Tim Connor Hits Trouble (26 page)

‘I won’t say I told you so,’ commented Gina.

‘So I hear.’

‘Well I did say,’ she cut herself short.

Realising she was being unhelpful, on impulse she reached out and began to rub his neck and shoulders. ‘Tim, you’re absolutely rigid. I’ll try to loosen you up.’

He leaned back into the movement of her hands increasing the intensity of her touch. ‘That feels good. I’d forgotten you have healing hands.’

‘Had you now?’

‘No, not really, I just try to forget. It’s not easy.’

She tugged his long hair – quite hard. He wondered if this was a rebuke for his original fall from grace or for his inability finally to let go of her. They lapsed into silence. She kept the massage going for several minutes, attentive and comforting enough for him to muse that perhaps, after all, the hair tug was a display of frustrated affection.

Gina’s touch had taken the edge off Tim’s tension, but he was still feeling troubled. He wished he had been more receptive to her the previous night. How many more opportunities would he get? He knew his mixed messages reflected his emotional confusion. His mood worsened again as they got closer to home, his thoughts shifting to his mother’s depressing plight.

Maria had picked up on her parents’ frustrations and pitched in for some attention herself. They were barely a few miles north of Keele and not yet even on the motorway when she insisted that she needed a pee. They pulled over at the sight of a glass verge. The outcome was a windblown performance of spectacular inelegance. Once on the motorway her urgent requirement was for a cold drink and later another pee. In between she was querulous and bored. Refusing suggestions that she take a nap she demanded instead to be told stories. Her parents were in no mood to do battle with her and resigned themselves to a holding strategy. As it happened by the middle of the second story their daughter was sound asleep.

Tim’s ring of the doorbell was answered not by his mother but by an anonymous looking though anxiously friendly man who turned out to be Tony Smith, a social worker and his main recent point of contact.

‘Mr Connor can I have a few quick words with you before you greet your mother?’

‘Go ahead.’ He paused for a moment turning to Gina. ‘Gina would you mind waiting with Maria for a minute, it will be better for Teresa if we all go in together.’

As he said this, the thin, strained voice of his mother came from the living room. ‘Timothy, is that you? I’m not very well you know. I’m glad you’re here.’

Tim changed tack.

‘Gina on second thoughts, do you mind going in and taking Maria? Why don’t you introduce her to her grandmother? I’m sure you’ll handle that better than me.’

‘Ok but be as quick as you can,’ replied Gina.

Tim turned to Tony Smith, who looked nervy but determined to say his piece. ‘I’m afraid your mother’s had a bit of a turn. It’s the worse she’s had so far.’

‘For a moment Tim was nonplussed. The phrase ‘a bit of a turn’ sounded like something that might happen in
Strictly Come Dancing
rather than in his mother’s increasingly sedentary life. Smith’s next remark clarified matters.

‘Yes, quite a bad turn. She fell over in her bedroom and was unable to operate the emergency communication system. It was a couple of hours before we caught up with her – when one of the carers visited. Your mother was quite confused and distressed. Fortunately though, she wasn’t physically hurt. We had her checked by her doctor.’

‘You’re sure there’s no physical damage?’

‘That’s what he said.’

‘Did he say anything about her mental state?’

‘He said she was disoriented. And as you know in the long term she’s got irreversible dementia.’

‘I know but I believe its progression can be slowed with activity and stimulation. I intend to help her choose a care home that provides that. I’ll try to fix that up during this visit. It’s unlikely that we’ll be able to move her into a home immediately but we’ll do so as soon as possible.’

‘I’m sure you’ve made a wise decision. You just need to be aware that your mother is continuing to resist going into a care home. It’s understandable. Even now she still wants her independence. We’ve done everything we can to enable her to remain at home but she simply can’t cope with the adjustments we’ve tried to introduce for her safety.
She appears unable even to learn how to operate the basic emergency systems of communication that we’ve put in place. Frankly she’s a danger to herself. She could easily fall down stairs or even set the house on fire. As you know she now gets three separate visits from carers every day but they can’t provide the continuous level of support and protection she needs.’

‘I see. That’s bad news, but pretty much in line with what you’ve been telling me and I’ve seen myself. As I say, I’ll try to move her into a care home as soon as we find a suitable place.’

Tony Smith looked relieved. These sort of conversations sometimes provoked far more difficult and sometimes angry reactions. ‘Ok, Mr Connor, I’ll call you late tomorrow afternoon to see how things are going. Perhaps by then you’ll have managed to look at one or two of the homes we’ve listed for you.’

‘I’ll do that.’

‘Right, I won’t interrupt your family get-together. Perhaps you could say goodbye to Mrs Connor for me.’

‘Fine, I will. We’ll be in touch tomorrow then.’

‘Goodbye then.’

‘Goodbye.’

The two men shook hands and Tim saw Tony Smith to the door.

Tim paused for a moment before entering the living room. He wanted to listen in on how the three of them were getting along. It sounded like Gina had handled things well. As he listened, a remark of his mother gave him huge relief.

‘Ooh, your daughter has a lovely complexion, Gina, just like yours. Isn’t she lucky? Did you go abroad again for your holidays?’

It did not matter to him how his mother had reached an acceptance of his daughter. Whatever had got her there would suffice at this point in her life. If she thought that his daughter and ex-partner’s skin was the result of sunshine, in her own idiosyncratic way and in the long march of evolution
she wasn’t far wrong. He felt an urge to sweep his mother off her feet and give her a quick whirl round the living room: the other kind of turn. He settled for a hug and a kiss.

His spirits lifted, he suggested that they go out for a meal - something Teresa had always loved doing with him and Gina. The four of them drove out for dinner to an up-market country pub. Teresa could barely cope with such an outing but wedged between Tim and Gina she entered the
Phoenix
determined to enjoy herself. For an hour she did just that before falling asleep on the strength of a ‘gill of ale’ and a fish pie dinner. Tim looked with affection and compassion at her worn and tired but still proud and pugnacious face. Her skin was drawn skull tight around her eyes and forehead, contrasting with the hanging, empty pouch of her neck. But the lines around her mouth belonged to a tough and determined woman. Her chin looked stronger than ever, still assertive through the loosening flesh. Luckily for him she was a fighter. She had often insisted to him that she had ‘done her best despite everything.’ Now ‘her best’ was close to being done. He had been on the wrong end of some of her destructive bouts of Catholic guilt but deeper than that was her unwavering parental love; her best was good enough for him. Who knows what his-own efforts might look like in thirty or forty years’ time?
Judge not that you may not be judged
.

He reflected that this was probably the last time Teresa would be strong enough for them to go out to dinner together. He glanced across at Maria who had just discovered the delights of sticky toffee pudding, a substantial portion of which was decorating her face. Happy, she smiled back at him. He was glad for Maria that she had met her grandmother, even though for the moment it meant more to him than to her.

Gina had been observing his reflective mood.

‘You alright then, Tim?’

‘Yeah, thanks Gina, I’m fine.’

It took frequent visits from Tim and several more months of trying before Teresa was successfully settled in a care home. Teresa’s first period of residence in a small religiously oriented home called the
Haven of Peace
lasted for just one night. By the next morning Tim received a call informing him that his mother was refusing to remain in the home and, indeed, on the basis of her current behaviour the owners had decided that she and the home was not a good match. Would Mr. Connor please come and pick her up? The owners were so keen to be rid of Teresa that they were prepared to waive the cost of the single night’s residence in return for an immediate departure. By the time Tim reached the care home, his mother was sat on a bench in the communal gardens surrounded by her luggage. He didn’t bother to talk to the owners or staff either then or later. Some things are best left to rest.

In the next few months Teresa came and went from a second care home before finally ending up in a third. Initially she had settled well in the second home. It helped that the start of her stay there had coincided with one of the trips that Gina had been able to make. She visited Teresa regularly over the period of her visit, trying to settle her into her new surroundings. However, within two days of Gina’s departure Teresa had adamantly refused to return to the care home following a visit to her own home. Finally it became clear that the cause of this behaviour was not the quality of the homes, where staff seemed to do their often-limited best, but Teresa’s dementia - that was worse than had been realised. A bizarre and inconvenient pattern gradually became apparent. When in a care home Teresa would insist to be returned to her own home, and after a day or two there, would then demand to be taken to a care home, protesting that she couldn’t cope in her own home. In a care home she would accuse Tim of ‘dumping her’ and in her own home of ‘leaving her without any help.’ It became apparent that she had no memory of this pattern. The horror and helplessness of extreme
dementia is not only the loss of memory but the consequent endless, meaningless repetition.

Tim was tangled in a net of filial duty and affection, until at the third time of trying Teresa managed, after a fashion to settle. Her fast progressing enfeeblement and greater firmness on his part finally bought the mad ritual to a close. It helped that the home was within sight of the parish church of Teresa’s childhood. For that matter it was the parish church of Tim’s childhood too, but it meant something quite different to him. ‘Whatever keeps her happy and in one place,’ he thought.

As it turned out the visit of Tim, Gina and their daughter to Teresa was the first and only time the four of them were together, a moment created from the fragments for Teresa and Maria. The fact that it happened was a matter of great satisfaction to both Maria’s parents, particularly as Teresa and Maria got on well in a tentative, gentle kind of way. Tim stayed on for a couple more days after Gina and Maria left by train for Essex. Teresa did become restless at the prospect of moving from her house, but there was nothing to suggest the scale of the ‘musical care homes’ performance she was about to embark on.

Driving south after the visit, Tim found himself edging towards a more positive frame of mind than when he had set out. He believed he had taken the right steps for Teresa and that things would become easier for him and her. His relationship with Maria was now more established on a routine, taken-for-granted basis. They had enjoyed some good times together on the trip. He was less sure how things were with Gina, both about his feelings for her, and hers for him. She did not appear to have shifted from the firm stand off position she had adopted since their break up. Eventually you have to take ‘no’ for an answer, he mused sadly. But did he really know what he wanted? Did he ever? His thoughts drifted to his life in Wash. At Keele he pulled over into the service station and made a call.

‘Hi Erica, it’s Tim.’

Once back in Wash, summer term locked onto Tim like the squeeze of an angry bear. Henry’s sacking meant that his end of year assessment load had to be picked up by former colleagues. Their protest that most of them were already working over hours soon got lost in the bureaucratic mist. Eventually a response came back that no financial savings from Henry’s dismissal would be made until the next financial year, and so a temporary replacement was unaffordable. That was more or less that. The immediate needs of students requiring end-of-year assessments soon took over.

The issue steadily lost momentum as despite a lingering sense of injustice the departmental team got on with the job. Tim kept in touch with Henry as best he could. It was not easy. After his first angry response to his sacking, Henry became increasingly depressed as the finality of it sank in. His first wild threats of revenge gave way to brooding introspection at his apparent impotence and insignificance in the scheme of things. Years of lecturing on work and leisure proved to be no preparation for the reality of his-own
workless life. Henry had usually initiated their get-togethers, but now Tim could barely persuade him to venture out at all. Claiming a need for advice, Tim used the fact that he was running revision sessions for students on Henry’s option module,
The Accidental Anarchist
, as an excuse to contact him on a regular basis. The ruse had some effect. On one occasion Henry came briefly to life, urging Tim to try a class comparing Marxist interpretations of the 2008 financial crash crisis with the quasi-anarchist ideas of some of the students. But his offer to draft a few ideas on the topic never materialised and his moment of enthusiasm flickered out.

Tim went ahead with the suggestion anyway. In the event, the students were roughly divided between those who found the class interestingly current and others who fretted that it was just ‘more stuff’ to be included in the end of module examination. A couple of students, believing they had detected in Tim a sympathy for the anarchist or ‘horizontalist’ approach, criticised him for talking about exploitation while doing nothing to change it. He defended himself by arguing that his job was to teach people to think before they acted, something he tried to do himself. In any case he had done his fair share of protesting, adding almost straight-faced that he had taken part in a protest against the three-day working week of the Heath administration even before he had learnt to walk. He concluded by asking the students if they felt strongly enough about anything to protest about it. There was no lack of response ranging from criticism of British foreign policy to complaints about student fees. He was less happy when one student protested that Tim, not Henry was taking the revision sessions. Was Tim sufficiently familiar with Henry’s material? The remark drew a scatter of support. Tim was stuck for a response as nearly all Henry’s material was in the old man’s head, but was saved when others intervened to praise his own efforts. The incident reinforced Tim’s belief that Henry had given decent value to the end even if some students thought his
own efforts lost-out by comparison. The real loss though was Henry himself, and the Henry that might have been.

Tim was aware that his well-intentioned reports to Henry of news and gossip about work might backfire, frustrating him rather than lifting his spirits. Henry wanted to be there and in the thick of it. He missed the daily buzz and rhythm of campus life: not only the teaching but also the chat and socialising. He didn’t much care about some of his ex-colleagues, but he did miss others. But apart from Tim and occasional calls from Aisha he had heard from none of them. Ignored, he was lost in the swirl of his own dark emotions and imaginings: marooned on the small island of self.

Unexpectedly Tim noticed a marked change in Henry’s mood about a month into term. They met as usual in the
Mitre
. Henry was first into the pub and when Tim arrived he found as usual a pint already on the table for him.

‘Tim, man, how goes it? Sit down, sit down.’

‘Thanks Henry, I intend to. Thanks for getting in the drinks. I’m fine and yourself?’

‘Good, much better. More like my old self. I’ve been down so long it was in danger of becoming my new ‘up’ – to mangle a cliché.’

Tim leant back and gave his friend a sceptical look. Henry’s moods could switch like strobe lighting. But any up-tick was welcome.

‘That’s good news Henry.’ Feeling that his words fell short, he grasped Henry’s hand and gave it a warm squeeze.

‘Ouch, Tim! Thank God you didn’t decide to give me a hug!’

‘I will if you need one! No, seriously, it’s great that you’re feeling better. We’ve all been worried about you.’

It was the wrong thing to say. Nothing got Henry’s dander up more than the suggestion that he was the object of general sympathy. Not that he was convinced by Tim’s remark.

‘Everybody? Don’t kid me Tim, not that I’ve noticed.
Anyway I don’t need pity. What were they expecting me to do, top myself? How inconvenient that would be for the hierarchy, what an awkward little scandal. No, I don’t think that…’

‘Hang on Henry, things are not that bad.’ Tim quickly interrupted, keen not to allow the notion of suicide to hang around long enough for Henry to get interested in it. The possibility that Henry might kill himself had occurred to Tim. He had kept a careful eye on him in recent weeks as his moods swung between anger and depression. He hoped that by now Henry had passed the point of maximum danger to himself. He was less sure about how much of a threat he might still be to others. After weeks of trying to cheer him up, Tim now turned his efforts to calming Henry down.

‘People care more about you than you think. Some of them might disagree with your views and lifestyle, but that doesn’t mean they wish you harm. Even Rachel has asked about you a couple of times. And, I nearly forgot, Brad Purfect suggested that the three of us meet for a drink and a chat at some point.’

‘Purfect! God preserve me from that premium gump.’

‘Don’t worry. If God doesn’t, I will. But look Henry, I’m pleased you’re feeling better. Seems like you’ve got your life back. Try and keep steady though. Sort out what you want to do with yourself, now you’ve got the time.’

‘I don’t know about getting my life back Tim. I’ve no intention of going back to my old life. I’ve got a different life in my sights, and a bloody good one at that.’

Tim was beginning to warm to the idea of Henry’s revival, but was still not entirely convinced. He could see no obvious reason for the transformation. ‘So what’s brought about the change?’

Henry hesitated, his mood shifting from up-beat to cautious.’

‘Well, I’ve decided to do other things, to move on.’

‘That’s good news. So what are your plans?’

‘I’m going to travel.’

Henry’s response seemed strangely normal, almost banal.

‘Travel, where to?’

‘There are lots of places I haven’t seen. Maybe Cuba before it gets completely swamped by Western commercialism. Or China.’

Tim began to wonder if Henry was making this up as he went along.

‘Are you planning to travel alone or with a friend?’

‘I don’t mind. I’ve got a couple of friends that are retired or near retirement. Fred, for instance. He might do a trip or so with me.’

Tim realised that it was perverse to doubt Henry on the grounds that he was at last talking sense. But sense, at least of the common kind, and Henry didn’t go together, big ideas and wild emotions did. Henry sounded almost boring. They had once concluded together that boring was the cardinal sin – to be avoided on pain of death. But he had no choice but to go along with the new model Henry, as long as it lasted. At least it promised to be a lot less trouble than the crocked old model, if less interesting. He tried an up-beat response. ‘I envy you. You’ve worked long enough to have built-up a decent pension, you’ve no kids and, despite all your efforts to the contrary, you’re still in one reasonably robust piece. Lucky you.’

‘Yep, young man, a second coming.’ Henry leaned towards Tim, suddenly conspiratorial, ‘you must occasionally join me on my travels. Anyway, I’ll keep you posted, I mean bloody ‘texted’ about where I am.’

‘Henry, why wouldn’t I know where you are? You’re not planning to take up a position with MI5 are you?’

‘You never know, Tim. You never know. I could be the next James Bond,’

‘Unlikely, Henry.’

‘Cocky bugger! Anyway I’ll let you know what I’m up to Tim.’

‘Yeah, please do that, Henry.’

Tim’s effort to go along with Henry’s sudden enthusiasm for a planned retirement collapsed into teasing.

‘Ok Henry, so now you’ve seen the light: Henry on the road to Damascus. You’re a sudden convert to global travel. The prospect of visiting art galleries and miscellaneous sites of high culture has catapulted you into a mood of seamless optimism about the future.’ He gave Henry a wry look. Henry smiled back, his expression blandly cheerful.

‘Right Henry, what’s different? What’s really caused the change of heart?’

‘You want to know?’

‘Of course.’

‘Well, don’t laugh. I’ve been seeing a shrink, a counsellor.’

Tim didn’t laugh but it was a struggle. This seemed like even more moonshine.

‘I didn’t think that was your thing. Never mind. Go on.’

‘I’m not going to go into detail, but basically the shrink reckons I’ve been chasing an illusion.’

‘An illusion of what?’

‘An illusion of…’ Henry hesitated, ‘you’re going to find this funny.’

‘I’m doing my best to take this seriously,’ said Tim, finding the conversation increasingly surreal.

Henry continued. ‘The shrink thinks I’m suffering from a form of megalomania, that I believe I’m destined to be a hero, to pitch myself against the powers of evil, if necessary to the point of death.’

‘Or against the hierarchy, to the point where you or it wins.’ Tim suggested.

‘Exactly.’

‘So have the evil powers won?’

Henry looked annoyed.

Tim realised that he was handling matters ineptly. Henry might or might not be bullshitting, but it was a mistake to risk provoking him. Henry hated losing. The last thing Tim wanted was to re-ignite his fight to the death impulse. He
quickly steered the conversation back in a more positive direction.

‘Sorry, Henry, that was a stupid question. Tell me more about your sessions with the counsellor if you’re happy to? What was it that has helped you into a better frame of mind?’

Surprisingly Henry responded calmly and reflectively. ‘Tim, it became obvious that the only form of heroism still available to me is martyrdom. I’ve failed at everything else. But I’ve decided to fail at that as well. I don’t want to self-destruct. I accept that I can’t change the system. I didn’t manage to do it in thirty years and now I’m not even part of the fucking thing. If I want to survive I’ve got to settle down, cultivate my own garden.’

‘So that’s what you’re going to do?’

‘Yeah, like any other loser, I guess I’m stuck with whatever’s left. I might as well enjoy myself or try to.’

‘Now I see where the enthusiasm for travel comes in. It sounded a bit far-fetched when you first mentioned it. It seemed to come out of nowhere.’

‘I’ll take that as a vote of confidence then.’

Tim was still less than half convinced by Henry’s ‘shrink’ explanation. The disconnection between Henry’s high mood and his unexpectedly conventional plans for the future persuaded Tim to remain vigilant. Counselling may have revived Henry’s self-confidence and released his energy, but what Tim was witnessing seemed closer to a personality transplant. He was dubious. The whole thing could be an elaborate act or perhaps just a passing high mood. It was in these moods that Henry was most likely to rip into action mode, maximising his vast potential for chaos and disaster.

To keep an eye on Henry, Tim suggested they set up a game of golf some time in the next few days. It would give him an opportunity to get a clearer sense of Henry’s state of mind and real intentions. Tim’s doubts increased when Henry was unexpectedly off-hand about arranging a date
for the game. Almost dismissively he agreed to give Tim a call about it. Nothing quite seemed to fit. Henry was different but perhaps not in the way he was presenting himself. The weekend game of golf never materialised.

After his conversation with Henry, Tim decided to walk to campus where he had some work to finish. Henry’s unconvincing
volte-face
had thrown him into a mood of uneasy reflection. The pace and turmoil of the last few months had given him little time to consider how he might begin to shape his late-start career in higher education. He had gleaned few clues from Henry Jones or Howard Swankie in that respect. But role-models aside, it was in his blood to prefer a fighter like Henry to an effete careerist like Howard. He thought he knew from where his preference for the pugilist over the diplomat came: from his father through his mother’s memories and stories about him. She had always presented Dominic as independent and assertive, a tough and intelligent working class Scot who could hold his own with the football authorities even in those more paternalistic days. So Tim conceded to himself that there was more than a touch of gut feeling in his support for Henry over Swankie. Still, he had no intention of following in Henry’s footsteps any more than Swankie’s although perhaps he could learn something from both.

He liked Henry, but only partly admired him. He respected Henry’s intellect and ideas, but was unimpressed by his failure to get them into print and, though less so, to practise them. After all, Henry was a desperado. Perhaps his mad desperation came from self-dissatisfaction at his crucial lack of discipline and hard work. Perhaps it was due to frustration. But for all his practical irrelevance Henry had stuck to his beliefs in good times and bad. In the end, under siege he had the courage not to submit, to remain unbroken, bloodied but unbowed. Tim could aspire to those qualities, but had no wish to exercise them in the form of hopeless gestures extending, in Henry’s case, over thirty years. It was not so much that Henry was a rebel without a cause as,
in terms of making any constructive impact, a rebel without a clue.