Les.

That was his name, I found out some time after we met.
     Les. Les Millichap. He had to spell it for me so the policeman on the other end of the phone could type it into his computer. He was 87 and had worked as a "gunner" after being posted in Germany during the war. He had a daughter (definitely; as it turned out) and a nephew (possibly; unconfirmed).
     The reason he was in town changed with each passing minute, swapping between three or four examples. He had arranged to meet his daughter. He had arranged to meet his nephew. He had arranged to meet  both of them, and his nephew had popped to the bank. He had arranged to meet no-one, but planned on visiting his nephew - who supposedly worked nearby. Where exactly was another varied answer that he swung back and forth between; as was indeed whether he had a nephew at all - to surprise him. He was due to have his hair cut and coloured at 9-AM that day and was waiting for the appointment time (it was at that point 12:30-PM and the building he supposed to belong to his barber was a tea-shop and had been for at least 10 years).
     Which of these was true, if indeed any of them were, I suppose I shall never know.

Helplessly, I looked at him. His green-grey eyes gazed into mine with an air of trust that made me feel more helpless and discomforted than ever. He had stopped me as I was striding along not paying attention to much of anything. He was sat on one of the long metal benches outside what used to be part of Kidderminster's town hall but now has been turned into office buildings.
     Handing me a piece of paper with a telephone number on it written in bold ink under the word "Denise", he had asked me to ring his daughter for him, as he couldn't understand what was taking her so long to arrive. I tried, but the phone rang and then cut through to an answering service. It was then that Les mentioned his nephew and his arrangement to meet him. Puzzled, I was about to speak when a lady sat nearby chimed in to tell me that he was "confused". He had been meandering around for some time before sitting down, and he had, she told me ruefully, given her at least ten explanations of his visit to the town centre in the past ten minutes; most of them contradictory of each other.
     I stared at Les with a sinking feeling and he smiled back. The surprise visit to see his nephew at work came out, quickly smothered under the blanket of meeting his daughter again. Pressing for more details, the lady that had spoken to me tried to find out which building the nephew worked in, only to be told that he didn't have one. He had a daughter, he assured us; Denise. She would be along any minute now.
     Had she told him that she was going to meet him there, the lady and I asked him. After repeating the question several times, loudly, into his mostly deaf ears, he finally got it and shook his head. Then nodded. Then shook his head again.

"I don't know," he confessed at last; "I get confused sometimes. I have dementia."

Right. The lady and I nodded, worriedly. Right...
     Without much hope, we probed him for any information we could use. Address; no. Daughter's address; no. How he had come into town; taxi...or bus...or did he walk? He also swung crazily back and forth between admittance of his condition and denial of it.
     The woman, having exhausted every possibility she could think of, said something along the lines of that it was a shame, but he must have come from somewhere and presumably eventually he would return there on his own; nothing more to be done by us. And with that, she left, leaving me staring after her aghast.
     The man watched her go too, and assumed that I was going to go as well, for he shook my hand and thanked me for all of my help (none, thus far).
     At a loss, I asked him to wait and headed into the council building. The idea in my mind was to gather advice - should I leave him to it? Should I leave a message on the answerphone of the number he gave me? What if it didn't belong to his daughter at all, and was a random number his confused mine had made up? - and a number, possibly, that could be rung to get help for him.
      A few minutes later as I waited in the queue I saw him begin to walk slowly away and had to run out to get him. When pressed he cheerfully explained about the appointment with the barber at 9-AM that day. When I showed him my watch he looked at his own and agreed that it was 12:30-PM, but couldn't quite connect the two times together in his mind. As far as he was concerned; it was 12:30-PM indeed, but it was also time for him to go to get his hair cut - heading for a building I knew to be a tea-shop - because his appointment was at 9-AM.
     With some effort, I managed to pursade him to return to the bench and sit down. I explained where I was going and why, told him firmly to stay put and - hoping very much that he would - went. The queue was still immense, but I happened to see someone vaguely official looking trying to replace a poster in one of the stands just outside, so I collared her.
     My problem explained, her advice was to ring the non-emergency police helpline and report the situation to them. She gave me the number and told me to press the number the automated system gave for "vulnerable person". As I dailed the number, I thanked her profussely.

Les was still there, I could see him from where I was stood, sat where I had left him; calm and content and enjoying the sunshine. The automated system had two options: press hash to be transferred to 999 or wait for an operator. I waited, and after explaining the problem to three different - thankfully kind and polite - people I was transferred to an equally kind and polite policeman.
     He took down various details, including the man's name, which I finally managed to get through to him that I needed, and the policeman told me that if they didn't manage to contact the daughter, a police officer would be sent to collect him to make sure he remained safe. He asked if I would stay with him in the meantime, and I said I would.
     I explained to Les what was happening. He was pleased. He liked the police. A long rambling story followed regarding the prompt actions of the afore mentioned to make the errant young men that lived the house next to his stop playing loud music late into the night. That was when it transpired why he had reached out to me, out of everybody else passing by. He thought I was a policewoman. Considering my dark polo-shirt and high visibility jacket, I could understand why. After a few futile attempts to explain the reality behind my role, I gave up and agreed with him that policework was "interesting"; which, I'm sure it is at least some of the time.
     A short time later, the nice policeman rang back and confirmed that the daughter had been reached - that really had been her number. And she really was called 'Denise'. The policeman agreed that my concerns had been valid, however - and was on her way; could I wait with him still?
     I said that I would.

So there we were; me and Les, waiting for Denise.
     We didn't speak much. There was little point, as every word had to be shouted into his ear several times before it managed to wriggle through and reach his brain. So apart from the conversation about my being a policewoman and him accepting a sip of coca-cola from the bottle in my bag, we sat in companiable silence.
     Fifteen minutes later, Denise arrived; hot and exhausted and wearily irritated. She wasn't upset with me, or even with him, really. Just at the end of her tether. She was a woman that had Had Enough.
     When she told him that the police had called to tell her that he was "confused" - which was what I had told him - Les became slightly agitated. He claimed that "all six of them had ignored him" earlier that day; just "sat there in that bloody front room and pretended he was dead". Denise turned and told me matter of factly that there was only the three of them; her, her husband and her daughter. And no front room.
     I told her that I understood, and that I was very sorry.
     She sighed. It was "very hard" she said.

A moment later, we went our separate ways. After his initial hostility, Les was happy to be taken home. Shaking my hand, he thanked me warmly. Denise thanked me as well.
     Not knowing what else to do and powerless to help, I smiled at her and squeezed her arm.
     She nodded.
     I nodded back.
     And then I left.

And that was that.
     That poor man.
     And that poor poor woman...

Alice x