‘That’s all right, dear. Off you go. I’ll carry on here.’
‘But I can’t expect you to …’
‘Honestly, I like to do my bit. There’s nothing worse at my age than feeling you’re no use.’
Lorna leaned down and squeezed her hand. ‘Winifred, we couldn’t do without you.’
‘Welcome to The Cedars’ first carol concert!’ Lorna felt distinctly nervous at addressing such a large gathering: residents and their relatives ranging in age from ninety-eight to nine months. Summoning Ms Unflappable, she raised her voice above the tail-ends of conversations. ‘We’re very privileged to have the King Edmund School Choir and their teacher, Miss O’Brien. As some of you may know, they won a cup in this year’s Cheltenham Festival. And Miss O’ Brien is a distinguished singer in her own right.’ As Lorna paused for breath, Ms Unflappable reminded her not to gabble and to speak loudly enough to be heard at the back. ‘Unfortunately, what with the snow and the traffic hold-ups, some of the children couldn’t manage to get here, so I’m afraid we haven’t quite as many as we’d expected. But we’re delighted to see those who did make it today’ – she smiled at the seven boys and eight girls standing in a group by the piano – ‘and we’re most grateful to them for coming out in this weather. Later in the proceedings we’d like everyone to join in, so we can have a nice rousing chorus. Have you all got song-sheets? Rowan, some are needed over there. And, Eric, could you bring more chairs from the dining-room for Mrs Bartlett’s son and his family?’
A pity there weren’t more staff, to deal with late arrivals, or (better still) a clone of Ms Unflappable to remove the squabbling Bartlett children. ‘Well, shall we start? Our first carol is “See Amid the Winter’s Snow’’ – very appropriate for today!’
There was a ripple of laughter, then Miss O’ Brien seated herself at the grand piano and began to play.
Lorna took a seat beside Mr Forbes, whose wife had died a month ago. She could imagine how alone he must feel, even in a crowd. She took his thin hand in hers, at the same time keeping a watchful eye on everyone and everything. The Bartlett children were giggling now and Eric was still fetching chairs for latecomers, but on the whole things were going well. The singing was exquisite, especially a solo verse sung by a girl of nine or ten, who looked suitably angelic with long, fair hair and a gauzy white dress. And the Chesterton Room was the perfect setting. Not only were the acoustics good, but the oak-panelled walls and high, ornate ceiling lent an air of gravitas. She and Kathy had been choosy about the Christmas decorations, limiting the colours to midnight blue and silver – the house was too elegant for tinsel and balloons. She herself had arranged madonna lilies in a vase on the piano. Real flowers were important.
There was another solo, ‘The First Nowell’, this time from Miss O’ Brien, whose rich contralto voice more than compensated for her drab appearance: limp brown hair and baggy frock. Giggling and coughing subsided as the pure, liquid notes filled the room.
‘… Nowell, Nowell,
Born is the King of –’
Then suddenly, without warning, the room was plunged into darkness. The piano and the singing stuttered to a halt. There were screams from the children, cries of alarm from the residents.
Lorna stood up. ‘Please, everyone, keep calm. It must be a power cut, but the emergency generator will take over within twenty seconds and the power will come back on.’
There was an expectant hush, but, as the seconds ticked by and the power didn’t come back on, the general hubbub increased.
Ms Unflappable took over. ‘Please stay where you are – it’s safest for us all. Rowan, could you look after everyone while I go and sort things out.’ At the door she collided with Kathy, armed with a torch.
‘Why the hell hasn’t the stand-by generator cut in?’ Kathy hissed.
‘God knows!’ Lorna whispered back. ‘I’ll phone Eddie. I know he’s off sick, but he’ll just have to come in.’
‘OK. Take this torch. I’ll find another.’
‘We do have candles, Kathy.’
Kathy shook her head. ‘Too dangerous. Anyway, with luck we won’t need them. Eddie should be here in five minutes.’
Guided by the torch-beam, Lorna made her way along the passage, trying to ignore the knot of fear rising in her throat. The bright, cheerful house had become menacing. Shadows flickered around her, and nothing was visible through the windows save a waste of snow swallowed up in a black void. She steadied herself against the wall, horrified that her symptoms had returned. Far from being Ms Unflappable, she was on the verge of a panic attack. It was months since she’d had this sick churning in her stomach, this sense of her body veering out of control. It must be the strain of the last week – snowstorms, staff sickness, the build-up to Christmas Day. She forced herself to take slow, deep breaths. She must not give way to the sensations – not in the middle of a crisis, when she was meant to be in charge, for heaven’s sake.
Somehow she managed to reach her office and with shaking fingers dialled Eddie’s number. His wife answered. ‘No, he can’t come out. It’s Christmas Eve, I’ll have you know. And he’s got a temperature of a hundred and two.’
‘I wouldn’t dream of ringing, Mrs Elliott, if it wasn’t an emergency. But we’ve lost all the power – not only the lights, the heating too. And some of our residents are extremely frail.’
‘Sorry, nothing doing. If you think I’m going to drag him from his bed just because –’
‘Wait, please!’ She fought for breath. Power cuts could last hours. There would be no hot meal for the residents tonight, and those with flu might develop pneumonia lying in unheated rooms. The house would be cold for Christmas Day, relatives would complain, maybe even write to the authorities or refuse to pay the fees … ‘At least could you ask him if there’s anybody else I can ring about the generator?’
‘Try Frank.’
‘He’s away. In Ireland.’
‘Sorry, he’s the only one I know.’
‘But Eddie’s bound to have more names.’
‘He’s just dropped off to sleep. I don’t want to bother him when –’
‘I beg you, Mrs Elliott! Otherwise we’re sunk.’
With a muttered curse and a clatter of the phone, Mrs Elliott went off to wake her husband. There were various noises in the background: children’s voices, a dog yapping, an announcer on the radio. Finally she returned, sounding slightly less hostile. ‘He says there’s an emergency number on the side of the generator. If it breaks down they have to come out, he says. It’s in the contract.’
‘Oh, thank you. What a relief!’
‘While you’re there, Mrs Pearson, I may as well tell you, Eddie’s not coming back. We’ve been talking about it. He’s had enough, and so have I. The hours are too long. And unsocial. It puts paid to family life. So you’d better tell your matron or whoever that she’ll have to find a replacement.’
‘Look … why don’t we discuss it when Eddie’s up and about again?’
‘No, he’s leaving. And that’s final.’ And Mrs Elliott slammed the phone down.
Lorna hadn’t time to worry about the Elliotts – the first priority was light. She snatched up a pen and paper and groped her way to the cellar, feeling more and more panicky as she descended the steep stone steps. Suppose she was trapped for the whole of Christmas in this dank, cold, spooky place? The torch was shaking in her hand as she flashed it on the blue-grey bulk of the generator, which loomed like a monstrous steel coffin, clammy to the touch. She eventually found the phone-number, printed on a label on the far side at the bottom. She copied each digit carefully, then fled back up the steps, tripping in her haste.
‘Sovereign Generators. Clive Brown speaking.’
She could have kissed Clive Brown just for being there – no flu, no protective wife. ‘… So if you could send someone round immediately …’
‘I’m very sorry, Mrs Pearson, but we only have a next-day service, and we don’t work Christmas Day or bank holid
ays, so I can’t get an engineer to you until the twenty-seventh.’
‘But I’ve been told that in an emergency you’re legally obliged to send someone.’
‘The next day, yes, in normal circumstances, but I’m afraid we’re closed as from tonight.’
‘Look, this is ridiculous! The whole point of having a standby generator is to cover us in case of a power cut, yet the first time we need it the damned thing doesn’t work. It cost enough, for Christ’s sake!’
‘I apologize, Mrs Pearson. I feel for you, believe me. It’s most unusual for a new generator to go wrong. I can’t imagine what the trouble is. It’s unlikely to be flat batteries because there’s a built-in battery-charger, and the only other –’
‘Never mind what caused it. I want it put right. And I’m willing to pay – anything within reason.’
‘It’s not money, Mrs Pearson. I have to abide by company rules. As I’ve said, I sympathize with your position, but unfortunately my hands are tied.’
She swore under her breath. ‘What do you suggest then? I just have to get the power back on. It’s a matter of life and death.’
‘You could give Power-Mate a bell. Or LBH. I probably have their numbers somewhere … Bear with me …’
Lorna cursed each second wasted. But, as it turned out, the two other firms were no more help than Sovereign.
‘Sorry, we only service our own make of generator.’
‘I’m afraid both our engineers are already out on call.’
At that moment Kathy appeared, with a cardboard folder tucked under her arm and holding a halogen torch. ‘Any luck?’
‘No. Eddie’s wife won’t let him come, and I’ve drawn a blank elsewhere, so far.’
Kathy passed her the folder. ‘Here, try the Help file. Everybody’s listed – Seeboard and what have you. Or another home or hotel might lend us their maintenance man. Work through until you find someone. OK?’
‘OK. How’s it going your end?’
‘We’re coping, just about. Miss O’Brien’s a godsend. She’s taken the children home and promised to come back with as many oil-heaters and torches as she can lay her hands on.’
Lorna checked her own torch, relieved to see the beam was still strong.
‘And some of the relatives are helping too. We’re bringing everyone down to the lounge with their blankets and coverlets. I prefer to have them all in one place where we can keep an eye on them. But of course a few are too ill to be moved. And those Bartletts are a right pain. The kids are running riot and Mr B’s kicking up a stink. He seems to hold us personally responsible for the power cut. Anyway, must fly. Julie’s in a bit of a state and I don’t want her upsetting the other carers.’
‘Good luck! I’ll come and find you as soon as I’ve sorted something out.’ With the aid of the torch, Lorna started leafing through the Help file.
Three numbers were given for Seeboard. The first had only a recorded message: ‘I’m sorry, our offices are now closed. Our opening hours are between eight and six, Monday to Friday, and Saturday eight till two. Please try again later.’
She shone the torch on her watch. It was half past five and a Tuesday, albeit Christmas Eve. Through gritted teeth she dialled the second number. ‘If you have changed your energy supplier and are no longer supplied by Seeboard, please hang up and telephone our Change-of-Supplier Team on 0800 …’
‘I’d hardly be ringing if you weren’t the bloody supplier,’ she muttered at the disembodied voice.
Then a more fruity voice piped up: ‘For news or advice on ways to make your business more energy-efficient, please say “One’’ after the tone.’
She refrained from saying something less polite.
‘For details of Seeboard’s exciting new business products, please say “Two’’ after the tone. For all other enquiries, please stay on the line. Our dedicated business teams will be pleased to help you.’
Far from a dedicated business team, she got just a ringing tone, which shrilled on and on, then unaccountably stopped. Should she go through the whole rigmarole again? No. She’d try the third and last number.
‘Welcome to Powercare, Seeboard’s emergency service.’
This sounded more promising at least.
‘Please listen carefully to the following two options. If you are calling to report a power failure or dangerous situation, please press One.’
She did so.
‘You are through to Powercare, Seeboard’s emergency service. We are busy dealing with emergency calls at the moment. Your call is held in a queue and will be answered as soon as an operator becomes available.’
‘Shit!’ she grunted, expecting to be regaled with a spell of schmaltzy music. Instead there was another ringing tone, which eventually gave way to yet another recorded message: ‘You are through to Powercare Technical Help Desk. If you are calling about advice on earthing connections, voltage enquiries or electrical protection, please wait and you will be answered shortly.’
Somehow her call must have been misrouted. She rang off and redialled, only to be taken through an identical process. To hell with Seeboard! At this rate, it would be New Year before she managed to speak to a real person.
She went back to the Help file and worked through every appropriate number, starting with electricians and general emergency lines, then moving on to local homes and hotels.
After an hour she was practically weeping with frustration. Most firms were closed for Christmas and New Year and wouldn’t be reopening for ten days. None of the hotels could help, and, although two homes had said she was welcome to ring their maintenance men, again she got only answering-machines. She had even tried Oakfield House, terrified that Oshoba might pick up the phone (as care assistants occasionally did at Oakfield, in the absence of a proper receptionist). As far as she knew, Olu hadn’t carried out his threat to reveal everything to Ralph, but just thinking about it added to her fear.
And to make things worse the torch-beam was growing weaker. Once solid objects in the room – chairs, shelves, cabinets – seemed to be losing substance, unravelling. As she was. She felt faint, dizzy, frighteningly unreal. Her instinct was to run, but where? The whole area would be in darkness. Besides, she should be helping Kathy, who would have her hands full trying to rally staff and calm nervous residents. She despised herself for sitting paralysed, but panic had reduced her to pulp again.
With shaking fingers she dialled Seeboard’s emergency number one last time. After the now familiar recorded instructions, she finally got through to a real person. ‘Have you any idea how long this power cut might last?’ she asked.
‘It could be up to fourteen hours.’
‘Fourteen?’
‘I’m sorry, dozens of lines are down and it’ll take that long to repair them.’
The tight band round her chest was squeezing tighter, tighter, and she was sweating despite the cold. In a hoarse, unnatural voice she explained the situation again. ‘Isn’t there anyone there who could help?’
‘No, if it’s a privately supplied generator there’s nothing we can do.’
‘What about other private firms? I’ve tried a lot already, but perhaps you know someone that really does work round the clock …’
‘I’m sorry, we’re not allowed to give out numbers.’
Lorna banged the phone down and sat hunched over her desk. There was one last possibility … It would probably be useless, self-defeating. But she had to do something other than tremble and dissolve.
‘Please, God,’ she whispered as she dialled. ‘Let it work.’
This is how it must have been in the war, she thought: rows of frightened people huddled in blankets waiting for the blackout to end. There were in fact two guttering paraffin-lamps and a couple of evil-smelling oil-heaters; nevertheless the room was dim and shadowy, and had grown increasingly chilly during the last hour. She moved from person to person, trying to rally their spirits, offering them drinks and snacks. It was her job to hold the fort downstairs while Kat
hy stayed upstairs with the most serious of the flu cases.
‘No, I’m sorry, Julie, you can’t go home. I know you’ve done your shift. So have we all. But this is an emergency.’ Apart from Julie, the staff were showing remarkable dedication. And the doughty Winifred was helping out, passing round her own tin of Christmas biscuits.
‘Eric tells me you’ve found a man to mend the generator. Is that correct, my dear?’
Lorna lowered her voice. ‘Well, he’s trying, Winifred. He’s down there now, but I don’t want to publicize it in case he doesn’t succeed.’
‘I won’t say a word.’ Winifred proffered the biscuit-tin. ‘Do have one of these – they’re Belgian and rather nice.’
‘Thanks, but no – I had a big lunch.’ How could she eat? Her stomach was churning, her heart racing out of control. It was extraordinary that no one had noticed. Inwardly she was a wreck, yet they all seemed to regard her as a calm, efficient wonder-woman – Ms Courageous, in short.
‘Yes, of course you can use the toilet, Mrs Alexander. Rowan will take you. Just be careful how you –’
The blaze of light took everyone by surprise. Lorna blinked, gazing up at the suddenly brilliant chandeliers. The Christmas-tree lights were glittering once more and the table-lamps casting their soft glow.
There was a spontaneous cheer from staff and residents alike and a burst of triumphant applause.
‘Well, whoever’s responsible for that’, said Julie, ‘deserves a bleeding medal! Bring the lucky bloke in here and I’ll kiss him from head to toe.’
Chapter Thirty
Lorna swerved to avoid a huge puddle. The overnight thaw had brought new driving hazards, and although the roads were no longer impassable her headlamps lit up swathes of snow still clinging to verges and hedges. She stopped to consult the map. Kendrick Grove was proving hard to find, and it was past seven when she finally drew up outside the house – a decrepit-looking property in a run-down part of Woking.
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