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No Fixed Address: Shortbread's Light Bite

Published 8 months ago

Today we have a story from our anthology Short Breaks, which is still available to buy on the site for £4.50! No Fixed Address is a funny and touching story from Mary Sheepshanks.

No Fixed Address by Mary Sheepshanks

On Harry's occasional appearances in court for being drunk and incapable, he was put down as having no fixed address. This was inaccurate. During the winter he lived at Wakeford Royal Infirmary.

It had many advantages. It was conveniently placed between John O'Groats and Lands End and provided warmth, access to food and excellent washing facilities – Harry had standards.

Harry kept a suit – a gift from the Salvation Army – in a bag labelled ‘RAGS’ in the store cupboard off Ward 22. Occasionally it disappeared, but it was easy to replace. Nightclothes he collected from the laundry – it was accepted as normal that things went missing – and Harry had no objections to having W.R.I. monogrammed on his pyjamas. Sometimes he swung round the wards on a Zimmer, toning his muscles for a summer on the road; sometimes he strode down the Infirmary's miles of corridors in a white coat – though it was wiser not to get waylaid in conversation by others similarly clad. Slopping around in a dressing-gown in the role of recuperating patient was safer, and in this persona Harry was ready to discuss symptoms with anyone. He'd picked up a wealth of medical knowledge over the years, though blessed with wonderful health himself.

Casualty was a good place to read – you could be certain no-one would bother you there – and he usually watched television in the visitors' room off Intensive Care; Men's Surgical was an excellent place to pick up Sporting Pink and there was a betting shop within walking distance of Outpatients. This was Harry's fourth winter at Wakeford Infirmary, and though the late February sky looked pregnant with snow, he knew it would not be long before he'd have to consider a move. He might head north this year: last summer the weather had been disappointing in the West Country.

When Miss Treadgold arrived at the Private Patients' Ward, she was so preoccupied with anxiety lest she might have to undress in front of the male staff-nurse that she did not at first notice the bouquet of flowers on the window-sill.

‘Now Iris,’ said Staff-Nurse Derek – under the illusion that an instant use of Christian names set elderly patients at ease – ‘Slip off your things, pop on your nightie, hop into bed, and we'll check your details.’

Miss Treadgold slipped, popped and hopped with all possible dispatch and was enclosed in a voluminous flannelette tent before he came bustling back.

'What beautiful blooms,' enthused Derek. 'Someone must really love you!'

Miss Treadgold covered the attached card with her hand so that Derek couldn’t see it. It read: "With good wishes from The Swaledale Provincial”. It was Bank policy to pay medical insurance and send flowers to sick employees but Miss Treadgold doubted if anyone except her father had ever loved her. Her mother had frequently told her she was lucky to have a mother to care for her, but the caring boot had been on the other foot. Now Mrs Treadgold was dead and her daughter lived alone.

Some of the details which Derek asked for were very personal, but by talking in the third person he hoped to make it easy for the inhibited patient.

‘Have we had our bowels open today?’

‘I have,’ said Miss Treadgold, whose passion for accuracy made her so competent with a balance sheet. ‘Naturally I can't answer for anyone else.’

Derek laughed merrily. ‘I can see we’re going to have loads of fun together!’ he said, but a glance at his patient's face caused him to revise this opinion. He took her pulse in silence, feeling the anxious fluttering in the hollow of her wrist.

‘Professor Carter's a wonderful surgeon,’ he said. ‘Not frightened are we, Iris?’

‘Not at all, thank you,’ said Miss Treadgold, which was the biggest lie she had ever told.

How could she explain that though there had been times when the thought of drifting into oblivion had been tempting, the thought of extinction under anaesthetic now, was terrifying? It was not eternity that frightened her so much as the knowledge that her death would leave no mark to witness the fact that she had ever existed. A statutory representative from the Bank at the crematorium, a slide through curtains to canned music, and there’d be no more trace of her than the drop of water under the flowers that Derek had wiped with a disposable cloth. And what if she survived and had to return home? That didn’t bear thinking of. Iris Treadgold faced despair and like Hamlet, found the alternatives equally bleak.

‘Next of kin?’ asked Derek gently.

‘None,’ said Miss Treadgold. ‘In the event of my death you should inform the Bank.’

‘Oh, we're not letting you die.’ said Derek firmly. ‘Are you expecting visitors today?’

‘That would be a real surprise,’ said Miss Treadgold.

Later, when discussing the case with Sister, Derek told her about this exchange.

‘She seems very alone – no friends, no relations. The Prof isn't anticipating complications but I’m not happy about her. She says she’s not expecting anyone the whole time she's in. What's the point of a private room if you don't have visitors?’ asked Derek, and Sister agreed.

Harry, overhearing this conversation on his rounds, was immediately struck by an idea. In the days when Harry had played the piers at seaside resorts, he'd been famous for his impersonations and he could still do a convincing retired Major if required. Tonight might be an occasion for wearing his suit: he hoped he would not discover it tied round a mop and covered in floor-seal.

When he reappeared, nattily dressed and freshly shaved, he had a peek through the door of Room Six. The lady appeared to be asleep.

‘Alright if I go and sit with her?’ Harry asked a passing nurse.

‘Are you a relative?’ she enquired – you couldn’t be too careful about security these days.

‘More a close friend; if you see what I mean?’ Harry winked sexily. ‘She doesn't know I'm coming this evening but I’ll be there if she wants me.’

‘You go right in. She'll be ever so pleased to see you,’ said the nurse, on no grounds whatsoever.

‘Well, what a surprise!’ she said later to her friend. "That old dried apricot in Number Six has a boyfriend! I'd better tell the temporary night staff it's O.K.’ When staff shortages became acute, agency nurses were called in and this change of personnel made Harry's life much easier.

He settled himself in the armchair by the bed and pulled up the leg-support. He always found life enjoyable, but tonight he felt expansive with well-being. He cast a glance at the patient. Miss Treadgold's eyes were shut, but her thin fingers were pleating the sheet and two tears wavered among the faded freckles on her cheek, squeezing from closed lids as though someone was trying to extract the last drop of juice from a desiccated lemon. Harry coughed but there was no response – only the anguished fingers and silent tears.

He leant over, closed a rough hand over Miss Treadgold's delicate one, and gently rubbed it with his thumb.

‘There, there,’ said Harry. ‘It’s alright.’

‘Oh but it's not – you don't know what I've done.’ Still the closed eyes, but Harry knew desperation when he heard it.

‘Not much I haven't heard,’ he said. ‘Try telling me.’

‘I killed my cat this morning,’ said Miss Treadgold and she opened her eyes and looked at Harry out of pools of misery.

Harry leant over and gathered her into his arms, rocking her gently like a baby.

‘There, there,’ he said after the sobs had subsided a little. He propped her against the pillows, settled himself back in the chair but kept hold of her hand.

‘How did you kill it?’

‘I gave her tranquillisers and then...,’ Iris Treadgold shuddered, ‘then I turned the gas on and put her in the oven – no heat of course. She wouldn't have felt a thing, but oh I wish I hadn't done it. I loved her and – well Kitty loved me too,’ she said, as if this was amazing. ‘I had no-one to leave her with, and this morning...’ Tears started to flow again; it was as though having once discovered their way down her cheeks they couldn't stop.

‘I was sure I was going to die but now they seem to think I won’t. I am a murderess.’

‘Don’t you have neighbours?’

‘Mother would never have dealings with neighbours, and after she died I didn't like to bother them. People don’t take to me – they all call me Old Carrots at the Bank.’

‘I never heard such a load of codswallop. You must have been a bonny lass,’ said Harry stoutly, ‘I've always fancied redheads myself. Not many people would’ve had the guts to do what you’ve done – rather than risk that cat starving and pining. You're a bloody marvel.’

Nobody had ever called Miss Treadgold this before. They sat for a few moments in silence, then:

‘Who are you?’ asked Miss Treadgold.

‘I'm Harry,’ said Harry.

‘Are you a Social Worker?’

‘I don't usually call myself that,’ Harry groped for a balance between truth and helpfulness.

‘Ever heard of friends-in-need?’ he asked, inspiration suddenly striking him, as it quite often did.

‘Friends-In-Need?’ Miss Treadgold's opinion of the Infirmary went up. She wondered if they were only for private patients or available on the National Health.

‘You remind me of my father,’ she said. ‘When I was little he used to sing me to sleep – if Mother wasn't about.’ Then she shot up as though an electric current had run through her.‘Kitty!’ she said, eyes wide with horror. ‘If I live to go home, she'll still be there, in the oven – dead!’

‘Got your house keys with you?’ asked Harry.

Miss Treadgold nodded.

‘Well’ said Harry ‘How'd it be if I went round tomorrow and saw to it – gave her a decent burial and left things right?’

‘Oh – that would be wonderful.’ Miss Treadgold reached in the locker for her handbag and produced a bunch of keys, neatly labelled with her address.

‘Have you a car?’ she asked.

‘We use public transport when possible,’ said Harry who intended to walk the eight miles to where she lived.

‘You must be an angel in disguise,’ she said.

‘All part of our service,’ said Harry.

Miss Treadgold took a ten pound note out of her bag.

‘For expenses?’ she asked diffidently.

‘Well ta very much,’ Harry pocketed it. ‘Now I'm going to sing you to sleep, like your old Dad.’

And sing her to sleep he did, going through his repertoire of Music Hall songs. Soon Miss Treadgold’s eyes closed. She and Harry had an excellent night.

The operation went well. The Professor saw no reason why his patient shouldn’t make a full recovery. She was woozy for most of the day, though she kept asking when Harry would be back.

‘I'm sure he'll be here soon,’ said Derek as he took her blood pressure. He'd been ever so pleased to hear about Harry – funny Iris hadn't mentioned him when she was admitted.

It seemed wasteful to Harry not to doss down at Miss Treadgold's place once he'd performed the grizzly task for which he'd come. It was a small house in a suburban road with everything in such apple-pie order it would have given Harry claustrophobia to be there long – all gleaming brass knick-knacks and crochet covers on the bog-rolls.

Next evening he went back to see Miss Treadgold.

‘She's been asking for you," said Derek. "We're ever so pleased with her. I'll bring you a cuppa. Tea or coffee?’

‘Tea please, four sugars,’ said Harry. He held Miss Treadgold's hand and told her what a nice grave he'd made under the weeping birch in the garden, though this was not strictly true. It had been double black polythene refuse bags and into the neighbours' dust-bin with Kitty's remains.

Harry came again the next day.

‘We're much more perky now,’ said Derek, catching him as he was about to go into Number Six. ‘What will the situation be when Iris goes home?’

An amber light flashed in Harry's head.

‘Have to discuss it with her first – very independent, is Iris,’ he said.

He found her looking brighter, but his heart sank at what he must confess.

‘Iris, love, I've something to tell you,’ he said. ‘You may be shocked.’

‘You weren't shocked when I told you what I'd done. It couldn't be as bad as that.’

So Harry told her. To his astonishment, she looked as if he'd given her a present.

‘You mean you aren't employed by the hospital? You did this just for me?’ she asked. ‘It will be our secret.’

The next days were the happiest Miss Treadgold had ever known and she positively enjoyed passing off Harry as an old flame. He came every day and she shared her anxiety about retirement. Weekends had always been bad – but retirement!

‘Go on a cruise,’ suggested Harry. ‘Kick your skirts up. Enjoy yourself.’

He told her about his days in show business, and how it had become difficult to make a living as a comic. ‘I suppose my drinking didn't help,’ admitted Harry. ‘I got unreliable, but it was great while it lasted. I was stage-struck since I went to my first Panto. Not many accents I can't manage.’

He told her how he'd taken up the itinerant way of life, doing odd jobs and living off his wits; about his love of the open road in summer; sleeping under the stars and waking to spring dawns; poaching salmon and catching rabbits.

‘I snatched a couple of salmon on a river in Scotland once. The posh buggers who'd rented the water wanted poached salmon for dinner but couldn’t catch a thing. I sold their own salmon to their cook at the back door. Poached salmon they wanted – poached salmon they got!’ Harry roared with laughter.

Iris found herself laughing with him, though this was a painful activity after her operation, and not one that she was used to.

Harry, who had not been an entertainer for nothing, told her about the fun of outwitting the police on occasions and she listened entranced. He was far more shocked at what Iris told him about her life than she was about his. Harry was an easy-going chap but the things he heard about her mother made his blood boil. He might not have a reverent attitude to the law but he had his own ideas about wickedness, and his heart bled for a lonely girl who’d been chained to the whims of a domineering tyrant. He hoped God had given the old besom her just deserts when she landed at the Pearly Gates, and he not only revolutionised Miss Treadgold's ideas about life – he changed her ideas about death.

Harry'd had a funny experience in the war. One minute he'd been lying unconscious on the operating table having shrapnel removed from his chest, and the next – BINGO! – he was floating about looking down at himself and it was as good as an episode of "Casualty". Afterwards he’d been able to tell the doctors all sorts of things that he shouldn't by rights have known, because while he was whizzing about overhead enjoying himself, he'd been pronounced clinically dead. He was quite disappointed when he shot back into his body again.

‘I suppose you were dreaming?’

‘No,’ said Harry. ‘When you wake from a dream, you know it was a dream. This was as real as you and me sitting here. I'd snuffed it alright – but my number wasn't up – I’d just popped into my astral for a bit.’ He made it sound like an old mackintosh. Miss Treadgold couldn't quite see herself popping in and out of her body in this carefree way, but it gave her food for thought.

‘It's called an N.D.E. – lots of people have them, not just me,’ said Harry modestly.

Two days before Miss Treadgold was due to be discharged, Harry told her that he’d be leaving the Infirmary and hitting the road. There were crocuses in the park and something in the air drew him out of his winter quarters like a hedgehog coming out of hibernation.

‘I suppose you wouldn't like a permanent base?’ asked Miss Treadgold, wistfully. ‘I've a spare room – you wouldn't have to pay.’

Harry looked at her with compassion.

‘No, Iris,’ he said. ‘It wouldn't work. I like my drink and fags and independence. But I'll visit you – see if I don't.’

He left next day, wearing a coat he'd picked up in A & E. They could neither of them say goodbye. Miss Treadgold, standing at her window, watched him walk out of the Infirmary and go swinging down the road.

Derek was disappointed to hear that Iris's friend had been called away on business. He arranged for a taxi to take her home and she felt very bleak after the driver left her at the front-door with its redundant cat-flap. It took all her courage to go inside.

A jug of daffodils stood on the hall table; under it was a note.

‘Nicked daffs from next door,’ she read. ‘You need a man in your life – the one in the kitchen has no fixed address, but I hope he settles.’

For one wild moment Miss Treadgold wondered if Harry might be hiding there. She turned the handle and looked inside.

On the floor, curled up on the rug, was a small black kitten. Miss Treadgold picked it up and held it against her cheek.

‘Hello Harry,’ she said.

If you have enjoyed reading No Fixed Address, please let the author know. 

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