or unfeeling, but I have to say it: he can’t live with us.’
‘I know.’
‘I just couldn’t cope with it. Christmas, and a few other times a year I can manage, but not having him here permanently.’
The truth is that neither could I, but I am grateful that Fred is prepared to take upon herself the odium of this decision. ‘He wouldn’t want to anyway,’ I said. This is true. Dad has never felt at ease in Fred’s house. The big rooms and high ceilings intimidate him; they make him afraid of draughts and frighten him with visions of huge energy bills. He actually suggested to Fred once, in all seriousness, that she should divide the drawing room with a big felt curtain suspended from the ceiling to create a sitting area near the fireplace; I think the motorised rails for her velvet window curtains gave him the idea. He honestly feels more comfortable in his frowsty little nest crowded with furniture, where three or four steps will take you from the door to the furthest corner of the room, than he does in this splendidly proportioned and luxuriously appointed salon.
‘But what shall we do with him?’ I asked.
‘You’ll have to look for a care home of some kind.’
‘You mean here?’
‘Would he move up here?’ Fred asked doubtfully.
‘He won’t move anywhere willingly,’ I said. ‘But it would make sense. We could keep an eye on him more easily, have him round for meals occasionally.’
‘ You could, darling, he’s your father,’ Fred said. ‘Of course he’ll always be very welcome here, but you’ll have to entertain him.You know how busy I am.’
I contemplated this prospect for a few minutes, Dad popping in every day for a chat, or rather grumble, and didn’t much care for it. On the other hand I am wearying of the regular pilgrimage to London to see him, and visiting him in a care home there, supposing I could find one, wouldn’t be any less of a fag.
‘I suppose I could see what’s available,’ I said, ‘and get him to look at some places while he’s up here at Christmas. I’ve no idea what they cost, have you?’
‘Anything decent is expensive,’ said Fred. ‘But if he sells his house that should cover it for a few years.’
I tried to imagine persuading Dad to accept this arrangement, living extravagantly off his diminishing capital, and failed.
‘And after a few years?’
‘If necessary we could take care of it.’ Clearly she didn’t think it would be necessary. ‘Speaking of Christmas,’ she said, ‘I want to have a big party here on Boxing Day, for friends and neighbours and clients. Buffet lunch and drinks.’
I pictured the pleasant, peaceful room full of people grinning and sweating and Lombard-reflexing away for all they are worth, and groaned inwardly.‘Won’t that be a lot of work for you, after Christmas dinner the day before?’ I asked, seeking an acceptable objection.
‘We’ll have it catered. Jakki knows an Asian company who don’t mind working over Christmas. She says they do delicious Thai curries and salads. People will be glad of a change from turkey and mince pies.’>
‘Dad won’t,’ I said.
‘Well then, he can have a cold turkey leg all to himself in his bedroom,’ Fred said crisply, ‘and as many mince pies as he can eat.’ I sensed that it would suit her very well if he were to choose this option.
Fred offered to get me something to eat, but I had bought a sandwich on the train and was not hungry. I poured myself a substantial whisky nightcap - a kind of rebellious oedipal act, perhaps, prompted by Dad’s homily on the subject, for it is not a regular habit of mine - and took it upstairs to sip in the bath before going to bed. I lolled in the steam and the warm water, leaching out the stress and fatigue of the day, then put on a pair of clean pyjamas and got into bed. I usually read a bit of poetry before I go to sleep. I keep my favourite poets on the bedside table - Hardy, Betjeman, Larkin - and dip into them at random.
‘I know.’
‘I just couldn’t cope with it. Christmas, and a few other times a year I can manage, but not having him here permanently.’
The truth is that neither could I, but I am grateful that Fred is prepared to take upon herself the odium of this decision. ‘He wouldn’t want to anyway,’ I said. This is true. Dad has never felt at ease in Fred’s house. The big rooms and high ceilings intimidate him; they make him afraid of draughts and frighten him with visions of huge energy bills. He actually suggested to Fred once, in all seriousness, that she should divide the drawing room with a big felt curtain suspended from the ceiling to create a sitting area near the fireplace; I think the motorised rails for her velvet window curtains gave him the idea. He honestly feels more comfortable in his frowsty little nest crowded with furniture, where three or four steps will take you from the door to the furthest corner of the room, than he does in this splendidly proportioned and luxuriously appointed salon.
‘But what shall we do with him?’ I asked.
‘You’ll have to look for a care home of some kind.’
‘You mean here?’
‘Would he move up here?’ Fred asked doubtfully.
‘He won’t move anywhere willingly,’ I said. ‘But it would make sense. We could keep an eye on him more easily, have him round for meals occasionally.’
‘ You could, darling, he’s your father,’ Fred said. ‘Of course he’ll always be very welcome here, but you’ll have to entertain him.You know how busy I am.’
I contemplated this prospect for a few minutes, Dad popping in every day for a chat, or rather grumble, and didn’t much care for it. On the other hand I am wearying of the regular pilgrimage to London to see him, and visiting him in a care home there, supposing I could find one, wouldn’t be any less of a fag.
‘I suppose I could see what’s available,’ I said, ‘and get him to look at some places while he’s up here at Christmas. I’ve no idea what they cost, have you?’
‘Anything decent is expensive,’ said Fred. ‘But if he sells his house that should cover it for a few years.’
I tried to imagine persuading Dad to accept this arrangement, living extravagantly off his diminishing capital, and failed.
‘And after a few years?’
‘If necessary we could take care of it.’ Clearly she didn’t think it would be necessary. ‘Speaking of Christmas,’ she said, ‘I want to have a big party here on Boxing Day, for friends and neighbours and clients. Buffet lunch and drinks.’
I pictured the pleasant, peaceful room full of people grinning and sweating and Lombard-reflexing away for all they are worth, and groaned inwardly.‘Won’t that be a lot of work for you, after Christmas dinner the day before?’ I asked, seeking an acceptable objection.
‘We’ll have it catered. Jakki knows an Asian company who don’t mind working over Christmas. She says they do delicious Thai curries and salads. People will be glad of a change from turkey and mince pies.’>
‘Dad won’t,’ I said.
‘Well then, he can have a cold turkey leg all to himself in his bedroom,’ Fred said crisply, ‘and as many mince pies as he can eat.’ I sensed that it would suit her very well if he were to choose this option.
Fred offered to get me something to eat, but I had bought a sandwich on the train and was not hungry. I poured myself a substantial whisky nightcap - a kind of rebellious oedipal act, perhaps, prompted by Dad’s homily on the subject, for it is not a regular habit of mine - and took it upstairs to sip in the bath before going to bed. I lolled in the steam and the warm water, leaching out the stress and fatigue of the day, then put on a pair of clean pyjamas and got into bed. I usually read a bit of poetry before I go to sleep. I keep my favourite poets on the bedside table - Hardy, Betjeman, Larkin - and dip into them at random.
Similar Books
