by Farah Cook
She presses the tips of her fingers hard against her temples. ‘Certainly, you will forget what’s been said. May need daily if not constant reminders about our rules. The gong isn’t just for food so don’t panic. You will soon learn what’s expected of you.’
‘What’s expected of me?’ I ask.
‘First house rule,’ she says strictly. ‘Patients are not to go into the basement or the kitchen at any hour of the day. Do I make myself clear?’
I nod with a level of schoolgirl diligence.
‘The second house rule.’
I seem to already have forgotten about the first house rule. But I don’t tell her that.
‘On three strikes of the gong, all patients must return to their rooms. Nine p.m. sharp.’ She stares at me as if to confirm I have understood what she’s said.
‘Third house rule, which I mentioned. The gong goes off three times a day to serve breakfast, lunch and supper.’
I nod and follow her into a different room with a musty smell. The cold air sweeps through it, and outside the wind howls like a wolf. The unusual ornaments, the oil paintings and carved wooden furniture in the room feels old, ancient. I drag my fingers across a statue, lifeless like this house. There are floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lining the walls, with a rolling ladder stacked neatly at one end of the room. The books are all in leather binding, some with gold spines.
‘In here we have the library, and down there,’ she points her finger straight ahead, ‘is the common area, which also leads into the lounge. To the left,’ she peers over her shoulder, ‘you will find the little reading room and what used to be the old music room. Nowadays we prefer the patients to use it as common area to read, watch television and play board games. They quite enjoy that.’ She stops and looks at me. ‘Do you like television and board games, Afrah?’
I shake my head. ‘I like to read. Can you get me the newspaper? I need to know what the police and investigators are saying about her disappearance.’
‘I’m not the paper boy.’ She stiffens her spine. ‘I am the head nurse, Myrtle Brown. You may address me as Mrs Brown. See if you can remember that Afrah Bibi.’
‘Can I?’ I ask. ‘Get the newspaper?’
‘Special treatment requires you keep up your manners. Understood?’
I nod and follow her into what she keeps referring to as the music room. But it’s not called that anymore. I learn it’s the little reading room. In the corner by the window there’s a large piano. She tells me it belongs to the house and is more than a hundred years old.
I walk behind her, imagining what it feels like sitting in one of the armchairs reading a book while burning logs crackle. The image doesn’t form. All I see is rising flames burning down my house. That’s not all. I hear screams and feel the urgent need to scream too. Instead, I curb my voice to a soundless whisper. I am coming. Where are you? I’m blinded by the smoke.
‘As you can see,’ she says, ‘we keep an open fireplace. The house gets cold, even in summer. Patients appreciate sitting here, supervised, of course. Nisha certainly likes it.’
I tighten my chador around my body. The room has high ceilings and old lamps pinned against the walls. The arched windows throw in daylight, but it still feels dark in every corner.
‘Michael, our caretaker, makes sure we have enough wood logs regardless of the season. Come and say hello to Afrah, Michael.’ She waves her hand at a man wearing a black suit and white shirt. He nods then smiles walking towards me. I fret and shy away.
‘Nice meeting yer, Afrah.’ He inches forward. ‘Don’t be shy. Let me know if I can help yer with anything.’ I notice he is missing a front tooth. I look at him and nod. ‘Heard yer saying yer a reader.’ He thrusts his tongue between the gap in his teeth. ‘I’m one meself. We have ’em classics stacked up at the top in the library. Dickens, Brontë sisters that sort of thing if yer like.’
‘Michael can get you any book from the library, Afrah.’ She interlaces her fingers. I notice a very red colour splashed onto her nails. ‘We’re very proud of our well-maintained collection.’
‘I read books that are in Urdu,’ I say. ‘Do you have any?’
‘Erm,’ the caretaker clears his throat. ‘I’ll ask at the town library if they can get yer some . . . what did yer say again? Urlong?’
‘It’s not Urlong,’ I reply. ‘Urdu. Related to Hindi and spoken by millions. It’s poetic and beautiful.’ Michael scratches his head and shifts towards Mrs Brown.
‘That will not be necessary,’ she says in a strict voice. ‘Afrah must first read what is available to her. Any sort of special treatment must be earned. Hold on, a little Myrtle sneeze is coming.’ She sneezes into her elbow, an awful barking sound.
I stare at her. She swings me into the hall. I step onto the red rug embroidered with blue flowers.
‘Where are we now?’
‘Like I said, the first floor is where the patients roam free outside their private rooms, and we have twenty-four, including yours. Not many here, considering care homes are often flooded with sick and elderly people.’ A change of expression presses onto her lips, which curl upwards.
‘Roam free?’ The phrase makes me think of cattle.
‘Yes, yes, you see, the house is rather large, more than 9,000 square feet without counting the garden and terrace. Patients are encouraged to move around.’ She pulls me along towards the entrance. ‘The garden is maintained by Liam, our gardener. He has just finished planting flowers in the circle. Aren’t they beautiful?’ She gazes across the lawn. ‘We do accompanied walks to the beach, forest and surrounding areas. Soon you’ll be able to enjoy the natural environment of the estate, which brings me to our fourth house rule. You must never leave the premises of Ravenswood Lodge by yourself. Always notify Zahra should the need to step outside arise. For your own safety, you must be accompanied.’
‘I am not sure about going out alone anyway,’ I look beyond the garden towards a steep path that turns and zigzags into the woods. An untamed wilderness, it frightens me. ‘I prefer being in small places.’ I see my home before my eyes in flames. I am reminded I don’t live there anymore. I live in Ravenswood Lodge, a very special care home with lots of rules.
‘Well now,’ she folds her arms over her chest. ‘We wouldn’t want you to get lost. Don’t worry if you do, it happens to most of the patients living here. All you will be required to do in a situation like that is to call out for any of the staff. The nurses and carers will be on duty around the clock so you can always reach out to them for anything you need. Everyone is helpful and friendly at Ravenswood Lodge.’
She shepherds me back in, swinging right into another hall, which is long and dim. Wood ceilings with corners decorated in cobwebs preying on flies. The walls are framed with paintings of quiet faces. Faces that hold stern expressions and look like they were royalty and lived a long time ago. One is larger than any of the others, depicting a man wearing a black hat with a feather shooting through it. He is seated in a velvet chair in a red uniform. The dog resting at his feet reminds me of the stray cat in our home.
‘Ravenswood Lodge used to be an extravagant manor previously owned by Lord and Lady Fairfax, where they lived with their two daughters, Victoria and Florence. Great balls and parties were held here to honour royals and the like. The Fairfax girls grew up protected from the world inside these walls. We still keep their portraits as a memory to honour the history of Ravenswood.’ She points towards a wall with a gold-framed oil painting. The pale faces of two beautiful girls poke out. Blue eyes, blonde locks. They look identical in their frocks with frills tightened by a brooch.
‘What happened to them?’ I stare a moment longer at the girls. Sadness lurks in their eyes. A deep blue ocean of melancholy. I fight the instinct to cry when a memory of Amira, just a little girl, sweeps through my mind. She was so upset, crying out, ‘Ami, help.’ I hold myself responsible for the fact that the scar on her calf never disappeared, even after all these years.
‘Flor
ence, the youngest, married Laird Arthur. Victoria remained unmarried. She lived out the remainder of her days in the manor.’
‘Why didn’t she marry?’
‘It was believed to be down to mental illness,’ she says. ‘Some believed she was schizophrenic. Lord and Lady Fairfax thought it best she be kept at the estate, isolated. The west wing, Morton, caught fire. It was only many years later that it was fully refurbished.’
‘Morton Wing,’ I say. ‘It smelled like something burned there.’
‘Nonsense,’ she says. ‘You couldn’t have.’
‘How did the daughter die?’
‘She died in the fire. Some say she caused it and tried to kill herself. Rumour has it her body was recovered and buried in a closed coffin. The sight was simply too painful. After her death, the house was passed onto other members of the Fairfax family. Florence believed it was haunted. After the death of her sister, she refused to set foot inside,’ she says. ‘Claimed she could hear her sister’s screams, see flames. The house was abandoned. It stood empty a long time. People started silly rumours, said it was haunted.’
‘Is it?’ I feel a cold chill travel down my spine, ‘Haunted?’
She gazes at me in silence. Shakes her head. ‘Of course not. In the early 1950s the estate was bought by a Scottish duke, Frederick MacGregor, to facilitate private care for his mother, Lady Ivy, who was experiencing a decline in her memory. He was sure the fresh ocean breeze and natural environment would do her good, with its calming, healing effect. One certainly cannot dispute with that. If you look out over the fields beyond the garden, you will see the crystal snowflakes capped around peaks of the Highland mountains. it melts into the bay, the sea. It’s also known as Echo Ben. Do, you know what Ben means?’ she looks at me as if I am some foreign object.
I shake my head.
‘I’m not surprised. Not many do. Mountains in Scotland are called Bens. Echo, the one we can see from the house, has been climbed by many hikers. Last year, we had a young couple down these parts who were famous. The guide lost them and weeks later their bodies were washed up on the shores. We couldn’t take the patients for walks. Crowded with photographers and journalists, it was quite a disturbing scene as you can imagine.’
I stop my feet from carrying me any further. The wind is cold and unsettling against my skin. I feel the hairs on my neck rise. I don’t know what part of the house I am in. Don’t know how I got here or how I will get back to my room. Mrs Brown is still talking and it feels like she never stopped, even for a second. I have trouble placing all the pieces of information she’s said out loud in my memory.
‘Upon the death of Mrs MacGregor, the house was refurbished again. So you see, my dear Afrah Bibi, you couldn’t have smelled anything burned up in Morton Wing. It was repaired and painted many times over the course of time.’
‘That doesn’t mean—’
‘What it means is that the house was converted into a private facility to treat Alzheimer’s to accommodate the wishes of the MacGregor family. Not all our patients suffer from it, though. Take Carol, for example.’ She looks across the room we’re in. At a table, a large woman is playing chess and smiles over at us. Steam rises from the cups in front of her. ‘She is diabetic. Although she, too, tends to forget things. Don’t you Carol?’
‘Is that the newbie who’s taken Alice’s room?’ Her eyes linger on me curiously, looking me up and down.
‘Yes,’ replies Mrs Brown. ‘Meet Afrah. Afrah, meet Carol.’
The heavy woman stands up to take my hand. ‘You look so exotic! And what nice clothes. Mind you, you look a lot like one of the other nice ladies who lives here. Nisha is her name. She came in June. But I’ve been around long before that. Tell me why are you here? Do you remember anything? Are your children tired of caring for you? Did they leave you without telling you anything? Mine did. It was not pleasant at all, I admit. Was it your son or daughter who dumped you?’ She stares at me with brows arched, expecting an answer. I don’t know what to say. She has asked me so many questions already.
‘I don’t know what you mean.’ I release my hand from hers. ‘My daughter would never dump me. I’m here on holiday.’ I know I must stay on holiday till Amira comes back. I have to.
‘This isn’t a holiday,’ she laughs. ‘Carol, my name is Carol. Don’t forget it, most people do, and I don’t see why. It’s an awfully easy name to remember, like Kate or Katie. Anne, Anna. I should consider changing my name so people can remember it. What do you think, Myrtle? Your name is very uncommon.’
‘Nothing wrong with your name – or mine, for that matter. I am sure Afrah will remember it with time.’
‘Afrah, why are you here again? You never mentioned. Don’t tell me. Your daughter left you. Am I right? It’s always the daughter. Nisha’s left her too. She wants to be here, unlike most of us, and says she never wants to go back to her family.’
‘Plenty of time to chatter away later. Afrah is not going anywhere. She will be staying at Ravenswood.’
Mrs Brown takes me down a corridor where I see an empty dining hall. I turn back and see Carol still standing firmly on her feet, looking at me.
‘The Council grants places only on very rare occasions. You do understand you are privileged to be here, don’t you?’ Mrs Brown stops to stare right at me. I can smell her breath, sour, tinged with raw onions. ‘And about Alice . . . don’t believe what anyone tells you. Especially Carol, that curious creature. You see Afrah, Alice’s death has nothing to do with the history of the house, or anything else. At the age of ninety-seven, Alice died peacefully in her sleep. It was simply her time to go.’
‘There you are. I hope you didn’t get lost,’ a soft voice says. I turn and a wave of relief washes over me when I see the woman with chocolate brown eyes. She smiles, puts her arm around my shoulder. ‘I’ve been waiting for you Afrah.’ Her voice is kind and patient.
‘You have?’ I feel a childlike excitement.
‘Myrtle told me what you like to eat, so I made your favourite dish.’ She takes me away from the room I am in. I sit at the table and smell the spiced flavours rising from the plate sitting in front of me. ‘That’s not all. I also made peshwari naan, just for you. But don’t tell anyone.’ She brings her index finger to her lips, then unpacks the soft dough bread hidden inside layers of foil. I tear a piece of the naan and dip it in the masala sauce. The flavours explode on my tongue.
‘How does that taste?’ she asks, adding a fresh sprinkle of coriander leaves on top.
‘Beautiful, just beautiful.’ The mix of spices hit the back of my throat. Warm and wonderful, I taste the chilli, cumin and turmeric followed by a strong after-taste of garlic and ginger.
‘Now, try this,’ she says and puts a perfect round chapati on my plate. The sweetness of the roti – a fresh crispy dough with puffed up burned blisters. I pop each one. I’m eating with my fingers, licking the tips after each mouthful. The woman puts a glass of mango lassi next to me. I bring it to my lips and gulp down the cool liquid. Cooking traditional Pakistani food from scratch takes time. She must have spent hours in the kitchen preparing.
Some of the other patients smile at me. Another appears to be intrigued when he sees me and says, ‘Hello, good to have you with us.’
‘They are excited about your arrival,’ she says. ‘And so am I. It’s so nice to finally have you stay at Ravenswood.’
A man leaves his seat and comes up to me. ‘The food you are eating looks wonderfully fresh,’ he says. The woman standing next to him whispers, ‘It smells invigorating, it must be delicious.’ I look over my shoulder. Their plates carry dry bits of crust from their sandwiches. I turn to the woman with the chocolate brown eyes sitting beside me and place my hand on hers.
‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘I’ve not had a proper korma in a very long time.’ I must have tried more than a dozen times to make it, but each attempt was a failed disaster, with Amira telling me off.
‘There’s no need to thank me,’ she says ba
ck, warmly. ‘It’s my pleasure. I learned to cook from my auntie, an expert in the kitchen. I never order takeaway and rarely eat out,’ she explains. ‘Homemade is the best. I love it.’
‘So do I,’ I smile, taking joy in each bite. ‘You mentioned your aunt taught you how to cook. What about your mum and dad?’ But she looks away and shakes her head.
‘I lost both my parents when I was young. My auntie raised me.’
‘I am sorry,’ I squeeze her hand. ‘I know how it feels to lose someone. My husband passed away many years ago.’
‘Do you have children? Or any other family?’
‘I have one daughter. I raised her all alone after the passing of Nadeem. And it’s just been the two of us. We have no other family here.’
‘Was that the name of your husband?’ she says, this time in fluent Urdu. ‘Nadeem?’
I nod. ‘After he died, I needed a new start. I took Amira and moved to the Highlands.’
‘How did you manage to raise your daughter alone with no family nearby to help? I can’t even imagine.’ She looks at me sympathetically like she understands my pain. I don’t know why I am telling her this. I don’t even remember her name. I feel ashamed to ask her.
A girl chewing pink bubble gum comes over to us. ‘Zahra,’ she says. ‘Can you take my evening shift tomorrow?
Zahra, Zahra. I must remember her name.
‘Not a problem,’ she smiles and looks at me. ‘Your daughter—’
‘Her name is Amira. She said she will visit me.’
‘Of course she will,’ Zahra’s eyes glow. ‘I have relatives in Pakistan who I visit. There’s no distance far enough to keep family away and, in your case, it’s just your daughter.’