The Best of Intentions

 

I like to think that I’m as well-intentioned as the next man  but I’ve learned to be careful; even the best of intentions can backfire on you.  One of my mother’s friends from the Book Club was moving house and she needed someone to dismantle her bed so the removalists could fit it into their van. It would need to be done this weekend as the van was coming on Monday morning.  My mother is like this; always prepared to offer a helping hand especially if the hand is mine.

 

Oh well, it’s not too much of a hardship and I had no other plans for the weekend.  I scribbled the address on a scrap of paper and promised to be on the doorstep by 9 o’clock on Sunday.

 

Armed with my Allan keys, I presented myself to the friend’s house at the agreed time and was shown into the bedroom where I was surprised to find that the bed was still covered with sheets and blankets, and there was an elderly man lying in it.  Mum’s friend was very apologetic and whispered that her husband was still asleep and hated to be woken up.  She had learnt early on in their marriage that, if she was up before her husband, she had to creep around the house and woe betide her if she made too much noise in the kitchen.

 

I started to speak but the woman became agitated and signalled me to shoosh.  She pulled me into the hallway where I could ask her, under my breath, what she wanted me to do.

 

“Could you come back in a couple of hours?” she said, apologetically. “He’ll probably be up by then and you could get on with pulling the bed apart.”

 

I wasn’t very happy about being mucked around but it would only take me 10 minutes to loosen the screws and I had no other plans.  A cup of coffee helped to fill in the time and I duly returned to the house ready to fulfil my promise.  I found the woman wringing her hands and clearly upset. 

 

“He’s still in bed but I don’t think he’s asleep; I think he’s passed away,” she wailed.

 

“What, dead?” I said stupidly.

 

“Yes, could you have a look?” she asked. I wasn’t very happy about it but what else could I do.

 

“Have you rung an ambulance?” I asked.  “Maybe he’s ill and needs some help and, if he really is dead, the ambulance people will be able to confirm it.”

 

“Oh, alright,” she said and went to the ‘phone.

 

I, reluctantly, returned to the bedroom where the old man in the bed certainly looked to have departed this life.  He was grey and didn’t seem to be breathing so I gently drew the sheet up over his head, patted his hand and quietly left him in peace.

 

Back in the loungeroom, Mum’s friend told me that the ambulance was on its way and asked me if I would like a cup of tea.  With the taste of my recent coffee still on my lips I began to say No, thanks, but something told me that she probably needed something to take her mind off her loss and she was looking for something to occupy her hands.

 

I don’t normally drink tea, especially if it’s weak and milky but I managed to finish my cup, all the time listening to her tell me about the life they had led: over fifty years of marriage, not always happy.  He was a very dominant individual and she had had to give in to him at every turn.  He never wanted to do anything she enjoyed.  She had always wanted to travel but he said it was a waste of money.  He was so awful, even their children had abandoned them. It would be different without him and the first thing she would do was rebuild her relationship with their children and the friends he had insulted over the years.

 

We heard the doorbell ring and a couple of paramedics hurried into the lounge room.

 

“Where is he?” they asked but before they could be directed to the bedroom, a loud voice could be heard.

 

“What’s all the noise? Can’t a man have quiet in his own house?”

 

The woman put her head in her hands and cried.  “I just knew it was too good to be true.  He’s too rotten to just die in his sleep and leave me in peace.

 

The paramedics and I left together. I had given up my morning with the best of intentions and look how that had turned out.