A Dialogue of the Deaf

By Hugh Noble

When Alastair Jamieson falls down and breaks his wrist, the incident sets in motion a sequence of events which have far reaching consequences. It brings several generations of his estranged family to congregate at his home - an old isolated stone house in a remote corner of north west Scotland where he has lived alone for many years and nurtured a reputation for being a bloody-minded antisocial curmudgeon.
Alastair is also a determined atheist while his son Henry is a missionary and an ordained priest. So when Henry visits his father, falls down and breaks his leg in three places and has to convalesce in his father's house, the scene is set for theological battle of words on the topics of science and belief, on what the word 'existence' means and on Alastair's plans for his own assisted suicide. This battle of wills is not made any less vociferous by the fact that each man has difficulty in hearing what the other says.
Alastair's daughter Claire is puzzled by the presence of graceful young woman called Eilidh. She turns up at the house from time to time to play pieces by Bach and Scarlatti on Alastair's antique spinet. Claire wants to know how this young girl has found such an honoured place in her father's life.
So she researches her father's past life and discovers that far from being a recluse, he has led a turbulent life during which he survived some dramatic events in what used to be called the Belgian Congo (in the midst of a civil war), in Czechoslovakia (during the Prague Spring) and that he has had various dangerous scrapes with mountains and crevasses in Antarctica.
Woven through the fabric of this history is the explanation of the emotional bond between Alastair and Eilidh, the enigmatic spinet player.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Hugh Noble
• Release date: Jan 8, 2012
• ISBN: 9781466070103

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

[Local gossip]

As he was coming out of the church after the morning service, Alastair Jamieson fell down the steps and broke his wrist. That surprised a lot of folk – not the fall – just Alastair being at the church, for it was well-known that the old man was a devout and argumentative atheist. One or two of the locals, with a noticeable lack of Christian charity, remarked that it was a pity God had not seen fit to strike him dead.

Anyway, while Alastair was sitting on the steps, white of face and nursing his injury, a group of regular church-goers gathered around him to discuss what should be done. Significantly no one offered to pray for him.

Hospital. Obviously. But before they could take him to the local cottage hospital, they had to phone the NHS-24 emergency helpline. That is what you are supposed to do these days. It's a way of doing things which makes sure that everything will operate smoothly and efficiently. It also makes sure that an expensive doctor's time is not wasted on trivial things - like a broken wrist.

They did eventually get Alastair into the hospital, but only after they had done battle on the phone with a lady in Dingwall. Or was it Paisley? You know ... it could have been Delhi.

Anyway, she had never heard of Kinlochcrannoch. Who has? Kinlochcrannoch is a wee fishing port on the north-western edge of the Scottish mainland. No one has heard of it. That is probably because the most exciting thing that ever happens there is a change in the price of fish.

The lady on the phone asked a lot of questions - about the patient's full name, about his age, his sex, his colour, the exact time of the accident, his previous medical history, his medication. After all that she diagnosed that he probably had a broken wrist.

She then said she would be sending an ambulance. Which she did. Unfortunately she sent it to Kilnacraddock. That's in the borders by the way. You can't get much further away from Kinlochcrannoch and still stay in the same country.

All this took place just a few yards from the local doctor's surgery. Which was closed, it being the Sabbath. They were also standing not much further away from the doctor's house. But he wasn't there, because he had opted out of 24 hour coverage - hence the phone call to Dingwall - or wherever it was.

It was Tam Strachan who sorted it out ... after an hour or so of waiting for the ambulance, by which time most of the crowd of on-lookers had drifted away. Tam is a farmer and he comes from over ... Oh ... Aberdeenshire. Over that way. Anyway, he lost his patience. To be truthful, he never really had any patience. He stuck Alastair into his own car (Tam's car, that is - not Alastair's which was also sitting forlornly in the Church car-park), and drove him the few hundred yards from the church to the local Community Hospital where he (Tam) faced down the objections of the hospital receptionist who wanted him to get a referral from NHS-24. Her resistance crumbled when Tam's big red hairy fist landed on her desk and she heard his voice saying, Weel lassie, the manie's here the noo an' hee's nae gangin' ony-whaur eelse. She didn't understand the words themselves exactly, but she caught the general drift of his remarks. So she phoned Delhi or wherever it is, herself, pretended to be a witness to the accident and got the necessary official referral.

At the hospital they gave Alastair a shot of morphine. Then they set and splinted his wrist. Just to hold it, you understand, until the doctor could take a look at it next morning. That would be when he got back from saving time and money in Auchbervie General Hospital which was 25 miles away, and where he was being paid double time as a Sunday locum to read the Sunday newspapers.

They would have done a CT-scan on Alastair's skull, just to make sure that he wasn't brain-damaged ... (That's a laugh. Quite a lot of folk would have said he was brain-damaged long before he fell over) ... but the nearest machine was in Inverness, 60 miles away. And on a Sunday! That would have meant another ambulance wandering around Scotland looking for Kinlochcrannoch.

Much to Alastair's annoyance, they kept him in overnight.

How would you get home? they said when he protested. You can't drive a car with a broken wrist.

Can't an ambulance take me?

They laughed.

Do you not think you've caused the ambulance service enough trouble already Mr Jamieson?

I'll walk.

Don't be silly. What distance is it to your cottage from here?

Ten miles, he said.

Well then, they said loudly and slowly - that's the way they always talk to old folk - you can just be waiting here, Alastair Jamieson ... and you can just stop being difficult. Dr. MacKay will come and see you in the morning. He will be assessing you. After that we might be thinking about sending you home. Would you like a cup of tea?

Assessing me! You make me sound like I'm an antique.

It made no difference. He had to wait. The tea, as it happens, was excellent. In Kinlochcrannoch, they do know how to make a decent cup of tea.

CHAPTER 2

[James]

When the guys at the Casson-Turner Corporation decide to get rid of you, they don't mess about. 'Levitation' they call it. Your feet are not allowed to touch the ground.

And that's how it was that Monday morning at the start of Wimbledon fortnight. As you might expect, it was raining heavily. Jim Petersen, however, was not thinking about how to get tickets for the Centre Court. He was thinking about his life, his career, his relationships and where he was going to go from here. Or from there perhaps. At that precise moment, our Jimbo wasn't quite sure where he was. But of this he was quite certain - he was a very angry and bewildered young man.

As he exited from Casson-Turner House - some house - thirty seven stories of tinted glass in the shape of a wide-bore double-barrelled shot-gun poised to bring down passing airliners - he emerged into a busy London street and into that torrential downpour. He stopped under the entrance canopy. He put down the large plastic box he was carrying. He turned up the collar of his jacket against the rain. Then he took up the box again, and ran.

Running was something that Jimbo was quite good at. He was fit. He went to the gym twice a week to run on a treadmill, row on a machine, lift weights, practice his parallel turns on the ski-machine and ogle the girls in leotards on the other equipment. He also let them see his pecs and his thighs which he reckoned were pretty impressive.

But today, all that was irrelevant. Inside the plastic box was the totality of his professional existence - an iPod, an electronic desk diary, an electronic picture frame, with pictures of his partner Esmeralda and her child Lucinda (for public consumption), and pictures of an anonymous naked large-breasted young woman (for private ogling when no one else was about), also an electronic self-finding key-ring, an electronic book-reader (unused - it was a Christmas present from his partner), a digital world clock, three pencils, an assortment of (rather heavy) recharging units for said electronic gadgets, one pencil with a Mickey-Mouse eraser on the end (a well-used present from his acting-step-daughter Lucinda, aged 8), five ball-point pens (all dried out), one 'executive' fountain pen with gold nib, four rubber bands and an 'executive toy' consisting of several steel ball-bearing pendulums on a little mahogany stand which, when set in motion, continued for hours to oscillate and send the ball-bearings at either end alternately kicking pointlessly in the air. This last item, however, having been considered somewhat naff for many years had been hiding in a lower drawer of his desk for roughly that length of time. It had been brought into the light earlier that day (with some embarrassment) and stuffed quickly into his plastic box before anyone in the office saw it - anyone, that is, other than the two company goons who stood over him and watched his every move.

And so Jim Petersen - 'Jimbo' to his friends, of whom there were a few, James to his family, of whom there were some, and 'that Petersen bastard' to his enemies, of whom there were uncountably many - emerged from the building on to the street, without a job, without a hope and without any idea of why it had happened to him.

In normal circumstances he would have taken the lift to the underground car-park. But he had been instructed to leave behind the keys of his (he still thought of it as his) beloved silver Audi convertible. Those keys remained in his desk, or what had been his desk until some five minutes earlier - along with his employee identification badge, his company mobile phone, his company laptop computer, several memory sticks of company data, some data-CDs and his company credit card (the loss of which now threatened him with personal financial disaster). All these were now in the care of the two company gorillas who had watched his every move while he cleared his desk of his personal belongings. All, that is, except the SD data card which Jimbo had managed to palm and transfer to his handkerchief pocket on the pretext of blowing his nose.

And all this - because of - what exactly? If he actually had known for certain that he had done something worthy of summary dismissal, he wouldn't have felt so bad about it. He could think of a few things, which might have generated official disapproval - like his misuse of e-mail facilities and the use of his laptop to play games in the middle of a working day, but he was fairly sure that these things had nothing to do with it. More likely it had something to do with the 2.3 billion dollars the corporation had lost in a disastrous trading deal on the Hong-Kong stock exchange - a deal in which he was nearly sure he had not been involved at any stage. He was, he reckoned, just an overhead that was being cut to pay for the huge bonuses promised as a reward to the people who were actually responsible for the loss.

There was (admittedly) another matter. But he was almost sure that no one at Casson-Turner knew about that, and, anyway, without that SD card which now sat in his own handkerchief pocket, they would have trouble proving anything.

He needed a taxi. He patted his pocket to find his mobile and then remembered that that was one of the confiscated items. So he had to run to the end of the block with his heavy box and stand there, getting very wet, until he could flag down a taxi and persuade one of them to stop.

No cash. That was the other problem. Normally he would have got the taxi to stop at a cash dispenser. This time he had to leave his cardboard box as collateral in the taxi while he ran up stairs.

Give us a break mate, he told the driver, I've just been given the heave. I'm cleaned out.

So, while the driver fumed, and the taxi-meter clocked up more expense, James ran up to the flat, raked through several drawers, and discovered notes and coins enough to pay the man off.

When Esmeralda got back from her shopping trip, she was aghast. What are we going to do?

I don't know Ez, but I'll think of something. We could sell your diamond bracelet for a start.

Over my dead body!

Don't tempt me Ez.

She slammed the door as she went.

[Julie]

She stared at the page that lay before her. She scanned each line and each paragraph. Her eyes ran over the words, crawled up and down between them and wriggled along the spaces between the lines. She saw, and recognised, the form, the outline and the string of alphabetic components, of each word. Silently she mouthed the sound of each. She turned the page and repeated the operation. Very slowly. She tried the facing page. Same result. She turned the document over and scanned the fourth and last page. Then she looked up at the large clock on the wall at the far end of the examination hall. She saw around her the bent heads of the other students. She saw supervisors creeping about, with hands behind their backs, stepping carefully to avoid shoe-squeak. It was only then, with head erect and breath suppressed to a faint simulation of intake and outgoing, that Julie realised that those printed words before her, held no meaning whatsoever.

That is not quite correct. The words themselves had meaning. She actually knew what each word meant. By itself. Or, well, she had the impression that she knew the meaning of each word. Each had a familiar appearance and the sound each made inside her head, sounded equally familiar. But that was all. Each word stood in splendid isolation and aloof to the presence of its neighbours. They refused to link hands. Refused to co-operate. Refused to make any kind of coherent narrative.

Staring at them made no difference. Whatever part of her brain was supposed to make the appropriate connections, had stopped functioning. At that moment, if some neurologist had placed Julie's head inside a machine to observe her brain (using functional nuclear magnetic resonance, or something like that), they would have found areas of total blackout.

Even the clock on the wall had no meaning. She saw that the short hand was pointing to the figure TEN and the long hand was pointing at the figure TWO. Even as she watched, the long hand jerked round by a small amount. But these were separate items of information. They did not translate into anything meaningful. They had no implications. They did not tell Julie that it was now ten minutes past ten (or ten minutes since the exam had started) or that in a short time it would be fifteen minutes past ten, or that five minutes after that it, would be twenty minutes past ten. Passage of time was an alien concept. It was a non-concept. Morning. Afternoon. Evening. Night. These were words. Just words. With no import. She could not relate times to routine activities.

Julie scraped her plastic stackable chair backwards and stood. Several other students around her looked up and stared at her with blank expressionless faces. They returned trance-like to their writing. One of the supervisors, a short fat woman, with a faint moustache, wearing a wine coloured twin set and beads, was walking towards Julie on sensible shoes with thick soles. The woman caught Julie by the upper arm as she tried to walk past. She was whispering something in Julie's ear. But Julie could not make any sense of the words. The woman was pointing at the desk where Julie had been sitting. Then at the clock.

You can't leave yet, the woman was saying.

Julie stood still. Looked at the woman's face. And blinked. She allowed herself to be led to the front of the hall and took the seat offered.

They let her leave at half-past ten, which was when they stopped late arrivals coming in. Julie was just able to identify her droopy linen shoulder bag among the pile of similar items on the floor beside the examiner's desk. Out of the hall, she walked along a marble flagged passageway, pushed through big glass-paned double doors, descended stone steps and walked out across the quad. People were standing about. Some of them seemed familiar. Julie walked on.

CHAPTER 3

[Dr Neil MacKay]

So what were you doing at the church Alastair?

The doctor was bending over him, feeling his wrist. He shone a torch into Alastair's eyes.

I was observing the faithful at prayer.

Dr. Neil MacKay was a small quick man with sandy hair. He studied the patient's chart. Mmmm ... He looked up. Really Alastair. Why were you there?

I went to hear Eilidh Robertson playing the organ.

Eilidh ... ?

Willie Robertson's granddaughter. It was her first shot at it. In the church I mean. She's a very good player. Makes a change to have an organist under the age of seventy who doesn't have her hands knotted with arthritis.

MacKay took Alastair's good hand. Looked at it. Turned it over. No sign of arthritic nodularity. But then he knew that. Even if he didn't know Alastair the man very well, he did know Alastair the patient, having, for a decade, been the doctor to the Kinlochcrannoch community, which of course includes Alastair Jamieson, though you might not think so, what with Alastair being a recluse and with him having the habit of telling anyone who came near his house to go away.

MacKay said, And how would you know about organists? You never go to church.

Yes I do. I go to funerals, weddings and christenings - when I know the people involved that is. And when someone bothers to tell me that the ceremony is taking place. I go to support living people, not to worship mythical Gods.

So did Eilidh perform well?

She was excellent - despite the fact that the church organ is a clapped out old instrument that is not properly maintained. Eilidh's at the Glasgow College of Music. She played a Bach Chaconne.

So you reckon the performance was worth a broken wrist?

I'm not broke and I wasn't pissed.

A BROKEN WRIST Alastair.

Oh .... yes ... well ... that depends. Will I live Doctor?

The wrist will mend. I'm more interested in why you just keeled over and fell.

I didn't kneel over. I tripped. You haven't answered my question.

KEELED OVER! And no Alastair, you will not live. This might surprise you, but no one - not even you - will live forever. How old are you now?

Bold? What has that ... ?

OLD Alastair. How OLD are you?

Oh ... I'll be eighty in November.

MacKay raised his voice a notch. And your actual date of birth?

14-11-29 ... and before you ask, this is the year two thousand and ten. It is a Monday, It's June. And the Prime Minister's name is Winston Churchill.

MacKay stiffened, looked up at his face sharply and saw Alastair's jutting jaw, clenched teeth and the confrontational look in his eye. He turned away and shook his head.

One of these days you're going to talk yourself into getting sectioned.

And that would make a lot of people very happy.

The doctor was packing his bag.

Do you see your family often these days?

Oh yes. Every blue moon, without fail.

I can see why they are so keen to come. You're such a gracious host .....

Alastair said, Mockery does not become you Doctor. I like my solitude. I like to be alone with my own thoughts.

MacKay turned away from the bed. Nurse! I think we can set this in plaster and let the gentleman go home ... He paused and looked at Alastair sideways. ... that is, if 'gentleman' is the correct term. He hesitated again, then spoke quietly. I'm serious Alastair. How will you manage?

As always.

I mean, if you can't drive a car, how will you get your groceries and things?

I'll phone in an order and get the carrier, Talib Malik's mob. What does he call himself? SpeedWest Deliveries. That's it. I'll ask them to pick up my order at the supermarket and bring it to me as a delivery.

You've got it all thought out.

Does that surprise you?

MacKay laughed. No Alastair. It doesn't surprise me at all. I'll get Agnes McGuire to drop in on you.

Agnes was the local district nurse.

I can cut my own toe nails thank you.

Never mind your toe nails. With your left hand immobilised you'll have some trouble cutting the nails on your right hand. It is also very difficult to pull on a pair of socks with one hand.

You think of everything Doctor. How can I get my car home do you think?

Have you got the keys?

Alastair pointed. They were in the bedside cabinet drawer. MacKay opened the drawer and looked at Alastair quizzically and shook his head. The key fob was a plastic skull. He put the keys in his pocket.

I'll get someone to take it round to McKillop's garage forecourt. It'll be safe enough there until you are able to deal with it yourself.

How long will that be?

Oh ... we'll assess you again in a few weeks. At your age it will probably take quite a while for the bones to heal enough to take the plaster off. Or maybe longer than a while. And then ... well even then you will need to be careful.

Thank you for being so precise Doctor.

Is there anything else you want to know?

Just the same question which you doctors never answer.

What's that?

What medicines should I be stockpiling now to have them ready for when I need them to top myself?

Well ... you're right about that one.

About what one?

That doctors never answer that question.

I asked that pretty Irish locum you had, the same thing. She seemed quite offended.

Rebecca O'Hare? She probably was. She is a Catholic and takes these things very seriously.

Not like you.

I take everything seriously Alastair. Even you, despite the fact that you're a cantankerous, argumentative old rogue and an outrageous mischief maker.

Jamieson grinned delightedly. He punched the air with his good fist. Recognition at last.

And with that, Dr. MacKay moved on to look at another patient and dismissed Alastair Jamieson's broken wrist from his mind.

*

With his forearm in a full plaster cast, Alastair was taken home to the old house they called Camasbeag. He was taken in a private car driven by a local Red Cross volunteer called Miriam Miller. She told the doctor about it later.

Will you be all right Alastair? she had asked.

I'll be fine Miriam. And thank you. But would you just put that pile of paper into the wheelie-bin at the top of the hill as you're going past? The blue bin. That's the one for re-cycling paper.

The Doctor chuckled.

He's sharp that one, Miriam had said. He's not the doddering old fool like he pretends to be. He never misses a trick.

[Agnes McGuire]

Agnes drove a black and much dented Ford Escort. She also had some trouble with the reversing of it - a fact to which every bollard, road sign and garden gatepost in the district, bore witness. In contrast to her hesitant manoeuvring of her car, she had, as the area's District Nurse, developed a cheerfully brusque and efficient way of dealing with patients. She was especially expert at handling cantankerous old men.

And yet ... well ... Alastair Jamieson was a special case. She knew that from previous experience. So when she slowed and turned into the much potholed, single-track road to Camasbeag, she did it with reluctance. It was a long way to drive to achieve only a frustrating nothing - and that, she felt sure, would be the likely outcome.

Driving around the area every day, she had become blasé about the scenery. Yet, even for her, the road to Camasbeag, especially the last part, stood apart from the rest. Alastair's cottage sat on a knoll overlooking the bay. Camasbeag means small bay and the name was apt. Covered with scarlet and yellow lichen, two rocky headlands jutted out and trapped between them a small curved strip of white sand and a pool of translucent blue-green water. Beyond those headlands, however, the view was not small. It was enormous. It was a vista to the open sea and a textured pattern of islands. The light played on the green of the islands and the grey-blues of the sea and it was always changing. Sometimes the water was sombre, grey and covered in writhing white caps. Sometimes it was alive with eye-stabbing glitterings of sunlight. Sometimes it faded mysteriously into a grey and imperceptible merging of sea and sky. In all weathers the beauty of it took your breath away.

They called it Alastair's cottage but it was really a substantial house. Natural stone. Whitewashed. A little shabby now but a still prominent landmark in the pilot guides for coastal yachtsmen. It faced west. That meant glorious sunsets and Atlantic gales taken stoically, head on. It had two main floors with sash windows, and a third, with dormer windows set into the roof space. Each of the two main floors had a basic plan of four rooms grouped round a central stairwell. The two rooms and the box-room on the top floor were squeezed between sloping roofs. So ten rooms in all, one of which had been converted into a bathroom. All that and a modern kitchen extension, with double-glazed wind-tight windows on the north gable-end. There was also an outbuilding with a sagging roof and a door hanging off its hinges. All in all, Camasbeag provided quite a lot of accommodation - especially for one old man who liked his solitary life and seemed determined to keep it that way.

Agnes drew up on gravel at the side of the house. She looked about her to judge distances and then tried, tentatively, to back round behind the corner of the house to make her departure easy. A lurch and a crunching noise told her that she had misjudged again. Another rear light gone. She did not need to look. There would be a small sad pile of red plastic in the gravel and a black paint mark on the corner of the house. But it had not been a loud noise, so perhaps she could escape without being scolded by the irascible householder.

The front door - a large, double-shuttered thing, clad in vertical pine strip, painted white - was uncompromisingly shut.

She knocked. And waited. Knocked. And waited. Knocked again. She tried the handle. Locked. Knocked. Waited.

Round to the back door.

En route, as expected, bits of red plastic at the corner of the house. She flicked them with a foot into some greenery which had once been a flowerbed.

Back door. A single door this one. But the same vertical wood-strip painted white. Knocked. Knocked.

She turned round and surveyed. Set into a small cutting, sheltered by the hillside behind and by the house on the other side, was a roof of clear corrugated plastic supported by four large fence posts. Under the roof was a line of multi-coloured underpants and socks, drying in the breeze.

More knocking. Still no answer.

Alastair's car, she remembered, was still sitting at the garage in Kinlochcrannoch. So, since he had no means of escape, the old man couldn't be far away.

Back to the front door. Knocked.

Above her head a sash window slammed open and Alastair's voice boomed.

Who's that?

Mr Jamieson!

I know who I am. Who is that ramming a car into my house?

Hello ... Mr Jamieson. It's Agnes. The district nurse.

I phoned the surgery and told them that this was my time for a sleep.

The window slammed shut again.

Knocked.

The window opened again.

Go away!

It doesn't work that way Mr Jamieson. I have a schedule. I come when I am available. I don't come by appointment.

She felt like crying. She also felt like laughing.

Then she began to feel angry. Mr Jamieson! Open! The! Door!

After he had grumbled his way down the stairs, slid the bolts aside and scraped the door over the stone flags in the passageway, to let her in, she reverted to calling him Alastair.

Mr Jamieson to you.

Someone told me it was really Professor Jamieson.

Mr Jamieson will do fine. I don't use that handle except when it is relevant.

And when is it relevant?

When I'm feeling pompous.

How could that ever be? She smiled at him in a superior way.

I'm a person, he said, Persons do things like that. That should be good enough for anyone. Anyone who is a person is entitled to be pompous and entitled to be heard.

He was shuffling ahead of her.

So I will be entitled to be heard too then.

He didn't answer that one.

How's your wrist today Mr Jamieson?

My list?

Your WRIST.

He opened the door to the sitting room.

Fine. How's yours?

Tall windows with wooden shutters were folded back to admit the light, of which there was not a great deal. In the centre of the room, a circular table in unpolished oak. A dark Persian-style carpet. Probably not genuine. Varnished floor-boards. She had seen all of this before. One large armchair dominated the room. The old man lowered himself cautiously into it leaving Agnes to choose between an old fashioned office-style spindle-backed chair and a smaller upright thing with a leatherette seat. The occasional table at his elbow carried a pile of books with an empty coffee mug balanced on top. There was a Victorian fireplace with a copper hood and tile surround. A fire had been laid with sticks, but remained unlit.

She took the upright chair and asked, Is your wrist really fine?

No. It's itching like hell.

He looked down at his left hand in its plaster sheathe as though it was an impertinent insect which he was about to swat.

Agnes took his hand in hers. She pressed his fingers and watched to see how long it took for the blood colour to return. Then she looked at him all over. His shirt was cross-buttoned, his trousers grubby.

Would you like a bath?

I've got a path.

A BATH.

No thank you. I had a shower this morning.

She sniffed surreptitiously, but detected no hint of ammonia. She pointed at his plastered hand and spoke carefully and loudly.

Is it sore?

Agonising.

Don't exaggerate. Are you taking paracetamol?

I don't need one. I have an umbrella.

Agnes blinked and wrinked her nose. An umbrella!

Yes. An umbrella works in all weathers. In these parts an umbrella is a lot more useful than any parsol, I can tell you.

She took a deep breath and made with her hands as though shaking him by the lapels.

PARACETAMOL! ARE YOU TAKING PARACETAMOL?

Yes, when I have any. Calm. Unruffled. As though the misunderstanding had not happened.

Are you out?

How can I be out? I'm right here in front of you

Are you out OF PARACETAMOL?

Since Tuesday.

She pulled the table over beside his chair and placed a cushion so that he could lay his elbow on it. She took his blood pressure, measured his temperature and felt his pulse.

She said, I think I've got a packet of paracetamol in my bag.

I tried to get them to send me a really big packet but they say they are not allowed to sell them in big batches.

That's to prevent people trying to take an overdose.

And what is it to you, or to anyone else, if I were to decide to take an overdose? Whose life is it anyway?

Now, now, Alast ... Mr Jamieson ... that's not a good way to talk. And besides an overdose of paracetamol is not what you would call a sure thing. It can damage your organs and leave you hanging on. You don't want to do that. You don't want to end your days on a life-support machine.

So what is a sure thing? What would be your recommendation for a quick exit?

Now now. That's not something we talk about.

Why not?

It's not for you to be arranging your own death.

My death is the only thing I can arrange. I certainly didn't arrange my birth. In fact my death is the only thing which is truly my own - without qualification and ...

Would you like me to make you a cup of tea?

I can make tea myself ... Our parents give us life ... We owe a debt on our lives ... always.

I know you can make a cup of tea yourself, but I could make one now, and I could tidy up and ...

She looked down. Bedroom slippers on bare feet.

You're not wearing socks.

I'm not cold. I don't need socks. All our lives we owe something, a part of our lives, to other people. ...

There was a chest of drawers in a corner. Agnes went to it and began to rummage.

Alastair was still talking. ... Farmers grow our food. Someone else educates our children, everything we eat or use or enjoy is brought to us by someone who ...

She said, If it gets cold you'll need socks.

He said, I've got these. He pointed. Under a chair in another corner, was a pair of boots - soft leather things, fur-lined, calve-length. In large letters the boots said UGG. I can pull these on with one hand. Then my feet will be warm in any weather.

She picked them up and examined them. These are nice. Where did you get them?

Bought them on the Internet, he said. They're made in Australia. That's what I mean about needing and owing a debt to other people. We need other people to do so many things for us. Run the Internet. Bring the things we buy in a van. Our lives are not truly our own. A part of my life, and what I am able to do in that life, is borrowed from other people. But my death ... now that's different. Every person should be able to own his or her own death completely. It is the only thing that each of us can own outright. So why is it considered improper for me to decide its time and place, or even to discuss the manner of my own death?

Agnes felt a kind of panic rising against this flood of argument. Tea making was not one of her regular chores. But tradition and common sense came to her rescue.

I'd like a cup of tea, she said. And I'll make one for you at the same time.

Later, as the old man dozed in his chair, she looked round the house. A district nurse is not supposed to snoop so she did this in her other role - of being a nosey neighbour. The parlour, as they used to call it in the old days, that is, the sitting room which was reserved for posh visitors and was never normally used, had been converted into a study. Books, on every wall, floor to ceiling. Two computers on two desks each piled high with papers, two kinds of printer, three computers if you counted the laptop sitting on the floor beside the main desk. Filing cabinets. More piles of paper on the floor, and in cardboard boxes. And in the middle of this detritus, a spinet, a small and beautiful instrument in polished rosewood.

The books and papers were also spreading like a fungus into other rooms. There was a large dictionary in every room - every room - including the bathroom. And on the table in the sitting room she spotted a CD - the electronic version of the Complete Oxford Dictionary.

Alastair's housekeeping efforts were perfunctory. He had abandoned the top floor. Those rooms were now filled with disused furniture, storage boxes and dust. And still more books in plastic boxes.

She found mouse droppings in the kitchen and cobwebs everywhere. Again, house cleaning wasn't a part of her official duties. A home help would wipe down the stove, sweep and mop the floor and scrub the worktops, impose some semblance of hygiene. But that would require other visits, other 10 mile journeys. Meanwhile, Agnes the district nurse who was right there, on the spot, and who was perfectly capable of doing all of these things, was supposed just to change dressings, administer medicines, look and assess the patient's medical needs.

Agnes ignored the rules and rolled up her sleeves. She cleaned the worst. She also examined the bathroom medicine chest. She found there, sun-cream, anti-midge spray, and antiseptic cream, but no sleeping pills. Nothing stronger than junior aspirin.

Anxiety lifted from her mind. With the old man still dozing in his chair, she took her leave of Camasbeag.

[Jill Anderson]

The next person to tangle with Alastair was Jill Anderson. Jill lived 3 miles away at a place called Coire and that made her Alastair's nearest neighbour. Jill had a fifteen year old son at the local high school, a daughter in Primary 7, and a husband who, when he wasn't in an alcoholic stupor, worked for the council roads department. Jill also had a job. She was a home-help. That is, she was paid a pittance by the hour to help old folks in their own homes to be as independent as possible. She washed clothes, made beds, made meals and provided social contact. Although the job required no formal qualifications it did require honesty, good humour and an inexhaustible supply of patience. Rare qualities indeed.

Mr Jamieson ....

Go away!

She was talking to the window which had slammed open above her head.

Mr Jamieson ... It's Jill Anderson. I'm the home help.

Go away!

You have to open the door Mr Jamieson.

This is my sleeping time. Go away!

She tried both doors.

She stood with hands on hips and surveyed the scene. Rain. The view today was obliterated by a grey veil.

Mr Jamieson!

Go away!

She went. As she backed her car round the corner of the house, the back door opened suddenly and Alastair Jamieson was there, standing at the window of her car with a sheet of paper in his hand. She wound the window down and he handed her the paper.

He said, Jill. Would you mind sticking that on my letter-box at the top of the hill? Thank you.

And then he was gone and the door was closed and bolted, even before she had finished reading it. It said -

"POSTIE -

FOR THE NEXT WEEK OR SO, PLEASE BRING THE POST DOWN TO THE HOUSE -

THANK YOU -

A. JAMIESON"

The door opened again. And would you post these please. He pulled a couple of stamped letters from his pocket. Handed them to her. And vanished.

[Jane Gossart]

Jane Gossart was next in line for Alastair support duty. She was with the social work department of the local authority. It was her job to assess Alastair's domestic needs. It should have been the other way round of course. Jane should have assessed Alastair's need for a home-help before any home help person like Jill Anderson was alerted. But things do not always happen the right way round. In a rural district like Kinlochcrannoch the distances involved are just too great to make that possible. Local gossip had alerted Jill long before Jane could fit Alastair into her schedule and therefore before the official channels began to operate. So Jill had acted on her own initiative - as his neighbour. She had not been expecting to be paid for that initial visit.

Jane was persistent. She had dealt with recalcitrant old men before and she stuck to her task. Like the others, she conversed for a while with the window but she did not lose patience. She pointed out that her council position gave her the power to call the police and eventually to have a policeman open Alastair's door by force. Grumbling, Alastair gave in and opened the door.

He took up his accustomed position in his armchair. She sat facing him.

She said, I've come to assess you Mr Jamieson.

He looked down at the sleeves of his pullover. First right. Then left. Indignantly he said, I can get into my clothes myself thank you.

ASSESS Mr Jamieson. I said ASSESS.

Assess! What is there to assess? I'm fine.

I need to assess your circumstances Mr Jamieson. Do you give me permission to do that?

No.

It's not a big deal, Mr Jamieson. It would be much easier if you would just agree. Then we'll get it over and done with, and if everything's okay we'll leave you in peace.

She placed a card on the