A Beginner’s Guide to Murder

by Rosalind Stopps

  They tell me I’ve got the sequence of events all wrong. They say that I went to the hospital first, had scans and saw doctors and that sort of malarkey, and that I only came to the nursing home later. I don’t know why they say that. I’ve got no idea at all, so I don’t argue, I just keep quiet and watch them all. It’s not something I’d forget, is it, a whole trip to hospital and everything that goes with it?

  Honestly dear, you’ve been unwell for longer than you think, said the one with the purple streak. (Hello, my name is Abi.)

  I hate being called ‘dear’ and I don’t trust any of them. It’ll be a cost cutting thing. It’s my guess that they just cut out the middle person and bring the old people straight to the nursing home, save money on hospital beds. They tell the poor old dears they’ve had some treatment but they don’t remember and everyone is happy. That’s the thing with me, you see, I’m quite clever underneath this old lady exterior. That’s what it feels like, an outfit I’m wearing. As if I woke up wearing a fancy dress costume complete with wrinkles and grey hair, and I can’t take it off. Inside it’s different. Inside me I’m about thirty, with occasional forays backward and forwards. I don’t think the other old people are like that. I’ve watched them. It’s real for them.

  I didn’t see any of the other old codgers that first day. As far as I remember I was on the floor in my front room, in the ambulance, and then this room. I’m not complaining. It’s all very nice and everything, this room, clean and bright, but it smells of gravy at all times. It’s like living in a gravy boat I wanted to say, one big gravy boat sailing away into the night, full of old people on their last trip. I’d like to be able to say that to Agnita, she’s the one I’m supposed to go to if I have any ‘issues’. She’s not a nurse. Mentor friend, they call it but she hasn’t got a badge that says that.

  So that first day, she sat with me for a while, telling me this and that about St Barbara’s, that’s the name of this gravy boat. St Barbara is the patron saint of miners, firemen and prisoners, she said, so that’s appropriate. I didn’t listen to everything she said, but I liked the sound of her voice, all soft and lilty like a bedtime story. She told me that she came from a part of the West Indies that used to be Dutch, and that was why her accent was unusual, I remember that. I remember it mainly for the frustration I felt, wanting to let her know that I was a true Londoner, not racist like the other old people. They weren’t proper Londoners, I could tell at a glance. They seemed more like the sort of people who’d moved to London from Hull. A sea of bad perms, crimplene and right-wing nonsense. The most important people in my life have been people of colour, I wanted to say but all that came out was spit.

  Come on now May, there’s no need to be alarmed, she said, I’m a trained carer. Something like that anyway, but it wasn’t fair, I wasn’t alarmed. Well I was, but not by her, I don’t know why people always think it’s about them. Trained carer, I wanted to say, trained carer? An untrained toddler would have been able to see that I was actually alarmed by the fact that I couldn’t talk. I couldn’t join in with the conversation I hadn’t asked for in the first place, and I didn’t want to be having it anyway. I must have got a little upset after that. She looked offended, and that’s bonkers. How could anyone be offended by an old woman who spits instead of talks?

  She left me alone for a while, but she left the door open. I could see two rooms across the corridor. One had the door shut, and the other was open. I couldn’t see who was in it but I could hear the television blaring so I knew it was occupied. And I could see people moving up and down the corridor with trolleys. Pill trolleys, cup of tea trolleys, book trolleys. This was clearly going to be a place where they didn’t leave a person alone for five minutes. I wasn’t sure what to think about that. I’ve been lonely in my life, I’ll admit it, but I’ve learned to like my own company too.

  I slept again then, and when I woke up I realised exactly what was going on. I didn’t have a voice, that was the long and the short of it, I was trapped until I could make myself understood. That was a difficult thing to come to terms with. No one could understand me and while there was a kind of freedom in that, it was not a freedom I wanted. I was set apart from the rest of the world, a separate kingdom with my own self as ruler and subject. I was going to have to make my own rules; work hard.

  I’d heard a radio programme about someone famous who had had a stroke and then practised and practised and got themselves better and climbed Everest for charity or something. I should be able to get better a lot more quickly, I thought, because I didn’t want to climb any mountains at all. I just wanted to go to the toilet unaided. I wanted to manage the whole process without swinging through the air on a hoist, or being helped by two carers while I lurched along with a three legged stick. I wanted my dignity, that’s what I wanted the most.

  I never thought that going to the loo would be such a big deal in my life, but in between toilet visits not a lot happens in here. There’s TV, and meal times, and therapy of various sorts, but the other people are very dull. Mostly of the common or garden vegetable variety; no conversation to speak of. I need to practise my talking, that’s what the speech and language therapist says, but it’s hard to do that when I’m surrounded by people who are either busy working or busy dying.

  There’s one, I’ve never seen her, I guess she keeps to her own room, but every night at about seven o’clock she starts shouting for her mother. If it was me in charge, I’d get someone to dress up as her mother and give her and the rest of us a bit of peace, but I don’t think they’ve thought of that. I’m thinking about doing it myself, when I can get around a little better. I could just put my head round her door and say, there there, it’s all OK dear, Mother’s here. She might stop calling out, she might sleep better and then we’d all be happy.

  There was a shouter on the ward where I had my Jenny. It wasn’t her mum she was calling for, more like she was asking for divine intervention as far as I remember. God, please help me she kept calling. I’d had my baby by then, but I could still hear her, we all could, the new mums. There was one across from me, she kept muttering, God help her, whenever the shouting woman went quiet, and for some reason that made us all laugh. It was good to have a laugh together, made me feel like one of the gang. A conspiracy of women, that’s what we were, that’s what Helen called it and I didn’t mind at all that Alain often missed visiting hours. He wasn’t the only one, having babies was women’s work back then. I’d read the books of course, I wanted it to be different for us but I knew how hard it was for him.

  It will be different, Alain used to say, we won’t be like all the others. I’ve got to make things right for all of us, we’re a family now. He had interviews for jobs as far as I remember, it wasn’t that he didn’t want to come. The visiting hour was short, literally an hour, I think. I understood. When he did come though, oh, all the other mothers took to him. He’d go along the ward saying hello to them, commenting on how pretty their babies were, that sort of thing. He always brought flowers, every day that he managed to come in, and he usually cried at the sight of little Jenny.

  She’s so perfect, he said, I’m sorry I just can’t help it.

  He loved to sit and look at her while she was sleeping. It worried him when she cried. I got into the habit of telling Jenny to be quiet, and if I’m honest, I never really stopped until she was grown up. I’ve had a lot of time to think about that in here, and as soon as I can get the words out properly I’m going to tell her. I’m sorry, I’m going to say, I don’t know whether it’s my fault that you’re so quiet now, but if it is, I’m sorry, and I think you should spend the rest of your life shouting, just to make up for it.

  She’s been to see me quite a few times in here. It’s nice to see her but the last thing she needs is me getting all sloppy over her, so I’ve tried to keep myself to myself. It’s the spit. Any attempt at talking and it’s there, splishing and splashing out of my mouth like one of those water slide things they have in outdoor swimming pools. I
thought of that when Jenny was here the other day. She used to love going down the water slide on holiday and I wanted to remind her of that and explain why I was spitting at the same time but of course it all came out in a wet jumble and she had no idea what I was trying to say.

  Do you want a drink, she said, or the toilet, it’s OK Mum, I’ll call the nurse.

  They’re bloody not nurses I wanted to say but it came out as a growl and then she pressed the buzzer and I was being swung through the air to the toilet like I was a sack of old bones, which I suppose I am. The swimming pool, I wanted to say, remember the water slide and how many times you went down it? You were so tired you’d often fall asleep eating your dinner on that holiday. Mush mush mush spit dribble slobber, that’s what comes out. All anyone can guess is drink or toilet, that’s the only things that I’m supposed to care about now. Like one of those dolls Jenny used to have, where you poured the water in the mouth and put a nappy on the other end so it could come out. That doll always creeped me out and now I know why, it was my fate, waiting for me.

  Don’t try to talk Mum, it’s OK, Jenny says and I try so hard not to cry that I knock the water out of her hand as she offers me a drink.

  Now now, May, one of the carers says, there’s no need for that, your daughter has come to visit you, let’s be nice. It’s not fair, I think, it’s not fair and if at that moment I could have blown the place up I would have, daughter or no daughter. I’ve never liked things that aren’t fair.

  When I was at school there was a fashion for biros with more than one colour, and you clicked a button to change the colour of your writing. I didn’t have one, so when Carol Eliot’s got lost, it was me everyone thought had taken it. I didn’t, I didn’t, I said, but the teacher still insisted on searching my bag based on ‘information received’. It wasn’t there of course, but some of the girls believed it anyway, and for months they held their pens to their chests when I walked past.

  I stopped trying to remind Jenny of the water slide, I stopped trying to tell her I was sorry, I turned my face to the wall and waited for her to go home. I was very sad when she had gone.

  I’ve got to get out of here. September is usually my favourite month. There’s a feeling of new year, new possibilities, but no fireworks. Sunshine. I think I was reading in the garden only last week or the week before, when I was still at home and everything was different. I think I was, only I’ve got into a muddle over dates. I’m sure I was at home with all my body parts working when the children went back to school, I heard them walk past my window and then there’s a blank part and now they tell me it’s the twenty-second of September. The thing is, as you get older, you don’t look at the date every day like you do when you are at work. You take things a bit more slowly, you wind down a little. It doesn’t mean I’ve been ill for nearly three weeks just because I wasn’t noticing the date, and I’d tell them that in no uncertain terms if I could.

  Something a little different this evening. Just after the tea trolley and before the pill trolley, they came round shutting all the room doors. I thought it was just mine at first, and that maybe I was in trouble, or Jenny had complained about me or something, and they were teaching me a lesson. But I listened hard, I’ve always had good hearing, and I heard them shutting all the doors, up and down the corridor. We were banged up. A lockdown. I knew the words because I’ve always liked the prison shows on TV. I listened, and I could hear them roll a trolley down, I could hear those trolley wheels. I’m quick, and I realised what it was. It was creepy. The death stretcher, that’s what it was, the last journey, the only way out of here. Poor old bugger whoever you are, I thought. I wondered for a moment whether I should show respect by bowing my head or something.

  They opened the doors a few minutes later. I think it was only a few minutes. I tried to make my eyes as questioning as possible but same old, same old, Kelly just asked me if I’d like a drink or a wee. I jumped (figuratively) at the chance of a bit of a hoist and a nose, so I made a particularly enthusiastic sound in the appropriate place. It sounded a little like, yeeeeuuugggsshshshsh.

  They always use the hoist when they’re busy. It’s quicker. It can take me half the day to get across the room otherwise, even with two carers helping me.

  Come along now, May, Kelly says.

  She has that voice on that means, I’m busy and you’re a nuisance. If I had a way of having a tantrum I’d have one. I’d sweep all the tissues and the polo mints and the orange squash right off that tray, and lob the sticky toffee pudding left over from dinner right at Kelly’s hair. She’s got this complicated hairstyle, all winding plaits and Princess Leia and it would look just the thing with a handful of custard and sponge on the top. It’s the assumption, that’s what I don’t like, the assumption that whatever I do, I’m doing it as part of a plan to disrupt their lives as much as possible, ruin their busyness. I know it’s only a short time since I went to the toilet last, and that when I got there I couldn’t make much impact anyway, hardly a trickle. But it’s my right to go to the toilet whenever I want to, I know that much.

  So Kelly and Lee-An strap me into the hoist and lift me up, swing swing, into the air and across the room. Talking all the way about hair extensions. I’ve got used to carers talking to each other as if I wasn’t there. It’s restful sometimes, listening to chatter about wallpaper and children, dinners waiting to be eaten and holidays planned. I don’t mind, most of the time, but I’m sad this time what with death rolling past my door so recently. I’m lonely, I’m not sure what hair extensions even are, and I miss Jenny. She might be nearly forty and as quiet as a mouse, but she’s my only family and I can’t help thinking that it would have been nice if she could have stayed a little longer. I’m on my own, after all. She has a long journey to get home and she doesn’t drive, that’s true and I should remember that but I’m upset.

  I can’t have a proper tantrum but I manage a side swipe to the left that knocks the half-drunk mug of tea to the floor as they swing me round. You’d think it was some kind of chemical, the way they carry on, something from a Batman film that could burn through floors, walls and bones. She looks at me, Kelly, not a look that anyone would want to receive, especially from the person who is operating the hoist that gets you to the toilet. I look away, settle down a bit into the sling, so that she can see there isn’t going to be any more drama.

  Something catches my eye. The room across the corridor, not the one with the open door and the booming television, but the other one. The one that’s usually closed and silent. There’s someone in there, a man I think. It’s difficult to tell once you get old. The person is tall, because I can see the back of his head over the top of the chair he is sitting in. There’s something familiar about the tilt of his head as he faces the TV. As if he’s breathing it in, listening hard. I can hear a man’s voice and the hollow sound of questions being asked. I’m not sure until I hear the music, dum diddy dum, all threatening and serious, but I’m right, it’s Mastermind.

  Alain used to love that show. He was good, too, he often got more right than the contestants. Mastermind. I haven’t thought about that show in ages.

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