Starr Hills

I’m exhausted, struggling across this carpet like a geriatric tortoise. It was Alice who chose it, of course. She always had an eye for quality fabric. It’s pure wool and was a bargain at the time with a lifetime’s guarantee. It’s outlasted her lifetime that’s for sure, and it’ll still be in good nick after I pop my clogs. I shouldn’t joke about that at my age, especially after today’s debacle.

* * *

It's such a daft thing to have done. I should have left well alone. Daphne says to me every time she comes, ‘You’re not to dust, Arthur. That's what they pay me to do. You’re a gentleman of leisure now. Your dusting days are long gone.’ Which would be all right, provided she did the business. However, I know when a place isn't clean and Daphne doesn't dust. She just wafts about as if she’s auditioning for Swan Lake. 

* * *

I understand she’s my best interests at heart when she says, ‘Arthur. I don't want to find you've been vacuuming. The Hoover’s out of bounds.’ 

I say, ‘I could just run round with it occasionally.’ She says, ‘Your running days are over, Arthur. You'll do yourself a mischief.’ I say, ‘And you’d grass on me?’ ‘You know the score,’ she says. ‘If you don’t behave like a seventy-five-year-old man with a dodgy ticker and dizzy spells, then it’s curtains.’ 

I say, ‘Yes, Daphne.’ It’s easier to agree with her, even when she’s wrong.

She says, ‘You don't get it, Arthur. It’s me that stands between you and Starr Hills. That man at Social Services asks me, “How’s the old boy coping? Surely, he’d be better off in Star Hills?”’ I roll my eyes and say, ‘They don't put people in Starr Hills just for Hoovering.’ ‘You’re right,’ she says. ‘They’d prefer you to stay in your own home. But, Arthur, you've got to see sense. You don't have to mop the floor or clean the bath anymore. You’ve nothing to prove. Taking it easy won't kill you.’

* * *

It's always a relief when Daphne leaves after lunch. All that mithering gets to me after a couple of hours. I sit for a while with my cuppa, looking up at our old wedding photograph. Alice and I look so young back then. We were young, and holding hands as if we’re off on a mighty adventure. These days, they marry later and get divorced before you know it. Modern couples don’t know they’re born, what with one thing and another, and they take life for granted.

We look happy together in that photograph, despite the torrential rain. The sky was slate grey, and it didn’t stop pouring down for the entire day. I recall Alice’s dark eyes glistening like moonlit rock-pools at low tide and she couldn’t stop smiling. We knew little about life back then, not like nowadays. Today, the young ones grow up too quickly and expect too much. Things were much simpler for everyone back then. Maybe we had lower expectations? We had our difficulties, but made each other happy and who can ask for more?

* * *

‘You know what?’ I say out loud, ‘I bet you’ve never dusted that picture, Daphne.’ 

I used to reach up above the fireplace, only I can't now. Alice would turn in her grave if she saw those cobwebs. I can’t ignore them, so I drag the dining chair to the fireplace and clamber up. Thick with dust, just as I thought. ‘Dappy’ Daphne hasn't touched it. So much for home help. I’m much better off doing it myself. Better off until the damn chair creaks and tumbles over, and I clatter to the floor. 

Damn it! 

The glass has cracked. There are slivers of glass scattered all over the carpet. ‘I’m not smiling now, Alice,’ I say to myself, as I brush the twinkling shards to one side with my hand. I can't let on I was dusting. But Daphne will know what I’ve been up to. No doubt she’ll say, ‘I told you dusting is a no-no.’ I feel such a fool. It’s my leg that’s the problem. My leg's all numb. I think I'm all right. If I can lean against the wall, I’ll be fine. I'm just going to sit for a while. Catch my breath again. It messes you up, a fall like that.

* * *

The wind must’ve picked up during late afternoon, while I was snoozing on the carpet. That damn front gate is open again. It’s bang-banging like a damn nuisance. Daphne should have closed that. She never does. The latch is loose. That's the root cause of it. It's needed fixing for years. Alice kept saying to me, ‘When are you getting round to that gate?’ She wouldn’t let it lie and I’d say, ‘When I get a minute or two, Alice.’ Well, I’ve got more than a minute now.

* * *

Daphne's not touched this place. Would you believe it? There's a photograph under the sofa. How long has that been there? I can't think when I last saw that one. I’ve not worn that jacket for years and there’s Alice, after she lost the use of her legs. That was the start of all her troubles. I should’ve asked for help back then, but Alice didn’t want a stranger living with us. ‘You never know where they’ve been,’ she’d say. ‘And besides, you can cope, Arthur.’ There was no arguing with Alice when she’d got her mind set. ‘I can supervise and you’ll manage,’ she’d say. ‘You know I’m no trouble.’ 

* * *

Daphne doesn’t know the half. I'm going to place that picture on the table and show it to her next time she goes on about Starr Hills. I'll say, 'Don't Starr Hills me, Daphne. This photograph was under the sofa. I've only got to send this to the Director of Social Services and you'll be on the carpet. Same as that picture. I'll be in Starr Hills, Daphne, but you'll be queueing up in the Labour Exchange.'

* * *

I'll make a move in a minute. See if I can't put the kettle on. Come on leg. Wake up. Feels funny, this leg. Like it’s not quite attached. This isn’t right at all.

I'm not making much headway on this carpet. But I'm near to the window. I'll bang on the glass. Alert somebody. There’s bound to be a passer-by. The thing is, nobody knows their neighbours any more. The ones opposite. I don't know them. It used to be the Merriweathers. Mr and Mrs Merriweather and Linda, their daughter. Lived round here for years, the Merriweathers. Then he died, and she died, and Linda went into care. Supported housing, I think it was. There was smartish woman after them. Worked at a legal firm and collected money for Ethiopia and those famine regions. Then she went and folks started to come and go. You lose track. I don’t think they're married, half of them. You see all sorts. They come into the garden and behave like animals. I find the evidence in a morning. Empty beer cans and ketchup-stained newspaper wrappings. We’re walking distance from the local ‘chippie’ and by the time they pass our house, it’s chuck-it-over-the-garden-wall-time.

Looking at that photograph now, Alice doesn’t appear too ill. The numbness hadn’t spread and she could still hold a conversation. She still had her beautiful smile. That was before her memory faded. That was when she still called me ‘love’.

* * *

This legs no better. I always said we should have bought a dog. It could have been barking for help. Dogs are wonderful that way. They have a sixth sense and know when help is required. Alice wasn’t keen, which was a shame. She said I’d never take it out, and it’d be one more thing for her to do. I said I’d take the responsibility for walks and she said, ‘That’s right, Arthur and I’d be the one cleaning the muddy foot prints off the carpet every day.’ Alice capitulated in the end, but said it had to be on the small side. She didn't want one of those great messy articles. We never got one. Big mistake now.

* * *

The hallway looks like a cathedral from down on the carpet. It’s maddening how it takes so long to drag yourself about when your legs stop working. Alice must’ve hated the incumbrance. She never wanted to be a burden, even at the end. I don’t think she ever admitted defeat and just assumed we’d cope. ‘Coping’s what we do best, Arthur,’ she’d say. ‘And I know you’d do the same for me, dear.’ ‘Of course,’ I’d say, smiling. ‘It’s what we know about and I’m an expert, love.’

 * * *

Oh, hello, footsteps outside the window? Somebody’s coming. It’s the postie.

Hang on a second. 

A young lad. 

‘Hello! Hello!’

It’s that young fella from number thirty. The newsagent’s paperboy. 

What the…? He's pissing up against the wall just outside the window. 

The cheeky devil.

‘Hey! Hey! I recognise you. You little demon! Clear off!’

You wouldn’t credit it. Inside our garden. Broad daylight. No shame, some people. He must have seen me on the carpet. I don’t suppose he’d know what to do. They’ve no common sense, these young ones nowadays.

* * *

The front door's a better bet if I can open it and wait until somebody walks past. The mail-order delivery man comes next door now and again. Perhaps I can catch him, if I can get there. I shouldn’t have removed all Alice’s mobility handles and bars. They’d have been handy for me right now. 

* * *

Those last few feet of carpet were a killer and the doormat’s covered in a dusty old mess. If I can twist around and use the letter-box to help me, perhaps I can get the door handle. Damnation! I can't reach the lock. That's part of Daphne’s regime. 'Lock it and put it on the chain, Arthur. You never know who comes. It might not be a genuine caller.' 

More footsteps? 

Suddenly, it’s like Piccadilly Circus. I’m not expecting any visitors today. What’s this? Take-away pizza adverts? 

‘Hello! Hello!’

They must have heard me. 

‘Help! Help!’ 

Damn leaflets.

What’s all this junk about? 

Minicabs? 

‘Moss on your roof?’ 

‘Clearance sale.’

No thank you.

* * *

Alice used to say, ‘We're better off, Arthur. Just the two of us.' It was then when I started talking about getting a dog. If it had lived, I might have been rescued by now. It would’ve had the sense to alert the neighbourhood and kept me company. 

* * *

My other leg’s not right now. That one's going numb too. ‘You're not fit to be on your own.’ I say, as if there’s an audience. ‘You'd be better off in Starr Hills, Arthur.' We were always on our own, me and Alice. A top team in our prime, but not gregarious. We just weren't the gregarious type. Alice thought she was, but she wasn't. Not really. I mean, she drew a lot of attention. I know she had admirers. She enjoyed them flirting with her.

* * *

I can’t imagine life in Starr Hills. I don't want to mix. When you reach the end of the line, they think you want to mix. But I don't. I don’t want to be cooped up with a load of senile old fellas. It’s the smell of pee that gets to me. I’ve had my fill of accidents from when Alice lost control. And they’re all daft in those rest homes. I’d go daft there too, because there's nowhere else for you to go but daft. They even mix up your teeth in places like Starr Hills. I know Daphne says, ‘You're not up to date, Arthur. You’d have your own space and a telly in your room, if you want some peace. They have lovely day trips to the seaside too.’ ‘That’s right.’ I say. ‘Smelling of pee.’ ‘You’ve no idea,’ she said, frowning. ‘I have,’ I said, ‘where urine's concerned, I’ve a most clear idea.’ ‘You belong in Starr Hills, Arthur.' ‘A rest home, Daphne? Not for me. No fear.’

* * *

‘Hello! Hello!’

A saviour at my letterbox?

‘Are you all right?’

‘I'm fine, thank you very much.’

‘Are you sure? We had a report from a young lad who—-’

‘I spotted him earlier thank you, constable.’

‘Your light was off and he thought---’

‘I was having a nap, officer.’

‘Sorry to disturb. Take care.’

‘Thank you.’

Clink! Click!

At least he shut the gate.

‘Thank you.’

You've done it now, Arthur. 

It’s cold next to this letter box now. 

I wish I was upstairs and tucked into bed. 

Wrapped up in my thick warm quilt with a hot drink.

That’s another fine mess I’m in, isn’t it, Alice? 

What's done is done, and never mind.

The End