Changeling tat prose

[annwfyn.livejournal.com]

"So, how are we today?" the carer said in a breezy tone as she ladled out Bill Harris' Meals On Wheels soup into a small plastic bowl.

Bill ignored her momentarily, as he focused on carefully lowering himself into his chair, trying to ignore the sharp pain in his right hand side. It wouldn't do to let the carer know that he was hurting. The lady from the council had been going on about this care home idea enough already, of late, and he wasn't going to admit to anything that might provide her with more ammunition.

The carer didn't seem to mind not getting an answer, and instead turned to the trolley where the rest of the tepid meal awaited.

"It's a bit chilly out there," she said.

It was. Bill had gone out earlier, and had slipped on a patch of ice. Not that he was admitting to that, of course. Neither was he admitting that he'd had a few problems getting up again at first. Thankfully there had been a young lass walking by who had stopped to help him to his feet.

"I wouldn't be surprised if there was snow later," the carer said. "Still, I like a bit of snow, don't you, Bill?"

"Not so much," Bill said. The carer looked surprised, and Bill suspected that she hadn't really been expecting a response. He kept going, determinedly. "It never does much for a garden, you see. Especially at this time of year. A late February frost can do horrible things to your seasonals. If you know what I mean..."

From the look on the carer's face, she didn't at all.

Bill sighed.

The lass who had stopped to help him up had been interested in flowers. They had got chatting as she helped him to his feet, and she'd offered to walk with him back home.

"If I let you walk home alone," she had said "then I would have been neither efficient nor thorough in my desire to help you. I dislike those things, so I shall walk you home."

At least she'd been honest about why she was helping him. None of this 'it's just for your own good' nonsense that got thrown at him by every social worker, or care assistant, or doctor, or nurse. She'd been nice and straightforward about why she wanted to walk him home, and so he had let her.

The carer was now looking at Bill expectantly. He took his first mouthful of soup, and saw her relax slightly. She had done her job, she had made sure he was eating, and soon she would go away.

"Is there anything I can do for you, dear?" she asked. "Just while I'm here?"

Bill shook his head slowly.

"No thank you," he said. It did to stay polite. She did mean well, after all. He was just becoming a grumpy old curmudgeon in his old age. He should really feel glad that there was a little kindness in the world.

The carer paused at the doorway, and absent mindedly picked up one of Bill's photographs.

"This is nice," she said, and turned it slightly to show Bill. "When was this taken?"

Bill said nothing for a moment. Three smiling faces gazed out of the frame. Esther, his beautiful wife, with her eyes still serene and untroubled, before her mind cracked. Betty, his gap toothed youngest daughter, before the bomb landed on her primary school and took her away from him forever. And then there was Rosemary, his bright eyed older daughter, in the days when she had that amazing wide mouthed grin.

"That's my family," he said. "In 1943. During the War."

"Really?" the carer said. She touched Rosemary's face with her fingertip. "She's very pretty. Such a smile!"

Bill half smiled.

People had always said that about Rosemary when she was little. She had been beautiful, even when earnest, but the thing that stuck in everyone's mind was that huge and beaming smile. She could light up a room with it in those days. Somehow, after the bomb, it never came back. She did smile, of course, but they were always small and secretive. All the light, all the openness in her went away after that day.

The girl who had helped him home today had had a lovely smile, Bill thought. She had looked a little like Rosemary had done at her age. Her eyes - her lovely bright green eyes - had reminded him of Rosemary too.

The carer put the picture back down. She didn't ask where his family were now, or what had happened to them. It was clear enough that when a man reaches 98 and no one comes to see him who hasn't been paid to, that something has gone wrong. Instead of asking, she was busying herself tidying away the little plastic tray that his food had arrived on.

Bill was quietly glad that she didn't ask. What could he say? His youngest daughter had died in a German bombing raid in 1943. His oldest daughter had miraculously survived the same raid, but had never been the same since, changing almost overnight into a strange and secretive child with a nose for the wrong sort of people.

Then there had been his wife; his Esther. Betty's death had destroyed her. In the aftermath she had begun to get strange ideas in her head. She had started talking oddly - she claimed that Rosemary had died too, and that this girl in their house was a doppelganger. Then, later, she decided that Rosemary was alive out there somewhere, being kept from her somehow.

In 1949 she had tried to kill Rosemary with a pillow, claiming that this was not her daughter. She had died two years later in a mental asylum.

The carer had cleared away the detritus of her passing. She paused by the kitchen door, and raised a hand to her hair, patting it gently into place.

"Well, dearie," she said. "I had better get going."

She turned around, and glanced back at Bill. Her brows drew together slightly as she looked at him. Bill guessed what it was she saw - a crooked old man, hunched over his soup, trying to stop his hand from shaking as he lifted the spoon to his mouth.


"You will remember to take your medicine, won't you?" the carer said.

Bill nodded.

"Aye," he said, and smiled at her, warmly enough as she left. She did mean well. He did take his medicine as well, because he had said he would. He didn't quite see the point of it. His heart was giving out, no matter what, and he wasn't sure he had much to live for. He had a dead wife, a dead daughter, and a live daughter who wanted nothing to do with him. Oh, and he had a grandson locked up in Broadmoor for crimes he didn't want to think about.

He sighed and pushed his soup away from him as the door closed. He wouldn't bother with the soft mushy pile of vegetables and slightly leathery meat that was intended to follow. What was the point?

Again, Bill's mind lingered on the girl he had met today. She had looked a lot like Rosemary. She had seemed a sweet girl as well, if a little odd. He hoped that her family appreciated having her about. It was an easy thing to not appreciate what you've got. The last words he had said to Betty had been slightly sharp. He'd scolded her for leaving her mess all over the sitting room.

Outside, there was a bird singing somewhere.

Bill Harris looked across at the photograph that the carer had set down on the side. His wife and daughters beamed out at him, young and happy.

He was old now. Soon he would be gone, and no one would miss him. But he wished he could see his daughter one more time before he died.