Tread Softly (14 page)

‘What this country should do' – Dorothy rapped her fork on the table – ‘is bring back the hangman, and quickly.'

Lorna wondered if this draconian measure was aimed at Irena in particular or the lawless population in general. Luckily she spotted Sharon just coming from the servery with a tray. ‘Oh, look,' she said. ‘Food!'

Not, alas, the turkey, but a starter: melon-boats, each adorned with a glacé cherry and half an orange-slice – the first fresh fruit she had seen at Oakfield House. However, it didn't please Dorothy or Hilda.

‘I want soup,' said Hilda plaintively.

Dorothy waved the proffered plate away. ‘Melon gives me indigestion.'

‘It's a
treat
,' said Sharon, banging down Dorothy's plate in front of Sydney. ‘For Christmas.'

‘Hardly a treat! It's not even ripe.'

‘I want soup.'

‘There's no soup today, Miss Chambers. Tomorrow you'll have soup – turkey soup all bloody week, no doubt.'

‘Did you say “bloody'', Sharon?'

‘No, 'course not, Mrs Fleming. I said –'

‘I want turkey.' Hilda again, changing tack.

‘Yeah, so do we all. Tommy's just carving it – or hacking it to pieces, more like.'

Tommy was clearly versatile, juggling the roles of bath attendant, Santa Claus and chef. Melon-cutter too, perhaps. Each slice had been cut crossways, to form bite-size chunks, although this didn't prevent mishaps on the part of the less dextrous. Soon melon bullets were flying in all directions, landing on the carpet or the tablecloth. Lorna retrieved one from her lap, wondering whether to hand it back to its owner.

A care assistant was trying to feed Irena, who stubbornly refused to open her mouth. ‘OK,
be
like that,' the girl said, snatching the plate away. (Peace and good will had reached a depressingly low ebb.)

‘I want soup,' Hilda reiterated, in case her previous demands had gone unheard.

Soup would certainly have been a better choice for Sydney, whose lack of teeth made unripe melon hazardous. He did rather ill-advisedly put the orange-slice in his mouth, but then took it out, half-chewed, and offered it to Irena. The countess haughtily ignored him.

‘Well, down the hatch!' said Lorna brightly, raising her second glass. She felt better already, in spite of having to sit with her foot propped up at an extremely awkward angle, which sent spasms of pain down her back. One took so many things for granted, like being able to sit four-square at the table, with both feet on the floor.

‘Chin-chin!' responded Hilda, also embarking on her second glass. Fortunately there was no sign of Matron nor any obvious change in Hilda's condition, but Lorna kept an eye on her, prepared for emergency measures.

The carers started to clear away the melon plates, and indeed most of the melon. Ar Oakfield House, serving the food was clearly of more importance than ensuring its consumption. Maybe the recent spate of deaths was due less to strokes and heart attacks than to simple malnutrition.

Lorna refused to relinquish her plate until she had scraped the melon-skin clean and even eaten the orange-rind (to provide a few extra calories). After all, there was no guarantee that any more food was on its way. Knowing Tommy's temperament, the turkey might end up on the kitchen floor.

But no, she was wrong. Sharon and a small, spindly, dark-skinned fellow were approaching with a tray of plates.

‘Good God,' Dorothy expostulated. ‘What's
this
supposed to be?'

The turkey, anaemically white, was reduced to shreds – a sorry heap spattered with blobs of stuffing and accompanied by a single boiled potato and a mush of disintegrating, greyish Brussels sprouts.

‘Where's mine?' asked Lorna anxiously when everyone but her had been served.

‘Coming.'

While she waited she sipped yet more sherry. Pure benevolence, of course – to keep the others out of danger. In fact Dorothy must have drunk as much as she had, although her tongue was as sharp as ever.

‘If I've told them once I've told them a thousand times. There's no goodness left in vegetables if they're cooked to a pulp like this.'

‘I want vegetables.'

‘You've
got
them, Hilda,' Dorothy said tartly. ‘That disgusting mess there.' She poked it with her knife. ‘If you don't mind, Lorna, I'll start. Mustn't let it get cold. A joke, of course! In all the time I've been here I've never known a meal served hot, and I doubt if today's will be any different.' Sampling a piece of turkey, she gave an exaggerated shudder. ‘Tough, tasteless and probably swarming with Tommy's germs. Well, if this is Christmas dinner they can keep it. Sharon!' She snapped her fingers at the girl, who was now serving the adjoining table. ‘Bring me a round of buttered toast. This food's inedible.'

‘I can't be making toast, Mrs Fleming. Not now. I've got all the others to serve.'

‘Including me,' Lorna reminded her. Tough, tasteless, germ-infested turkey was still preferable to none.

‘I won't be spoken to like that, Sharon. It's high time you learned some respect.'

‘And it's time you learned to get off your high horse,' Sharon muttered, marching off in a huff.

Lorna sighed. With Sharon gone she would have to beg a dinner from one of the other carers. She craned her neck to look into the servery, where a couple of girls appeared to be doing nothing. Then she realized to her horror that they were, in fact, helping themselves to the residents' Christmas pudding, apparently unaware they were being watched. They gouged out lumps with their hands, licking their fingers greedily before digging into the pudding again. No wonder Dorothy had talked about germs: she too must have observed such flagrant breaches of hygiene. Their behaviour was outrageous. Wasn't anyone in charge? Surely if Matron saw them she would sack them on the spot. Some of the residents had only just recovered from flu. Now, it seemed, they were in danger of food-poisoning.

Revolted, she turned back to the table. Maybe it was just as well she hadn't any food. But then all at once her stomach rumbled audibly, as if informing her that a stomach upset was preferable to starvation. And at that moment the small, spindly fellow happened to be passing, so, suppressing her scruples, she caught his eye. ‘Sorry to bother you …' – she squinted at his name badge – ‘Hashim, but I haven't had my main course yet.'

‘You Mrs Clark?'

Oh dear. With his thick accent, there were bound to be more misunderstandings. ‘No, I'm Mrs Pearson. Or Mrs Paterson, if you prefer. Either will do fine.'

‘You Mrs Fine?'

‘No.' (The Monster would die laughing.) ‘Mrs … Peear … sonn.'

‘Oh.' He frowned, abandoning further attempts to use her name. ‘You like melon?'

‘Yes, very nice. But I've had my melon. Now I want turkey.'

‘
Turkey?'

Was it such a peculiar request – on Christmas Day, when everyone else in the room was tucking in? ‘Yes, turkey, please. Lots.' Untouched by human hand, she added
sotto voce
.

‘I go ask Chef.'

‘Chef not there.'

‘
He's
not there, if you ask me,' Dorothy put in, removing a black bit from her potato. ‘It's always the same with these darkies. God knows what language they speak at home – if they've got homes, which I doubt – but it's certainly not English.'

Lorna sprang to Hashim's defence, regretting her earlier irritation. The poor man might be struggling to support an invalid mother or a brood of under-fives. ‘At least he's trying,' she said, crunching a stray orange-pip to fight off her hunger pangs.

‘They have to do more than try, Lorna. That's the trouble with this country today: no standards, no national pride. Is it any wonder we're going to the dogs?'

‘I want sherry!' Hilda reached for another glass.

‘No, that's mine,' said Lorna, alarmed at Hilda's hectic flush and having visions of her keeling over. Would they all be charged as accessories to murder?

‘You've had more than your fair share already, young lady!' The words were perfectly enunciated, the voice unmistakably English. Astonished, Lorna looked at Irena – deaf, foreign Irena, who met her eyes with a malevolent glower. The countess said nothing further, although the unflinching gaze was condemnation enough.

‘Gosh, yes, you're right. I'm … sorry,' Lorna stammered. Perhaps Irena was neither Polish nor deaf. Feigned deafness could be useful here, as an escape from largely pointless conversations. Had she known in advance the vagaries of Oakfield House, she could have come forearmed with a hearing-aid (switched permanently off), a canteen of cutlery, a supply of ready-meals and several rolls of toilet-paper (there had been none this morning, and no one to ask).

Every time she glanced up she met the intimidating Gorgon stare. Again she gave thanks that she wasn't actually eating – subjected to such venomous scrutiny, even a morsel of food would have choked her.

‘Goodnight,' said Sydney suddenly – the only word Lorna had heard him utter.

‘Er, goodnight,' she replied. Was it wishful thinking on his part, to make the day go faster?

‘Goodnight,' he said again.

‘Goodnight,' she countered valiantly.

‘Goodnight, Madge.'

Madge? Lorna gave a bewildered smile. He was evidently still addressing her, his rheumy eyes fixed doggedly on hers. Another name to add to the collection.

‘Goodnight,' he prompted.

Her turn. ‘Goodnight.'

‘Goodnight.' Would they continue like this till it
was
night? Well, in the absence of other distractions there were worse ways of passing the time.

After a dozen more goodnights, Hashim came to the rescue by bringing her meal – not turkey, not stuffing, not even vegetables, but a small piece of plain white fish marooned on a large white plate. She goggled. ‘
Fish?'

‘Matron say you on special diet.'

‘Special diet? Certainly not!'

‘Matron say no meat.'

‘Goodnight.' Sydney spluttered bits of stuffing in Lorna's direction.

Dorothy rounded on him in annoyance. ‘It happens to be lunch-time, Sydney. I admit you have cause to doubt it, since several of us here have failed to
get
any lunch – or anything worth calling lunch – but it certainly won't help matters if you keep insisting that it's bedtime.'

Her outburst was largely wasted on Sydney, although it did succeed in reducing him to silence. In the lull, Lorna told Hashim again that she wasn't on a diet. In fact in the two days she'd been at Oakfield House she must have lost half a stone. And this was Christmas, for heaven's sake, when the rest of the nation was gourmandizing.

‘You
fish
!' beamed Hashim, his comprehension levels roughly similar to Sydney's.

‘He's mixing you up with Miss Bagley,' Dorothy explained. ‘She eats fish for every meal, including breakfast. It's some religious thing. She's stark staring mad, but they have to humour her. Her husband's a big noise on the council.'

‘Where is she? Can't we swap?'

‘No, she's in her room. She never comes out except for church.'

‘So how could they muddle the plates?'

‘Here they can muddle anything. I suggest you eat it, dear. If you ask for it to be changed they'll probably bring you Rodney's meal, and he's a vegan. It's up to you. If you'd
prefer
a plate of sunflower seeds …'

‘No, no, this'll do.' After removing several bones, Lorna took a cautious mouthful and washed it down with sherry. At least fish was marginally better than last year's cheese and deadline sandwiches, even if it was flavourless and semi-raw. No one else was eating. Hilda had hiccups, Sydney was now serenely dribbling (perhaps imagining that night had fallen at last) and Irena engaged in fisticuffs with a despotic care assistant who had tried to force a fork between her lips. Dorothy was in full flow about over-fishing in the North Sea, presumably inspired by Lorna's minuscule portion of cod. All the while the rain provided a counterpoint, slamming against the windows with gleeful malice.

‘Who's that woman with the bad foot?' A loud voice from the adjoining table.

‘I think she's Hilda's daughter.' Equally loud.

‘She can't be. Hilda's not married.'

‘Well, whoever she is, she's no business to stick her leg up like that. It's bad manners. And right in Dorothy's way. If there's something wrong with her she should stay at home.'

Lorna froze. Should she explain the situation? Best not. Judging by their volume, the speakers were deaf, which meant she would have to shout, and she didn't fancy introducing the shameful subject of bunions to the assembled company. (Actually the dining-room was much less full than yesterday, with only the rejects left – those without families, or too ill or decrepit to go out for the day. A few relatives had come for lunch, looking wretched for the most part as they made stilted conversation between mouthfuls of cold turkey.)

‘Oh my God!' Dorothy exclaimed, interrupting her own tirade about dwindling haddock stocks.

‘What's wrong?' asked Lorna, startled.

Dorothy leaned towards her and hissed in a stage whisper: ‘They're about to remove Mr Wilcox.'

‘I beg your pardon?'

‘Mr Wilcox. Who passed away this morning. They always smuggle the corpses out at mealtimes. They think none of us will notice. But
I
always know. For one thing, it's the only time they shut the dining-room doors. Look out of that side window and you'll see the ambulance.'

Lorna swivelled in her chair. A long, low, white vehicle was parked by the dustbins, with ‘Private Ambulance' in blue letters on the side. The piece of fish in her mouth turned rubbery and dead. She was chewing Mr Wilcox – that same cold, stiffening body being trundled past the firmly closed dining-room doors. ‘Where's M … Mrs Wilcox?' she asked.