Three heads are better than one.
================================

By Dante Harker

‘It’s a bit late to be tidying this place now, don’t you think Graham?’

Graham did, but he wasn’t about to tell his mother that. Instead he rushed
around the flat, doing his best to make the place look presentable.

Graham knew that his actions were a superficial measure. No amount of
cushion-plumping would distract from his putrid yellow, nicotine-stained
wall. The walls weren’t really his fault, more just a by-product of him
being a house-bound chain-smoker.

‘Don’t you think you should do the dishes at least, rather than wasting all
this time straightening the cushions?’ Graham’s mother spoke with her usual
accusing tone. These days Graham’s mother didn’t venture any words that
weren’t designed to make him feel weak or a failure.

‘You’re mother’s right, Graham,’ his father added before he had a chance to
respond to his mother’s remark. ‘What if these new support workers want a
cup of tea, they aren’t going to drink out of any of those cups?’

‘They aren’t going into the kitchen; I’ll show them in here. And they
couldn’t have a drink of tea anyway, I’m all out.’

‘Oh yes, that’s right, your Tesco delivery isn’t due until tomorrow is it?
God forbid you actually went out and got some shopping for yourself!’

Graham ignored his mum; he didn’t want to get into another long debate
about why he would only leave his flat under sedation. And, as he didn’t
get many visitors anyway, having tea and coffee in didn’t seem that
important. He used to get visitors, for a short time at least, when he had
first stopped going out. Back then he had social and care workers, people
from the local church and, for a time, he even had a bereavement
counsellor. It was just that, over time, they seemed to disappear one by
one.

‘What did you expect?’ Grahams mother snapped after reading his thoughts,
‘they all wanted you to get better, you didn’t! You mostly just got fatter.
 Just living off the benefits they heaved your way, as if it was your
money.’

‘You know they wouldn’t let him go back to teaching mother.  If they won’t
let him do a job he enjoyed you can’t blame the boy for taking the State’s
money and staying at home instead.’

Graham gave the cushions another whack, not that he thought that they could
get any plumper; he just liked imagining that it was his mother’s face
every time he smashed his hand down onto the worn valour fabric.

‘I’m not well, mum,’ Graham said at last, he hadn’t wanted to get drawn
into the debate, but he knew that his mum never left anything alone, and he
didn’t want to be having this conversation when the new support workers
arrived.

‘You’re not well? You’re not well? Pathetic, that’s what you are.’ Graham’s
mother said, the sound of her voice making his head pound. Her words were
like a scythe – sharp and rounded so when aimed at his head, they cut and
levelled their target. ‘And these people arriving’ his mother continued
‘they’re not support workers are they? They’re “Befriending Coordinators”.

Graham picked the letter up off the ash stained coffee table. He shook it
and read it again. His mother was right; these weren’t support workers who
were coming to visit him. It seemed that he was being assessed to see if he
was suitable to have a Befriender. Not that Graham was sure what a
Befriender was, but he guessed it was a person who was somehow paid to be
his “friend”.

‘It is a little sad son’, Graham didn’t like hearing from his father, his
mum he could ignore, blank out (sometimes), but his father had always been
a voice of reason. He had looked up to him, and his words, though few and
far between, still held more power than his mother’s.

Not letting her husband continue, Graham’s mum took a breath and began,
‘it’s more than sad. It’s pitiful. A grown man, well more than a grown man,
really, what were you the last time they dragged you to the hospital?  38
stone?’

‘36,’ Graham whispered

‘Either way it’s disgusting, a grown man not able to find his own friends.
And worse, you can’t even hide away in your own stench. They are now
sending people in to find friends for you, paying someone to come and spend
some time in this mess. I hope you’re happy.’

Graham thought about his mother’s last line and wondered when he was last
happy. He was certain that he had not been so for the last five years. The
accident had taken everything away from him. Before that he must have been
happy, though it seemed so long ago now that he couldn’t be 100% sure. He
could remember enjoying teaching; he had qualified at twenty-five, and had
taught for ten years before it happened. ‘That must have made me happy,’
Graham thought.

‘They wouldn’t have you back would they?’ said Graham’s mum, adding ‘they
said you weren’t stable enough to work around children, they were afraid
you might damage them.’

‘That’s not what they said at all, and you know it.’ Graham stormed across
the flat heading for the window. He was desperate for a sight of his
guests, hoping that their presence would shut his mother up for a minute.

‘They might as well have done though,’ she continued, her voice attacking.
Graham was angry and on the defensive, his mother could sense a victory.

‘I’ve told you a thousand times before.’ This was, in fact, true, or maybe
not, Graham thought, maybe it’s more than a thousand now.

He repeated, ‘I’ve told you a thousand times before, that wasn’t what
happened. They said that they thought I wasn’t well enough to come back to
work. They said that I could in the future, I just needed more time away.’

‘Five years is a long time away,’ his dad said.

‘They’re here!’ Graham screamed out. ‘Now shut up and don’t bother me while
the Befrienders are here.’

After they had introduced themselves at the door, Graham showed the two
coordinators into the living room. They took a seat on the plumped settee
opposite Graham’s specialist, “big man’s” chair and, after opening her bag
and taking out a file, the female coordinator said:

‘Ok Graham, we’ve been given your file by your social worker, who would
like us to find you a volunteer Befriender.  That’s someone who would come
and visit you at home each week.’

The coordinator looked down at her file, scanned the paper and continued:

‘It says here that you have a problem with hearing voices, and this all
started when your parents were killed in a car accident five years ago.’
She paused, allowing Graham time to take in her words and then added:

‘Don’t worry Graham, we’re here to help.’

---