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No, it hasn’t been a good day, to be honest, Samuel. I’m afraid you’ve caught me at a bad time. You won’t mind me if I’m a bit quiet, will you? Yes, of course, you can stay. You’re always welcome here, you know that. Put the kettle on if you want a drink. Just help yourself.
Yes, OK, I’ll have a cup of tea too. Thanks for that. Just put it down here on the table. Whoops, let me make some space. There you go. Have a seat for a bit. Sorry I was a bit down just now. I know I shouldn’t let it get to me when one of the residents dies. It’s hardly unexpected after all. It’s hard to explain, but I guess it’s a bit like having children. You always want to keep them safe, and you try to see the good in them. Well, if not the good, at least some unique spark that marks them out. Getting old doesn’t change that, though it sometimes makes it harder to understand and maybe make the resident light up from time to time. It’s hard work, finding a way through their silences or listening patiently to them repeating a phrase endlessly. And even then, how well can you really get to know someone whose had nearly a lifetime of experience. Even so it always seems odd to come into what was their space and see just an empty bed, the chair they liked to sit in, and the few belongings ready for the family to collect already stashed on the bedside table. Sadness always catches me in my throat. Then I make myself carry on, for the others you see. They need getting up, washing, dressing, brushing and combing too so I just keep moving.
Great tea, thanks. Help yourself to some of that ginger cake auntie left if you want some. It’s in the kitchen; silver tin. Yes, you’re right, I should probably eat something. Maybe cut us both a piece? Thanks. And sorry for talking at you about my problems. I’ll be fine now and I’m sure my favourite nephew hasn’t popped by just to listen to me going on? I thought not. OK, of course you can look through my photos again if you want to. Over there on the bottom shelf. Yes, those big albums. Is that why you’ve popped by after school? Your mum mentioned you were thinking of taking photography at college. That will make two photographers in the family, she said. Made me smile. Only thing is, Samuel, I think your mum may have bigged me up a bit too much to you and your sister. I think it must be a little sister, big brother thing. You wait, Samuel, you’ll feel the same way when Sasha looks up to you just for being at college. You’re laughing now, but you’ll be amazed when it happens!
Hey, what do you think of the playground pictures in my portfolio? I had a lot to learn when I took those of course; like how to take a decent picture ha-ha! I’m glad I’ve made you smile now too. Can you find yourself in any of them? Yes, look, there you are in the kiddies’ play area near the flats. You know I still like those old black and white prints a lot. Stark and simple with the geometric lines of the climbing frame towering over you and your friends. Now look at you, taller than me and doing so well. Sorry to be the boring uncle, amazed that you’re almost grown up. Look, I don’t want to put you off, Samuel, but don’t get carried away with it will you? I’m never going to make it as a photographer, you know. I do okay out of the weddings if I can get them, but look at me, I’m still working at the care home. I’m never going to be famous like I wanted to be when I was your age. Even so, I can’t lie to you. There is something exciting about finding you’ve taken a decent picture. When you look at it and maybe let yourself believe that for once you got it almost right. I’d like to have had more of that, Samuel, made a habit of it, even a lifetime of it; standing back to witness the world with an eye to what my next picture would reveal.
Can I show you another photograph now, if you’ve got time? It’s tucked at the far end of the top shelf. Yes, that’s it. I’d like you to see it. Just between you and me, I haven’t said too much to your mum about it, in case she goes boasting to everyone about me being in it. I’m still a bit shy I suppose.
Oh yes, the photographer who took it won lots of prizes. You can tell he knows just how to set up a picture, can’t you? He sent me that copy as a thank you for being included in that picture when he came to take some portraits in the care home. This one made his next exhibition. Not that many people at work were interested and I don’t think management were thrilled with how it showed the place. The rooms have had a makeover since then; out with the comforting chintzy wallpaper and in with clean emulsions and luminous feature walls.
Yes, that’s right, it was taken on the floor I still work on. It was George’s room at the time. And you see that out of focus hand top left, just above George’s head? Well, that’s mine bringing the comb towards George’s head to tidy his hair a little. I think my blurry hand is only in it to give an impression of some action, as a contrast to George. He’s the centre of attention; an old man sitting upright on a simple wooden chair with the floral-patterned wall behind him. His eyes are almost closed, do you see? That’s nothing the photographer asked him to do. It was just what he did when I tidied his hair. It was as if he was shielding his eyes from the stray hairs that might fall loose. Or maybe he was remembering the gentle rhythm of his mother combing his hair now that it was light and soft as a baby’s again. Or perhaps he was dreaming for a moment of some long-ago lover who had teased their fingers through his once abundant locks. He seemed to like being groomed in any case. And he always welcomed my helping him to get into the clothes we chose together from his mahogany wardrobe, which was over there, out of shot. That day he was wearing his favourite combination; grey tailored trousers and a gold-coloured jumper embossed with diamond shapes. Both were a little too large for him. George would be adjusting the trouser belt and pushing up the jumper cuffs repeatedly all day as if reassuring himself through their touch. I could only suppose he had shrunk a little in his old age, though the clothes themselves were smart and seemed almost new.
A year or so later, I visited the exhibition and read the caption placed alongside the life-size photo-portrait of George. That’s when I found out that George had shared his life with another man for sixty years. He had feared that his partner, ailing with dementia, would not be treated well if the relationship had been declared, and so he had nursed him alone at home rather than risk being separated from him by officialdom. When his partner died, he’d moved into our care home.
I stood for a long time absorbing the blown-up image of him alone on its white wall, wondering whether he had never felt able to mention the love of his life to me for fear that he too might be rejected, even ousted from his safe space. I wished that I had succeeded in gaining George’s trust enough to truly know him. And I listened to all the things people were saying about him sitting calmly there in the picture. Some even commented on the presence of my blurred hand as I edged the comb towards his thin white hair. The image seemed to commemorate his dignity; compliant in the morning ritual of hair combing whilst dressed for comfort in his deceased partner’s clothes. Even so, the picture alone would never be able to tell his whole story without the words being displayed next to it, filling his silence. And my blurred hand seemed to me to carry the same inadequacy. How could the fleeting presence it represented begin to tell my unspoken story; relieved as I was to be employed, but knowing I would never be bold enough to pursue my dreams openly?
Don’t worry about me when you get home though, Samuel. I’m content with my life, I really am. Tomorrow I will get back to it. I’ll try to keep the residents as happy as they can be, to delve into their stories, to share in what memories I can glean from their conversation. I see that as no small achievement. And I still get to take photographs from time to time of smiling people in their wedding clothes, touching hands, happy in their moment. I capture images for them of the joy that life can bring, if only for a day. That is quite something too, Samuel. Yes, as your mother would say, it is all worth celebrating. Think about it as you’re heading home; could an ordinary life still be one you should aspire to?
about the author
Jane lives in Woodbridge, Suffolk UK. With the encouragement of the local creative writing class she has been writing stories over the past few years, some of which have appeared on Café Lit. Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee? Half of what you pay goes to the author the other half goes to expenses e.g. Maintaining the web site and setting up The Best of Café Lit book each year.
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