Resuming Wilf

RESUMING WILF

By

Karen Talbot

He was there first thing this morning when I opened the curtains. I didn’t notice him at first, because there was a bit of a fog in the air. I wasn’t quite awake, either. Me and our Brian had opened a bottle of wine with dinner last night and it always lays heavy on my head. As I hooked the curtains behind the tie backs, the mist cleared slightly and I could see the outline of an old man across the road, staring aimlessly into the crisp morning air. I realised it was Wilf from the house opposite. He was sitting by the wall with what appeared to be his worldly goods surrounding him. What in the world was he playing at? It was no later than 7.30 on a very cold, November morning. He was wrapped up warm enough in his old tweed overcoat, and that ratty old scarf he always wore, but he wasn’t getting any younger and he shouldn’t be just sitting there like that. Maybe he’s joined one of those social clubs and he’s waiting for them to collect him, I thought. That must be it, surely. He wouldn’t just sit there for no good reason.

I’d completely forgotten about Wilf and his roadside vigil until I was hoovering the living room later that morning. There I was to-ing and fro-ing with the old thing, when I caught sight of him out of the corner of my eye. It seemed to me he hadn’t moved an inch. He was still sitting there like the caretaker of some low-rate garage sale, proudly displaying his tatty wares. Behind him, he’d hung a couple of mismatched suits on the wall of the house, and had a battered trunk beside him, bursting at the seams with clothes and junk. To Wilf’s left was the old green baize card table which had always proudly displayed his mother’s collection of horse brasses. Wilf polished them religiously every day without fail, and today was no exception by the looks of things. The brasses gleamed against the cold winter sun, a stark contrast to the otherwise dull picture cast by Wilf himself. And still he sat there, quietly waiting.

I didn’t like see him out there in the cold like that, so I decided to make him a nice hot cup of tea. I knew just how he liked it, and woe betide anybody who got it wrong. Wilf liked things done the same: a tiny drop of milk and keep the teabag in a bit longer than usual. Top it off with three heaped spoonfuls of sugar and we’re away.

“Wilf, it’s me, Gwen, what are you doing out here all morning? You’ll catch your death in this weather.” Wilf didn’t answer and barely looked up when I handed him the tea, he wasn’t surprised to see me. That’s just his way, I thought, as I struggled to open a packet of Garibaldis. Wilf’s always been the same, he doesn’t really show much emotion like the rest of us. I remember the first time I saw him, the day my family and I moved into our house. I was about seven and Wilf must have been in his late teens then, possibly even early twenties, come to think of it. I remember it so clearly because, whereas other people may have given their new neighbours a polite wave, or a quick hello, Wilf had stood and stared at us the whole time, as we took our belongings inside. Eventually, he came over and stood at the bottom of our path.

“That’s Mrs Anderton’s house, you know” he said. He seemed quite anxious until his mother crossed the road and gently turned him around, guiding him home. She turned and smiled kindly at me as they walked. I was perplexed by the whole incident and my father explained he thought Wilf may have been a bit simple. I wasn’t sure what he meant then.

As I grew up, I spent a lot of time over at Wilf’s house and loved to help him polish the horse brasses. I was an only child and looked on Wilf as the big brother I’d always wanted. He was a lot older than me, but his mother, auntie Maudie as I came to know her, explained in her quiet, sweet way that Wilf would grow older in his body, but not his mind. He was happy to include me in his games and liked to play tea parties with me and my dolls. We didn’t change the running order of our games or the rules in anyway, as Wilf wouldn’t have been able to cope. Auntie Maudie explained Wilf was autistic. She said most people thought that was some kind of madness and that autistic people should be put in institutions. Auntie Maudie loved Wilf so much, she wouldn’t have let anybody take him away from her. I was a little bit scared of Wilf for a few days after I found out. I’m not sure why really, but giving him a label in that way turned him into somebody I didn’t know. My attention span wasn’t too long in those days though, and I soon forgot about it. Wilf was Wilf, that’s all. I can’t remember when I’d stopped visiting him. I supposed it was when I hit my teens and became interested in boys and make up and all that. It wasn’t too cool to be seen with a man in his thirties, especially one who was a bit different. I’d never thought about it before, but it must have been really hard for Wilf to accept the change in his routine when I was no longer around to play with him. I hadn’t given him a second thought, I’m ashamed to say.

After I’d taken Wilf his drink, I went back inside and got on with my housework. I dusted and cleaned all of the bedrooms and entertained myself with thoughts of the past. I couldn’t get Wilf out of my mind and by lunchtime, when I saw he had barely moved a muscle from his post I thought, enough is enough. I rustled him up a plate of sandwiches and more tea, and marched across the street clutching my fancy wooden tray.

“Wilf love, please will you tell me what you’re doing? It’s too cold for you to be sitting here like this. What are you waiting for?” I asked him, trying to keep the exasperation from my voice. Wilf calmly took the sandwich and began to eat.

“It’s today” he mumbled through a mouthful of tuna and mayonnaise.

“What is, love?” Wilf spied me over the top of his sandwich.

“They’re coming to collect me today” he said simply, as if I should know already. I knelt on the cold path before him and took his hand. Silly mistake. You mustn’t ever touch Wilf. He started to get a little agitated so I gently shushed him, like Auntie Maudie had taught me. He settled back down and took a big slurp of his tea.

“Who’s coming for you, Wilf?” I asked him.

“Some people from somewhere.” He muttered. It was always hard work trying to get information from him at the best of times and I remembered I had to be patient and consistent with him if I wanted some answers.

By the time he’d eaten his sandwich and drunk his tea, I’d managed to glean that he was to be taken to a new home and that he was to be ready and waiting for them to come and get him. I surmised ‘they’ were probably Social Services and that his stinking brother-in-law had sold the house from under him, the poor love. Wilf told me there had been some letters sent to the house, but he’d never really mastered the art of reading. Eventually people had been to see him and told him he needed better care and that his house wasn’t his any more. I knew he didn’t really understand anything past the waiting bit. It was far too much for him to take in.

“Have you still got the letters?” I asked Wilf. I was knocked for six that somebody as vulnerable as Wilf could be treated like this. Surely in this day and age somebody should be looking out for him.

“They’re inside” Wilf gestured to his front door.

“Go and get them for me please, love?” I asked him.

Wilf couldn’t leave his post, of course, I’d forgotten that about him. If he had instructions to follow, follow them he would, to the letter. He’d been told to wait and that’s what he’d do. I borrowed Wilf’s key and let myself into the house. The moment I stepped over the threshold, I was overwhelmed with memories and I felt myself welling up. How long had it been since I had been in this house? I practically lived here when I was a girl, yet it must have been thirty years at least since I’d last set foot inside. It was as though nothing had changed since Auntie Maudie was alive. The furniture was exactly as I recalled and it was like going back in time. It was dark and much smaller than I remembered. It smelled musty and damp now, nothing like those wonderful baking smells of the past. It felt lonely and unloved, a bit like Wilf, I realised. I felt ashamed. I should have looked out for him. When Auntie Maudie had died, the mantle of Wilf’s care had fallen to Violet, his younger sister. She’d always taken great care of Wilf but when she married that rotten layabout, Duncan Fitch, he always demanded the bulk of her attention. Poor Wilf fell by the wayside, I suppose. Violet had given birth to a couple of boys who were more like their father than her, more’s the pity. I remember how they used to taunt and tease poor Wilf, the horrible little toerags. They took everything they could from their mother before clearing off to god knows where. I remembered how Violet worked three jobs so that they could afford to buy the house off the council. Duncan didn’t even work one, but she’d done it in the end, bless her. She’d always wanted security for Wilf and her boys, as she’d called them. Poor Violet worked herself into an early grave looking after that lot. She’d died a few months back and Duncan had cleared out soon after.

I moved about the house gingerly as if the ghosts of the past would jump out at me, demanding to know why I hadn’t looked out for Wilf. Why I hadn’t been a better friend. When my own family were so austere and unyielding, solace had always been available to me in this once comfortable, happy home. I’d moved on with my life for years, just a few feet away and I’d forgotten what they’d all meant to me.

On Auntie Maudie’s walnut bureau sat a neat pile of letters. Some opened, some not. I looked through them and couldn’t believe it had come to this. Duncan had sold the house from under Wilf and he wouldn’t receive a penny. He was being taken into the care of Social Services as he no longer had anyone to care for him. He was to be taken into an institution that day, the very thing Auntie Maudie had fought against all her life. With everything I read, it seemed nobody had thought about Wilf himself. The home he would go to was for elderly people, but wouldn’t cater for Wilf’s autism. He also had the mental age of a child and wouldn’t last five minutes without some understanding of his condition. I couldn’t have this. I ‘phoned the number on one of the letters and asked for a Mike Hardy, who was apparently Wilf’s ‘caseworker’. He seemed warm and kind, and was stunned when I explained about Wilf’s personality.

“When I visited Wilf, I always thought he was being difficult or that he just didn’t want to accept he would have to move. We had no idea he was autistic. It all makes sense now” Mike said. He agreed it was too soon to move Wilf from his home, without preparing him properly. He also promised to try to find him somewhere more suitable to his needs. He sounded genuinely concerned and I felt he was on Wilf’s side. I gave him my ‘phone number and asked if he would keep me informed. It was time I started looking after my old friend.

I went back to Wilf at his post and knelt before him. I was careful not to touch him this time, as I gently tried to explain that he wouldn’t be going away that day. I told him he would be going to a very special place very soon, but that we would be visiting it first to make sure he’d be happy there. I told him he would make lots of new friends and I would be coming to see him all the time from now on. His face was impassive as he listened and I wondered if I was getting through.

“I won’t leave you on your own any more, love. Do you remember how we used to play together? Those tea parties, what fun we had, Wilf? I’m so sorry I didn’t come around to see you all those years. I was a rotten friend. I should have been there” I looked up at Wilf’s face, searching for any kind of emotion behind his peaceful gaze, but found none. As I looked down at my bended knees, I couldn’t stop the tears falling. I was wasting my time. It had been too long, I couldn’t reach him.

“Little Gwennie” Wilf said softly, as his hand brushed my hair, just the once.

The End