The visit

Stale cabbage and urine. I could smell it as soon as I came through the main doors. They told me I would find George in the common room. Of course, I got lost.

Actually he was out on the ‘terrace’, sitting in a basket chair (no jokes about basket cases, please) with a blanket around his knees, like a First World War casualty. He shattered the image by jumping up when he saw me.

I didn’t know whether to give him a hug (non sexual of course) or shake hands. In the end I just said, ‘You’re looking well.’ Actually, I don’t know whether he was or not – he just looked like George.
‘Oh, so you’ve come at last’ he said.
‘Where have I heard that before’ I quipped. He ignored me.
‘You got my letter?’
‘Yes.’ We stood there, looking at each other. Finally he said, ‘How about a walk around the grounds? I can think better when I’m walking.’

And so we walked. I felt awkward, trying to think of something to say. There were two men doing something in a flowerbed. ‘How many patients are there?’ I said.
‘Residents – they don’t call us patients.’
‘Oh, sorry.’ I apologised. We walked on for a bit, along an asphalt path, which meandered through the greenery. ‘Well, are you feeling any better?’ I asked.
‘I still wake up in the morning with this cloud hanging over me.’
‘Well, perhaps you are hanging around with the wrong cloud.’ As soon as I said it I wished I hadn’t.
‘You think this is funny do you? Depression is an illness, you know – a very unpleasant illness, which, in my case, is exacerbated by acute anxiety and obsessive compulsive disorder.’
‘I’m sorry – I know you are suffering – I really do. I was just trying to cheer you up.

We continued to walk, George staring at the ground. ‘I’ve had a letter from Anastasia – would you like to read it?’
‘Only if you want me to.’
He stopped and groped around in the pockets of his anorak, eventually pulling out an envelope. I immediately recognised the babyish scrawl of my erstwhile partner. ‘Save it until you get home.’ He thrust the letter into my hand. ‘By the way, I am giving Anastasia enduring power of attorney.’
‘What!’ I gasped, incredulous.
‘It means that she can sign any documents in the event of my becoming unfit, to act for myself. Any money transactions and –
‘I know what ‘power of attorney’ means – but why Anastasia?’ I was angry, and a little afraid.
‘Read the letter.’ He smirked. ‘ I’ve already signed the papers.’
‘You’re out of your mind!’
‘Well, isn’t that why I’m in here?' He retorted.

This meeting was not going at all as I had planned. ‘You can’t do this, you know. I am still your wife.’ I said, trying to sound firm, confident, but inside feeling decidedly shaky.
George sat down, abruptly, on a bench by the side of the path, and beamed up at me. ‘Would you like to stay for tea? Staff nurse Gawkins says you’re quite welcome – we’re having sardines on toast, plus jelly and cream.

I sat down on beside him on the bench, all the strength had drained from my legs.
He took my hand. ‘Don’t worry old girl, things will turn out for the best.’
‘Old girl! I’m not a fucking horse!’ I yelled. He just smiled – and squeezed my hand.

I did stay for tea. It was better than I expected. Although a man with red hair kept walking around the room during the meal, whistling. No one paid him any attention.

When I got home I read Anastasia’s letter. I reproduce it here because I need both advice - legal and financial, and support – emotional.


Dearest Georgie

They have disported your poor Anna back to her own country of Sweden. What a bummer, eh! In vain was I telling them that marriage to your good self was on the playing cards, but they are saying: hard luck sweetie, he is in the loony bin and likely to stay there for a while, and if you think we are providing you with free board (expense of British tax payer) you got another think coming.

So they bundle Anna onto cheapskate airline plane that don’t serve no meal - let alone give free small bottle of vodka to calm nerves - and strap down in seat. Then have to watch silly bitch trolley dolly showing what to do if land in sea. I shout: Oi! Wherefore is ocean on way to Sweden, girl? You going via New York or something? Other passengers laugh, some of them. Others say: shut up and let girl do her job. Bitch trolley dolly smile sweetly, but I see glint in her eye and am suddenly glad they not serve food.

Anyways, Georgie, brother Sven is at airport to meet me. Telling me job is waiting me in adult movie industry of which he is leading director. But I say: be holding your horseshoes, sunshine. I am bi-linguistic person now, having spent much time in England, and could be achieving job as translator.
Sven is snorting with derisiveness and, unfortunately, since having bad cold, deposits unpleasant gob of mucous on polished toecap of left shoe.
I am laughing uproaringly.
Fuck you! Shouts Sven.
You should be so lucky, you perversion, I wittily riposte.

But enough family gossip for the bye and bye. What I am wanting to say is that my feeling you is strong as ever. And is causing me to apply pressure in the right places at this very moment. I have written to the British consul here asking if you may be released into my custodial care (I now have nice flat in downtown Stockholm, plus job – temporary, whilst waiting for position as translator).

Will let you know how things develop on my end, and looking forward to hearing from you.

Yours ‘till Sweden turns to desert,

Anna