He slept well and woke up early in the morning; he was instantly alarmed, not recognising where he was for a minute. Then he went to the bathroom and discovered he had soap but no towel. He wondered where he kept the towels. Did he have towels, plural? What had he done with the one that had been there? Carefully he began the dangerous descent down the stairs, impeded in this by the efforts of Ginger, whose aim in life, like all cats, was to trip him up on the way down. Once down, he washed himself in the handbasin of the downstairs loo, where there was one reasonable towel. He made himself a cup of tea, fed the cat, and then realised he would have to upstairs again to retrieve his clothes. Damn!
Grimly, he ascended the stairs, made his bed and got dressed. He found he urgently needed a drink. A proper drink. After a precarious trip downstairs, he found his jacket on a hook in the hall, with his baseball cap, which he placed carefully on his head.
He was just opening a can of beer when the doorbell went.
It was the men from Social Services. Two of them this time. One was older, a bit portly and had a moustache. The other was younger and scruffier. He vaguely remembered them from a previous visit some time ago. The scruffy one held a folder in his hand.
“Hello, William. We are your carers, from the Social Services.”
He didn’t remember giving them permission to call him William. He drew himself up and gave them a frosty look.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” he said.
“How are you getting on, William?”
“I’m alright. I’ve had a bit of trouble with an artichoke. You ought to speak to that manager, you know. He has no idea about customer relations.”
The men stared at him and then at each other. William opened the door wide and they followed him into the kitchen.
“Where’s the table, William?”
“In the garden,” said William.
“Why’s that then?”
William thought for a moment. “I needed to clean the floor,” he said. They all inspected the floor. It hadn’t been cleaned in months.
The cat came in. William gave it some food and a little milk. The men looked puzzled.
“Is this your cat, William?”
“No,” said William.
“William,” said the older one “We need to know how you are managing. Are you still drinking rather a lot? Are you eating? Are you taking all your medications regularly?”
William considered. “I’m drinking what I want, because I like it. I have had some sausages and an artichoke, which wasn’t a great success. And beans. And I’m not sure about the pills, not the blue ones, that is. What are they for?”
There was a brief silence. Then, “Well, you need something to help keep you on an even keel,” said carer number one, the portly one. “We can get you some more this morning. Where do you keep your medication?”
They inspected the patch behind the toaster and the awful truth was revealed. It was clear that William had not been following his prescribed issue of pills. Carer number two, the scruffy one, made some more notes in his folder.
“Shall we help you get the table indoors?” asked the portly one. He opened the back door and the two men went out to bring the table back in. “What’s that plank of wood doing there against that window?” said one of them.
“That’s for the cat,” explained William.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Well, I like it, and so does the cat,” said William, suddenly belligerent.
“Are those new trousers?” asked one of them, noticing William’s new attire.
“Yes,” said William, cautiously. He wanted to avoid the subject of money. “Got them in a charity shop.”
“And the jacket?”
“Yes.”
“You did well.”
They inspected the state of the washing and decided to pay a visit to the launderette, leaving one of them there in charge of the washing. After that, they would go to the chemist with a pre-prescribed prescription. Then they would go to the bank. Finally, they would call in at the launderette to collect the washing and then do some food shopping. The expedition was to be in the portly one’s car, which would make it difficult for William to remember the route to the bank, which he particularly wanted to do.
“What I want to know is,” said William, “is this house mine or yours?”
“The house is council property, Mr. Penfold. We became involved when it appeared you were unable, er, having difficulty with running your previous property and with looking after yourself satisfactorily.” The carer’s voice sounded neutral and rather prim.
So that was settled. He supposed they made sure he kept himself alive and on the right side of the law. They checked that he got all the benefits he was entitled to and paid what he could towards the bills. Presumably he had salvaged a few things from his previous life such as his jacket and the computer, bits of furniture and so on.
He wondered briefly where he had been before the Social Services got him, but he pushed the thought away firmly. They’d be on about the past in no time, given half a chance. What he needed to know was had he got any money of his own and could he get his hands on it? Without their knowing?
“How are you feeling, William?”
“Feeling about what?”
“Well, about managing on your own, for instance. Are you still drinking a lot?”
“What do you mean, a lot?”
He found he was still holding a just-opened can of beer as he spoke.
“Do you start drinking early in the morning, for instance?”
“Mind your own business,” said William, suddenly exasperated. “I just happened to have this can handy.”
“I suggest we get all the washing together,” said the portly one.
“What about the stuff upstairs?” asked William. “The bed things?”
“You’ve been upstairs?”
“And there’s my old trousers.”
William was giving them surprises, he could see.
“And,” he said, emphasising his words, “I wish to buy some pyjamas.”
“Right, well, William, let’s get going.”
They got going. They stopped off at the launderette and left the scruffy one in charge of the washing, whilst William and the portly one went to the chemist. Then they were off to the bank. William tried hard to remember the roads and the name of the bank, which was a building society called the Protect and Save Society. Guided by his carer William eventually arrived at the front of the queue. He dutifully signed the form thrust at him by the portly one, who gave it, folded inside a red passbook of some description, to a bored-looking cashier.
“How much have I got?” asked William.
“Beg your pardon?” said the cashier, who had jumped slightly at William’s abrupt question.
“I said how much have I got?” repeated William loudly.
“Well, you have all the benefits paid in this month, but do you have any other account?”
“I don’t know, do I?” said William. “Could have a lot somewhere else, stashed away, which I don’t know of. Secret nest egg they haven’t told me about.”
“Just a minute, William,” said the portly one. “I think you do have another account, but it’s your savings you know, not very much, well under the limit, if you go too high you won’t get any benefits and if you take too much of it out that’s it, all gone, so it’s best…”
“Are you telling me I can’t have my own money?” shouted William, about to launch into one of his manic rages.
“Of course you can but have you got the number of the other account, or the other passbook?” asked the cashier.
“I don’t know the number,” said William, “how am I supposed to remember all this? Nobody tells me anything. It’s as bad as the artichoke. You tell me what I’ve got.”
“Have your, er, friends got the passbook?” asked the cashier.
The portly one looked alarmed. “Well, yes, I expect it’s in your folder. Robert’s got your folder with him,” he said weakly.
“Well, this is a disgrace. A disgrace,” shouted William, excitedly. “All this time I’ve had money, I’ve even asked God for it, and you’ve kept it from me. We’ll have to go back to the launderette and get it from what’s-his-name.”
“Just a minute,” said the cashier. “I can tell you what you have in your other account. Can you prove who you are?”
“Why should I do that?” asked William, thoroughly enraged now. “I know who I am.”
“Have you got your passport with you? Or a credit or debit card? Or a utility bill?”
William did have a credit card with him, but he wasn’t going to let on about that. “No, I haven’t. I don’t take my passport round with me just to please idiots in banks.”
“Please don’t be abusive, Mr. Penfold, “ said the cashier. “I’m sure your friend will vouch for you and you are in receipt of benefits. Do you have anything to prove Mr.Penfold’s entitlement, Sir, which I can use as proof of identity?” she asked of the carer.
“Oh dear. All the paperwork is in the folder. At the launderette.”
“It’s a disgrace,” said William. “An absolute disgrace. Probably illegal. That’s my money and I can’t get it. I shall,” he paused, searching for something really threatening, “consult my solicitors,” he finished triumphantly.
“Can you people get a move on?” said a disgruntled voice from the now extensive queue behind him.
“Let’s just get you your money for now,” said the portly one, pacifically, “then we’ll go and get the rest of the paperwork from Robert later. This they did, with the portly one taking charge of the proceedings.