Paradise Lodge (16 page)

And I found suddenly my sister and our mother had stopped crying and it was only me speaking, and I heard myself say the saddest things and cried into my open palms. And our mother said, ‘Lizzie, Lizzie.'

My sister said how wonderfully things had turned out (considering) and how lucky we were now that Mr Holt had put a stop to the falling and our mother had cleverly tricked him into having another baby. And that baby being as beautiful as Bluebell would have been. None of us said Bluebell was in Heaven or anything spooky or weird, but we all knew the grief had faded. We sniffed and wiped our noses and eyes and I finished my crying.

‘Will you be able to go through with it,' my sister asked, ‘on the anniversary?'

‘No,' said our mother, ‘I shan't.'

So we went back to Market Harborough—all red-faced and wretched—to book the next available slot which was a few days later. And we were lucky to get it—it being the only one for weeks and weeks and, due to cancellation, a much sought-after Saturday morning.

Mr Holt left it entirely up to my mother re all the arrangements and the wedding guest list. Just as long as she kept it minimal and didn't invite his parents because they'd feel obliged and didn't travel well out of Norfolk. My mother couldn't decide who to invite and took about an hour and two cups of econo-coffee to come up with a list of approx eight people, including a nice couple from across the road called Alistair and Sarah (the only Liberals in a ten-mile radius), a couple called Jeff and Betty from the Snowdrop depot who weren't Liberals but nice in other ways, Deano the van boy and Miss Kellogg, our ex-au pair Carrie Frost, and my mother's much younger brother—who we all liked immensely.

It didn't seem to me to be enough people and I tried to add names. ‘Just invite your friends,' I advised. And my mother said she hadn't really got any since Celia Watson had gone into the menopause and could no longer be trusted.

‘What about Mrs Goodchild, across the road, and her husband and baby Bobbi?' my sister said.

This was a red rag to a bull. My mother shouted, ‘What is your fucking obsession with that woman?'

It was strange her yelling at my sister like that because it was she who had the obsession.

I suggested Melody Longlady but her punkishness seemed to fly in the face of a wedding and also, I'd then have to invite Miranda. And then the floodgates would be open—if Miranda, why not Sally-Anne, or (God forbid) Matron and Sister Saleem and then Carla bloody B with her navel showing? And though the idea of them all was quite cheering, the thought of them all
at my house
—looking at my mother's drawings of horse's heads (and now people) and pulling books off the bookshelves and throwing darts at the dartboard and commenting on the unusual patchwork carpet—was unbearable and to be avoided.

Then there was the planning of the bunfight. My mother and sister and I called in at the Copper Kettle on the by-pass to ask for a quotation and when the proprietor told us the cost for their most basic cold finger buffet for fourteen—with a glass of Blue Nun or a bottle of Pony—was over a hundred pounds we almost fainted and my mother called it ‘preposterous'. Then my sister and I imagined we'd do the food ourselves and have it at home, and ask the Liberal woman across the road to do the meringue Pavlova she was always boasting about, but my mother groaned and said no, she couldn't bear it. I toyed with the idea of asking Mike Yu to deliver sufficient egg fu yung and making a home-made juice and whisky-based punch with floating apple chunks but that seemed inappropriate and actually just imagining it gave me butterflies.

Sister Saleem went through the patients' notes with Eileen and Sally-Anne. She questioned them about prescriptions, symptoms, pill dosages and contraindications, opioids, opiate antagonism, vasodilation and risk of overdose in patients with high blood pressure. It became clear that neither nurse knew much about the drugs—or, in fact, the patients, medically speaking.

And then, when Sister Saleem saw the drug trolley under the stair bend, with brown pill bottles and canisters, just there—in the open—loose pills scattered like Smarties on a birthday cake, she exploded.

Never in all her life had she seen such an unprofessional mess, she said. And she didn't just mean the drug trolley, she meant the whole place, ‘the whole ruddy ball of wax'—a phrase she'd learned from Mr Simmons.

She stood and looked up to the heavens and took a deep breath. Then the owner came shuffling round the corner and she had a go at him. ‘How could you let this happen?' she asked, shouting.

‘I don't know, Nurse Goolagong,' he said, trembling, ‘it all got out of hand when my life left.'

We all looked at each other and, thinking Sister Saleem must have noticed the Freudian slip, hoped she might go a bit easier on him—realizing the extent of his madness.

‘You've no right calling this place a nursing home,' said Sister Saleem. ‘And stop calling me Nurse Goolagong.'

Sister immediately instigated a modern drug-handling procedure, which required the pills to be kept in a locked cabinet and the key pinned to her belt (or Eileen's), and gave us a crash course in drugs commonly prescribed to the elderly. There would be an official drug round at breakfast and just before coffee and again with bedtime drinks.

Matron took it badly about the drugs. She'd been tolerant of Sister Saleem up to then—as mentioned—but this rattled her. ‘For the love of God, we're not a great big, huge, bleddy hospital, we're a residential home with a few poorly old folk on water tablets.'

Thankfully, Sister Saleem had some happy news at the team talk the next morning. A new patient was coming. Mr Godrich (a
GP
referral) would be with us in approx a fortnight's time to convalesce after a simple surgical procedure.

‘How long will he be staying?' asked Matron, with a forced nonchalance.

‘Until he's fully convalesced,' said Sister Saleem, giving Matron a hard look. ‘If we manage not to give him an opiate overdose.'

‘How long is that likely to be?' asked Eileen.

‘A couple of months at least,' said Sister Saleem.

It was good news, said Sister Saleem, and would almost single-handedly take us to where she wanted us to be, business-wise, and if Mr Godrich stayed longer, then that would really help turn our fortunes around, especially now some of the residents were helping and there was now no urgency in finding a cook or laundry lady.

‘And,' added Sister, with a slight grimace, ‘we are entitled to charge slightly above the advertised tariff since he'll be bringing a little dog.'

We all squealed with delight. Sister Saleem was touched by our enthusiasm—failing to appreciate it was the little dog we were pleased about and not turning a profit. We clanked coffee cups and congratulated Sister Saleem on her successful negotiation. Matron gazed out of the window, in a world of her own.

There was a slight issue that needed addressing before Mr Godrich arrived. And that was where to put him. Mr Godrich wanted peace and quiet in an upstairs room and needed an en-suite bathroom because of an incapacitation.

‘Some beds are worth more than others,' Sister reminded us.

‘Which would you say,' she asked, looking at Eileen, ‘is the best room in the place?'

We all chipped in. Eileen said she thought probably the little drawing room which had been turned into a two-bedded male ward. It had views of the garden and was a level walk to the day room. Miranda said she thought Room 8 with its bathroom and fireplace and view of the reservoir.

‘What about Room 9?' said Sister Saleem.

And we went silent. Room 9 was Lady Briggs' room. It was a lovely room but it wasn't to be thought of as a possible room. It was Lady Briggs' room.

‘It's Lady Briggs' room,' we all said.

‘Yes, but theoretically, is it the best room in the home?' persisted Sister Saleem.

‘Yes,' we all said, ‘it is.'

And then Sister told us how much Lady Briggs was paying.

‘According to the paperwork,' said Sister Saleem, ‘Lady Briggs is paying absolutely nothing.'

‘That can't be right–' said Nurse Eileen.

‘Yes,' interrupted Matron, ‘the first patients came on advance payment programmes and she'll have paid up, she's been here years.'

‘Well, in that case, I don't think we have any choice. We're going to have to move Lady Briggs out,' announced Sister. ‘She can go in the ladies' ward, in the bed in the corner.'

‘Oh, Emma Mills' old bed,' said Miranda, looking at me and pulling a sad face.

There was some mumbling and grimacing.

‘So, which member of staff will break the news to her?' asked Sister Saleem.

No one said anything. It was too awful a thought—Lady Briggs had that condition where you can't leave the room for fear of something intangible.

‘Well, who gets along with Lady Briggs?' Sister Saleem persisted.

And the others said, all at once, ‘Lizzie.'

‘Lis, it seems you know her best,' said Sister Saleem, ‘can you break the news?'

Some tickets arrived for a Chopin piano recital and my stomach churned just seeing them. I put them on the hall console so that the ladies and gentlemen could see them as they passed on their way to the toilet. Nothing happened.

A day or so later, I fanned them out and presented them at teatime. ‘This looks interesting,' I said, ‘a free piano recital at St James's.'

I faked an interest but Mr Simmons seemed to suddenly smell a rat and wondered where the tickets had come from and then said, ‘Actually, I'm not sure I fancy it.' Meaning the Chopin.

I had to ring Miss Pitt again. I told her the tickets were much appreciated but that Mr Simmons hadn't fallen for the lure.

Miss Pitt said she'd put her thinking cap on and that I should be poised to respond with my catch off. I was beginning to dislike all the hunting and war metaphors. It showed a lack of tact on Miss Pitt's part and reminded me of her lack of rapport with pupils at school.

The new drug and pill procedure wasn't difficult. The pills were sorted into little pots and arranged on a tray laid with a map of the patients. This would then be checked by a second nurse and then the pots would be distributed prior to the coffees at coffee time and then again at bedtime, for those who needed further doses. There was also a breakfast round but that was purely the business of the night nurse. This was how it had been done in the Owner's Wife's time and although it seemed unnecessarily official, it was obviously the correct way.

One morning, as I was going round the day room with the milky coffees, I noticed Matron shadowing me, behaving oddly. I pretended not to look at her but watched via the mantel mirror and was shocked to see that she was taking pills from the little dose cups on the patients' trays. I watched her do it a few times before I could really believe it. She'd approach a patient and begin a little chat and then, with her hand slightly behind her, she'd feel for the pot and tip it into the pocket of her uniform. I watched Matron a lot after that and noticed that she'd rescue pills from the floor and search for them down the side of the easy chairs where the patients let them fall. And then, one day, I saw her hook a pill out of Miss Lawson's mouth with her tiny little finger before she could swallow it down, and she glugged down her syrupy stuff.

I found myself angry with Matron mostly for living up to the bad opinion Sister Saleem had of her and doing something that would certainly result in her being sacked if she got caught. And being in the very situation she so dreaded—jobless and homeless. I knew I should probably do something—confront her or tell someone—but I hadn't the energy or the heart straight away.

Then, not long after that, Miss Lawson bit me. She bit me because she was confused and deranged, due to not having taken the tablets and syrup she'd been prescribed to prevent it.

It was teatime on Miss Lawson's birthday, I'd fed her two whole Primula Cheese and chive sandwiches and a mushed-up peach and was feeling pleased with myself. I'd lit the candle on her little birthday cake, we'd sung Happy Birthday and I'd taken her bony little hands and held them with both of mine. ‘Happy birthday,' I said, ‘let's blow out this candle.' And I smiled at her. She seemed to smile back but then yanked my hand up and sank her gums into the flesh just above the thumb.

She gripped tight and wouldn't let go. I tried to pull my hand away, but she still wouldn't let go. I pulled so hard at one point she almost fell off the chair (she wasn't very heavy—approx six stone). It was frightening and embarrassing—and painful, though that was neither here nor there—and all the time she stared up at me with manic eyes. I tried and tried to shake her off without disturbing the other patients but her jaw seemed to have locked shut.

There was something horrific about the tremulous grip, the jumble of our four hands all by her bony head and the strings of saliva hanging down. It seemed like something very dark and bad and demonic. Miranda stood by, bent double laughing, saying it was like the time Melody fed grapes to a tortoise in Chapel and it had bitten her in exactly the same way and they'd had to call the police.

Miss Boyd noticed and tried to intervene. ‘You vicious little woman,' she shouted, and tried to hit Miss Lawson with her stick. I had to fend off the stick to protect Miss Lawson. Miss Boyd yelled down the table, ‘Miss Lawson has got the little nurse in a gum bite and she won't leave off of her.'

And Miss Moody, sitting on the opposite side, burst into tears and then said, ‘Oh dear, oh dear, oh dearie, dearie me,' and then called out that she'd had an accident and needed assistance.

Soon Sister Saleem arrived and evacuated the table so that there was only Miss Lawson and me sitting there. Sister asked me what had happened. I explained and she looked at us for a moment and said, ‘Annie Lawson, I am here now.' And she put her hands softly around Miss Lawson's face. ‘Annie, you haven't been taking your medication, have you? That's why you're feeling unwell,' she said. ‘If you'll let go of Lizzie's hand we can get you into bed and help you.'

And Sister held Miss Lawson's face like that for some time. My hand was still in Miss Lawson's mouth, and the three of us were all huddled together with the little candle burning out and a tiny trail of smoke giving off that burnt-wax birthday cake smell. Sister spoke to Miss Lawson about how the doctor would find out what was hurting, because she knew there must be something, and continued talking about her aches and pains and so forth until, after a few minutes, Miss Lawson let go of my hand.

Sister Saleem didn't fuss about it. She checked there'd been no puncture of the skin (Miss Lawson's gums or my hand) and sent me to the kitchen to eat some cucumber, which she said was calming, and have a cigarette, which was also calming. With the help of Nurse Eileen, Sister Saleem took Miss Lawson to bed and was soon back in the kitchen—with Miss Lawson's notes—ranting about the dangers of patients not taking their medication properly.

‘What's she on?' She handed the notes to Eileen. ‘I can't read this.'

‘The liquid cosh and a water tablet,' said Eileen.

‘The what?' said Sister Saleem.

‘Largactil,' said Eileen.

‘Patients like Miss Lawson must have the syrup and you must make sure they take it,' she said.

Matron nodded, wiped her teacup dry, put it in the cupboard and left the room. I followed her. She started trotting up the stairs, but I caught up with her.

‘Can't you get tablets from the doctor like any normal person?' I asked.

‘You know I can't,' she said, looking around to check no one was listening.

‘No, I don't,' I said. ‘Why can't you?'

She rushed up the stairs to get away but was soon out of puff and leaning on the banister on the halfway landing. ‘I'm not registered,' she said, breathing hard.

‘So what?' I said. ‘Go and register. What are you—a killer on the run?'

She was affronted and waddled off. I followed her to her room and, when she unlocked the door, I barged in and sat on the only chair.

‘Don't report me, Lizzie,' she said.

‘I will unless you tell me the truth,' I said, and I held my throbbing thumb joint.

Matron blamed everyone else but herself. It was Sister Saleem's new lockable drug cabinet, before which she'd been able to help herself to sleeping pills, painkillers and the liquid cosh. It was Nurse Eileen, who kept the drug-trolley key pinned to her tabard. It was the National Health Service and its prying eyes. It was her mother who'd caused problems years ago, it was her monster of a father and it was the Owner's Wife's fault—for leaving.

‘And now Miss Lawson's bitten you,' she said, as if it had nothing to do with her.

‘It's your fault Miss Lawson bit me, you stole her anti-psychotic medication—which you don't even need, you lunatic,' I shouted.

‘I
do
need it,' she said. ‘I need it more than Lawson does.'

‘No, you don't,' I said. I knew all about prescription drug-takers, my mother having been hooked for years, and I'd seen her top up with Lemsips, dog aspirins and Fisherman's Friends, baby medicine, you name it—anything to prolong the feeling of being medicated, rather than face the world.

‘Please don't report me!' she said, and she ran her hands through her hair dramatically. The gesture was weak now that her hair was straw-coloured, and I recalled the drama of her previous shade ‘Raven's Wing', which was almost black with a glint of bloody red, and which made you not mind her being such a bad person—having the right hair for it, especially with her little snub nose.