During her youth, Jarrow-born, Martha McCarthy was known throughout the South Shields area as being the Geordie lass with an incandescent spirit. Even as Britain teetered on the brink of war, Martha's enthusiasm for life never faltered. Her name became synonymous with acts of spontaneity and adventure. She was what every woman longed to be during the thirties and forties, well traveled, independent, and always in demand.
Sadly, as the years snowballed into decades, that unscrupulous thief, nature, succeeded where the adversities of war had failed. It stole Martha's spirit, turning impulse into frustration, fire into ashes. Nowadays, after six long years as a resident at the Heavenly Pastures Nursing Home, she is limited to planning her return journeys from the bedroom to the lounge; where once it was an achievement not to pee herself on the roller-coaster, these days it's a job to hold it in until the hoist has done its work. With spouse, friends and acquaintances long passed, Martha must be contented with weekly visits from her only daughter, Emily, who arrives on a weekly basis bearing boiled sweets and photographs of shopping trips stored in mobile phones.
Daniel Robinson lays claim to being the Janitor at the Heavenly Pastures. A portly chap in his late fifties, Daniel plods along the treadmill of life looking back on the dreams and aspirations that he was somehow destined not to fulfill. After five weeks in the job, he remains unsettled and, more to the point, unable to justify his feelings with logical explanation; it’s a dilemma that haunts him. His tangled reasoning of sympathy for those around him and the recollections of his mother’s deterioration, serve to provide a convenient diversion from the fact that this could well be the blueprint for his own inevitable fate; and there lies the answer to his question. For Daniel, life just keeps slipping away. The Carer's care, the Nurses nurse, and the days... well, for most of the time, the days are only distinguishable by the separation of night. Conspicuously lacking in perspective, Daniel’s perception of life was about to be altered by a chance meeting with the resident of Room 126, Martha McCarthy.
It all came about one Saturday evening in mid-December at around seven-thirty. The inclement weather had dictated that Daniel stay the extra hour and, with most of his chores already completed, the remainder of the day seemed set for plain sailing. Until, that is, he reached the hallway and a small carpet stain immediately outside Martha McCarthy's room. Complete with Marigolds, rag and bucket, he lowered himself onto all fours and began to dampen the offending area. Now, Daniel had heard the stories about Martha and her impetuous youth, and was mildly curious as to what kind of person rested behind that imposing, white door. Whilst rhythmically scrubbing back and forth, he found himself glancing at the shiny brass doorknob glimmering beneath the corridor light. With the stain satisfactorily removed, he casually tossed the rag into the bucket and filled his cheeks with air. He again looked at the doorknob, his curiosity gathering weight with each passing second. As no one was about, and he certainly couldn’t recall being told that any particular room was out of bounds, Daniel slowly twisted the doorknob and gently eased open the door. There, in the three-quarter bed centre of room, was a frail, paste-grey woman; her eyes tightly shut, the contours of her inanimate body impressed firmly upon his mind as she lay beneath the white linen sheets. On entering the room, he partially closed the door, allowing himself just enough time to survey her clay-like features beneath a gathering of unkempt, white hair. Daniel quietly turned around to make good his silent exit. At that precise moment, a strained Geordie accent called out to him, "Not going to even say, hello, Pet?"
"Jesus, Mary! You almost frightened the life out of me!"
"I hope not; it's the one commodity that seems to be in short supply in this place."
An awkward silence flooded the room. "If you're here for the colonic irrigation, I'm not due until next Thursday."
Glancing down at his gloves and bucket, Daniel wasn't quite sure how to take the remark. "Colonic irrigation? No, no I'm not," he cautiously replied.
"Good, because me anus ain't what it used to be. It seems to have a mind of its own these days." The old woman smirked. "Well something must have brought you here," she continued, "what were you expecting to see… the Grim Reaper ushering me spirit away through a cloud of smoke? Oh, dear! What a face! You look like you've just seen a ghost! My name's Martha, by the way, though you probably knew that from the nameplate outside my door; and you must be...?"
"Daniel."
"Well, well, well; you seem to have strayed into the lion's den, Daniel; didn't they warn you about me?"
"I've heard the rumours."
"Aye, from that old fishwife, 'Wining Winnie' Watson, no doubt."
“I take it you’re not her biggest fan.”
“Aa canna bide the woman. She’s been here over two years and I’ve yet to see her smile.”
“We are talking about the same person, aren’t we? Isn't Winnie the one with Strawberry blonde hair that always wears purple nail varnish?"
"Strawberry blonde? Give-ower, man! It’s ginger turned grey, is that; and as for the purple fingernails, she’s always had poor circulation has that one." Martha responds to his shocked expression by bursting into a fit of laughter. "For goodness’ sake, you really must lighten up if you're going to work here; and aye, we are thinking of the same person. She normally sits wi’ mad Brenda, the Vegan wi’ an unusually large Adam's apple. I'm sure she's a bloke, y'naw.”
"Who, Brenda?"
"Brenda... Bernard... whatever she calls herself these days."
"You couldn’t be more wrong.”
“What, seen her fanny, have you?”
“Martha! Actually, come to think of it, I haven't seen anything of Brenda for the past couple of weeks."
"That's because they've shipped her out to the Primrose Hill Community Hospital."
"Really? I actually quite liked her. She was the ultimate in eco-friendly. You name it, Brenda had recycled it. Poor woman, I hope she's not too poorly."
"It's just a matter of time, I'm afraid. I'm told she picked up the other day, which is always a sure sign that they're on their way out."
"Funnily enough, I heard that’s what happens, too. Oh, dear, that is bad news."
"Aye, but on the plus side, Primrose Hill is only a stone's throw from Jarrow Cemetery, so she'll be cutting down on her carbon footprint, won't she. Every cloud, as they say."
Not quite knowing how to respond, Daniel took a moment to drag a chair to the side of Martha’s bed and sit himself down.
"So come on then, Daniel, you still haven't asked your question. What's the matter, cat got your tongue?"
His expression, filled with trepidation, immediately betrayed his deepest thoughts.
"You came in here hoping for a little insight, didn't you? To find out how the human psyche copes with the expectation of one's impending death. In short, you want to know if I'm afraid of dying, correct?"
"Well, are you?"
"I used to be, particularly between seventy and eighty, that's when the fear really starts to gnaw away at you; because that's the time when yer old school mates start to drop like flies; and when yer relatives and friends follow suit, that's when you start to think, when is it my turn? And before long, you start to seriously ask yourself whether there really is a life after this one."
"That doesn’t really answer my question."
“Do you fear death, Daniel?”
“Sometimes.”
“Then why do you want to know how I feel about it?”
“Because…”
“Because I’m nearer the front of the queue, that’s what all this is about, isn’t it?”
“I was merely wondering if things changed as you got older; whether you still had hopes, for example.”
“Let me tell you something, Daniel, when you get to my age, the only hope you have is that the tea trolley arrives between four-forty and four-forty-five prompt. Because, if it's late again, as it was last Wednesday, that mammoth Polish woman from the ground floor is going to have another one of her turns; and a repeat performance of having a stick of celery thrust down her throat to act as a pseudo-windpipe, is enough to put anyone off salads for life."
“I don’t know where you heard that, Martha, but I rather think it’s more invention than fact; and in any case, Mrs. Boycuk’s not that fat?"
"You must be thinking about someone else, Pet. That woman snores when she’s awake!”
“Mrs. Boychuk? The one that always carries that old mobile phone about with her?”
“Aye, that’s the one! I wish someone would tell her to change that flamin' Nokia tune. You can hear it ringing in the early hours of the morning. It’s no wonder she has convulsions."
"Aw' don't be rotten, she’s a lovely woman."
"Aye, well I wouldn't get too attached if I were you."
"And why's that?"
"Let's put it this way, she has God on speed dial. If you really want to know about the fear of dying, she’s the one you should be talking to.”
“You know what I think? I think everyone fears death at some time in their life, maybe more so as the time gets nearer.”
“And that’s why God invented Dementia, Daniel. Him upstairs, we blame him for all the world’s wrongs but, at the end of the day, he’s a canny bloke.” Martha’s face squeezes out an involuntary yawn. “What time is it, anyway?”
Daniel's eyes flitter around the room before spying the clock. "Just gone ten-to eight; I'm due to knock off at eight o’clock."
"Then you mustn’t let me keep you as moment longer, Daniel. It's been a real pleasure
talking with you but, as we’ve already established, there comes a time when we all must depart, and this is yours. Besides, am fair-beat.”
“Well, it’s been a pleasure talking to you too, Martha. You get a good night’s rest and I’ll see you on Monday. I’m not in tomorrow."
Daniel replaces the chair in the corner and makes his exit, pausing only for the briefest of moments as Martha adds her postscript.
“Oh, Daniel; I never actually answered your question, did I? I’m afraid the only answer I can give you is, if you go through life worrying about how it will end, it leaves bugger all time to enjoy yourself.”
Daniel ruefully smiles as he leaves. “Goodnight, Martha.”
MONDAY MORNING
Daniel is sitting in the rest room having his morning coffee when Senior Nurse, Catherine, Bowden, enters. "Morning, Daniel. While I remember, could you remove the bedside cabinet from Room 126 and replace it with the new one that's sitting in the Reception area, please?"
"Sure. That's Martha McCarthy's room, isn't it?"
"It was, yes. Why, did you know her?"
"What do you mean, did I know her? You're talking like she's dead."
"The last time I saw her, she was. She passed away on Saturday."
Horrified, Daniel fails to reply. The Deputy Nurse joins Catherine as Daniel wanders away.
“Morning, Catherine. So, I hear there was a mini crisis on Saturday.”
“You mean with Martha McCarthy? It was hardly a crisis. The poor girl passed away on Saturday lunchtime at around one o’clock; she was pronounced dead at one-forty-five, and then had to wait for over seven hours for the Undertaker to arrive after someone ploughed into the side of his hearse.”
“Good grief! So what did you do with her?”
“Locked her door and left her in her room; what else could I do?”
“Not much, I suppose. Did she pass peacefully?”
“As you would expect with Martha… with a smile on her face.”
THE END
Sadly, as the years snowballed into decades, that unscrupulous thief, nature, succeeded where the adversities of war had failed. It stole Martha's spirit, turning impulse into frustration, fire into ashes. Nowadays, after six long years as a resident at the Heavenly Pastures Nursing Home, she is limited to planning her return journeys from the bedroom to the lounge; where once it was an achievement not to pee herself on the roller-coaster, these days it's a job to hold it in until the hoist has done its work. With spouse, friends and acquaintances long passed, Martha must be contented with weekly visits from her only daughter, Emily, who arrives on a weekly basis bearing boiled sweets and photographs of shopping trips stored in mobile phones.
Daniel Robinson lays claim to being the Janitor at the Heavenly Pastures. A portly chap in his late fifties, Daniel plods along the treadmill of life looking back on the dreams and aspirations that he was somehow destined not to fulfill. After five weeks in the job, he remains unsettled and, more to the point, unable to justify his feelings with logical explanation; it’s a dilemma that haunts him. His tangled reasoning of sympathy for those around him and the recollections of his mother’s deterioration, serve to provide a convenient diversion from the fact that this could well be the blueprint for his own inevitable fate; and there lies the answer to his question. For Daniel, life just keeps slipping away. The Carer's care, the Nurses nurse, and the days... well, for most of the time, the days are only distinguishable by the separation of night. Conspicuously lacking in perspective, Daniel’s perception of life was about to be altered by a chance meeting with the resident of Room 126, Martha McCarthy.
It all came about one Saturday evening in mid-December at around seven-thirty. The inclement weather had dictated that Daniel stay the extra hour and, with most of his chores already completed, the remainder of the day seemed set for plain sailing. Until, that is, he reached the hallway and a small carpet stain immediately outside Martha McCarthy's room. Complete with Marigolds, rag and bucket, he lowered himself onto all fours and began to dampen the offending area. Now, Daniel had heard the stories about Martha and her impetuous youth, and was mildly curious as to what kind of person rested behind that imposing, white door. Whilst rhythmically scrubbing back and forth, he found himself glancing at the shiny brass doorknob glimmering beneath the corridor light. With the stain satisfactorily removed, he casually tossed the rag into the bucket and filled his cheeks with air. He again looked at the doorknob, his curiosity gathering weight with each passing second. As no one was about, and he certainly couldn’t recall being told that any particular room was out of bounds, Daniel slowly twisted the doorknob and gently eased open the door. There, in the three-quarter bed centre of room, was a frail, paste-grey woman; her eyes tightly shut, the contours of her inanimate body impressed firmly upon his mind as she lay beneath the white linen sheets. On entering the room, he partially closed the door, allowing himself just enough time to survey her clay-like features beneath a gathering of unkempt, white hair. Daniel quietly turned around to make good his silent exit. At that precise moment, a strained Geordie accent called out to him, "Not going to even say, hello, Pet?"
"Jesus, Mary! You almost frightened the life out of me!"
"I hope not; it's the one commodity that seems to be in short supply in this place."
An awkward silence flooded the room. "If you're here for the colonic irrigation, I'm not due until next Thursday."
Glancing down at his gloves and bucket, Daniel wasn't quite sure how to take the remark. "Colonic irrigation? No, no I'm not," he cautiously replied.
"Good, because me anus ain't what it used to be. It seems to have a mind of its own these days." The old woman smirked. "Well something must have brought you here," she continued, "what were you expecting to see… the Grim Reaper ushering me spirit away through a cloud of smoke? Oh, dear! What a face! You look like you've just seen a ghost! My name's Martha, by the way, though you probably knew that from the nameplate outside my door; and you must be...?"
"Daniel."
"Well, well, well; you seem to have strayed into the lion's den, Daniel; didn't they warn you about me?"
"I've heard the rumours."
"Aye, from that old fishwife, 'Wining Winnie' Watson, no doubt."
“I take it you’re not her biggest fan.”
“Aa canna bide the woman. She’s been here over two years and I’ve yet to see her smile.”
“We are talking about the same person, aren’t we? Isn't Winnie the one with Strawberry blonde hair that always wears purple nail varnish?"
"Strawberry blonde? Give-ower, man! It’s ginger turned grey, is that; and as for the purple fingernails, she’s always had poor circulation has that one." Martha responds to his shocked expression by bursting into a fit of laughter. "For goodness’ sake, you really must lighten up if you're going to work here; and aye, we are thinking of the same person. She normally sits wi’ mad Brenda, the Vegan wi’ an unusually large Adam's apple. I'm sure she's a bloke, y'naw.”
"Who, Brenda?"
"Brenda... Bernard... whatever she calls herself these days."
"You couldn’t be more wrong.”
“What, seen her fanny, have you?”
“Martha! Actually, come to think of it, I haven't seen anything of Brenda for the past couple of weeks."
"That's because they've shipped her out to the Primrose Hill Community Hospital."
"Really? I actually quite liked her. She was the ultimate in eco-friendly. You name it, Brenda had recycled it. Poor woman, I hope she's not too poorly."
"It's just a matter of time, I'm afraid. I'm told she picked up the other day, which is always a sure sign that they're on their way out."
"Funnily enough, I heard that’s what happens, too. Oh, dear, that is bad news."
"Aye, but on the plus side, Primrose Hill is only a stone's throw from Jarrow Cemetery, so she'll be cutting down on her carbon footprint, won't she. Every cloud, as they say."
Not quite knowing how to respond, Daniel took a moment to drag a chair to the side of Martha’s bed and sit himself down.
"So come on then, Daniel, you still haven't asked your question. What's the matter, cat got your tongue?"
His expression, filled with trepidation, immediately betrayed his deepest thoughts.
"You came in here hoping for a little insight, didn't you? To find out how the human psyche copes with the expectation of one's impending death. In short, you want to know if I'm afraid of dying, correct?"
"Well, are you?"
"I used to be, particularly between seventy and eighty, that's when the fear really starts to gnaw away at you; because that's the time when yer old school mates start to drop like flies; and when yer relatives and friends follow suit, that's when you start to think, when is it my turn? And before long, you start to seriously ask yourself whether there really is a life after this one."
"That doesn’t really answer my question."
“Do you fear death, Daniel?”
“Sometimes.”
“Then why do you want to know how I feel about it?”
“Because…”
“Because I’m nearer the front of the queue, that’s what all this is about, isn’t it?”
“I was merely wondering if things changed as you got older; whether you still had hopes, for example.”
“Let me tell you something, Daniel, when you get to my age, the only hope you have is that the tea trolley arrives between four-forty and four-forty-five prompt. Because, if it's late again, as it was last Wednesday, that mammoth Polish woman from the ground floor is going to have another one of her turns; and a repeat performance of having a stick of celery thrust down her throat to act as a pseudo-windpipe, is enough to put anyone off salads for life."
“I don’t know where you heard that, Martha, but I rather think it’s more invention than fact; and in any case, Mrs. Boycuk’s not that fat?"
"You must be thinking about someone else, Pet. That woman snores when she’s awake!”
“Mrs. Boychuk? The one that always carries that old mobile phone about with her?”
“Aye, that’s the one! I wish someone would tell her to change that flamin' Nokia tune. You can hear it ringing in the early hours of the morning. It’s no wonder she has convulsions."
"Aw' don't be rotten, she’s a lovely woman."
"Aye, well I wouldn't get too attached if I were you."
"And why's that?"
"Let's put it this way, she has God on speed dial. If you really want to know about the fear of dying, she’s the one you should be talking to.”
“You know what I think? I think everyone fears death at some time in their life, maybe more so as the time gets nearer.”
“And that’s why God invented Dementia, Daniel. Him upstairs, we blame him for all the world’s wrongs but, at the end of the day, he’s a canny bloke.” Martha’s face squeezes out an involuntary yawn. “What time is it, anyway?”
Daniel's eyes flitter around the room before spying the clock. "Just gone ten-to eight; I'm due to knock off at eight o’clock."
"Then you mustn’t let me keep you as moment longer, Daniel. It's been a real pleasure
talking with you but, as we’ve already established, there comes a time when we all must depart, and this is yours. Besides, am fair-beat.”
“Well, it’s been a pleasure talking to you too, Martha. You get a good night’s rest and I’ll see you on Monday. I’m not in tomorrow."
Daniel replaces the chair in the corner and makes his exit, pausing only for the briefest of moments as Martha adds her postscript.
“Oh, Daniel; I never actually answered your question, did I? I’m afraid the only answer I can give you is, if you go through life worrying about how it will end, it leaves bugger all time to enjoy yourself.”
Daniel ruefully smiles as he leaves. “Goodnight, Martha.”
MONDAY MORNING
Daniel is sitting in the rest room having his morning coffee when Senior Nurse, Catherine, Bowden, enters. "Morning, Daniel. While I remember, could you remove the bedside cabinet from Room 126 and replace it with the new one that's sitting in the Reception area, please?"
"Sure. That's Martha McCarthy's room, isn't it?"
"It was, yes. Why, did you know her?"
"What do you mean, did I know her? You're talking like she's dead."
"The last time I saw her, she was. She passed away on Saturday."
Horrified, Daniel fails to reply. The Deputy Nurse joins Catherine as Daniel wanders away.
“Morning, Catherine. So, I hear there was a mini crisis on Saturday.”
“You mean with Martha McCarthy? It was hardly a crisis. The poor girl passed away on Saturday lunchtime at around one o’clock; she was pronounced dead at one-forty-five, and then had to wait for over seven hours for the Undertaker to arrive after someone ploughed into the side of his hearse.”
“Good grief! So what did you do with her?”
“Locked her door and left her in her room; what else could I do?”
“Not much, I suppose. Did she pass peacefully?”
“As you would expect with Martha… with a smile on her face.”
THE END
