Zopiclone

Low life

Here at the residential home, Mum runs a tight ship. Too tight if you ask me. Both of our residents must think so, too, because the minute she goes away they start playing up. Yesterday Mum went to the Algarve for ten days, leaving me in charge. I had only just got back from dropping her at the airport when Uncle Jack came shuffling out of the sitting-room demanding whisky. He knows full well he isn't allowed the whisky decanter till 5.30 p.m., and it's only 3.15, and the old bugger is out in the kitchen asking where it is. I start as I mean to go on and tell him he must wait until the usual time. He calls me a bugger and swings at me with his walking stick. I duck it and react just in time to prevent him from toppling over.

That same evening Miss Busby (103) refuses to go to bed. At the usual time I go up to her room to help her in. She's sitting in her chair studying her furry animals. There are four of them in a row on the table in front of her: a koala bear, a duck wearing an aviator helmet and goggles, a playful dalmation, and a sort of elephant thing with a surprised expression. `Ready for bed, Freda?' I say, rubbing my hands together.

`That one,' she says, pointing a crooked finger at the elephant, `hasn't behaved well at all tonight.' Miss Busby remembers celebrating the Relief of Ladysmith. I crouch respectfully down beside her and scrutinise the elephant's face for signs of guilt or impudence. `What's it been up to, Freda?' I say. `Oh, he's been acting very peculiarly,' she says. Her tone is confidential, disappointed - disillusioned even. I decide not to press for details. `What about that one?' I say, pointing to the koala bear. `Has he been behaving himself?' `Oh yes!' she says, `He's never any trouble at all.'

The wind has been strengthening steadily all afternoon. While Miss Busby and I contemplate her furry toys, rain smashes against the window and I can hear the sea roaring. I ask Miss Busby again if she wants me to help her get into bed yet. `No, thank you,' she says firmly. So I tell her I'll look in a bit later on.

At 10.30 1 pop down to the sitting-room to see how Uncle Jack is getting on, and ask him whether he's ready for bed. He sees himself into bed usually, but he often needs directions to his room and somebody to give him his Zopiclone. Uncle Jack's face is coral red and he looks at me belligerently. He's finished the decanter and been out to the pantry and helped himself to a fresh bottle, of which (I note) he's drunk about a third. `Ready for bed, Uncle?' I say. He doesn't say anything he just glares at me. `OK,' I say, `I'll look in a bit later on.'

I step outside for a smoke - the eucalyptus tree is whipping madly in the wind -- then I go back upstairs to ask Miss Busby if she wants to go to bed yet. It's gone 11 by now. To my knowledge this is the latest she's stayed up in over a decade. She's still peacefully contemplating the line of furry creatures on the table in front of her. `Ready for bed yet, then, Miss Busby?' I say. `What's that funny thing up there?' she says, pointing to a framed photograph on the wall. It's a studio portrait of an obedient Scottish terrier. `It's a picture, Freda,' I tell her. I take the photograph off the wall and hand it to her. She studies it carefully then hands it back to me. `How very peculiar!' she says.

I hadn't realised how short-sighted she'd become, so one by one I take down all the pictures on her walls and pass them to her so she can re-acquaint herself with them. She looks at them with disdain. To pass the time I put into her arthritic hands everything detachable and portable in her room that she can't see. Her first editions of Rupert Brooke's poetry, her collected works of Walter Pater, her signed photograph of Jack Hobbs, and a whole crowd of furry animals who have been silently cheering her on from the top of an antique writing bureau.

These last she greets individually like long-lost friends. We line them up on the table and for several minutes feast our eyes on their wonderful faces. `He looks naughty!' she said, pointing out a rat in lederhosen. `What about that one then?' I say, drawing her attention to a pig with no eyes. We lean together and giggle like schoolkids.

When I next see Uncle Jack it's well past midnight. He's in his room trying to close his window. His white hair and the curtains are streaming out horizontally behind him in the roaring gale. `Thank God!' he yells above the wind. `How do I shut this damn window?'

Copyright Spectator Oct 6, 2001
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