Page 52 of Wish You Were Here
‘What?’
‘Flash Radio 97.3! I had an after school show from four to six. I played all the hits, and once I interviewed Natalie Cassidy.’
‘Sonia fromEastenders?’
‘The very same.’
‘What happened? Why did you stop doing radio?’
‘The usual, Ben. Creative differences, a lengthy contractual dispute,’ says Simon. ‘Right, I’m off. I don’t want to be late for yoga. For a relaxing, meditative practice, they are surprisingly militant about punctuality.’
Simon leaves, and then I hear the shower being turned off. I know Simon is right. I just need to tell Jemma about Saskia. The only thing he doesn’t know, and the thing I didn’t tell him, is that it is a big deal. Saskia means a lot to me, and I don’t know how to explain that to Jemma without it being weird. I suppose I just have to do it because he is right about something, Jemma is great and she will probably be fine with it as long as I am honest, but the longer I leave it, the more reason she’ll have to be suspicious.
22
Saskia
I haven’t been able to stop thinking about Lou since the last time I saw him. He was so angry with me, and I still don’t know why and what’s happening with his son. The thing is, I just want to help. I want to make sure that whatever time Lou has left on this planet is as good as possible, and maybe reuniting him with his son is the best thing I can do for him. I would give anything for one more minute with my own dad, and the thought his son wouldn’t want the same breaks my heart. I take a deep breath, knock on Lou’s door and walk inside.
It’s almost dark inside his room, the curtains are closed with just a thin shaft of light shining in, and Lou is in bed. It’s such a beautiful day, it’s a shame he’s stuck inside like this, and so I decide I’m going to take him outside for a walk. He needs to feel the sunshine on his face and maybe a few minutes out of bed, a hit of vitamin D and he will feel a little better. If not, it will be good for him to smell some fresh air and remember what being outside feels like before he’s moved to the care facility because once he is in there, that’s pretty much it.
‘Morning, Lou!’ I say brightly. ‘How ya goin’?’
Nothing comes back, which is so much worse than one of his rude comments or complaints about being fucking old. I long to hear one of his misogynistic comments or sexual jokes aboutgiving an old man one last bit of fun with an X-rated bed bath. I want to hear the old Lou who didn’t give a shit what anybody thought and made rude comments about everyone at the home because that was him. This quiet, sad old man, lying in bed in the darkness, is barely a shadow of his old self, and it makes me feel sick to my stomach that this is how his life is going to end. It’s like he has given up and is just waiting to close his eyes and draw his last breath.
‘Fancy going outside, Lou? It’s a lovely day, and if you behave, I’ll even steal you a ciggy from one of the smokers. How does that sound?’
I look down at the small mound in the bed, the slowly decaying body of Lou Sanders under the sheets, and finally he looks up towards me.
‘For a second, love, I thought you were going to show me your tits,’ says Lou, his gravelly voice that used to be so loud, so full of life, is quieter, but at least a part of him is still there.
I laugh. ‘Let’s get you outside first, and you never know. Maybe one day I’ll get them out for you,’ I say, and he makes a noise like a laugh.
I need to get a wheelchair, and then I have to get him out of bed. It’s a challenging task, but he weighs so little now, it’s easier than I thought it would be. When he arrived at Marrickville Retirement Village, he walked in tall, strong, and now seeing him so frail, it breaks my heart, but this is the job. It’s giving these people a decent end to their lives. It’s listening to their stories, the same ones over and over again because they forget they’ve already told it to you a hundred times before, and it’s spending time with them and letting them know they aren’t alone.
I eventually get Lou into the wheelchair, wrapped in a dressing gown with his slippers on. He complains and grumbles about it being ‘fucking uncomfortable’ and he’s betteroff just staying in ‘fucking bed, eh’, but I ignore him and wheel him outside. Most of Marrickville Retirement Village is pretty horrible. The building itself and the decor are constant reminders that you’re somewhere unpleasant, but they do have a lovely garden full of bright, colourful flowers, and there’s a bench at the end of the garden where you can sit and enjoy the day. This is where I push Lou. On the bench is a plaque that says:For Madge, she loved this spot.I can’t help but think that she probably loved a lot more spots in the world than that fucking garden. It should probably read something like:Madge, she didn’t mind this spot towards the end, but she would rather have died at home in her own garden, surrounded by people she loved.Although I never knew Madge, maybe her life was a total shitshow until the end.
When we get to the bench, I put the brake on his wheelchair, and I sit down. There’s no-one else around on this gorgeous morning. The cloudless sky is a deep blue, birds are squawking overhead, and it’s the perfect day for just sitting and enjoying life. I grabbed a couple of ciggies from one of the other staff members, and I pull them out of my pocket.
‘Fancy one last ciggy together, Lou?’
I don’t smoke anymore, but it feels like a moment to share one with Lou. He was a voracious smoker when he first arrived, but slowly, like everything else, it slowed down. They don’t really encourage smoking at Marrickville Retirement Village, for obvious reasons.
‘Yeah, go on then,’ says Lou, and so I light one ciggy and pass it to him. He holds it in his thin, wrinkled fingers, his hands covered in liver spots, and he takes a puff. I light the other ciggy myself and take a drag. It feels good, but I know I can’t start smoking again. Not properly anyway. I’ll probably always be a casual smoker, but that’s about it.
‘I’m sorry about the other day,’ I say. ‘I didn’t mean to make you upset about your son.’
I look at him, and he looks across at me.
‘Don’t worry about it, love.’
‘I was just trying to help.’
‘Yeah, I know, but you’ve got to let it go, Saskia.’
‘Fuck, you called me Saskia! You never call me, Saskia. Always love, or sometimes, ‘oi, you with the tits’, but never by my actual name.’
‘Must really be fucking dying, eh,’ says Lou before he chuckles and then coughs. We’re both quiet, smoking our ciggies in peace until Lou says, ‘you know they want to put me in the fucking death centre.’
