Gay Fries
They had been friends for ever. When he started forgetting things, at first they had a little laugh, but when he asked, What’s your appendix, when he meant agenda, he seriously began to worry. He was Pete, Peter or Pedro, and after they visited Finland together, Pietari. He was shocked when one day he asked him, Who are you? Are you my brother Ken? Peter was an only child. It did not take long for him to be diagnosed with dementia. Sixty-six seemed too young to become struck with Alzheimer’s, but he was grateful that the poor chap had no other medical symptoms. He was physically unimpaired, had a good appetite, which were both good for someone who liked walking and good food.
He was determined that he was going to do everything in his power to ensure that his unfortunate friend had a comfortable life. After a career in academia, money was never an issue, they both had rather more than what they needed. Peter had never married, although at sixteen he met a girl called Jackie who turned him down, and who he never forgot. He had no siblings, wife or child.
He visited some Homes and booked him in The Cherry Orchard , a sheltered housing complex, fifteen minutes’ walk from his own house in Esher. Exorbitant, but easily affordable. Although retired, he was doing some research for a book he might want to write on Chekhov’s contemporaries, and he made time for a daily visit to the Orchard. When he mentioned this to Harriet, she demurred. Do you mean we’re never going on holiday? He admitted that he had not thought of this. No, he said, we will; I’ll think of something when the time comes.
The first year he went to the Cherry Orchard every afternoon without fail. Usually Pete recognised him, but not always. His speech had become a bit slurred, and he often he got his words mixed up. He became quite proficient at guessing what his poor friend might be wanting to say, and did his darnedest to keep the conversation going, but this was becoming increasingly difficult.
They would sometimes go for a walk on the extensive grounds of the Home, although he had an idea that Pete was beginning to dislike this. He had to admit that it had become a chore rather than a pleasure at seeing his best friend. But he was never going to let go. He and Peter had been more than brothers. The kids loved Uncle Pete. He had reacted against Hilary calling him Pete. Uncle Peter to you, young lady he had said unsmilingly.
When Harriet talked of the holiday in Oregon that he had promised, he said, Why don’t you go with the kids? Cynthia would love to go with you. Nobody else visits Pete, he said, and he really could not abandon him.
Gradually the poor fellow deteriorated, both mentally and physically. Now, more often than not he seemed to have no idea who he was. He normally stayed at least an hour when he visited, and in three years he had never once missed crossing the threshold of the Orchard. He finally admitted to himself, but to no one else, that it had become a chore. He often dreamt of being at his friend’s funeral. He knew that he was only doing it out of a sense of duty.
There was one thing to which Peter always reacted. Bob Dylan. He would start whistling Come you Masters of war… and Peter’s eyes would light up, and he would attempt to whistle You that build the big guns… He marvelled at how his friend remembered the lyrics of songs they had loved and shared: The Beatles, George Brassens, Dylan…
After Oregon Harriet knew not to suggest family holidays, and after the youngsters married and moved away, it was always the sisters going together.
Ten years on, he had a bad toothache once and missed a visit for the first time. He was convinced that his friend wouldn’t have noticed, but when he went back the following day, the latter looked angry, and wouldn’t even acknowledge his presence. This cheered him up no end, it gave him some comfort. It showed some sort of reaction.
Not unexpectedly Peter then became completely silent. Not only he stopped talking, he was now making no sound at all. A mute swan. No more singing, no more humming. Just a sad face with dribble trickling down the corners of either lips.
Yes, he conceded to himself, there was no point doing this, it benefited neither of them. But he was a stubborn man. I’ve done this for thirteen years, he told himself, and I ain’t stopping now.
He himself had kept well over the years, and was mentally and physically active, and had not entirely given up on the idea of his book. He wondered, without any resentment, whether his poor friend’s condition had been the brake on his ambition. If it was, it did not matter.
It was going to be his eightieth birthday and just as he was leaving for his daily stint, Harriet reminded him that the boys were coming with wives and grandchildren. He loved having them around. I’ll book a taxi to come pick me up so as to be back early, he promised.
He had stopped enjoying the visit altogether. He gave Pete a little pat on the shoulders and sat down opposite him. His friend blinked a few times, and this was unusual, for as a rule he just stared pathetically. Suddenly his lips moved. He lifted his right hand with his index finger out, and his hand was trembling, like someone with Parkinson’s. He was clearly struggling to say something, but no word would emerge. A single tear trickled down from his right eye. Then with superhuman effort, he succeeded.
“Gay fries!”
His head kept nodding for a bit, and was that a smile on his lips? He did not catch his friend’s drift, and to his amazement he repeated it. Grey Fries.
It was at the funeral that he suddenly remembered. On his eighteenth birthday, when they were both undergraduates at Edinburgh, some friends had wanted to buy him a drink and they had gone to celebrate at the Greyfriar’s pub off The Meadows, and it was the first time he and Peter had met.
