A Week Away from Boredom

 

Mattie and Peggy were two of our most disabled guests.  They could neither of them speak, stand, walk, or feed themselves properly.  But, having lived in the same ward in hospital for a year or more together, their communication was immaculate.  Listening to them conferring early in the morning was to be reminded of the old-time character of Horace, the little boy who used to talk in scribble and had to be interpreted by a slightly older sister, Winnie.  How we used to wish we had Winnie with us when trying to shorten the session spent trying to unwind the inarticulate sounds from our two merciless persecutors.

 

What made our task more difficult was that both Mattie and Peggy were mentally alert.  They could not resist the temptation to crack a joke, however hard it was to get it appreciated.  Their lack of speech provided them with endless entertainment and seemed not to inhibit their conversations on iota.  Some vague comment from Mattie would reduce Peggy to helpless laughter, while we would puzzle what on earth she had said which was obviously so funny.  It would be repeated several times, followed by gusts of mirth from Peggy until she, also, made an effort to explain and Mattie would be convulsed.  At long last, we would attempt to repeat what we thought might have been said and this would precipitate paroxysms of chortling merriment because it was apparently completely inaccurate.  Eventually, the whole pantomime would be resolved by one of them demanding a piece of paper and a pen, and it would be written down for our enjoyment.

 

Occasionally, we would succeed in unravelling the mysterious sounds with little effort and then we were rewarded with beaming smiles that we had shown some intelligence.  It was a constant marvel how it was that neither of them had any difficulty in understanding the other.

 

Mattie had only one child, a daughter, who lived in Australia.  She had four children, and every three or four years would manage to save sufficient money to come back and see her mother, bringing one of the children with her.  This visit used to be organised so that part of it coincided with Mattie’s holiday with us.  Thus it was that the family could be put in adjacent chalets, and Mattie could be put on the settee in her room and could watch her grandson playing on the floor beside her.  There seemed to be little conversation between them, as the Australians must have had even more difficulty in understanding the unintelligible sounds which Mattie produced, than we did.  But, at the end of the holiday, there was always a grateful letter from Australia, and with it a small written note from Mattie.  “Thank you for my holiday, it was lovely”.

 

Both Mattie and Peggy were so rewarding to take.  They had long ago accepted their disabilities and had extended their capacity for enjoyment far beyond the limits of imagination.  To be able to anticipate the possibility of being prised from the absolute security of the geriatric ward of a hospital and to entrust themselves to a group of strangers for a week in a strange place, must have been to them on a par with a trip to the moon.  Their courage was almost beyond belief.

 

There were others.  Gwilym’s cancer of the throat had developed until he could just swallow solids.  He wrote to us, unbeknown to his wife, asking for an application form, so we called to see him.  Amid protests from his wife, we filled in the application.  The doctor did not advise the trip but just accepting the possibility seemed to give Gwilym a massive moral lift.  He began to discover he could manage to eat more easily and could occasionally drink.  The holiday day arrived and Gwilym and his wife were collected in the Minibus, and went to the embarkation jetty by road.  He had his holiday, but we did not take him the following year.

 

Ellen was just such another heroine.  She was afflicted with Multiple Sclerosis and Parkinson ’s disease.  By some will-power, she had insisted that she wanted to continue to live at home long after others would have succumbed to constant professional advice and accepted a place in hospital, where life would have been safer, more comfortable, but more dull.  Ellen was not interested.  By means of all the aids and adaptations which the authorities could provide, she looked after herself at home, sitting up against the window where umpteen people each day waved to her as they went by.  For her holiday, she was strapped into her chair and pushed into the guard’s van, where other passengers passed and repassed and held conversations with her.  At the end of the journey, she was almost exhausted, and frequently opted for bed soon afterwards.  But the next day, her eyes would be open and lively as soon as the birds started twittering.  She would know to the smallest garment what she wanted to wear, and where it was likely to be found.  At breakfast, she would regale the rest of the folk at her table with descriptions of her flat, her Home Help and her family.  With a short afternoon nap, somehow she would maintain vivacity and interest until the last waltz had finished and the rest of the company were off to their rest.

 

Not that she did not have occasional bouts of depression, but they were so fleeting that it was easy to miss them altogether.  These usually afflicted her early in the morning when no-one else was about and she had little else to occupy her mind.  We would open the door, peer round it, and see two solemn grey eyes watching our entrance.  The bedclothes, tucked round her small face, were as they had been left the previous evening.  “Are you wet?”, we would enquire and would be answered by a small, confirmatory nod.  So dry clothes would be required, and Ellen would be left to mull over the discomfort and inconvenience of her vanished muscle power.  Eventually, two assistants would return and would pull back the bedclothes, whereupon Ellen would give a small squeak of dismay.  “It’s cold”, so back would go her bedclothes and she would gaze up at us with her wide grey eyes gloomy and sad.  “I wish I was in my box”, she would inform us and this was a signal for action.  The clothes would be whipped down to her waist, and she would be turned over for a wash.  “No-one”, said her cruel helpers, “can possibly be allowed to go into a box with a wet smelly bottom”.  Chuckles would greet this information and within five minutes, Ellen would be washed, dried and powdered and dressed in the outfit she had selected for the day.  Then for the commode.  “Could Bob come?”.  The plea was persuasive.  So Bob was located and summoned to Ellen’s side.  “Arms round my neck”.  Ellen’s thin arms would clutch up to Bob’s broad shoulders and with one mighty heave, she would be lifted from the bed and dropped gently onto the commode at the side of her bed.  Her blanket would be wrapped round her useless legs, and she would be left carefully propped while the toiletries were put away, the bed stripped and remade and her chair opened and prepared with a blanket, protection pad and cushion.  Bob would return in his own good time and would lift her up while her pants were adjusted, her clothes pulled down straight and she could be seated upright ready for the restraining strap to prevent her sliding down and off her seat.  Ellen presented another challenge successfully met and conquered.

 

Arthur had his failings.  We knew them but did we know them all?  After a period of several years after his first holiday with us, he applied again.  At about the same time we received phone calls, one from his son and another from his daughter.  The daughter assured us that he had mellowed wonderfully in his old age; he was, she said, good tempered, courteous and full of good will to all men.  With a bit of imagination, we could almost see the halo.

 

His son, apparently at a loss to know ho to get his old dad a holiday without having to tolerate his company personally, impressed on us how pathetic was the old man.  His sight was failing, he said and we knew this to be true.  He walked only with difficulty which we accepted with a pinch of salt.  We had seen him out from time to time, crawling along between two sticks unless he was sure that no one was within spying distance when his two sticks barely seemed to touch the ground as he disappeared among the thronging crowd in the congested aisle of the supermarket like a rabbit seeking cover.

 

So Arthur came.  It was two peoples concerted effort to get him on to the coach.  He seated himself in the nearest front seat, arranging his sticks, his holdall and his sustenance for the journey, by his feet.

 

Settled in what he considered was his rightful place in the most coveted seat, he thrust his hand into his jacket pocket and pulled out his pipe.

“You can’t smoke in the front seat of the coach” he was told quite firmly.  His protests were heart rending.

“Surely I can enjoy my pipe” he bellowed.  “There is little else for me to enjoy in this world”.

 

It continued ad infinitum.  He was old; half blind; he could not possibly be expected to crawl further back in the coach; he had not been told that poor disabled people would be ill treated when they were expecting to enjoy a holiday after many years.  The coach stood stolidly, its waiting passengers half sympathetic, half exasperated while the dialogue increased in volume.  Until the impatient escort, in desperation, snatched the offending pipe from between his fingers and the driver was permitted to start the journey.

 

The argument continued with Arthur attempting to leave his seat to wrestle with his opponent.  A sudden lurch deposited him back into his seat and he let out a wail of pseudo pain.  No one took any notice.  The escort did not turn his head and Arthur’s protest diminished into a surly grumble of complaint.

 

At the halfway stop, Arthur was offered an arm to get him to the ‘mens’.  He attempted to continue his tirade but his escort had been forewarned.  He was told abruptly that if he wanted to spoil his holiday by starting off on the wrong foot, no one would be anxious to help him.  Arthur persisted, so the helpful arm was withdrawn and Arthur left, teetering in his usual pathetic gait, to continue on his own.  He found himself isolated in a congestion of the hurly burly of scurrying passengers.  As he approached, the swirl of hurrying people parted like the Red Sea, to allow him to pass.  His tottering was almost convincing but no one offer to help.  At last, nature intervened and his unsteady crawl gradually gained speed as he moved forward to his objective.

 

At the end of the journey, he found himself allocated to a single chalet.  This was invariably regarded as a special honour by most guests but in this instance it was a precautionary measure to, as far as possible, segregate the nuisance potential from other victims.

 

Arthur fancied himself as a vocal musician.  He certainly could sing; he had a curious talent for adopting a high pitched falsetto voice in imitation of a full throated soprano.  Had he been content to introduce this strange phenomenon initially at a pukka recital, it might have resulted in a storm of applause which would have satisfied his hungry ego.  But the strange female voice interrupted many an animated discussion; the rendering of “Only a Rose” behind a crowd involved in a discussion by a silver voiced lady, was seldom regarded as entertaining.  On investigation to discover from whence came the soloist, the group would be astonished to see a strange individual, balanced between two sticks and laughing uproariously at his performance.  This happened frequently several times a day.  Had the performance been given to a proper audience, it is likely that it would have continued indefinitely.  Arthur did so enjoy it.  He would have had to be halted by physical effort.  Meanwhile, everyone kept a wary eye on the gentleman between two sticks and sidled away whenever he was seen approaching.

 

It was the third evening when the commotion occurred.  Arthur had been seen wandering around with a bundle of music under his arm.  As usual, everyone assumed an exaggerated lack of interest.  Eventually, the frustrated vocalist sought solace in several times his usual ration of tipple.  He stationed himself at a small table in front of the bar and when he stood up, he had acquired a gait somewhat like a passenger on the deck of a rolling ship.  One of the escorts, noting his unsteady condition, suggested he looked tired and he might like to go to bed.  This was met by an indignant rejection but when he was offered a ride in a wheelchair, discretion triumphed and to the relief of several nearby, who had been watching him with some concern, he allowed himself to be wheeled away.

 

All was peaceful until about 1.45am, when the organiser was roused with the information that there was an awful rumpus coming from Arthur’s chalet.

 

Several helpers were outside the door; the light was on and from inside came the falsetto tones in full voice.  The door was locked and the night watchman was summoned to open the door but to no purpose, as the knob inside had been pushed down to prevent the key operating.  Constant shouts served no purpose.  Each time Arthur was asked to get out of bed and let in the callers, the request was rejected; everyone knew he could not walk; he was enjoying himself and sending himself to sleep by singing.  Threats, pleadings and arguments availed nothing.  Lights from dozens of chalets around the Camp were switched on while the weary watchers wrestled with the puzzle.

 

Then someone noticed that the big picture window at the front of the chalet was not fastened securely and by constantly pushing it backwards and forwards, the latch seemed to be coming away from the fastening.  At last the big window opened and the helper climbed in.  She lifted the startled Arthur to a sitting position and, whipping the clothes away, pulled him to his unsteady legs and pushed him towards the toilet.  The singing stopped abruptly and howls of alarm and protest filled the stillness of the night.  He shouted that he was being tortured, bullied and treated abominately but no one took any notice.  He was dragged from the toilet seat and pummelled back into the chalet and into his bed.  He was pushed determinedly over with his face to the wall, a pillow thrust firmly into his back and a none too gentle hand thrust his head into his pillow.

“Another squeak from you tonight, my lad”, threatened a furious voice, “and you’ll be taken back home by car in the middle of the night”.

 

Whether the unusual activity at 2am had tired him out or whether the devastating threat had penetrated his drunken brain, it would be impossible to know.  But the light went out, the bullying escorts retreated to outside, leaving the window judiciously slightly ajar ready for another access if necessary.  But it wasn’t.

 

Gradually, the lights in the chalets around the wide green lawn disappeared.  Whispered conversation subsided and peace settled over the quiet night.

 

Lucy was permanent resident in a psychiatric hospital.  It was her husband’s idea that she should join our party on holiday.  He had great hopes that a week in happy holiday conditions would restore her poor depressed brain to something like normal.  We had our doubts but we could not refuse to co-operate.  Lucy’s drugs, with full instructions on correct dosing, were collected from the hospital.  Lucy’s husband listened dutifully.  He took them home, and left them ready to pack on the sideboard in the dining-room.  Both the cases were ready for us, correctly labelled, standing by the front door.  We collected him and drove to the hospital and called for his wife at her ward.  Her melancholy expression thawed somewhat as we tucked her on the inside seat beside her husband on the coach.

 

It was about 9.30 p.m. that same evening that we received a disturbing message; Lucy had been prepared for bed; her husband had devotedly attended to all her physical requirements and tucked her into her bed. Then he had looked for her tablets, but after ransacking both the cases had, reluctantly, come to the conclusion that they were still on the top of the sideboard, 120 miles away.

 

We found Lucy a mild sedative and saw them both into bed with as much reassurance as we could muster.  Our confidence evaporated as we met for a council of war.  Our unanimous decision was that we would risk leaving Lucy un-sedated for thirty-six hours and seek an emergency prescription as soon as possible on Monday morning.  We would have to keep a close eye on Lucy’s condition and take emergency action should she show signs of disturbance.  Wishful thinking gave us the feeling that all would be well.

 

--- but it wasn’t.  At 12.30 p.m. on Sunday afternoon, Lucy was showing distinct signs of aggression.  We sought the help of the lady in charge of Reception.  She looked at her watch.  She thought that the chemist at the Market Square in Yarmouth stayed open until mid-day on Sundays.  The big clock above her head read 12.40 p.m.  She corrected herself.  “One o’clock, I meant” she assured us.

 

It seemed worth trying.  We had no prescription but we had two S.R.N. certificates between us.  A quick rush to our chalets, a quick rummage in our cases and we were back in the car within four minutes.  It was a distressingly frustrating crawl to the main road.  Dozens of strollers meandered along the road towards their mid-day meal.  Seemingly reluctant, they moved leisurely towards the side of the road to let us pass.  The car edged around wheelchair pushers and walkers on sticks or crutches.  It took every atom of patience not to increase speed.

 

At last we reached the road, and, taking advantage of a clear thoroughfare, sped through the empty village at 40 m.p.h.  Beyond the houses and between the fields, the speed signs allowed us to increase our speed, so our needle crept up to fifty.  Lights a mile ahead along the smooth straight road winked from amber to red and then back to green as we raced towards them.

 

Then, no more than thirty yards ahead, a large dark blue figure appeared, a massive hand held up above the white stripes of his cuff.  We slowed to a halt beside him, our trembling hearts in our shoes, and our limbs reduced to a quaking jelly.  He thrust his head down to our off-side window.  “Please draw into the road on the left, and park inside the cones”, he requested.  His disarming courtesy did nothing to allay our trepidation.  We did as we were told.  Two more massive blue arms crossed themselves on the edge of the open offside window.  Another blue-capped head appeared and a mouth opened to speak but I forestalled his attempt.  With my most appealing expression glued to my face, I pleaded.  “Will you be keeping us for long?”, I beseeched him.  “ We need an urgent supply of drugs for a mentally ill patient at the Camp.  The chemist closes in Yarmouth at 1 o’clock”.  The arms disappeared as if shot from the window ledge.  With a massive gesture more in keeping with a ceremonial salute to royalty than to two humble passengers of a small car, he gave us a wide sweep with his left arm and halted the on-coming traffic with an upraised right.  Startled and incredulous, we hesitated for a second.  “Hadn’t you better get a move on?”, said the large erect figure and away we went.  A tight circle, two yards in reverse to avoid the opposite curb and we were off down the road towards the green traffic lights at speed.

 

My companion giggled idiotically.  “What are you laughing about?”  “He believed what you told him”, she gurgled.  “Well, it was the truth”.  “I know”, she replied, illogically, “that is why he should not have believed you”.

 

Which I suppose is what should have happened but our luck was on our side.  Not only did we avoid prosecution, but our chemist was late in leaving to attach his Sunday joint.  On production of two official nursing certificates, he supplied a small packet of the tablets required on our promise to confirm it with a prescription from the local GP on the following day.