Home Front Alice Pitman
In the autumn, visits to the Aged P have been conducted in the reception area of the care home.
In addition to reasonable stipulations – social distancing, temperature-taking and handwashing on arrival – we are instructed to sit on either side of a large, free-standing, glass divide.
The set-up feels so prison-like and joyless. You expect to arrive one week and find the Aged P in an orange jumpsuit, intercom phone clutched in one hand, the other pressed to the glass.
Last week, it was so difficult to hear each other above the noise of an engineer fixing a nearby lift, and the clattering of passing trolleys, that it felt as though we were the unwitting stooges of a Jeremy Beadle stunt.
The Aged P, who is hard of hearing at the best of times, could gather only a fraction of what I was saying. We couldn’t see each other properly. The sun shining on the glass had the disconcerting effect of highlighting our glum reflections.
She was so miserable, she didn’t even want to talk about her favourite murders. I sneakily moved my chair away from the screen. Not only could we now see each other, but we could also hear better, too.
The Aged P perked up at once. She started telling me an old family story. In 1957, her mother deliberately pulled down the curtains in my parents’ west-london flat while pretending they had fallen by themselves. We were laughing about this when a care-home manager descended and told me to move my seat back behind the glass.
To be lost in a riveting family drama, from more than half a century ago, only to be dragged back into the Stasi-like reality of 2020 felt like a violation.
I explained that my mother and I couldn’t communicate properly behind the glass. He said that the welfare of residents came first. If that was the case, I wanted to say, perhaps they should do more to improve the quality of the food.
What I did say was that I couldn’t possibly be harming other residents since my mother and I were the only ones there. Moreover, my mother had already, along with one other resident, had the virus back in March. When this cut no ice, I got cross and accused him of enjoying his little bit of power.
This was not greeted with equanimity.
The care-home staff must groan when they see me coming. On the previous visit, when Mr Home Front came with me, I was playing the Aged P a video on my mobile of my niece’s adorable one-year-old son, Alfred.
The Aged P couldn’t see her greatgrandson properly. So, like Private Walker shiftily showing black-market stockings to a lady friend, I moved a little closer.
A carer I hadn’t seen before appeared at once and barked at me to move back. I turned to Mr HF for support, but he had sunk so low in his chair I thought he was going to slide off. She said there was a camera and that, if the powers that be saw me breaking the rules, the staff would be reprimanded. I could only obey.
But where was this mysterious camera? I couldn’t see one. Was she fibbing? If so, I felt – in a funny kind of way – a sneaking admiration for her quick-witted deception.
Though I understand the importance of protecting the elderly, a degree of common sense is needed before this climate of fear and morbidity defeats us all. The wishes of every resident must surely count for something. In her 96th year, the Aged P should be allowed to assess her own risks. Handwashing – yes. Distancing – if they insist. But further draconian measures should stop. The elderly have been left isolated and lonely for too long. More harm has been done to our wonderful wartime generation than anyone could possibly imagine.
‘I’d rather die than live the rest of my life like this,’ said the Aged P recently – a sentiment shared by Aged Ps everywhere.
The manager and I eventually made up. His job can’t be easy. And I apologised for accusing him of enjoying his power (finding myself getting a little tearful as I did – oh, the horror).
‘I’ve had another row!’ I announced back at the house.
‘Stop falling out with people at the care home,’ said Betty.
Mr HF was very supportive (while clearly feeling hugely relieved he hadn’t been there).
But what of the Aged P? Had my red mist upset her? I phoned her.
‘Upset me?! You were magnificent! Now I must go, darling – I’m watching a very good documentary about the Brighton Trunk murders…’