She pressed the bell again. Why did nobody come? If the woman had a heart attack a delay could prove fatal.
‘You’re lucky to have a bell. Think of that poor husband of yours, alone and seriously ill, with absolutely no one to …’
Yes, Agnes was right – poor Ralph. He was less than a couple of miles away and had two phones, a fax and e-mail, yet the pair of them might have been on different continents for all that they could communicate. She felt horribly cut off from him, from friends, from everyone.
‘Stop it!’ she told herself. ‘You’re Ethel Paterson, remember, so you never feel isolated. Nor do you feel the cold. You’re super-resistant to bugs, germs, unkind remarks, hunger, pain, unpleasant smells, noise and extremes of temperature.
‘Ethel,’ the woman said again, having finally swallowed her mouthful. ‘It is Ethel, isn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ Lorna said with a determined smile. ‘It most certainly is.’
Chapter Seven
Lorna opened her eyes, blinded by a light. A torch was shining directly into her face, the room beyond in darkness. A shadowy figure – broad-shouldered, burly, black – was looming over her bed. My God! she thought, a mugger … ‘No!’ she shouted. ‘Go away!’
‘It’s all right, Mrs Pearson. My name’s Oshoba. I work here nights. I’m a care assistant. I didn’t mean to wake you, but we have to check on the patients.’
‘Oh gosh, I’m sorry,’ she murmured. He’d think she was a racist. ‘I was having a bad dream and …’
‘Yes, I heard you calling out in your sleep.’
Not a good sign. Was senile dementia catching? If so, she might forget her own name or find herself wetting the bed. ‘I … think I’ll spend a penny now I’m awake.’
Oshoba looked blank. His English, although impressive, obviously didn’t encompass euphemisms.
‘I need to go to the toilet.’
‘I’ll bring you a commode.’
He left her on her own to perform, and returned a few minutes later with extra pillows and blankets, a cradle for her foot and a jug of water – all the things she had craved last night. Better still, he remade the bed and even tucked the covers round her, tenderly as if for a small child.
‘You’re far too young to be here, Mrs Pearson. How old are you – twenty-three?’
She flushed. ‘No, almost forty.’
‘You can’t be!’
Was he flirting with her? Well, a little flattery was harmless enough. And his voice was deliciously sexy: a rich, black-treacle bass that sounded as if it came from the depths of a well.
‘Do you know what the average age is here?’ he asked, lingering by her bed.
‘No, tell me.’
‘Eighty-seven. My poor mother died at fifty.’
‘And mine at thirty-one.’
‘Oh, that’s terrible. I’m sorry.’
His words seemed genuine, and his eyes were kind – huge, dark, rather bulgy eyes, the dazzling whites a contrast to his skin.
‘Tell me your name again. I didn’t catch it.’
He grinned. ‘Yes, everyone finds it a mouthful. It’s Osh-how-bah.’
‘And where do you live, Osh … oba?’ Making small talk in the middle of the night was a trifle odd, but it was a relief to talk to someone both calm and compos mentis.
‘I’ve got a place in Woking, but I come from Nigeria. I only left a year ago.’
He must be lonely too, uprooted, far from home. ‘And are your family still there?’
‘Yes. All except one brother. We share a flat. He works as a chef.’
‘That sounds nice. Does he cook for you?’
‘Oh no. I’m out so much I hardly ever see him. I’m doing Business Studies at Brooklands College.’
When did he sleep, she wondered, studying all day, skivvying all night? Sharon had told her how disgracefully low the care assistants’ wages were.
‘Well, I must let you get your beauty sleep. Although you’re a beautiful lady already.’
He was flirting. No matter. Compliments were rare. Ralph never commented on her appearance. Indeed if she were to dye her hair and embark on plastic surgery, including total body reconstruction, she doubted if he would even notice.
‘Goodnight,’ Oshoba said, switching off the light. ‘Have nice dreams, beautiful lady, not bad ones.’
Yes, she thought, I will: dreams of a torrid encounter with a broad-shouldered, kind-hearted and wildly passionate black man.
She woke with a start. An appalling noise was jangling on and on. The fire alarm! The building was alight. She would burn to death. No escape on crutches. She sat up, sweating, shaking, her heart pumping so hard it could have fuelled the national grid. Fear was worse than fire – would probably kill her first. Already she was paralysed. Couldn’t move, couldn’t stand. The noise crescendoed, a wail of terror stunning the whole house. Had someone called the fire brigade? No, jumping out of the window on a knotted sheet or going down a wobbly ladder would be as bad as burning to death.
‘Help!’ she screamed. ‘Please help me!’
No one came. She could feel the flames licking at the door, smell the charred remains of burning timbers, burning flesh.
‘Help!’ she yelled again. Still no response. All the staff must have fled, leaving her to perish in the flames. She could no longer see or breathe. Smoke poured through the room. She was dying – now – her last gasps stifled by the contemptuous bray of the alarm.
Then silence, suddenly – almost as shocking as the noise. Disoriented, she opened her smarting eyes. There was no smoke; the only smell was urine and, amazingly, Sister Joyce had appeared.
‘Are you all right, Mrs Pearson? I thought I heard you shouting.’
‘Yes. No. I …’
‘You did know about the fire-drill, didn’t you? We test the alarm first thing every Thursday.’
‘No, I wasn’t told.’
‘Oh dear, that is remiss. And no one’s emptied your commode. I’d better do it now.’
When she’d gone, Lorna lay recovering. Every panic attack left her bitterly ashamed, and this one more than most. She hadn’t spared a thought for her dozen octogenarian neighbours. Any decent person would have rushed to rescue them first, not given way to hysteria. Some brave souls risked their necks to save a cat, for heaven’s sake. ‘Total fear casteth out love,’ a wit had once remarked. Shamefully true.
Joyce reappeared with a tumbler of water and four pain-killers in a plastic pot. ‘You should have had these with your breakfast.’
‘That’s OK. I haven’t had breakfast yet.’
‘Not had breakfast? It’s nearly half past nine!’
‘Look, please don’t worry. I don’t want any.’ A craven coward like her didn’t deserve to eat.
‘How about a cup of tea?’
‘No, really. This water’ll do me fine.’
‘Well, it’s the Christmas party this afternoon, so you’ll be able to eat your fill. It’s quite a feast, by the sounds of it.’
‘Oh … good.’ Somehow she couldn’t imagine a party here. Was a party frock de rigueur? Which reminded her – she hadn’t had a bath for over a week. If Christmas celebrations were planned, she didn’t fancy being singled out as the new arrival with BO. ‘I wonder if I could have a bath.’
Joyce looked dubious. ‘We are exceptionally busy. How much assistance would you need?’
‘Well, if someone could help me in and out I’m sure I could manage the rest. Though of course I mustn’t get the bandage wet.’
‘I’ll see if Tommy’s free.’
Tommy? A man? No, remembering Phil, perhaps not. While she waited she swilled her mouth with water. Even cleaning her teeth was a trial – she might hobble all the way to the bathroom only to find it occupied.
Joyce popped her head round the door again. ‘Oh, by the way, there was a message from your husband. He phoned to send his love.’
‘Is he better?’
‘He didn’t say.’
No, he wo
uldn’t have done. Ever the stoic, Ralph. He must be getting weak, with only pipe-smoke to sustain him. And of course smoking could lead to complications: pneumonia, TB. Perhaps it was just as well they couldn’t wish each other a happy Christmas tomorrow. Given their individual circumstances, happiness seemed a remote prospect.
There was a rat-tat-tat at the door. Sharon with an ultimatum? No – a man of about forty, with rimless spectacles and reddish hair, manoeuvring a wheelchair into the room.
‘I’m Tommy,’ he said curtly. ‘I hear you want a bath.’ He made it sound as self-indulgent as asking for a ton of Beluga caviar or a personal slave to cool her with an ostrich-feather fan. (During the night the radiator had gone from tepid to red hot.)
‘Well, yes, I –’
‘You’ll have to make it sharp then. I’m meant to be taking the drinks round.’
Drinks? Did the Christmas party include a mid-morning gin? She’d need one if she was going to be bathed by a man. ‘I, er, thought it would be a female –’
‘It’s me or nothing. Where’s your sponge-bag?’
‘In that drawer.’
The drawer jammed of course, and Tommy’s muttered ‘Fuck!’ reminded her of the woman next door. (She seemed mercifully quiet today, but perhaps her son had dragged her home for an apocalyptic Christmas.)
Sponge-bag under his arm, Tommy helped her into the wheelchair, then whistled tunelessly as he jolted her down the passage. The passage was stiflingly hot, the bathroom corpse-cold. Evidently the heating at Oakfield House was as old and temperamental as its residents.
‘Soap?’ said Tommy.
‘I haven’t any.’ Considering the mammoth fees, surely they could run to a bar of soap.
Tommy’s sigh was hurricane-force as he stalked off on a soap quest. He returned with a bar of Pearl, which she recognized from a TV commercial featuring an ultra-glamorous model with a cascade of ash-blonde curls lolling sensuously in a bubble bath – an unfortunate contrast with herself. Her own hair hung lank and greasy after eight days without a wash, the antibiotics had brought her out in a nasty rash on her chest, and she felt acutely self-conscious about taking off Ralph’s dressing-gown to reveal the mould-green number. Tommy, however, paid her no attention – too busy running the bath. She sat nervously in the wheelchair wondering what the procedure was. Should she strip, or would it look brazen or, worse, provocative?
Tommy turned to face her. ‘Ready?’
‘Yes.’
‘Towels?’
‘I wasn’t given any.’ Did they expect you to provide towels as well as soap (and cutlery)?
‘Shit! Why didn’t you say?’ He disappeared again, this time for much longer. She could hear some sort of skirmish going on outside – several voices raised in altercation while a particularly vituperative character demanded access to the bath. Well, it was big enough for two.
‘Bloody cheek!’ Tommy grunted, reappearing with a large towel marked ‘Property of Oakfield House’. (Since it was virtually threadbare, she couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to steal it.)
‘Are you able to stand, Mrs Pearce?’
‘son,’ she added sotto voce, although it was an advance for him to address her by name. Up to now his manner had verged on insolence. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘on one foot.’
‘OK, let’s get moving.’
He hauled her up, pulled off the nightie (with no delicacy, in any sense) and plonked her into the plastic chair. As the machinery groaned into action, she was lifted over the side of the bath, then lowered slowly into it.
‘Keep your leg up!’ Tommy warned as her bottom made contact with the water.
She managed to lodge it on the side, and kept her hands crossed over her chest, trying to conceal her breasts and the rash. Being naked in front of a man, and a total stranger at that, was unnerving in the extreme. She was intensely conscious of her thighs (too fleshy), her pubic hair (wiry, with a copper tinge) and the fact that her nipples were erect (only from cold, although Tommy wasn’t to know that). However, he clearly had no interest in her body other than as an object to be soaped, and set to with Herculean force. She hoped he wasn’t so violent with the elderly residents, whose bones would be much frailer than hers. Flinching under the onslaught, she tried transposing herself to the television commercial: veiled modestly by bubbles and indulging in a languid reverie rather than being subjected to a drubbing by a misogynist. At least the water was pleasantly warm, and it was bliss just to be clean.
‘Do you think you could wash my hair?’ she asked him tentatively.
Without ceremony, Tommy dunked the back of her head in the water and, seizing the soap again, pummelled her scalp as fiercely as he had the rest of her. Shampoo must be an unknown refinement here, never mind conditioner.
‘That’s it, Mrs Pearce. All done.’
‘But shouldn’t you rinse the soap out?’
‘I have – mostly. You’re lucky I even washed it. Most people go to Betty.’
‘Who?’
‘Bulbous Betty in the hair boutique.’
‘Oh, there’s a proper hairdresser?’
‘Well, I wouldn’t call her proper, but …’
‘Can I make an appointment?’
‘Not today. She’s fully booked. They’re all getting dolled up for this damn-fool party – the ones that know what’s going on. A lot don’t, of course. One poor old bugger thinks he’s still fighting the First World War. OK, let’s have you out.’
More strong-arm tactics, this time with the towel, which left her looking as if she had a rash all over. Still, the stimulation warmed her up, as did the wheelchair-dash down the passage.
‘Need any help dressing?’ Tommy asked, already backing away through the door.
‘No, I’ll manage, thanks.’
The question was: What to wear? Her grey skirt and sweater would look distinctly drab if the others were being beautified by Betty. A pity Clare was still away, otherwise she could have borrowed something from her, plus a hairdryer and a decent (non-bald) towel.
She sat, locks dripping, on the end of the bed, wondering if the exotic satin nightdress would double as an evening gown. Except it was creased and sweaty by now, and the low neck would reveal her rash. Well, it would have to be the grey outfit and soap-streaked hair. Never mind – however well coiffed and togged the others might be, she did have youth on her side. Twenty-three, Oshoba had guessed, so she couldn’t look that bad. If he had bathed her instead of Tommy it might have been a rather different experience.
She closed her eyes and imagined the creamy-white bar of soap in his broad, black, teasing hand. He was letting it smooch slowly across her stomach and along the insides of her thighs, tracing tantalizing circles as it inched towards her bush. Whorls of pearly lather frothed across the copper curls, making her exquisitely moist. Tiny tendrils of hair lassoed his long dark fingers, which then slipped deep inside her, to fondle, to explore.
What did it matter that she had nothing to wear for a dreary Christmas party, when she and Oshoba were enjoying a blissfully naked celebration?
Chapter Eight
‘And this is Marjorie.’ Sister Kathy indicated a big, shapeless woman who had slipped sideways in her wheelchair. Everything about her was slightly askew. Her skirt was rucked up, her cardigan misbuttoned, and her spectacles were sliding down her nose.
Lorna murmured a hello through a mouthful of potato crisps. (The Christmas party ‘feast’ hadn’t yet materialized, and lunch had been cold macaroni cheese without the cheese.)
‘And next to her is Dorothy.’
Puzzled, Lorna glanced at the imposing-looking lady with iron-grey hair and aquiline features. ‘But I thought Dorothy was that other …’
‘They’re both Dorothys!’ Kathy explained. ‘We have eight Dorothys altogether.’
‘Oh, how … unusual.’ Given the confusion engendered by her own relatively simple surname, it occurred to her that perhaps the staff called all the women Dorothy, to make things easier. Would she, too,
be Dorothy by nightfall? The men were less of a problem, since there were so few of them. So far she had met only Fred and Sydney. Statistically it was well known that women lived longer, but at Oakfield House they outnumbered the weaker sex by roughly ten to one. With Ralph so much older than her, was she doomed to decades of widowhood?
‘And this is Marjorie’s son, Trevor. He’s come all the way from Poole today.’
The tubby middle-aged man was visibly perspiring in his tight blue suit. Lorna could see from his expression that he would rather be back in Dorset. And, offered the chance, she would have gone with him like a shot. The room was stuffy, smelly and crammed with wheelchairs – hers but one among dozens, locked almost wheel to wheel. Her foot was causing further obstruction, propped up on three pillows atop a padded stool. One elderly woman had been using it as an overflow plate, depositing half-chewed morsels of crisp and Twiglet into the folds of the bandage. No one seemed to have noticed, which was hardly surprising in the general chaos. She hadn’t realized that relatives were invited to the party, including the under-fives. Babies’ screams mingled with the wails of the demented; children fought and squabbled, while a cracked recording of Christmas carols quavered in the background. She could do with a stiff drink – or three – but the only liquid refreshment on offer was orange-squash or the ubiquitous tea. However, Sharon and another girl were just emerging from the servery, carrying trays of what looked like food. How they would negotiate the obstacle course of Zimmer frames, wheelchairs, walking-sticks and obstreperous toddlers wrestling on the carpet remained to be seen.
Lorna kept an eye on the progress of the food while trying to follow the conversation between Dorothys One and Two – an account of their respective operations, going back a good fifty years. The saga of Mr Hughes’s lost saw paled into insignificance beside their grim experiences. Dorothy One had inadvertently lost a kidney during a routine appendectomy, and Dorothy Two had lost several pints of blood (and all remaining hope of a child) when at the age of thirty-five she was given a hysterectomy instead of a D and C. They continued in the same vein with graphic descriptions of vital organs damaged or mislaid, which Lorna feared would put her off her food. Luckily, though, the discussion moved on to a comparison of knee-replacement scars. Most of the women’s knees were, in fact, on view. Despite the wintry weather, ankle socks were popular, or hold-up stockings (which failed to live up to their name and sat concertinaed around the patients’ calves). And as for shoes, she was in good company. Normal footwear was restricted to the visitors; the residents wore carpet slippers or shapeless felt contraptions with Velcro fastenings. And, judging by the swellings and protrusions, Mr Hughes could have a field-day here, slicing off a plethora of bunions and straightening renegade toes. Legs too were in need of medical attention – many bruised or ulcerated, some swathed in crêpe bandages or elasticated supports. With every hour that passed her gratitude increased. A rash on the chest was nothing compared with suppurating sores, metal kneecaps or varicose veins the size of bell-ropes.
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