The Trespass(24)

“We have a church service at ten o’clock for the residents. You’re very welcome to join us if you like. Can I get you a coffee?”

“That’s very kind,” Sara said. “Coffee would be fine. And we’d be delighted to attend the service.”

“We would?” Dracup stage-whispered. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been in a church, let alone a service.

“You’ll get more out of Churchill if you spend some time with him. Integrate with what he’s doing. Believe me, I’ve dealt with elderly people before.” Sara widened her eyes.

Dracup knew that look. It meant: I’m right on this. Just do it, and no arguing.

They were ushered into a long room where between fifteen and twenty residents were sitting in quiet expectation. A few looked up when they entered, but most simply stared into the distance or into their laps. No one was reading or engaged in any activity as far as Dracup could see. The care assistant led them over to the far end of the room where an old man was sitting, or rather propped, in a wheelchair. There was a dark green blanket spread over his knees and a faraway look in his eyes. His hair was white and thin, spread across his head in some cursory third-party attempt at style, while his arthritic hands firmly grasped the arms of the wheelchair as if their owner feared that the chair might tear off unexpectedly on some wild, unbidden ride. The silver head bobbed and smiled. A milky cup of tea lay untouched on the table beside him. The room was even hotter than the reception area and corridors through which they had passed, and the smell in the confined space of the lounge was overpowering. Dracup wondered how they could stand it.

“Two visitors to see you, George.” The care assistant bent down to Churchill’s level and spoke loudly into his ear. “He won’t hear you unless you talk to this side,” she told Dracup.

Dracup bent awkwardly, then squatted down on his haunches.

“Wait, I’ll get two chairs,” the care assistant said. She bustled off to some other room.

Dracup cleared his throat and spoke into the old man’s ear. “Mr Churchill? My name is Simon Dracup. You knew my aunt, Mrs Hunter. She used to visit you.”

The old man nodded and smiled. Dracup looked at Sara for help. He tried again. “Mrs Jean Hunter. Her father was a friend of yours – Theodore Dracup, my grandfather.”

Churchill looked at them blankly. The assistant returned with two chairs. “Give him a wee while. He’ll need to get used to you.” She smiled and went off to attend to another resident’s request. He heard her voice in the background, reassuring and cajoling as she handed out hymn books.

Sara leaned in close. “I’ll have a word.”

Dracup pushed his chair back. Why not? This is going nowhere...

“George. Do you like to sing?” Sara asked the old man.

Dracup raised his eyebrows. But then, to his surprise, Churchill began to sing in a high quavering voice:

“Oh! How I hate to get up in the morning,

Oh! How I’d love to remain in bed…”

Sara smiled and patted Churchill’s arm. “You sing well, George.”

Churchill smiled a toothless smile at Dracup and winked. “We all sang it. In the war, y’know. Ta ta tum, tum tat um. You’ve got to get up; you’ve got to get up. You’ve got to get up this morning!”

The care assistant appeared again. “Sorry to interrupt. This is Joan Mayfield, the matron.” Dracup turned to see a trim lady in blue uniform smiling down at the group.

“Mr Dracup. How kind of you to come. Now then, George –” she raised her voice to an appropriate level for Churchill’s benefit. “What’s all this? We’ve already got you up this morning.” She smiled again and gave Churchill’s arm a light squeeze. “He’s a lovely old chap. He will miss Mrs Hunter’s visits.” She turned to Dracup. “I’m so sorry about your aunt. It’s very good of you to let me know.”

“Oh! how I hate to get up in the morning!” Churchill sang.

“Yes, George, we know,” the matron laughed softly, “but you should save your voice for the hymns. You’ll know them all, I’m sure.”

“Very tall, in the hall!” Churchill pronounced.

“I’m sorry – he does fly off on his fancies from time to time,” Mrs Mayfield said. “But he’s surprisingly lucid when he’s in the mood, aren’t you, George?”

“Time and again, time and again,” Churchill sang in a thin, reedy voice.

Dracup leaned in to ask another question, but Sara motioned him to silence.

“What was that, George?” she asked the old man.