Diaries 1969-1979_ The Python Years - Michael Palin [102]
‘10.47?’ we asked.
‘Yes, that was the train to Shrewsbury’, he went on, ‘which they used to drag me on to kicking and screaming.’
He had some strange Pythonesque fantasies in his mind too. Apparently the hospital was run by the Japanese, and last night one of the patients had sat on a ‘beautiful’ marmalade cat, which had had surgery this morning.
After talking for an hour or so, we were asked down to see Dr Hyde, who is dealing with the case. On the way to his office we passed a line of old padded cells – they looked like stables with strong wooden doors, with a spyhole in each. They were going to be knocked down any time now, said the doctor. He was a tall, thin, wispy-haired 4oish man – the kind of brainy boffin who moves rather nervously, and throws his body around in a slightly unco-ordinated fashion. Eminently accessible, he seemed to want to answer all our questions. I guessed afterwards that he was trying to be optimistic. I don’t think he holds out much hope for my dad. He has cerebral arterial sclerosis, like having a prolonged stroke, and, although he has made progress since entering St Audry’s, the general pattern from now on will be downhill. But how much does my father still know about where he is, and who we are? How seriously should we take his desire to come home? It would be awful if his perception was much clearer than we thought, that it was just his body which had failed him. The doctor was noncommittal, but did say that we should try, in any way, to give him some hope, something to look forward to – perhaps in a week or so we could take him out in the grounds in a wheelchair. He didn’t hold out much hope of him ever coming home again.
Wednesday, March 27th, Southwold
The paper full of the Budget details. The Daily Telegraph came out in its true colours, saying that this, Healey’s first Budget, would hit the managerial classes. I weep for the managerial classes. May they be spared the worst – to sell their second car, to have to change the BMW for an Austin because it uses less petrol. To have to have one instead of two gin and tonics when they get home after a hard day’s managing. Grudgingly the Telegraph mentions the rise in pensions for old people – the £500m subsidies for basic foodstuffs like bread and milk and meat and fish, the reductions in National Insurance contributions and in income tax for those earning less than £3,000 a year. It sounds to me to be a good, fair, just Budget – an attempt to solve inflation and help people who suffer most from it – i.e. those who can’t afford one car let alone two, and those who can’t afford one gin and tonic, let alone two. Mind you, it’s easy to say this from the lofty heights of one who could afford an entire quart of gin every evening.
We got to the hospital at about 6.45. The inmates of the ward were queuing up for a milk drink. The nurses were talking amongst themselves – they obviously try not to mollycoddle the patients too much. My father was on his bed again, away from the others. He was agitated about something and tried straightaway to tell us about it – but his stammer was too bad. His lips couldn’t form any sound, they just opened and shut like a fish. We got him up and he walked, with a stick and unaided, around to the chair where we had sat yesterday. Like yesterday, once he was in the chair, he talked a little more fluently. Today his mind was on some sort of meeting there had been in the ward – a man had spoken for three-quarters of an hour – it was some sort of Farmers’ Union meeting.
He didn’t seem to take a lot in, until we discussed our chat with the doctor yesterday.