Nurse Kay told Herbert, ‘I don’t like people.’
‘What? Why are you here? Why are you a nurse if you don’t like people? Did I hear right?’ Herbert fiddled with his hearing aid.
‘You’ve got egg in your moustache, Herbert.’
‘Sorry.’ He fumblingly wiped his face, and bits fell onto his tank top. ‘Did I hear right, you don’t like people?’
‘You did.’
‘Why?’
‘I used to like them. Sometimes it seemed people were nice. Then as I got older, I realised they weren’t. Most people are rubbish.’
Herbert nodded. ‘You realise a lot as you get older and then you forget. I think maybe I don’t like people, but I’ve forgotten who.’
Nurse Kay sniffed. ‘I wish I could forget all the bad buggers I’ve come across.’
Herbert frowned, unformed faces drifted in his head. Maybe they were the ones he didn’t like. Mary had been nice, Mary had been lovely. Herbert’s eyes watered. Mary sometimes was here and other times she wasn’t. She wasn’t like Nurse Kay, with her chewing gum and the mobile phone that she was always looking at. On Fridays, Nurse Kay was happier than usual because she might win the lottery, and ‘not have to come to this dump ever again’. Herbert knew it was Friday because they had fish. Herbert hated fish. She’d say, ‘Good for your brain cells, Herbert. You might start remembering if you eat your fish.’ On Saturdays, she’d be in a worse mood because she hadn’t won.
‘Why don’t you like some people?’ Herbert asked.
‘What are you talking about, Herbert?’ said Nurse Kay over her magazine.
‘Didn’t you say you used to like people but then they weren’t nice, so you didn’t?’
‘That was yesterday, Herbert. That’s a first, you remembering from yesterday, you must’ve eaten up your fish, after all.’
‘Why weren’t they nice?’
‘Herbert, I’m trying to do my crossword. You’re like a dog with a bone. Being let down by people is the story of my life. Take Dave, for example: I thought he was nice, until he ran off with Martha. I thought Gary was lush, and then he turned out to be gay. I thought Brian was lovely until he knocked me about. They’re unpredictable, that’s the problem with people.’
Herbert rubbed his stubble. Nurse Kay had given him a dreadful shave; definitely no lottery win. ‘By people, do you mean males?’
‘Oh no, there are some right bitches about – and you can start with my mother.’
‘Oh dear.’ Herbert couldn’t remember Nurse Kay’s mother. There was a woman who would sit near the telly, curled into herself like a pink prawn. She either slept all day or was dead, there didn’t seem to be much difference. She had the same thick ankles as Nurse Kay; perhaps she was her mother.
Herbert had an accident.
‘It’s no good saying, “I can’t help it,” it’s me that has to sort you out, you mucky pup.’ Nurse Kay had her hands on her hips. She’d shouted at Herbert so everyone knew about the accident.
Herbert’s eyes prickled. ‘Please let me go home.’
‘No, your wife doesn’t want you anymore. She says she can’t cope.’
Herbert was put into a contraption. It was like a ducking stool hovering over the bath. He sat naked on a sort of toilet seat with his nether regions dangling as Nurse Kay hoisted him up. She plunged him down. Herbert gasped – the water was very cold.
A woman, maybe it was Mary, brought him in a radio. He knew it wasn’t Friday because Nurse Kay was extra grumpy. She said words like shit and crap and bollocks – working men’s talk.
Herbert fiddled with the radio, but he couldn’t fathom out how to work it. A young girl, who looked unhappy and had a red nose, sat next to him. ‘Can I talk to you, Herbert? Nurse Kay said you might let me.’
‘I expect so,’ said Herbert, wondering if it was a test of some sort. They were always doing tests. He didn’t think he did very well on them. He rummaged in his pockets for something, but forgot what.
‘I’m on work experience.’
‘Experience for what work?’
‘I’m not sure yet. I think I want to work with animals.’
‘I had a dog once, a Labrador, but it died.’
‘What did it die of?’
‘Old age.’ Herbert rubbed his knees, muttering, ‘I wish I could die.’
‘Don’t say that, Herbert. Why are you sad?’
Herbert blinked. ‘I can’t remember exactly, but I know I am.’
‘I’m sad, too. I found out last week my nan’s dying. Daft, innit? Here’s you wanting to be dead, and there’s my nan dying and not wanting to die.’
‘What’s she dying of?’ He couldn’t remember who Nan was, but didn’t want to seem rude. Herbert thought manners were important for everyone.
‘Dunno, exactly. Something to do with her chest.’
The young girl who wanted to work with animals sniffed a lot; she used her sleeve as a hankie. Herbert offered his, but she said, ‘No thanks.’ She picked her nails for a while and looked at the clock often.
Herbert fiddled with his radio buttons.
‘What music do you like?’ she asked.
Herbert couldn’t remember so pretended not to hear the girl.
‘My nan, who I think might be your age, likes big band music. She says she used to go to the dancehalls every Saturday. She tried to show me how to do it, but I’ve two left feet.’
‘Yes, I remember the dancehalls.’ It was there and then gone.
The girl shifted in her chair. ‘I could bring you in some CDs, if you like. We’re sorting through her stuff at the moment. Having a clear out.’
The sniffy, red-nosed girl brought in some CDs the next day. Herbert didn’t know what a CD was. The girl said, ‘Here, I’ll show you, you can play them in your radio.’ She pressed the button and Blue Moon floated in the air.
Herbert raised his finger and tapped lightly on his chair. ‘Ah yes.’ He hummed in time with the music.
The girl nudged him and smiled. She wore a metal brace across her teeth. ‘See? You do remember.’
He closed his eyes, trying to hang on to the gliding shadows dancing across the parquet floors; the smell of Mary, the touch of her soft skin, her warm hands, her sparkling eyes.
He glanced at the young girl with metal teeth. He wondered where he knew her from. With a lurch of his heart, he hoped she wasn’t a grandchild he’d forgotten about.
Nurse Kay stood by the door. ‘Go on, Ginger Rogers – show her how it’s done. Your Mary says you were proper nifty on your feet when you were younger. You’ve got trophies and stuff.’ Nurse Kay bent over to put nail varnish on a ladder in her tights.
Herbert wondered where these trophies were.
The girl with the metal brace said, ‘Go on, Herbert, shall we? I’m gonna die of boredom if I don’t do something, I’ve got to spend two weeks here.’
The music bounced round Herbert’s head, little keys unlocked dusty chambers that hadn’t danced for years. He shuffled forward from his seat. There was plenty of room in the lounge; the chairs were always pushed up against the wall. His knees creaked as he wobbled and unsteadily stood, but his feet moved with a will of their own, without him having to think. Herbert tapped lightly along a musical tightrope between then and now. He lifted his arms to her. The red-nosed girl awkwardly put her hands on his shoulders as he held her waist. She put one foot on top of the other and almost tripped. She slapped her hand over her mouth giggling. ‘Sorry, Herbert, I told you I’ve two left feet.’
He held her waist gently again, and she put her hand back on his shoulder. He could smell her hair. He led her: ‘One, two, three. One, two, three.’ Underwater memories floated. ‘I’m so glad you’ve come back.’
She laughed. ‘I’m not Mary.’ She looked down at their feet, watching her steps, following his lead.
‘You must’ve forgotten. That’s always happening to me, too,’ he smiled, and for the first time in a long time, it was a big smile. ‘Don’t you remember how we could dance all night? One, two, three, four. Remember me in my dinner jacket and you in your velvet gown at the Mayfair? We were the business. Don’t you remember, Mary?’ He mumbled close to her, ‘I love you.’
She giggled. ‘I’m Tracy.’
‘Of course you are.’ He gently but firmly led her. ‘That’s it: round, two, three, four.’
They did three dances in all before Herbert needed a rest. Tracy flopped in the chair next to him, a pinch of colour in her pale cheeks. ‘That was ace, Herbert. Can we do it again tomorrow?’
‘It would be my pleasure.’
Tracy and Herbert had a little dance every afternoon. Tracy stopped looking at the clock, and Herbert stopped rummaging in his pockets. Tracy popped a CD in the player called Big Band Music. ‘This is Nan’s favourite.’
As they gently whirled across the floor, Tracy asked Herbert with a slight lisp, ‘Tell me about the olden days, Herbert, about going to dances and stuff. It’ll give me something to talk to Nan about without the cancer being there. When she was young, I know she was happiest dancing.’
As they waltzed and did the cha-cha-cha, Herbert told her about dancehalls, about the girls getting ready and painting lines up their bare legs so they looked like stockings, and about the men putting a cow lick in their hair with a bit of butter. ‘All week we waited and worked for Saturday night.’
Tracy told Herbert the next day, ‘Nan says you’re spot on with what you told me about the dancehalls, Herbert. It’s brightened her up talking about it. She sends you her best wishes, by the way.’
‘Please return mine.’ Herbert once worked with a lady called Jan. The girl had a blocked nose and Herbert thought perhaps that’s why she said Nan instead of Jan.
On Friday, Tracy helped Nurse Kay to dish out the rubberised squares of fish, swimming in salty milk. ‘Ugh, this stinks,’ she said, leaning away.
‘Here, you can take Ginger Rogers his fish. He looks at me as if I’ve whacked him with a wet haddock every Friday.’
‘You know, Herbert has a fantastic memory, he remembers loads about the olden days,’ Tracy said. ‘And he remembers all the old dance moves and where to put his feet. He knows all the words to the songs and the tunes. He sings them while we’re dancing. He’s amazing.’
‘Don’t be daft, he’s away with the fairies. He can’t remember his arse from his elbow.’
Tracy raised her chin and took Herbert’s plate over to him. She thought Nurse Kay was too stupid to understand about old people. Tracy had decided she wanted to be a nurse instead of working with animals. She’d be good at it, not like Nurse Kay.
‘I’m sorry, Herbert, it’s fish because it’s Friday, but if you eat it quick we can have extra long dancing. I showed Nan the steps you’ve taught me last night and she thinks you’re dead clever.’ Tracy bent towards him and dropped her voice. ‘I don’t think you should be in here, Herbert, you’re too good for it. You can talk about history and you can dance like on Strictly Come Dancing, and I think you’re too much of a gentleman to kick up a fuss, but I don’t think you should be here.’ Her face flushed indignantly. ‘I told my Nan that.’
Herbert nodded. ‘Perhaps so.’ He’d found that was a good answer to questions or sentences that were perplexing.
She smiled. ‘How old are you, Herbert?’
He couldn’t remember exactly so guessed. ‘I’m one hundred and forty-two.’
Tracy frowned. ‘Crikey, I didn’t know humans lived that long.’