15. THE BEGINNING OF THE END.

It was about July 1991 when George developed a slight, irritating cough. Not bad enough to see the doctor, so we thought. It seemed to start in our bedroom on the night a tiny moth was flying around. George blamed the moth, or just dust in the room. When he got really ill in September I gave everything a thorough dusting, including the tops of wardrobes, but of course it was actually the beginning of pneumonia causing the cough, not dust. Whether the moth had anything to do with it I suppose I’ll never know, but the doctor at the hospital did say parrots can carry and pass on pneumonia germs, so perhaps moths can.

 

The cough went on, at its worst in the early mornings. As he was always in the bedroom at that time of day, we still put it down to dust or fluff in the air, possibly off the blankets. Whether George knew it was more than a cough I don’t know, but he did mention he was concerned about losing weight. He put it down to depression due to being out of work for 18 months with little prospect of ever getting another job, with the additional strain of idiots at the DHSS putting pressure on him to go to a ‘Job Club’ when what he wanted was training in the new technology, or a grant to go to university.

 

In August the loss of weight started to be noticeable about his face and eyes, which had a gaunt, hollow look. Several times I looked at him and worried momentarily about it, but pushed it to the back of my mind. The letter he wrote his sister after her fateful visit that month contained what became his epitaph, which was read out at his funeral service, about having had a good life and been everywhere and done everything he wanted. I questioned him about this premonition of death when he showed me the letter, but he just passed it off as a dramatization to make Betty feel guilty. It was not unusual for him to dramatize a bit - ‘I am a born actress’ he used to joke, but it didn’t usually go this far. I now believe George showing me that letter was his way of warning me he was dying, but he couldn’t bear to tell me to my face when I questioned him, so made out it was to make Betty feel guilty.

 

In retrospect he must have known there was something really wrong. Presumably he was getting very short of breath, and also the loss of weight must have been continuing and worrying him. One weekend in late August or early September George suggested going to ‘The Carpenter’s Arms’ near Marble Arch to see drag artist Dockyard Doris. This was a bit unusual, since she had been on several times before in pubs and he did not come with me mainly because of all the cigarette smoke in these places. ‘The Carpenter’s Arms’ was particularly bad that night as someone stood right next to George smoking, but strangely it did not seem to worry him unduly, and we stayed and watched the whole show. Then he suggested walking through the park from Marble Arch to Hyde Park Corner, via Speakers’ Corner, the long avenue of trees, diverting via the bandstand, and out through the gates opposite the old St George’s Hospital, where two policemen wished us good night and locked the gates behind us. I wonder, looking back, if George knew it would be the last time he would see Dockyard Doris, and the last time he would walk through Hyde Park, one of his old haunts. It would explain why he braved the cigarette smoke that once, despite his cough and shortness of breath.

 

Everything seemed more or less normal up until the Thursday before we left for Jersey - it would be early in the morning of Friday the 13^th, an omen if you were superstitious. (In 1990 Roy had died on Friday the 13^th, and George felt he would die soon afterwards.) He woke up sweating, and I had to change the sheets and his pajamas as they were soaked through. This of course worried him greatly, but I said I was sweating too - it was a hot night. I realized later I was only sweating where his arm was around me. This was the first sign of the really serious phase of his illness.

 

The next two nights he stayed up writing letters, packing and doing jobs, as he had taken the amphetamines prescribed by his doctor. On the Saturday we took our cat Tibby to a flat in Forest Hill where someone was going to look after her while we were in Jersey. We had to climb a hill from the bus, then some steps, and finally had to climb three flights of stairs to the flat. I got really worried when George said he could not climb up with the cat’s tray, and I had to go up with the cat then come down again for the tray and George, who managed to make it by himself when he wasn’t carrying anything. This was the first time I really knew something was badly wrong, yet still I pushed it to the back of my mind.

 

The next day, Sunday the 15^th, we caught a taxi to Victoria, then a coach to Poole. On the coach journey he seemed fine, and got off at the various stops and walked around with me. He was fine on the boat too. We walked around, and spent a lot of time writing funny captions in the shipping line’s brochure. He came on deck with me at Guernsey and took my photo. Then, when we got nearly to Jersey, he went to the toilet. He was a long time coming back, and when he finally did he was not looking very well. He said he got caught in a corridor with people all smoking their duty-free cigarettes, pipes and cigars, and it made him feel really ill. He was never the same after that - this really marked the beginning of the end, though he put on a brave face throughout the holiday.

 

When we got off the bus after the short ride from the boat to the hotel, George had to sit on a wall while I took the cases into the hotel. By now I was really worried and in despair. He finally made it across the road to the hotel, and the porter carried our cases to our room on the first floor (George had to use the lift the whole time we were there, though he could come down the stairs OK.) In our room he just had to rest on the bed for an hour, even though we were due to go down to dinner. It was Monday night when we arrived, and we watched Coronation Street whilst George rested, and finally they rung up for us, and George forced himself to go down to the dining room.

 

That evening I lay beside him on the bed crying, and he told me ‘not to think of silly things’. That was the first time I knew and admitted to myself that he was dying. I asked him to go to the local hospital where GPs were available to see tourists every morning, but he said he did not want to spend his holiday in hospital, being terrified of those places at the best of times. So I made him promise to see a doctor as soon as we got back to London.

 

Throughout the holiday he was very brave, and for my sake as much as his he got all around the island. It used to take him a long while to get ready in the mornings, and he had to sit down to shave, but somehow he managed and got down to all the meals. He ate like he never had before in a brave attempt, I think, to gain some weight, and he was bitterly disappointed when he had not gained any after that week.

 

He put his breathlessness down to traffic pollution in St Helier, and indeed he did seem a bit better once we got out of the town. We met a couple at the bus station and the woman said her husband was also affected by the pollution, which she claimed was particularly bad in St Helier as there are so many cars in such a small area. It was silly to clutch at this straw to convince ourselves George’s illness was not as serious as it was, just aggravated by pollution, but we did.

 

In St Helier there is a pedestrian precinct in the center which was a godsend, since George could walk about free from traffic. There were plenty of seats where he could sit and rest too. The only hazard were smokers who were apt to pass by or even plonk themselves on the seat next to us. One haven was the little dairy in the market, where we went nearly every day to have a coffee. George loved this place as it was a ‘no smoking’ zone and one of the few places he could relax.

 

One day we visited Jersey Zoo, set in the lovely surroundings of Gerald Durrell’s estate. George said something which reflected what a strain he must have been under - he said it was lovely and peaceful there. He was happy just to sit on a seat and look at the lake, trees and grass. He had difficulty walking round the zoo, and noticed the slightest slope, but bravely made it and back to the bus.

 

On the last night he went to the bathroom along the corridor and was so long taking a bath, I eventually went along to see if he was all right. He was just coming out, and said he did have great difficulty.

 

The journey home was a nightmare - trying to avoid smokers and find somewhere quiet and warm to sit. At the terminal in St Helier where you wait to board the ferry, there was no ‘no smoking’ area and we had to keep moving to avoid smokers. Eventually we sat in the cafeteria, but even here smokers kept sitting near us, and George ended up sitting in a corner on his own while I looked out for when we had to board the ship. It was a long walk up a ramp to the ship, and George was on the point of collapse, when miraculously I found a wheelchair, and he sat in it gratefully, otherwise he could never have managed to get on board. I really believe someone on the other side was looking after us, as I have never found a folded, unused, spare wheelchair before or since in a public place.

 

The boat was quite cold, and the first place we sat was noisy with music and adverts blaring out, so he made it downstairs to the lower deck where we found somewhere quieter. There were two noisy children there, but thankfully they were not around all the time. It was sunny and I went out on deck for a time. George told me to use up the roll of film in his camera, and a man who had noticed he was ill at the terminal said it was a pity that my friend could not get out on deck as the sun would do him good, but he would never have made it up the steep stairs. He did, however, manage to get to and from the toilet when he needed to.

 

Inside it was still quite cold. Later George told me to go along and play bingo if I wanted to, and I did, though I regretted it later. After paying the money I had to sit for ages before they started the session, so I was away for well over an hour (it was a nine hour boat journey). He wondered why I had taken so long, and I later found the notes he was writing to send a letter of complaint to the holiday company about the boat, saying it was cold, the food overpriced, and he had also made notes about my being kept waiting after paying for the bingo session before it actually started. Needless to say this letter never got written or sent, as we had other more important things on our mind, but it is so typical of George. Several times he wrote and got compensation when things on holiday hadn’t run as smoothly as they should.