Been really kind to me they have, asking me if there's anything I need, taking the time to say "hi-ya love." And we chat away for a bit, jest a short while see. Talk about anything really. How the rain's coming on heavier; who brought me the chrysanthemums; if I wouldn't be more comfortable with another pillow. I know it's what they're paid for and all their smiling might be as false as my old dad's teeth, but its done in a spontaneous way it is, out of genuine care and not jest 'cause it's a requirement of the job; and it helps, it does, it really helps. But I'm failing here, failing them all. I'm falling away and I carn see as how I cun get out of it. There's no way to stop it. I've tried praying but I haven't been in a church since our Charlie went, and that was two years ago last June now see. In any case, why should God listen to me if I don't listen to im?
Life rushes in to me jest lying here, little pieces come back you know, flashbacks they call them in the movies, and that's what they're like see, unedited jumbles of beginnings and endings and me here in the middle trying to make sense of it all. It's like I've dropped my old photo albums on the floor and I'm sorting through them to put them back in their right place. I try and let it wash over me I do, let the past take me away for a moment, for the length of a memory so I cun make something of it. A kind of sense. If sense is the right word for any of it.
If I turn to my left, slowly 'cause it really hurts to move even so much as a muscle, well, if I turn and breathe in deeply, I cun jest about smell the carnations Ioan and Gav brought in for me this morning. Always loved flowers I have see. Loved them in the garden I had as a child, and the one I made as a woman. The garden was beautiful in the spring, all the colours; so bright; so full of light. Envy of the street it was, even if I do say so myself. Now I'm not being big headed or nothing but it was jest that everyone asked me how I'd managed it see. "The garden looks lovely Liz. Look at those begonias!"
Surprised myself really. It was nothing, a bit of picking things up along the way, plenty of trial and error, years of practice. Like anything I suppose. Jest got to try and put your hand to it and not say as how it's impossible before you begin. We wish it away half the time, all these things we could do.
Oh nowhere like that garden there wasn't. I'd read a book on the lawn, lying on a towel in the summer, looking around with a great big smile on my face, an ant running across my bare legs, the dragonflies over the pond. Serene I was, happy jest being there and nowhere else. I had no pressure to perform, no roles people wanted me to play, no caps to wear. That's where I was most myself, I think. Liz Price at home in her garden. Mother; wife; daughter; friend. No, not there. I'd be none of those there. Jest Liz. Isn't that what we all want in the end? To be ourselves? The somebody we think we might be when no one else is round to tell us any different?
And they wouldn't agree see, no matter what I said. I'd fight my corner for all I was bloody worth but it was only ever me that believed in Lazlo.
It's so hushed in here, night-time quiet, the dead shift, everyone tiptoeing around. Whispered voices and squeaky shoes and soft light creeping under the door like it doesn't know what to do with itself. No one should keep the volume down on my account; noise will take the pain away, give me something else to focus on. Noise is life.
I've got my own room. It was Gram that wanted me to go private. I don't feel good about it. Nye Bevan would turn in his grave at the thought of a Welshwoman rejecting the NHS. But Gram said, "What do you want to do Liz, wait until it's too late?" I didn't say it already is too late, love and jest let him do what he wanted. It's small, the room, but not pokey mind. I've got a table, a chest of drawers and a wardrobe. It's done out in beige, not the colour I'd have gone for. Bit on the insipid side beige. Not an inspiring colour.
There's also a telly and a yucca. Don't know which one helps pass the time the better.
I watch a soap if I really have to, the odd drama, a bit of news; but I carn really bear all the horror and the murders and bombs. Not with me being in here. Not that I want all the silly happy stories about grannies growing huge marrows or primary school children fundraising for the starving by foregoing their pocket money mind. You know those stories, when all the newsreaders smile and chuckle at the end. It's as if it's all been made up. Here kids, now look at the camera and say as how all those with no food must be really sad and you want to help by giving up your fifty pee for the next month. Telly's really gone down hill. I've had enough off all these bloody reality programmes or those when they get lots of people who look the same who want to be famous because they don't sound exactly like a strangled cat when they sing but only a little bit. If I wanted to listen to terrible singing I'd go down the District Club on a Saturday night and listen to Tommy Archer murdering Kinks songs. And I carn stick the doing up houses and moving abroad rubbish neither. Why do I want to watch people with more money than me moving to a new life in the sun? Especially when they only end up moaning about how what they really want is some drizzle or a tub of Marmite or a decent pint of lager. No pleasing some people. Well, apart from TV producers making this sort of nonsense. No, for me, the old films are the best. Yesterday there was ‘The Third Man’ with Orson Welles being all dashing and dastardly. I do love that bit when we first see him, in the doorway, when the light shines on his face. The other day we had ‘The Apartment’ with Jack Lemmon giving up his place for his bosses to take their fancy women to; almost fell out of bed laughing. They're usually on in the afternoons. When there's no films on I'd sooner look at the yucca.
Thursday nights were special for us all. There was a time we lived for them, bit of gossip, few drinks. And we'd more often than not put ‘Casablanca’ on the video after and polish off the best of a bottle of Gordon's. It was always the same. Our little routine, mixture of joy and need I suppose. The girls would come over in their dribs and drabs. Six of us altogether, Marj the centre of everything, with her take offs of Ingrid Bergman as Elsa, have us in fits she would, "Oh kiss me like it was the last time." Marj is one of those people you think are jest all show at first, but then you realise that you can't get enough of the performance and you wouldn't want her any different. Make a dent she does when you meet her, not an impression. In yesterday Marj was, brought me a box of Thorntons Continentals and this month's Cosmo. "What with you being bard love I thought I'd bring it in so you don't miss any new makeover tricks. Got to look your best for Gram haven't you?" Only got a bit of blusher in here with me, the silly cow. Full of it as usual she was. Her Carlos has jest got a part in his first film, some American gangster thing. He's to come on in the third scene and spill a drink over the lead hoodlum's jacket. Then a big gang of mobsters take him into a back alley and kick him to death. It's a start see.
It's raining now, quite nasty. It picked up now jest. I cun hear it against the window. Battering the roof and filling up the guttering, be a world of water by the morning it will. I like the rain. I find it reassuring. Makes me think of being tucked up under the duvet, cup of hot chocolate steaming on the bedside table, pouring over a new Alice Munro.
They wouldn't have it see, but I always preferred Victor Lazlo. With Lazlo there was a bit of stability. All right so you had the danger as well, what with him being a famed resistance leader and wanted by the Germans; but you knew where you stood at least: it would be a precarious existence and you'd always be looking over your shoulder, but at least there'd be no messing about. Rick was too bleak for me with all that hankering after something that should have stayed a memory. I could never have put up with his cynicism and bitterness and sniping. Angela Probert would always say, "Liz, Liz, he was only like that because of Elsa leaving him at the train station." Then old Meg Jones would pipe up with, "well I prefer him all miserable in Morocco. He's a right wet blanket in Paris." Then we talk about how Bogart and Bergman hated each other in real life and someone will ask if we can watch the scene again when Lazlo gets the orchestra to play the Marseilles in Rick's Bar; and that'll set us off about how the French being in Morocco was jest like the Germans in France and then Gram will come through the door and it'll be time for a cuppa.
Lazlo or Rick. I'd take either of them now. Come and rescue me, soon and for the rest of my life.
Gram asked me on a park bench on a Sunday afternoon he did. It had jest started to pick and he sort of rushed all the words together, willyoumarryme? I think he was trying to say it before the rain got too heavy and put him off the idea. I said yes, straight away. Yes, I will, yes! He hugged me so tight I thought I was going to snap. Never saw a smile as real as that from anyone, a smile of what was to come, a smile of our future. They were good years weren't they Gram? We were happy. We've been happy. We've had a good life. We've lasted. Thick and thin you always said. And through it we went. We've got three wonderful children, a family. We couldn't have asked for much more.
Gram comes in every day, and stays much longer than he should. The nurses are always having to kick him out, but it's done in good humour it is. They let im stay on longer as he's sweet with them see. He stays with me and holds my hand and tells me what he's been doing. I don't know if the nurses would be so nice if I told them he only came out of prison a month ago. Then again, they probably know. His face was all over the papers at the time.
Gram's going to stay with me at the hospital from tomorrow. They'll put up one of those foldaway beds for im. This is their way of letting me know that it's quite close now. Another of the signs is the two tubs of butter I'm getting for my toast. When I first came in they only gave me one and you had to be really sparing to make it stretch over two rounds. Now they're trying to treat me. Get it while you can. I don't know what we'll say, Gram and me, when the moment comes I mean, maybe nothing. We've always been able to jest enjoy time together. We're comfortable with silence, none of that desperation to fill every second with words. That's the problem with some people; don't know when to shut up.
I upset the twins the other day by saying that I'd never see either of them married. Well Ioan seemed upset. Gav looked stony-faced and said I shouldn't worry 'cause he didn't have any plans to get married anyway. They told me that they're thinking about going on holidays after their 'A' Levels. Somewhere foreign. Me and Gram never fancied it abroad see. When Bronnie was little we were happy enough with a trailer down to Porthcawl and Ogmore, or way out west to Pembroke, playing crib when it rained, having our hot chocolate and reading the Mr Men stories, keeping her amused. When Bronnie was all grown up and the twins came out of the blue all those years later we jest carried doing the same thing. Oh we'd maybe go to Bournemouth or even all the way up to Scarborough, but we saw no need to get on a plane. Heard no end of it from the twins, we did. How their friends were all going to Disney this and Disney that, and frying on Spanish beaches and having full board, waiters running round after them. Gram'd tell them he'd be happy to go where they liked if they were paying for it. That soon shut them up. I don't feel guilty about us not going further afield. No. People forgot about seeing their own countries these days. Anyway, the twins are eighteen now so they can go where they like.
It's raining heavier. Sounds torrential. Hammer and tongs stuff. It would have woken me up if I'd have been sleeping.
I should sleep; I know that. I should rest.
What I liked most about the house was the view. Putting on my face in the morning, (got to keep yourself decent), looking out of the window at the garden and the trees and the fields across the valley. There was comfort in it, watching the seasons change. It was my place in the world, my view of the world, my world. When I could see it through the rain, see.
It was a terrible shook when Charlie went. Always thought my big brother was indestructible. Strong he was, big arms and chest, run a couple of miles every morning he would. Used to play in the second row. Heart attack it was. Jest like that. He'd only been round ours on the Sunday before telling us about a new admirer down the club. Never married, did Charlie. But he had no shortage of women, oh no. There was something debonair about him; he jest looked better in a suit that anyone else. And he had the charm as well see. Three days short of his sixty-third birthday he was. We'd bought everything for his party, the food and drink and paper napkins and whatnot. We ended up using it all at the wake in the end. Except the balloons.
The rain's jest stopped. All I can hear now is drip drip drip.
Charlie's death knocked me for a lot more than six. He was my hero when I was a little girl. He'd walk me to school, his big hand in mine. I'd feel so proud. This is my brother I'd be thinking. You watch out. When Charlie went it reminded me of everything I'd lost down the years, family and friends, opportunities, all of it hit me a couple of weeks later, the weight of the past, the stories, the years sliding into one another. When you get to the end of a really lovely ice-cream you know you've enjoyed it but when it's gone there's a little bit of you that's left wondering if there'll ever be anything as nice as that again. Sometimes you jest know you'll never find that same flavour. Listen to me, lying here with the drip drip drip and going on about pudding. Bloody losing my mind on top of everything else.
I should sleep. I know I should. I'm supposed to take these bloody tablets because I've not been sleeping well at all. I need my energy, or so they tell me. Tablets, medicines, treatment, that's all it is every day, on and on; endless "are you Oks?" and "here you go Mrs Thomas if you'll just sit up a bit and take this," down my throat it goes, more useless rubbish: this is what my life's become; I'm a tip for chemicals. May as well put them in the bin for all the good they do.
They tell me what to do and I know it's their job but sometimes I jest don't want to hear it. I've never cared for pills; jest let me get on with it, that's always been my philosophy. You never know what they put in these things. Yes, yes, the pain keeps me awake but staying awake is part of the fight. I don't want any more bloody drugs. They wear me down; knock me out of myself. I want the waiting to stop. I want it to be over. I'm not giving in, but if it's coming then let it come, if it's going then let it damn well go. I don't want this half way house where I'm a prisoner no one wants to see anymore. Not one thing or another. I'm strong; I am.
It's funny. Gram or me never took any drugs see. And we were children of the sixties. Too knackered most of the time. And we didn't know anyone who did more than drink. I was twenty-two in the summer of love. Closest I came to being a hippy was when Gram and me went to Llyr Parc one July afternoon and he put a daffodil in my hair. If I remember rightly all we had with us was a bottle of lemonade. And there was nothing funny in Gram's cigarettes. End of the day came and Gram had a headache from lying in the sun for too long. So we went home, had a plate of egg and chips. He took an aspirin and I put him to the bed. That was the sixties.
The nurse is in here again. I know why. If I don't take my tablets she'll make sure I do one way or another. She prowls around, uneasy she is, a cat with a conscience.
I know they all take drugs now. Not jest the musicians and the poets and those who'll try anything if it makes them think people will believe them to have a personality. Everyone does it now. Doctors and lawyers and politicians, TV presenters, business people. Estate agents and secretaries and dentists and little kiddies in primary school playgrounds. I know about the twins. Kath and Clive have both told me they've seen them down in the pub, playing pool and all hyped up, not quite right. They were probably on something when they got into that fight in the pub a couple of months back. You should see the scar on Gav's cheek. Jest a good job the glass didn't go in his eye. I need to tell Gram about the drugs but he'll not take it well. When it comes to anything like that, he has no patience. He'll say as how they'll ruin their lives and I'll try and tell him that as a pub landlord he's not so far away from being a drug dealer himself and that'll be the red rag. Perhaps I'm jest better off leaving it to Kath and Clive to keep an eye on the twins. Anyway, there's nothing I could do as would stop Ioan and Gav. If they want to take drugs, they will. When they were in last night I said, "Now you two promise me you'll take care of yourselves and not do anything silly." Ioan nodded. You could see he was embarrassed. He knew exactly what I was talking about. Gav jest looked away. Things are always harsher with him. There's lots of anger there, never been able to work out why, he jest takes everything to heart. But they're good boys really, clever, doing well in school. And they'll be all right see. They'll be fine.
Moving towards it I am now, closer with every second. Don't really know what to do, but what is there to do? I'm not a believer; I don't have any peace to make. Gram is really scared now. He holds my hand and the look in his eye breaks me in two and then I think I've got to hold the tears back because if I start I won't stop and there's no sense in wasting our time. This is all I've left now Gram, this is all I am; this me lying in a cold bed telling stories to myself and waiting. I'm so afraid love and I know I should sleep. I know I should, I know I should, I know.
GEORGE ORWELL - 1984
JOHN FOWLES - The Collector
VLADIMIR NABOKOV - Lolita
STANLEY KUBRICK - A Clockwork Orange and Dr Strangelove
HUNTER S. THOMPSON - ‘Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas’
TROPIC OF CANCER - Henry Miller
PETER COOK (when he was with Dudley Moore)
BILL HICKS
BLOOD ON THE TRACKS – Bob Dylan
GRACE – Jeff Buckley
THE BOATMAN'S CALL - Nick Cave
