The boys evidently regarded this as a privilege worth fighting for. Josh eventually won and presented Sydney with a rather battered box of McVitie’s Abbey Crunch. Neither boys nor biscuits, however, seemed to impact on his consciousness. His eyes were focused inward, his face totally impassive. And, since he lacked both teeth and relatives, the gift was singularly inept.
‘Say Happy Christmas, boys, then come and get the next present.’
‘Happy Christmas,’ Josh muttered, already charging back to Val.
‘Christmas,’ echoed Sam.
‘This one’s for Marjorie,’ Val told them. ‘The lady in the blue.’
To Lorna’s surprise, Marjorie’s face visibly softened as Sam and Josh approached. She even reached out a shaky arm and tried to put it round Sam’s waist. Was she remembering Trevor as a little boy? Certainly she looked happier than at any time this afternoon, smiling at the children with genuine affection. Yet her withered cheeks and faded, filmy eyes were a chastening reminder of mortality, set against the boys’ unblemished skin and penetrating gaze.
Don’t grow old, Lorna longed to tell them. Stay as you are, two Peter Pans.
The Peter Pans showed little interest in Marjorie’s present – a gift-pack of soap and shower gel. Vi and Cynthia received the same. Presumably it made economic sense to give them things the home should have provided anyway. Lorna hoped her present would be a knife and fork. At lunch she had been supplied with only a spoon, bent so spectacularly out of shape it made her wonder if Uri Geller had ever visited the premises.
‘Oh dear,’ Val tutted, examining the next parcel. ‘This one hasn’t got a label. And nor has this. Sharon, weren’t you meant to write them?’
‘Yeah, sure – and a million other things. I’ve only got one bloody pair of hands, you know.’
‘Ah, here’s one with a name,’ Val said hurriedly, forestalling further invective. “‘Lorna’’. That’s the lady with the bad foot. Take care now, boys!’
But the warning came too late. Sam cannoned into Lorna’s footstool, banging her bandaged toes. Tears of pain sprang to her eyes, but she blinked them away, realizing how important it was to maintain the charade of good cheer. Without it they all had cause to weep (more cause than a mere throbbing foot) – overworked staff, underpaid carers, creaking performers, guilt-ridden relatives, and aged residents doomed to a joyless existence.
‘Happy Christmas,’ the boys recited, oblivious to her pain.
‘Happy Christmas!’ came the unexpected response – a booming, jolly voice outside the door. And in strode Father Christmas Mark Two, correctly dressed in red trousers and red hooded jacket, and accompanied by a pair of elves in smart green livery.
Spotting competition, Tommy sprang to aggressive life, squaring up to the interloper. ‘Sorry, chum’ – he sounded far from chummy – ‘you’re too late.’
Josh and Sam didn’t bother with words, they simply set about their rivals with flailing feet and fists.
‘Happy Christmas,’ Lorna muttered, as a distraught but helpless Val surveyed the mayhem. ‘Happy Christmas to us all.’
Chapter Nine
‘Not going out today?’ Sharon was making Lorna’s bed – a perfunctory straightening of the covers, followed by a long, vociferous complaint about her back.
Lorna shook her head, feeling something of a failure. Over half the residents were spending Christmas Day with friends or family. ‘My husband’s still in bed with a high temperature.’
‘I wouldn’t be surprised if I had this flu myself. I’ve got a blinding headache. You could die here and nobody’d notice.’ Sharon retrieved a pillow from the floor and gave it a vicious punch. ‘Talking of death, we had another this morning. Mr Wilcox – heart attack. His wife’s here too. They shared a double room.’
‘Gosh, how awful – being widowed today of all days.’
‘She doesn’t know the difference. Well, she senses something’s missing, but she’s not sure what exactly.’
‘Poor woman.’
‘She‘s not poor. They’re rolling. The old man’s left her a fortune.’
‘Yes, but …’
‘Do you need all these pillows, Mrs, er, Pat …?’ Sharon seemed to have trouble remembering even the wrong name, although – small mercy – she hadn’t yet resorted to Dorothy.
‘Well, I am meant to put my foot up.’
‘It’s just that we’re short, you see, so if I could nick a couple …’
‘OK,’ Lorna conceded. No doubt she could put her foot up on the window-sill.
‘Ta ever so much. Enjoy your breakfast.’
Lorna eyed the lumpy porridge and slice of burnt toast. At least there was a knife and a spoon this time. No cup, though. Well, the porridge bowl would have to do, once she’d disposed of its contents. If nothing else, Oakfield House provided a useful training in improvisation.
While she ate, she listened to the rain drumming on the window-panes. It seemed odd to have rain at Christmas, although torrential downpours were forecast for the whole country. She imagined standing in the grounds stark naked and letting wild, wet rain sheet down on her body. She hadn’t had a breath of fresh air for ten days. Still, most people here hadn’t been outside for years.
Sister Kathy put her head round the door. ‘Just thought I’d say Happy Christmas. How are you, Lorna?’
‘Fine. Well, my back’s playing up a bit, but …’
‘Haven’t you had your pain-killers? I’ll fetch them.’
‘Thanks. Oh, and could you bring a cup?’
Pills and cup duly arrived; Kathy even poured the tea for her.
‘Are you working the whole of Christmas?’ Lorna asked, hoping to detain her for a while. (Nothing was scheduled for this morning, and time was already dragging.) Of all the staff, Kathy was her favourite; they’d had a long talk last night and were now on first-name terms.
‘Yes, I’m in all week.’
‘Bad luck!’
‘No, it was my choice. I got divorced this summer and I didn’t fancy Christmas on my own.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry …’
‘Don’t be. It’s good riddance as far as Don’s concerned. I should have left him years ago. I didn’t even have the excuse of staying for the sake of the children.’
‘You mean you haven’t any?’
‘No. Though not for want of trying. I had every treatment in the book, but – well, we were unlucky, I suppose.’
‘I haven’t any either,’ Lorna admitted.
‘Did you want them?’
‘God, yes!’ She blanked out treacherous memories of Tom and the abortion. Best to stick to marriage. ‘I was pregnant three times, but I miscarried.’
‘Poor you. That’s even worse.’
Certainly Ralph would say so, Lorna reflected. He had been shaken by the messiness of the miscarriages, dismayed by their abruptness. Yet she suspected he was secretly glad that they had never had a family. In her own mind, though, she was still a mother of four; still mourning the unfledged foetuses. ‘It’s always worse at Christmas, isn’t it?’ she said, sipping her lukewarm tea. ‘No stockings to fill.’
‘Don’t you believe it! Don and I used to give each other stockings. He was marvellous at things like that. He’d put in fairy bubbles and chocolate hearts and all sorts of crazy stuff.’
‘He had his good points then.’
Kathy raised an eyebrow. ‘Yes, but he could be violent too. As well as the chocolate hearts I was just as likely to get a beautiful black eye for Christmas.’
‘Oh, Kathy, how ghastly.’
Kathy shrugged. ‘It happens all the time. Half my female friends have been knocked about at some point. The trouble is, no one likes to say anything. We’re all too loyal. Or too ashamed.’
Lorna gave silent thanks that she had never been hit. Before Tom, there’d been a string of men who were mostly quite unsuitable but in no case actually violent. However, none of the relationships had lasted, as if the pattern set by her father was somehow
inherent in her genes. Any man she was involved with was bound to disappear. Even Tom, whom she’d adored, had upped and left soon after the abortion. Ralph alone had offered permanence.
‘Don was a real brute when we were going through the divorce. Instead of alimony I got a broken nose! But this is no subject for Christmas Day,’ Kathy said with a laugh. ‘And if I don’t go and change Mrs Foster’s dressing she’ll be marching up here to know the reason why. See you later.’
Lorna turned on the television, flipping through the channels to avoid Christmas carols, Christmas cooking or Christmas anything. She finally settled for an old romantic movie – no black eyes or broken noses. Watching the lovers’ lips make lingering contact, she wondered if Ralph was thinking about her, even missing her …
‘I doubt it,’ the Monster interjected. ‘He’ll be dead by now, I imagine.’
‘Get lost!’
‘People can cop it just like that! Look at Mr Wilcox. He was having a high old time at the party yesterday and today he’s a decomposing body in a box.’
‘In the interests of accuracy, he won’t be in a coffin yet, nor decomposing. And I’m not listening, anyway.’ Her thoughts were still with Ralph – his own disrupted childhood. When his father waltzed off with another, younger, woman, his mother couldn’t cope and he’d been passed from pillar to post. Eventually she remarried, but his step-father rejected him, sending him away to school and to various odd bods in the holidays. Yet whatever bitterness he might feel he kept strictly to himself, seeking solace only in whisky and his pipe.
‘Cheers, Ralph darling!’ she murmured, toasting him in cold tea and wishing she could make up for his sad and blighted years. But he’d only have said, ‘They’re over. Why hark back?’
She put down the cup and tried in vain to get comfortable in her chair. Without supporting pillows her foot ached horribly, and the ibuprofen seemed to have no effect on the fierce pain in her back. She had never known time pass so slowly. If she‘d had the use of a phone she could have rung those few of her friends not up to their elbows in sage-and-onion stuffing.
‘Clare,’ she said aloud. ‘Jump in the car and come over, there’s a pal. If you get here before lunch I’ll treat you to a blow-out at the Savoy.’
Loneliness, like violence, was something one didn’t admit. The very word dripped with self-pity and personal failure. How could she be lonely when she was married?
‘How indeed? You don’t know when you’re well off. Have you spared a thought for those truly on their own? Widows, for example.’
‘Yes, Aunt Agnes, I have. But thinking about other people’s troubles doesn’t always alleviate one’s own.’ She turned the television up to full volume to drown any tart rejoinder.
‘I love you,’ the tall, dark, handsome man was saying (bellowing). ‘I love you more than life itself.’
She closed her eyes. ‘I love you too,’ she responded, surrendering to his embrace.
‘Everyone’s on drugs these days.’
‘Everyone?‘ Lorna demurred.
‘Oh yes.’ Dorothy was adamant. ‘And the schools are full of murderers. Children carry guns and knives routinely. I blame the parents. There’s no discipline. When we were young we were beaten for the tiniest thing. My father had a stick as thick as your arm. It didn’t do us any harm.’
‘Well, I’m not sure …’
‘Do you want this?’ Hilda pressed her holly-printed paper napkin into Lorna’s hand.
‘It’s all right, I’ve got one, thanks.’
‘Take it! Take it!’ Hilda whimpered.
‘Oh, well … yes, OK.’ Lorna was afraid the poor woman would burst into tears. She spread the second napkin on her lap, on top of the first, although both were somewhat superfluous. The food hadn’t arrived – and probably never would, since, according to Sharon, the chef had stormed out after an altercation with Matron. His timing seemed a trifle remiss. The residents were sitting at their tables (some in bibs and many perched on waterproof incontinence cushions) waiting for their turkey and Christmas pudding.
Not all had sat in silence. Dorothy Two had been pronouncing on the latest crime statistics and their relevance to the abolition of corporal punishment – a polemic totally lost on Hilda and Sydney. For the past half-hour Lorna had been caught in a three-way conversation on ‘Bring back the birch’ (Dorothy Two) and the likely content of the Queen’s speech (Ellen), with added incoherent musings from Hilda on a certain dearly beloved William. Whether this was her husband, son, dog or budgerigar, Lorna never did discover. In truth, she was finding it hard to concentrate when hunger was her main concern. Presumably the turkey was already cooked, as the chef hadn’t been gone long. If they just wanted someone to carve, she would gladly volunteer – although perhaps it would be better minced, given the general dental deficiencies.
A ripple of dread swept the dining-room as Matron strutted in – an imperious character somewhere between Pol Pot and the Empress Catherine of Russia. Lorna, however, perked up when she saw the tray of sherry-glasses: in the absence of food, a liquid lunch would be perfectly acceptable. It did strike her as rather odd, though, that Matron herself and not one of her minions should be distributing the Christmas tipple. On their only previous meeting Lorna had taken a dislike to the thin-lipped martinet with concave chest and cold grey eyes. Today’s smiling version was no improvement – in fact positively unnerving. The smile was like the tinsel round her cap: an artificial accessory, to be swiftly discarded after the festivities.
‘No, Hilda. Not for you. I’ll get Sharon to bring you some fruit juice.’
‘I want sherry,’ Hilda wailed.
‘Alcohol doesn’t mix with your pills. You know what the doctor said.’
‘I want sherry,’ Hilda repeated.
Ignoring her, Matron passed a glass to Dorothy. ‘Happy Christmas, Mrs Fleming.’
‘I’d like to know what’s happy about it.’
‘Now, now, my dear – we must make an effort. And how are you, Mrs Pearson?’
‘Oh, I’m … fine.’
‘Good! That’s the spirit. Sherry for you?’
‘Yes please.’
When Matron moved to the next table, Lorna attacked her drink with gusto. ‘Cheers,’ she said to Ralph again, wondering if he was already the worse for wear or too ill to lift a glass.
Sharon bustled up with orange-juice for Sydney and Hilda, in glasses so small they looked more suited to a doll’s house. The sherry-glasses, weirdly, were more generous.
‘I want sherry,’ Hilda persisted.
Sharon made a face. ‘Why the hell didn’t you say so? It means trekking all the way back to the kitchen.’
‘You couldn’t get me another, could you?’ put in Lorna quickly, ‘while you’re there.’
‘I’ll have another too,’ said Dorothy. ‘Though it’s pretty foul, isn’t it? I like a decent Tio Pepe, not this British muck.’
Sharon returned with not three but ten more glasses, all brim-full. She looked rather flushed, as if she’d been having a tipple herself. ‘I’ve brought enough to last you – to save my feet. Otherwise I’ll be crawling about on my hands and knees by tea-time.’
Lorna felt uneasy as Hilda seized a glass and gulped the contents – suppose it provoked some terrible reaction … Yet reporting her to Matron would be sneaky and unthinkable. The only solution was to down most of the sherry herself, to keep it from those on medication. At least Sydney seemed quite happy with his orange-juice (although he had already spilled half of it down his front), and Ellen was more concerned about missing the Queen’s speech than with refreshment, solid or liquid. The sixth person at the table, a stone-deaf woman called Irena, stared straight ahead, much to Lorna’s discomfiture. Earlier she had tried smiling at her, then addressing her in a loud, clear voice, so that she wouldn’t feel left out, until Dorothy said dismissively, ‘Don’t waste your breath. Even if she could hear, she wouldn’t want to talk to the likes of us.’
‘Why?’ asked Lorna.
‘Because she’s a countess – so she says. Polish, mind you, and countesses are two a penny in Europe. But it doesn’t stop her giving herself airs.’
Even so, thought Lorna, to be foreign and profoundly deaf in this hotbed of prejudice couldn’t make life easy. She offered the countess a glass of sherry. The offer was neither accepted nor refused. Irena continued staring at the wall; not a muscle moved in her face or body. Even her eyes seemed disturbingly expressionless, and her hands looked dead, the fingers pale and bloated. Was she genuinely disapproving? Or suffering from depression?
‘What this country should do’ – Dorothy rapped her fork on the table – ‘is bring back the hangman, and quickly.’
Lorna wondered if this draconian measure was aimed at Irena in particular or the lawless population in general. Luckily she spotted Sharon just coming from the servery with a tray. ‘Oh, look,’ she said. ‘Food!’
Not, alas, the turkey, but a starter: melon-boats, each adorned with a glacé cherry and half an orange-slice – the first fresh fruit she had seen at Oakfield House. However, it didn’t please Dorothy or Hilda.
‘I want soup,’ said Hilda plaintively.
Dorothy waved the proffered plate away. ‘Melon gives me indigestion.’
‘It’s a treat,’ said Sharon, banging down Dorothy’s plate in front of Sydney. ‘For Christmas.’
‘Hardly a treat! It’s not even ripe.’
‘I want soup.’
‘There’s no soup today, Miss Chambers. Tomorrow you’ll have soup – turkey soup all bloody week, no doubt.’
‘Did you say “bloody’’, Sharon?’
‘No, ’course not, Mrs Fleming. I said –’
‘I want turkey.’ Hilda again, changing tack.
‘Yeah, so do we all. Tommy’s just carving it – or hacking it to pieces, more like.’
Tommy was clearly versatile, juggling the roles of bath attendant, Santa Claus and chef. Melon-cutter too, perhaps. Each slice had been cut crossways, to form bite-size chunks, although this didn’t prevent mishaps on the part of the less dextrous. Soon melon bullets were flying in all directions, landing on the carpet or the tablecloth. Lorna retrieved one from her lap, wondering whether to hand it back to its owner.
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