I’ve been there so many times it seems almost like a second home. His home, his room. A sad room. Stark, bare walls. Paint peeling from the ceiling and windows. Quarry tiles on the floor. No fire in the grate.
He’s always been there, sitting in the armchair by the window, reading, dozing or simply staring into space. Nothing ever changes. The pile of books on the mantelpiece gather dust. The single ornament, a porcelain dog, remains on guard on the circular table underneath the mirror. The only sounds I hear when I open the front door each day come from his wheezy breathing and the ticking of the clock next to the books on top of the fireplace.
Today, when I open the door and shout a cheery greeting, I hear nothing. His chair is empty. My heels clatter on the stone floor as I rush across to the opposite door that leads upstairs to his bedroom. As I begin to turn the handle, I hear a new sound, a gentle tapping. I look back to check I’ve shut the front door. Yes, I’ve closed it firmly behind me. My eyes move to the window. I’ve never seen it open, though daylight always streams in. No curtains, not even nets. It’s slowly moving in the breeze, the bolt that kept it fastened drawn back. It bangs gently against the frame.
My mind races. Open. How? It only opens from the inside. Who? Not Joe, he’s surely not got the strength. Who else has been here? Why? Where is he? I look out into the overgrown garden. No sign of any change there. Long grass, nettles, rose bay willow herb are undisturbed. I open the door that leads up the narrow stone staircase.
“Joe,” I shout, “Joe, are you there?” No answer. I race up the stairs and push open his bedroom door. His bed, like his chair, is empty.
Joe Charlesworth was 84 when I first met him, and his chair, four years ago. I remember walking up the path of his tiny terraced cottage, dismayed by the dilapidated state of the outside of the house. Little remained of the green paint that had once brightened the window frames. Dry rot was taking its toll on the sills. No sign of the knocker on the front door. Only the plate remained. I rapped on the wood. A firm voice answered.
“It’s open.” I pushed open the heavy door, hearing it scratch against the tiled floor as I did so. It led straight into what I imagined to be the living room, though it, like the outside, had little to commend it. The only warmth came from the smile on the old man’s face. Joe’s smile has always been a winner. Back then he was sitting upright, alert in his beige cushioned armchair between the window and the fireplace.
“Hello, Joe, I’m Sarah, your new carer. How are you today?”
“You’re very welcome, my dear,” he replied. “It’ll be a pleasure to do business with you.” He grinned. “Though I’m told you should never mix business and pleasure.”
That was typical Joe. The smile and the humour. Despite his increasingly painful arthritis and his dicky heart, he always looked on the bright side of life, finding things to laugh at even in the dreariest of circumstances. I loved going to see him, and went every day apart from weekends and holidays. It was a pleasure for me, as well as my business. I learnt a lot from Joe about him. Even as his health deteriorated and he became less and less able to communicate with me, I was always pleased to see him, to see his smile, however wan, and to share stories and memories though they became harder and harder for him to recall .
I was surprised to learn that Joe had never married. He showed me photographs of when he was young. OK, he may not have been the most handsome young man in the world, but the smile that lit up those early photographs, and his indomitable cheerfulness would surely have won over many a woman’s heart.
“Never found the right one,” he told me. “Too fussy my mother used to tell me. But I never thought there was much point in asking someone to marry me if I was happy enough single. And I was. Sowed a few wild oats,” he added with a wide grin. “Just wasn’t the marrying kind. Now if I’d met you back then….” His laughter filled the room, as it did on so many other occasions until the last few months when his arthritis left his back hunched and his mobility negligible. I discovered that Joe had no family left. His only sibling, a brother, George, had been killed in the war and he, like Joe, had no children.
“Not that I know of, anyway,” he said with his usual twinkle. He had moved to the cottage from his parents’ house, which he had inherited, when he retired and wanted somewhere smaller.
“And look what’s happened here, now,” he bemoaned, “anyone would think a lazy dosser lived in this place wouldn’t they? I’m ashamed of it, outside and in, but it’s all I’ve got and I haven’t the strength or the money to look after it like I used to.”
He told me how the garden at the back used to be his pride and joy, that he’d last repainted the windows and the pebbledash on the outside when he was nearly 80.
“Betty, next door, kept on coming out when I was up the ladder to check up on me. I told her she’d got a ladder in her tights she should be checking on. She’s all right, Betty. Calls me Dom sometimes. Dirty old man. Her hubby, Dan, he’s all right as well. We used have a drink together down The Squirrel when I could still make it there.” It was so sad to see him slowly deteriorating. Yet he was still cheerful, still making me smile.
“I want one of those scooters, you know, electric mobility things. There’s a bloke down the road’s got one. I see him going past through the window. I fancy racing him to The Squirrel. Reckon I’d get the better of him. Loser buys the round, eh?” The likelihood of him ever going far in anything apart from an ambulance has declined rapidly over the last few weeks.
So today, when I find his bed empty, unmade, his clothes and shoes in a pile by the oak wardrobe, I fear the worst.
He’s always been there, sitting in the armchair by the window, reading, dozing or simply staring into space. Nothing ever changes. The pile of books on the mantelpiece gather dust. The single ornament, a porcelain dog, remains on guard on the circular table underneath the mirror. The only sounds I hear when I open the front door each day come from his wheezy breathing and the ticking of the clock next to the books on top of the fireplace.
Today, when I open the door and shout a cheery greeting, I hear nothing. His chair is empty. My heels clatter on the stone floor as I rush across to the opposite door that leads upstairs to his bedroom. As I begin to turn the handle, I hear a new sound, a gentle tapping. I look back to check I’ve shut the front door. Yes, I’ve closed it firmly behind me. My eyes move to the window. I’ve never seen it open, though daylight always streams in. No curtains, not even nets. It’s slowly moving in the breeze, the bolt that kept it fastened drawn back. It bangs gently against the frame.
My mind races. Open. How? It only opens from the inside. Who? Not Joe, he’s surely not got the strength. Who else has been here? Why? Where is he? I look out into the overgrown garden. No sign of any change there. Long grass, nettles, rose bay willow herb are undisturbed. I open the door that leads up the narrow stone staircase.
“Joe,” I shout, “Joe, are you there?” No answer. I race up the stairs and push open his bedroom door. His bed, like his chair, is empty.
Joe Charlesworth was 84 when I first met him, and his chair, four years ago. I remember walking up the path of his tiny terraced cottage, dismayed by the dilapidated state of the outside of the house. Little remained of the green paint that had once brightened the window frames. Dry rot was taking its toll on the sills. No sign of the knocker on the front door. Only the plate remained. I rapped on the wood. A firm voice answered.
“It’s open.” I pushed open the heavy door, hearing it scratch against the tiled floor as I did so. It led straight into what I imagined to be the living room, though it, like the outside, had little to commend it. The only warmth came from the smile on the old man’s face. Joe’s smile has always been a winner. Back then he was sitting upright, alert in his beige cushioned armchair between the window and the fireplace.
“Hello, Joe, I’m Sarah, your new carer. How are you today?”
“You’re very welcome, my dear,” he replied. “It’ll be a pleasure to do business with you.” He grinned. “Though I’m told you should never mix business and pleasure.”
That was typical Joe. The smile and the humour. Despite his increasingly painful arthritis and his dicky heart, he always looked on the bright side of life, finding things to laugh at even in the dreariest of circumstances. I loved going to see him, and went every day apart from weekends and holidays. It was a pleasure for me, as well as my business. I learnt a lot from Joe about him. Even as his health deteriorated and he became less and less able to communicate with me, I was always pleased to see him, to see his smile, however wan, and to share stories and memories though they became harder and harder for him to recall .
I was surprised to learn that Joe had never married. He showed me photographs of when he was young. OK, he may not have been the most handsome young man in the world, but the smile that lit up those early photographs, and his indomitable cheerfulness would surely have won over many a woman’s heart.
“Never found the right one,” he told me. “Too fussy my mother used to tell me. But I never thought there was much point in asking someone to marry me if I was happy enough single. And I was. Sowed a few wild oats,” he added with a wide grin. “Just wasn’t the marrying kind. Now if I’d met you back then….” His laughter filled the room, as it did on so many other occasions until the last few months when his arthritis left his back hunched and his mobility negligible. I discovered that Joe had no family left. His only sibling, a brother, George, had been killed in the war and he, like Joe, had no children.
“Not that I know of, anyway,” he said with his usual twinkle. He had moved to the cottage from his parents’ house, which he had inherited, when he retired and wanted somewhere smaller.
“And look what’s happened here, now,” he bemoaned, “anyone would think a lazy dosser lived in this place wouldn’t they? I’m ashamed of it, outside and in, but it’s all I’ve got and I haven’t the strength or the money to look after it like I used to.”
He told me how the garden at the back used to be his pride and joy, that he’d last repainted the windows and the pebbledash on the outside when he was nearly 80.
“Betty, next door, kept on coming out when I was up the ladder to check up on me. I told her she’d got a ladder in her tights she should be checking on. She’s all right, Betty. Calls me Dom sometimes. Dirty old man. Her hubby, Dan, he’s all right as well. We used have a drink together down The Squirrel when I could still make it there.” It was so sad to see him slowly deteriorating. Yet he was still cheerful, still making me smile.
“I want one of those scooters, you know, electric mobility things. There’s a bloke down the road’s got one. I see him going past through the window. I fancy racing him to The Squirrel. Reckon I’d get the better of him. Loser buys the round, eh?” The likelihood of him ever going far in anything apart from an ambulance has declined rapidly over the last few weeks.
So today, when I find his bed empty, unmade, his clothes and shoes in a pile by the oak wardrobe, I fear the worst.