Dear God (7 page)

CHAPTER 9

Eventually they left the bank, William still shouting and waving his hands in the air and demanding a drink to help him cope with all these idiots, and the portly one all flustered and trying to be soothing at the same time. They made two stops on the way to the launderette, once to the chemist’s to collect William’s prescription medication, where he created another scene of put-upon fury, demanding to know why he had to wait so long to get his blue pills and demanding to know what they were for, then not believing the chemist, and secondly to a men’s outfitter’s, where he became involved in a fierce argument with the shop assistant about elasticated waists as opposed to cords which had to be tied on the pyjamas that he most liked. The portly one, who volunteered the fact that he was called Denis, had had enough by now and steered William out of the shop and to the launderette, where they collected Robert and his folder and William’s laundry.

Denis took them all back to William’s house before it could be suggested that they all went back to the bank. They seemed to forget about the shopping that they usually did.

They were greeted by Ginger, who had taken yet another sausage onto the rug in the living room. William, in a placatory mood now, offered to make them a cup of tea, which seemed to amaze them, and they settled down, Robert on a rather rickety chair and Denis on the sofa, to discuss how Mr. Penfold was getting on, looking at all the utilities bills they had accumulated, which they seemed to be on top of, and to reinforce the idea of him taking all his medication, at the right time. They even made him out a daily list, which they wanted to put in a prominent position somewhere near the toaster. They discussed his benefits and told him exactly when they would call again. William really wanted them to drink their tea and go; he needed to sort his money out himself and decide what to do with it, but they were still reluctant to leave without establishing a few more facts.

William could contain his impatience no longer. “Well, where’s my passbook then?”

Robert fished it out of the mass of papers on his lap.

“Look,” said William, excitedly, “I’ve got £3,465 here. It’s mine. I could have had two pairs of those pyjamas,” he said accusingly to Denis.

“And no doubt another artichoke,” said Denis pointedly. “That isn’t the question, is it? The point is...”

“The point is, it’s mine. Do I get a cheque book with this?” he asked suddenly.

“Well, no doubt you could have one, but listen, William, £3,000 sounds a lot of money, but it wouldn’t last long. It’s all you have. It’s all you have left over from – ”

“From the days when,” said William.

“Yes, well, it wouldn’t keep you going for long, would it? Do you think you might be better off in a Home, and not having to bother with all this?”

William stared at him, open-mouthed.

“I mean, you are obviously doing so much better with the drinking so you might find you get on better with people now…” but even as he spoke memories of the scenes in the bank, the chemist’s and the gent’s outfitter’s reminded Denis that this was not true.

“You want to put me in a Home?” roared William. “In a Home?” His face turned purple, which frightened the two carers somewhat. He looked round for a weapon but all he could find was his new long umbrella, which he picked up and waved in a wild manner.

“Get out of my house this minute,” he said, “and don’t come back ever again. Until I need a new prescription,” he added hastily, thinking of that and all those bills he might have to deal with once they had washed their hands of him. “I’m alright here and so’s the cat. Go away, go on, go away.” He shooed them out of the sitting room.

The two men retreated hastily to Denis’ car, where they sat for a long time, talking and filling in forms from Robert’s folder. Had William ‘got religion’? Denis remembered his reference to God. And there was the curious mention of artichokes. That did not fit in with any known personality disorder that they could identify. William glared at them from the front room window, waving his umbrella.

Then he sat down and started to consider the position. How much money did he have and what was the best way to spend it?

He thought for a moment of why he had told God that not having money was his principal problem, because he didn’t have enough to spend on drink. He wasn’t absolutely sure that that was absolutely true any more. However, the thought of drink sidetracked him somewhat and he went to the kitchen to find something to slake his thirst. The cat also came and began to demand attention. He fed it and gave it some milk, after which it went out for a breath of fresh air and William began to prepare a meal for himself.

After some bacon, eggs, sausage and fried bread, with a can of lager, he felt very much better, less angry, more self-satisfied. A Home indeed! I expect they helped me a lot just after the time when, he thought. But I’m better now. I can manage. Well, most things. Not the paperwork things perhaps. Which reminded him about the money. He had decisions to make.

How much did he owe to the credit card company? How much actual cash did he have at his disposal? He’d told God he was going to pay off the debt but it would still leave a lot which he could do what he liked with.

Firstly he looked again at the credit card company’s letter. It told him he owed £4,097 or a minimum of £125; there was an envelope with in which he could post his payment. He then looked in his pockets for the remains of the £75 he had started out with some time ago. There were very few remains; he had £12.27 left. He then studied the large brown envelope which contained the lorry driver’s £5,000, which, he now realised, Denis had been sitting on all afternoon. Lastly, he looked at his passbook from the Protect and Save Society. He had £3,465 in there. It was both satisfying and worrying, satisfying because he could buy a few things and not have to be too bothered about the cost but worrying because he knew, somehow, that it would all eventually disappear and there was no discernible way of increasing it.

Then of course there was the money that the Social Services had left him to live on. They had totted up what he would have to pay for the electric, the gas, the water, the rates, the rent and all that stuff and left him with £300. That was for food and drink, haircuts, clothes and so on. When would they turn up again? This time they had said…what? He couldn’t remember. He remembered that they had left in a hurry, because he had thrown them out. Why did he do that? Thinking back, it was something to do with something they had said, but it had all gone now. Stupid fools, bothering a respectable, law-abiding citizen like him. Were they coming back in a month’s time? Or two weeks? No, it was no use, it had gone.

All this money business was a great worry.Well, how much should he give the credit card company? On balance he decided to pay it all off, seeing as how he had got his own source now. Then he wouldn’t be afraid of someone finding out about the scooter. He’d still have the card and he could buy things from time to time. God would be pleased.

The thought of God reminded him about his electronic communications. Warily, he eyed the computer. There was, he discovered, an email in his inbox. Cautiously, he opened it. There was an email from God. It said:

There is more to life than artichokes. Try to do more.

As usual, William flew into a rage. What use was this sort of advice! Do more what? A cookery course? What sort of life was He talking about? He was already feeding a cat for Christ’s sake. That was quite enough to cope with. He’d been involved in a terrible accident and nearly mown down by an errant white van driver. And he was persecuted by these Social Service men who wanted to put him in a Home! The memory came flooding back at this point. They also kept on trying to get him talking about the Past, which he was not going to do. The Past was obviously dreadful and he had no intention of raking it all up, just to please them, interfering so-and-so’s.

He got up and stormed towards the kitchen, in a tottery sort of way, flailing his arms about as he went. There he found a couple of cans of lager and the cat, who appeared to be hungry and thirsty again. Grumbling to himself, he fed it and gave it some milk, then went back to the sitting room, where he hunted around for the credit card letter. Eventually, he found it. It had an empty reply letter inside it, into which he started to put £4,000 from the big brown envelope from the lorry driver but then he remembered it would be better if he could send all the correct money by cheque, if he could get a cheque book from the Protect and Save branch. All he had to do was remember where the branch was.

He laid down on the sofa and tried very hard to remember which way he had gone in the car. He thought he could remember the way to the launderette and the chemist. It was the bit beyond that that confused him. Hang on! If he could look up the address in the phone book or Yellow Pages, it would be a simple matter of just asking someone, wouldn’t it? But then, he hadn’t got a phone book. He didn’t have a phone. The Social Services didn’t seem to think he could manage one. Stupid interfering fools. He felt the anger rising up in him. He’d have to go, but go where?

The library! That’s where he would go. He knew where that was. He’d been thrown out of it only a few weeks ago! For making a disturbance. He couldn’t remember what it had been about but the reaction of the staff had been quite disgraceful, he did remember that. And he did know where the library was.

“Right, I’m off.” He picked up his cap and umbrella and buttoned up his jacket. He left the cat sleeping peacefully on the rug.

“Bye,” he said, “shan’t be long.”

CHAPTER 10

Two streets away William entered the local library. It was an old-fashioned and rather dingy building. As he went in, he came to a large area lined with computers and rows of DVDs and CDs.

He stared around him. “What have you done with all the books, then?” he inquired of a lady behind a polished desk.

“What book do you require, Sir?” she said, helpfully.

“I need to know where something is,” he said.

“Well, all the books are in order of subject matter,” she began, helpfully. “There’s Crime, over there, behind the DVDs, and then Romance, then –”

“I don’t want Romance,” said William. “That’s rubbish. I want –” here he paused. What did he want? He thought hard. “I want Banks. Where they are, I mean.”

“Well, there is a financial section upstairs, Sir. You’ll find everything you need to know about Barclays and Lloyds and so on up there.”

“I don’t want Barclays. Where’s the lift?”

“I’m afraid there isn’t one. The stairs are at the far end.”

“Are you telling me there’s no lift? How am I supposed to manage? I’ve got a dodgy knee.”

As usual, anger welled up inside him. He was about to launch into one of his tirades against the injustice of this world in not providing lifts for him when he needed one when a gentleman appeared who was welcomed by the library assistant as ‘our Mr.Fairweather who will be able to assist you, he knows a lot about banks,’ after which she disappeared with relief.

Mr. Fairweather, who did indeed know a lot about banks, was able to point William in the right direction. The bank was a building society called the Protect and Save and it was situated on the High Street. Mr. Fairweather gave him detailed instructions, then explained that the No. 74 bus would take him straight there.

On the way out, he came across a desk where they issued, or at least allowed you to apply for, bus passes. He had not got one.Why hadn’t he got one? Those Social men should have got him one. They had failed in their duty of care again! He could catch this No. 74 and go straight there! That library man had said so. He became very angry. By the time he had got to the desk and was engaging with the hapless young woman who staffed it he was already furious.

“How can I help you, Sir?” inquired the assistant brightly with a beaming smile.

“Why haven’t I got a bus pass?” he shouted, waving his umbrella.

“Well, when did you apply for one?”

“I didn’t. I think I should just have got one, not have to go through all this rigmarole.”

“Well, all I want is your address and a few personal details. Have you got proof of identification, a debit or credit card perhaps?”

That set him off again. “It’s as bad as the bank. I know who I am. I just want a bus pass so that I can get to the bank. To get a debit card,” he added. “Then I can prove who I am.” That’ll floor her, he thought. But she continued with her list of questions.

She persevered. “What is your date of birth?”

That was difficult. He had no idea. “May 11
^th,”
he said, “1912.”

She looked at him suspiciously. “You don’t look that old.”

“Are you going to give me my bus pass or not?” He waved his umbrella menacingly. The girl looked round in desperation. She was saved by the arrival of Mr. Fairweather and another senior assistant. The senior assistant unfortunately remembered William from his previous visit to the library. Shortly after William found himself outside the building again, having been escorted by the two men, despite his noisy protests.

“I shall take the matter further,” he shouted, as they turned to go back inside.

“You do that, Mr. Penfold,” replied the senior assistant. And that was that.

“Prats,” muttered William. The whole world was against him. He marched up the street and endeavoured to remember the instructions from Mr. Fairweather. Rather surprisingly, he did find the High Street and, eventually, the Protect and Save Building Society.

It was closed.

William felt he had never been so angry. Here he was, a man of substance, with £4,000 in his wallet (suddenly he remembered it wasn’t! He hadn’t brought the lorry driver’s money with him!) and a further £3,000 in an account and he couldn’t get inside to demand a cheque book. Perhaps it was for the best. But still they ought to be open. How could people like himself conduct their substantial and important financial affairs when they were not given their bus passes and were then messed about by tinpot bureaucrats like people who worked in banks?