Tread Softly (44 page)

Another puff and
you're
gone, Lorna thought sadly. Winifred was eighty-nine and suffered from angina. ‘If you like it, Winifred, why not have it as your present? I'll put your name on the label.'

‘Oh no, dear, that wouldn't be fair. We should accept whatever we're given.'

Lorna hid a smile. Agnes and Winifred were so alike – in their stoicism and diligence, and even in their thick lisle stockings and tweedy skirts. Since starting work at The Cedars, she felt she had acquired a number of mothers among the residents, and even daughters, too, among the staff. Winifred was her favourite mother; Rowan her favourite daughter.

‘And how are your poor feet, Lorna?'

‘Not bad,' she said, with a glance at her misshapen shoes. Her feet hurt a good deal in fact, but she accepted the pain as simply part of life, along with risk and uncertainty. She wouldn't go as far as Winifred in accepting whatever she was given (too passive a philosophy), but when it came to factors beyond one's control it was best to acquiesce. The trick was to achieve one's aims and enjoy life
despite
pain and insecurity. Besides, she could hardly whinge about bunions when Winifred had leg ulcers, and arthritis in both knees. Working at The Cedars made her grateful for the most basic things: mobility, memory, hearing, eyesight and a remaining life-span measured in decades rather than years. ‘What's your son planning to do for Christmas,' she asked, ‘now that he can't be with you?'

Winifred's reply was lost in the shrilling of the phone. Lorna picked it up, mouthing an ‘Excuse me.' ‘Yes, speaking … Oh, I see. They're very early, aren't they? … OK, I'll sort it out. Goodbye.' She replaced the receiver with a frown. ‘I'm sorry, Winifred, the carol singers have just arrived. They seem to have got their timing wrong, so I'll have to give them tea or something.'

‘That's all right, dear. Off you go. I'll carry on here.'

‘But I can't expect you to …'

‘Honestly, I like to do my bit. There's nothing worse at my age than feeling you're no use.'

Lorna leaned down and squeezed her hand. ‘Winifred, we couldn't do without you.'

‘Welcome to The Cedars' first carol concert!' Lorna felt distinctly nervous at addressing such a large gathering: residents and their relatives ranging in age from ninety-eight to nine months. Summoning Ms Unflappable, she raised her voice above the tail-ends of conversations. ‘We're very privileged to have the King Edmund School Choir and their teacher, Miss O'Brien. As some of you may know, they won a cup in this year's Cheltenham Festival. And Miss O' Brien is a distinguished singer in her own right.' As Lorna paused for breath, Ms Unflappable reminded her not to gabble and to speak loudly enough to be heard at the back. ‘Unfortunately, what with the snow and the traffic hold-ups, some of the children couldn't manage to get here, so I'm afraid we haven't quite as many as we'd expected. But we're delighted to see those who
did
make it today' – she smiled at the seven boys and eight girls standing in a group by the piano – ‘and we're most grateful to them for coming out in this weather. Later in the proceedings we'd like everyone to join in, so we can have a nice rousing chorus. Have you all got song-sheets? Rowan, some are needed over there. And, Eric, could you bring more chairs from the dining-room for Mrs Bartlett's son and his family?'

A pity there weren't more staff, to deal with late arrivals, or (better still) a clone of Ms Unflappable to remove the squabbling Bartlett children. ‘Well, shall we start? Our first carol is “See Amid the Winter's Snow'' – very appropriate for today!'

There was a ripple of laughter, then Miss O' Brien seated herself at the grand piano and began to play.

Lorna took a seat beside Mr Forbes, whose wife had died a month ago. She could imagine how alone he must feel, even in a crowd. She took his thin hand in hers, at the same time keeping a watchful eye on everyone and everything. The Bartlett children were giggling now and Eric was still fetching chairs for latecomers, but on the whole things were going well. The singing was exquisite, especially a solo verse sung by a girl of nine or ten, who looked suitably angelic with long, fair hair and a gauzy white dress. And the Chesterton Room was the perfect setting. Not only were the acoustics good, but the oak-panelled walls and high, ornate ceiling lent an air of gravitas. She and Kathy had been choosy about the Christmas decorations, limiting the colours to midnight blue and silver – the house was too elegant for tinsel and balloons. She herself had arranged madonna lilies in a vase on the piano. Real flowers were important.

There was another solo, ‘The First Nowell', this time from Miss O' Brien, whose rich contralto voice more than compensated for her drab appearance: limp brown hair and baggy frock. Giggling and coughing subsided as the pure, liquid notes filled the room.

‘… Nowell, Nowell,
Born is the King of –'

Then suddenly, without warning, the room was plunged into darkness. The piano and the singing stuttered to a halt. There were screams from the children, cries of alarm from the residents.

Lorna stood up. ‘Please, everyone, keep calm. It must be a power cut, but the emergency generator will take over within twenty seconds and the power will come back on.'

There was an expectant hush, but, as the seconds ticked by and the power
didn't
come back on, the general hubbub increased.

Ms Unflappable took over. ‘Please stay where you are – it's safest for us all. Rowan, could you look after everyone while I go and sort things out.' At the door she collided with Kathy, armed with a torch.

‘Why the hell hasn't the stand-by generator cut in?' Kathy hissed.

‘God knows!' Lorna whispered back. ‘I'll phone Eddie. I know he's off sick, but he'll just have to come in.'

‘OK. Take this torch. I'll find another.'

‘We do have candles, Kathy.'

Kathy shook her head. ‘Too dangerous. Anyway, with luck we won't need them. Eddie should be here in five minutes.'

Guided by the torch-beam, Lorna made her way along the passage, trying to ignore the knot of fear rising in her throat. The bright, cheerful house had become menacing. Shadows flickered around her, and nothing was visible through the windows save a waste of snow swallowed up in a black void. She steadied herself against the wall, horrified that her symptoms had returned. Far from being Ms Unflappable, she was on the verge of a panic attack. It was months since she'd had this sick churning in her stomach, this sense of her body veering out of control. It must be the strain of the last week – snowstorms, staff sickness, the build-up to Christmas Day. She forced herself to take slow, deep breaths. She must not give way to the sensations – not in the middle of a crisis, when she was meant to be in charge, for heaven's sake.

Somehow she managed to reach her office and with shaking fingers dialled Eddie's number. His wife answered. ‘No, he
can't
come out. It's Christmas Eve, I'll have you know. And he's got a temperature of a hundred and two.'

‘I wouldn't dream of ringing, Mrs Elliott, if it wasn't an emergency. But we've lost all the power – not only the lights, the heating too. And some of our residents are extremely frail.'

‘Sorry, nothing doing. If you think I'm going to drag him from his bed just because –'

‘Wait,
please
!' She fought for breath. Power cuts could last hours. There would be no hot meal for the residents tonight, and those with flu might develop pneumonia lying in unheated rooms. The house would be cold for Christmas Day, relatives would complain, maybe even write to the authorities or refuse to pay the fees … ‘At least could you ask him if there's anybody else I can ring about the generator?'

‘Try Frank.'

‘He's away. In Ireland.'

‘Sorry, he's the only one I know.'

‘But Eddie's bound to have more names.'

‘He's just dropped off to sleep. I don't want to bother him when –'

‘I beg you, Mrs Elliott! Otherwise we're sunk.'

With a muttered curse and a clatter of the phone, Mrs Elliott went off to wake her husband. There were various noises in the background: children's voices, a dog yapping, an announcer on the radio. Finally she returned, sounding slightly less hostile. ‘He says there's an emergency number on the side of the generator. If it breaks down they have to come out, he says. It's in the contract.'

‘Oh, thank you. What a relief!'

‘While you're there, Mrs Pearson, I may as well tell you, Eddie's not coming back. We've been talking about it. He's had enough, and so have I. The hours are too long. And unsocial. It puts paid to family life. So you'd better tell your matron or whoever that she'll have to find a replacement.'

‘Look … why don't we discuss it when Eddie's up and about again?'

‘No, he's leaving. And that's final.' And Mrs Elliott slammed the phone down.

Lorna hadn't time to worry about the Elliotts – the first priority was light. She snatched up a pen and paper and groped her way to the cellar, feeling more and more panicky as she descended the steep stone steps. Suppose she was trapped for the whole of Christmas in this dank, cold, spooky place? The torch was shaking in her hand as she flashed it on the blue-grey bulk of the generator, which loomed like a monstrous steel coffin, clammy to the touch. She eventually found the phone-number, printed on a label on the far side at the bottom. She copied each digit carefully, then fled back up the steps, tripping in her haste.

‘Sovereign Generators. Clive Brown speaking.'

She could have kissed Clive Brown just for being there – no flu, no protective wife. ‘… So if you could send someone round immediately …'

‘I'm very sorry, Mrs Pearson, but we only have a next-day service, and we don't work Christmas Day or bank holidays, so I can't get an engineer to you until the twenty-seventh.'

‘But I've been told that in an emergency you're legally obliged to send someone.'

‘The next day, yes, in normal circumstances, but I'm afraid we're closed as from tonight.'

‘Look, this is ridiculous! The whole point of having a standby generator is to cover us in case of a power cut, yet the first time we need it the damned thing doesn't work. It cost enough, for Christ's sake!'

‘I apologize, Mrs Pearson. I feel for you, believe me. It's most unusual for a new generator to go wrong. I can't imagine what the trouble is. It's unlikely to be flat batteries because there's a built-in battery-charger, and the only other –'

‘Never mind what caused it. I want it put right. And I'm willing to pay – anything within reason.'

‘It's not money, Mrs Pearson. I have to abide by company rules. As I've said, I sympathize with your position, but unfortunately my hands are tied.'

She swore under her breath. ‘What do you suggest then? I just have to get the power back on. It's a matter of life and death.'

‘You could give Power-Mate a bell. Or LBH. I probably have their numbers somewhere … Bear with me …'

Lorna cursed each second wasted. But, as it turned out, the two other firms were no more help than Sovereign.

‘Sorry, we only service our own make of generator.'

‘I'm afraid both our engineers are already out on call.'

At that moment Kathy appeared, with a cardboard folder tucked under her arm and holding a halogen torch. ‘Any luck?'

‘No. Eddie's wife won't let him come, and I've drawn a blank elsewhere, so far.'

Kathy passed her the folder. ‘Here, try the Help file. Everybody's listed – Seeboard and what have you. Or another home or hotel might lend us their maintenance man. Work through until you find someone. OK?'

‘OK. How's it going your end?'

‘We're coping, just about. Miss O'Brien's a godsend. She's taken the children home and promised to come back with as many oil-heaters and torches as she can lay her hands on.'

Lorna checked her own torch, relieved to see the beam was still strong.

‘And some of the relatives are helping too. We're bringing everyone down to the lounge with their blankets and coverlets. I prefer to have them all in one place where we can keep an eye on them. But of course a few are too ill to be moved. And those Bartletts are a right pain. The kids are running riot and Mr B's kicking up a stink. He seems to hold us personally responsible for the power cut. Anyway, must fly. Julie's in a bit of a state and I don't want her upsetting the other carers.'

‘Good luck! I'll come and find you as soon as I've sorted something out.' With the aid of the torch, Lorna started leafing through the Help file.

Three numbers were given for Seeboard. The first had only a recorded message: ‘
I'm sorry, our offices are now closed. Our opening hours are between eight and six, Monday to Friday, and Saturday eight till two. Please try again later
.'

She shone the torch on her watch. It was half past five and a Tuesday, albeit Christmas Eve. Through gritted teeth she dialled the second number. ‘
If you have changed your energy supplier and are no longer supplied by Seeboard, please hang up and telephone our Change-of-Supplier Team on 0800 …'

‘I'd hardly be ringing if you weren't the bloody supplier,' she muttered at the disembodied voice.

Then a more fruity voice piped up: ‘
For news or advice on ways to make your business more energy-efficient, please say
“
One'' after the tone.'

She refrained from saying something less polite.

‘
For details of Seeboard's exciting new business products, please say
“
Two'' after the tone. For all other enquiries, please stay on the line. Our dedicated business teams will be pleased to help you.'