In Servitude

by Heleen Kist

  Large silver letters on one of the brick blocks ahead heralded the main entrance to the hospital. After consulting the floor plan in a deserted reception area, I followed the signs to the Medicine for the Elderly part of the Tay ward. I weaved through innumerable identical safety-floored corridors. The hospital administration must have been proud of the results of its recent inspection as the framed scores were exhibited at regular intervals, alongside the ubiquitous NHS posters reminding everyone that coughs and sneezes spread disease.

  A sign for the Stroke Unit caused me to hesitate, having not had the opportunity to query where Mum had been admitted to. But I surmised—with no medical training whatsoever—that two strokes in quick succession were unlikely and proceeded to where they kept the oldies that were plain sick.

  A middle-aged nurse in a white-trimmed royal blue uniform examined stock on a trolley at the start of yet another double-doored section. Hovering, not wanting to interrupt, I was relieved when she dropped her glasses to bungee on their cord and offered help.

  ‘Could you please tell me where to find Mary McBride? She came in last night.’

  ‘Your mother?’ she guessed.

  I nodded.

  ‘Come with me.’ She beelined to another trolley from which she consulted a clipboard, catching her specs on an upward bounce to review the list. ‘Your mum’s in the fourth room in the West corridor.’ Her original task beckoning, she pointed vaguely, and I was left to gauge the angle of the sun’s light hitting the ground from the open wards and remember whether it rose in the East or West.

  Members of staff shuffled past me, engrossed in paperwork and the place operated in a state of efficient quietude, as far removed from the hive of panicked activity in A&E as two adjoining departments could be.

  When I found the right place, my vision was struck by an overdose of white: the walls, the privacy curtains, the bedding, the nighties, the eight heads of withered hair. Even the sky consisted of fluffy clouds, I noticed through the full-length wall of glass. A black contour by the second bed on the left moved like my father. As I neared the standing figure, its lines came into focus and I saw the facial ravages of a bad night.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘We had to bring her in after she lost consciousness taking her pills. I propped her up until the ambulance arrived. They’re running more tests, still. We have to be patient.’ He moved in for our habitual hug. ‘They let me call from the courtesy phone earlier. I was looking for you.’

  ‘How is she?’

  Joined at her bedside, we watched her sleep, her ashen face restful but old. Inexplicably old. She was only sixty-three.

  ‘She was out for forty minutes. They gave her IV fluids. They said she appeared dehydrated. She doesn’t like straws, but it’s the only way I can get her to drink.’ He seemed to defend himself against the implied neglect. ‘She was very confused when she woke up, but we calmed her down. And she had a few lucid hours, which is reassuring. It’s important we let her rest now.’

  I stroked the skinny arm stretched out onto the woven blanket and measured her bony hand against mine. There was a time when her giant palm would swallow mine, when her arms could enshroud me completely. And now, all grown-up, I longed to feel that warmth again. I wrapped her fingers around my fist one by one and held them in place, focusing on recollections of the happy early years, before I was mature enough to see that Mum wasn’t made entirely of warmth after all.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  ‘Coffee?’

  Dad’s voice pulled me from my reverie. I couldn’t remember when I’d last had a shot of caffeine; life having become an incessant stream of demands throwing my habits into disarray. ‘That would be lovely. Will she be all right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  We tip-toed out of the room and he gestured for me to follow him towards the main block.

  I pointed the opposite way. ‘There are vending machines here, Dad.’

  ‘No, that coffee’s not worth the cup it comes in. We’ll go to the Dining Hall. It will be quiet as lunch isn’t served yet.’

  He manoeuvred the corridors without hesitation, as if the floor plan had been etched into his mind during his daily visits last year. When we got to the canteen, it was being used as a makeshift meeting room by scattered groups of haggard medical staff. After ordering two lattes and an apple slice to share, we chose a four-person marmoleum table by the door whose sticky surface made me challenge the hospital’s celebrated hygiene scores.

  Dad strained to bend his body into his seat, stiff from the night in a chair.

  ‘Is Mum eating?’ If she wasn’t drinking, I wanted to at least be reassured she wasn’t starving herself.

  ‘Yes, it’s the liquids she’s been struggling with because one side of her mouth doesn’t close well.’

  F-A-S-T. The leaflet we’d been given after Mum’s first episode sprung to mind. The mnemonic for the signs of stroke: Face, Arms, Speech, T-something.

  Hers hadn’t been too severe but appeared to have kick-started an incredibly rapid decline. The mouth thing was news, but then she’d stayed asleep during my previous visit. What else didn’t I know? ‘Have they said how long she’ll need to stay?’

  ‘The tests so far have ruled out infection and stroke. They suspect the fainting resulted from the dementia. That happens. Or she was dehydrated.’

  ‘And if either of those are the case?’

  ‘Then they won’t keep her here.’ His eyes were downcast; his choice of words not that of a man looking forward to his spouse coming home. Her infirmity must have been taking a bigger toll than I could understand. I struggled with what to say for fear of triggering a discussion on the topic of care. Since our last meeting, Dad’s startling appeal had never left my mind. Righteous arguments were batted away by calls of familial duty, only to bounce back, like a ping pong match of morality. And I was exhausted.

  ‘There’s been some good news,’ I said, a small croak reflecting my anxiety that he was likely to have conflicting emotions about it. He looked up from his cup, expectant. ‘I spoke to the wholesaler. The money laundering can stop now.’ I omitted that no payment had changed hands. He wouldn’t survive knowing his daughter hadn’t been an entrapped victim but a willing perpetrator. I was still processing that myself.

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘So it’s good news.’ I continued the charade. ‘Now we can sort things out and make it all look okay for Stephen. The shares and stuff.’

  Glum-faced, he sipped his drink. As he moved to speak, a familiar figure strode past us towards the counter where they had started serving hot food.

  ‘Alice!’ I called, and she spun round.

  ‘Grace. I thought I vaguely recognised your voice. Hello, Ian.’

  Ian? When did Mr McBride become Ian?

  ‘Hello Alice.’

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Mum’s been admitted but they haven’t determined what’s wrong yet. She fainted.’

  She grimaced. ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’ She looked at Dad and her face softened. ‘How are you holding up, Ian?’ He blushed and mumbled an indecipherable reply. She checked the clock on the wall. ‘Sorry but I can’t stay. I’m supervising students in the clinic and I get five minutes for lunch—no joke. But shall I come round again after my shift?’ She’d lowered herself to meet his eye.

  ‘That would be nice.’ He coughed.

  ‘Okay then, I’ll phone you later for a time that suits.’ She bounced up and as she walked on, she stuck a pinkie and thumb out at me and held the imaginary phone to her ear, mouthing a silent promise of a later call. A call that would be very welcome.

  ‘You’ve been seeing Alice?’

  ‘Not…um…not as a patient. But she visited soon after Glory died. In fact, it was because you’d gone to see her that she knew. And we’ve had some nice chats.’

  ‘I’m glad, Dad. It’s a lot to process. For all of us.’

  His generati
on of males incapable of showing their vulnerable side, he wasted no time in redirecting the conversation. ‘She’s been helping me think about your mother’s care. She knows all the homes around here. Has given recommendations. She’s obviously got a lot of experience of mental…issues.’ My heart sank. I’d been naïve to hope it wouldn’t come up. ‘And she said she would be happy to put in a good word. Apparently, some of these places have their pick of patients.’

  The word ‘patient’ stung. I wasn’t ready to associate it with my mother. ‘They have?’

  ‘Yes. The better ones. The…pricier ones.’ He swirled the coffee. It would be cool now. As cool as my feelings towards Alice for filling my dad’s head with fancy ideas.

  I felt as though everyone kept plotting against me, leaving me in the dark. Glory…Dad…now Alice. And in a weird way even Mum. At least Dave was on my side. Who would have expected the one to know me the shortest to stand by me the most?

  Dad slurped the liquid off the teaspoon a few times before braving his next sentence. ‘So that wholesaler chap. Would he let you keep going if you chose to?’ His strained light tone was no doubt intended to soften his interest in the cash.

  ‘I don’t know, Dad.’ I was torn apart. Years of training had taught me not to say ‘no’ to this man; but those same years had taught me that this man never made unreasonable, untenable requests like this. My pleading eyes must have had some effect: he shook his head ever so slightly.

  ‘Grace. I know what I’ve asked seems irrational, at odds with everything we stand for. But you’d be doing it for the Church, in a way.’

  ‘What?’ Perplexed by this new twist, I open my hands to the heavens for a sign that I hadn’t landed in a parallel universe.

  ‘Our church is fundraising to replace the lead that has been looted off the roof, and for repairs to the internal woodwork. Before I understood Mum was ill, she’d made a large donation. Very large. I only found out one Sunday when they announced it to the parish. Everyone was clapping and thanking us. They’d even had a plaque made, Grace. What was I supposed to do? I couldn’t ask for it back. So now, we haven’t got the funds I thought we had, and I feel like it’s fate. That somehow Glory’s transgressions—you—have been sent our way to make it good.’

  ‘That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard, Dad. You’re saying I have to launder money because it’s what God wants?’

  ‘Well, not when you put it like that. My point is that I am at peace with it, and you should be too. Otherwise the only care we can afford is a council home. And I can’t do that to her. Is that what you want?’

  ‘No. What I want is for you to keep her home.’ Feeling cornered, I’d instinctively lashed out, in an attempt to out-guilt him. I hated this side of me but I couldn’t help myself sometimes.

  ‘Well that’s easy enough for you.’ He rose and walked away without so much as a glance.

  I collapsed into a heap on the table, guilt and anger wrestling against a back-drop of right and wrong. I wondered if he would act differently if I’d told him Glory had been murdered, that I could be in real danger too. That it wasn’t just a matter of some financial hocus pocus.

  Abandoned and alone, I sobbed freely, figuring there was nothing unusual about doing that in a hospital.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  That afternoon, work called me to the wealthy enclave of Bearsden. My new client was married to an accomplished academic who had recently moved up from Exeter. They lived in a three-bedroom semi on Colquhoun Avenue with refreshingly easy on-street parking. The location had been chosen due to its proximity to the train station, with its frequent services into Queen Street, and the nearby private school that had the city’s best provision of Mandarin for her two daughters—the professor having grand international ambitions.

  All this I learnt during our introductory session, and I strained to commit these facts to memory while my mind was preoccupied with greater problems than jelly-thighs and the hindsight of having preferred the West End. Between squats and push-ups, she revealed she was bored and had expected Glasgow, given its reputation, to be more exciting. I was desperate to point out that A: she didn’t actually live in Glasgow, and B: she existed in a privileged bubble. But I bit my tongue and coached her through three more reps.

  When red-faced and out of breath, she star-jumped and told me she was considering opening a café—wouldn’t that be fun?—the déjà vu nearly threw me to the ground. I suggested that, what with the possibility of her husband moving them abroad, perhaps she should engage in a more mobile venture.

  What was it with this pervasive suburban ennui? Could these women not see their fortune? How we who were just about managing would give an arm for their lifestyle? Unlike its male counterpart, the female midlife crisis wasn’t about buying boy toys: women sought re-invention and fulfilment. They tortured themselves with existential questions like ‘Have I done enough to save the planet?’ and ‘Have I wasted my talents?’ Well, look where that got Glory.

  It had been easier when I worked at the gym, where you had a cross-section of society who left their backgrounds at the door. To me, they were all equal; equally self-conscious and equally willing to please the PT on the floor. All uniformly committed to multiple sessions each week to extract every inch of value from their monthly fee. But the gym’s owners had messed the staff around, changing schedules at the last minute and demanding overtime well in excess of what I was willing to give. I’d gone private nine months before and ended up having my face rubbed daily in how the other half lived.

  The next appointment scheduled and bank details given, I swung by Sutherglen Drive, feeling bad about abandoning Blue earlier. Here was a creature who enjoyed life to the fullest and never complained about a bit of exercise.

  The day’s intense sun made the damp grass in the park sizzle. Let off his leash and joyful, he darted from tree to tree while I walked along the paths, luxuriating in the rays. Wilted spring tulips had been replaced by roses in the central ornamental bed, and I admired the council’s majestic handiwork. This dedication to park maintenance—particularly in the nicer parts of town—always struck me as an odd priority for a city with such depressing levels of poverty. But as a current beneficiary of its sweet smell, I approved.

  With the weather so nice, I decided a longer walk was warranted, and coaxed Blue out of this park with the promise of a bigger one. ‘We’re making a small detour to the shops, buddy. I fancy an apple.’ We exited on the southern end and turned left at Maxwell Park station, heading towards the small agglomeration of shops and restaurants that formed the lively part of Pollokshields.

  There, five streets all come together in a jumble, making it difficult for pedestrians to cross safely. We skipped through the first section unscathed. The next would be tricky, as I needed to move forward of the parked cars that obscured the view of the oncoming vehicles, a few steps into the road. I looked in all directions and froze when I spotted the man who had accosted me in the park that first day. He stood outside the flower shop, on the corner about twenty yards behind me, his bouncer hands clasped in front of him. My stomach leapt, and I hid on the road, behind a delivery vehicle.

  He didn’t appear to be looking for me, standing there with an impassive expression. It made no sense. Why was he here? I thought our business had been concluded. He then moved his head left and right, slowly scanning the horizon. Unnerved, I considered all the ways I might have misinterpreted what Mike said, growing in panic that there may not be honour among thieves after all.

  Blue pulled at the lead, eager to keep moving, and nearly threw himself into traffic. I stooped to grab him by the collar, losing sight of Mike’s henchman for a moment. ‘Stop it, Blue. Stay here.’

  When I looked up again, the man had gone. I decided to stay put for now.

  Ten seconds later, a small red van passed our hiding place, coming from where he had stood. My gasp made the dog jump.

  Chapter Forty

 
The next morning, I noticed the cash register’s ‘2’ was still sticky. This made it difficult to tally up the coffee orders, so I sometimes suggested an extra shot to tip the price into the three-pound zone. A freckle-faced woman in Lulu Lemon gear grinned as I fiddled with a toothpick to prop up the key.

  ‘Sorry to keep you waiting,’ I said.

  ‘That’s okay. I see you’re doing your best.’

  Taking a cue from the spiritual prints on the wall, I breathed in and searched for my happy place as I endured her patronising Zen smile. ‘You know what? It’s on the house.’

  ‘Thanks.’ She beamed, no doubt unsurprised the universe had provided again.

  As I wiped the crumbs from the vacated table, tired from a night dreaming of men in black and red vans at every corner, I asked myself what I was doing there. This wasn’t my world. Glory would have chatted away, complimenting her leggings or recommending she take home a packet of gluten-free cookies, to ring another sale. These stupid, expensive, chi-chi foods. But Glory wasn’t here. I bit my lip. And no matter what I did, she would still be dead.

  ‘Is it all right if I quickly go to Polmadie?’ Sascha held a stack of flattened cardboard boxes to load into her car. Since making manager, she’d read up on Health and Safety, and had become obsessed with keeping paths clear and the proper treatment of waste. She’d also worked out that regular, inconspicuous trips to the dump would save on the cost of commercial recycling.

  ‘Yes, sure. I’ve got this.’

  ‘Oh, and there’s a small interim delivery coming tomorrow. I did remind Excelsior we were still expecting a new invoice—didn’t you ask for one? But I had to let it go as we’re running low on a few things as business has picked up quite a bit.’ She paused before leaving, her hopeful expression suggesting she was fishing for a compliment. Alarmed by the earlier-than-expected next interaction with Excelsior, rather than giving her what was due, I told her she should look for a new wholesaler instead.

  ‘Why?’