Edwin's emergency journeys

Swan attacks in Clare

Walking the dogs in Clare, we passed a pair of swans guarding their new brood. They reared and hissed as we passed, but the dogs were good and walked calmly to heel past them. Back at the house, Ann’s swollen face remains very sore from her dental surgery and seems red and hot. Edwin took her back to the dentist this morning and she has been started on antibiotics for infection. 

Later, hurrying back to the house from the studio through torrential rain, I missed my footing and tumbled forward onto the wheelbarrow. I have cut my head open to a gaping scalp wound so Ann insisted I go to A&E (or ED as it is now called) to get it dressed and assessed. She has been drinking to ease the tooth pain, so she phoned Edwin to take me. He was in Bury taking Andre through his driving test but came back to take me to hospital. He was delayed by a road traffic accident. A car was on its side in a ditch so the road was closed, but he diverted and finally I am at the hospital following Edwin's second emergency dash in one day.

Because of COVID no one can stay with me, so I’ve been sitting alone in Waiting Room A for 2 hours. More people keep arriving and ambulances are drawing up but none of us are called. Eventually though, I am taken through for triage. The nurse straps a wet dressing to the scalp then sends me back to the waiting room for the doctor to see. 

It’s all happening here. A young man has staggered in after skidding and going over his handlebars in the rain. He says he heard the bone snap and now can’t move his arm. A woman has tired of waiting and is sobbing at the reception counter saying she can’t wait any longer and must go home. A young couple sit opposite, scantily dressed. The girl is shivering with grazed bare arms and a low-cut dress. Now an alarm has gone off and six people have rushed into the night through the door to see goodness knows what. 

Grandad John with new bonnet

I downloaded Tetris to pass some time but after two goes it has switched to Candy Crush and will let me play Tetris no more. Now my head is throbbing and Its so late I just want to sleep. Some people are signing themselves out saying they can wait no longer. I am persevering. I am a few feet from the double doors. Both are wedged open to the night and it is getting cold. I need to walk to keep warm but I’m too tired. I have moved to a different waiting area to stretch my legs. There is a trail of fresh blood across the floor. A cleaner is loading a fresh mop to tackle it. 

Two policewomen came in to interview the young couple sitting opposite. They had been in the crashed car that delayed Edwin. The driver said he’d hit a patch of water and the car started to aquaplane; it rode on a sea of water “like ice” and skidded off the road. Luckily both were well but shaken and bruised and in for check-ups. 

At last I see the doctor, a lively young man training to be a GP. He says the skin flap is already dead and cannot be stitched, but the wound is not deep. He cleans the dried blood and old leaves from my hair and wound, and rebandages it with a simple patch. I text Edwin who arrives with Ann in the car, both glad to have their concern eased. We finally get home at one a.m. just five hours later.

Helpfulness, hysterics and hindrances

Hudgies in Clare

Hudgies is a general store in Clare that bills itself as "Ironmonger, Oil & Colourman." It is set out like a period piece in some historic street museum, but is very much alive and thriving.  I have yet to ask for something Mr Hudgie does not have somewhere in the dark recesses of his inner sanctum (I always think of him thus, though it is not his name). He was once a high-flying fund manager with HBSC, based I think in Tokyo. Many people I know who made their money and retired early used to dream of running a small country pub, but this shop was his dream, and he plays the part to perfection. He wears a faded brown cotton warehouse coat that would be a shoe-in for Open All Hours, and he has a small black dog curled up in a basket beside him, perched on a stool.

This week, I asked if he had any glue capable of fixing the hard plastic of our fridge door handle which had broken off. He produced a tube called "Hard Plastic Glue" - and it seems to work a treat. I also asked about the best way to stop my leaky kitchen tap. "Vaseline on the washer", he advised, and didn't even try to sell me a tub. That too seems to have worked, and thus far the tap stays dry.

Ann's cousin Alan is staying with us again for a few days. He is the founder member of SAD, the Society for Acrimonious Divorce, and was back in the UK for a court appearance to try and finalise his divorce to Iris, the Trinidad women to whom he has remained shackled for two painful years since their separation. In court last week, she broke down in hysterical screams and shouts, lying on the floor, her midriff exposed, kicking her legs wildly. The judge tried in vain for fifteen minutes to calm her, then called the usher who was equally unsuccessful, and the proceedings came to a halt until she had burnt through her fury. At last, Alan got a relatively favourable judgement, and is hopeful that the whole miserable business will soon be concluded. He has vowed never to remarry, and we are sworn to remind him should he look to be straying from this vow.

We also had a few friends over for an informal wine and cheese evening. Most of them we invited verbally, with a telephone call. I invited our neighbours across the road personally when I met the husband in the street. After some debate about whether it would be appropriate, we also invited our next door neighbour, Linda, whose husband is still confined to a nursing home following his stroke. I had not seen her face-to-face for a while, so dropped a card in with the invite. When she came, she told us the other neighbours would not be coming, because they had not had a formal invite. I said no one had a formal invite; it was all quite last minute; she got one because I didn't see her. Ann asked how they knew. "I went over to ask if they were coming," Linda said. "My card was so pretty, I showed it them and asked if they had had one." She paused. "Oh, I hope I didn't stir things." 

Dreams and scams

Bronte and Byron in Clare castle park

My health is gradually improving, like the weather. Clare castle park was lovely today, and enjoyed by many families with the children off school. The dogs too are always happy there to run loose and wild in the woods.

We had someone knock casually on the door last week, offering to clean the gutters, which I agreed to. When he'd done, he said the roof needed repairs, with loose cement and tile, and he could do the job for £1400. When I disagreed, he said he could "do it today" for £1000. I asked for his card and a written quote, but neither came. Yesterday a builder friend of Sam's came round to look at the roof. He said the cracks were minor, and there need be no rush to make them good. He also noted all the loose cement the other guys had thrown on the lawn. He would come when he could, and would do it all for £200.

Last night, I dreamt of two old friends, Colin and Ann. With uncanny synchronicity, Colin's sister phoned today, to say she'd just spoken with Ann, and Colin would love to see me. He has bad Alzheimer's, but Ann is sure he will remember me. I explained I had been too unwell to go recently, but now I'm growing stronger, I hope to make the journey soon.

Strange that in the news, three Tories have joined the 8 labour rebels. They seem to be united by a single issue: they are all ardent Brexit remainers. I can't imagine what purpose they will find to unite them once Brexit has happened; they will probably sink like all such single-issue parties.

Clare wilderness

Clare park has a tract of wild wood where I love to walk the dogs, away from the regular paths. Few people know it, so I generally have it to myself, a place where the dogs can run among the trees and disturb nobody. In the summer, some people had decorated the trees with ribbons and laced woodwork, to make a magic grotto reminiscent of the woods around the Tor at Glastonbury, but the park rangers soon ripped it down.

Nature

What was once wilderness
is now just torn shrub,
caterpillars tearing roots
yelling for yet more life,
Nature has been raped
its innocence rotted to decay,
and we are all the poorer
for nature's death in our today.

Annie Elliott

Today I entered to find the foresters have been working to cut back the wilderness. Great iron caterpillars have gouged up the earth, tearing up the moss, bracken, snowdrops and early bluebells to leave muddy ruts that catch the feet and cling to the dogs paws and my shoes. They have cut back the undergrowth and cropped the trees, leaving great mess of broken branches and ripped up shrubs, blocking the intimate paths between the trees. What a wild mess the wood is. Wilderness is such a rare and precious amenity it should be encouraged, not pruned back. Soon there will be no wild areas left, and we shall all be the poorer for it.

Death comes In dreams

Clare lights with The Bell and Annie

Clare always had pretty Christmas lights, which are still up. Ann says this will bring bad luck to Clare as it's well past 12th Night. It was certainly nearly bad luck for me. I went to The Bell for a coffee, but had to dash for the loo before I could order. Though a large hotel, there is only one cubicle in the Gentleman's and that was occupied. I stood in the corridor with rapidly increasing anxiety until I could wait no longer, so dashed into the Ladies' in desperation. I streaked past the washbasins almost in a state of exposure, but just made it. The cubicle there is tiny and almost impossible to turn round in or adjust one's clothing. To avoid further embarrassment, I left rapidly and washed in the Gents'.

Moving On

I do not spend time idly wishing
for things that are now lost:
the love that I've been missing
now belongs locked in the past.

The bird upon the swaying tree
sings a sweet, soft melody,
but it does not keep on tweeting
of things that will never be.

You can never make good cider,
with life's worm-eaten fruit;
wait for the warm glow of summer
and pick from the tree anew.

The stream will keep on flowing,
the waters fast move on;
I will not keep on dreaming
of a life that is clearly gone.

Annie Elliott

My body is at a low ebb. Only two hours sleep last night before I awoke to wee, and then only dribbles despite the urgency. I do not know if it is the after-effects of irradiation, or some manifestation of the cancer. I smell like a sewer – it is always bad when one can smell oneself coming. I do not think it is the smell of cancer (see "The smell of death"), but I suspect it arises from a permeability of the inflamed bowel wall. It is a strange battle, not an angry fight of open warfare, but more like a fifth column undermining the integrity of the whole, working undercover to bring disruption and sew doubt.

I awoke with memories of uneasy dreams. I was accompanied by a band of my children, attempting to reach the edge of a deep valley. I had been there before many times in previous dreams, but had always approached from the far end, usually having emerged from some tunnel. Now the track took us past a nest of tiny cobras, each erect with flared hood and menacing, and before us was a conveyor belt feeding a furnace that we had to cross. Though silent now, I knew a great lump of coal would soon drop from the chute, and the thing would start up. One of the children started to play with the conveyor belt, and I had to warn him to keep away, least he be caught up in it when it started up.

Ann's new poem too is about moving on. It is as though she read my dreams through that union of mysterious synchronicity that has been with us since we met. She too can smell the smell of decay. The time to move on comes closer now and I must prepare the way.