by Kerena Swan
‘Where’s Gwen?’ I ask, feeling panic rising. ‘I need the review pack.’
I also need to ring Mum and call the hospital to arrange the visit with Ivy Saunders. My heart begins to race again but then I remember the gentle mouth of the stranger telling me to breathe slowly. I take in a long breath and exhale gradually. My heart rate slows a fraction.
‘She’s just popped out to get some croissants and coffees. She’ll be back in a minute,’ Karen says.
On cue, a short, grey haired woman appears, pushing the door aside with her hip. She’s carrying two, large, disposable cups and a paper bag. A draught of cold air settles around my feet and the aroma of coffee wafts over. Mmmm, that smells good.
‘Oh, sorry, Sophie! I didn’t get you one. I thought you had a meeting at ten.’
Gwen looks concerned, bless her. She hurries across the room and places a cup and the bag in front of Karen then turns back to me.
‘You can share my coffee if you like? I always struggle to drink a whole one.’
I don’t know why Gwen goes along with this morning ritual. I’m sure she’d prefer a nice mug of tea made in the small office kitchen. It seems I’m not the only one intimidated by Karen.
‘I’m fine, thanks.’ I smile back. ‘I had tea before I left home.’
I can’t afford to get involved with buying rounds again. Small treats soon add up. When Mum worked out how much I was spending a week in Starbucks I was shocked. I’m much more careful nowadays. I have to be.
‘Do you have the review pack ready?’ I ask. Mr Giddings is definitely going to be cross with me.
Gwen turns and produces a folder from a pile on her desk apologising she hadn’t left it in an obvious place. I take it gratefully, grab my coat and bag, whip papers off the printer and hurry out of the office with a swift goodbye.
As I rush down the High Street, dodging shoppers, I have the strangest desire to laugh at Gwen’s final comment. ‘You’re looking tired, Sophie. Make sure you rest on your afternoon off.’
8
Another look at the clock and the hands have barely moved. Isn’t time supposed to go quickly when you’re busy? Despite ploughing through several incoming phone calls and a mound of paperwork, the morning is really dragging. He can’t stop his mind replaying the scene in the street when he’d touched her warm face. How is he going to keep away from her for a few days? He’s already taken risks by walking up and down her street too often.
The ringing phone cuts sharply through his reverie. Why can’t everyone just sod off and leave him in peace? ‘Good morning, Cuthbert and Partners Property Management, Max speaking, how can I help you?’ His voice is bright with fake enthusiasm and he listens to the caller with a smile on his face. If he smiles when on the phone it will affect his tone of voice and be more likely to appeal to customers, helping build immediate rapport. He has a small mirror on the wall near his desk and a ‘Smile when you Dial’ reminder pinned next to it. A smile can hide so much.
He swivels his chair, as he speaks, to check himself, then glances across his desk to Joyce, the administrator, who is sitting across the room observing him. Very little information escapes the sharp-eyed but benevolent scrutiny of Joyce, and sometimes he swears he can see her ears moving to catch every sound. She knows most of his client list and organises a lot of his work. She also seems to derive great pleasure in fussing over him; straightening his collar, brushing non-existent fluff off his shoulders, making him endless cups of tea, and buying in his favourite caramel wafers. Most of the time he can tolerate her attention, but sometimes she drives him mad. Best to keep her sweet, though. She always believes what he says and will back him up if difficult questions are ever asked about his movements.
It takes Max a few seconds to realise it isn’t a client on the phone and the smile falls from his face. As the caller talks, he picks a pen up off his note pad and begins clicking the top up and down repeatedly. He can see Joyce is intrigued now so he swivels his chair right round and turns his back towards her. She’s so bloody nosey at times.
‘I see,’ he says. ‘Well, I can’t say I’m happy about that.’ He listens again, drawing triangles heavily on his note pad, then says, ‘Yes, of course I’ll be there.’ He disconnects the call then mutters an expletive under his breath. He can feel Joyce bristling with curiosity behind him.
‘Is there a problem, Max?’ she asks. ‘Can I help?’ He turns around to face her and the smile is back.
‘Everything is fine. Just a small personal issue I need to deal with. Can you cover for me for an hour?’
Max knows Joyce understands this doesn’t just mean answering the phone. If asked by their employer, she’ll say he’s out on a viewing. She thinks he has a romance blooming and will do everything she can to see him happy.
‘Would you like me to pick up a sandwich for you whilst I’m out?’ he offers, knowing full well she will have brought her own Marmite sandwiches, hula hoops, and apple.
‘You’re very kind, but no,’ she demurs politely and gives him a smile that crinkles the loose skin around her eyes. As he passes her desk he pats her arm and sees her grow an inch or two taller in her chair. She is so easily pleased.
9
Late again! Rush, rush, rush. I seem to spend my whole life rushing from one place to the next or one task to the next. The only time I stop is when I go to bed. As I half-trot along the busy street I twist round to peer into my large shoulder bag for my sandwiches. I may be able to eat one before I reach the hospital. I need to attempt a few mouthfuls otherwise my stomach will be grumbling and that’s so embarrassing in meetings.
My hand closes around some scrunched up tin foil and I draw a squashed looking package from the depths of the cloth bag. I peel the wrapping away from the flattened bread and take a large bite. It still tastes good.
I’ve another ten minutes of brisk walking to reach the ward. Parking at the hospital is an expensive nightmare. Besides, the walk will do me good. As I hurry along, dodging pushchairs, dogs on leads, and shopping bags, I frame questions in my head in readiness for my meeting with Ivy Saunders and the hospital social worker. I’m trying not to dwell on how rude Mr Giddings had been when I arrived five minutes late. There’d been no need to shout and accuse me of incompetence.
Apparently, Ivy had a fall a couple of days ago and seemed quite confused. There was concern she had a head injury, but it transpired her disorientation and confusion stemmed from a urine infection – quite common in older people. They don’t drink enough. I’ll need to find out if an occupational therapist has been out to her bungalow. It sounds like Ivy needs some grab rails installing if she doesn’t already have some. As I reach the hospital I glance behind me. I have that prickly sensation on the back of my neck again. Is someone following me?
I push my way through a series of heavy double doors, trying not to think about it or the reek of chemical cleaning fluids invading my senses. This is the smell that evokes memories of morning sickness for me when I started my nurse training. The pregnancy all got too much in the end and I had to give up my studies. Hopefully, I’ll be able to take up the training again one day and get qualified.
I locate the ward and after a swift word and a flash of my ID card at the nurses’ station, I pull aside a curtain to find my client.
‘Hello, Mrs Saunders, I’m Sophie from The One and Only care agency.’ I cringe inwardly as I say this. What a bloody stupid name for a company. She doesn’t seem to mind though and lifts her face up to me with the biggest smile I’ve seen in days. Her white hair reminds me of the fluffy stuff my mum used to put round the Christmas lights – what was it called? Angel hair I think. Her eyebrows have worn away at the edges, but her eyes are bright beneath the folds of skin.
‘Call me Ivy,’ she says. ‘I hate all that formal stuff.’
She’s wrapped from head to foot in hand knitting. A bright red and purple blanket covers her knees, and a multi-coloured scarf is wound around her neck. I find myself warming to this lady an
d smile back.
Ivy pats the hard, plastic chair next to her and says, ‘Come and sit next to me so I can see you properly. My eyes aren’t what they used to be.’
I do as she asks and, after removing some papers, I tuck my bag under my chair. As I straighten up she leans towards me conspiratorially and whispers, ‘You’ve got a bit of tomato on your lapel.’
I glance down and am mortified to see a splodge of red skin and seeds staining my cream mac. Before I can react though, Ivy has whipped a lace-edged hankie from up her sleeve and is dabbing away at the offending fruit.
‘I’m supposed to be helping you!’ I laugh, and Ivy cackles, showing perfect, even teeth with plastic gums.
I’m about to explain the purpose of my visit when the curtain moves and a tall, lean woman with closely cropped grey hair strides into the room. She’s carrying a folder and, after a sweeping glance around the cubicle, grabs another plastic chair and pulls it up beside me.
‘Hi, I’m Erika, hospital social worker. I assume you’re Sophie. Hello, Ivy, we meet again.’
I’m beginning to feel more at ease now as everyone is so friendly. I was feeling a bit anxious about this meeting, especially after my collapse in the street this morning. I don’t know why I keep having these episodes. Maybe I’ll see my GP to have my heart checked out. I’m just sifting through my forms for the blank care plan when the curtains move again. I look up in surprise as I’m not expecting anyone else and it’s getting a bit cramped in here. I stare open-mouthed into the face of my rescuer. His wavy, dark hair looks slightly more dishevelled than it did this morning, but it suits him. The rest of him is still immaculate, though, in the dark suit and crisp white shirt. He sees my look of shock but doesn’t let his gaze linger on me. Instead he goes around the bed and sits on it sideways.
‘Hello, Nan! How are you? I would come and kiss you but short of crawling under or over the bed I don’t think I can.’
Ivy’s funny laugh, like the calling ducks Mia and I feed, rings out again and I can’t help but smile. It soon fades though when I realise I’m at risk of having my health issue exposed. What if word gets back to Karen? He leans over instead of acknowledging me and grasps Ivy’s hand in a tight squeeze.
‘Hello, Max.’ Erika greets him warmly. ‘Thank you for coming in at such short notice. This is Sophie. She’ll be organising the care Ivy needs when she returns home tomorrow. I don’t think you’ve met before.’
I stare at Max and find I’m holding my breath. He lets his own breath out gently but audibly and when he says, ‘No, I don’t think I have,’ I exhale slowly but surely in imitation. I am so grateful to him, Max – now I know his name! – I can’t help the relief showing on my face. He gives an almost imperceptible nod and I know he understands. I relax into my chair.
‘OK, Ivy. Can you tell me what you think you can do for yourself at the moment?’ I ask, giving her my full attention.
She chats away and I scribble down her answers. I ask the social worker when the OT is planning to visit, and check out Ivy’s medication requirements. The rest of the meeting flies by and I even manage to negotiate a few hours’ delay to the discharge in order to sort out suitable carers. Karen will be pleased.
I gather up my forms, shake hands with Ivy, who grasps my hand in both of hers, then offer my hand to Max. He takes it, tilting it slightly, and for an absurd moment I think he is going to lift it to his lips. I feel heat in my face as he looks at my confusion then he lets go and the moment has gone.
As I cross the car park for the long walk back, I call Karen to tell her we’re to go ahead and provide the support. Her delight almost makes the afternoon worthwhile.
Returning to the office I’m pleased to see Lydia sitting in my chair.
‘Come to take over my job?’ I tease.
‘Not likely, I’m not keen on all that writing,’ she says, tossing her silky dark hair over her shoulder and grinning at me. ‘I’d much rather be the carer.’
‘Good. I’ve got a new lady for you. I think you’ll like her. She’s quite a character.’ And her grandson is gorgeous. Thankfully, Lydia already has a boyfriend because Max would probably find her far more attractive than me. Lydia unfolds her legs gracefully and stands up. She’s taller than me and has the freshness of youth about her. I wish I had her poise and confidence. She smiles warmly at me.
‘Can I see the care plan?’
‘I haven’t typed it yet. I’ll e-mail you within the hour. Can we go through your rota?’ Lydia seems keen and gives me her availability. This is all working out well.
‘Don’t let me down with this, will you?’ Lydia cancelled at short notice a week ago and I had a nightmare covering her shift. She hasn’t been the most reliable worker on my team. Her punctuality isn’t great, and I wonder whether her periodic bouts of food poisoning have more to do with partying until the small hours than anything she’s eaten.
‘Of course not.’ Lydia picks up her bag and slings it over her shoulder. ‘I’ve got no better offers.’ She sees the alarm on my face. ‘Joke! I won’t.’
I hope she doesn’t disappoint me again.
Driving home I feel pleased with myself. What a good day it has been. Max. Max. I wonder what the P or R stands for then?
10
Well, that was a result. He hadn’t expected his afternoon to take such a positive turn. And now he’s got ten minutes to daydream about Sophie before the Poultons arrive to view Peacock House. Sophie, Sophie, Sophie. He’d been so annoyed when he took the call from the hospital social worker to say they were discharging his nan so quickly. He didn’t think she was strong enough to look after herself at all. Thank God, he’d emphasised at a previous meeting that Ivy had no one but him to support her. They’d had to agree when he said there was no way he could provide personal care. He’s so glad he told the social worker he’d been researching suitable care agencies on the Care Quality Commission website and The One and Only agency really was the ‘one and only’ one for him.
His heart had turned somersaults when he’d seen Sophie entering the hospital and delighted when he threw back the curtain and she was there. Now he could legitimately spend more time in her company and not just have to watch her from a distance. It had taken all his willpower not to stare at her, to absorb every detail into his memory. Her neck, he couldn’t stop staring at her neck, the way the tendons stood proud at the front, creating a little dip in the middle where her collar bones met. He could picture it filled with champagne ready for him to lap up. He’s feeling aroused now. He adjusts his position in the car seat to ease the pressure. What is this hold Sophie has over him? He hasn’t experienced anything like it before. He can’t stop thinking about her.
A sudden knock on the window makes him jump visibly and he grabs his briefcase, pulling it onto his lap to hide his embarrassment.
‘Hello, are you the estate agent?’
A man with thinning hair peers at him, his stomach straining over a tight belt as he bends over. He looks annoyed, although Max can’t think why. He was here in plenty of time. Max nods and opens the car door.
‘I’m not sure this place is going to be suitable,’ Mr Poulton says in a heavy northern accent, waving the brochure of Peacock House at Max.
‘Perhaps I can show you round before you make a decision,’ Max says with his salesman smile on. ‘It’s Edwardian, just as you wanted, and has some wonderful features inside.’
‘It’s a bit too remote for me and the wife. We wanted something nearer the shops and church. Your details implied it was in the centre of the village but this is bloody miles away.’
Hardly miles. Half a mile at the most. Max gets out of the car and heads over to Mrs Poulton to see if she’s easier to influence. One half of the couple is usually a lot keener than the other. Mrs Poulton’s demeanour isn’t encouraging, though. She’s standing with her handbag clutched in front of her as though for protection.
‘I’ve got a funny feeling about this place,’ she says. ‘It gives me the
creeps.’
Max contains a snort of laughter. He hears these fanciful ideas all the time; people talking about houses as though they have hidden evil spirits or personalities and feelings. Some people have even talked about ley lines and how the house is in the wrong place by a few feet or facing the wrong direction. Others talk about the house speaking to them as though it had been waiting years for them to walk through the front door. What a load of old bollocks.
He knows he isn’t likely to win this sale but he’s here now, so he perseveres and succeeds in persuading the couple to take a tour. The house is delightful, in his opinion, although massively overpriced. Large, square rooms with high ceilings and huge sash windows overlooking a generous sized garden. Fireplaces, decorative cornices and ceiling roses all add to the character and charm. He’d happily live here. It’s a long way from the small, run-down house he grew up in with its broken, dark furniture and vicious stone chips stuck all over the outside walls. Thank God pebble-dashing went out of fashion. It was hideous.
Max shows them up the wide stairs then tempts them to admire a long window in the first bedroom. ‘It has amazing views. No one to overlook you.’
They glance out disinterestedly and wander away. He’s about to follow them when he stops mid-turn. Is that what he thinks it is at the far end of the garden? Why do people keep them for years and never use them when they are such an eyesore? It might be useful though. He’s going to come back later and check it out.
11