Bertie
“Hiya Bertie, how’ya doin today?” I ask, knowing the answer. “Terrible, jus’ terrible.” Comes the usual reply. “Aw no, what’s up?” a pointless question. “It’s me back.” Of course it is. He’s 94, with chronic osteoarthritis. “Is it still hurting?” Yes. “You taken any tablets for it?” “Nope.” He purses his lips and scans the room, wincing. “Why not?” I ask, for the twentieth time in as many days. “Don’t have no use ‘fer them.” I don’t know why I continue on, but I have to. “How come?” He brings a shaking hand up to his forehead. “Eeh dear.” A look of resigned patience. “How come, Bertie? Why don’t you take your tablets?” He frowns again, gently pulling one leg to the right and repositioning it, ever so slightly onto the edge of the tassled rug. He groans. “Cus they dun’t bloody work, do they? Nowt does.” I asked him how he was out of politeness. An acknowledgement of his pain. But there’s nothing to be gained from it, as surely as those tablets won’t help a damn. “Don’t worry Bertie, they’ll sort you out soon.” I lock my mouth shut with a smile. “Ah bloody hope so.” He says, his face set in a tearful expression. “I’m off white water raftin’ tomorrer!”
Sara Clark lives with her husband in the beautiful Scottish Borders and enjoys exploring a variety of dialects in her writing, along with issues of poverty, class and race. She was most recently published in Gold Dust magazine.