Dear God (6 page)

The driver looked relieved. He started to count out the money from a very large brown envelope on the coffee table in front of the sofa. It took a long time. When it was finished, it occurred to William to offer him a drink, which he accepted. He rather liked the new experience of having someone in his house, like a guest, and offering them a drink. Bit like in the days when. The driver left, stressing the need for secrecy, to which William gladly agreed, and William began to consider his options.

All in all it had been an exciting day. He found, to his amazement, that he didn’t actually miss the scooter and decided not to replace it. It had been a bit beyond him. A bit dangerous. Maybe he would be safer in a car. But he pushed that thought away. What he had to decide now was how much he would pay the credit card company. £125? Or all of the £4000? Or something in between?

Even more importantly, he needed some supper. He felt he hadn’t been down the pub for a while, but so much seemed to have happened it didn’t seem important. The pub would always be there, when he wanted it.

Supper was a demanding experience. He had bought a ready meal for one but the directions for heating it up were in very tiny print, which sent him into one of his periodic rages, particularly as he couldn’t find his glasses. He guessed it would take about five minutes to cook. Ginger was also demanding to be fed and rubbing himself against his trouser legs, which caused him to trip up. But the greatest problem was presented by the artichoke. It was bigger than he remembered it. Did you take the outside leaves off and then boil it? Or put it all in a big saucepan in one piece? He didn’t think he had a saucepan big enough. Did you get the middle bits out, and were they edible, or the remaining outside bits? In the end, he lost his temper and boiled up what he could in the only saucepan he could find. Stupid vegetable. He resolved not to buy one again. He hadn’t got any salt, which annoyed him further. Still, he added some baked beans, which made a passable job of it, fed Ginger, and sat down in the front room, in front of the television. He had a lager with it, in a glass which he had found at the back of a cupboard. Afterwards he had a steamed ginger pudding which he cooked in the microwave. The meal was not a great success, he had to admit, but he decided he would get the times right on his next venture.

Tomorrow ‘They’ were coming, he remembered. This time he would pay some attention and note where they took him to get his money. He didn’t think he would have to go to the doctor’s but he would have to go to the launderette. It would be lunchtime before he could get rid of them. Then what could he do? Pondering this he thought of the computer. Shouldn’t he thank the Top God for everything? And tell Him that he would pay for it all? He wouldn’t mess about with paying a little bit here and there. He’d pay for everything, now he’d got some money, like sensible people did. Like he used to in the days when.

He turned to the computer and brought up his email programme. It took him a while to work out what he wanted to say but he finished it eventually.

Thank you very much for the scooter and so on. I am sorry it got wrecked. I think it was a good idea of Yours to wangle the money to pay for it, though. I don’t think I am very safe with it on the whole, so I won’t get another one. Money is still a problem although the lorry episode has helped. I will repay the credit card company.

The manager at the supermarket needs a good talking to in my opinion, he should have told me how to deal with that artichoke thing. What is the point of artichokes?

Regards

William Penfold

Administrative Manager

In the evening, he went to the pub and shared a convivial evening with Jimmy, who was rambling on as usual about the state of the world and his wallet. William kept quiet about his changed fortunes. He needed to think about what to do. About his future. Did he have a future? There was a thought. They parted company a little on the early side and he proceeded home, more steady than was his wont.

Once home, he decided to go upstairs. He wasn’t sure why he wanted to do this but the thought of kipping down on the sofa suddenly seemed rather uncomfortable. Rather undignified. He was accompanied up the stairs by Ginger and he made it to the main front bedroom. The bed looked very rumpled and forlorn, there was a thick layer of dust on the battered old dressing table and the door of the wardrobe was swinging open. Still, he decided to go through with his plan of sleeping upstairs, in a proper bed. More or less, it has to be said, because he was somewhat frightened of going back down the stairs. Nevertheless, he pulled the bedclothes together and began to undress. At that point, he realised he didn’t have any pyjamas with him. Still, he didn’t have any downstairs either, so that was not, after all, a problem. He curled up under the duvet and Ginger made himself comfortable on top.

CHAPTER 8

He slept well and woke up early in the morning; he was instantly alarmed, not recognising where he was for a minute. Then he went to the bathroom and discovered he had soap but no towel. He wondered where he kept the towels. Did he have towels, plural? What had he done with the one that had been there? Carefully he began the dangerous descent down the stairs, impeded in this by the efforts of Ginger, whose aim in life, like all cats, was to trip him up on the way down. Once down, he washed himself in the handbasin of the downstairs loo, where there was one reasonable towel. He made himself a cup of tea, fed the cat, and then realised he would have to upstairs again to retrieve his clothes. Damn!

Grimly, he ascended the stairs, made his bed and got dressed. He found he urgently needed a drink. A proper drink. After a precarious trip downstairs, he found his jacket on a hook in the hall, with his baseball cap, which he placed carefully on his head.

He was just opening a can of beer when the doorbell went.

It was the men from Social Services. Two of them this time. One was older, a bit portly and had a moustache. The other was younger and scruffier. He vaguely remembered them from a previous visit some time ago. The scruffy one held a folder in his hand.

“Hello, William. We are your carers, from the Social Services.”

He didn’t remember giving them permission to call him William. He drew himself up and gave them a frosty look.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” he said.

“How are you getting on, William?”

“I’m alright. I’ve had a bit of trouble with an artichoke. You ought to speak to that manager, you know. He has no idea about customer relations.”

The men stared at him and then at each other. William opened the door wide and they followed him into the kitchen.

“Where’s the table, William?”

“In the garden,” said William.

“Why’s that then?”

William thought for a moment. “I needed to clean the floor,” he said. They all inspected the floor. It hadn’t been cleaned in months.

The cat came in. William gave it some food and a little milk. The men looked puzzled.

“Is this your cat, William?”

“No,” said William.

“William,” said the older one “We need to know how you are managing. Are you still drinking rather a lot? Are you eating? Are you taking all your medications regularly?”

William considered. “I’m drinking what I want, because I like it. I have had some sausages and an artichoke, which wasn’t a great success. And beans. And I’m not sure about the pills, not the blue ones, that is. What are they for?”

There was a brief silence. Then, “Well, you need something to help keep you on an even keel,” said carer number one, the portly one. “We can get you some more this morning. Where do you keep your medication?”

They inspected the patch behind the toaster and the awful truth was revealed. It was clear that William had not been following his prescribed issue of pills. Carer number two, the scruffy one, made some more notes in his folder.

“Shall we help you get the table indoors?” asked the portly one. He opened the back door and the two men went out to bring the table back in. “What’s that plank of wood doing there against that window?” said one of them.

“That’s for the cat,” explained William.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Well, I like it, and so does the cat,” said William, suddenly belligerent.

“Are those new trousers?” asked one of them, noticing William’s new attire.

“Yes,” said William, cautiously. He wanted to avoid the subject of money. “Got them in a charity shop.”

“And the jacket?”

“Yes.”

“You did well.”

They inspected the state of the washing and decided to pay a visit to the launderette, leaving one of them there in charge of the washing. After that, they would go to the chemist with a pre-prescribed prescription. Then they would go to the bank. Finally, they would call in at the launderette to collect the washing and then do some food shopping. The expedition was to be in the portly one’s car, which would make it difficult for William to remember the route to the bank, which he particularly wanted to do.

“What I want to know is,” said William, “is this house mine or yours?”

“The house is council property, Mr. Penfold. We became involved when it appeared you were unable, er, having difficulty with running your previous property and with looking after yourself satisfactorily.” The carer’s voice sounded neutral and rather prim.

So that was settled. He supposed they made sure he kept himself alive and on the right side of the law. They checked that he got all the benefits he was entitled to and paid what he could towards the bills. Presumably he had salvaged a few things from his previous life such as his jacket and the computer, bits of furniture and so on.

He wondered briefly where he had been before the Social Services got him, but he pushed the thought away firmly. They’d be on about the past in no time, given half a chance. What he needed to know was had he got any money of his own and could he get his hands on it? Without their knowing?

“How are you feeling, William?”

“Feeling about what?”

“Well, about managing on your own, for instance. Are you still drinking a lot?”

“What do you mean, a lot?”

He found he was still holding a just-opened can of beer as he spoke.

“Do you start drinking early in the morning, for instance?”

“Mind your own business,” said William, suddenly exasperated. “I just happened to have this can handy.”

“I suggest we get all the washing together,” said the portly one.

“What about the stuff upstairs?” asked William. “The bed things?”

“You’ve been upstairs?”

“And there’s my old trousers.”

William was giving them surprises, he could see.

“And,” he said, emphasising his words, “I wish to buy some pyjamas.”

“Right, well, William, let’s get going.”

They got going. They stopped off at the launderette and left the scruffy one in charge of the washing, whilst William and the portly one went to the chemist. Then they were off to the bank. William tried hard to remember the roads and the name of the bank, which was a building society called the Protect and Save Society. Guided by his carer William eventually arrived at the front of the queue. He dutifully signed the form thrust at him by the portly one, who gave it, folded inside a red passbook of some description, to a bored-looking cashier.

“How much have I got?” asked William.

“Beg your pardon?” said the cashier, who had jumped slightly at William’s abrupt question.

“I said how much have I got?” repeated William loudly.

“Well, you have all the benefits paid in this month, but do you have any other account?”

“I don’t know, do I?” said William. “Could have a lot somewhere else, stashed away, which I don’t know of. Secret nest egg they haven’t told me about.”

“Just a minute, William,” said the portly one. “I think you do have another account, but it’s your savings you know, not very much, well under the limit, if you go too high you won’t get any benefits and if you take too much of it out that’s it, all gone, so it’s best…”

“Are you telling me I can’t have my own money?” shouted William, about to launch into one of his manic rages.

“Of course you can but have you got the number of the other account, or the other passbook?” asked the cashier.

“I don’t know the number,” said William, “how am I supposed to remember all this? Nobody tells me anything. It’s as bad as the artichoke. You tell me what I’ve got.”

“Have your, er, friends got the passbook?” asked the cashier.

The portly one looked alarmed. “Well, yes, I expect it’s in your folder. Robert’s got your folder with him,” he said weakly.

“Well, this is a disgrace. A disgrace,” shouted William, excitedly. “All this time I’ve had money, I’ve even asked God for it, and you’ve kept it from me. We’ll have to go back to the launderette and get it from what’s-his-name.”

“Just a minute,” said the cashier. “I can tell you what you have in your other account. Can you prove who you are?”

“Why should I do that?” asked William, thoroughly enraged now. “I know who I am.”

“Have you got your passport with you? Or a credit or debit card? Or a utility bill?”

William did have a credit card with him, but he wasn’t going to let on about that. “No, I haven’t. I don’t take my passport round with me just to please idiots in banks.”

“Please don’t be abusive, Mr. Penfold, “ said the cashier. “I’m sure your friend will vouch for you and you are in receipt of benefits. Do you have anything to prove Mr.Penfold’s entitlement, Sir, which I can use as proof of identity?” she asked of the carer.

“Oh dear. All the paperwork is in the folder. At the launderette.”

“It’s a disgrace,” said William. “An absolute disgrace. Probably illegal. That’s my money and I can’t get it. I shall,” he paused, searching for something really threatening, “consult my solicitors,” he finished triumphantly.

“Can you people get a move on?” said a disgruntled voice from the now extensive queue behind him.

“Let’s just get you your money for now,” said the portly one, pacifically, “then we’ll go and get the rest of the paperwork from Robert later.This they did, with the portly one taking charge of the proceedings.