The Permanent Snowfall

Although it had been forecast for some time the winter, when it came, took me by surprise.  It eclipsed a light that had shone upon my life for some time.  Slowly, that it is.  Slowly the view of what had been there for decades changed.  Just as snowfall changes familiar scenes. 

 

I was on the factory floor talking to Jake Parker, one of the team leaders, when the call came through.  The caller display told me it was Maple Lodge.  

“Mr Williams?”

“Yes”

“I’m afraid that she’s gone for a wander again”.

“In this weather?”

An emotion I would struggle to accurately label filled me.  Yes, there was sadness.  Yes, there was embarrassment that this part of my life had come into my workplace and there was anger too.  I think helplessness would be the most accurate description though.  It overwhelmed me.  It was an emotion too great for me to contain.  This wasn’t the place for emotions though.  I gathered myself instantly and began to step away from Jake.   

“Is that Eilleen?”

“Yes, Mr Williams, err Matthew.  It’s Eilleen Reeve.  She had lunch with everyone as usual so can’t have been gone for any more than an hour”.

I wanted to shout.  I wanted to know how difficult it could be just to do the job these people were being paid to.  But I couldn’t shout at Eilleen.  She was absolutely one of the nicest, most caring, selfless and patient people I’d ever encountered.  Until my first visit to Maple Lodge I’d never known that such people existed.

“We do our best to keep an eye on everyone Matthew but this isn’t a secure unit......”.  I cut her off mid-sentence. 

“It’s fine, Eilleen.  Does she have her hat, coat and gloves?”  

“Yes”

“I’ll go and get her”

“The usual place?”

“Almost definitely” 

And, just twenty five minutes later, there she was, sitting on the garden wall of 74 Pound Drive.  She was wearing her coat but her hat and gloves were on the wall next to her.  Like a statue she had allowed snow to gather on her head and shoulders and lap. 

I straddled the small wall and sat next to her. 

“Hello” she said.  She recognised me.  That is, she recognised me in the way that a tune can come into your head and you know it but can’t recall the name of the song or the singer and you’ll whistle it and try to remember the name of it, try to force it out of your memory, whistle it to other people in the hope that they’ll recognise it.  In that way, my mum knew me. 

“Hello.  What are you up to?”, I asked.

“I’m waiting for dad”

“My dad or your dad?”.  I might as well have asked “What’s 49 x 58?”.  I’d confused her.  She smiled.  It was the awkward smile she adopted several years ago when she knew her degeneration was becoming apparent to others.  It was always like she’d been caught out doing something she shouldn’t be.  Around that time she became increasingly quiet also.  What logic was left in her brain had decided that the less she spoke the less opportunity there was for error and embarrassment and worried looks from people and awkward conversations.  Each memory was a guest of the evening silently slipping away at the end of the party.

“I’m waiting for my dad to get home from the shop”.  This was a little unlikely.  He’d retired in 1975, moved away from this house in Pound Drive and died in 1988.  In 1980 Alzheimer’s began to erase his memory and personality and a new one emerged and then nothing that could be described as personality replaced it.  ‘He’ had died long before his body chose to.  Then, at my Grandfather’s funeral my mother asked me if I’d be good enough to shoot her if she should end up like him.  I’ve failed to act on this request consistently over recent years.  It causes me a great deal of sorrow.  I never thought she’d leave until she went.

“It’s cold Liz.  Let’s go and see where he is.  We can go in my car”.  Even though she wasn’t sure who I was she recognised that I knew her and was reassured that I knew her name.  I faced her as she stood and comically brushed some snow off her shoulders and head and we headed to the car.  As if she was a child being promised a trip to the funfair I said “C’mon, we’ll stop at my house.  There’s someone there you know.”      

Ten minutes later she and my dad were at the kitchen table in my house.  He reminisced about a snowy holiday in Llandudno in the mid-60’s. My mum held my dad’s hand but as always lately I thought she was holding on more than holding.  She was silent but attentive to his every word, letting the past kiss the future goodbye.



Patrick