The Bedding of Henry Scroggie’s Wife
[This story is fictional, but is
based on a very real occurrence in the life of one of my family.]
When Janet
Scroggie fell out of her bed in the geriatric ward of the Town and County Hospital
for the second time, it seemed as if the entire life of Henry, her husband,
had been but a time of preparation for a moment such as this. All his experience
of plain speaking, direct speech, and getting straight to the point had been
an apprenticeship for this moment. His ability to spot weaknesses and to move
in swiftly for the kill was finally presented with a situation for which he
had honed himself all of his life.
Henry and Janet had lived out their married life together in a small house in a small Scottish town. They were both in their eighties and their family had long since moved off to set up their own branches of the already extensive family tree. They had settled down to enjoy the evening of their days in each others company, at peace with the world, just as far as the world would let them be.
Henry was not a cruel man, nor unkind. But he had a raging sense of justice which demanded that right was right and if a thing was wrong, it had to be corrected, and Henry was just the man to do it. He was a big man, tall, broad and strong. So was his mind. He had strong and fixed opinions on most things. He was adamant on the three essentials of politics, sport and religion, but he could equally well expound, when required, on literature, music, motor cars, television programmes and any other topic featuring in the pages of his daily newspaper. Although he spoke and held opinions on all of these matters, he was never a man to allow ignorance to be used as an excuse for silence.
Janet had been a beauty in her day, but the ravages of the years were to be
seen in her elderly body. She had also lost much of her touch with the outer
world. By the time of our tale, she was entirely dependant on Henry who, uncomplainingly,
for he still loved his wife of sixty years, attended to her every need and devoted
his life to the maintenance of her welfare.
He had a number of brothers and sisters to whom, with their assorted offspring,
he granted the different degrees of recognition that he felt due to them. These
varied as had their relationships with Henry over the years, from warmth, through
disinterest, to total disregard. Since the rest of the family exhibited the
same traits in their relationships with one another, this otherwise apparent
failure in Henry’s esprit de famille passed unnoticed and unremarked.
Henry and Janet were staunch attenders at their local church. As befitted a
man of independent views, the church was non-conformist, with a constitution
that left much scope for spiritual debates, secular arguments and theological
discussions. In all of these, Henry played his full part, fully supported by
Janet.
He cared little for opposition, knowing that he was right and content to sit
it out until the others came round to his point of view, or gave up from exhaustion.
Not that he ever associated himself with the fellowship as a member. This seemed
to him to be a piece of unnecessary conformity not required of men who had their
own mind. His views were expressed ‘out of court’ so to speak, or
vicariously through Janet who, just to be different, was a long standing fully
paid up member of the congregation.
Similarily, when promulgating his other beliefs, political, moral and ethical
or just plain village pump gossip, Henry had all the confidence of a man who
knows he is right. The concept of being wrong was quite alien to his capacious
and well disciplined intellect.
His father had died many years before, and, on the death of his mother, Henry,
without any great effort, become the custodian of the title deeds to the family
burial vault. Vault is perhaps too elaborate a term to describe the four adjacent
plots in the local cemetery, each, by virtue of the unsatisfactory nature of
the drainage system, restricted to two lairs. On the death of his father, a
helpful undertaker had suggested that, since the family was large, by modern
standards, and prices of plots were low, it would be a bargain not to be missed,
to purchase, so to speak, a self contained family graveyard.
Over the years the lairs filled up one by one. Henry’s father and mother,
of course, were the first incumbents, and Henry took on the self appointed task
of adjudicating who qualified for the remaining slots. An elder spinster sister
was quickly admitted and a younger brother, who had carelessly buried his wife
somewhere far away without regard to the family arrangement, was permitted a
place, since no-one could remember where exactly the said wife was resting.
A younger sister was next to take up an allocation, but when her husband arrived
a few years later, Henry saw to it that he was sent up the hill to the new,
garish cemetery built beside the town by-pass where no decent man would wish
to go.
A few years later, another younger brother and his wife both died within a few
months of one another and they too were sent along to the by-pass. Henry explained
that this was necessary, because, of the three remaining lairs, one was required
for a spinster sister and two were needed for Henry himself and his beloved
Janet.
By this time, of course, the original family of eight had grown into three generations
and not all were greatly concerned about Henry’s custody of the keys.
Some had moved from the home town and preferred to lie with their spouses where
they had lived, and others preferred the by-pass to the thought of arguing with
Henry for a place in the promised land.
As Janet grew weaker and totally dependant on others - the others being Henry
- the caring society in the shape of the local Social Work Department began
to take an interest in her welfare and that of Henry. Their solution, as always,
was based on the precept of breaking up the happy home. Janet was to be ‘assessed’
as though she were an income tax form, and Henry was to be given respite from
his labour of love whether he wanted it or not. Such a scheme was not to Henry’s
liking, but pressure from the family who assured him it would be good for Janet,
eventually persuaded him to agree to a six week spell for her in the local hospital.
Meanwhile his new respite situation obliged him to travel twice a day, there
and back, on the local bus, to see and talk to his beloved.
He was well convinced [and for good reasons sufficient to him] that the nursing
staff, try as they might, could never replicate the degree of care supplied
by himself. So Henry took to hovering around the hospital, like a demented spirit,
questioning every action of the staff, querying the necessity of every test
or procedure, and generally making himself a nuisance to everyone. It was with
a communal sigh of relief that the staff saw him leave late each afternoon and
surrender the care of his wife to trained workers.
It was during one of these peaceful nocturnal intervals, late one night, that
Janet fell out of her bed. No one saw it happen. But a nurse, happening along
on some minor errand, was suddenly faced with the sight of Janet lying full
length on the floor of the ward, making little moaning noises as though singing
herself to sleep. Janet was round, slippery and heavy. Lifting her up was a
task that required careful thought and planning before being attempted. It was
only with considerable difficulty that she was eventually replaced on the bed
and carefully tucked in. As an added precaution, metal sides were attached to
the bed, giving the impression of a large cot with a restless child trapped
inside it.
Since coherent conversation with Janet was not easy, no one actually discussed
the situation with her. It was generally assumed that she would prefer to lie
in a large child’s cot than on the cold floor. That this was not a universal
agreement was demonstrated two nights later when Janet fell out of her bed again,
sides of the cot and all. All of these adventures had to be reported to higher
authority and, at the same time, to Henry, who took the opportunity to express
his many thoughts on the medical profession at some length.
Meanwhile, the six weeks were passing. Although Henry was unhappy, he tried
hard to cope with his burden of pain, and in due course began to trouble the
staff only once per day - all day - instead of every hour as heretofore. Finally
the day of release was fully come. Henry sought out the senior nursing sister
on the ward. ‘I’ll be up at eleven o’clock to-morrow morning,’
he advised her. ‘Have my wife ready to go home’. Suddenly, as though
on a prearranged signal, Henry found himself surrounded by nurses, doctors,
social workers and, for all he knew, the cleaning and catering staff.
The pressure was subtle but firm. Henry was reminded of the increasing ages
of both him and Janet. They were both getting frail. [This was certainly not
true of Henry.] Would it not be better, for the sake of Janet, for her to remain
a little [unquantified] bit longer in a place where she could receive state
of the art attention? It wasn’t really fair to place such a burden on
an elderly man living alone with an increasingly feeble wife relying on him
for everything. ‘Please, Mr Scroggie,’ said the social worker, ‘leave
her here and let her live out her last days in comfort.’ ‘Please,
Mr Scroggie,’ said the nursing sister, leave her here where she can receive
the care and attention she needs.’
Henry drew himself up to his full height - still over six feet. He looked at
the gaggle of professionals crowded round him, each vying with the other to
demonstrate the care and concern for the patient that they had been taught so
assiduously during their months of training. He thought at first of blowing
them out of the water with a burst of outrage. Then he paused, and pushed his
large nose down into the face of the nurse. His discoloured teeth with black
vertical lines were bared as he curled back his lips. ‘Can I remind you,’
he said, ‘that it wasn’t my bed she fell out of?’
Copyright © Alan Sinclair 2004