Too Young to be Old: From Clapham to Kathmandu (Frank's Travel Memoirs, #1)

by Frank Kusy

  ‘This is not like Bill,’ I thought to myself. ‘He kicked up such a fuss about his money when he thought I was the Mayor of Lambeth. Why isn’t he collecting it now that I actually have some?’

  I eventually found my lost sheep upstairs in his room, lying on his back and looking extremely uncomfortable.

  ‘What’s the matter with you, Bill?’ I enquired softly. ‘Are you in pain?’

  Bill gave a brief nod. ‘It’s my leg. I keep telling ‘em it hurts but nobody believes me.’

  I was about to comment further when I took a proper look at the leg. I hadn’t noticed it before, because I had never seen Bill horizontal, but it was at such a weird angle to the body that it was obvious something serious was wrong.

  ‘Here,’ I summoned Miss McCann to my side, ‘come and have a look at Bill’s leg.’

  ‘What about it?’ said the ever-stressed deputy Matron. ‘Honestly, Bill, what trouble you causing now?’

  But then she noticed the weird angle of the leg and went pale.

  ‘So you see it too?’ I asked her. ‘It doesn’t look right, does it?’

  ‘No, it doesn’t,’ she said in a flustered whisper. ‘Can we talk about this outside?’

  Putting Bill’s money gently on his nightstand, I followed Miss McCann out into the corridor and listened to a truly awful confession.

  ‘Please don’t tell anyone about this,’ she pleaded. ‘We could all lose our jobs. Bill fell one day, and afterwards had this real bad pain in his leg. But – largely because he’d cried wolf so many times before – the home’s doctor took one look at him and said there was nothing wrong. So we pushed him to keep exercising, but he kept going on about it hurting. So we took him to hospital and he was kept in casualty, still being exercised. And then he came back, still complaining, and we thought he was still putting it on, so we pushed him further. He went back and forth between his GP and the hospital four times before we found out what was really wrong. A specialist finally got hold of him, and told us that he had a shattered hip! He’d had it since the day of the fall. The guy who looked at him saw it immediately. He was appalled. Especially when we told him Bill had been walking round on this shattered hip for three months. He put a metal bolt into his leg, but all the bone had long since fragmented into the muscle, and he could never walk properly again. It was a case of pure negligence.’

  There was a pause as my jaw dropped, and then a voice behind us said: ‘I heard all that, Miss McCann. You’re fired!’

  The pale deputy spun around in confusion. And was confronted by a red-faced Mr Parker, who had just emerged from his mother’s room.

  ‘Oh, oh, but what did I do?’ she protested. ‘We all knew there was something wrong, but we all missed it!’

  ‘What did you do?’ echoed the Chairman nastily. ‘What you did was cover the whole thing up. One sniff of this, and the Social would shut us down without farting! Now, you get yourself downstairs and tell everyone who knew about this – and I mean everyone – to eff off out of my building!’

  ‘Erm...is that a good idea?’ I intervened feebly. ‘Won’t that draw a lot of unwanted attention to the incident?’

  A pair of angry little piggy eyes stared at me for what seemed an eternity. Then the penny dropped, and they gave a single blink.

  ‘There you go again, Mr Kusy. You’re absolutely right. Can’t have the Social witness a wholesale sacking without them asking lots of awkward questions. Brilliant. Okay, then, nobody gets sacked. But somebody’s got to bring the whole miserable lot of them into line. Now, who do you think that could be?’

  Chapter 5

  In the Hot Seat

  They say be careful what you wish for, and so it was with me. I should have been happy when Mr Parker assembled his committee and appointed me – after three short weeks – the home’s new Director, but I wasn’t. I had spent my entire early life – starting with school teachers and then the Jesuits – being a rebellious challenge to authority. I had no experience whatsoever in wielding it. Manage a home of 36 residents and 16 staff? I could barely manage my shoelaces.

  What I should have said, looking back on it, was: ‘Right, you lot, the party’s over. No more crafty fags in the toilets, no more suspect “sickies” and definitely no more treating old people like troublesome children. There’s a new kid in town and his word shall be Law!’

  What I actually said, when I nervously convened a staff meeting and saw all the bored, resentful faces staring back at me, was: ‘Erm, I’m as surprised by this appointment as you are, but don’t worry, I want us all to get on. I want us all to be friends.’

  There was a stunned silence as everyone digested this limp-handed display of power, and then a deep, resounding guffaw echoed around the bare walls of my office.

  ‘Friends, is it?’ mocked Mr Bragg, his lips curled in a sarcastic sneer. ‘Okay, we’ll be your friends, laddy – if you get us all contracts of employment. Yes, you stop Parker sacking us left, right and centre, and we’ll be your friends alright!’

  I fought the urge to run out of the building in tears. What right did this jumped-up handyman have to talk to me like this? And what was with the “laddy”? Everyone knew I was the youngest person in the building. Did he really have to bring it to their attention?

  ‘You don’t have contracts of employments?’ I stuttered, trying and failing to keep my voice steady. ‘That’s news to me.’

  ‘Oh, the senior staff have them, dear,’ chipped in Matron. ‘Just not the care staff. Oh, and Mr Bragg, of course.’

  ‘Neither do we have terms and conditions of employment,’ added the irascible Scotsman. ‘Which means we can be slung out on our ear whenever Parker or any of the management committee feels like it.’

  I shifted uncomfortably in my chair. Mr Bragg had just handed me a Gordian knot of a problem. How on earth was I going to cut it?

  ‘Err, I’ll do what I can,’ I assured him as I closed down the meeting. ‘Yes, leave it with me and I’ll get back to you soon, okay?’

  The boiler-suited handyman’s protracted look of disdain told me what he thought of that offer, but it was all I had to give.

  There was no way I was going head to head with Mr Parker about those contracts of employment. What was there in it for him? Absolutely nothing. I was going to have to get somebody else to do my dirty work for me. It was an old tactic, one I had perfected at Jesuit school. I still remembered the two skin headed thugs I’d engaged to scare off bully boys in the playground. Their names were Kev and Trev, and I’d done their homework for them for five long years, until they got expelled for flushing a holy crucifix down the toilet.

  I chanted a long time before a name came to me – Mrs Teasdale. She had been kind to me when I had first interviewed for work at the home, and she had been the only member of the Committee who had backed Parker’s bid to make me Director at such short notice. All the rest – especially flush cheeked Mr French, the Treasurer – had doubted my ability to handle such a responsible job with so little experience or training.

  ‘Ah yes, Mrs Teasdale,’ I thought excitedly. ‘She’s the one for me. Parker will never see her coming!’

  But Mrs Teasdale, when I convened a private meeting with her the next day, was doubtful.

  ‘Do you realise the implications of what you’re asking?’ she said. ‘If we give all the care staff contracts and terms and conditions of employment, we would be obliged to give them paid holidays and sick leave. Plus they could do us for unfair dismissal. I can’t see Parker buying that – he has unfair dismissal down to a fine art.’

  I surveyed the prim, bun-haired figure before me, and took a stab in the dark.

  ‘What do you know about Mrs Duff’s porridge?’ I said.

  ‘Mrs Duff’s porridge?’ she replied, looking suddenly flustered. ‘What do you mean?’

  Her eyes told me everything. The left one in particular, which was twitching like a rabbit’s nose.

  ‘Well, I couldn’t help noticing,’ I said innocently. ‘Bu
t Mrs Duff’s files state quite clearly that she hates porridge, yet she is being given it every day. It was you who supervised her admission to the home last month, wasn’t it – didn’t you notice that too?’

  Mrs Teasdale’s lips pursed in a tight grimace.

  ‘I can see where this is going, young man. Yes, I did notice that. And yes, it was me who told Matron that Mrs Duff loved porridge, no matter what she might say to the contrary. It was also me who phoned in about Mrs Duff crying into her porridge. The Chairman didn’t know it was me, I disguised my voice, but it was worth it just to see him squirm for a change.’

  I stared at the discomfited deputy Chairman in amazement. This was beginning to bear all the hallmarks of a TV soap opera.

  Mrs Teasdale sighed, and sat down. ‘You may think me cruel, using a poor old woman as a means of shaking Parker out of his comfort zone, but she was a wicked old hag before she lost her marbles. The home was my idea. I should have been Chairman. But she stole it from me and got her son appointed instead. Since then, I’ve had eight years in his shadow, watching my lovely home for the needy elderly reduced to a circus sideshow by his bully boy scare tactics. I’m ready to scream!’

  Yes, ‘circus sideshow’ just about summed it up. I sat down opposite her, and rang for a pot of tea.

  ‘So what do we do now?’ I asked her. ‘It seems to me that the home is being run by the care staff, with Matron and all the officers running around like headless chickens. How am I supposed to please everybody and not have a full scale revolt on my hands?’

  ‘I’m not oblivious to your situation,’ said Mrs Teasdale, regaining her composure. ‘You’re caught between a rock and a hard place, aren’t you? Leave those contracts of employment to me. It won’t be easy, but I’ll find a way of talking Mr Parker round. Oh, and I’m not doing it because I fear what you might say about the porridge thing, I really don’t care what happens there. I’m doing it because it is the right thing to do. The staff should feel safe in their jobs!’

  *

  Later on that day, leaving that little pot to come to the boil, I heated up another.

  ‘I have no idea how to manage people,’ I was forced to acknowledge. ‘I’ll have to get someone to do it for me.’

  The someone I had in mind was a calm, unflappable care officer by the name of John Gray. Tall, balding and possessed of a huge brush moustache, he was the only member of staff who seemed unafraid of Matron. Indeed, when she went off on one of her rants, he would just stand there and survey her with a mild air of amusement.

  I found John at the back of the large wood-panelled library which opened out to the garden. He was in consultation with a Mr Bartlett who had come for his daily discussion about his bowels.

  ‘Nothing’s moving,’ Mr Bartlett was saying. ‘I’ve been in the loo for an hour past, and nothing’s moved.’

  John winked at me, and indicated I should sit down.

  ‘You’re still on the Dorbanex?’ he told Mr Bartlett. ‘And it isn’t working? Well, let’s try you on Lactulose.’

  Mr Bartlett’s face darkened with suspicion. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Well, it does the same sort of thing, but it’s a clear liquid instead of orange. It does the same sort of thing. They all do exactly the same sort of thing. You can try it if you want.’

  ‘Why isn’t it orange?’ said a persistent Mr Bartlett.

  ‘Because it hasn’t got a dye in it like Dorbanex. Some laxatives are orange. And some aren’t. This one isn’t.’

  ‘Well...I really don’t know,’ sighed Mr Bartlett. ‘I’ve got used to the orange one.’

  John reassured his constipated guest that ‘clear’ was the ‘new orange’ and then, having seen him safely out of sight, he turned to me and said: ‘You’ve got something on your mind. What is it?’

  I didn’t see any point in beating around the bush. Taking a quick look around to make sure we were quite alone, I said: ‘How do you fancy helping me out, John? As in...erm...being my deputy?’

  John’s slim, white fingers raked his moustache as he considered my proposal.

  ‘Hmm...well, that would depend. Would I have total authority over the officers and staff...including you know who? Because down to the inefficiency of Matron and divisions between the officers, the care staff have been used to running the home for years.’

  I nodded. ‘You saw how it went with my meeting yesterday. I’m in over my head with both Matron and Mr Bragg. What I need is someone I trust to keep them in check while I crack on with important business...like getting everyone their bloomin’ contracts of employment.’

  ‘What you need is a miracle,’ said John. ‘But okay, I’ll be your huckleberry. Can’t promise you Mr Bragg, he’s a real hard bastard. But Matron, yes, piece of cake...’

  *

  Outside, it was snowing. I looked down at my thin shoes, which would soon not be suitable for crossing the wide, frozen expanse that was Clapham Common. No, I thought grimly, it would have to be boots tomorrow, and a long leather coat.

  ‘Here!’ A thin, frail voice shook me out of my reverie. ‘Come over here!’

  ‘Oh, hello Betsy,’ I greeted my frisky new friend. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘I got to tell you this,’ said Betsy in an urgent tone. ‘I had a dream about you last night.’

  ‘Oh, did you?’ I responded cautiously. ‘What were we doing in it, playing Scrabble?’

  ‘Not bloody likely. We were doing a lot more than that. We were up to all sorts!’

  For one fleeting second I found my mind entering Betsy’s dream world. Then it fled screaming.

  ‘I haven’t lost it, you know,’ she gave me a suggestive wink. ‘I still get “feelings”. If I were 30 years younger, I’d give you a run for your money!’

  Then, without warning, she whipped out her new toy – a small plastic hand-fan – and directed it at the crotch of my trousers.

  ‘A young man like you must get hot in this place,’ she informed me meaningfully. ‘Let me cool you off a little.’

  I blushed to my roots, and desperately tried to think of a way to flee my 80 year old groupie.

  ‘I’m sorry, Betsy,’ I said, ‘but I have to go home now. I’ve really been through the wars today.’

  ‘Been through the wars, have you?’ said a second voice behind me. ‘We had a war. We had it right here!’

  I turned around to find Betsy’s pal, Ethel, shuffling up to join us. Dressed in a wide flower print dress and smoking a flavoursome Gitane cigarette, she looked set for a long conversation.

  ‘Which war was that, then?’ I asked her, looking at my watch and ruling out an early night. ‘The first or the second?’

  ‘Oh, the first war wasn’t nearly so bad,’ coughed Ethel as she eased her large frame into a chair. ‘They were only Zeppelins that came. But the second one, we didn’t know what a good night’s sleep was – not with all those “doodlebuggers” flying over! We slept out in the garden, in the shelter. The shelter was buried in the ground. It had a corrugated iron roof. We’d be out there, shaking like leaves, even in the freezing cold in the dead of winter.’

  ‘Terrible, it was,’ agreed Betsy, lowering the hand fan and giving my windswept assets a much-needed respite. ‘Penge alone had one hundred flying bombs drop. In just one square mile of Penge. And all this in just a three month or so period.’

  I fished out my Sony Walkman again. This was getting interesting.

  ‘I will say this about the war,’ said Ethel, a serious look on her face. ‘It did bring people together.’

  ‘Because they were all scared to death,’ said Betsy.

  ‘They all shared things. Not like now.’

  Betsy nodded. ‘But in all the areas in England which didn’t have bombs, they couldn’t have given a damn about each other. I had friends in Leeds. They were most annoyed up there at having to have evacuees from London – even those who were rolling in money up there, working in the woollen mills. My friend Iris went up to Leeds and showed a shop her
soap coupon, and they just laughed. They hardly knew what rationing was.’

  ‘They didn’t know there was a war on!’ chipped in Ethel.

  ‘Yes. Outside the bombed areas of England, there was none of this “comradeship” everyone goes on about now. They couldn’t have cared less. It was the Americans and the Canadians who sent food parcels and clothing to London. They sent far more than our own people in say, Leeds!’

  Ethel stabbed out one cigarette, and lit another.

  ‘I went up there during the war,’ she ranted. ‘To Leeds. And there was two women in a bus queue complaining: “We don’t want those London kids up here – we didn’t ask for a war!” And I said: “Well, neither did they!” And they said: “Well, we had a bomb dropped near Leeds!” They’d had a bomb! So they didn’t want to know about London’s problems. Even though this one single bomb had been dropped on them by accident, on the outskirts of the town. They had no idea how bad things were in London. And they didn’t want to know.’

  What I didn’t know, looking back on it, was that if things were bad in wartime London, they were about to get much worse in one small corner of latter day Clapham.

  A small, angry six stone bombshell was about to land.

  Chapter 6

  I knew Elizabeth Taylor

  The following week, as we approached Christmas, I welcomed Miss Margaret Pratt into the home. Though welcomed was perhaps not the right word. Dressed in a smelly old duffle coat and wearing a glare that would have turned Medusa to stone, ‘Maggie’ Pratt promised to be even more of a handful than Old Bill.

  ‘Where am I? said Maggie.

  ‘In a very nice home for sophisticated ladies and gentlemen,’ I replied soothingly. ‘You’ll like it here.’

  ‘Well, that rools me out,’ she spat. ‘I’m about as sophisticated as a coal bucket!’

  ‘Now, now, it can’t be that bad. You can always have visitors. Don’t you have family?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Friends?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Pets? We can always arrange for you to see them.’