Chapter 16

“There’s nae a better whiskey than Stewarts Cream of the Barley.” Jock was muttering to himself. “Aye Wee Laddie don’t you think so?” Tatters wagged his tail as Jock patted his head. The little dog had started following him everywhere he went and it became impossible to shake him off. “Tatters,” he said, “That’s a good name for you. From now on you’re my own wee dog, two auld battered beggars, both in tatters.” A stooped old man with a lame leg and a little dog limping at his heels. “Two auld cripples, what will become of us?”

During the past month I had watched him stumbling on. The wind howled. His old parka was held tightly around his body flapping in the wind, allowing it to freeze his bones. Jock started shivering, a little trembling at first and then continuously. He had his own priorities, a quiet swig, communing with himself, sometimes wallowing in self-pity and disappointment slipping away into anti-social, delinquent mode. But at other times he was singing and telling jokes, amusing people at the Shelter, endearing himself to everyone. He was a man of many wasted talents, not only with words and images but also music. At the summer party in the Shelter, Jock stood there like a Shakespearean actor delivering a soliloquy. He was a talented, clever, passionate, man but his words were becoming slurred, anaesthetised by alcohol.

On the streets Tatters limped along at his heels or was tucked up beneath Jock’s left arm. They navigated their way from the Shelter to the off-licence and back to the cardboard. This was their daily routine. In his previous life, he had a career in the Navy and had been invalided out with just short of twenty years service and no proper pension. It was the trauma of civilian life and the loss of his wife and daughter that drove him to the streets.

Dirty, shabby-looking, homeless and lonely, he sought solace in large swigs of whisky. The waist button of his trousers was replaced by a safety pin and tied with a piece of twine. When he ended up in court it was usually on a charge of disturbing the peace. There were long list of misdemeanours. He had a dark scar on his cheek as a result of a brawl in his navy days and had spent his life going from fight to fight. Nelson’s Column had been boarded up for restoration, when they had to clean off the muck that had accumulated over the years. Like Nelson, Jock too had served his time in the Navy but no one was in a hurry to help clean him up.

“You must try to eat to keep up your strength,” I constantly told him during the past couple of months.

His memory loss had been caused by alcohol abuse. Sometimes he had severe problems recalling a simple story, going off at tangents, with lists of unrelated words, uncoordinated movements and the loss of feeling in his fingers and toes.

In the off-licence, the sales assistant ignored the smell. “So long as we had money in our pockets we were welcome clients and tolerated.” Jock used to say. But that wasn’t entirely true. They had built up a good rapport with Jock. They used to have a laugh and a chat together and they always treated him with respect.

The Christmas party at the Shelter was the last time Jock had ventured out on the streets. He held onto my arm with Tatters, rarely straying from his side, now close at our heels hobbling along with his little lame leg. He pricked his drooping ears at some noise by the river’s edge, barked a little and ran beside us ready for the day’s excitement, his small intelligent face nuzzling against Jock’s leg. Then his tail drooped, not ready to wag again. “Terriers are splendid robust little dogs,” Jock said. Tatters’ thick coat defied the wind and rain, snow and sleet. Old Jock was not so lucky; a grizzled and gnarled little man.

We tethered Tatters to the railings and I helped Jock down the iron steps. “And don’t forget Wee Tatters, two old cripples keeping each other company for a while and who knows there might just be some wee scraps of leftovers for him.”

In the dull December afternoon, the Shelter provided some respite for all of us, cramped but with a warm atmosphere.

Jock had literally to drag himself now holding onto the rails. Sister Gabriel came over and took his arm to guide him to a seat. “My last Christmas here,” Jock said.

“Don’t say that Jock. Sure you’ll be here for many a long year to come,” she helped him into his seat and saw that he had everything he needed.

People jostled between the tables and hot drinks were passed around. A large Christmas tree brightened the room and the place was illuminated with a myriad of coloured fairy lights. After the excellent Christmas dinner, volunteers started to hand round presents from under the Christmas tree.

“Would you like a bottle of something?” Sr. Gabriel asked Jock and a glimmer of a smile came across his face as he pointed to something that looked like a bottle of wine wrapped in glittering Christmas paper.

With his frail hands, he ripped the paper off. “Blimey it’s a bottle of bubble bath,” he said. “You can have it lad,” he handed it to me, “And we will throw you in the river to soak.” I laughed and thanked him.

“Much better for you than whiskey,” Sr. Gabriel laughed but Jock didn’t have the energy to care anymore. At the end of the session Maura slipped him another gift.

“No, I’m OK. There is nothing I need any more,” Jock’s was wheezing and his voice was almost a whisper.

“Take it easy. You deserve it,” Maura said, “for keeping us all entertained over the years” This time he was in luck. A box of chocolates. He gave Maura a glimmer of a smile. After the volunteers had entertained us with their songs and sketches, we hobbled back to the cardboard but from that day Jock never ventured outside on the streets.

I watched dear old Jock lose his grip on life which had been on a downward spiral since Monika’s disappearance. He thought of her as his long-lost daughter and she had brought out a new, caring side, bringing out a paternal instinct in his battered old mind. It was a cold March morning with a light scattering of snow and daffodils beginning to open their buds along the verge of the path but the long winter months seemed everlasting and every tree on the embankment was painted silver by the frost.

Jock continued to listen but his mind wandered. I brought back drinks and a little food but he was losing his appetite. He had long since given up the alcohol.

“Are you alright?” I asked.

“I’m done for lad. But I’m not afraid of death. Tonight I will walk the streets of glory, and sit with angels in the realm of the lord with Sandra and my baby and Monika.

“Shh, you’re not going anywhere just yet. Let me wrap you up a bit warmer.”

I knew how much he had missed Monika and it was after her disappearance that he seemed to have lost his will to live.

“Dying is like shore leave in the navy but the beauty is that it lasts for all eternity,” there was a small smile on his face.

He seemed to be waking from a long sleep but his eyes were glazed. He had been living on the margins of society. This was the only life he had known since he had lost his wife and daughter. Jock needed attention. He was in need clean clothes, a good wash but I was fighting a losing battle. I had to go to the Shelter and get him a change of clothes but he was stubborn. It was difficult to get him to change and virtually impossible to get him to have a wash. For the next few weeks I went on with my life, moving around distractedly and keeping a close eye on Jock. Jock just lay there, well wrapped up with Tatters peeping out from under the sleeping bag, which caused some amusement to the passers-by. It seemed that Tatters had kept him going but I realised now that his life was slowly ebbing away.

His voice was no more than a faint whisper now, and I knew it was close to the end.

“Don’t leave me. Don’t let me go alone lad.”

“I’m here;” I sobbed silently holding him as tight as I could without causing him any more pain. “I’m here and here I’ll stay. I promise you that. You have my word.” I said so choked with emotion that I could hardly get out the simplest words.

“Good lad. Oh the pain,” he twisted in torment.

I knew the time had come to seek medical help and I had asked Maura’s advice.

“Having to leave the little dog would kill him,” she said. “We wouldn’t want him to die of a broken heart but I agree it’s time to call an ambulance. In the meantime I think it’s best to make him as warm and comfortable as possible. I will give you some medicine for his chest and more sleeping bags. These people are loners and more hardy than you think and find it very difficult to cope with the hospital situation. I have seen it many times, the distress it causes when they are put in a confined space surrounded by strangers, but on the other hand I think Jock is too far gone to resist it. He needs medical help as soon as possible.” She dialled 999 from her office and I hurried back to the cardboard.”

Jock now had difficulty in getting his breath. He was making a few inaudible sounds, snatching at the pillow with his worn hands. He had come back from the brink before. We were sure he was immortal. But not this time. He was flailing around, his eyes stinging with tears. Gasping for breath a new wave of pain flowed through his emaciated frame. He gave a shudder, convulsed and a little blood flowed from his mouth. I heard him groan and realised that he was very seriously ill.

It was the final night of his life. Sirens sounded and lights flashed as the ambulance parked just outside on the street, a few yards away from Jock. I quickly directed them to the place where he lay, now in an unconscious state. When the first paramedic pulled back the sleeping bag, Tatters leapt out from under the thick layers and bounded across the path where he stood growling.

“My God, what was that?” one of the paramedics jumped backwards.

They loosened his shirt to help him breathe. A small drop of the medicine I had given him earlier dribbled out of the side of his mouth. His eyes opened and closed in a glazed fashion. I realised vaguely that this was serious. Jock was breathing his last. One of the men came across and spoke quietly to me.

“You know we will have to take him to the hospital but we will stabilise his breathing first.” I just nodded and at this point. I knew that Jock wouldn’t have the energy to resist. His arms hung helplessly by his sides. He muttered something and his breathing was laboured. Perspiration ran down his face and tatty grey locks of hair hung across the side of his face.

The paramedics continued to administer first aid. Jock stirred slowly and emitted a few garbled sounds with short snatchers of breath. His tongue was dry and a sort of hissing. wheezing sound came from his chest. Big Ben struck three like a mournful death toll. Just then Tatters gave a faint and piteous cry. The scruffy little bundle had now crouched on the ground near where Jock lay. Jock was little more than breathing. The sick man had lost all his strength and his will to live. The pain was so intense he couldn’t breathe and his face contorted but he gave a faint cry, “Edie. Edie.”

“What is it Jock?” I asked.

His hand clutched a dirty piece of paper, which no one had seen before. I reached down and took it from him.

“My sister Edie,” he gasped and these were his last words.

At that moment I thought of Dylan Thomas’s elegy for his dying father. When Maura discovered my love for poetry, she gave me a small book of Thomas’s poetry. This poem “Do not go Gentle into that good night” was addressed to Thomas’s father as he lay on his death bed. Like Thomas, I felt anger and rage and an outburst of protest against the inevitability of death. There was the realisation that where they go, we cannot follow. But there was also the inevitability that all men whether wise, good, carefree or serious must face death and have the same final struggle into what Thomas calls that ‘good night’. The one certainty which we must all face is death whether we are in the warm bed of a mansion or just lying here in the cardboard.

There was a chill in the air as I held Tatters when they placed old Jock on the stretcher. The little dog gave a soft whining sound. He didn’t want to be parted from his master. I lifted him gently. It was the darkest hour of the night just before the dawn.

I would inform Jock’s sister and help her with funeral arrangements if she wanted me to.

Tatters jumped back down from my arms and had a run backwards and forwards sniffing the ground. Then he trotted over to lick my hand. His tail wagged for the first time bringing a tear to my eye. Had he already forgotten his old master or decided that I was now his master and that life had to go on. The sky cleared and I lifted Tatters up in my arms and wiping the tears from my eyes, pointed to the brightest star in the sky.

“Do you see that Tatters? He’s just gone away home,” I said. He’ll be waiting for you. And me.”

Homeless on earth, had Jock gone to a better place as they always said in eulogies? Was he happier now? But I knew he was at peace.

The moon disappeared behind a cloud. A dark shadow had been cast over our world.