Tread Softly (15 page)

‘Over there.' Dorothy pointed to the table in the corner. ‘The lady in green.'

The lady in green, sublimely indifferent to the fate of her late husband, was tackling her food with vigour, trying to stuff a whole potato into her mouth.

‘Isn't she … upset?'

‘Not at all. Just before lunch I saw her cuddling up to Rodney. One man's as good as another as far as Edna's concerned. It's OK – all clear now. They're opening the doors again.'

Lorna clutched her sherry-glass. How appalling it must be to live here permanently and watch your fellow residents die off one by one, knowing you might be next. She glanced again at Mrs Wilcox, who now appeared to be choking and had sicked potato down her bib. The others at her table sat in silence, making no attempt to eat. Was the Christmas dinner really worth the effort? Maybe it would have been better, and safer, to have invested in a few dozen jars of baby food; it would have been far less work for the carers, who were now stacking the dirty plates and scraping vast amounts of uneaten food into a plastic pail – whole dinners in most cases. Lorna hoped it would go to the pigs: they at least would enjoy their Christmas.

After an interval punctuated only by Hilda's hiccups, Sharon came slouching back to their table. ‘Do you want Christmas pudding or mince pie?'

‘Both, of course,' snapped Dorothy.

‘Sorry, one or the other.'

‘It's a scandal, considering the fees we pay. I shall write to the management, on principle.'

Sharon merely shrugged.

Lorna was surprised there was any Christmas pudding left, after the depredations of the two thieving care assistants. She herself resolved to opt for pie – if she could manage to eat anything, that is. Mr Wilcox was still lodged in her throat, decomposing, as the Monster had predicted.

‘Which for you, Miss Bancroft?' Sharon said with increasing exasperation.

‘I'm very worried, dear, about missing the Queen's speech. I've heard it without fail for the past seventy-odd years and I wouldn't want to break the tradition.'

‘It's not on till three. And it's only five past two now. Do you want pudding or mince pie?'

‘They said it was in the lounge, but the lounge television's broken. Do you think I ought to tell that man who –?'

Sharon raised her eyes to heaven, but finding no help there either she turned instead to Hilda. ‘Miss Chambers, pudding or mince pie?'

The only response was a hiccup, and, since Sydney was incapable of choosing and Irena refused to hear, Sharon announced irritably, ‘I'll bring three of each, OK?'

‘Yes, fine,' said Lorna, to keep the peace.

‘It's
not
fine, Lorna. If you don't take a stand, who will? The food's an absolute disgrace. I've complained till I'm blue in the face, but no one ever listens.'

Lorna wondered if she could persuade Aunt Agnes to take up residence here, with the express purpose of inculcating gratitude into Dorothy. But that would require a miracle, and miracles were beyond even Aunt Agnes's capabilities.

Both pudding and mince pie eventually arrived, in the same piece-meal state as the turkey. Tommy's heavy hand again, or had all the carers had a go at sampling them? The choice was between dark crumbs (pudding) and pale crumbs (pastry – mincemeat was practically nil). Sharon slammed the plates down indiscriminately. Lorna got pale crumbs, with a coarse black hair – Hashim's? – draped tastefully across the top.

‘Brandy sauce?' Another girl was hovering with a large metal jug of something white and viscous, which looked and smelt like distemper.

‘Oh … thank you.' Lorna removed the hair before it could be swamped. Fortunately Dorothy hadn't seen it, otherwise she would have summoned the health inspectors on the spot.

‘I want brandy,' Hilda hiccupped.

‘Well, you won't get it,' retorted Sharon. ‘And there's none in that sauce neither. Only starch and chemicals.'

‘Sharon, I intend to report you for gross impertinence.'

‘Go ahead, Mrs Fleming. Find some other idiot who'll work all Christmas week for a pittance, waiting on ungrateful sods like you.'

Apoplectic with rage, Dorothy tottered to her feet. ‘
Matron!'
she shrieked.

‘Matron go home,' Hashim informed her helpfully.

‘Yeah. Me too, if I had any sense.' Sharon turned on her heel and stalked out.

Lorna seized the last glass of sherry and drained it at a gulp. The only way to endure the remainder of this unspeakable Christmas Day was to get completely and utterly smashed.

‘Mummy!' she sobbed. ‘Mummy, where have you gone?'

The room was wrong. Small and strange. And cold. Everything had changed. Different bed, different-coloured walls.

‘Mummy,' she screamed. ‘Where am I?'

‘It's all right, Lorna, I'm here.'

A figure had floated in, all in white like a ghost.

‘I want Mummy. I want my mummy.'

‘You're living with
me
now, Lorna dear.'

‘I want to go home. Take me home.'

‘This
is
your home.'

‘It's not, it's not,' she wept. She closed her eyes and sank down, down, down, searching for Mummy and Daddy. She was deafened by the silence, blinded by the dark. Everything dark dark dark dark dark …

‘Mrs Pearson?'

Another voice. She tried to swim towards it, catch it, like a buoy, a raft.

‘What're you doing lying in the dark?'

A glaring light snapped on. She blinked, rolled on to her side. In the doorway stood a short, stocky girl in glasses.

‘I've brought you a cup of tea. Sorry it's so late.'

She swallowed. Her lips felt dry and there was a foul taste in her mouth.

‘Were you asleep?'

‘Yes … I think I must have been.' She was still trapped in the dream: four years old and newly arrived at Aunt Agnes's. House, meals, surroundings, bath-time were all frighteningly unfamiliar. ‘What … what time is it?'

‘Half past five. Tea's meant to be at four, but I'm miles behind. I'm new here.'

‘Oh …' She ought to be friendly, say it didn't matter, but the tendrils of fear from the dream were threatening to shoot up to monstrous proportions, like Jack's beanstalk. She focused instead on her headache – physical pain was much easier to deal with. ‘Could you possibly bring me some aspirin? My head's pounding like a sledgehammer.'

‘I'm not allowed to give out drugs. But I'll ask Sister if you like.'

‘No, it's OK.' She didn't want anyone seeing her like this. Her clothes were creased and she probably stank of sherry. Worse, the commode was disgustingly full, although she didn't remember using it.

The girl put the cup down by the bed. ‘There was supposed to be Christmas cake, but it ran out, I'm afraid.'

‘Don't worry, I'm not hungry.'

‘Too much Christmas dinner, eh?' The girl laughed, not unkindly.

Lorna considered: a sliver of melon, two mouthfuls of fish, a few pastry crumbs and possibly a hair. But the thought of food induced a wave of nausea.

‘Well, I'd better be off. I'm Becky, by the way.'

‘Oh, right. Becky.' She could barely remember her own name. Back, foot and head all ached hideously. If only she could speak to Ralph. His Christmas Day must have been worse than hers – all alone, with flu. And yet what good would she have been at home? Her natural instinct would have been to bring him drinks and meals; hold his hand literally as well as metaphorically. But illness for Ralph was a slur on his masculinity, a sign of personal failure. He hated the indignity of wearing pyjamas in the daytime or having a thermometer stuck absurdly in his mouth, so everyone, including her, was banned from entering the sick-room.

She hauled herself up in bed to drink the tea. Over-sugared this time but short on milk. Well, it made a change.

‘Sorry, Mrs Pearson, I forgot to give you this.' Becky again, with a folded piece of paper.

The first instalment of the bill? No, three messages scrawled in biro.

‘
Your husband rang. Sends his love.'

‘
Clare says Happy Christmas. Keep your chin up!'

‘
Aunt Agnes wants to know why haven't you phoned?'

Three lifelines. Ralph cared, Clare was thinking of her, and even Agnes had rung, if only with a rebuke. She sat fingering the piece of paper as if it were a love-letter. If Father Christmas had given her a mobile instead of a pair of lace-edged hankies (which she had loaned to Hilda yesterday to help staunch a sudden nose-bleed) she could have returned the calls. Being without a phone made her feel marooned, an exile from the outside world.

Gradually she became aware of a moaning sound coming from the room next door – not her aggressive neighbour (who, judging by the quiet, must still be out with her son) but the other side. Slowly it increased in volume to become a keening, desolate wail. In alarm, Lorna glanced around for her crutches, but they were nowhere to be seen. She vaguely recalled coming back from the dining-room in a wheelchair. The crutches must be still down there.

The crying continued unabated. Lorna pressed the bell. Becky seemed a decent sort – surely she would help. But no one came.

As the minutes ticked by with no sign of any assistance, Lorna's agitation turned to panic. What if there was a genuine emergency? The poor wretch next door already sounded desperate, and as for herself she couldn't move a step. Without her crutches she was as helpless as a baby, as helpless as in the dream.

She jabbed the bell so hard it hurt her finger, and almost at once heard footsteps outside. Not Becky but the angry woman, with her family in train. Soon a full-scale row was in progress, which Lorna couldn't avoid hearing through the wall.

‘I'm
not
ungrateful. I didn't
want
to go out to lunch. I told you twenty times.'

‘Oh sure, and if we'd left you here on your own we'd never hear the end of it.'

‘Fay, please, don't provoke her.'

‘Shut up, John, I'll say what I bloody well please.'

‘Look, why don't we all –'

‘I'm sick of kowtowing to your mother.'

‘She's old. She doesn't understand.'

‘Oh, I'm old, am I? And stupid? I'll have you know I …'

In desperation, Lorna turned on the television. However, the manic jamboree on screen was nearly as bad as arguments and sobs. Couldn't they make a special programme for those who didn't enjoy Christmas – the sick, old, lonely and bereaved – something uplifting and consoling? Switching channels, she was assailed by peals of canned laughter. It struck her that Matron might invest in something similar, to give visitors the impression that the Oakfield residents were a cheerful bunch, given to bouts of irrepressible mirth.

Next door, meanwhile, the real-life family were leaving, still hurling accusations in their wake. Once the voices had faded, Lorna turned off the TV. Silence? No. Although the woman on the left had stopped crying, now the other one had started, presumably upset by the quarrel.

Lorna pressed the bell yet again. If nothing else, she had to get her crutches back.

‘OK, OK, I'm coming! I haven't got seven-league boots, you know.' Sharon's impatient voice came from down the corridor, although it was some time before she reached Lorna's door. She tottered in unsteadily – as a result more of drink than of exhaustion, Lorna reckoned. (But who was she to talk, with a hangover herself?)

‘Yeah, what d'you want?'

‘Oh, Sharon, it's my crutches. I think they're downstairs. Could you be an angel and –'

‘No, sorry. Can't do nothing now.'

‘Well, could you please ask someone else?'

‘Who, I'd like to know? There's only Becky. She's about as much use as a fart in a colander. She forgot to give Mr Hall his lunch. He's a diabetic on insulin, so of course he's gone hypo.'

‘Oh dear. Is that serious?'

‘I should say! He's shaking like a leaf. He could even go into a coma, like he did last month.'

‘Good gracious! Shouldn't you call a doctor?'

Sharon yawned hugely, without bothering to cover her mouth. ‘It's Sister's problem, not mine.'

‘Well, I only hope she can sort it out. And when she's free perhaps you'd tell her that the lady next door sounds terribly upset.'

‘Mrs Owen? She always sounds upset. If you bought her bloody Buckingham Palace she'd complain about the neighbours. Did you hear her just now – giving her son what for? If she was
my
mother I'd have throttled her years ago.'

‘Yes, but she's crying now. And the lady the other side was crying too, earlier.'

‘That's nothing new. Take no notice. It's her sister – died of cancer last August, but she's still banging on about it. They didn't even like each other.'

‘But it seems callous just to leave her.'

‘Look, it's all we can do to get them washed and fed. We're not agony aunts, you know. I've got enough problems of my own, without listening to theirs. For one thing, I haven't seen Danny all day –'

‘Danny?'

‘Yeah, my kid.'

Kid? Sharon was no more than a kid herself. ‘Where is he?'

Sharon's face crumpled and tears welled in her eyes. Only now did Lorna notice how terrible she looked. Her face was swollen and flushed, and her hair was coming adrift from its ponytail. ‘Sit down for a minute,' Lorna said gently, passing her a box of tissues. ‘I expect you're just tired out. You've been working such dreadful long hours.'

‘It … it's not that – I'm used to it. It's Danny. He's only four and I promised him I wouldn't be late, not tonight of all nights.'

Lorna bit her lip. Children of four roused her instant compassion.

‘I tried to ring him and explain, but he's obviously shit-scared. He's on his own in the house, you see.'