Was

Home was nearby.'

Since graduating in June, he had been working in an electrical supply store and showroom. It was run by Mr. Hardie. He was one of the many friendly older men who thought they had taken on the job of acting like a father to Bill.

'People in the Home can't always be helped,' said Mr. Hardie, when Bill told him he was leaving the store.

'Well. They still need caring for,' Bill replied.

'That's true, Bill, and it's a fine thought. But you still have got to think of yourself, and of Carol too. They won't be paying you much money for that job.'

'Carol's got her job at the hairdresser's. And anyway, I got the Army coming up in a couple of months. It's just till then.'

'From now on,' said Mr. Hardie, 'you got to be thinking of how you're going to set yourself up in life. You got to be thinking about what's going to happen after those two years. You find things are getting tight over the next few months, or you just want a change of scenery, you know there'll always be a job waiting for you here in the store. Need a fine young man like you.'

Bill knew he was a fine young man-he had worked at it-but he wore his knowledge lightly. 'Thank you, Sir,' he replied.

Bill Davison started work in September 1956, in the geriatric ward. He would always remember arriving. On his first day at the Home, he was shown around by another orderly. The man's name was Tom, Tom Heritage. Tom was tall, plump, friendly, and had a very nearly invisible blond beard. He had been a truck driver until he lost his license for three years.

'First thing you do every morning is help wheel up the food from downstairs. Then, while they're eating, we change all the bedding. Some of them leak a little, so we just give them clean sheets. You make their beds for them, tidy up. During the day you help some of them around, maybe take them for a walk. If any of them get sick, you help them down to the infirmary.'

'Anything else?' Bill asked, disappointed.

'What, you mean like try to cure them or something? No way, son. That's the Doctor's job.'

Tom Heritage pushed against the swinging doors, and they walked into a ward of cots. The old people slept in cots to stop them from rolling out at night. Each one of them had a metal locker that doubled as a bedside table, and a chair to sit on.

'This here's what we call Heaven. It's where all the ones that don't give anyone any trouble are. The Angels.'

One old man was still in bed, back turned to the door.

'Okay, Bobby,' said Heritage, neatly flipping down one rank of blue cot bars. 'It's time to get up. Breakfast.'

The old man's face had fallen in on itself, collapsed, and he stared ahead with watery blue eyes. There was white stubble all over his chin.

'Sorry, Bobby, but we got to make your bed.' Heritage gave Bill Davison a nod. Bill stared back. 'Got to lift him out,' explained Heritage. 'You take the legs.'

Heritage took the arms. Quickly, neatly, the old man was hoisted out of bed and lowered down into his wheelchair. He still stared. One foot began to jiggle up and down with nerves.

Heritage stood back and held up a greeting card from the table, The card had grown soft and worn around the edges, as if trying to grow fur. The corners were grubby. On the front there was a wide-eyed cartoon bunny.

'It says 'Get well soon,' ' said Heritage, his eyes and smile just the slightest bit grim.

Heritage wheeled the old man off to his breakfast. All by himself, Bill stripped the beds. It was all so impersonal. The Angels of Heaven were bereft of possessions. Pajamas, a change of clothing, used handkerchiefs, a smell of weak and sweaty bodies. There would be nothing to move away when they died. Heritage returned with the sheets.

About eleven o'clock, they moved off toward the women's ward. From somewhere down the corridor came dim, echoing voices, murmuring or raised and querulous. They sounded like a choir that had not yet begun to sing.

'We treat the women just the same as the men, except that we come in after breakfast when we know they're all decent. Some of the old dears are a bit old-fashioned.'

'Don't we do anything to help them?' Bill asked again.

Heritage gave him a thin-lipped smile and shook his head. 'Nobody's going to help these people,' he said. 'Some of them been here for fifty years.'

Some of the women sat beside their cots. One of them was making knitting motions with empty hands.

'Good morning, girls,' said Heritage. None of them responded, except for one woman who looked up, very slowly, with round, haunted eyes.

Then, suddenly, someone spoke. It was a surprisingly smooth, polished voice, almost like an adolescent's.

'If you're through gabbing, you could get me up off this floor,' said the voice. An outraged head reared itself up over the horizon of a crumpled cot.

It was a fine head, a noble head, something like a lion's, ringed with wild gray hair. The eyes were wild too.

Heritage closed his eyes and smiled. 'Remember how I said none of them were trouble?' he said. He began to walk backward toward her, looking at Bill, talking to Bill. 'Well. Meet trouble.'

Bill Davison followed him, tardily. 'Dotty,' Heritage asked, 'what are you doing on the floor?'