SHORT STORIES                                                                       (Copyright - Pierre du Toit)
 ......................................................................................................................................................................

TOENAILS

"Look Murby, he's in reverse again!"

The two men stared at the back of the wheelchair some twenty meters away. Two small frekled hands were just visible on the stainless steel wheel rims, straining feebly to force the narrow tyres backwards over the row of bricks between the path and the lawn.

"Shame." Henry Murby tapped-tapped his walking stick on the concrete floor of the long veranda along the front of the Home. "It's a shame," he repeated. The two grey heads nodded in unison.

The hands had slipped from the wheels which were now well locked between the bricks. The scene was static, the yellow lawn pockmarked with large patches where the hot, barren ground had beaten back the grass, everything like the sepea of an old photograph. Several minutes passed. Suddenly the front door leading onto the veranda crashed open and a white clad nurse walked briskly towards the wheelchair.

"Oh Mr Thompson, Mr Thompson! What are we doing out here in this heat? You know we always get stuck! We really shouldn't try things we know we can't manage." She jerked the chair from its brick vice, the occupant's little grey head leaping sideways violently. As she pushed the chair back to the long, dormitory-like building and came up the ramp, Henry's companion, a short little man who, despite the way time had pulled his chin into his chest, still had something of a dapper, military bearing, leaned into the face of the passing wheelchair rider and said; "Thompson, old boy, “we” should know when the game is up, you know, when the bugle has gone, old chap." But the shrunken figure in the wheelchair gave no acknowledgement, the head sunk deep into the shoulders and the saliva in the corner of the mouth quivered in the light as the breath passed almost imperceptibly through the half-open lips.

The nurse looked at the two men on the bench. "Mr Cooke, Mr Murby, we really should get inside. It's past time for our afternoon nap. I'm not putting anyone to bed if the they fall asleep here." The door banged behind her.

" 'Put to bed'.  Middle of the day! Did you here that? One would think we're well into our second infancy like young Thompson there.  'Here Mr Cooke, let's drink our nice wholesome soup now'. 'Let's put on something warm now, Mr Cooke'. 'Think we should lie down now, Mr Cooke'. Enough to make a man lie down… and die!" The old man looked at his friend and suddenly his under-toothed smile flashed onto his face. "Actually, Murby, if you were to lie down with Nurse Greenfield that's just what you'd do, die, from fear!"

"You shouldn't have said that." Henry Murby spoke quietly.

"Said what? Lying down and dying? You or Thompson? At least it might make them realise that we can do some things like grown men. We can at least die like grown men."

"About Thompson. To Thompson."

"Oh come on Henry. I said nothing the old fool shouldn't know for his own good, coming out here and getting stuck like an old Sherman in the desert."

"I still don't think you should have said to him that stuff about the game being up, and the bugle. There's dignity in trying."

Justin Cooke looked a little doubtful for a moment. "Trying?" he recovered his composure, "He's not trying man, he's not even there anymore. He'll hurt himself. He's too old."

Henry's knuckles wrapped over the ball of his walking stick like a white doily of bony beads. "Not that we're that young, my friend, not that we're that young."

Justin Cooke stared at the patches in the lawn for a few moments, his features progressively folding into the centre of his face as if something was pulling them inward by a string from deep within the past. Then he sat forward on the bench and turned towards his friend, his heavy eyebrows low over his still dark eyes.

"I know we're not young. I know that. But if you want to tell me you are too old to maintain your dignity, you speak for yourself. I still do what I can, and don't try what I can't. I can walk to the tuckshop, so I do. I know I can't walk to the village, so I send Johannes. I don't make a fool of myself by trying what I know is past me. Never have. No. When the day comes that I can no longer cut my own toenails, I'll know, and I'll quit." He paused as if he wanted to expand on his last words, but just stared back over the mangy, dying lawn.

Henry Murby leaned heavily on his walking stick and strained to get up.

"Well, I'm going to lie down a while."

The two men looked at each other, and smiled.

Still leaning on his stick Henry walked over to the window in his room. Outside the day seemed brighter than ever, hotter. Thin lines of dust were nestled on the crossbars of the wooden window frame. With one hand he tugged at the curtains until they met in the middle. Then he walked carefully to his bed, rested the stick against the bedside table and sat down on the bed. In places the sun still filtered through the worn threads of the curtains to temper the darkness in the room. Nurse Greenfield's heavy steps passed his door. She returned a few minutes later with a protesting Justin Cooke.The summer midday silence settled again in the cool interior of the old building. Henry pushed against the heel of his one shoe with the inside edge of the other's sole. Once or twice the sole just slipped past but then it caught the little ridge right at the top of the heel and the shoe dropped onto the floor. With his socked foot he managed to get off the other shoe too, swung both feet onto the bed, and lay back.

For a while he looked up at the ceiling. His eyes, now fully adjusted to the weak light, followed the patterns in the old pressed steel ceiling, round and round. The lines seemed to start nowhere, and end nowhere, every line running into another, a perpetual flow which formed a complete whole somewhere between himself and some eternity out there, far beyond the day. Straining a little, he lifted one foot and carefully rested the hollow of his ankle onto the bottom bedstead. The tip of his big toe protruded through the uneven edge of a hole in the sock, the long nail barely distinguishable from the grey. He stared at it. He lifted himself onto his elbow. Then he sat up. Gently he tried to fold his leg in towards his body to inspect the toe more closely. The muscles in his thigh protested. He swung his feet off the bed again and sat motionlessly for a while.

Then he pushed himself off the bed and, holding on to the bed as he went, walked to the small writing table near the window. He fumbled about in the drawer, pushing around a plethora of forgotten objects and finally took out a small pair of scissors. He held them up in his hand and felt the cutting edges. They were sharp. For a moment his knee gave under the unfamiliar weight of his body unsupported by the walking stick and a sharp pang shot up his leg. As he groped for the bed, the scissors slipped from his hand and skid along the dark floor until they came to rest against a skirting board. Cursing, he waited for the pain to recede, then he got hold of his stick and reached with it towards the scissors where they gleamed softly in the broken light from the curtains. Inch by inch he pulled the scissors towards the bed. He leaned the stick against the bed again, carefully went down on the good knee while holding onto the edge of the mattress, and managed to grip them tightly as he placed them on the bedside table. When he struggled up, the knee again stung painfully. His breathing raced through his mouth but after while it became more regular. Lifting his legs one by one he pulled off both socks by their toes. He sat deeper onto the bed. With both hands he pulled his right leg onto the left knee. The leg ached. His right hand reached for the scissors on the bed table to his left. They were too far. He leaned carefully towards the little table, but still he couldn't reach them. Holding up his throbbing leg now with the right hand he stretched with the left hand, got hold of the scissors, and then changed hands again so as to hold the scissors in his right hand. He pulled the foot even higher along the leg until it rested fully in his left palm. The nails protruded well beyond the dry skin of the toes. With his thumb pushing the big toe towards him from below, he brought the scissors to the nail, but it was too hard. The cutting edges of the scissors simply slid away from the nail. He tried again, exerting more pressure than the first time, now helping the index finger with all the fingers of the hand. The blades snapped together and a sliver of nail flew into the dark room as the scissors fell from his hold and rattled against the bedside table.

For the second time that afternoon Henry Murby cursed. One of the blades was wedged between the bedcover and the bedside table. Again holding his foot in his right hand he carefully dislodged the scissors.

This time he pressed the scissors with the force of the full palm. His back felt like tearing, the long forgotten muscles in his right hip ached and his left leg was fast losing any feeling at all. Finally the nail gave way, but as the foot slipped off the knee one of the scissor blades sunk deep into the tender flesh under the nail. He steadied himself and, with both hands, pressed the right leg tightly above the knee. His head moved slowly from side to side, as if in denial. Tears pushed into his eyes and fell in dark circles onto his flannel trousers. He uttered no noise as the blood oozed feebly onto the floor. 

He was still sitting in that position, pressing his right leg, when he became aware of a rhythmic thumping against the outside wall of his room. He gripped his walking stick and shuffled to the window. He moved one of the curtains a little to the side. The outside brightness was fierce, but as if carried on the blinding shaft of light the figure of a young boy became recognisable. It was Nurse Greenfield's young son. With a smooth, steady flow the boy threw the ball against the wall, caught it, threw it again. Each time the ball thumped back from the wall the boy caught it, thump catch, thump catch. He was naked from the waste up and his supple, browned muscles glistened in the sun.

Henry raised his walking stick and tapped it against the pane. The boy froze, ball in hand. He half turned as if to run, but hesitated. Henry waved urgently, trying to smile, gesticulating to the boy to come round to his door. The boy disappeared. A few moments later he heard the front door, then a soft tap against his bedroom door.

"Good afternoon Sir". The boy stood waiting in the passage, suspiciously fingering his ball.

"Come in. Come in, boy." Henry stood back from the door, holding it with his free hand. The boy did not move.

"Do you want to earn some money?" Henry tried.

The boy's face lost some of its scowl. "How?"

This time it was the old man who hesitated. "Come in and I'll tell you." The boy stepped just inside the door.

"Yes Sir?" he asked. He switched his weight onto his other leg.

"Well, I've dropped my scissors and can't find them. I want you to help me."

"And you'll pay me for that?" the boy asked apprehensively. He could see the scissors lying just past the old man's legs. With a sudden movement he stooped down and held the scissors out to Henry. "It's allright," he said.

"But I need something else too."

The boy's hand remained outstretched, still holding the scissors. The old man's face moved as if he was stuttering. Still he did not take the scissors. When he spoke his eyes were focussed on the boy's bare chest. "I'll pay you a rand. I want you to...I tried to cut my toenails just now but, well, frankly, I couldn't quite manage. Do you think you could cut them for me? I'll pay you. A rand. It won't take long." The  boy's hands were now at his side. "You see, it's hard for me. And I don't really want to ask your mother. She'll, you know, she'll just tell the others. Mr Cooke especially. And you  musn't, you absolutely must not tell Mr Cooke."

The boy had been staring at Henry Murby's feet all the while. In the light from the passage they looked positively transparent, with bone inside like he once saw in the school library, except for the one big toe which seemed dark and stuck to the floor. When he heard the silence he took one or two quick shuffles back into the passage.

"But Sir, I cannot do that. I can't cut your toenails." His thin voice rose towards the end of the sentence.

"Why not?" Henry asked, urgently. His walking stick dragged along the floor as he leaned over the anxious little face.

"Why can't you do it for me, boy? Hey? I'll give you two rand. Three! What's so strange about toenails, hey?"

The boy's back was now against the passage wall opposite. He looked the old man straight in the eyes.

"My mother says nails are, like, our dead parts. She says that's where it starts, going dead. It won't help you. I won't do it. I want nothing to do with it." He turned and his little legs pumped as he fled down the passage.

Henry Murby turned back into his room and closed the door. Slowly, carefully he lay down on the bed, facing the wall, and pulled his legs up towards his body. Then he pressed his face into the soft bosom of Nurse Greenfield and, gently, she held his head against her. And that is how they found him, in a foetal position, the thumb still sealed in the puckered lips. Underneath the one big toe there was a dry crust on the white bedspread.

Return to SITE CONTENTS