text: ‘Frank Courtney; new resident in bed 12. Male, 81, major stroke with right-sided weakness, speech affected, discharged from hospital this morning. ’ ‘Family?’ ‘Widowed. A daughter, as far as I know. I don’t think they’re close. He was a clever bloke by the sounds of it; scientist for the government, apparently.’ The two nurses popped their heads round the door, saw that the old man appeared to be asleep and moved on to complete their handover. The old man opened one eye. Glanced around. Settled back into the pillows. ‘ Was. Hrmmph . ’ The care home would take in those who were struggling to cope in their own homes, and it would also take patients who were ready to be discharged from hospital, but weren’t able to go back home. And that’s why Frank was here. Not that he had any choice, not that he had any say, not that he could have said anything anyway. Frank was stuck. Four weeks ago, Frank had had a stroke; he woke up one day in a hospital ward wondering how he’d got there. He remembered that he’d been heading to Wiltshire to meet someone, but he couldn’t remember who or why. And now he couldn’t even ask anyone because his face didn’t work. It’s not that he didn’t know what to say. All the words were there. It’s just that he had a loose connection. He’d pulled a few faces when some young girl came in to give him a shave. He could nod, shake his head, raise an eyebrow and blink, and give a shaky half smile - not that he’d much to smile about. Other than that, speech was just frustrating. He’d pretty much given up. It was so awful, he couldn’t ever imagine it getting back to anything like worthwhile. Just twisted grunts, like the most garbled railway announcement you’d ever heard. What would be the point anyway? There was no one to talk to. The nurses and carers flitted in, did stuff to him, and flitted out to do something else to someone else. No one had time to talk. Certainly no one had time to paste a patient look on their face while they waited for him to utter something they might be able to figure out the meaning of. Not that there was probably anyone on his wavelength here anyway. They probably thought ‘erudite’ was some sort of glue. He lay back and waited for the next thing to happen. Drug round. Tea round. Supper round. Toilet round. Comes to something when your bodily functions have to happen on schedule or not at all... * * * ‘Frank?’ The chubby dark-haired nurse called in that loud and low voice they use when they know something more shrill will interfere with people’s hearing aids. Frank irritably opened his eyes as you do when you’re not asleep, not deaf, and not stupid either. ‘Oh good, you’re awake,’ she grinned. ‘Would you like to see who’s come to visit you?’ Times like this were when Frank regretted his speech loss the most. Times which were crying out for a retort, sharp and stinging as a paper cut. But no, he was forced to arrange his face in a ‘I have no idea, do please tell’ kind of expression, because that was one of the few that he could still do. Before the nurse could offer any further inanity, the door opened wider, and something tumbled into the room. He couldn’t see what it was because his bedrails were in the way, but then his daughter came in muttering her thanks to the nurse and clumsily pushing in with a bundle of carrier bags bursting with who knows what. Junk, probably. ‘Dad,’ she said. Making sure to give him a businesslike peck on the side of his face that still worked properly, and then lifting up Frank’s granddaughter and dumping her onto the end of the bed, as it was tiny girl who had made the clumsy entrance. Frank looked from granddaughter to daughter. ‘I’m sorry Dad, she wanted to come, and there was no one I could leave her with anyway. She’ll be fine, she’s got a couple of toys, and she just wanted to see what it was like here.’ Martha pulled out a couple of stuffed animals from one of the bags and planted them on the bed next to the little girl who immediately began talking to them as though they’d had a stressful journey. Chloe was an unexpected child. There was quite an age gap between her older twin brothers and her - but also, no one expects Down syndrome, do they? Frank hadn’t had much to do with Martha’s boys, and even less to do with the girl, living so far away etcetera, but it’s difficult knowing what to say in that kind of situation, isn’t it? Avoidance was always easier. And of course now, it wasn’t an option anyway. Frank shrugged at his daughter and glanced at all the bags she’d dragged in. ‘I brought you a few things from home to brighten up your room.’ Frank nodded acknowledgment. ‘Now you’re living so close by it’ll be much easier to pop in. But before I go back up north to check on your house, you’ll have to let me know what you want to keep and what can be cleared if...’ she paused, ‘well, I suppose we‘ll just have to work it out between us.’ She fumbled around in the bags, pulled out a few old framed photographs he’d kept of his wife and daughter on his desk. ‘Probably best if we hang these on the wall to save space,’ she said, casting around for the best bit of wall. They said it’s OK if we let them know where we want stuff, and they’ll hang them for us.’ Frank rolled the eye that rolled the best. ‘I’m doing my best, Dad. I’m really trying., Martha’s voice shook a little. ‘I knew you’d hate it anywhere, so I just picked the home that was nearest and didn’t smell of wee.’ He snorted. Martha had always been refreshingly honest. ‘Is that you laughing?’ Frank let out a wheezy gurgle. ‘OK, that’s better. We can agree on that then.’ She paused as the door opened again, and a care assistant popped in offering tea, coffee, and the usual biscuits you get in a family pack. ‘No jammie dodgers left, sorry,’ he said, ‘If they open a box overnight, the night staff always nick the best ones.’ ‘Thanks for the tip,’ said Martha. ‘I wouldn’t mind, only we always get left with the rubbish coconut ones,’ he shrugged, handed a small beaker of orange squash to Martha for Chloe who was still absorbed with her toys, and pushed the trolley back out of the room. ‘Well, you’ll be able to do plenty of people-watching at least,’ said Martha as she gently handed a plastic cup with a spout filled with lukewarm tea to her father. ‘Looks like it’s more milk than tea; Mum’d have a fit. I don’t think they have skimmed here.’ Conversation flagged as the adults sipped their tea, and Chloe offered her squash to her toys. When they didn’t appear thirsty, she gulped it down herself and went back to playing with her toys, making a little den for them with the bottom end of Frank’s duvet. ‘There’s some post,’ said Martha, reaching for another of the bags. ‘Perhaps I could open it for you, and then you can read through, you know, sort it and let me know if there’s anything you want me to do with it. There’s this one as well; I thought it might be important,’ she placed a small envelope with a hand-inked address on it on top of the pile. ‘I don’t recognise the writing.’ She laid the letters to one side of his bedside table so he could go through them after his supper. Frank nodded thanks. He smiled and touched her hand. The movement made Martha jump, but she squeezed the offered hand, and blinked away tears. She couldn’t remember a time when she’s felt closer to her hard-working, secretive father. The hand squeeze turned into a hug. So sad that after all her father worked for, all he achieved, this would be how it would end. She released him, and quickly sniffed and wiped her nose; Chloe noticed, her lip started to tremble and she took big gulps of air in preparation for what Martha recognised as likely to be loud bawling. ‘We’re going to go, Dad. Chloe’s tired. I’ll come back tomorrow evening. Try to rest. ' Another kiss and she bustled away with her daughter. * * * Over the next few days, Frank familiarised himself with the rhythms of the home, although his bowels refuse going to the loo on demand... The pile of post thins as he sat in his comfy chair, and first picking out the easy envelopes to bin without opening. Circulars, prospecting letters from people who sell conservatories, ‘free’ credit cards, charity newsletters. Then he put aside the bills for Martha to help with, magazine subscriptions to cancel, and condolence letters for her to help respond to. The small handwritten envelope remained until last. Then he eyed it as he sipped his lukewarm tea. Salisbury postmark. How funny, there was a slight smudge in the top corner, making it look like the postmark was dated 1951. Finally, he swept it into the bin at the side of his chair with his forearm. Done. One of the carers took him down to the ground floor library. He struggled to concentrate because of the stroke, and anyway, there wasn’t much he was interested in reading - the books were mostly murder mysteries which he found depressing; the main characters surrounded by so much death book after book - and the books themselves had probably been ‘donated’ by those who’d died too. Funny when you thought of it. A couple of the residents had died. No one mentioned it, but he noticed that he was now being washed and dressed about 20 minutes earlier in the mornings, and going to bed 15 minutes earlier too. There were a couple of empty chairs in the dining room, but he couldn’t quite remember the faces of those who were missing. The chairs would of course soon be filled with new people. Life goes on. Until it doesn’t. Martha brought Chloe again one afternoon. So awkward. Chloe went with him to watch him have his hair cut in the salon. She sat next to him swinging her short legs from the big chair and giggled at him in the mirror. He raised an eyebrow and it made her laugh harder. She pulled a face back, and he wiggled his ears. She roared with laughter. They headed back to his room. Chloe played with her stuffed animals as Martha told him family news and he nodded, shrugged or scowled in response. One day Martha brought more post, and Chloe brought crayons and a colouring book. Once Martha was clearing away the completed post and waste paper, Chloe plopped the colouring book onto his chair table and offered him the crayons. He reluctantly took a purple one. She, an orange one. Together they coloured, two heads bent over a picture of something - he wasn’t sure what it was; it was upside down for him. Quietly they worked, progress was slow, and neither was proficient at keeping within the lines, but Chloe didn’t mind. ‘Look, mum!’ she shouted as she proudly held up a seaside scene of crabs, starfish and a sandcastle coloured purple (so that’s what it was...) The colouring became a habit; on Mondays and Thursdays, Chloe would spend the afternoon colouring with him. He was bemused to notice that they were both starting to look forward to her visits, and he learned not to mind the scrappy outlines or the strange colours used. * * * ‘Frank?’ the day nurse popped her head around the door. ‘There’s a visitor for you. Dr Penrose? Would you like to see him in your room or in the day room?’ Dear, oh dear. Penrose. A long time, and he’d come after all. Frank had a minute before his visitor arrived. He glanced around, seeing his room in the eyes of an old friend and colleague. Now an ex-friend and ex-colleague. Tidy. Beige. Uninspiring. Just like Penrose, in fact. To Frank’s shock, Penrose didn’t look a day older than when Frank had been forced to clear his desk. Not a day. ‘Caught you at last,’ a tweedy and slightly beaky chap said as he entered, holding out his hand. Glancing at Frank’s limp right hand, he swiftly swapped to his left without a word. They shook, Frank looking warily at him. ‘It’s been a long time, Frank. And not for want of trying either - I’ve written, called, I hoped you’d consider a proposal. As it is, I now realise, you’ve, ah, had a bit of a change in circumstances.’ Frank nodded. Penrose didn’t look a day over what? 36? How was that possible? ‘So, I thought perhaps my proposal might be thoughtfully considered after all.’ Penrose pulled a chair up opposite Frank, sat and placed his briefcase next to his feet. Frank looked at him stonily. ‘The project was successful. It works - and not least down to that, ah, unorthodox thing you tried...’ ‘...t hat got me fired, ’ finished Frank, in his brain. ‘You were right after all. It is possible to go back as well as forwards. Jenkins did it. Went all the way back to Waterloo, had a look around, and back to 1951 in time for tea. Government’s keeping it under wraps though, can’t let just anyone muddle around in the future or history willy-nilly . There’s a bit more to be done though, and that’s where you come in.’ He shuffled his chair forward, resting his elbows on Frank’s chair-table. ‘We want to refine it a bit, more time accuracy, and hopefully, reduce the fatigue and after effects for participants.’ He spoke quickly. Frank’s eyes widened with possibilities. ‘Hmm, thought you’d be interested,’ Penrose’s beady eyes glinted. We can do it this Friday. Pop you down to Wiltshire, and it’s back to 1951, you continue your masterwork finish what you started, and escape all this - you get to be young again. How about it?’ Penrose looked at him keenly. Frank raised an eyebrow and took a deep breath. I mean, it would would solve everything, wouldn’t it? He’d get to prove he was right all along, work on the project that had been his passion; and he’d had so many ideas over the last decades, in idle moments imagining how he could make changes, making fresh calculations and forming new hypotheses on top of old, discarded ones. Streamlining the process, improving reliability, accuracy...’ He closed his eyes and leant back in his chair. This was unexpected - and irresistible; this chance of validation, vindication even, the opportunity to test things, the scientific process... To exchange this for all that. He opened his eyes and looked squarely at the confidently expectant Penrose. ‘No.’ ‘What?’ Penrose leant back in surprise. ‘But it’s your life’s work.’ Frank shook his head. No. It isn’t.