloody sign now.”
“Have you read what it says?” Tara pointed at it through her window.
Bridget shook her head. “Not now, darling.”
“But read it.”
“Later. He’s coming now.” Bridget sat back. “Can we let this drop, please?”
Tara didn’t. “You still haven’t said why you need to put him in here.”
“It’s not going to be here,” Toby growled.
“Why’s he have to go anywhere?”
Bridget turned to her daughter. “You remember when he left the gas hob on when we were all out?”
“So?”
“Twice.” Toby threw his arms in the air. “Could he walk any slower? He’s doing this just to annoy me, I know he is.”
“Please be patient, dear.”
It was the first time in months that Tara had heard her mother use an affectionate term towards her husband. It was lost on Toby.
“Look at him. Just look at him. Do you honestly think he can look after himself?”
Bridget turned her attention back to her daughter. “Your dad’s worried something dreadful might happen to your grandfather if he’s left alone.” She spoke without conviction.
“He’ll be a risk to himself.” Toby was still talking in capital letters. “He completely depended on your grandmother. He sits around all day. Never does anything. Never says anything. Except talking to himself. And have you noticed how his head and hands tremble? How can anyone think he’ll manage on his own?” He tapped the side of his head. “Things happen to your brain as you get older.”
“So why can’t he stay with us?”
“Neither your mother nor I can nursemaid him. And I don’t suppose you’re offering.” Toby had sat back now, arms clasped behind his head.
“And where would he go?” Bridget stared anxiously out of the window at her dad. “The house isn’t really big enough for the three of us.”
“It need only be two of you when I go to uni.”
Toby flashed a look at Tara in the rear-view mirror. “Don’t be bringing that up again, young lady. You know what I’ve said. The decision is made.”
Bridget tapped Tara’s elbow as a warning. Tara either missed it or ignored it.
“So what’s wrong with a Grampy flat? You could build one over the garage. Or in the garage? You always leave the car on the drive.”
Toby gave the wheel another violent thump. “Oh, get a bloody move on, man.”
Bridget tightened her grip on Tara’s elbow. “We can’t have him. It’d be bad for him. He can’t live his life through us and he can’t live alone. Sheltered accommodation will help him find a new life.”
Tara brushed her mum’s hand away. “Mmm. And then what about Hunter? If you put Gramps in a home?”
“It’s not staying with us, that’s for sure.” Toby revved up the engine.
* * *
George stared into the bare trees that surrounded the car park, the last few leaves quivering in the breeze, clinging hopelessly to the boughs. What was left for him? A pointless existence dependent on others, where every memory lapse was a sign of dementia, every ache the onset of something terminal – at least that seemed to be how Bridget and Toby saw it. Why had he agreed to stay with them? It was for the best, Bridget had said when they’d invited him, but it hadn’t been fun for any of them, he knew that. That’s why he’d done his best to be inconspicuous, invisible, letting them get on with their lives, with no intervention from him. And what thanks did he get? It was hard keeping quiet, keeping out of conversations and arguments, not expressing an opinion or taking sides. Or not letting on that while they thought he’d been dozing, he’d noticed things, not least Toby’s hushed conversations on his mobile that didn’t sound like work.
‘We’ve Gotta Get Out Of This Place’ – a song he’d loved since the sixties – was playing in his head now, the imagined pounding rhythm and urgent vocals pulsating through him, his feet tapping, his body pumping, his lips silently mouthing the lyrics. The revving of Toby’s car jerked him back into reality. Easing himself up, he stumbled towards the car. He could see them all talking and didn’t need to be able to lip-read to know it would be about him.
Tara wound her window down. “Come on, Gramps. Dad says he’s going without you.”
“Tara,” Bridget hissed.
“Only joking.”
“Keep it to yourself.”
“Who’s Mrs Grumpy, then?”
Seeing Bridget and Tara at each other’s throats gave George no satisfaction. He didn’t want to be dragging his granddaughter into the argument. After all, his grudge was with Toby and Bridget. He heaved himself into the front passenger seat and swung his legs around with great difficulty.
“They ought to make cars a decent size.”
“For Christ’s sake, it’s a Peugeot 607. It’s big enough for a bloody tank regiment.”
George fumbled with the safety belt and succeeded only in firing his seat backwards.
“Ouch!” Tara had been resting her feet on the seat back and the motion jarred her knees up to her chin.
Bridget took a deep breath. “I’ve told you before not to sit like that.”
“Where am I supposed to put my feet, then?”
“Not on the back of the seat.”
“There’s no room.” Tara thumped her feet sulkily on the floor.
“Christ, what’s the matter with you all?” Toby reached across and clicked George’s belt together and jerked his seat forward again.
George thought of complaining he was short of space now, but decided to say nothing.
Tara picked up Teen Tips and started reading. George could feel her feet resting on the seat back once more, but the expected rebuke never came. Without looking up, she murmured, “Is this what they call an uneasy silence?” It was George who broke it, and only after they had been travelling for some fifteen minutes.
“Will someone tell me where we’re going?” He might have asked if they were going home, but he wasn’t sure he knew what ‘home’ meant anymore.
Toby tightened his grip on the steering wheel, his eyes fixed on an imaginary hazard on the long, clear road ahead. It was left to Bridget to answer.
“We thought it would be a good idea to look at…” she hesitated, “one more.”
“I thought Dad said four.”
In the rear-view mirror, George caught Bridget’s face contorting.
Toby broke his silence. “Keep your thoughts to yourself, young lady.”
George heaved a heavy sigh and looked out the side window, the sunlight flashing through the hedgerows like Morse code. S.O.S they seemed to read.
“Wasn’t this meant to be a family day trip to the countryside? Not a route march through waiting rooms for the dying.” George’s tone sounded resigned to failure, his hostility left behind with his dignity when he’d struggled across the car park. He sat back, determined not to speak again, watching the countryside zip past, seeing nothing.
* * *
Twenty minutes passed before he became aware that the car was slowing down. ‘You have reached your destination,’ the satnav’s voice chirruped. His eyes followed the line of a tall, forbidding brick wall before they turned into a courtyard dominated by the concreted façade of a Victorian building. He guessed that, in its heyday, it might have been an imposing seaside villa, a retreat for the rich, before being tarnished by the indigent, unwashed and uneducated taking temporary respite from the city, courtesy of third class rail travel. Today, fire escapes, handrails and ramps were testimony to its conversion to Tulips Rest Home and modern health and safety requirements. “Looks like a bleedin’ workhouse,” he murmured under his breath.
“Dad!”
“Well.”
Toby stepped out of the car.
George sat tight. “I’m not coming.”
“Dad!”
“You two go. I’ll stay here. Keep Tara company. We don’t often get the chance to talk.”
“She doesn’t need your company. And you need to see.”
“I don’t. Unless you’ve booked me in already.”
“Dad, please.”
“We’ll be alright, won’t we?” George strained to look at Tara in the rear-view mirror. “You can read me my horoscope, can’t you.”
Bridget left them to it, and chased after her husband.
George watched until they were out of sight. “This is nice. Just like the old days, don’t you think?” There was no response from the back seat, so he kept going. “I’m sorry I’m not much company at the moment.” He hadn’t felt much like talking to anyone since the funeral.
Tara said nothing and kept reading. When she was younger and they were together for weekend visits or day trips, she’d always had an opinion and never shied from letting everyone hear it. How George missed those days.
“Come on, then. Tell me my future.” He twisted the rear-view mirror so he could see his granddaughter better without having to turn round. Her eyes fixed on her magazine, he analysed her. Elfin-like, auburn hair, newly cropped, she looked so grown up and not the grandchild he remembered playing in the garden, being pushed on the swings, building sandcastles on the beach, skimming pebbles across the sea, being treated to sweets and ice cream despite Bridget’s protests about healthy eating. “November 30th. St. Andrew’s Day. Sagittarius.”
Tara closed Teen Tips and slapped her hand on the cover. It was a gesture George recognised from when Bridget was a teenager and about to sound off. Like mother, like daughter.
“You’ve got to tell them.” She was looking straight into his reflection.
“Tell them what?”
“You know.”
“That your mum only buys Rich Tea biscuits and I like chocolate Hobnobs?”
“You know what I mean.”
“Or the only music I hear is on some local radio station, twittering away in the kitchen. And all there is to read is the free bloody Basingstoke Tribune and your mother’s gardening magazine.”
Tara tutted and repeated, “You know.”
“No. Tell me.”
“That you don’t want to move into one of these homes.”
“I should think that’s bleedin’ obvious, pardon my French.”
“Why? What’s wrong with them?”
“You’ve not been inside.”
“But if you’re living on your own, what will you do with yourself?”
“Things.”
“Things?”
“Things I still want to do.” George caught her expression of surprise. “Don’t pull that face. I may be old, but I haven’t given up just yet. Despite your mother saying I’ve retired. The fires still burn, you know. And don’t ask me what. You’ll know when I’ve done them.”
“So you’ve got to tell them.”
George folded his arms to show he was taking no notice. “Did you read that sign outside the last place?”
Tara nodded.
“You saw that it was sponsored by funeral directors and an estate agent.”
Tara nodded again.
“One to get shot of the body and another to sell off the house. What did your mother say about that?”
“I don’t think she saw it.”
“I don’t suppose your father missed it.” George grunted. “And do you know what passes as entertainment in there? I’ll tell you. Watching school Christmas pantomimes. I saw the evidence hanging in a corridor. Had ten years of them when your mother was a child. The memory still gives me nightmares. I’d rather die than spend the rest of what’s left of my life watching someone else’s little darlings.”
Tara shook her head. “Gramps. Tell. Them.”
“I can’t.” He was having second thoughts on missing hearing his granddaughter voicing her opinions.
