Caring for cathy, p.12
Caring for Cathy, page 12
“I’m Paul.How are you liking it?” he asked.
“David …Too early to say.”
“It’s a fine place. What are you in for, David?”
“Amnesia. Car accident. You know.”
“Scrambled brains. I know. Like a drink?”
“No. I’m not supposed to, anyway.”
“Wise. Pity though. I can get you some any time.”
“Thanks. No.”
“Smoke?”
“No. Makes me sick. Like drink.”
“Pity. I have a quality supply.”
“What are you in for?” David asked.
“Me? I’m doing a life sentence. I’m the padre.”
“Oh, sorry,” David felt himself reddening. “I thought…”
“Don’t be sorry. I’m just a visitor from the other madhouse.”
“You’re not wearing your dog-collar.”
Paul explained that he was a Baptist minister, and Denby Hall was part of his pastoral round.
“What do you do here?” David asked, to break the silence that had fallen.
“Very little. Give people a few smokes. A drink. A bar of chocolate. Take them to the beach. Virtually nothing. The question might be, what can they do for me? Ha! Ha!”
“What about your congregation, they must need …”
“Baptisms, weddings and funerals. That’s what they need, on demand. As and when.”
“Nothing about God…”
“My God, no!”
Although he never partook of Paul’s offerings, they spent time together talking with other residents, particularly the small coterie who liked to smoke or drink, and either couldn’t afford to, or couldn’t obtain supplies. Paul had met Cathy, and they liked each other. Cathy always wanted to smoke. In fine weather, they met in the garden. Cathy felt easy with Paul, because she said he lived in the universe of the disabled.
The sessions in the garden were treated by the staff as private meetings, in that they mostly kept away. David knew that Keith or Ian, whoever was in charge that day, watched them occasionally from one of the windows, presumably to make sure that everybody was safe. Once Maggie, David’s key worker, came and had a couple of puffs, and went away.
During one of their meetings in the first year, Desmond called unexpectedly to see Cathy. Alice, a care assistant came into the garden to get Cathy, but Cathy was smoking, and refused to move. Alice should probably have taken Cathy’s wheelchair and propelled her back to the Hall, but Alice was too timid. Eventually Desmond, tired of waiting, came into the garden, and found their little circle, squatting on a wall, and some old wooden boxes.
He stood before them, slim-waisted in his suit, wearing shiny, black, pointed shoes. “Hello. Having a party?”
He was greeted with sniggers, and snorts of suppressed laughter.
“Mr Marsden. Please join us. Partake of our good things,” Paul said, holding out a pouch, and cigarette papers.
Paul pointed to a supply of paper cups, and a half-bottle of cognac sitting on the wall. Desmond sniffed strongly through his large nose.
“I don’t understand,” he said firmly, in the voice of one who did understand.
“Quite a tang, wouldn’t you say?” Paul said.
“That’s why you do it outside,” Desmond said, striking a horrified expression.
“Oh yes, it’s our little confidential gathering.”
“Involving my wife…”
“Cathy loves it.”
“It’s what I like Desmond,” Cathy said.
“It’s against … it’s not…” Desmond said, waving his arms about incoherently, while the party continued to smoke, and laugh, and sip the cognac.
“Are you responsible for this?” Desmond asked Paul.
Paul, slightly stoned, stood up, and bowed absurdly. “Paul Prosser.”
“I know you. You’re the pastor. I can’t believe…”
“Bringing a little lightness, and joy to my flock,” Paul slurred.
“Desmond, I like it,” Cathy said.
“David, you ought to be ashamed of yourself,” Desmond said, turning to him.
“It’s a bit of fun,” David replied.
Desmond had attained a high colour. “It’s intolerable, and … and illegal! And I’ll see Helmut about it immediately.”
Desmond stalked back to the Hall. The group watched him go without concern, and carried on smoking, and drinking. But in a few moments, Keith appeared, and issued some cryptic commands.
“Better move your ass off the premises a-s-a-p, Paul. Take the weed, and butts. Give me the bottle, and paper cups, and I’ll bin them. Everybody else, back inside. Go to your rooms, and take it easy for a while. Come on, get going!”
Keith’s orders had an understanding edge, and seldom incited rebellion. The little party broke up docilely, and moved back to the Hall. About half an hour later, Desmond found David in his room, and told him that he wanted him to be present at a meeting with Helmut. Keith would be there.
Helmut sat in the high chair in his office overlooking them, grave-faced. Desmond gave a lurid version of what he had seen, drunks, and drug addicts, under the evil spell of a minister of the church, and turned to David. “Isn’t that true, David?”
“It wasn’t quite …that bad,” David said.
“Keith, have you looked into this?” Helmut asked.
“When I went out into the grounds, at…” Keith replied, looking at his watch, and giving a precise time, which was about fifteen or twenty minutes after his first intervention, “… there was nobody there, and no signs of any party.”
“What about Mrs Marsden. What does she say?” Helmut asked.
“She’s not here,” Desmond said. “I think she should be protected…”
“I think we ought to hear from her,” Helmut insisted.
“I’m not sure she can give a reliable account,” Desmond protested.
“Mr Marsden, the problem here is essentially about Cathy’s care, and I do think we should hear from her.”
Desmond reluctantly accepted that there was no escape from this reasoning. Cathy was found, and wheeled into the cramped office. Helmut explained what had been said.
“It’s rubbish,” Cathy said. “I never smoked any pot.”
“None?” Helmut asked.
“Oh, Cathy!” Desmond interjected, crestfallen.
“Not a single, solitary joint,” she asserted.
“Did anybody else?” Helmut asked.
“Never,” Cathy said.
“Cathy, you know that’s …” Desmond said.
“Ah, there, you see, Mr Marsden?” Helmut said, hunching his shoulders in a gesture of impossibility.
“That’s why I asked David to be here,” Desmond snapped. “Cathy never tells the truth! David? Tell them.”
“I don’t know… I don’t smoke myself.”
“But you know what they were doing!” Desmond insisted.
“Nothing,” Cathy said. “I told you.”
Helmut balanced his hands like the scales of justice. “How can I tell what is true, and what is false?”
“You have a priest who supplies drugs to your inmates. It’s incontrovertible!”
Helmut mused, almost to himself, “Paul iss a gentle man, well liked here, with a somewhat unconventional interpretation of his ministry perhaps…”
Helmut considered the problem, as though it was a great distance from the room, and very hazy.
“Somewhat unconventional, perhaps!” Desmond’s voice ascended the scale.
Helmut returned his attention to the audience, clasped his hands, and embraced them all with the warmth of his quiescence. “Well, thank you for raising this matter, Mr Marsden. Cathy seems to be well, and happy. That is the important point. We shall certainly be vigilant about this kind of situation.”
22
“In the seven or eight years before Cathy came here, David, our lives degenerated into a kind of hell. Losing the society of friends, becoming two castaways, is one thing, but this was another. Cathy used to smoke up to sixty cigarettes a day, and she would get up every half hour or so during the night. She often used to follow me around. I couldn’t be in the bathroom for very long. She’d come and bang on the door, demanding a cigarette. I literally couldn’t have a shower, or a shit in peace. She’d be completely hysterical if I didn’t go out to her right away.
“I had retired to another bedroom long before this, because of Cathy’s restlessness, but I slept with one eye open. Cathy couldn’t be trusted not to set the kitchen on fire. She’d promised to go outside to smoke, but she didn’t always keep the promise. She was already losing the ability to strike a match or hold a cigarette. I had to do that. I was the carer in a mad-house. I was imprisoned by duties I couldn’t get out of.
“In the morning, I used to make Cathy’s breakfast, to avoid the mess of food and broken dishes on the kitchen floor. I had to plead with her to stop trying to empty the dishwasher, because the casualty rate for crockery was so high. After breakfast, I would lead her to the bathroom, take off her dressing gown, put a shower cap on her head, and help her wash in the shower. This was a muddle of arms and legs, in which I usually got soaked. I dried her. I laid out her clean clothes for the day, some of them laundered by me.
“And there was no equity in Cathy’s thoughts. She dismissed a stately West Indian woman I employed as a cleaner, because the woman saw my laundered shirts draped over a chair, and ironed them without being asked. Cathy didn’t like the woman pleasing me. She was jealous to a degree that was laughable. By the way, Cathy has never ironed a single shirt – or, for that matter done any personal laundry for me – in our entire marriage! In the days when I thought she was sane, I rationalised this as the stance of an emancipated woman! What a delusion. In reality, it was the defence of a person who couldn’t summon the concentration to undertake sustained tasks. It wasn’t simply whether she could be of some small service to me. Cathy’s inertia and inactivity extended over every area of personal and household care, for both of us. The vacuum cleaner, abandoned in the middle of the carpet, was symbolic of Cathy’s condition, but I had no understanding of that, until long after she became incapable of using one.
“I had left the company with a healthy payoff, and started working as an independent consultant from home. I had the time. I didn’t choose to leave the office because of Cathy, but because the money was too good to refuse. But my leaving, and Cathy’s needs, dovetailed neatly. Funny, isn’t it? After her shower in the morning, I’d dress her, a wrestling match with her uncoordinated movements, negotiating the belts and buttons and zips. I not only purchased and organised Cathy’s wardrobe, I dressed her, from her panties up for years. I got quite used to the ladies’ lingerie departments. I have to admit that Anita helped with some of the shopping. I started to dress Cathy when I caught her going out of the house one day with her brassiere on over her dress. You get to the end of certain passages of your life with a jolt. What else could I do but take over?
“I had to clean her shoes, brush her hair, tie it back and spray her with perfume. The last step, was to go through her handbag, to make sure it contained everything she would require when she went to the local authority day care centre for five hours. Tissues, cigarettes, lighter, pocket money, and the door key, which was attached to the bag by a chain. The carers at the centre, and on the bus, would supervise her use of these things. She couldn’t use the door key herself, but felt panicky without it. Cathy was attached to her handbag in much the same way as the McFisheries jacket. It was a dirty, stained shoulder-bag about nine inches square, real leather that had seen its last days long before and had almost worn to holes at the corners. I bought her other bags, but she wouldn’t part with this one. She clutched it as though it was part of her body.
“Cathy was collected from home by the council bus, and used to agonise that it would not come. Do you know, we had a screaming fit every day – yes, almost every day, as a result of her fear that the bus wouldn’t come? The bus was variously late every morning, because it had to crawl around the houses, picking up other disabled people before it got to us. But oh, the blessed relief when the bus came, and took her away!
“Later in the day, she would be returned in the bus, and take her seat at home in front of the television, rising every few minutes to go outside for a cigarette. At this time, she could manage eating messily herself, but she never took her eyes from the coloured screen, while she ate the meal I had cooked for her. Then I had to go through the long procedure of getting her to bed, undressing, washing, cleaning teeth. Much worse than managing a child. At least a child cooperates with you some of the time. With Cathy, it was all a struggle.
“At this time, David, I couldn’t go out of the house when Cathy was inside, without taking a key and leaving a side window open. I remember twice, when she was inside, I had to get a locksmith to let me in. The first time, I had forgotten my key. I knocked, banged, shouted through the letter slot, but Cathy wouldn’t open up. The second time, I had a key, but Cathy had put the safety chain on. I banged the door knocker like fury, and rang and rang the bell, but she wouldn’t answer. The locksmith couldn’t cut the safety chain, which was hardened steel, and had to break the door-frame. All this with Cathy inside! That’s why I also had to leave a side window open, so I could climb in if I forgot my key. When these events happened, Cathy claimed that she was asleep, or never heard me knocking. I never got to the bottom of it. It might have been accidental, or it might have been some kind of gesture of protest against me.
“This routine ground on for years, until, as Cathy became more and more unmanageable, I began to engage, and build up, what became a regiment of carers, who came to the house at all hours, to wash Cathy, dress her, cook and clean the house. They were mostly sweet-natured West Indian ladies, very modest and dignified, but it was difficult to keep the same team together, because they came from an agency. It sounds easy, having a team of carers, but I had to be on hand to explain and manage these services. I had to fill in the gaps when a carer was late, or couldn’t come. I had to be on guard during the long nights, when Cathy was wandering about the house, even though a carer stayed over to sleep.
“I used the word ‘protest,’ David, in relation to being locked out, but there was an undercurrent of protest from Cathy in all that I did. While I was prostrating myself in her service, Cathy absorbed everything that was done for her as her natural right, like a princess, and the focus was on my shortcomings – which I suppose, were many.”
At Denby Hall, the Sunday morning visit to church was a regular event. It wasn’t a strictly religious outing, but rather a jolly, in which about twenty residents and carers squeezed into two minibuses for the ride. Then they shuffled in the cold and damp pews of the Anglican Church on Ponsonby Road, where hymns were sung. The vicar was very pleased with this block booking in his tiny congregation, although the residents occasionally made disturbing noises. David usually attended. He couldn’t work out whether there was a personal God looking after him, or a God who was simply there, but didn’t give a damn about him, or no God at all. Like Mark Demeter’s lectures, the church service was pleasing on the eye, and ear, and left no trace afterwards. Everybody seemed to like blaring out Onward, Christian soldiers, marching as to war …
Cathy had always been included in the contingent, until one morning, when a carer was placing her wheelchair on the hoist into the minibus, and she started to protest. She waved her arms, “Arrrrgh, arrrrgh!”
“She doesn’t want to go,” David said.
“Come on, Cathy, don’t be cross, and hold everybody up,” Rose said.
Rose did not attend church herself, but she was often on hand to help load the minibuses.
“It’s very good for you, Cathy,” Hilda Trennor, the art teacher, said.
Hilda attended church regularly, and might have had a hand in the odd painting on the walls of the Hall. Although all paintings were officially attributed to residents, past and present, a few paintings depicted, very hazily in the background, crosses, and girls with halos.
“Arrrrgh, arrrrgh!” Cathy said, blocking the tightening of the safety strap on the hoist.
“Why don’t you want to go, Cathy?” Hilda asked.
“She told me, ages ago, she didn’t like it,” David said.
The process by which people were selected, or chose to go to church, was uncertain, but habit prevailed. Cathy continued to go because her carers knew of her fondness for music. They always readied her, and made sure she was on the minibus. Now, at last, she was making a protest.
“Oh, that’s daft, David,” Rose said. “You’ve always loved it, haven’t you dear?”
“Did Cathy say why she didn’t like it?” Hilda asked David.
David knew that Cathy’s feeling about church resulted from her talks with Paul, the pastor, over the years. To the question, why was God so cruel and merciless to Cathy, Paul had candidly answered that there could not be a God who could be so cruel and merciless, and yet be Cathy’s personal God. Paul admitted that his own faith in a personal God had dwindled away “like a packet of weed.”
“Too many … innocent children suffering, she said,” David said.
Rose said, “That’s got nothing to do with the church, David. I don’t think you’ve got it right.”
“Wars and earthquakes is what she said.”
David was unable, with residents pressing around him, and talking, to explain the argument Cathy had developed.
“That’s not the church’s fault,” Rose insisted.
“What’s the problem?” Ian, who was the day shift manager that day, asked, seeing the blockage.
Rose, Hilda, and Ian looked at each other, trying to fathom why Cathy did not want to go to church.
“I should have thought it was a nice little trip for her,” Rose said.
“I know she’s keen on the choir and the singing, even if she can’t sing herself,” Ian said.
“And it’s so good for her,” Hilda echoed again.
David waited for the wisdom of Cathy’s visit to church to come into question for Ian, and watched as he scratched his chin in perplexity.
