The leaves outside the window reminded Tom of Ethel’s hair-do, only upside-down. She sat a few spaces to his right between the corner lamp and the TV and her protruding frizz cast a shadow across the screen. He thought about yelling over to her, telling her to shift her fat head but he didn’t bother for two pretty good reasons. For starters Tom’s voice had grown so weak over the last few years that any attempt to yell would not only be futile but would probably result in his voice box disintegrating in his throat and coming out in a violent sneeze. Secondly Ethel was as deaf as a post and even if by some miracle she was able to hear Tom’s shout, or perhaps his thorax splitting sneeze, her reaction would be minimal as her arthritis had practically welded her to the chair.
So rather than risk taking anything into his own hands Tom did what he always did and pulled his red string that hung next to his chair. The living room (ironically named in Tom’s opinion) was littered with these emergency strings and was what, Tom imagined, a Hollywood studio rigged for filming something with a lot of vertical laser beams might look like. Tom hadn’t seen a film since 1954, however, so he didn’t tell anyone about this theory.
Nurse Woakes came throbbing down the hallway. She was essentially a caricature of her own huge bosom and enhanced the stereotype of her profession two-fold by herself. Her footsteps sent mini tsunamis across the carpet as she approached.
“Yes, Tom dear. What is it?”
“Good Morning, Sandra,” Tom whispered.
“It’s three PM, my dear.”
“Yes. Well, quite.” Tom looked at the floor and then at his hands and then at Nurse Woakes. “Ah. Good morning, Sandra.”
“What can I do for you Tom? Are you sliding down your chair a little? It’s these plastic sheets isn’t it, eh? I tell you, Tom, if Nurse Horsefield could wash these chairs with petroleum jelly I think she would. I can’t tell you the amount of times I’ve come in in a morning and had to wipe them down again. Honestly, soap suds all over the place. You’d think she was preparing the place for It’s a Knockout. Honestly.” Nurse Woakes chortled to herself at this and then suddenly succumbed to the joke so profoundly that her hands planted themselves on her hips and her humongous breast were thrust forward and punched Tom full in the face.
“I wonder if I might have a bowl of that petroleum jelly,” Tom said from under the folds of Nurse Woakes as she pulled up his cushions and shunted him into a more upright, and decidedly less comfortable position. Tom’s request was apparently humorous enough to send the great big carer into a wobbling fit of giggles and, considering Tom’s partially asphyxiating position, resulted in what people of a younger generation might call motorboating, but what Tom could only describe as a facial pummelling.
“Oh, Thomas, you are a joker, aren’t you, eh? Give your string a tug if you slip down again my dear.” Said Nurse Woakes as she trundled back down the hallway and out of sight. And for Tom out of sight was out of mind.
Tom looked around the living room. The walls were draped with red and green tinsel that was so thin it was in danger of being mistaken for an emergency cord. Tom wondered what effect pulling a green emergency cord might have, he’d certainly never seen a green one before. The curtains were open and it was raining outside. The water dribbled down the last leaves on the tree and made Tom think of Ethel’s hair again. He looked back in the direction of the TV but couldn’t see the blasted thing. He reached to pull his red cord to call the nurse but paused for a moment as a memory threatened to reveal itself. Had he just spoken to the nurse about this? He couldn’t remember talking to anyone but his face ached in a way that convinced him he had recently been close to Nurse Woakes. He was also impressively upright. He lowered his hand and considered his options: he could shout to Ethel (low chance of success and high physical risk); he could try to get up and move his own chair (extremely low chance of success and very high physical risk); he could pull his red cord and hope that his encounter with Nurse Woakes was successful (low chance of success, high mental risk and considerable physical risk). But considering Tom had forgotten the first two options he pulled the cord. The light at the end of his cord blinked knowingly and the legs of his chair began to shudder. The threads in the yellow carpet wafted viciously like corn in the breeze. Tom looked around the room and wondered what might happen in the future. He also wondered what had happened in the past. His back ached and his face felt sort of flat.
And so this was life in the old home. It continued in much the same way day after day, year after year, Tom after Ethel after Bernard after Joan. Nurse Woakes smiled and suffocated. Nurse Horsefield continued to lube-up the armchairs until she too eventually found herself sliding around in a memoryless trance. The TV was on solidly between the hours of seven AM and eight PM and the walls of the old home absorbed the sounds and smells and flickering thoughts of the residents without commentary. There was no commentary and no memory but life still continued in the old home. For ever and ever and ever.
Thanks for reading. I’d love to hear your comments!
Stories from Pictures 