Paradise Lodge (20 page)

Even though Newfields were getting all the available patients, Sister Saleem never indulged in badmouthing them—the rest of us did, though. We called it ugly, modern and soulless, and said the nurses looked like clapped-out old prossers. How could the patients be happy, we wondered, when there wasn't a tree or a leaf in sight, let alone a reservoir view? It was all wipe-clean and plastic, nothing was antique or unique (not counting the patients themselves) and the nurses were only there for the money. Sister Saleem's attitude was, if
GP
s were recommending the place and patients choosing to go there, they must like what Newfields had to offer. It was a free market and instead of childish name-calling and envy, we should take note and make our home more attractive and get it noticed. We should fight back.

And when Newfields put out a brand-new, glossy eight-page brochure packed with activities, amenities, facilities (including their new ‘Stair-levator' stair-mounted lift) and smiling 65-year-olds sniffing sweet williams, Sister Saleem just leafed calmly through it and used it to gently motivate us.

‘Look here,' she said, ‘they have daily chairobics to improve flexibility—we can do that. They have goldfish, bingo, games afternoons and Vicar visits—we can do all that.'

And then, after a long talk with the owner, Sister Saleem announced that Paradise Lodge was going to fight back with a full-colour illustrated advertising leaflet which would be distributed to appropriate places throughout the county and really get the Paradise Lodge name ‘out there'. It was important news, but without the actual leaflet there to admire, it was difficult to get excited.

Also, we were to have the builders in to make a series of small but important and very visible improvements to the place.

Carla B, who'd worked at Newfields, talked us through the Newfields brochure. She said the people in the pictures weren't bona fide patients but models from the
ABC
School of Dancing where the Owner's Wife and Dee-Anna were taking lessons, and the tropical fish tank had been on loan from the Red Rickshaw for the shoot, and she told us that there was a secret plan to throw Newfields open to the public the following Whitsun holiday (by which time the grass and saplings would have grown a bit), when they'd offer tours of the home, with entertainments, local celebrities, Radio Leicester and refreshments. And it would become an annual event—maybe even the highlight of Whitsun.

‘She's going to invite everyone and it will all be free and fun,' said Carla B.

‘Why don't we have an open day,' I shouted, ‘but sooner?'

‘Brillo, Lis!' said Sister Saleem. ‘We will beat them to it.'

Then we did get excited. We all chattered like mad about what we might do at our open day until Sister Saleem shut us up and scheduled a meeting for the following week where we could all share ideas and suggestions sensibly. We talked of almost nothing else all week.

Sister wondered if we should get a local choir to sing—maybe even her church—but we all said no. The patients and villagers were up to their necks in choirs and would prefer some amusing and interesting turns, like Miranda's moving dance to ‘Young Hearts Run Free' or Carla B's cancan, which showed her pants, but fleetingly (that being the point). Sister agreed but drew the line at Big Smig reciting ‘Mary had a little lamb' in burps. I couldn't think of anything to do.

My sister suggested bringing Sue the dog to do her jumping out of the window trick, which she loved doing and for some reason looked hilarious, especially after being told, ‘Stay, Sue, do not go out of that door, Sue.' It doesn't sound much but I was certain the patients would love it, it being just their kind of silly humour.

Sally-Anne was too shy and awkward to perform any act but agreed, in theory, to wear a coat backwards for Eileen's ‘two drunken men' act. But Sister Saleem had misgivings and felt it might offend the owner.

Gordon Banks' wife, Mindy, wanted her ten-year-old nephew to sing Allegri's
Miserere mei, Deus
, but we all groaned and said we didn't want anything gloomy or serious. Mindy said he was double-jointed and could bend his thumbs back horribly at the end. I knew the
Miserere
and said it would be sacrilege to bend his thumbs back at the end and Mindy said she was just trying to add a comedy note. In the end we said he could sing ‘Mother Of Mine' or ‘Wings Of A Dove' and she was happy. The cook wanted to bring her dog, Brandy, in and have it attack the Hoover, which was apparently great fun to watch, but we'd already got Sue's window leap to look forward to so asked the cook for a boiled ham instead.

Carla B talked endlessly about the importance of bunting and tried to recruit people to help her sew the necessary yards of it but no one volunteered, and she was on her own. I couldn't help but wonder if this was somehow connected to her being asexual and wanting some kind of elaborate physical activity.

I haven't said much about Carla B (apart from her being asexual). But I'd like to add here that I started liking her (or rather sympathizing) when she'd said one day, ‘I used to love Mondays and longed for school to start again,' meaning she hated being at home at weekends. It made me think she must've had a miserable home life. In my opinion, having a miserable home life is the worst thing to have—whoever you are—because it should be where you're able to rush in and go to the toilet and flop on the sofa and cry at the horror of the world, or laugh at the silliness of it, and not dread being there. God. And thinking that made me realize how nice my own home was and, even more so, how nice Paradise Lodge was and how much we all, patients and nurses alike, loved to be there—crying or laughing or on the toilet. And that was a huge deal and I considered offering to speak along these lines at the open day. I might have said that I liked being there so much that on my split shifts, in the break between 1 p.m. and 5 p.m. when I could have jumped on a bus to somewhere exciting or gone upstairs to the off-duty nurses' quarters and listened to records or gone for a walk in the pretty countryside, I preferred to hang about, sitting on the arm of an easy chair, showing a lady how well the Norwegian hand cream rubs in compared to Nivea and doesn't leave a greasy residue, although I'd have had to admit to preferring the smell of Nivea for a general body lotion. Still do. I didn't offer to speak, though, because the sad fact is that ideas of this kind just don't come across, you can't tell it, you have to feel it for yourself. But to me it was a huge revelation.

By the time the official open day meeting came we had a thousand wonderful ideas between us. Some of the best things were rejected for safety or financial reasons, including the donkey derby and the hot-air balloon. Sister Saleem had to keep emphasizing and re-emphasizing how little cash we had to spend and that the entertainments must be home-made, and she reminded us that the whole point was to showcase the home and the idea of living there. By the end of the planning meeting everyone had been given their duties and jobs in the run-up to the event and for the actual day, and we had a provisional schedule including the following:

Gordon Banks to head a balloon

Guests welcomed in with a glass of sherry or squash

House tours offered throughout the afternoon (guided by the owner and Carla B)

Talks entitled ‘My Life at Paradise Lodge' (Miss Tyler and Matron)

Hand and foot care, nail cutting and hand cream application (Deb-on-Hair)

Talk entitled ‘Constipation: Causes, Cures and Common Sense' (in a side room with Nurse Eileen)

Afternoon tea

‘Young Hearts Run Free'—dance on the patio (Miranda Longlady)

Sue the dog

The thumb piano demonstration (Mike Yu)

‘I Dreamt I Dwelt In Marble Halls' (Lady Briggs)

‘Wings Of A Dove' sung by Wesley Banks

Sketching lesson (Nurse Eileen)

Chairobics session

Miss Tyler's ‘Oh! Oh! Antonio' (which no one had actually heard but she'd do on the day)

Kung fu demonstration and
The Weaver Girl and the Cowherd
story-dance (Mike Yu and Miranda Longlady)

Barry Sheene demo on gravel path (Big Smig)

We spent a good many team talks focusing on the open day—the activities, talks, tours and entertainments. Also, what refreshments? Sister had wondered about roasting a kid but we all agreed that the patients and guests would prefer egg and cress sandwiches and cakes.

Sister Saleem was keen to have a leaflet in time for the open day, and there was much talk about what to feature in it. And once we'd decided between us, Sister Saleem and my sister made a rough and took some photographs and hired Mr Costello—of Costello & Son Printers from Northampton—to produce a trifold advertising leaflet.

And then one day, at coffee break, Mr Costello called in and delivered five fat bundles of leaflets, and they looked wonderful. They weren't as glossy and thick as the Newfields brochure but they were a start and Paradise Lodge already felt better and improved.

The words across the front read: ‘Paradise Lodge—
Come Here to Live
'.

‘Come Here to Live' had been Nurse Eileen's idea. She'd said it to Mr Godrich's relatives when they'd wanted him to be admitted too soon, before he was well enough, and it turned out they couldn't stand looking after Rick the dog.

‘Come Here to Live' implied you'd have a fun time and that you hadn't just been dumped there to die. Even though you probably, eventually would.

There were three colour photographs on the leaflet. One was of Miranda in her white dress, smiling at Miss Tyler in her turban. There was a fold across Miranda's face, which gave her a big chin. Another was of Mr Simmons' hand—with clean, short nails and a signet ring—resting on the arm of Mr Freeman's corduroy Parker Knoll with just a hint of a garden view. The last was of Rick the Yorkshire terrier sitting in Miss Boyd's lap and Miss Boyd laughing but looking dignified in a smart blouse. It was only right that Rick should feature, him being a dog and us having a ‘well-behaved dogs welcome' policy and him indirectly causing the slogan ‘Come Here to Live'.

There was also a small extra bundle of leaflets which advertised our
Open Day
with a trendy ‘stop press' stamp, as if we'd just remembered it. ‘All Welcome', ‘Refreshments', ‘Entertainments', ‘Talks', ‘Games' it said, and it listed all the fun things on offer. The date was Saturday the 15th.

What? Hang on!

I was stunned to see the date was Saturday the 15th. I almost choked. The 15th was the date for my mother and Mr Holt's wedding day. I froze with confused and troubled thoughts. I checked the date. It was the 15th, both things were happening on the 15th, and neither could be changed.

Which was more important—the open day or the wedding? The wedding, of course, but somehow the open day was important too. Privately, secretly, the open day was
much
more important to me. The open day was a huge thing for me. I was involved. It had been my idea. I had suggested Mike Yu perform on his thumb piano and do a kung fu story-dance and it was me who'd planned Marguerite Patten's skyscraper club sandwiches and two types of tea in separate catering teapots, which were big but had two handles and were easy to carry, even by a steady eighty-year-old (Mr Simmons).

Now it was all going to happen without me there. Mike Yu would do his kung fu while I was stuck at my house, wearing culottes and borrowed high sandals or a home-made bridesmaid's dress (if I let Carrie Frost twist my arm) eating mini cheese flans and sipping a home-made punch and making small talk with two Liberals, two laundry workers and my overexcited mother in a War on Want dress.

I ran up to my sister who was giving a patient a bath. I apologized and interrupted with the bad news. And I gabbled on and on about the social clash. She thought as she rinsed the patient's hair with a jug and then shampooed again.

‘You rinse and repeat?' I said.

‘Sometimes,' she said.

‘We can't miss the open day,' I said, wanting some wisdom and guidance from her.

‘We can't miss the wedding,' she said, which was what I was expecting.

‘I know,' I said. ‘But what about the open day?'

She thought about it. I could tell she was thinking because she rinsed the patient's hair again and shampooed again (a third time). And as she let a thin trickle of water fall gently on to the patient's waxy head she said, ‘The wedding party could take place here—at the open day.'

‘Oh, God,' I said, ‘I mean, gosh.'

And the patient said, ‘Amen.'

I ran down the stairs and found Sister Saleem in the owner's nook.

‘I have a huge favour to ask you,' I said.

The Paradise Lodge open day was going to appeal to the whole community. Mainly, though, to middle-aged people who might want to have an elderly relative housed there. In addition to that, it was going to be the venue for my mother and Mr Holt's wedding tea because Sister Saleem had been thrilled at the idea.

This combining of private and community events was perfectly normal where Sister Saleem came from and since it suited us, no one mentioned it being slightly unusual here. Sister Saleem had only stressed that my mother should wear a proper dress and at least hold a bouquet—knowing how unorthodox she could be at times.

I was to be in charge of the tea—the planning and serving on the day—even though I was also second bridesmaid. I had asked various reliable people, and my mother, for cake and tart donations.

My mum was very pleased to be involved and promised an almond cake which was extremely tricky to make but looked nothing—even though it would be in the run-up to her wedding day and she'd be busy doing what brides do in the run-up. I wondered if she might be better off making something easy that looked stunning—like when you buy a cake and tinker with the icing and pass it off as home-made—but she was adamant the almond cake was the best-tasting cake ever made. It was strange to hear her talking like that about cakes, her being borderline anorexic and never touching a crumb since piling on three stone during her pregnancy with baby Danny due to denying herself drugs.