Paradise Lodge (26 page)

At 3 p.m. precisely—as per the agreed schedule—Mike Yu appeared in white pyjamas and a black belt ready to begin his kung fu demo and dance. Eileen banged a cup with a spoon and announced that Mike Yu and Miranda Longlady—senior nursing auxiliary—would perform an ancient Chinese folk tale, and that anyone who'd rather hear her talk on bowel health should go next door to the morning room. There was some mumbling but no one moved, guests and patients alike were intrigued by Mike—in his outfit—standing there, trancelike, with such dignity, looking like a warrior of peace.

It was about to begin—Sally-Anne was just about to press ‘Play' on the Panasonic—when the rumble of Big Smig's Kawasaki Z1B 900 broke the mood and Miranda rushed from the room.

‘Hang on,' she called back, ‘don't start the demo yet, it's Big Smig.'

The Kawasaki appeared on the patio and its throbbing engine made some of the ladies tremble and put their hands to their lips in fear.

‘What is it?' they asked. ‘Who is it?'

And Sally-Anne spoke, ‘It's Miranda's boyfriend, Big Smig.'

Mr Simmons said, ‘Sounds like a Hell's Angel.'

‘Oh, no, he's a smashing lad,' said Mrs Longlady.

But the words ‘Hell's Angel' hung in the room and we all looked at Mike Yu, who seemed ready to defend us.

‘Switch the fucking engine off!' Carla B shouted. ‘We're waiting for the kung fu dance.'

Big Smig cut the engine after a flourish. He dismounted and, leaving the Kawasaki centre-stage, strode through the French windows into the day room wearing Belstaffs and a full-face helmet. He looked like an alien intruder who wanted to force us all into his spaceship and the room was silent and terrified. Even Mrs Longlady looked perturbed.

He took the helmet off and tousled his hair with his free hand and suddenly he was just a handsome young man with freckles and a chipped front tooth, not unlike Huckleberry Finn or Tom Sawyer or some other nice American boy who you can probably trust. Miranda rushed up to greet him and it was easy to see that he'd parked his car in her garage and Mike Yu stood there, feet slightly apart in the position of readiness.

‘Sorry,' said Big Smig, ‘silly me—I thought it was time for us.'

Miranda stood beside Smig. ‘I'm not doing the kung fu dance, Mike,' she said.

Mike Yu looked downcast but seemed to accept it. The room groaned. Mike nodded and stepped forward. ‘I will give you a modern, kung fu interpretation of
The Weaver Girl and the Cowherd
—a Chinese folk tale about the love between Zhinü, the weaver girl, and Niulang, the cowherd. Their love was not allowed, and they were banished to opposite sides of the Silver River. But once a year hundreds of magpies would flock together, wing-to-wing, to form a bridge to reunite the lovers for one day.' He paused, then said, ‘I will do my best on my own.'

Before he could begin Miss Tyler interrupted excitedly to tell the audience she had a serving platter depicting this very tale.

Sally-Anne pressed ‘Play' and ‘Kung Fu Fighting' filled the room. Mike Yu began, there in the middle of the day room, a routine of kung fu moves perfectly in time with the music. And after a bit of a nervous start, the audience were soon clapping to the beat.

Mike performed alone until Sally-Anne joined in. The audience made noises of approval. Biting her lip from shyness, she sort of karate-chopped the air and you might have thought she was a terrific actor, looking all modest and anxious like a weaver girl might have and glancing over at Mr and Mrs Yu who were sitting in a corner, but I knew she was just being herself and it was a lucky coincidence. And I'm not being mean when I state that Mike would have been better off alone, looking the part and doing very good moves.

The kung fu demo and dance was a huge success, though, and the whole room clapped like mad. Even Miranda, who rushed to take over the Panasonic, was clapping and smiling. Then there was much clanking and whirring as she searched for the music track she wanted.

‘That was great,' said Eileen, banging a cup with a spoon again. ‘Thank you, thank you, Mike and Sally-Anne.'

Sally-Anne stood beside Eileen and, speaking clearly, said, ‘His name is Jiao-Long.'

‘Oh, righto,' said Eileen, ‘thank you to
Jiao-Long
and Sally-Anne.' And, then, consulting her schedule, ‘Now, I think Miranda Longlady, senior nursing auxiliary here at Paradise Lodge, will perform “Motor Biking” with Big Smig.'

Big Smig remounted the Kawasaki and started it up, ‘Motor Biking' blasted out of the Panasonic and Big Smig sped off towards the summer house. He then performed a turn so sharp, gravel cascaded from his sliding rear tyre and his knee almost touched the ground. Everyone gasped.

He came past the French windows again and did a small wheelie and was then out of sight briefly. To everyone's delight, he reappeared and rolled slowly past with Miranda, in hot pants, riding pillion, kneeling behind him, waggling her feet. Again they went out of sight and then reappeared, this time with Miranda standing up behind Big Smig. This caused gasps and clapping. The motorbike disappeared again for quite some time, finally reappearing with Miranda standing on her head behind Big Smig. She then jumped down and into a cartwheel and Big Smig roared off at high speed and didn't come back. The effect was slightly spoilt by the fact that the audience kept thinking he was about to reappear, and then a car would drive past in the lane and you'd hear Miss Boyd say, ‘Here he is.' And so that went on until Eileen suggested it was time for Carla B's party games.

Musical chairs was set up and played but lacked the enthusiasm and chaos usually associated with the game and Carla B moved swiftly on to ‘pin the tail on the donkey'. And then it was time for another cup of tea and a talk from Miss Tyler entitled ‘My Life at Paradise Lodge'.

Mike Yu played his thumb piano and explained the workings of it to some of the more technically minded patients. I was scheduled to do a backbend into crab and kick-over but the length and narrowness of my bridesmaid's dress made it impractical so we went straight to Sue jumping out of the window and Mindy Banks' nephew singing ‘Wings Of A Dove' rather beautifully. I wished he were going to sing the
Miserere mei, Deus
after all, the mood I was in.

The open day drew to a close and there were only a few patients still awake, and a couple of stragglers, when Miranda entered the day room and gave Sally-Anne a bitchy look. Sally-Anne, unusually bold, asked Miranda what her problem was. Miranda replied that she didn't have a problem—and what was her problem?

Sally-Anne said she didn't have a problem and reminded Miranda that she'd asked her first. There was a lot of loud talking about which one of them might or might not have a problem when Miranda suddenly remembered she did have a problem.

‘Oh, yes, I do have a problem,' she said, ‘that you stole my boyfriend.'

‘I didn't mean to steal Jiao-Long,' said Sally-Anne, ‘he came to me.'

‘Bollocks,' said Miranda.

‘He doesn't fancy you.'

There were gasps at that.

‘You
what
?' said Miranda.

‘He's never fancied you,' said Sally-Anne, in her quiet voice.

‘Yes, he has,' said Miranda, furious.

‘So, how come you never had intercourse?' said Sally-Anne.

‘Who says we never?' asked Miranda.

‘
You
did,' I said, wearily, ‘you said Mike wanted to walk through the forest on foot, remember, and see all the dewdrops etc.'

Miranda stormed out of the room.

A few of us, including my mother, sat chatting in the kitchen. Sister Saleem came in, flopped into a chair dramatically and beamed. It had been a very successful afternoon.

‘I think that went well,' she said.

The owner said he supposed so, except he'd been on tenterhooks all afternoon waiting for the Attenboroughs to pop back—he'd been longing to speak to Dickie about
The Bridge on the River Kwai
. And Sister Saleem put her hand out and told him not to be silly and he put his hand on her hand.

‘We didn't need the Attenboroughs,' she said, and put her other hand on top of his hand, and we all stared at their hands. ‘We're on the map.'

Mr Holt arrived in the van to take us home and tooted outside. Jack got up to go and my mother told him we'd be out in a minute. She thanked Sister Saleem and the owner for sharing the open day with her and Mr Holt, and then she added her hand to the pile of their hands and it was all very affectionate. Sister Saleem said some things about my sister and me—praising our niceness and our invaluable contribution to Paradise Lodge etc.—and my mother said it was lovely to hear but she wished I wouldn't work there quite so often and that I'd go to school more. I basked in these two women talking and worrying about me—as any normal fifteen-year-old would.

Then, as we got up to go, my mother told Sister Saleem how she'd very nearly not recognized Matron when she'd delivered towels to St Mungo's shelter, because she'd been wearing slacks.

Sister Saleem and I leapt up in shock.

We drove into Leicester in Sister Saleem's Daf Variomatic. It was slow and had no radio but the highest-pitched engine I'd ever known, so that by the time we'd reached our destination we were all on edge. Sister and I went into the hostel and the owner waited in the car because of the parking situation. Sister, still in her yellow ensemble, and me, in my bridesmaid's dress and tiara.

Inside, Sister Saleem spoke to a staff member.

‘My name is Sister Saleem and this is my colleague. We're looking for Maria Moran, she's a nursing matron and may be wearing uniform,' she said, ‘navy blue.'

‘Or possibly slacks,' I added.

The staff member said they'd had a number of enquiries regarding a Maria Moran and I said, ‘Yes, that was me enquiring—we still haven't found her.'

‘I'm sorry, we can't help you. According to our records, Maria Moran isn't here and never has been,' said the staff member.

Sister Saleem was forceful. ‘Actually, someone saw her here a couple of days ago.'

‘Really?' said the staff member. ‘We've had only two new residents recently—one, a male, from Nottingham and the other, a female, from London, I believe.' He consulted a ledger and whispered, ‘a Bridget Monaghan.'

‘Oh, my God, Bridget Monaghan! She's the owner's distant cousin,' I shouted.

The staff member said he'd go and tell Bridget we were here, but it was up to her whether or not she wanted to see us—in his experience these situations could be difficult. As he walked away, Sister whispered that we should say nothing about the Bridget Monaghan thing for the time being and leave it to the solicitor.

‘We shouldn't jump the gun, Lis,' she said.

Her English was really coming on, I thought.

Matron appeared in the foyer looking grumpy and self-conscious. She was wearing slacks and a St Michael blouse I recognized as Miss Brixham's.

‘Wow,' I said, ‘I hardly recognized you.'

Matron made a joke about Sister Saleem's Syreeta hairstyle. Sister told her gently that Lady Briggs had died. Matron paused for a moment, ‘So, is that what you've come for? To tell me that Lady Briggs has died?'

‘We've come to take you home, Matron,' said Sister.

Matron reminded Sister that she'd sacked her and she was no longer Matron. And Sister Saleem reminded Matron that she had
never
been Matron, if she was going be argumentative.

‘I sacked you for gross negligence,' said Sister. ‘You left a vulnerable patient in a sheep field, remember.'

The member of staff looked up from his desk.

‘He isn't
vulnerable
, he's a spoilt old bastard,' said Matron.

‘I sacked you, but I didn't throw you out into the street,' said Sister. ‘I made it clear you were entitled to keep your room until you sorted out somewhere to live.'

‘Yes, and I sorted out here,' said Matron, ‘and it's fine.'

‘Are you coming home?' asked Sister Saleem.

Matron shrugged. The member of staff looked up again.

‘Are you coming or not?' I asked. ‘I want to see my mum off on her honeymoon.'

Matron toddled off and reappeared, struggling with her Teasmade and a small bag. I travelled with her and Sister Saleem back to Paradise Lodge in You Jolly Fucker, which had two parking tickets on the windscreen and a note saying the car was in danger of being towed away unless it was moved within forty-eight hours. Sister asked me to go with the owner in the Daf because he was on his own. I refused, saying I never wanted to go in the Daf ever again.

Back at Paradise Lodge, the owner phoned to ask Jeremy Hughes if he'd mind popping in, to speak to Matron/Bridget Monaghan.

I'd missed seeing my mother and Mr Holt off, so I rang The Bell Inn, Moreton-in-Marsh, where they were staying the night and having dinner. Miraculously I was put through to their room and had a chat with my mother while Mr Holt had a bath. I told her we'd got Matron back and hurriedly explained about Matron turning out to (possibly, probably) be the woman to whom Lady Briggs had willed a cottage. My mother was very excited and sent a message of congratulations.

‘We haven't told her yet,' I said, ‘just in case.'

My mother understood and said also it might come as a huge shock and that we should be prepared for ructions. ‘It'll be like winning a competition she didn't know she'd entered,' she said, ‘she could have a heart attack.'

When Jeremy Hughes the solicitor arrived that evening, he went straight into the owner's nook with the owner and Matron and broke the news about Lady Briggs bequeathing the cottage. No messing about or coffee and Coffee-Mate. You could tell he wanted to get it over with and get home for his dinner, and fair enough—it was Saturday night and I bet they were having a steak. He was the type.

Sister Saleem, Eileen and I eavesdropped and were ready for ructions.

‘… to live in for your lifetime, after which it will revert back to the Anderssen estate, and furthermore you may live on the proceeds therefrom, should you need further accommodation,' rambled Jeremy Hughes in legal jargon.

‘So, I can live in it, and then what?' asked Matron.

‘You can move out and live somewhere else on the rental proceeds—a nursing home, for instance—should you so wish,' said the owner, ‘or need.'

‘Do you think I could have one of the flats instead?' Matron asked. And Jeremy Hughes said no, he didn't think she could.

I broke away from the other eavesdroppers and went into the nook with the three of them. I wanted to sort something out.

‘Matron,' I said, ‘did you know Lady Briggs was the owner's mother?'

I said it very clearly because I was certain Matron would not be able to comprehend the question.

‘Of course I did,' she said, ‘didn't you?'

‘No, I didn't.'

‘What was all that grovelling for, then?' she said.

Jeremy Hughes looked at his watch and I left them to it. I hated Matron.

Afterwards, when Jeremy Hughes had gone, we celebrated Matron's return and her good news with a cup of coffee and rum. Staff and patients (some in their nightgowns) wandered in to welcome her home and hear her tales of running away, which had apparently started when she was a teenager. We had to listen to quite a bit of historical stuff and some obvious lies before she reached the most recent adventure.

It felt as though the day had gone on and on forever—even writing it, it seems impossible—and I longed to get home but Gordon and Mindy Banks had called in and Gordon was quite emotional so I stayed. ‘Paradise Lodge wasn't the same without you,' he said, with great meaning. But Matron still had no respect since seeing him washing his car in the Marigolds, and she just shrugged.

‘I heard you stole old Bert's car,' chuckled Gordon, meaning You Jolly Fucker.

‘I borrowed it,' said Matron. She told us then that her original plan had been to actually
live
in You Jolly Fucker, opposite the fire station, and use Longston Library as her sitting room and get breakfast from The Travellin' Man—where she had a discount—and keep a permanent wash flannel on a hot pipe and a bar of Camay in the ladies' toilet there. But, in the end, she hadn't been able to get the front seat of the Rover flat enough to make a comfy bed and she presented herself as a homeless Londoner at St Mungo's.

Mr Simmons laughed. ‘Oh, yes, that lever's a devil, you need to give it a really good yank.'

‘Did you find that friend of yours at St Mungo's?' I asked.

‘What friend?' asked Matron.

‘Your dear friend who ended up there—she owned nothing but her name—but whose name you couldn't remember?' I asked.

‘Oh her, I forgot about her,' said Matron.

She was surprisingly complimentary about St Mungo's and reported only one awkward moment—when someone mistook her soft toy for a rat and threw a fire extinguisher at it.

I watched Matron's face in all its expressions and her chubby arms gesticulating as she continued with her tales, and I went into a kind of reverie. It was easily a match for
The Fortunes and Misfortunes of the Famous Moll Flanders
, I thought.

… Born in Newgate, and during a Life of continu'd Variety for Threescore Years, besides her Childhood, was Twelve Year a Whore, five times a Wife (whereof once to her own Brother), Twelve Year a Thief, Eight Year a Transported Felon in Virginia, at last grew Rich, liv'd Honest, and dies a Penitent. Written from her own Memorandums…

I smiled at my own cleverness and the brilliance of Moll herself. And planned to tell Matron to start writing her memoirs asap.

‘The open day went
very
well today,' said Mindy Banks, and though Matron showed little interest in our big day, we couldn't help ourselves but tell her all about it.

Sister Saleem described my heart-shaped sandwiches and Carla B's amazing bunting. Eileen told her about the Attenboroughs and their nice voices and maroon car and how they'd loved her paintings. Carla B remembered my mother's pretty wedding dress and Sue jumping out of the window. Mr Simmons told her that he'd been banned from doing his magic tricks because Sister had said it was against God. Sister Saleem protested and said she'd meant against nature. Matron's attention was only caught, though, when Miranda described Sally-Anne stepping in and snatching Mike Yu away from her.

‘Where is Sally-Anne?' asked Matron.

‘She's gone for a Chinese lesson with Mrs Yu,' said Eileen.

‘I don't care,' said Miranda, ‘I'm back with Smig.'

It was getting late and the night nurse was making the bedtime drinks. We all rejoiced at the various happy endings, as well as regretting the less happy ones, and raised our coffee mugs to Lady Briggs.

‘And we were thrilled to hear that you've inherited a lovely home to live in,' chirped Mindy, ‘weren't we, Gordon?'

‘Yes,' said Gordon, ‘congratulations.'

‘It's not a
lovely home
actually,' said Matron, ‘it's a tiny cottage in the middle of nowhere with a hippy bloke living in it.'

‘It's a short-term let,' said the owner. ‘Blue will move out in January if you need him to.'

‘You don't seem very pleased about it,' said Miranda.

‘Yeah,' agreed Eileen, ‘you've just inherited a cottage with two outhouses and a myrtle tree—bloody hell!'

‘Yeah, considering
everything
and all the fuss,' I said, pointedly, ‘Jesus!'

‘Of course I'm pleased,' protested Matron, ‘but I want my job back.' And her voice cracked a bit.

‘Do you?' said Sister Saleem. ‘But can you behave yourself? That's the question.'

‘Of course I can behave myself,' said Matron, indignantly.

‘She can now she's got the cottage,' I added helpfully.

‘In that case, yes, we
do
need an auxiliary nurse,' said Sister Saleem.

‘A live-in position?' asked Matron.

‘If you like,' said Sister Saleem.

‘But we don't
need
an auxiliary—
do
we?' said Eileen.

‘Yes, we do,' said Sister Saleem, ‘to replace Lis.'

‘What?' I said.

‘Yes, Lis, you're sacked,' said Sister.

‘What?' I cried. ‘Why?'

‘You have to go to school,' Sister said. ‘We're going to do things properly now, Lis, and that means we can't employ you.' She looked sad. ‘I'm sorry.'

Everyone was staring at me and as I gazed from face to face, trying to make sense of the situation, it dawned on me that everything was sorted. The owner now had enough money to get Paradise Lodge properly back on its feet (and seemed to have Sister Saleem by his side—literally and metaphorically—and Rick in his pocket). I'd taught Sister Saleem all the euphemisms she'd ever need. Matron was safe and sound forever. Mr Simmons was where he wanted to be. Mike had been rescued from Miranda. Miranda was back with sex-loving Smig. Sally-Anne was learning Chinese at the Yus'. My sister was about to start a career in nursing and my mother, though lacking credibility, was at least married.

‘You'll fly through your exams now you've got all those books,' said Eileen, helpfully.

For a moment I couldn't decide whether to be moody or dignified, and then Miranda piped up, ‘It's like what Mike always said, Lizzie—you're an intellect.'

‘An intellect-
ual
,' I said.