The Angels

 

Arthur was, in his working life, a cinema manager.  In the days before cinemas because bingo palaces, Arthur used to pride himself on the excellent publicity he staged for his cinema.  He used to accompany his staff to the balcony overhanging the entrance, and help to paste and display the giant posters advertising current and future events and attractions.

 

Until one day, after a particularly long pasting session, he wanted to scrutinise his work from a distance and, forgetting his elevated position, stepped back too far, fell over the edge of the balcony onto a hard concrete pavement twenty feet below.

 

Arthur did not die, far from it.  As far as could be assessed, he had not even broken a bone.  He was discharged form hospital, apparently normal.  He had had some concussion but that had disappeared and he returned to work within a few weeks.  He worked for another two months and then his personality began to change.  He became moody; he complained he could not concentrate.  His work suffered and then became more than he could do.  Within four months, at the age of 55, he was retired prematurely, an old man looking no more than his actual age.

 

The deterioration was insidious and pathetic.  His wife, now the family breadwinner, had to cope with two jobs: one to earn a living and the other more exacting and more time-consuming, looking after Arthur.  Arthur’s bad days resulted in a sink full of broken crockery, or a sodden carpet in the sitting-room.  He seemed adept at evolving fresh ways of achieving further spoliation in their once beautiful home.

 

Arthur was booked to come with us on holiday; we were pleased.  As well as the aspect of challenge which always added spice to the prospect of our annual project, we relished the prospect of Arthur’s wife being able to get away herself to a relative for revival.  We received all the warnings and guidance on how to manage Arthur and put him next door to a member of staff so that he was under some surveillance all night.  Ivor was his guardian and managed to spend more time accompanying his charge than he spent on all the other occupants of his row of chalets.

The concentration began to pay off.  Every morning, some time before breakfast, the pair could be seen on the path leading to their chalets, Ivor coaxing, cajoling and nagging Arthur’s reluctant feet to take just a few more steps before bringing the wheelchair along to rescue his weary charge.  Each step was a concentrated, agonising effort for them both; Ivor gently urging “Now this foot, come on, Arthur”, then, as the reluctant foot moved forward, “That’s fine – now this one”, tapping the other knee.  We watched and marvelled.  The infinite patience of a seventeen-year-old lad and the supreme effort of Arthur’s almost useless nervous system resulted in a few more yards of good solid achievement almost hourly.

 

They were always last into the dining-room.  Ivor had to utilise every precious moment he could snatch; he had to set himself and his charge a slightly longer objective every outing, and his determination would not relent to shorten the session by as much as a yard.  His slow, dogged encouragement resulted in a minor victory every day.  Towards the end of the week, breakfast was well under way.  The cereals had been eaten and smoked haddock filled the huge dining-room with an appetising odour.  Ivor and Arthur were still on their way, so Chris was sent to find them.  He got to within five yards of the big double doors when they opened, and very slowly Arthur’s wheelchair appeared, with Ivor sitting in the seat, and Arthur, a bemused, puzzled look on his face, pushing, his reluctant, stumbling feet impelled along by the sheer momentum of the slope of the floor.

 

It was Chris who started the applause and within seconds six hundred pairs of hands tattooed a jubilant commendation to a near miraculous partnership.