Covid lockdowns meant my bucket list grew longer and longer. There was so much we were not allowed to do; rules that didn’t seem to apply to Downing Street, mind! But when at last pandemic restrictions eased there was one thing above all I knew I must do before it was too late.
Just before Covid struck, I’d heard that an old friend was ‘in a bad way’. It took some time to clarify what exactly this meant, but through social media and some telephone calls I finally established that Jock, a close pal and drinking buddy for many years, was now in a care home.
In a bad way, they said. Or ‘no’ doing too great’. But everybody seemed to find it difficult to say what was wrong with him. After much coaxing, the truth was eventually revealed: Jock had dementia.
I hadn’t seen Jock for ages, since long before Covid closed the country down. Yet for years we had met most days in a wee pub in a close off the Royal Mile, and quite often our sessions would stretch long into the night.
There was quite a crowd of us back then and the pub felt more like our own exclusive social club than a boozer. Personnel changed from day to day, but Fridays always saw the biggest turnout. Our crowd was mainly councillors and council officials alongside newspaper and other media folk. It will come as no surprise to hear that our merry band was overwhelmingly, but not exclusively, male.
We discussed many subjects: sport, current affairs, music and, inevitably, lots of politics. And sometimes there were sing-songs, which we thought were great - but the racket must have really scunnered punters hoping to enjoy a quiet drink. We were oblivious to that, though – this was our pub. Yes, we had some memorable times there and Jock, our unofficial leader, was usually at the heart of it all.
Times change, people move on and those boozy days are far behind us now. Neither Jock nor I was of a generation where we would meet up for a coffee instead of meeting in the pub: that just wasn’t our way. So we sometimes banged into each other at the football, but that was pretty much it.
During Covid I made a list of all the things I wanted to do when life got back to normal, if it ever did. Catching up with old pals was top of the list, and seeing Jock was most important of all. As restrictions eased, though, I found that items further down the order were quickly ticked off but that most pressing item at the top remained, still to be dealt with.
I’ll be honest, I was apprehensive. The Jock I had known was full of life, with a wealth of funny stories for every occasion. Razor sharp, he loved a debate, the more heated the better, but never bearing grudges if the argument went against him. Jock was a diehard socialist, but although he was driven by his political convictions he never forgot that life was for living – and how Jock loved to laugh, often at himself! But what would he be like now?
I talked to Jock’s wife, who I had only ever met when she had arrived at the pub to take Jock home. She was frank about his condition and warned me what to expect, but I decided to go and visit my old pal anyway. After all, none of us are getting any younger and who knows how much time we have left to do the things we want or need to do? I made an appointment to visit Jock’s care home.
On the big day I spent the drive over reminiscing about the experiences we’d shared: the highs and lows of elections, the highs and (mostly) lows of life as Hibs supporters, the laughs, old comrades now gone ... we had so much to talk about, and yet I felt nervous.
This was my first visit to a care home so I didn’t know what to expect, although like most folk I had read and watched the horror stories in the media. When I arrived the staff couldn’t have been nicer during the thorough Covid checks. Lessons have been learned, I thought. Then it was time ...
A nurse escorted me through the building, which inevitably smelt of old people, cooking and disinfectant. Arriving at Jock’s room, the nurse knocked and opened the door.
A slight figure sat huddled in an armchair by the window, the curtains partly drawn. While the room was gloomy and his face was in shadow, it was Jock: older, frailer… but Jock.
I’m still convinced there was a glimmer of recognition in his eyes. I stepped forward and said cheerily: “Long time, no see!” I couldn’t think of a smarter opening line.
Jock replied, animated, at some length - but for the life of me I just couldn’t understand what he was trying to say. There was a torrent of jumbled words but none of them made any sense. I felt confused, helpless, lost – but God only knows how he felt.
We persevered with our surreal conversation, but Jock became restless and got up to leave the room. I really didn’t want to agitate him so I said to the nurse: “Time to go, I think. I’m boring him!”
“It’s not you. That’s just Jock. He’s like this with his family too.”
I left soon after and sat in the car for a while, collecting my thoughts before driving down to Portobello. We all lost something during the pandemic, but some lost so much more than others …
Wandering along the deserted promenade, a sudden sob became waves of tears I thought would never stop.
I have been back to see him since, though. And, while I will never know what Jock is trying to tell me, that’s okay. I can live with that.