Free Waiting for Doggo by Mark Mills Page B

was first put up by some merchant or other on the rising ground to the north of Seaford. No longer. The town has spread, sprawling across the downland slopes like an ugly stain, and the house is now hedged in on all sides by other properties, reducing the view to a patch of sky.
    You have to sign in and out, and beside the visitors’ book in the entrance hall is a flip chart of daily quotations. Today’s reads: MONEY ISN’T EVERYTHING, BUT IT SURE HELPS KEEP THE KIDS IN TOUCH. An old boy, bent by age, hovers nearby.
    ‘They lie, you know? They all lie.’
    ‘I’m sorry?’
    ‘When they get here, when they leave.’ He flashes me a set of perfect dentures. ‘They’re never here as long as they say.’
    I glance at my watch and enter the time in the book: 11.32. He checks his watch, checks the book and seems satisfied, for now at least. ‘We’ll see,’ he croaks mistrustfully.
    The place is all swirly carpets, handrails, wheelchair ramps and eastern European carers on minimum wage. It has the distinct whiff about it of someone, somewhere, making a fast buck. It’s hard to kill a cactus through neglect – they’re hardy buggers – but the one on the windowsill in the corridor leading to my grandfather’s ground-floor room is definitely on its last legs.
    His room stinks of stale piss, which is upsetting and unacceptable. Even if he’s had a mishap, forty thousand pounds a year (or is it fifty?) should buy a thorough cleaning job. Let’s face it, all they have to do for their money is feed him terrible food three times a day, wipe his ass every so often and bath him twice a week. The rest of the time he spends in his armchair, dozing or staring blankly at the blue-and-white-striped wallpaper (hats off to the decorators for their bars-of-a-cage theming).
    There are a lot of grim diseases around, but Alzheimer’s is right up there with the worst of them. They call it ‘the long goodbye’ and I can see why. Over the past couple of years I’ve watched Grandpa’s mind wither away. The steady stream of anecdotes for which he was known has all but dried up, and only if you’re lucky will you catch a flash of his wicked sense of humour. I did the last time I visited, when a cute young carer poked her head into his room to check if everything was okay.
    ‘Ah, Magda. Can’t stay away. Any excuse to drop by. She says it’s my body she’s after, but I know it’s my money.’
    ‘Very funny, Mr Larssen.’
    ‘I’ve told her I’m married, but does she listen?’
    These momentary flarings of his old self are becoming increasingly rare. Soon they will stop altogether. He’ll be reduced to a husk, a series of bodily functions and little else.
    He looks so peaceful in his armchair, head back, eyes closed, that I decide to leave him be. I perch on his bed and observe him. Even at the age of eighty-two, there’s nothing frail or shrunken about him. He’s a solid block of a man, tall, broad, impressive. The jagged scar on his left hand looks strangely livid today. I know the story behind it, even if he can no longer recall it. It’s a souvenir of the German bombing of Coventry on the night of 14 November 1940. He was seven years old at the time, the eldest child of first-generation Danish immigrants. He lost his best friend in the explosion that vaporised the neighbours’ house and brought the best part of their own crashing down on their heads (and his hand).
    As a young boy I listened in rapt horror to his tales of that night, of the terrible things he witnessed. They’re my stories now; they’re no longer his to tell. Maybe I’ll pass them on to my own children, but just how long they survive before they fade forever into nothingness is anybody’s guess.
    He opens his eyes, smiles weakly. ‘Oh, it’s you.’
    ‘Hi, Grandpa. How are you doing?’
    He stirs, stretches out his long legs. ‘The strangest thing happened the other day.’
    ‘Oh?’
    ‘A small volcano appeared, just here …’ He gingerly