by Robert Price
George Barnstaple was a proud man. Tall, with an erect military bearing, he was known locally as 'the colonel' even though he had never actually served in the army or, indeed, any of the armed forces. He was a welder by trade, and was proud of the fact he had never missed a day's work in his entire life. Work was much more than a source of income to George: it provided comradeship and, as the most experienced and highly skilled welder in the company, it had also provided him with status. George was the one the others went to for advice. He was a man to be respected and looked up to.
George had dreaded the prospect of having to retire as his 65th birthday approached, but Martha, his wife of 42 years, had told him she would help him make the transition. They would visit Jenny, their only child, who now lived at the other end of the country, to see the grandchildren then do all the other things they had planned to do for years but never had time for. Then disaster struck: without any warning, Martha had been struck down by a fatal stroke a mere three weeks after George retired. George was devastated. If he had still been working he could have thrown himself into his work, but instead he found himself with far too much time on his hands. Apart from meeting a few of his old friends for an occasional pint in his local pub, he spent most of his time just moping around the house, feeling sorry for himself.
George rattled around in the big old house where they had lived for 35 years for a further two years. Age, however, was beginning to take its toll on both George and the house. No matter how many repairs he did, there was always something else that needed fixing or replacing. He was struggling to cope. Jenny invited him to come and live with her and the grandchildren, but he knew it would not work out. Seeing the grandchildren every day would have been nice, but his life and all his old friends were here. So when a new low-rise apartment block was built on an infill site only a few streets away, Jenny persuaded him he should downsize. If he sold the house and bought an apartment, he would have cash to spend and a lot more time to do other things. George was reluctant, but he knew it made sense and so he eventually agreed to move.
He was able to bring some of his furniture and fittings with him, but most of the stuff he had accumulated with Martha over the years had to be sent to auction or simply dumped. The house had been a repository of happy memories of his life with Martha and of Jenny growing up. Tears began to well in his eyes as he wandered around the empty shell that had once been their home. Looking out the back window at the overgrown garden that Martha had once so diligently attended, he remembered the frustration he had experienced all those years before when he had attempted to assemble the new swing for an excited Jenny on her fifth birthday. Although the instructions accompanying the exploded diagram had been translated into 12 different languages, they did not really provide many clues as to how the swing was actually meant to be assembled, so he had ended up just welding it together with some kit borrowed from work. The tears in his eyes became a flood as he realised he was locking the front door for the very last time. It symbolically marked the closure of his former life. Apart from Martha's funeral, it was the first time he had cried since he was a child. Jenny had told him that this would be the first day of the rest of his life, but to George it felt more like the beginning of the end.
Katya Karpinski, aged 39, stepped out of the shower and examined herself in the full-length mirror in her bedroom. Her boobs she reckoned were not too bad, and her butt, although bigger than it used to be, seemed to be holding up okay. She knew it was only a matter of time before gravity would begin to take its toll, but it was her belly that worried her most. Most women her age would kill to have a stomach like Katya's, but to her it looked fat. She had always had a perfectly flat tummy, so she was distraught when a little layer of soft tissue began to appear. Nothing she did seemed to shift it.
She was not looking forward to her next birthday - the big four-oh. To outsiders, Jerzy and she appeared to have the perfect marriage, but the magic was fading. They were comfortable with each other, but she felt that life was somehow passing her by. Perhaps it would be different if they had children; but, after years of trying everything they could, it now looked as if that was never going to happen. Jerzy only seemed to be interested in watching football on the telly or going to the pub for a few pints with his mates.
Katya was bored. That was why she had applied a few months previously for a part-time job as a home help. The pay was pathetic, but it got her out of the house. Cleaning other people's houses at least made a change to cleaning her own house. Most of her clients were elderly. Some were crotchety and bad-tempered, but most were delighted just to have some company. She consequently spent almost as much time listening to their rambling tales of the good old days, when life was tougher but people were nicer, than she did actually cleaning.
George was not sure how it happened. He had been walking along, minding his own business, when he had stumbled or tripped on something and found himself lying on the side of the road. A crowd of passers-by quickly gathered and had helped him back onto the footpath, but he was unable to stand. One man, who had some first aid training, said he thought George might have dislocated his knee. George insisted he was okay and would be up and about in no time, but the first aider suggested that someone should phone for an ambulance.
An ambulance arrived only a few minutes later, and the medic confirmed the first aider's diagnosis.
"Yes, I'm afraid your knee seems to have popped out," he said in a reassuring understatement.
"Could you not just pop it back in again?" George asked.
"I possibly could, but I don't think you would like that. It would be much better if we bring you in and get a doctor to do it properly."
George remembered being given something for the pain, but the rest of it was a bit of a blur. He remembered signing a few forms in the A&E before being wheeled away to get an x-ray. He also remembered being examined by a large African doctor in a white coat with a surprisingly gentle touch. The next thing he remembered was waking up, a bit confused, in a hospital bed. As he began to recollect what had happened, he reached down to feel his leg.
"Nurse," he cried out in alarm to a passing nurse. "I can't feel my leg."
"That's because we chopped your hands off." It took George a few seconds to realise it was just medical humour. "Relax, your knee is fine. Dr. Mazumba has put it back together again, but you have damaged some ligaments and tendons, so you will have to stay in plaster for about six weeks until it mends. However, Dr. Mazumba says you will be as good as new."
The nurse gave George a pill and a glass of water, and within a few minutes he had fallen back into a deep sleep.
When George awoke Jenny was sitting by his bed.
"Where did you come from?" George asked when he realised who it was.
"They phoned me at home. Harry said he would look after the kids, so I have taken a week off work and took the first flight to look after you. Anyway, what happened to you?" she demanded. "Playing football again?"
First the nurse and now his own daughter. Was everyone a joker? Was no-one going to give him any sympathy? "No, I was just walking on the footpath," George replied sheepishly.
"Well that can be very dangerous. You need to be more careful at your age," she added patronisingly.
"What do you mean at 'my age'? And what's so dangerous about walking on a footpath?" George demanded.
"I'm just saying you need to be careful. After all, you're the one who is in plaster," she pointed out, as if that settled the argument.
George was discharged later that morning, and Jenny brought him home in a taxi.
A health visitor arrived the following day to check up on him. After asking Jenny a few questions about how George was feeling, she began a detailed inspection of every nook and cranny in his apartment. George was basically ignored until her inspection was complete.
"Now, Mr. Barnstaple," she said, eventually turning her attention to George. "Your daughter tells me she can only stay until the weekend, so if you want I can arrange for a home help to come in next week to tidy your flat and do any other odd jobs that need doing. Would you like that?" she asked, speaking slowly and loudly in a clear voice.
George felt like telling her that dislocating his knee had not actually affected his hearing, but he managed to hold his tongue.
"I don't think that will be necessary. I am sure I will be able to manage okay by myself," he replied.
"Don't believe anything he says," Jenny interrupted. "He can hardly look after himself even when he is fit. Sure he can't even walk along a footpath without falling over." Then turning to her father, she said, "Dad, you have been paying taxes every day of your life. It is about time you got something back in return. There are lots of people in a much fitter state than you who spend their whole lives living off the state."
George was about to protest when the health visitor cut in.
"Your daughter is right. I have no doubt you will be able to cope once your leg mends, but in the meantime you could do with some help. The last thing we want is for you to have another accident. You would not believe how much it costs the state each day to keep you in hospital. Why not let a home help come in twice a week? Give it a couple of weeks, and if it does not work out we can review the situation. Besides, one of our customers has recently moved on, so one of our girls now has a vacancy on her list."
George wondered what she had meant by 'moved on.' He hoped she meant they had simply moved to live by the seaside, but he suspected it was a euphemism for something else. However, it had no real bearing on the main issue. George found he was outnumbered, and before he knew what had happened, the two women had agreed he would receive a visit from a home help twice a week starting the following Monday.
George was still getting used to getting around on crutches, so it took him the best part of a minute to answer the doorbell. Katya, however, was used to having to wait and, hearing movement inside, knew there was no need to ring a second time.
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