by Tanvir Bush
The children cheer and gather around their teacher, quacking and clucking like ducklings, so Alex doesn’t get a chance to find out what Jenny meant.
They go to the Sports and Rehabilitation Centre where a long swimming pool glitters enticingly. Behind the pool is a well-equipped gym, air-conditioned, extremely clean, and a sprung sports hall marked out for indoor tennis, badminton, football and basketball.
‘Wow!’ says Alex. ‘But it’s so quiet.’ She turns to Robin. ‘How come there’s no one around? Not even a lifeguard on poolside.’
‘Oh …’ Robin glances around as if he hadn’t noticed before. ‘Well, this is lunchtime.’
Alex doesn’t think 11 a.m. constitutes lunchtime, but she lets it slide.
Jenny Jameson seems to be able to maintain order almost telepathically. She pauses in her chatter to Alex every now and then to speak directly to the children.
‘We are holding hands, Maddie … not arm-wrestling.’
‘Bradley! The walls are not for licking!’
Alex is keen to quiz Jenny about her husband the paramedic’s observations on Grassybanks, but there is no time. They all bang through another set of doors and into yet another bright corridor. Along this one, there are indented seating areas where the children can look through windows into the craft rooms, the games room, the library, the staff offices and the storage areas. There is more traffic here; nurses, care workers and clients can be seen busy and occupied. The clients are teenagers and young adults with Down’s Syndrome and other varieties of learning impairment, which Robin rattles through as if reading a script. ADHD, autism, Asperger’s, cerebral palsy, dyspraxia, hydrocephalus …
The kids are not particularly impressed. ‘They look just like people,’ the nose-picker, Johnny, points out. ‘They look like they’re at school.’
Robin seems a little chagrined by the dismissal of the show. ‘Well, what about Leo? See? That boy over there, in the wheelchair. He was born without eyes!’
‘Ahh!’ The children rush to the window again, following Robin’s pointing finger.
‘Really! That is hardly appropriate!’ Jenny is furious, but the kids’ response of, ‘Miss, Miss, does Leo have a dog?’ and, ‘Miss, Miss, Leo is making a chair and he doesn’t even have any eyes,’ calms her slightly.
‘Miss, why does Leo and them people have to be in here? They look OK enough for school.’
‘Leo and “those” people. That is a good question, Priya. Ask Robin again so everyone can hear.’
Robin, however, is suddenly distracted by the man from the Health Visitors’ Gazette who has run out of paper on the clipboard.
Chris Leads Mr Parnell into Trouble
Chris can’t get over Mr Parnell’s shoes. They are not just shoes as a human would see them, slightly muddy brown work lace-ups. No, to a dog with a nose like Chris’s, with over 225 million scent receptors, Parnell’s shoes are huge puffy clouds of vibrating stinky information, marked and layered with years and years of data input, like, for instance, the pungent information on all Parnell’s adored dogs: two invariably filthy mongrels, a dyspeptic collie and a psycho-pug.
There is also Mrs Parnell, unknowingly exuding scent onto everything. She burns a lot of what she cooks for humans, so the dogs get endless leftovers. Love runs through her like raspberries in a rippled ice cream but something also makes her sad … Chris sniffs further … her own son who is now, luckily, only a faint scent on the back of Parnell’s heel. Chris gets all this from a pair of battered work brogues. Imagine what he would do with the man’s slippers.
They are sitting in front of the white school van, and as it is hot, Parnell has left all the doors open wide. The car park has only a whippy half-grown birch for shade and Parnell has parked as close to it as he can get. It provides shade for the wing mirror. The van is ten years old and is itself a paradise of stench. Every child, teacher and driver who has ever set foot in it has left their mark, whether they meant to or not. With his wonderfully scented feet up on the dashboard, Mr Parnell is regaling Chris with tales about his pack, although Chris gets most of it from merely inhaling. Parnell is attempting to show Chris pictures of his dogs on his phone. Chris, of course, just responds to the resonance of Parnell’s voice and nods and whimpers enthusiastically at what he guesses to be the right places.
‘You’re a hell of a smart one, aren’t you?’ says Parnell as Chris twitches an ear in response to a photo of one mongrel, up to his ears in mud, with the psycho-pug, teeth bared, in the background.
Chris can tell many things about humans. This one is older and solidly built, although bits of him don’t work as well any more. Parnell has a plastic hip and the cartilage in his knees is frayed. Chris sees this through combinations of vibration, sound and scent. Just as he can hear the multiple textures in Parnell’s voice and smell the man’s breakfast on his breath. This is, in dog terms, a ‘good man’, lovely colours and smells all the way through his body, and a relatively rare find. He makes Chris feel easy, and that makes a dog happy and playful.
‘Wanna play?’ he asks. Chris is using a technique of ‘request’ that involves every fibre of his body, from his heart rate to the angle of his tail. Humans get this, but slowly.
Parnell looks down at Chris’s posture and cocked ears.
‘You wanna play, boy?’
Well, duh, thinks Chris.
Parnell looks around but the car park is empty, apart from their van and the cars of the other people on the tour. The staff car park is out of sight. He grins and reaches into his jacket packet, grimaces, tries a different pocket.
‘It’s in your glove compartment,’ says Chris.
‘I think it’s in the … let’s have a look … yes! It was in the glove compartment!’ Parnell has, in his large hand, a small hard rubber ball. Chris almost faints with excitement.
‘Come ON! Ball ball ball ballaballaballaball!’
Parnell swings his legs out of the van, stands and stretches as Chris dances manically in circles around his wonderful stinky shoes.
‘I thought you were a trained dog? Sit.’
Chris’s arse hits the ground like a sack of cement. He sits still, poised, eyes wide.
‘Impressive,’ says Parnell. ‘Boy, you would be embarrassed by our lot.’ He looks around scratching his balding head and spies a wide grassy area over by the back of the building.
‘Come!’ He takes off at a good pace for a man with dodgy knees, and Chris leaps up to his side. The ball is thrown. The ball is returned. And again. And sadly, after not too long Parnell is out of breath and a little sore from the stooping, and the ball is covered in dog saliva and Chris is panting and his teeth gleam.
‘Last one, Chris,’ Parnell tuts at himself. ‘I’m a bit creaky these days.’
He bends backwards to throw the ball and his knee gives a little. Instead of throwing straight, the ball bounces off and over to the back of the building, disappearing around the far side with Chris full pelt after it.
‘Chris!’ yells Parnell and hobbles after him.
Ballaballaballaball is almost all that is going through Chris’s mind as he rounds the corner faster than a greyhound and almost crashes into a great big pile of white barrels. The little rubber ball has disappeared beneath them, and Chris scratches at the ground, pawing at it as if he could ruck up the concrete and pull the little blighter out.
Parnell has come puffing up behind him. ‘What the hell is this?’
‘Ball!’ says Chris pointing with every part of his body, but the man is completely distracted by the pyramid of barrels.
‘Bloody hell, that’s an awful lot of chemicals.’ He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his glasses. Stepping close to the pile, spectacles perched on the end of his nose, he squints at a label on one of the barrels.
‘For goodness sake,’ says Chris, exasperated. ‘The BALL has been LOST, man!’
‘Potassium hydroxide,’ reads Parnell. ‘Wonder what on earth they want with that?’
The barrels
are piled up in front of an enormous shed-like structure with an open front. In the dark within, Chris can hear the sound of several men moving around, shouting instructions to each other.
‘Left a bit!’
‘Over on your side, Bill.’
‘Watch it, you stupid fucker!’
Chris, still frantic for the ball, sees Parnell peering into the dark, hesitating.
‘The BALL!’ He barks loudly and begins scrabbling for it again.
‘Who’s there?’ An angry voice is followed by a young blond man with an angry face.
‘Who the hell are you?’ He is talking to Parnell and Chris smells something from him that isn’t right. He stops barking and moves to stand next to Parnell. His hackles are raised, and his tail is up and very still.
‘It’s OK, boy.’ Parnell puts a hand on Chris’s head, but Chris doesn’t relax his guard. The blond man smells ‘off’ like disease, standing with his legs apart, a piece of metal pipe in his hands.
‘Sorry, mate. I am just the driver for the school bus parked over there. My dog lost a ball.’ Parnell is unafraid. Why should he be? He can’t smell the man.
Another man in a hard hat, short, very fat and very sweaty, comes running out. ‘Oi, Andre. The Resomator cages are in the—’ He stops short as he notices Parnell. ‘Err … Andre … ?’
‘Fuck off back to the bus, old man.’ The blond spits at Parnell’s feet, and Chris feels the shock come down through Parnell’s arm. He cannot help it. A growl works its way up from his stomach to his throat.
‘All right, Chris. Let’s go, boy,’ Mr Parnell taps his leg, aware that the growl could escalate. ‘Come on, Chris.’
They walk away, both man and dog wanting to look back but managing not to. Chris still holds the growl in his body, ruff still up. He has already forgotten the ball. He is just protecting Parnell.
Parnell scratches his chin and then Chris’s head. ‘What a plonker,’ he says after a while. His voice is even, but Chris can still feel Parnell’s disquiet and confusion. ‘Such aggression for what? Wonder what a Resomator is …’ Parnell muses.
The Mini Adventures of Priya
‘We are going into Ward B,’ says Robin at the next junction. ‘This is where we care for the older folks who need a little more attention. Could you impress on the children the need for quiet?’
They have stopped outside a set of large double doors, and Robin stoops, putting an intricate code into a keypad.
‘I seen that on a film. It’s a security thing.’ The little girl, Priya, points.
‘Why do you need to keep these doors locked, Mister Nurse Man?’ another child’s voice warbles out over the heads.
‘The thing is, girls and boys, this is for the safety of the people inside. Many of the clients here have problems with their memories. They might forget where they are, and if we don’t keep these doors closed they could get confused and walk out into the road and be hurt.’
‘My cat Kipper walked in na’ road. He was squashed.’
‘Well, yes …’
The other children are upset. ‘That is so sad. Awww.’
‘Yes, yes.’ Jenny Jameson calls order before the tears begin. ‘Anyone else want to ask anything before we go into the ward?’
‘Will the old people be naked?’ asks Johnny.
‘Do they eat with their mouths?’ asks Bradley.
‘Do they do wees in their beds?’
‘Oh for goodness’ sake,’ sighs Jenny. ‘Where on earth do they get this stuff?’
‘May I ask how many people are currently on the ward? What are the costings on this setup?’ Alex has a very long list of questions, but most of them she cannot ask in front of the children. ‘Is it true you have your own crematorium on site?’ for instance. In her preparation for this visit, Alex has tracked down one of the original scaffolders. He, and most of his colleagues, were laid off two years ago but he swears blind there were plans for one.
‘As from yesterday, we have one hundred residents here in the high-care facility. About three-quarters are mostly very elderly, some with mental health issues. The rest are long-term disabled people without care facilities at home.’ Alex doesn’t get a chance to ask him if providing care in their own homes would be of benefit. Robin refuses to be drawn on anything financial.
‘Miss, Miss,’ Priya tugs on Alex’s arm. She looks worried. ‘When you get old will you come here?’
‘Goodness, no!’ whispers Alex. ‘Chris and I are going to live on a tropical island together. I’ve already booked the plane tickets.’
Priya nods, reassured.
‘This way now, and quiet please. We don’t want to disturb anyone, do we?’ says Robin. ‘You might want to let the camera in first and she can film you coming in.’
He has done this before, thinks Alex.
The camerawoman pushes past them with the large black digital Panasonic and tripod on her shoulder. She winks at Jenny.
‘Give us a min.’
The children are hushed and excited.
‘My mum says the people here are empty in their heads,’ says a little girl.
‘Actually, that is not the least bit true, Pippa.’ Jenny is irritated. ‘Children, what did we learn in class this morning? People can get sick and … come on …’
‘Sick and confused when they are old,’ chorus the children.
‘And then?’
‘And then they need to be cared for by others.’
‘That’s right. Just like you and me need to be cared for when we get sick.’
‘I feel sick,’ says a pale girl at the back.
‘OK, I think you can go through now.’ Robin waves them forward.
‘Children, remember to be quiet and respectful. That includes you, Bradley.’
Jenny Jameson must be a good sister. Without having to be asked, she audio-describes to Alex as they go. The ward is very long and wide, almost a barn, although the temperature is warm and the lighting subdued and carefully designed for tired eyes and weary brains. The central aisle is wide enough for several people to walk abreast, and the tour group – Jenny, Alex, the children and the two other journalists – slowly follow Robin, keeping within the yellow lines painted on the floor that mark out the central walkway.
The huge ward is lined with large beds screened from each other by attractive plastic partitions. Next to each bed is a comfortable chair, portable commode and contemporary sleek storage cupboard. There is also a desk inset with a mirror that can double- up as a dressing table. The desks are all laden with vases of beautiful flowers, baskets of fruit and bright cards.
‘I get the impression it is like a warehouse,’ says Alex. ‘I see a really big room with beds down the lengths of each wall. Who are in the beds? What facilities? Any nurses?’
‘Hold on,’ Jenny says, turning to the child that is pulling at her trouser leg. ‘What is the matter, Lily?’
‘I still feel sick.’
‘OK, dear.’ Jenny puts her hand over the pale child’s forehead. ‘This one’s a puker,’ she whispers to Alex. ‘Now Lily … how bad do you feel? Do you want to go back outside now, or can you wait while we visit the lovely people in here?’
Lily thinks about it. ‘I can wait.’
‘Good girl, but let me know if you change your mind.’ Jenny turns back to Alex. ‘I’d say there are over fifty beds in here. Large beds with all the bells and whistles.’
‘Bells and whistles?’
‘Let’s try and get closer. Yeah, bells and whistles. Can you make out that they have movable sections, head rests, foot elevation and inbuilt TVs and radios? I think they are all top of the range. My grandmother wanted one of these in her final years. She spent hours going through hospital catalogues for the perfect bed. Keep close, children!’ She lowers her bright teacher’s voice. ‘There are five nurses’ stations, I think.’
‘Is that a nurse for every ten patients?’ the Health Visitors’ Gazette journalist asks Robin.
‘Ten clients. We double
that at night,’ says Robin. ‘And we have backup staff on call twenty-four hours a day for every ward.’
‘That’s incredible,’ says Jenny.
‘And wages?’ Alex now. ‘I hear that most of the care staff are on zero hours contracts?’
Robin doesn’t seem to hear her. ‘Would you like to meet a couple of the clients?’ he asks Jenny.
‘If you are sure they won’t mind the children?’
Robin smiles and opens his palms, a gesture used by liars everywhere.
‘Mrs Gosling loves children, don’t you, Edna?’
They all move left and crowd around the high bed of Mrs Gosling. She is so tiny, pale and white in the massive bed she does indeed resemble a baby bird.
‘Hello dears,’ she says in a clear and surprisingly strong voice. ‘Isn’t it wonderful? It is almost like having my own room.’
‘You look old, but you don’t look sick.’ Johnny sounds as if he is complaining, but Edna laughs even as Jenny apologises. The children’s questions keep coming, and Alex takes a closer look at the desk. Fruit, flowers, a card. She is about to pick it up when Robin hisses in her ear. ‘Please don’t touch any of the clients’ private possessions.’
Alex pulls back her hand, slowly. There is something she just can’t quite put her finger on, and it isn’t the card.
The man from the Health Visitors’ Gazette manages to ask a few questions of the next client they are allowed to visit on the other side of the barn-like ward. Alex doesn’t catch his name. ‘Yes, this is a mixed ward, but the women are on the one side and we’re on the other. At our age that is quite a distance, and we can’t possibly get up to any shenanigans!’ This old man seems weaker than Edna. He is lying back on his pillows and breathing oxygen through a thin nasal tube. He seems remarkably upbeat, all things considering.
‘I was brought here a couple of days ago. I had a fall, and the paramedics thought I would be safer in here than left at home. And I’m very glad, too. The food’s excellent, and the nurses pretty.’ He winks at Robin.