Constance- Peter Arscott

At ninety, Constance Burridge is seen by her care home as difficult, confused and declining. She sees an institution determined to make her disappear.

I have had enough.

I must be invisible. Nobody sees me. They only see what they want: an old wreck of a woman – so much easier to deal with, aren’t we? Old women. Old, cantankerous, crotchety beings.

I’ll give them cantankerous.

I did not want to get out of bed this morning.  I am sure the mattress is feeding on me. It’s growing larger as I shrink. It engulfs me like a giant hungry slug, but I am quite happy about it.  I did not bother ringing the little buzzer on the bedside table, in the hope that they would leave me alone, but they came anyway with their rise and shine Constance, and we don’t want to stay in bed all day now, do we?

After five years I have given up insisting they address me formally as Miss Burridge. Staff turnover is so high in this place that I have lost count of the carers who never bother to listen to me. At least it is Constance and not Connie.

Nevertheless, I am fed up.

I have adapted to the timetable of this institution, with its lunch at midday, much too early for any civilised person, and its six o’clock supper – I ask you, one has hardly had time to digest the previous meal. Mind you, the food is never a challenge to even the weakest digestive system because it is pap: semolina, porridge, mashed potatoes, jelly, that sort of thing. The infantilisation of our taste buds goes hand in hand with the bovine entertainment. Sing-alongs with a mooncalf of a man on a guitar, or else a visit from a group of adenoidal children from the local school, who are made to sing to the assembled wheelchairs before being led away to chocolate biscuits and lemonade. To their obvious relief. The less time I spend with my fellow inmates, the better. Half of them are away with the fairies and the other half are desperate for company, something I am not going to provide anybody in this institution. It is every woman for herself here.

•  •  •

RE:  Miss C. Burridge

FROM:  Ana Palmer  < care@meadowbank.co.uk>

TO:  Ciprian Tadeus  <manager@meadowbank.co.uk>

DATE: 21 August 2019, 11:37

Dear Ciprian

This email confirms that Miss Burridge (Room 54) has withdrawn the complaint she lodged on Thursday regarding the loss of her silver brooch. The brooch was found by the cleaner in Miss Burridge’s sponge bag in the bathroom.

Ana

•  •  •

I was sitting in my room yesterday, rereading Madame Bovary, and I had the window open. I like to let in a bit of fresh air whenever I can. The urinary scent that permeates the whole building is ever-present, and I freely admit to adding to it myself; incontinence pads and unforeseen accidents are par for the course at my age. I overheard voices in the garden and looked out to see the two gardeners. I forget their names, but they have been here since I moved in – young and sullen, like most of their generation – and they were talking about someone else, probably a girl, when one of them said, well, I don’t give a flying fuck.

It is the flying that does it for me. In the end it was the motivation for my getting up this morning, though I was also cajoled into doing so by those two so-called carers. Something to look forward to today, however trivial.

Yes, I am being taken out for lunch. Who by? My brother? Yes, my brother. Where is my bag?

Here, Constance, you’ll need this shawl, won’t you? And what about a hat?

Have either of you seen my bag? It was right here on the bedside table…

Here it is, Constance. It is on the floor by your dressing table.

Well, I do not know how it got there. One cannot rely on anything or anybody, can one? I expect someone put it there to confuse me.

Now, now, Constance.

I have lost countless possessions in my time here or mislaid them, as I am told by the administration. I know it is likely to be one of the cleaners. One in particular looks very light-fingered to me, though I have not seen her in a while. Time passes in a strange way here so that I am not entirely sure whether I saw her in my room last week or months ago. Apparently, I am taken out to lunch regularly, on a monthly basis, and always by young Andrew, which is not my brother’s name, as I keep telling them at reception. I do remember looking forward to these outings in the past, but I do not care now whether I go out for lunch or not, I do not care what anybody thinks, even my brother, I do not care if I see no one again. It is not a question of happiness or sadness – I just do not want to be anymore. I’m way past my sell-by date.

Before I came here, I would have been appalled at the image of an old woman with leaking incontinence pads and ill-fitting teeth having to be bathed twice weekly, at times not of her choosing, by two strangers who call her by her first name and who treat her like a six-year-old. But here I am, eighty-six, eighty-seven, or however old I am, a slave to my bladder, unable to walk unaided, or wash when I please, or Heavens above, wipe myself, or go out whenever I want to. Or drink a good Scotch whisky in a garden as the sun goes down. Oh, of course, I am deaf too, or partially deaf anyway, which means I go around with a hearing aid that makes strange noises and stops me using the phone. Not that there is anyone to phone. All the people I know seem to belong to the past.

Mother. I can hardly remember her. Yes. I was playing with a doll in the front garden, just a few feet from the paved path that led from the gate to the front door of the cottage. The dark rooms of the cottage, always silent and undecorated except for the framed photographs of my father in uniform, always forced me out into the open. The sky was a clear blue. The gate creaked open and there was the old postman stooped under the weight of his leather satchel. He said nothing to me, not even a nod in my direction, but a slow and reluctant trudge to the door, a cough and three clear knocks. The air I breathed changed with those three knocks, from a clean and uncomplicated fragrance of bloom and dry earth to one of dread.  Mother sagged and fell. I stood as the postman bent down to help her, as he turned away to fetch others, as Mrs Tippet next door came into the garden with a glass of water, as Aunt Hilda arrived crying dear God, dear God, as Mr Wags rushed in and out of the house barking. It was a long time before anybody remembered to look for me and lead me back into the dark sitting room where Mother sat wordless and numb. We hardly ever touched each other, and we did not then.

But I digress. They have left me at reception with my Zimmer parked alongside the armchair. From here I have a view of the car park and I can already see him coming towards the foyer, looking quite smart in a suit. He has always dressed well, my brother, and goodness, he is looking so young. Extraordinary.

Hullo, Aunt Connie. Ready to go?

Oh. I am not at all sure who he is, but there is something familiar about him. He looks like Alfie. Must be related. Alfie would never wear tennis shoes, though. Not with a suit. Very inappropriate. And is that an earring? Goodness me, so it is. And that has set off a few bells ringing. Yes, of course, the boy with the earring, something to do with poets. He is not my brother.

Shall we walk to the car? The restaurant is the one you like, Auntie, the one in the town centre. I’ve booked a table by the window. All right with the Zimmer, or will you take my arm?

It is, of course, the wrong Zimmer they have given me. I like the one with the handbrake and four wheels, and that idiot handyman has given me a two-wheeler. It will take longer getting to the car. Yes, there is something of the Romantic poet about his appearance. Not Byron. Not Shelley. It must be the usual restaurant, then. Good, I’ll order the most expensive dish on the menu. Duck. Not that I care anymore. I used to think duck was marvellous. Marvellous. Oh, yes, the Metaphysical poets, Marvell. That’s who it is. Marvell, Andrew Marvell. The boy’s name is Andrew. I knew I would get there. Andrew, not my brother Alfie. His son. No, his … grandson. Alfie is … Alfie is … dead.

Oh.

You alright, Auntie?

Andrew, his grandson. My great-nephew. Lawyer. A bit pleased with himself. No hinterland. Given to flashy dressing. One cannot describe his dress as understated: tennis shoes, earring, two rings on one hand, a bracelet, and I am sure his hair is coiffed to give him that peek-a-boo fringe. I suppose I’m expected to be pleased that I’m being taken out by a young man.

Yes, yes. Off we go then …er …. Andrew.

Why am I remembering things that I long ago thought I’d forgotten? What was his name? I remember walking up Langham Place and I saw him waiting even before I crossed Marylebone Road. We walked into the park together. He, ten years my senior, recently out of the army. We sat on the grass under an oak, and he took my hand and pulled me towards him. I stiffened and turned my face away, he knitted his brow and took a deep breath, then let go my hand. I may have smiled apologetically, but he lowered his head and took a cigarette out of a pack in his breast pocket, and without offering me one, lit it. We said nothing to each other. When he finished his cigarette, he stood up and threw the stub on the ground, trod on it and without looking at me, walked away. I watched him leave until he was out of sight. I gazed at the stub smouldering in the grass until its faint spiral of smoke finally gave out, then I stood up and walked back to the BBC.

I was too young.

Now I am too old.

By the way, it has taken forever to get to this restaurant. Why this boy could not simply have dropped me off on his way to park the car, especially with this rain teeming down, instead of which he has had to hold an umbrella over me as I grappled with the Zimmer frame and we made our way through the crowds. I shall have a word with that handyman when I get back. The boy looks quite damp. His fringe is wet and plastered to his forehead – rather unfetching. And now he is wittering on about something.

What’ll you have, Auntie? A drink to start, perhaps?

Oh, the waiter is here. I will not drink it all, perhaps a glass only, but I shall order a bottle. He cannot drink, of course, as he has to drive. The Montrachet. One of the advantages of age and the onset of dementia, or whatever it is I am supposed to be getting, is that one can get away with anything. Looking blankly into space is what I do when the bill comes, and politeness forbids a gentleman to even hint that his elderly aunt might consider paying, even if she is considerably better off than he.

I’ll have the Montrachet.

I’m not sure they do it by the glass. Do you, waiter?

Sadly not, sir.

Will you choose another, Auntie?

The Montrachet will do. A bottle.

But, Auntie…. A whole bottle…

The waiter is fidgeting with his notepad. The boy is fingering his collar. I really do not care, do I?

A bottle. And I’m having the duck.

I won’t be able to help you drink it, will I? I have to drive. And they don’t allow alcohol at the residence, do they? You won’t be able to take it back.

I know the tables alongside are all ears, and the boy and the waiter are both looking nervous. I say with great deliberation:

I – do – not – give – a – flying – fuck.

The silence that follows is delicious. Words are so important – the way you say them, the order you put them in, the emphasis you choose.

Oh yes, producing programmes was what I most enjoyed, even the challenging ones, though I admit that towards the end of my career it got more difficult. I loved the BBC. As a producer I was keen on good clear scripts. Incomplete comparisons, for example, meant the listener could not discern what the comparison meant. And dangling modifiers? And the use of the first-person singular as the object instead of “me”? Really. I could tell straight away they thought I was a dried old stick, but it was part of my job to uphold standards. I know they called me Connie the Grammarian.

In the end, I did leave the corporation with relief. I can see the salver they gave me on the mantelpiece. It catches my reflection, a distorted close-up of my mouth, with its wrinkles and lip lines, the drooping cheeks, the scrawny neck. Sometimes I hold it out at arms’ length and then place it back on the mantelpiece against the wall, just below the mirror.

Presented to Miss Constance Burridge

by her colleagues and friends

on the occasion of her retirement

after 45 years of devoted service to the BBC

July 1999

•  •  •

RE:  Miss C. Burridge / Andrew Hunt

FROM:  Ana Palmer  < care@meadowbank.co.uk>

TO:  Ciprian Tadeus  <manager@meadowbank.co.uk>

DATE: 12 September 2019, 13:02

Dear Ciprian

Update concerning our resident Constance Burridge, aged 89 (Room 54), as requested. This is in response to a request by her great-nephew, Andrew Hunt, who has power of attorney. I hope the following will do, but if not, please get back to me and I can go into more detail.

Miss Burridge has been with us for nearly 5 years and is very independent. She does not mix with other residents and prefers to be alone in her room. She listens to the radio a great deal, and also reads novels.

I have over twenty years’ experience in general nursing, mainly specialising in elderly care, and aim to provide the best possible care and environment for the residents of Meadowbank. Despite this, Miss Burridge is given to making complaints on a regular basis, and it is probably this that her great-nephew is concerned about. Often it is a case of mislaid possessions that lead to accusations of theft against my team of professional and dedicated nurses and carers, who help me maintain the high standards at Meadowbank. In almost all cases the object in question is discovered and returned, always without receiving any apology.

I have noticed that, apart from the expected physical deterioration in a person of her age, Miss Burridge has entered a period of forgetfulness and confusion which, in my experience, indicates the early to middling stages of vascular dementia, as diagnosed by Dr Martin last year and communicated to her power of attorney. Her physical frailties are typical for her age and include deafness (possibly selective), diabetes, loss of bone mass and arthritis.

I am happy to talk further with you and Mr Hunt at your convenience.

Ana

•  •  •

The problem with duck, delicious as it is, is the chewing required. The slivers have to be carefully masticated to get all the flavour without dislodging one’s teeth. The potatoes are easy, as are the peas, and, in any case, should there be any difficulty, a mouthful of Montrachet does the trick. I am on my second glass. The rain is still pouring down. I can see people beyond the restaurant window passing by with their umbrellas, hunched against the wet. It is so wet outside that the window looks like the front porthole of a washing machine.

The boy, Andrew, is going on about something to do with his mother. I am unbothered and giving him my blank stare of incomprehension, which allows me to enjoy myself the better by looking around at the people – my word, people are so much fatter nowadays, if this lot are anything to go by. His mother I cannot remember, and frankly I do not care; the whole family suffers from some moral turpitude that prevents them from ever visiting me, except for this boy warbling in front of me, who only takes me out because anything left after I die goes to the family. I cannot alter the will now that he has power of attorney. I shall order the Frozen Haute Chocolate Ice Cream Sundae, even though I cannot eat it.

Marvell is my favourite – “My vegetable love should grow / Vaster than empires and more slow” – I wonder if the boy has a mistress? He looks the type. There were lots like him at the Corporation. He is looking somewhat flustered and embarrassed and keeps looking furtively at our fellow diners. At the same time, he is duty-bound to make conversation with someone who is so obviously not listening that the whole business is becoming quite a burden for him. But he has years ahead of him, a life to live, whereas I know I do not. The sooner I go, the better. Poor boy.

•  •  •

RE:  Miss C. Burridge / Andrew Hunt

FROM:  Ana Palmer  < care@meadowbank.co.uk>

TO:  Ciprian Tadeus  <manager@meadowbank.co.uk>

DATE: 17 September 2019, 10:23

Dear Ciprian

In answer to your request for a further update, I would describe Miss Burridge’s condition as comfortable, given the circumstances. Her main carers, Maria and Trini, tell me that they are finding it more difficult to get her up in the mornings, stating that she would rather stay in bed since she has lost interest in everything and everybody, and that she is, to quote, very happy being “eaten up by the hungry slug”. This is both a sign of depression and confirmation of Dr Martin’s diagnosis, and I have urged both carers to make sure she is up and dressed daily by 10 a.m.

Best wishes

Ana

•  •  •

The boy Andrew insists on accompanying me back to my room when there is really no need, I am capable of propelling myself unaided, and I would rather he did not see my things, assuming the few “things” left have not been taken by the light-fingered. We drove back through the rain in silence. It is still pouring down.

I think he is upset in some way, probably by the fact that he had to pay for lunch, though he is taking home what is left of the Montrachet. I wonder if the institutional smells and the aged relics we keep passing in the corridor are putting him off; he seems to have lost his zest. He is probably thinking of his own future and worrying that he too will end up in a place like this, though, of course, it is not a “place”, is it? A place is where one has some sort of connection worth caring about. A sense of belonging. I should never have sold my flat in London, where I was … not happy so much as least unhappy. And here I am, back in my room, and I can see straight away that my pashmina is not on the bed where I left it this morning.

Auntie?

What does he want? To say goodbye, I hope.

Auntie, this is for you.

He is holding out a blue plastic bag.

Happy Birthday.

Oh, birthday? My birthday? How old am I?

It’s your ninetieth, Auntie. Here I’ll put it on your bed. Presents from all of us, one from me and Penny, one from Mum and Dad, and there’s one from cousin Jack too. I didn’t know what to get you. Penny suggested some perfume. Hope you like it, Auntie.

He is approaching me for a goodbye kiss. I shall offer him my cheek. Dreadful continental habit.

Bye. See you next time, Auntie.

At last, I am alone. Shall I open the presents? No. I will take them out of this bag and put them in the cupboard. Oh, there is the pashmina – I did not ask anyone to put it in the cupboard. I am sure they do it deliberately. So, I am ninety. Ninety, and in my own tiny domain. At six those two nincompoops will arrive and try to give me a bath, I suspect. Then feed me pap. The Montrachet was good. I can see the rain out of my window, coming down in torrents. It is a world of wet.

•  •  •

RE:  Miss Burridge

FROM:  Ana Palmer  < care@meadowbank.co.uk>

TO:  Ciprian Tadeus  <manager@meadowbank.co.uk>

DATE: 30 September 2019, 12:17

Ciprian

With your permission, I can confirm that I have given Maria and Trini two days off. Trini in particular has been affected. I have changed my mind about altering our policy on residents’ possessions and agree with you that confiscating plastic bags is a step too far. I do feel very sorry for Mr Hunt, who is obviously feeling responsible for the whole sad episode, though I did try to reassure him, as you did, that when a person has made up his or her mind to do something and is as determined as Miss Burridge, there is nothing anyone can do. Still, once the coroner’s enquiry has taken place, I am sure things will calm down. Thankfully, these episodes hardly ever happen at Meadowbank.

Best wishes

Ana