I exhaled in relief when I reached a fenced garden on the other side of the tunnel.
A board wedged between the rails of the fence read ‘Archbishop’s Park’. I spent a few minutes puttering around in search of the elusive Royal Street, before stumbling upon a leafy residential boulevard peeking out from the far end.
As I approached the Bread Breakers’ Community Residence, a pretty white ranch on a furlong of sprawling garden greeted my vision. I walked towards the wooden doors guiding the main entrance of the ranch. The reception area wore a dank look that one would expect to find in the foyer of a quiet old chapel. In the corner, a desk with a faded nameplate declared the presence of an Erica Hamilton who sat not far behind her name.
‘Hello! I have an appointment with the communications director, Simon Webb.’ I offered with a smile, gulping down the nervousness that surfaced from my recollection of how I had nearly blown my first campaign-related meeting with SIGNAL’s Jeff Stuart, even when Keisha was around.
Erica pointed to a row of cushioned chairs lining the wall on both sides of the entryway. ‘Have a seat. I’ll let him know you’re here.’
Before long, I was in a vinyl-floored office with Simon, an angular-featured and balding young man. His single-breasted tan suit looked strangely out of place against the backdrop of the minimalist décor of his cabin. I spoke about my affiliation with LSE, Keisha’s work for the BBC, and the agenda of the Lionheart campaign.
‘I didn’t know that you and your friend work for the BBC,’ Simon said when I was finished. ‘Well, the programme does sound interesting. I think it’ll do us well to be a part of it. It’s heartening to know that a pretty young woman like you is steering such an initiative to help the less fortunate,’ he added.
Pretty young woman. What an inappropriate thing for the communications director of a care home to say!
‘Thanks,’ I said aloud. ‘Do you have a website? I couldn’t find a web page for it online.’
‘Our folks are still working on it,’ he said with a cryptic laugh. ‘What were you hoping to get from the website anyway?’
A guarded response to a perfectly casual question. The slight edginess in his voice made me stutter, ‘I, uh, case studies … of people who’ve recovered, made some progress …’
‘Recovered? This isn’t a medical centre. We provide accommodation, support and care facilities for the mentally disabled. Our residents can never completely recover at any rate. But they do record progress in some areas.’
‘Are you a private charity then?’
‘Well, ahem, yes … that would be it. The charity sector in the UK is rather complex though.’
Something didn’t sit right with me. The fidgeting, the indirect responses to my simple questions, the sharp retaliations to my innocuous statements, the vague mentions of scenarios that did not appear to fall in context with the subject of our discussion …
‘The case studies then?’ I pressed.
‘We don’t have case studies here,’ Simon said dismissively. ‘Sometimes, we publish testimonials in our publications and brochures if our residents grant us permission. In many cases, the residents are unable to take informed decisions. We do have a strict confidentiality policy.’
I nodded. Fair enough. ‘If you agree to be part of our workshop, there’s an option of signing up for our care home volunteer programme, which is longer-term.’ I fumbled around in my bag and retrieved a printout. ‘That’s a snapshot of our volunteer programme.’
Simon read the overview with inexplicable interest. I wasn’t sure if it was my imagination but he seemed visibly pale all of a sudden. He turned the page back and forth, as if expecting to find something more in it.
‘You never told me SIGNAL was involved in it!’
‘The care home volunteer initiative is optional for participating centres in our awareness campaign. We’re enlisting SIGNAL’s trainers to coach residents who need help. But SIGNAL isn’t directly involved in the workshops. Right now, they’re just funding our tour.’
‘Very well, then. I’ll give it some thought. Thanks for coming by,’ Simon said briskly.
‘My pleasure.’
As he escorted me to the reception area, I realised I hadn’t relieved myself since that morning. I walked up to Erica at the reception desk and requested for the washroom.
‘Down that corridor, to your left,’ Erica said shortly.
I looked around me. There were two sets of doors on that side. ‘Which one?’ I asked, confused.
‘Those blue double doors there.’ Erica pointed at a set of doors closest to her.
I slid through the doors and walked down the ugly green linoleum floors, before waltzing through another set of blue doors ahead of me. I passed a set of rooms on my right, their doors bolted shut and numbered in sequence.
The door to one of the rooms was partially ajar.
The reflection of a woman’s shadow on a set of translucent maroon curtains by the bedside ensnared my attention. From that shadow, it looked like the woman was moving her shoulders and elbows as if she were rocking something in her arms. I inched forward to get a better look. The woman had her back to me. The head of a baby peeped out from the crook of her arms.
She’s feeding her child. Yet again, I longed for my mother’s caressing touch. I heard a metallic screech from that room. I blinked back my tears and tried to focus. The shadows on the curtains had altered. Now, I could see the curve of a wheelchair enclosing the girth of the woman who seemed to be breastfeeding. The contours of another woman emerged on the curtain’s reflection. The second woman swung the woman in the wheelchair around to a corner and dusted the bedcovers. My protesting bladder galvanised me towards the ladies’ room.
I flopped down on to a rickety toilet seat in a claustrophobic stall. A fresh murmur of voices from a long time ago called out to me. As the voices became clearer, I recognised them as the ululating voices of my grieving family and friends surrounding a bier carrying the freshly bathed body of my deceased mother. The priest was chanting mantras. I clung to my brother, Sri and stared wide-eyed at the flowers … at the sacred ash on Mum’s forehead … at the pristine white buds of cotton in her ears and nostrils.
Get out of here, a voice urged. I washed my hands, waved them under the dryer and shuffled out of the washroom. I exited the lobby and trooped down a small flight of steps that opened out to a cobblestoned pathway leading to the main gate. A cornucopia of flowers met my sight in a small garden, off to a side of the main lawn. Swirling concrete footpaths enclosed an open yard. One of these footpaths twirled in the direction of what appeared to be a shed.
A lithe chestnut-haired woman scurried towards the shed along a walkway that possibly emerged from a small passage meandering from a side exit in the main building. Something about the way she moved was chillingly familiar. A beam of realisation nearly knocked me off my feet. Rosie!
I spun on my heel and trotted through the lawns, pausing briefly outside the outhouse. No sign of Rosie now.
Something fishy is going on here.
I suspected that the ghosts of truth reposing behind these closed doors were the antithesis of an overt façade that met a gullible or untrained eye. I took a few steps forward until I stood before a large door reeking of peeling yellow paint. Holding my breath, I turned the brass door handle.
Suddenly, I torpedoed backwards through the air, over a high wall and onto the street beyond … straight into the blinking headlights of an oncoming truck.
The truck on the street passed me by just as I grabbed on to the wall when I flew over it.
I looked below me fearfully. A row of thorny shrubs waited to greet my fall. I recalled the sordid experience of tumbling into a bramble bush the same day Rosie had paid a visit home last November. Serendipitous. I tried to climb over the wall to the other side, but my arms were no match for the hard concrete of the wall above me – and the pull of gravity from below. After a few seconds of strenuous effort, I just hung from the wall and for
ced myself to keep my legs still. The lightest wiggle made me extremely precarious.
‘Look at that poor li’l chick!’ A man exclaimed from below in a horrified tone.
‘Bloody ’ell, she’s going to bust her arse if she falls in there,’ another male voice cried out.
I was sure I would topple if I turned around to look at them.
‘Help!’ I squeaked, hoping they would hear me.
‘Hey, you have that fishing rod on you?’ the second voice called out to the first.
‘Let me get to the car,’ the first voice mumbled.
‘Hola, just hang in there, all right?’ the second passerby shouted out to me. ‘Jack’s going to be right back with his fishing rod.’
My arms were beginning to give way. Panic rose up my throat. It took every shred of will power to keep still.
The first guy, Jack, came back with his rod.
‘This is going to hurt a little,’ he yelled. ‘But it’s the only way we can help ya. Unless you have the Michelin Man pulling you up from the other side, of course!’
Then I felt a sharp stab on my butt. ‘Owww!’ I squealed.
‘Pull yourself up, baby!’ the second guy hollered. ‘My friend is a six-foot-five giant who’s standing on his toes with that fishing rod to reach ya.’
As Jack prodded me, I marshaled every ounce of strength in my arms until I got my chest near the ridge of the wall. Jack began jabbing the soles of my boots.
‘Quit using your hands now!’ the second bloke urged. ‘Use your legs to climb over.’
Taking a deep breath, I swung my right leg. This time, I got my foot on to the ridge of the wall.
‘Nearly there,’ Jack encouraged. ‘Sidle over with that leg!’
After much effort, I managed to drag my right leg over the ridge of the wall on to the other side.
‘Thank you, fellas!’ I called out.
‘You’re darn lucky we were out fishing today. Be safe, now!’ The second guy said, before they walked away. I looked down below me. The height was daunting, but not too formidable for a five-foot-six person. I jumped off the wall and landed on all fours in the small garden. The thick material of my jeans and the soft Korean grass cushioned the blow of my fall.
A wheeze rode up my throat. I took deep breaths from my inhaler. When I felt better, I scrambled up and padded over to the shed, retrieving my shoulder bag from the ground.
The door to the shed was now slightly ajar. I scooted down to see what had thrown me up in the air like that. There was nothing down below. I pried the door open wide, stood on my toes and peered through the doorframe. I couldn’t see much, but the door squeaked horribly. Malfunctioning extension springs. They must have jerked outward with a sudden blow, hurling me over the wall behind when I tried to yank open the door.
Aren’t extension springs used for garage doors? I didn’t find any safety cables for the creaking doors. Unraveling the mystery of the faulty springs would likely involve standing on a stepladder and surveying the spring connection on the rear door hanger – no mean task for a woman with a moderate mechanical aptitude like me. Nevertheless, a decrepit place with worn-out door springs that screamed of neglect was never a good sign. I swung the door open and walked in.
Several children dotted a spread of interlocking mats on the floor of a playroom, doodling on colouring books, scribbling on blackboards and slates or playing with toys. A toddler in a rocker was fiddling with her rattle. An older boy attempted to console a bawling baby in a potty chair. I quickly counted about twenty children of various races, the identifiable ones ranging from East European to Afro-Caribbean. Not a single one in this room looked older than five.
Wow. A separate place for special kids? Truth be told, I was mildly impressed.
Yet, a prickly sensation overrode my fleeting streak of fascination. The basis for that hunch struck me when I spotted a young child playing with an abacus. For starters, there was no adult supervision here. There was no overt indication that the little boy with the Abacus had any of the delayed milestones that one might expect of a developmentally challenged child in a care centre. While I didn’t have the expertise to assess such a situation, it was fairly clear that nothing seemed peculiar about the other kids either. Many of the older ones were speaking in full, coherent sentences and playing board games. I walked up to the boy with the abacus.
‘Hey,’ I called out. ‘I’m a friend of your Mama and Papa. I’m just having a look around.’
The boy looked at me queerly. ‘I don’t have no Pa,’ he said.
‘Oh, I’m sorry, sweetie,’ I said gently. ‘I’m a closer friend of your Mama. And you do have a Pa, too. Maybe you just haven’t see him for a while.’
‘I have a Pa?’ the boy asked, wide-eyed. ‘Then he mustn’t like me very much ’coz he no see me for a loo-o-ng time.’
I was clueless about how I would handle his matter-of-fact statements.
I nodded eventually. ‘You do.’ My words sounded superficial and hollow, even to my ears.
The boy narrowed his eyes. ‘How d’ya know? Who are you?’
‘You can call me Sandy,’ I said. ‘What’s your name, young man?’
‘Jason.’
‘Nice name. Friends?’ I extended my hand.
‘Friends!’ Jason agreed as he smiled shyly and shook my hand.
‘How old are you, Jason?’
‘Dunno. Think I’m three.’
‘You know where your Mama is?’
Jason thought for a while, then pointed towards the nursing home building, visible through a small window across from me.
I followed his gaze. ‘Does your Mama work here?’
Again, Jason looked confused. First, he shook his head. Then he shrugged.
‘Who takes care of you?’
Jason looked blank.
‘Does your Mama take care of you?’
‘Mama?’ Jason echoed after a beat. ‘Some peepul in jeans and skirts. They take care of all of us.’
‘What happened to Mama?’
‘She no here.’
‘Then where is she?’
‘There …’ Jason pointed towards the nursing home again.
By this time, a gaggle of kids had gathered around Jason and me. I turned to them with a smile. ‘I’m Jason’s friend. Jason was telling me about the people who take care of all of you.’
‘It’s not a nice place!’ A tiny English girl shouted.
I knelt down beside her. ‘Oh? Why is that, sweetie?’
‘Sometimes, a fat lady called Ugo comes here a lot and beats me when I want ice-cream,’ the girl said tearfully.
‘We have other nicer ladies taking care of us,’ another boy offered.
‘Where are all your Mamas?’ I asked all of them.
Many didn’t answer. A few pointed towards the nursing home – just like Jason had.
‘My Mama’s in heaven,’ a taller girl in a skirt said.
I went up to her and took her in my arms. ‘I’m really sorry, little one. My Mama’s in heaven too.’
I turned to the other children. ‘But your Mamas are all there?’ I asked, pointing towards the care home.
Some nodded, while others remained mute.
‘Where are your homes?’ I asked.
‘This is where home is,’ an older girl said quietly. ‘But for me and other kids as old as me, it won’t be for long.’
I stared at her. ‘Why?’
‘We’ll be sent away somewhere else.’
‘Where?’
The girl shrugged. ‘Wish I knew. That’s what happened to Ruth, Jamie and Claire.’
‘What happened to them?’
‘One day, they were all just gone. They were the oldest. I think no one above six is allowed to stay here,’ she informed.
‘What’s your name? How old are you?’
‘I’m Nancy. I hear I’m six.’
I froze and wondered what to do. Here were kids left to their own devices in the shed of a special needs care centre,
unaware of their origins, birthdays, whereabouts and futures. A soft noise from outside snapped me out of my trance. I knew I couldn’t take any chances in case someone came by.
‘All right, dears. I’ll be back soon,’ I promised, hugging some of the kids clumsily.
I peeked outside the door. The coast seemed clear, so I stepped out. A bunch of fruits lay scattered haphazardly at the foot of a tree a few yards away. They must have created that sound when they tumbled down from the tree in the wind. I scampered through the gardens towards the massive white gates and slipped out.
A sublime rooftop view of the city met my gaze as I stepped on to the thirty-fifth floor of London Sky Garden, an hour later. After what I had just seen at Bread Breakers’, the contrast of the landscaped garden bristling with tropical palms ahead of me was disquietingly palpable.
‘Hey, beautiful! The Walkie-Talkie!’ Nimmy grinned, spreading his arms to symbolise the expanse of the enlarged glass dome building. ‘I love that dress,’ he added.
I shyly glanced down at the fitted, maroon scoop neck dress I had changed into in the ladies’ room of a bar near London Bridge station while on my way here from Bread Breakers’. The sparkly evening outfit accentuated my décolletage.
Nimmy pulled me towards a terrace sloping down with cycads, African lilies, rosemary and French lavender flowers. Then he kissed me passionately and trailed his lips all the way down my throat. ‘I want to do you right now,’ he murmured into the cleft between my breasts.
‘Oh, Nimmy …’ I cleaved to him, the man who had helped me rise above my past – onwards and upwards. I may not have ever recovered from Saahil’s death if it hadn’t been for him …
Nimmy stroked my arm. ‘Come on! Dinner in the sky! You’re going to love this.’
We rode another floor up to a pod-like structure, which opened out to Darwin’s Brasserie through a panoramic walkway. A trendy restaurant simmering with ornate wood, burnished leather, and saffron-gold sunshine filtering through its regal, floor-to-ceiling windows. Nimmy guided me towards a Scandi wood table by a window, which offered a view of the Thames.
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