The Work At Hand

We are up slightly later this morning, around a quarter to eight, last night's rain has gone and the mild sea air from the southwest has produced another gentle washed out sky at dawn. We breakfast on our usual fare and then I take my coffee into the Garden Room, the Internet has crashed again, probably all the kids, in a last minute online frenzy before they return to school this morning. Fortunately I have half the Observer Magazine to read and Monday's Guardian, that keeps me amused until nine fifteen, when I shower and dress for the day. Before leaving for Cherry Burton, I hang out a line of whites and then put my coloureds into wash. After collecting Dolly and Teddy, we arrive at our usual spot on Newbald Road, shortly after ten. There are fewer cars parked today and not so many people around, now the children are all back at school and we wander happily through Newbegin Pitts and the meadow, before emerging onto the common, where I swap Dolly and Teddy on the lead and stop to admire John Trayner's baby son, George, who is now nine months old. John and his wife Claire, also own Poppy, another miniature wire haired dachshund, who is about four years old. She and Norman are also old friends and engage in the usual ritual of bottom sniffing and vigorous tail wagging, Teddy is itching to spoil the dachshund love in, but I have him firmly on the lead and Dolly is prospecting for rabbits in the bushes. John and I chat for ten minutes and then he turns for home and we make our way towards Black Mill. I have a missed phone call from Felicity and a voicemail, she and Liz, her Sherpa, are having a ride out to Tickton Garden Centre and want to know if I will meet them in the cafe. I phone back, but they have already left, so there is no answer. Fliss has no mobile and generally doesn't do technology. As we approach the Mill, a group of boys and a master from Beverley Grammar School, all dressed in cross country kit, come streaming towards us. The Grammar School is situated in the southeast corner of the Westwood, it is a good school, boys only until sixth form, and my oldest grandson Clement attended, until he went off to University College London, the year before last. I intend to go swimming today and to visit Leslie, so we turn downhill after Black Mill and return to the car, half way there we encounter another acquaintance, a lady with three pedigree Old English Sheep Dogs. She used to have two, but acquired a puppy, whose name is Reuben, six months ago, he is beautiful, boisterous, and bounces around us off his lead. This is too much of a challenge for Teddy and he surges after him with such force that he breaks his choker chain. A game of high speed tag ensues, the puppy is twice the size of Teddy but lacks the intensity of a terrier and wisely tries to stay out if range. Fortunately Reuben comes back to his owner to claim sanctuary, and she puts him on his lead, and once he is static, Teddy loses interest. I manage to clip his lead to his collar and we make our way back to the car. After dropping the terriers at Pips, we drive home, I give Norman some fresh water and some biscuits, grab my swimming gear and head for the Leisure Centre. It is about half past twelve as I enter the pool, there are only five swimmers in the whole place, so I have the pleasure of a lane to myself. Still feeling my way back to swimming fitness, I take it fairly steady, with 400m in each stroke, (the butterfly broken into 8 x 50m repeats) and then put more effort into 4 X 100m individual medleys, before warming down on a mixed 200m backstroke and freestyle. I feel good today, the catarrh, is breaking up and looks like it will clear, so all being well, I can swim each day this week. I have just received a reminder for Marie Curie about the Swimathon in April, and Cancer Research have a big push on Prostate Cancer, as a survivor, at least so far, I would like to help. The swimming bit is fairly easy, it is the fund raising that is more difficult, but their website is helpful with this, so I will almost certainly do it. In the cafe Helen is having her lunch break and her pregnant daughter is there as well, along with a friend. The talk is all about baby's names and I listen as I munch my way through beans on toast, my oaties ran out last night. It seems most of the names that are now fashionable wouldn't have been out of place a hundred years ago. It is a racing certainty, that whichever name is chosen for the royal baby, will be number one the year after, but there again I am called David, because my mum loved the Prince of Wales, who had the same name, before he became Edward VII. After lunch I call at the dry cleaners to enquire about the cost of taking the waist in on a pair of unworn trousers, that were incorrectly labelled. They want twenty pounds, so I will do them myself, when I have a quiet hour or so, the hand stitching on the seam won't show if I am careful and wonder web will fix the rest. I arrive at Molescroft Grange at three o'clock, it is a modern, purpose built, care home, with sheltered accommodation on one side and the main building on the adjacent. It is light, clean and airy, the staff seem friendly and competent as well. When I ask after Leslie, they tell me he won't come out of his room and then show me to him. He is sat in a chair with a cup of coffee and looks much better, he has put on a little weight, his colour is good and the tablets prescribed by Dr Hill have helped him to sleep. His room also has a television, but he tells me it doesn't work. A quick examination reveals the lead for the antenna is unplugged and I soon have it working for him. He is clearly pleased to see me and says he will be glad to get home once the respite period is over, but confesses that he hasn't walked anywhere since he came in. At ninety it is essential that he exercises, in order to retain his mobility, so I persuade him to walk the corridor with me and enquire whether the staff would do the same with him. He says he doesn't believe so, but on further examination reveals he hasn't even asked, so when we reach the desk, I enquire for him and the senior nurse says that all he has to do is buzz for help and they will walk with him. Actually, his walking is fine, it is his confidence and depression that are the problem, we complete three circuits and then I conduct him into the lounge where some residents are having an art class. We sit and rest and the art teacher asks Leslie if he is interested in painting or drawing and she is given short shrift, being told that "I have absolutely no interest in art", which I know not to be true. When we return to Leslie's room, an attractive young woman, of about thirty, knocks and says hello, she works for social services and is Leslie's contact and has popped in to see him, while she was visiting other clients in the home. The arrangements for Leslie's care when he leaves are discussed and he becomes quite aggressive, this same lady, Julie, arranged for help with his dressing on a morning, a couple of months ago and Leslie complains bitterly, " that I don't see why I have to get up at bloody eight o'clock to let the carer in!" It transpires that the carer can come at any time convenient to him and only comes at eight, because Leslie told Julie that he normally got up at a quarter to eight. Of course, this was all before the insomnia and depression and he has clearly forgotten, it is soon rearranged for nine o'clock, when he gets out. In the twenty odd years I have known Leslie, he has always been courteous and polite to everyone, this is most unlike him. The young lady takes it all in her stride, stays calm and cheerful and leaves after ten minutes or so. When she has gone, I have a chat to Leslie about his depression and manage to discuss this through the prism of an episode of my own experience of the illness, when a cluster of unfortunate events, including my father's death and my granddaughter's diagnosis with an incurable genetic disorder, temporarily disabled me. Over the last three months, Leslie has progressively cut himself off from his circle of friends, acquaintances and activities and steadily retreated inwards, until his only contacts are his daughter and my weekly visits. I hope I have got through to him, and tell him that I would help him to regain his mobility, but that he had to try to work with me on the depression and attempt, little by little, to rebuild his social connections. I leave him at half past four, promising to return tomorrow and take him for a walk outside in the fresh air, weather permitting. The Lord's work wasn't long in coming! Normy is waiting for me when I arrive home, his tail wagging furiously at the prospect of chicken casserole, which is quietly simmering in the slow cooker, but first the white washing has to be recovered from the line, before it is completely dark outside. Like last week, it will need airing on the radiators, but I leave it in the basket for now, while I make some suet dumplings to accompany the casserole, telling Norman that they will be worth the extra half hour wait. Once they are in the pot, I hang out the whites and then ring Leslie's son in law, William, who is amazed that Leslie has come out of his room, we agree a plan of action to try to get the old boy back to normal, if possible and William agrees to walk Leslie tomorrow as well and to talk to Dr Hill about his depression. A quick call to Felicity confirms she is feeling better and I arrange to pop in with Norman, after returning a library book this evening. The casserole and dumplings are great, the only fiddly bits are filtering the bones left after the flesh has boiled off. Sunday's chicken has fed us both well for three days, but I will be glad of a change tomorrow. I drop Cormack McCarthy's, "Suttree", at the library, even though I have only read the first three chapters. Someone else has it reserved and as I have had it for a month already, it only seemed fair to return it, but I rebook it when the new borrower returns it. Rain is falling steadily as we walk to Albert Terrace, having parked on Lairgate, colder weather is forecast for tomorrow. Felicity also looks better, the black eye from her fall having almost gone, her visit to the doctors is tomorrow afternoon and it is agreed we will meet the gang in the Poppy Seed in the morning. We leave around eight, make our way home, and then I make a batch of oaties, while listening to a really interesting program about the regeneration of Grimethorpe, after the pit closures of the 1980's. I used to take a water polo team from Harrogate to play Barnsley in 1979 and 1980 and remember the friendliness of the people we used to meet in that area. I am deeply prejudiced in favour of dyed in the wool, genuine, Yorkshire working class people and listening to the warm dialect and common sense of those being interviewed made me nostalgic for my roots. The oven pings, the oaties are set out to cool and I eat two, with a glass of milk, before bed at eleven. Setting the alarm for seven in order to get the dogs out early before the Poppy Seed.