Shadows of the Workhouse

that. I suppose they were sold, and the money put into my account. I’ve got a bank account, you know. I gave her the number.”
    “Have you seen her since?”
    “Oh yes, she came here. She is very pleasant. She gave me this.”
    He fumbled in the inside pocket of his waistcoat, and produced a bit of paper. It was a receipt for £96 14s. 6d. for the sale of furniture. I thought of the grandfather clock, the fine old table, and his high wooden armchair. Now all that was left was a piece of paper.
    The big room with its high windows was oppressive, and the all-pervading smell of urine nauseating, but I doubt if the old men noticed this (after all, the sense of smell fades along with the other senses as age advances). The worst thing for them, I could see, was the boredom of having absolutely nothing to do, hour after hour, day after day. One or two got up and shuffled off to the lavatory, or to another room, which I was later to discover was the dormitory. But apart from that, they did nothing. A few played cards or dominoes, but the games never seemed to excite much interest. The Daily Mirror and the Express were passed around, and some of the men glanced at them but, from what I observed, most of them just sat at the tables, looking at each other. I never saw any other visitor, and I wondered how it was possible that so many old men could have no one at all who wanted to visit them. I saw only Block E, Fifth Floor, and I did not know how many other blocks and floors there were, filled with old men, seemingly abandoned, each day killing the time, until time killed them.
    One day I asked Mr Collett where his pipe was and if he smoked it. He said, “We are only allowed to smoke on the balcony.”
    “Well, do you do so, then?”
    “No, I don’t know where the balcony is.”
    I felt very cross at such thoughtlessness on the part of the staff. They were not unkind, as far as I could see, but they were mostly Filipino or Indonesian young men, who spoke little or no English, and it obviously had not occurred to any of them to take a nearly blind man to the balcony and make sure that he knew how to find his way there and back.
    “Well, let’s go out to the balcony, then, and you can have a smoke, and we can get some fresh air at the same time. Have you got your pipe, your twist, and some matches?”
    “Not on me. They are in my locker. I’ll go and get them. You can come with me. I don’t suppose anyone would mind.”
    He stood up, and felt his way along the tables to a short corridor at the end of which was a wide double door leading into the dormitory. My experienced eye saw at once that it was the size of the average hospital ward, designed for twenty-eight or thirty beds. It held, at a rough guess, sixty or seventy. They lined each wall, and the far end wall also. They were small two-foot-six-inch iron bedsteads, with thin mattresses over sagging springs. Beside each was a tiny locker about twelve inches wide, and the beds touched the lockers on either side. I looked down towards the far end of the dormitory. There were no lockers, and the beds were so close to each other that, presumably, the only way the occupant could get in and out was by climbing over the end. Some were occupied by old men, who just lay there, sleeping or staring at the ceiling. My critical nurse’s eye looked at the bed linen and blankets. All were filthy, and the stench of urine and faeces was evidence that fresh linen was a rarity. A ward sister would have had a team of cleaners in there in seconds. But I saw no staff at all that day.
    Mr Collett felt his way along fourteen beds, and then went to the locker beside the fifteenth. I watched him, and noticed that he was walking with difficulty again. I thought, with alarm, about his leg ulcers – so much better, but only because of regular treatment. Was he still getting it? I looked around at the general neglect, and had misgivings. Perhaps he was treating the ulcers himself. I resolved to ask him before leaving that day.
    He found his pipe and chuckled as he cradled his old friend in the palm of his hand. We made our way, first to the table where he had been sitting, and then to the balcony, counting the number of tables, and the direction he would have to take. I wanted to be sure he knew how to get there by himself. The door was big and heavy, with a metal safety bar, but he could manage to open it.
    The fresh air was lovely, though cold, and the balcony was pleasant, but there was