Lest We Forget
06.10.2001
Dear diary,
I feel as though time has slowed to a crippled crawl, the second hand on the Haller clock pulls itself wearily towards twelve and falls exhausted towards six. The silent minutes drag on - only the date that I write here changes, nothing else.
Today marks the second anniversary of my residing in this nursing home. Nurse Ogilvy brought cake and the other residents sang as though it were my birthday. Nurse said hadn’t time flown and wasn’t it nice to have everyone sing for me.
No, and definitely no.
Why is it that life goes full circle, and when you get old, you’re treated and spoken to like you’re an infant? Why do people scrunch their faces in mock sympathy and make their voices sound like they’re soaked in helium? The other residents respond as they’re meant to, returning gleeful gurns and grateful spittle. Nurse Ogilvy doesn’t like me, she is polite but I’m no fool, she smiles with her mouth not with her eyes.
I wonder if I’ve always been so cynical.
15.10.2001
Dear diary,
Today, in the common room, Nurse Ogilvy introduced a new resident. He stooped next to her and beamed a smile at us all. His eyes glistened with excitement, as though adventures could be had in this stale place, as though death was not near at hand, but was something that could be vanquished with a shrug and a chuckle. Those brilliant blue eyes rested on me, and when Nurse left him to make our acquaintance, he shuffled to the chair beside me.
‘Oh my! You’re a pretty one, aren’t you?’ he said, grinning. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Gwendoline,’ I replied.
‘What a lovely name, I’ve never met a Gwendoline before. I’m Roy.’ He held out his hand. His skin felt thin and delicate like a stretched crepe, his blue veins protruded, pushing for air, fighting against the heat of the stuffy room. ‘What are you doing here, Gwen?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Are you on holiday too?’
I left Roy and went to the gardens. I could feel the heat rise within me and needed to drink in the cold autumnal air. The gardens are what keeps this place bearable, makes it breathable. I only dislike the fir trees, they act as a barrier to the outside world: the real world.
When the sun has fled behind the clouds or is seeking misery in some far-off land, I gaze at the rudbeckias, their earthly warmth lifting my spirits, taking me back to the summers of my childhood, back to happy times. The fulgent asters ignite a wonder in me, I watch their blooms open to the darkening days, their silent heads nodding in the breeze.
16.10.2001
Dear diary,
Roy sat beside me again today. I’d forgotten to put my handbag on the seat. ‘What’s your name?’ he said. ‘What a beautiful name, I’ve never met a Gwendoline before. I’m Roy.’
He is no longer on holiday, today he was an undercover policeman sent to “bust” an undercover “coke” ring, whatever one of them is. I’ve seen a few like him during my time here; it seems to me the seesaw doesn’t move, they are either light and grinning up at the top like Roy, or heavy, weighed down at the bottom, stuck in mud made from tears and confusion. I’ve seen many frightened faces in this place who neither recognise themselves or anyone else. It’s a world far removed from my teaching days - clearheaded students dissecting Shakespeare or Chaucer, making sense from the muddle. How I miss it.
18.10.2001
Dear diary,
Roy only talks to me. He addresses the whole room loudly and cheerfully, but it is only I whom he chooses to confer with. I find it very odd.
19.10.2001
Dear diary,
Today is my favourite day of the week: bingo day. As everyone gathers in the common room, I slope off to the gardens, or to my room if it’s cold, to read a few chapters of my book in peace without Nurse Ogilvy fussing or yammering anywhere near me. She gave up trying to persuade me to join in with the hysterics months ago. I know it bothers her that I don’t want to play, that somehow my refusal to participate casts a shadow over the whole group. I don’t care, I’m eighty-two.
21.10.2001
Dear diary,
Today is Sunday. There was less bustle in the nursing home today, those with families got collected and taken to lunch by their children. It’s the highlight of the week for most of the residents, I wonder if it is for their families.
In the afternoon I went to the gardens. Roy appeared at my elbow, his thin frame gliding over the grass.
‘Hello Gwen.’
‘Roy. What are you up to today then? Off to climb Mount Everest? Hunting down some elusive jewel thief? Or are you saving the world?’
‘Pah! Done that once already - against Hitler. Me and the boys in our tanks. Me and the boys…’
He stared at the heart-shaped russets of a nearby redbud, the perpetual grin fading from his face.
‘You remember fighting in the war, Roy? It was so long ago.’
‘Yes. My memory isn’t up to much, some days disappear completely as though they never happened, like I never even woke from my bed those days. But some things; the bad things; the white-hot things… they’re seared.’ He tapped the side of his head, his gaze not faltering from the foliage. I looked up to see clumps of grey cloud filling an unwashed sky. I shivered and went back inside.
26.10.2001
Dear diary,
Roy took a turn and spent a few nights in hospital. His speech is quite incoherent, but his jollity is unaffected, the common room never being quiet when he’s in it.
Nurse Ogilvy gave him extra ice cream for dessert. He scooped a handful of Neapolitan with his fingers and tried to pass it to me, telling me to put it in my ration pack for later. The mess was atrocious, but I had to laugh: Nurse didn’t.
04.11.2001
Dear diary,
Today we went to the seaside. It was Roy’s idea. He suggested it last week after watching Jaws and had forgotten all about it by the following day. I was surprised when Nurse Ogilvy hired the minibus and that she thought it was a good idea at all. I reminded her we are pensioners and it’s November, but I agreed to go all the same. I can’t remember the last time I smelt salt in the air or felt shingle slip and crunch beneath my feet. Let us not be optimistic fools, I imagine today was my last time hearing the sea swell and the seagull’s cry. You ponder these things as you get older, the end of the journey. The prospect of death isn’t as frightening as you think it will be when you are young and full of vitality. Maybe life just makes you tired and more acquiescent the longer it goes on, until finally all enthusiasm is spent.
Roy insisted on coming along although his complexion has been waxy since he returned from hospital, his sallow skin hangs loosely under his chin, and I had to remind him three times to bring a scarf. He sat next to me on the journey and asked me about my life. His cognizance was heightened today, and he seemed to retain the information offered instead of merely acknowledging it with a nod of his head. I told him of my career as a teacher after the war and of my leisurely retirement pottering about my garden until a stroke landed me in the nursing home. I neglected to mention that despite the roses and the daffodils and the proud perennials, retirement was a curse thrust upon me, and that teaching was nourishment to my soul in the absence of a husband or children. I did not mention my shame, that I have come to realise the futility of bitterness and the senselessness of a life spent cursing the cards dealt, of resenting instead of striving. I did not mention my confused anger or how I weep at night knowing that I am arriving at the end of my life regretting my regrets.
10.11.2001
Dear diary,
‘You said you were going to get a newspaper,’ I told him. Roy looked confused; his brow furrowed in thought. ‘Did I get one?’ He looked about himself, picking up his teacup and peering beneath the tablecloth. ‘Guess I must’ve forgotten,’ he said. Overhearing, Nurse Ogilvy brought a copy of The Daily Mirror and placed it in Roy’s lap. He tore out the crossword and handed it to me before turning to the horse racing section.
‘Here’s one,’ he said. ‘In the 2:15 at Ascot. Miserable Matron 16/1. You’d better get a move on Nurse, or the jockey will whip you harder for being late.’
I haven’t laughed so hard in years.
11.11.2001
Dear diary,
Today I went to the gardens to pass the time. I found Roy sitting on a bench by the fishpond leaning forward. As I approached from behind, I saw his shoulders shaking and assumed he was chortling to himself as he often does. It was only as I drew closer that I saw he was holding a poppy and was sobbing like a child.
Me and the boys in our tanks. Me and the boys…
I turned and went to my room before he saw me.
17.11.2001
Dear diary,
Roy’s nephew Stan came to visit him today. He travelled quite a distance, over two hundred miles, and I’m sorry to say he had a wasted trip; today was not one of Roy’s good days. No recognition flickered on his face as he looked upon the young man though Roy welcomed the stranger with a cheerful backslap and challenged him to a game of chess, nonetheless. After Roy was emphatically trounced, I offered Stan a cup of tea and suggested we take it in the gardens, leaving Roy with Nurse Ogilvy.
‘He’s never mentioned family,’ I said, before quickly realising my words could be construed as insensitive.
‘He has many bad days. He has suffered with his illness for several years.’
‘Does he have any children?’
‘No, he was never the type to settle. He roamed from job to job, often working in the Middle East and Africa. He’s a regular nomad, or at least he was. My mother, rest her, told me he was affected by the war, that deep within him there is a sorrow, a guilt for the men he couldn’t save.’
‘Tanks, wasn’t it?’ I asked, staring at the redbud.
‘Yes, Uncle Roy was one of the lucky ones. He managed to get out when his tank was hit, his mates weren’t so lucky.’
01.12.2001
Dear diary,
Today we put up the Christmas tree in the common room. I told Nurse Ogilvy that it was far too early for decorations and that I wouldn’t take part. Roy overheard and called me Scrooge. He walked over to the CD player and put on Dean Martin, then danced over to me with a length of tinsel around his shoulders like a feather boa, singing out of tune. The other residents watched and clapped. I had no intention of dancing with him, but he was quite insistent and I’m afraid to say I gave in rather easily. It’s been some time since I felt the warmth of a man’s cheek pressed against mine, and besides, who doesn’t like Dean Martin…
06.12.2001
Dear diary,
It rained all day. Roy and I sat next to the window in the Common room looking out onto the gardens. Several times Roy spoke, regaling me with some tale from his past, only to stop mid-sentence, his story forgotten. I didn’t mind. We would sit in silence, watching the rain drip from the trees and flowers until without warning Roy would begin another story that I wouldn’t hear the end of.
Nurse Ogilvy later brought us tea and biscuits, and I felt quite content sitting listening to the patter of the raindrops against the window, holding the warm cup in my hands.
‘What do you want for Christmas?’ asked Roy.
‘Don’t be daft,’ I said. ‘What could I need?’
‘I didn’t ask what you needed, I asked what you wanted.’
‘I don’t want anything from you, Roy.’
‘I’ll get you a scarf, it’ll be a nice surprise.’
19.12.2001
Dear diary,
Nurse Ogilvy knocked on my door this morning, she smiled when she saw me, so I knew something was wrong. It was Roy, his heart to be more precise. He was weakening fast and had asked to see me.
Roy smiled when I entered but was too weak to say anything. I took his clammy hand in mine and waited. I waited for words or thoughts, for anger or tears, but nothing happened. I sat, numb, and I waited for the cold stillness.
Now that it is night, and the nursing home quieter, and my mind clearer, I can write what I couldn’t bring myself to say. I can rip a page from my diary and slip the letter into his jacket pocket at the wake.
Dearest Roy,
Your infectious laughter and joy made time speed up. The days passed quickly, and I found myself mourning their passing rather than willing it as I had done before. You’ve made me question my whole life. For that, I thought I should hate you, but I don’t; I am thankful to you.
You didn’t remember, I wonder when your illness made you forget. You said you were going to get a newspaper, and I didn’t see you again for fifty-three years until you shuffled in here and asked me my name. All those years I spent hating you, blaming you for my misery, but now I see I chose to be miserable. Yes, you broke my heart, but I chose not to mend it. I had fifty-three years to look for happiness and I didn’t, I stewed in self-pity. I can’t blame you anymore. I see now that you had your own demons, thrust upon you by the world, unasked for and undeserved. You didn’t walk out on your young bride because you wanted to hurt her; you needed to escape your pain and didn’t know how.
Thank you for coming back, Roy.
I hope you have found your peace at last.
J.S. Savage is a London-based crime writer who predominately writes Golden Age-style mystery novels. However, his short stories span a range of themes, and many have been listed in competitions and prizes. Whether writing a locked-room mystery or contemporary literature, his subjects are thought-provoking and prose often moving.