Tread Softly

by Wendy Perriam

  Lorna shifted position to reduce the pressure on her bedsore. ‘I’ve grown to like Mrs Paterson. She has certain qualities Mrs Pearson lacks, so it’s quite liberating really.’

  Clare gave her an odd look.

  ‘As for Mr Paterson, he’s a bigamist, I’ve decided, who lives contentedly in Penge with the other Mrs Paterson.’

  ‘You’re nuts.’ Clare began pulling things out of her carrier-bag. ‘Now then – I’ve brought all sorts of stuff: vitamin C, lemon barley, echinacea, leeks …’

  ‘Leeks?’

  ‘I looked up shingles in my Natural Cures book and it said apply honey and raw leek juice to the blisters. We really need a liquidizer to extract the juice. Shall I ask in the kitchen?’

  ‘I shouldn’t. The new chef’s deaf and dumb.’

  ‘You’re joking!’

  ‘No, honestly. They’ve had a succession of agency cooks since Christmas, but none of them would stay.’

  ‘I’m not surprised, after what Ralph’s told me.’

  ‘Oh, he’s just biased. Though actually he couldn’t wait to get me back here after I collapsed at the golf club. I think he was scared I might peg out on their hallowed premises! Of course he had to eat humble pie after saying all those insulting things to Matron.’

  ‘I can’t imagine Ralph eating humble pie.’

  ‘Nor me.’

  ‘So is it really as dire as he says?’

  ‘To tell the truth I quite like it, but perhaps I’m just a masochist. They are chronically short of staff. And those they’ve got do seem rather accident-prone. One’s slipped on the ice and dislocated her shoulder, another’s gone down with glandular fever, and a third’s in hospital with appendicitis.’

  ‘And meanwhile you starve. Ralph said you’ve lost a stone.’

  Lorna shrugged. ‘It won’t do me any harm. I’ve no appetite in any case. You can have my lunch if you want – if and when it comes. It’s meant to be mixed grill, but what they say and what you get are never quite the same. I don’t suppose many people notice – very few of them still have a short-term memory.’

  ‘Actually mixed grill sounds rather good.’

  ‘It may be tripe and onions. You’ve been warned!’ Lorna tensed as a sharp pain seared her chest and side. Aunt Agnes used to tell her that the human body was proof of God’s omnipotence – the perfect instrument, the cream of all creation. Even as a child, Lorna had doubted it: if God was so wonderful, why did knees get grazed and noses run? Later in life this view was reinforced. Bodies, and minds more so, seemed unreliable, if not wilfully perverse. And as for the present, any deity that might exist had clearly given up on her: apart from the shingles, she had developed a crop of mouth ulcers, calluses on her hands from the crutches and, a final indignity, chronic constipation.

  Clare retrieved a pillow from the floor. ‘Lorna, I hate to see you like this. Is there anything I can do?’

  ‘Just your being here is great.’ Dependable, outspoken Clare always made her feel less unreal. Clare was solid in appearance (stocky and broad-shouldered) and solid gold in character. With her no-nonsense hairstyle and unfashionable clothes, she was striking rather than pretty, although she did have a perfect complexion and distinctive slate-blue eyes.

  ‘Let’s try this anyway,’ she said, unscrewing the honey jar, ‘on its own, without the leek juice.’

  Lorna made a face. ‘I’m not sure I fancy being all sticky.’

  ‘You never know – it might just work. Come on, show me this rash.’

  As Lorna unbuttoned her nightdress, Val’s head appeared round the door. ‘Hope I’m not intruding …’

  ‘Er, no … come in.’ Lorna hurriedly made herself decent. ‘Clare, this is Val, the activities organizer.’

  ‘Nice to meet you, Clare,’ Val gushed, proffering a hand which, with honey on her fingers, Clare was obliged to refuse. ‘I just came to ask you, Lorna, if you’d like to join us for darts this afternoon.’

  ‘I don’t think so, thanks all the same.’

  ‘Well, if you change your mind it starts at two. I’ll pop in at quarter to, OK?’ And she rustled off in a swirl of yellow frills. (Even in the daytime Val tended to favour cocktail-wear.)

  Clare frowned. ‘Darts on one leg? Is she mad?’

  ‘Oh, I expect you can play from your wheelchair. Most people here have no legs – at least not in working order.’

  Clare suddenly giggled. ‘I wonder what she thought – you about to strip off and me advancing on you with a jar of honey! It’ll probably be all round the place that we’re a couple of weirdo Iezzies.’

  ‘There’s more than a couple here already, from what I’ve heard.’ She might joke about it, but there was pathos in the fact that, deprived of family visits or contact with the outside world, some of the residents cuddled up together for the only comfort they could find.

  ‘You’d better watch it, Lorna. A young, glamorous slip of a thing like you, they’ll be buzzing round in droves!’

  Young and glamorous? Lorna glanced from her oozing blisters to her unprepossessing feet. If she had a shred of vanity she would crawl under the covers and pull the sheet right up. But even the thinnest blanket pressed against the bandage, as well as aggravating the rash.

  ‘Now lie back and think of England while I get down to business!’

  ‘Ouch! No, Clare – it’s agony. I can’t bear you touching me.’

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you. Let me trickle a bit straight from the jar, very, very gently. Better?’

  ‘Yes. No! It’s going all over the sheets. And they never change the beds here, so I’ll be gunged-up for the next two weeks.’

  ‘You’re not staying that long, surely?’

  ‘The doctor said two weeks.’

  ‘You’ll go bananas!’

  Lorna wiped a drool of honey from her stomach. ‘It’s not all bad, you know. I like the other residents, on the whole. They may be a bit peculiar, but some of them are also very brave and I feel a sort of … bond with them. Anyway, it was awful being at home. Even two days got me down. It was as if I were seeing the house with new eyes after being out of it. Normally I’m stuck there day after day, and often on my own. It’s terribly isolating, Clare, with no neighbours close by and not a sound from another living soul.’

  ‘It beats me why you don’t move. You’ve never liked the place much.’

  ‘Oh, I couldn’t. It would break Ralph’s heart. That house is his security, in every sense.’

  ‘What about you, though?’

  ‘Mostly I’m OK there. I think it was being so immobile and in pain and everything. And I had this strange feeling of Naomi’s presence, as if she was still … around, and haunting the place. I mean, it’s her home really, not mine. She and Ralph chose the house together. And the fact that she died there does make it rather spooky.’

  ‘Does Ralph ever talk about her?’

  ‘Of course not. You know Ralph. He probably felt guilty, not realizing how sudden the end would be. She’d been ill for ages, you see, and I suppose he assumed the situation wouldn’t change. It must have been a dreadful shock for him – though perhaps a relief as well. With a full-time job and an invalid wife it can’t have been much of a life.’

  ‘Surely he had some help.’

  ‘Well, yes, a nurse came in in the daytime, but he took over evenings and weekends. In fact I’m sure that’s one of the reasons he became rather a recluse. You see, it was always just the two of them, and as Naomi got worse she withdrew into her own world. So he would eat alone and sleep alone and –’

  ‘Poor Ralph. It does sound grim. You’d think after that ghastly childhood he’d have picked a nice normal wife.’

  ‘She was nice and normal, as far as I can gather. The illness came on unexpectedly, which was hard for Ralph as well as her, because above all else he hates being out of control, and you can’t control MS. His natural inclination is to try to put things right, create order out of disorder, and when he can’t he feels impotent.
I suspect that’s part of the trouble at the moment – me being laid up much longer than he thought. He does seem incredibly tense. After I’d talked to him on the phone last night I felt completely wrung out. I have to say I don’t relish the prospect of going back to work.’

  ‘Well, why not stay with me for a while? Come right away if you want, then at least you’d be shot of this dump. I may not be Florence Nightingale, but I would remember to bring you meals.’

  ‘You’re an angel, Clare, but I’m probably better off here.’ She couldn’t explain, even to Clare, her dread of panic attacks, especially in a small, claustrophobic flat. They were a risk wherever she was, of course, but Oakfield did have night staff, whereas she could hardly wake Clare in the early hours and expect her to cope. How fantastic it would be if friends (or spouses) could take things from you literally, endure them in your stead. Perhaps that should be the definition of true love: if they could they would. But would she bear Clare’s pain, on top of her own, or Ralph’s unspoken fears?

  There was a tap on the door: Sharon, with the lunch-tray, and as voluble as ever. ‘I should be home in bed, Mrs Pater …, not dragging myself up and down these stairs. I’ve got the galloping trots. I spent all night on the loo. Agony it was. No good telling Matron, though. If you’d got terminal cancer she’d still force you to do your normal shifts.’

  ‘Oh dear, I am sorry.’ It occurred to Lorna that since her return to Oakfield House she had spent more time commiserating with the carers over their ailments than vice versa.

  Sharon was eyeing Clare. ‘If I’d known you had a visitor I’d have brought two cups.’

  Lorna refrained from saying that even one cup was an improvement on this morning. Breakfast had been cupless, knifeless, porridgeless and butterless. ‘What’s for lunch?’ she asked, craning her neck to look at the tray.

  ‘It was meant to be mixed grill, but …’

  Clare and Lorna exchanged glances.

  ‘… this chef’s buggered off now, so it’s cold meat and salad. And fresh fruit for afters.’

  ‘Well, that sounds nice and healthy,’ Lorna said brightly, her sanguine tone faltering as Sharon put the tray in front of her. Marooned on a large white dinner-plate sat an anorexic slice of luncheon-meat, a quarter of a tomato, three cubes of beetroot in a pool of purple liquid and a teaspoonful of coleslaw distinctly past its prime.

  ‘You’re lucky to get anything,’ Sharon said, noticing Lorna’s grimace. ‘The cold meat’s just run out. God knows what they’ll dredge up for the poor sods in the dining-room.’ Suddenly she clutched her stomach and let out a harrowing groan. ‘Sorry, must dash – need the loo again.’

  ‘I can’t believe it!’ Clare said, as the door slammed. ‘If that girl’s got diarrhoea she shouldn’t be working with frail old people. It’s criminal, Lorna. And, good grief!’ – she gestured to the minuscule apple and shrivelled tangerine – ‘they have the cheek to call that fresh fruit?’

  Any fruit was a bonus, Lorna thought, pouring some tea for Clare into the cup, and hers into the glass.

  Clare took a cautious sip. ‘Ugh! It tastes of chlorine.’

  ‘Yes, I’m afraid it often does. It’ll kill the germs, though!’

  ‘Lorna, you’re incorrigible! You ought to complain.’

  Clare didn’t understand that it took energy to complain and that she was glad to be allowed simply to lie back and do nothing. At home she would have to hop around doing everything for herself – shopping, cooking, cleaning, ironing – plus answering the phone umpteen times a day and feeling constantly guilty about not pulling her weight in the business.

  There was another knock at the door and in walked a cadaverously thin man of about thirty, his long, greasy hair tied back with a flamboyant yellow ribbon. More coarse black hair – whorls of it – covered his arms and sprouted between the buttons of his shirt. Lorna stared at him in trepidation.

  ‘Hello. I new nurse, Antonio.’

  ‘Oh, parle italiano?’ Clare said, proud of her Beginners’ Italian.

  Antonio looked blank.

  ‘Are – you – Italian?’ Lorna asked slowly and clearly.

  ‘Me Spain.’

  ‘Ah …’ Neither she nor Clare knew a word of Spanish. What they needed here was a linguist and a team of psychotherapists – these last for the staff as much as for the patients. Last night she had counselled Sunil, a new carer from Sri Lanka, who did speak (basic) English but who was homesick, anxious and apparently alone in the world. Antonio, too, looked far from cheerful as he handed her her pills, and she caught a whiff of cigarettes and beer on his breath. Comfort in adversity perhaps.

  On his way out he was steamrollered aside by another visitor – Anne Spencer-Armitage: just about the last person Lorna wanted to see. ‘Oh, Anne … How nice.’ She managed a weak smile. ‘Come in.’

  A redundant instruction, as Anne was well and truly in already, and her arrival was anything but nice. For one thing, she and Clare detested each other. She also had the knack (amply demonstrated at the Princess Royal) of leaving you feeling ten times worse than before.

  ‘Good gracious, Lorna, you look absolutely terrible! What have they been doing to you?’ With a curt nod in Clare’s direction, she ensconced herself in the only chair and continued her mission of mercy. ‘I hear you’ve got shingles, you poor darling. When a friend of mine had it it affected the nerves of her face. Post-herpetic neuralgia I think it was called. Anyway, the cornea was scarred, which left her sight permanently impaired.’

  Lorna blinked nervously. Even the Monster hadn’t mentioned eye damage.

  ‘For Christ’s sake, Anne,’ Clare snapped, ‘Lorna hasn’t got it on her face.’

  ‘It can spread, though. That’s the trouble with shingles. Mavis kept having these new flare-ups just when she thought she was cured. The pain went on for years.’

  Lorna swallowed.

  ‘Mind you, at least you got out of hospital alive – that’s something, I suppose. Did you see the programme last week about medical negligence? I was utterly appalled. Nearly sixty thousand people die every year just from being in hospital.’

  Yes, she had seen it. And so of course had the Monster, glued to the screen and positively drooling over the figures.

  ‘And another four hundred thousand are injured.’

  Five hundred thousand, according to the Monster.

  ‘That’s one in twenty-five patients, Lorna. And it said even minor surgery can be lethal.’

  Clare shot her a withering look. ‘Quite the little ray of sunshine, aren’t we?’

  Ignoring her, Anne gave Lorna’s arm a condescending pat. ‘All things considered, I think you’re being amazingly brave. I know what courage it takes to suffer in silence. I’ve been ill as well, with bronchial asthma.’ Whereupon she doubled up in a paroxysm of coughing.

  ‘Well, how kind of you to share it with Lorna.’

  Anne was still rasping and snorting, and luckily didn’t hear.

  ‘Would you like some lemon barley?’ Lorna suggested quickly, to pre-empt further sarcasm from Clare.

  ‘Yes please,’ Anne spluttered.

  ‘Damn! There isn’t another glass.’ Lorna was reluctant to call Sharon in case Anne was infected with the ‘galloping trots’ on top of bronchial asthma. ‘Clare, could you be a darling and wash this glass?’ In fact she should have thought to wash it before using it herself: Dorothy Two had said that drinking-glasses frequently doubled as receptacles for false teeth. ‘The bathroom’s just at the end of the passage.’

  Clare departed huffily, banging the door with a vehemence worthy of Sharon. Anne meanwhile rummaged in her bag for her inhaler and took a series of urgent puffs, contorting her face into an expression of martyred agony.

  Lorna closed her eyes. Her tolerance of other people’s afflictions was beginning to wear thin. Besides, the doctor had told her to rest. Little did he know …

  ‘Oh my goodness!’ Anne shrieked, jumping up from the chair. ‘Now I’m having a hot fl
ush.’ She wrenched her coat and scarf off. ‘Mind if I open the window? I’m sweltering.’

  ‘No, please do.’ It was only minus two outside.

  Sharon chose this moment to reappear. ‘Oh …’ She stopped short at the sight of Anne leaning out of the window, gasping for breath and frantically clawing at the neck of her blouse. ‘Bit nippy in here, innit?’ she said at last, with a histrionic shiver. ‘I’ve brought a cup for your friend. Your other friend. Where’s she gone?’

  ‘To wash a glass.’

  ‘You don’t say? She wouldn’t like a job here, would she? The dishwasher’s packed up. As if we didn’t have enough grief …’

  Between anguished fits of coughing, Anne managed to bark an order at Sharon. ‘Fetch me some tea please, Nurse. Earl Grey if you have it.’

  ‘Come again?’ Sharon looked perplexed, evidently unfamiliar with any classification of tea beyond strong or milky, with sugar or without.

  There was a sudden shrill from a phone. Surprised, Lorna reached for her mobile (a present from Ralph). For some obscure reason it had been displaying an ‘Out of Service’ message all morning. Had it relented at last?

  ‘It’s mine,’ Anne said, locating the phone in the depths of her bag. ‘Hello? … Oh, darling, it’s you … No, I’m terrible – coughing my guts up. And the flushes are just vile. I’m having one this very minute. I’m wet through, literally.’

  And I’m frozen stiff, Lorna thought, shivering in her thin nightie as the litany of symptoms rattled on. Maybe it was time she got under the covers, not just to prevent hypothermia but also to conceal her distorted right foot. Clare was used to the bunion, but Anne (wearing enviably smart shoes) must find it rather grotesque. Not that Anne had the energy to concern herself with defective feet.

  ‘Sorry, Katie, no can do. We’re going out this evening … Yes, dinner, then the theatre … It’s madness, of course, in my condition. There’s a risk of complications if I so much as put my nose out of the door. Basil says I should stay in bed, but you know me, darling – even at death’s door I feel duty-bound to soldier on. Yes, speak to you tomorrow – if I’m still in the land of the living.’

  On the way back to her chair Anne noticed Lorna’s cache of pills. ‘Good God! What’s that lot for?’