He looks like a captain, with shaggy white hair and huge eyebrows. His eyes are blue, his cheeks red with broken veins, his whole body still bluff and strong.

He’s a pleasure to serve because he has courage and strength that most of the men lack. He hates being helped, will swear at you — “What the bloody hell, you bloody bastards!” — bite you, pinch you, pull on you if you’re rough or if he doesn’t know what you’re doing. But despite his difficulties, the pain from his urine burnt and torn behind, which we don’t have the time to properly attend, the almost complete silence, the loneliness, the vegetable existence abhorrent to the active man, he retains his humour.

He likes to kiss the nurses when they give them the chance, and will even execute a sexy nibble with a pleased look on his face. And he still likes a bath.

But most of all he enjoys his pipe. Unfortunately, however, he cannot light it. So we have to load it for him and light it up. Lately he’s not been able to puff on it properly to ignite the tobacco, so for the last few days I’ve been doing it for him. Alison is shocked. Putting the filthy thing in my mouth! Probably she’s right, but he loves his pipe.

One thing I know, no smoking for me. He smokes a strong tobacco, it burns the mouth right out and fouls it with smoke. No thank you. But it makes him happy.

§

Gordon swears and carries on because he’s ashamed of himself — ashamed every time we touch him — and it makes him angry, just as being found out makes me angry. I wonder how much of the world’s bad temper is caused by the pangs of shame. Gordon is learning humility the hard way. A terrible way to learn it. Humility is neither apathy nor resignation. Most of our patients are apathetic or resigned.

§

Almost a month ago I said that Gordon kicks up a shindig because he’s ashamed of himself. That’s true, but he’s also a little scared of the pain, and back then nobody used to talk to him, which upset him. If I explain what I’m doing, and try to converse, he’s really amiable, and one might almost say compliant.

I said to him the other night, “Your back is the better for this treatment, you know.”

He said, “I know.”

“Well, why do you complain?”

“I didn’t know I was,” he answered, and grinned.

§

Tramp, tramp, tramp… Silence.

“Time for bed, Gordon.”

“Eh?”

“Time for bed!”

“What? So soon?”

“Yes.”

“Only just got up.”

Tramp, tramp, tramp… rumble of wheelchair. Sound of bed being pulled down, grunts, heaves, smell of ammonia, water and soap…

“Leave me alone, will yuh? Fuck yuh!”

“Just a minute Gordon!”

“Fuck yuh, you whore!”

“Hardly, Gordon!”

“Bugger yuh.”

“Finished now. Can I put a bottle in?”

“Is it hot?”

“Yes.”

“Okay… fuck yuh!”

“That’s it, Gordon. Sweet dreams.”

“Eh?”

“Sweet dreams.”

“Oh… Wet or dry?”

“Night, Gordon.”

“Gunnight.”

We have that conversation every night.

§

“Gordon — what were you when you were working?”

“A joiner. D’you know what a joiner is?”

“Oh… Some sort of carpenter?”

“No! A joiner is a man who joins other men while they’re drinking…”

“Ha! ha!”

“Huh… Fuck yeah! Can’t you leave me alone?”

“I’d like to.”

“Why don’t you?”

“Oh…”

“Fuck you, man!”

“That’s it, Gordon… there.”

“Huh.”

“Are we still friends?”

“Hope so.”

“D’you feel the better for that?”

“Yes.”

“Well why do complain?”

“Didn’t know I was…” (evil grin).

“Well you are.”

“Stop complainin’ yourself.”

§

“Did you ever go to sea, Gordon?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“For two years.”

“When?”

“When I was 16 or 17.” So about 1890.

“Was it a sailing ship?”

“Eh?”

“Was it a sailing ship?”

“Yes, an old windbag… Around Cape Horn in an old windbag.”

Cape Horn! “What was she trading?”

“Yes, she was trading.”

“What? Hides?”

“Yes.”

“Was it good?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Was it hard?”

“Oooh, yes!”

Funny I should hear this from Gordon while I’m reading Richard Henry Dana’s adventures around the Horn. To think, if I’d been Gordon, two years ago I’d have already been around Cape Horn in a sailing ship!

Actually, two years ago I was still at Northland College.

§

“Would you like a pipe, Gordon?”

“A what?”

“A pipe!”

“A pub?”

“No, a pipe!”

“I used to own a pub once.”

“Did you?”

“Up the Wai’rapa about 20 years ago.”

“For how long?”

“About 20 years ago.”

“For how long?”

Just a few months.”

“Why?”

“Went bloody awful.”

“Did you drink the profits?”

“Huh?”

“Did you drink the profits?”

“Heh heh. No.”

“What went wrong?”

“Huh”

“Would you like a pipe, Gordon?”

“A pub?”

“No. A smoke!”

“Yes.”