Creative writing submission from the Rest Less community – submit your entry here.
I’ve decided to change Willow and Bear’s names to… No, not really, but yesterday I was out walking when we were joined by an older lady and her spaniel. We chatted amiably for quite a while, Willow and the spaniel skittering on ahead and Bear, as always, was lagging behind so that I was continually looking back and chivvying him on.
We must’ve been walking together for about half an hour before the lady said to me: “What made you choose his name?” Thinking nothing of it I replied: “I didn’t. As they were rescues and had lost everything they’d ever known, I felt it would be wrong of me and unfair to them to re-christen them along with everything else.”
Bear
Initially, she said nothing, but I could see something was bothering her so I carried on: “If I’d had my way they’d probably have been called something like Albert and Victoria.”
Screwing up her face, she said: “Umm yes, well those are names to live up to. I think I’d have had to change it myself but I wonder what made them call him that in the first place?” A little confused, I said: “Well it’s a bit trendy but not that bad in the great scheme of things…” Before I could say any more, she interjected with: “I think it’s dreadful.”
I was shocked and not a little affronted thinking, well, don’t hold back, lady, when she said: “I don’t think it’s fair to call a dog ‘Camembert’, it’s not kind.”
“What?” I said. “He’s not called Camembert, he’s called Bear!” It was then that I realised I’d been looking behind me and calling “Come on Bear!” and that the lady was wearing a hearing aid. We both laughed about it. When I told a friend about it today, she suggested I rename Willow ‘Cheddar’ so that I could have a cheese board. Actually, I quite like the thought of a dog called Cheddar!
It reminded me of when I was a young girl of about 18. I was in my first year of teacher training when I volunteered at St. Andrews, an old psychiatric hospital that had turned private but maintained two wards for lifelong patients. They’d all been sent there as children by their families or from the law courts. Their ‘crimes’ were things like stealing food or becoming pregnant, as this was deemed the behaviour of ‘mental defectives’ in Victorian times. Many of the residents were in their 80s and had been at St. Andrews since they were children.
There was an old man called Bert who was sent there by the courts aged eight for stealing a loaf of bread, and Sarah had been a servant who got pregnant at 14. It certainly opened my eyes in more ways than one, but I felt privileged to visit these completely sane old-timers. They were so grateful for such simple pleasures, like having some company or being pushed out into the garden on a warm day, and celebrated them.
I was quite shy in those days but was always pushing myself. Volunteering at St. Andrews was one of those things I did to help me.
On my first day, I was introduced to an elderly lady in a wheelchair called Mary who loved to be taken out into the extensive grounds for a walk. All the nurse told me was her name, that she loved to chat, and that she was rather deaf so I might need to shout. Mary was all smiles, wrapped up in a million blankets, with a man’s cloth cap on her head and fingerless gloves. She embraced the experience.
As soon as the nurse left us, she started to talk. As we wandered down paths, under trees, and around the lawns, my charge never stopped talking. I was able to completely relax as she told me all about the hospital, how she’d been a patient there since she was 16, sent there by her father, and gave me the lowdown on all the other patients, making me laugh.
It wasn’t until an hour later when I took her back to the ward that she said: “Oh my goodness, I never even asked you your name ducks, what am I like!” Smiling, I said: “My name’s Christina.”
“Philomena” she responded. “Well, I look forward to seeing you next week, Philomena, ta ta then!” And off she went, pushed back into the ward by a nurse before I could say anything. I spent nearly 10 months being Philomena as I was too shy and too embarrassed to correct her at the time and, by the next week, it just seemed like it was too late.
Sadly, Mary died, but at her funeral one of the nurses who sat with me was surprised when the sister of the ward said to me: “Thank you so much for coming, Philomena. Mary would appreciate it. Your weekly visits meant a lot to her.”
When she’d walked off the nurse turned to me and said: “Sorry, I thought your name was Christina!” Feeling stupid I said: “It is!”
We ended up going for a drink together and she couldn’t stop laughing at the fact that I’d spent nearly a whole year being called the wrong name just because I was too silly to correct the situation.
I wasn’t going to allow my little Bear to suffer the same fate, so when you see us striding along, a small sausage dog lagging behind, what you’re hearing is: “Come on, Bear” – not Camembert! And Willow, much as I quite fancy Cheddar, will remain as Willow – no cheese board in sight here! Edam and Caerphilly are strictly confined to the fridge.
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