We had a meeting the other day, all the residents in the dining hall. What a sorry looking lot. Missing legs, arms that wouldn’t move, bent spines, heads that couldn’t look up. If you scrapped us all for body parts you’d be hard put to make one decent whole one. Anyway, one of the carers, (‘call me Siobhan’, if you please. I would if I knew how to say it, I want to say), one of the carers says, we want to hear from you guys.
Guys, I thought, aren’t we mostly gals? I don’t understand why the young ones aren’t protesting more about that. In my day it was ‘man’. Everyone said ‘man’, as if it meant woman as well, and we all said, don’t call me man, I’m a woman.
She said, guys, we need to hear from you about what you want to do, recreation wise. Cocaine, I tried to say, that’s a recreational drug, but they can’t understand me, even on a good day, so I can say anything I damn well please.
Knitting, one of them said, a knitting circle. That’s not much good for me, one of the old men said, last time I looked I had a pair, and he looked down at his lap. As if real men couldn’t knit. I get a picture then, little knitted animals lined up and it makes me feel tearful. How dare he say that. I can’t believe this is the level of ignorance I have to live with, I thought, me, me who could recite the opening chapter of Pride and Prejudice if only my mouth would work properly. Knitting, I’d say if I could, I’d like to learn to knit. I was always too clumsy, back then. Two left fists and neither of them fit for purpose, that’s what Alain said the time he tried to teach me.
What about something that suits everyone, Siobhan says, what about bingo? She gets a bit of a cheer for that one, but there are groans as well and I’m happy to groan along with the best of them. Ooh, she says, that’s controversial, I like a bit of controversy. Bingo it is.
What about a letter writing circle for Amnesty International, I think, and I’d say it if I could. I wish I’d done more of that sort of thing in my life, made a difference for someone. I feel like I understand more about being locked up now that I’m in here. I wish someone would write a letter asking for my release. Free the Lewisham One, that’s what I’d write on my wall if I could.
What about dancing, one of the young carers says, I’ve seen this research that says it’s good for, good for. She tails off, as if we’re going to be surprised at her calling us old people or people with brain injuries or whatever thing she was going to say. As if we didn’t know what we were.
One of the old chaps gets up. He’s tiny and neatly dressed. He goes to the front, bows and starts twirling round, bending and swaying as if he’s at a Saturday night shindig. He stops after a while, he’s coughing too much to go on. He’s not bad actually, quite a sense of rhythm and we all clap when he’s finished and he bows. You can see that Siobhan is getting a little bit cross.
Dancing, she says, well I’ll put that on my list.
Pub quiz says someone else, a woman on the next table to me. That’s a bloody good idea, I think, that could be fun. It’s nearly Christmas, says someone else, let’s have a card making workshop. Let’s not and say we did, I think but Siobhan, she loves that idea. She actually claps so I guess it’s going to happen pretty soon. I suppose it will be worth sticking some glittery trees on some folded paper so that I can get out of that damned room. I can send a card to Jenny, maybe cheer her up a little.
I’m thinking that the meeting is over, that someone will come and wheel me back, when one of the really old ones speaks up. Singing, she says, we could have a sing-song. She points at the piano over in the corner of the dining room. I hadn’t noticed it until then. Nearly everyone likes that suggestion. They’re all chatting away and I can hear a snatch or two of a tune. Everyone wants to say what their favourite is. Of course, most of them are much older than me. The Beatles, I want to say, Billie Holliday, Eric Clapton, Elvis Costello, what about some decent jazz. Leila, I think and the old riff plays in my head as if I have headphones. Da da dee dee da da da, la la la la la. ‘May You Never’, I want to say, my theme tune. But no one can understand me, so I keep quiet and listen to the sad old voices warbling about bluebirds and Dover or Tipperary. Surely we’re too young for that, I think, even the oldest of us?
My my, Siobhan says, that’s got you all going, I can see that you would all love a sing-song. Only thing is, we need to find some songs you can all sing, ones we all have in common.
Good luck with that, I’m thinking, but then this old one pipes up from the back. She’s got a loud voice, not usual in here where everyone is aquiver and speaking like they’re worried they might interrupt someone from dying. She sounds like a head teacher or a politician. What have we all got in common, she says, what’s a thing that we all learned at our mother’s knee? You have to be careful with that kind of language in a place like this, I’d like to tell her, a mention of the word ‘mother’ and the word ‘knee’ in one sentence and they’ll all go stark staring bonkers. They do too, there’s a dabbing of tissues at the corners of eyes, a sniffing and a sighing and a shuffling.
I don’t know, says Siobhan, and she’s speaking for me too for once. What have we got in common, she asks.
Nursery rhymes, says the loud old one, we all know our nursery rhymes and they’re very relaxing. I don’t know who for, I’d shout if I could. I wouldn’t care who heard, who got upset. It’s the worst idea I ever heard. I can’t think of any way to convey quite what a bad idea I think it is. Bloody nursery rhymes? As if we weren’t infantilised enough already, grown women and men – you wouldn’t believe it if you hadn’t seen it with your own two eyes. I’m expecting everyone to think like I do, to be horrified and shouting and telling the loud voiced one what she could do with her idea. I want them to rise up, to get some dignity in here but they’re nodding. They’re a bunch of those nodding head dogs from the back windows of cars, nod nod nod. What a good idea, I hear one of them say, and some old woman on my table starts humming baa baa black sheep. I try to arrange my hand so I can give her the finger but she doesn’t notice. I look up and catch the eye of a woman on the next table. She’s grinning, and she mimes a little clap, so I try a bow but it may have looked more like a lurch.
I’ve noticed the woman on the next table before, and to be honest, I’ve been thinking that she looks like the most interesting one in here. It’s her hair, that’s the thing. She stands out in a sea of shampoo and set lookalikes. They’re all grey and white and tidy and short. I’m not knocking it, I am too but she’s different, this woman. She’s old, maybe around my age, maybe even older, it’s hard to tell, but she’s got dreadlocks that reach halfway down her back. She’s pretty too, pretty for an old one, and I wonder how on earth she’s ended up here. I’d say she had a look of my lovely Helen, same confidence in her own skin. There’s a spirited look I remember Helen having, that’s the other similarity. A let the world go hang itself look, a don’t bother me with your nonsense look. I can see it now on the woman at the next table. They’re both their own person, that’s the thing. Some days I still miss Helen. I smile over at the woman on the next table. I hope she comes over, I think, she’s not in a wheelchair, she must be able to walk. I hope she comes over at the end when it’s mingling time.
There’s a bit more talk about knitting and playing cards but I’ve lost interest now. I’m thinking about the way she looked at me and smiled, as if we were the only two people in here who would understand what nonsense it all was. I try to look interested in it all, just in case she’s watching me. I try not to look at her but I can’t help sneaking a peek from time to time, I’m only human. She tilts her head in a way that makes me think of someone else but I can’t remember who.
Just