The Accidental Warrior Read online

  “Oh Harriet, dear, I am so sorry, but I think your mother has been hiding the true extent of your father’s condition from you. Today, it just overwhelmed her. About an hour ago she arrived at our front door, dishevelled and distressed. I’ve never seen her in such a state. It was a shock, I can tell you. She rushed in and began to weep. It took a good thirty minutes to find out what had happened. Anyway, it transpires that George has been in a poor state for days. This morning he refused to get out of bed. Jane tried to give him breakfast on three separate occasions, but he wouldn’t eat anything. Then, he suddenly got up, put on a shirt. Nothing else, you understand?”

  “Yes, but it’s not an image I care to dwell on,” replied Harriet.

  “Quite. Well apparently he just walked out of the house without a word. About five minutes later he reappeared with a couple of scaffolders. George was happy as anything and completely oblivious to his nakedness. Your mother, on the other hand, was mortified. But the workmen were kind and told her not to worry, they told her they’d pretty much seen everything in their job, nothing bothered them anymore. When Jane got George back into the house, he became verbally abusive and she lost her temper. I think she’s probably sleep deprived, as it seems George rarely sleeps at night. Your mother has been napping on the lounge sofa as George refuses to let her sleep in the matrimonial bed.”

  “What about the spare rooms?”

  “Well it seems in the last few weeks George has systematically taken apart the spare beds. Jane had no idea how to stop him. Anyway, it seemed less distressing to let him get on with it than to try to stop him.”

  “Thank you for your help, Mrs Morris, but can I speak to Mum now…? Mum, oh Mum, I’m so sorry, I had no idea. Why did you keep this from me?”

  “Because you’ve had so much on your plate lately. This was something I felt I had to deal with alone. Besides, it’s so personal and so unbelievably painful. I kept going until today. After George threw my third offering of porridge across the room, I lost my temper. I guess I just snapped. When I’d finished shouting he just stood in the middle of the room staring blankly back at me. I don’t think he had a clue what my tantrum was all about. And then he put his old blue shirt on and left the house. I knew at that moment I’d lost him and that I couldn’t cope any more. Harry, I am so tired, so tired.” Her voice trailed off.

  “Poor Mum, I am so sorry. Where’s Dad now?”

  “I left him sitting on a stool in the kitchen looking at the floor and muttering to himself. It’s okay, Dennis, Jean’s husband, is with him, they were always quite friendly.”

  Harriet spent another twenty minutes or so consoling her mother, before ringing her Aunt Maggie, who she knew would immediately jump into action. She relished a crisis and always had, it was a family joke.

  It was a flushed and distracted Harriet who returned to join Mike and Derek.

  “Is everything okay?” asked Mike.

  “It’s my father.”

  “Do you want to talk about it?” said Derek gently.

  “I’m not sure I’d know where to start.”

  “Sometimes it helps to talk,” said Mike.

  “Okay, well in the last couple of years, the deterioration in Dad has continued at a pace. It’s been heart-breaking to see my enthusiastic, articulate confident father become a man who can no longer read, no longer follow the cricket or rugby on television. No longer write meaningful sentences or take part in conversations. Very occasionally, there are moments when he can make himself understood. Recently, he appears to have given up, just sits for hours in his chair. I guess the effort is too much.”

  Mike handed Harriet a glass of wine.

  “It wasn’t that long ago that he was a smart man, he took great pride in his appearance. Now he’s shabby and dishevelled. His clothes are thread-bare and often splashed with food. He no longer strides along with purpose, but shuffles.”

  Derek put his hand on Harriet’s. She continued. “We’ve witnessed at first hand the utter chaos surrounding his medication. There has been little discernible help. Although Dad attends regular assessments and GP appointments, his care has almost completely fallen to Mum. You would think they’d be offered social care assistance, but no, not unless they pay for it. Today, Mum reached breaking point. I’ve called Aunt Maggie, my Mum’s sister, and she’s on her way to rescue Mum. I need to go home, but I also need to see my children. I feel utterly torn.”

  “Well, if you’ll forgive me for speaking my mind, to me it’s simple: your parents are safe and being cared for by friends and family. Your children are the priority. You have the ideal opportunity to satisfy yourself that they are happy and safe, then you can go and deal with your parents’ situation,” said Mike.

  “I absolutely agree,” nodded Derek.

  Decision made, they left the pub and went back to the hotel to gather their belongings. As a precaution, they changed their hire car before setting off.

  Annie Gitting’s smallholding consisted of a series of out-buildings and an old stone farm house. It was set in thirty acres and situated a few miles outside Sheffield. Built in the 1800s, the farm nestled in a dip on the edge of moorland, sheltered by a small copse of pine trees.

  It was dark when they arrived. Annie met them on the door step. A good-looking woman in her early fifties, large framed, or as she liked to say, ‘well covered’, with an open and happy face. Her fairish hair, now speckled with grey, was piled on top of her head, in a kind of topknot. She was wearing her trademark apron. On seeing Harriet she let out a squeal of delight; this brought Ben and Amelia running from the other room. There was much hugging and shaking of hands. Harriet looked on with pride as her son manfully introduced himself. Only a matter of weeks before, he’d been an angry monosyllabic teenager. She had never seen him looking so well and so happy. Amelia too was different, taller and more self-assured.

  Annie was a wonderful cook. Wild boar paté with homemade onion relish was followed by home-reared beef, roast potatoes, and home-grown vegetables. A huge Victoria Sandwich with ice-cream and custard rounded the meal off.

  After dinner, they retired to the lounge to play cards, chat and sample Annie’s damson gin and hedgerow vodka.

  As they left the next morning Harriet realised her children were happy and settled and clearly in no hurry to return home.

  CHAPTER 23

  Mike dropped Harriet off at her parents’ house. It was the only place she could think of to go, since Nick had moved back to the family home. Besides, she needed to check on her mother and find out about her father. She spent an uncomfortable night on one of George’s old camp beds. George, it seemed, had been admitted to hospital for observations. Apparently, the ambulance crew had been most apologetic, but try as they might, they’d been unable to organise for the Mental Health Team to make a house visit. In the end, George went to hospital with a suspected water infection.

  The following afternoon, Harriet returned to the family home to gather some belongings. As she approached the house, her stomach muscles constricted. Parking around the corner, she finished her journey on foot. As she reached the house, she noticed she’d begun to shake. Pausing for a moment, she told herself not to be so silly. Nick would be at work, she could let herself in, get what she needed and leave without any contact. Still, something made her ring the doorbell. She waited for a minute and had just put her key in the lock when Nick opened the door. Startled, Harriet jumped back, key still in the lock. Nick stood in the doorway dressed only in a towel. In the background, she thought she heard a female’s voice call out.

  “Hi Harry, how are you?” he slurred.

  “I’m okay. I thought you’d be in the office. Have you been drinking?”

  “Just a little,” came the slightly hesitant reply.

  “Nick, it’s quarter past two in the afternoon, and you’ve quite clearly had more than a little.”

  “It’s not a problem, I finished early,” he slurred.

  “We need to talk about your drinking.�
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  “Do we? Do we really? And let me guess, you’ve appointed yourself as my very own alcohol counsellor?” he shouted.

  “Let’s not do this on the door step, Nick.”

  “Why not? You’ve clearly come here for a fight. Yes, I drink a bit more than I probably should, but it’s not a problem, so bloody lay off me.”

  “Nick, you drink all the time. Don’t think I haven’t noticed the hip flask, and I’m by no means the only one.”

  “Oh, shut up. You witch.”

  “Really? Really? You do want to do this here and now?”

  “No, not now,” came the slurred reply.

  “Look, I just need to collect a few clothes and other personal items.”

  “Right, bit awkward. I have a guest.”

  “I know you do, I heard her call out to you.”

  “Great, here comes the lecture on sexual impropriety,” he goaded.

  Harriet looked to the ceiling and sighed. “Not today, Nick. My clothes and bits and pieces are in the spare room. It won’t take a minute.”

  Pushing past, Harriet walked into the hallway and sprinted upstairs. When she returned, Nick was still standing by the front door.

  “Look, I’ll ring you tomorrow at six,” he said as Harriet made for the door.

  “Make it seven,” said Harriet. “I need to visit Dad.”

  “Well, I can ring you at your Dad’s, can’t I?” he said petulantly.

  “You could, but he’s not there, he’s in the hospital.”

  “Sorry, I didn’t know.”

  “Until tomorrow then.”

  As Harriet turned to go, she caught a glimpse of someone on the stairs. She paused to take a closer look. The girl was wrapped in a bed sheet and was holding a champagne flute. Her hair was pinned artistically on the top of her head. She was grinning, no doubt amused by the sparring taking place in the hallway. Noticing Harriet’s gaze, she turned and walked back upstairs. There was no ignoring the enormous writhing serpent, running the whole length of her back. Recoiling, Harriet almost ran to the front door. A blushing Nick let her out. As she brushed past, she couldn’t help herself.

  “Nick, you really are a first-class dick,” she hissed.

  Struggling back to the car with the items she’d taken from the house, she rummaged through the glove box to find some pain killers for her thumping head. She had no idea how much time passed before she felt well enough to drive. Harriet knew she must talk to Mike and Derek about what she’d just witnessed.

  Nick’s phone call never came, and Harriet was not inclined to chase him. The whole situation was just too difficult. She chose to leave it until she had more time and energy, knowing full well any conversation with him would almost certainly turn into an argument.

  After a short stay in A&E, George had been moved to one of the hospital’s two mixed geriatric wards on the fourth floor of the tower block. Harriet went to visit later the same day. Having taken the lift to the fourth floor she used the hand sanitizer mounted next to the door to Abbey Ward. Pressing the buzzer, she waited for the door to open and then made her way to the Nurses’ Station. After a couple of minutes, a large nurse with a broad Caribbean accent came across to greet her.

  “Good evening, how can I help you?” the nurse said, smiling broadly.

  “Good evening, I’ve come to visit my father.”

  “No problem, what’s his name?”

  “George Rayfield.” As Harriet uttered his name, she noticed the nurse’s expression change to one of revulsion.

  “I’m sorry, is there a problem?” asked Harriet.

  “Oh, no, not really dear, it’s just your father has kept us busy, he’s been a bit challenging,” came the reply.

  “Really? What’s he been up to?” Harriet wondered what her usually mild-mannered father could have done to elicit such a negative response.

  “Well, unfortunately he kept pulling out his lines. You know, his drips?” Harriet nodded. “He also threw off his bed clothes and his pyjamas and walked naked around the ward, before attempting to join several female patients in their beds.”

  “Poor Dad, he must have been so confused.” Harriet noticed the nurse was still pulling a face.

  “Look, he has dementia, he’s poorly. Isn’t it possible that the shock of coming into a strange place exacerbated his condition?” she asked.

  The nurse shrugged her shoulders.

  “Have you much experience of dealing with dementia patients?” Harriet’s hands were now on her hips.

  “No, not really. Follow me please.” The nurse turned away. Harriet took a deep breath to control the anger that was rising within. Now was not the time to make a scene, she would pursue it later.

  She followed the nurse to a side room at the back of the Nurses’ Station. George was lying in a bed covered by a thin sheet, his eyes closed. There was a drip in his right arm and Harriet could see a colostomy bag hooked to the side of the bed. The room smelt; it was a shock to realise that her father was incontinent. The scene was in stark contrast to her mother’s description the day before, of George being conscious and moving around.

  Harriet walked across to her father’s bedside and took his thin hand in hers. His nails were long and dirty, his white beard unkempt.

  “Daddy, it’s me, Harriet. It’s so good to see you. Do you think you could open your eyes for me? Just for a minute? Please try, please.” But there was no response.

  George’s skin felt cold and clammy. By now the nurse had disappeared. As Harriet looked around the small bare room she noticed an untouched glass of water on the bedside cabinet. Next to this, a forlorn plate of untouched food. A cold sausage, grey mashed potato and a spoonful of peas. Harriet tried again to rouse her father, but he did not respond. Finding a blanket in a cupboard she laid it across him.

  An hour later, the stench was too much, and Harriet left the room for some respite. She went straight to the Nurses’ Station to speak to the senior nurse on duty. She discovered her father had been sedated because of his erratic behaviour and obvious distress. Despite this, Harriet raised concerns about the level of sedation, as well as the uneaten food and lack of personal hygiene afforded him. The nurse promised to get the situation reviewed. Furthermore, she promised to get one of the doctors to make contact.

  The nurse remained breezily optimistic about George’s prognosis, explaining he was on antibiotics for his kidney infection. She told Harriet that one of the hospital Social Workers was actively looking for a care facility capable of dealing with his complex dementia needs.

  Over the next few days, notwithstanding her punishing schedule, Harriet visited her father daily. But on each occasion she found the same depressing conditions. She was given the same assurances by staff that her father was getting the best care and was doing well. But this just did not marry up with her own observations.

  Each morning before breakfast she would ring the ward, but this soon became farcical as the update was always the same. She would be told her father had slept comfortably and was sitting in his chair eating his porridge. Yet each time she visited, he was lying semi-conscious in bed.

  Harriet left on the Friday evening feeling downhearted. She knew this was not the right environment for him, but it seemed there was nowhere more suitable. In short, the hospital did not have the capability to deal with such a complex dementia patient. Harriet suspected it was common practice to sedate difficult patients. She prayed the nightmare would soon be over, that her father would be discharged to a specialist facility, somewhere he would be treated with the dignity and respect he so richly deserved.

  CHAPTER 24

  Kate used her key to let herself into her father’s flat. Each time she entered she was reminded of her mother. She paused to take in the scent of the roses that filled the hallway. On the one hand, she found it reassuring, it reminded her of her childhood. On the other, it provoked a profound sense of loss. She put her bag on the hall table, admiring the flower arrangement, and made her way to the kitche
n. On the work top she found a note.

  Kate, make yourself at home. Bottle of white wine in the fridge, help yourself. Could you please open the windows in the lounge and put the oven on? I’ll be back about six. Thanks, love Dad xx

  Pouring herself a generous glass of wine, she wandered around the large flat surveying the many photographs. She paused to look at the black and white photograph of her parents on their wedding day. They looked so happy. She wondered if she would ever be lucky enough to find a soul mate. And yet, the reality for her father had been heartbreak.

  She admired her father immensely, more so since spending time with Cyrus. Kate had become close to Cyrus, she regarded him as her saviour, for he’d rescued her from the wrath of the Guardians. In many ways it was his influence that had helped to turn her life around. In a few short months, she had grown up. She was far less impulsive, less reactionary, and more confident. For the first time since primary school, she had a sense of belonging and a sense of purpose. It was early days, but she did feel she was on the right path.

  Just then her father returned, dressed in tennis whites and glowing with the obvious effort he’d put into his game. He was smiling broadly. He scooped his daughter up in a bear hug and kissed her enthusiastically on both cheeks before running off to shower.

  The doorbell rang. It was Cyrus, wearing a light-weight beige suit in homage to the fine weather and clutching a bottle of wine. He embraced Kate.

  When Kate’s father emerged, Kate and Cyrus were sitting on the sofa, glasses of wine in hand, looking through old photograph albums and laughing at early pictures of Kate.