Over dinner, I had another go. He said he’d agreed to meet with ‘Dr Tomahawk’ the next day to discuss Mum’s condition, and about the possibility of moving her to a less restrictive unit, where she’d have more freedom. I suspected his main motive was that he wanted to have her moved away from Mr Jamieson. And I didn’t blame him one bit.
I’d had a peek at Mr Jamieson after the nurse had told me about the hand-holding episode.
‘That’s him on the settee,’ the nurse had said, pointing at an extremely large, bald old man with a bright red face and bulbous nose. Now I’d be the first to agree that my tall, wiry old Dad isn’t likely to score a modelling contract, but he’s not a bad looker — especially compared to the predatory Mr Jamieson. No wonder Dad was so upset. Not only had his dearly beloved turned her attentions to another man, but he was possibly the ugliest specimen in the whole of St Joan’s. On top of that, he looked like a prime candidate for a massive heart attack from overeating, not to mention cirrhosis of the liver from drinking too much.
• • •
Mondays are always flat out, starting with our weekly meeting to discuss work in progress and opportunities for further work, then the weekly tune-up from Tracey about getting our time sheets in and remembering to provide tax receipts if we want to claim expenses. And there’s always a backlog of emails and other work to catch up on. Escaping at lunchtime is never easy at the best of times, but as my habitually bad luck would have it, just when I was ready to drive to St Joan’s I got a message from the head of the local library, asking me to call urgently.
I’d met Sarah Russell at several local business dos over the years and come to respect her. She didn’t fit the prim spinster librarian stereotype at all. In fact she seemed to be quite an astute businesswoman, and had a reputation for running the place like the big management consultancy she’d headed before indulging her passion for books and switching to the library.
‘Perhaps your books are overdue?’ Tracey said when passing me the message.
‘When did I last have time to read a book, let alone go all the way down to the library and choose one to borrow?’ I replied, laughing. ‘Chance would be a fine thing.’
‘Well, I promised her you’d phone before midday, when she has to go into a meeting.’
I looked at my watch. Ten to twelve. I had forty minutes before the meeting with Dr Tomahawk and it would take at least twenty to get there. Hastily I made the call.
‘Hi, Sarah, how’s things?’
‘Not good, I’m afraid. But I can’t talk to you over the phone. I’d really like to meet you in person. Something rather unusual has happened here and I’m going to need your help.’
‘Of course, I’m happy to assist.’ I looked at my diary. ‘How about three o’clock? Your place or mine?’
‘I don’t want anyone here to know I’m meeting with you,’ Sarah said. ‘Someone would be bound to catch on. This place leaks like a sieve.’
‘Sure,’ I said, intrigued. We agreed to meet at our office before I jumped in the car and headed for St Joan’s.
Dr Tomkinson — I had to keep telling myself his proper name or I’d end up calling him Dr Tomahawk to his face — was a model of political correctness. Short and slightly chubby, with a pale, moon-shaped face and a wide mouth with peculiarly thin lips, Dr Tomkinson peered at Dad and me over the top of his glasses, pulled on his short ginger beard and spoke in a crisply measured tone, as if he were talking to a couple of complete morons.
‘I understand you wanted to see me about your wife, Mr Rushmore.’
Dad looked nonplussed.
Of course he wants to see you about his wife, you idiot, I felt like shouting. Who else would he want to see you about?
‘Er, yes,’ Dad said hesitantly. ‘Colleen.’
‘Was there something you wanted to discuss in particular? Or are you looking for an update on her condition?’
‘Er, yes,’ Dad said again, looking to me for help.
‘We were worried about the situation with Mr Jamieson, actually,’ I said, deciding it was best to come right to the point. ‘He and my mother seem to have some sort of attachment.’
‘I see. Can you describe to me what has been happening?’
I could see Dad stiffen.
‘I thought the staff would have told you,’ I said, trying to forestall the need to revisit the whole painful subject.
‘I’d like to hear it from you.’
I glanced at Dad. I could tell there was no way he was going to say anything so I took a deep breath and went for it, getting it over with as quickly as possible.
‘I see,’ Dr Tomkinson said, pulling at his beard and studying his feet. ‘I see.’
There was a painful pause. Dad continued to look blank, ensconced in his shell. From the corridor outside the closed door came the sounds of clattering trolleys, squeaky rubber footfalls on polished vinyl, people in muted conversations; from far away drifted a faint aroma of fried onions, reminding me I hadn’t had time for lunch. My tummy rumbled in protest.
At last the doctor spoke. It took him a long time to get to the point but basically what he seemed to be saying was that it was Mum who had taken a fancy to Mr Jamieson and there was absolutely nothing he could do to stop Mum running after him if that’s what she wanted to do. They would be talking to Mr Jamieson’s son — who was overseas, so unfortunately it might take some time — and would look at his medication, but Dad needed to understand that it was Mum’s condition that was making her behave in this way, and that people with advanced dementia tended to do things they would never normally do — which we both knew anyway.
Dad nodded from time to time in response when Dr Tomkinson asked if he was following, but said nothing. When the doctor had finished, Dad waited a moment, as if it was all sinking in, then said, ‘How long will it go on, doctor?’
‘Your wife’s liking for Mr Jamieson? Who can say? It could be over in a few days. Or it could go on for a long time. It’s —’
‘No, I mean, the Alzheimer’s. How much longer …’
‘Oh, there’s no end to Alzheimer’s, Mr Rushmore. It’s not something —’
‘No, no, I mean for Colleen. How much longer will she have to be like this?’
‘You mean until she passes away?’
Dad swallowed and looked out the window. After a moment, he said, ‘Yes.’
‘I couldn’t say,’ Dr Tomkinson said, looking very uncomfortable and tugging a lot on his beard. ‘You can never be sure with Alzheimer’s. Sometimes people live for six or seven years after diagnosis. But sometimes it’s a lot less.’
He delved around in his desk drawer. ‘Here,’ he said, holding out a familiar blue leaflet. ‘This might help.’
I took the proffered information on Alzheimer’s and stuffed it in my bag. We’d been given the brochure ages ago, when Mum was first diagnosed; I knew it almost by heart and there wasn’t a single mention of extra-marital geriatric bonding.
‘Thank you.’ I looked at Dad. Since the doctor’s vague prognosis he’d gone back into his shell and was staring at his hands.
I tried to get him to open up as we walked back to the Camellia Wing to see Mum but he didn’t want to talk.
‘It’s okay, lassie. I’ll go and sit with your mother for a while. I’ll be fine.’
‘Have you had any lunch, Dad?’
‘Och, I’ll be fine. Stop fussing.’
I stopped off at the kitchen and begged some leftover sandwiches and a piece of cake for him. They were good like that at St Joan’s. Dad would often turn up to see Mum without having bothered to eat lunch, and they would leave a plate of food and cup of tea for him on the side table next to his chair.
Dad had always had ‘a soul above food’, as he called it. When he was working at the garage, he could go all day without eating and scarcely notice. Sadly I didn’t inherit that particular gene — I couldn’t go for more than a couple of hours without thinking about food. After all, thinking about food is an importan
t ingredient in a balanced diet. I’d even managed to sort my fantasies into four major food groups: fast food, frozen food, instant food and chocolate!
Mum was thankfully nowhere near Mr Jamieson when we arrived at the Camellia Wing; she was in her room having a nap. Dad seemed perfectly happy so I left him sitting beside her, munching his sandwich, and tore back to Rosie. I wished I could have waited for Mum to wake up and see how she reacted to Dad’s presence — maybe help him woo her back somehow — but I was cutting it fine, as usual, to make my appointment on time. Instead, I nursed guilt pangs all the way back across town to the office.
Chapter 9
You know, I could write a book about the slices of other people’s lives I hear about. The things some people get up to! If it’s scandalous enough to deserve media attention — and someone wants to stop that from happening — I’m often the one to be called in to help sort it out. Some of our clients are so deep in the mire I’d just about qualify for a permanent job with Ted Philips down at the sewage works. Sometimes it seems I spend half my working day trying to get some people on the front page of the paper and the other half trying to keep the rest of them off it.
Anyway, Sarah Russell’s story was one out of the box. It turned out the chap who ran the reference section at the library had been behaving very strangely over the past few months. In fact, by Sarah’s account it sounded as if he had a lot of the symptoms of dementia — except he was quite a bit younger than Mum and still in full-time employment in a position of some public responsibility. He’d had one particularly memorable episode where he had berated a customer loud and long for daring to ask for a particular book and then, even more audaciously, he’d shouted at her for trying to read it at one of the study tables in the middle of the reference room. Sarah had called him into her office to discipline him and had herself been castigated for daring to suggest he should temper his behaviour when dealing with customers.
‘You think I’m mad, don’t you?’ he’d shouted.
Sarah said she’d had a great deal of difficulty restraining herself from saying yes.
‘I swear I didn’t show any sign of agreeing with him,’ she said, ‘but the next thing he said was that he should effing well have me effing sacked.’
There’d been several other examples of bad behaviour, she said, including bullying other staff and running the reference room like a fiefdom, with him as its lord and master.
‘Sometimes he won’t let people get the book they want off the shelf. But mostly he’s just been generally difficult and weird. There’s not a lot you can put your finger on. He’s had one written warning, but I haven’t been able to pin anything else on him. I think the other staff are too scared to complain.
‘The last time I had him in my office and he once again accused me of thinking he was mad, I did say that his behaviour was highly unusual and do you know what he said?’ Sarah looked at me questioningly. I shook my head. ‘He said he’d get a medical certificate from his doctor certifying that he was sane. And do you know what happened next? He came in three days later with just that. “Alan so-and-so is of sound mind, and I have no doubt as to his sanity,” the doctor had written. I couldn’t believe it.’ She took a deep breath. ‘I’ve got no doubt as to his sanity either. The guy’s an absolute nutter. He shouldn’t be working in a public place.’
‘He does sound rather strange,’ I agreed.
‘Well, he’s obviously not completely deranged, because now he’s threatening to go to the media and tell them I’m trying to persecute him. And the trouble is he can come across as perfectly plausible, a bit of a gentleman really. Until you get to know him, or end up on the sharp end of his temper.’ She looked at me and sighed. ‘I’m at my wits’ end. I don’t know what to do.’
‘These situations can be very difficult where employment law is involved,’ I said cautiously. ‘Have you had legal advice?’
As often happens, the plot thickened, according to Sarah. The legal advice she had received was to terminate his employment contract and wear the cost of a court case, but the local council wouldn’t hear of it. Apparently they were in the middle of some big rates row and the last thing they wanted was a messy employment court wrangle over ‘dear old mister so-and-so’, who was a bit of an identity at the library and who’d ‘done so much for the community’ during his tenure.
Normally, I explained, I would have advised her to go out on the front foot and get in first with the news, rather than wait for ‘dear old mister so-and-so’ to grab the headlines. But with cases involving employment disputes, you couldn’t do that.
‘In fact, there’s very little you can do or say other than have a very bland statement ready, explaining the rules about not talking to the media when an employment situation is involved,’ I said. ‘The only other tactic is finding people who’ve been the butt end of the old boy’s ire who would be prepared to stand up and say what a pain he’s become if he does go to the media with his complaints.’
Sarah looked hopeful. ‘They might, I suppose. I could ask around.’
We discussed how she might handle this process, and how she should ensure that key people were apprised of the situation before it hit the headlines. I agreed to draft an action plan and a media statement for her to have on hand just in case the old boy did spill the beans.
‘There’s always the chance he’s full of bluster,’ I said. ‘He might be only threatening to make it public. After all, he’s got a lot more to lose by calling his own sanity into question.’
‘Oh, you don’t know him,’ Sarah said. ‘He’s a cunning devil. He’s one of those men who comes across as thoroughly charming when they want to be. A gullible journalist would easily be taken in by his charm. But he can turn, just like that!’ She snapped her fingers. ‘He’s like a Jekyll and Hyde. Two personalities. And we see more of Mr Hyde than anyone else.’
After Sarah had gone, I finally got to eat a sandwich while catching up on emails and phone messages. I was in the middle of a call to a client’s PA when I scrolled down to the bottom of my inbox and spied an email from Stephanie; it must have come in overnight and I’d missed it in the morning rush. Foolishly, I started to read the first line.
(I really shouldn’t read emails while talking on the phone, but I think it goes with having such a compulsive personality, paired with a high boredom threshold. Or perhaps it’s because my hectic life has made me so attuned to multitasking. But I have to somehow drum into myself that reading emails, especially emails from my loony sister, is likely to absorb me to the extent that the person at the other end of the phone is going to work out pretty soon that I’m not paying them any attention …)
From: Stephanie Scanlan
To: [email protected]
Subject: What am I going to do?
Hi sis
I’m in Bonn now and it’s so hot I could die. Thank heavens for air-conditioned hotels and limos with drinks on ice! I’ve been so busy over here. My publisher is just wearing me to a frazzle. I insisted on a day spa yesterday, though there was only time for a few hours before I had to go to the hairdresser. Then I found this divine vintage Valentino outfit, which made me feel a bit better …
Well really! I nearly pressed the delete button then and there. I mean, how much of that sick-making drivel did she expect me to put up with before dying of envy? That’s when I heard a plaintive, ‘Are you there, Penny?’ at the other end of the phone.
‘Oh! Of course …’ I snapped my mind away from vintage Valentino and the day spa and quickly pulled myself together. I made an appointment to see my client, ended the call and debated whether to finish reading the email or send it into the ether. Curiosity, of course, won.
It’s quite unfair, all these journalists wanting to interview me one after the other — and they all ask the same questions. You can tell half of them have never read my books. I suppose you were like that in your earlier life, before you switched to the dark side and went into PR.
But when it’s all over a
nd the last low-life journalist has finally finished scoffing the bratwurst and left, I’m all alone and it’s really boring. You’d think the publisher could have found a menial to keep me company on the road, but no, they’re too mean for that. All I get is Karl or Fritz or Klutz the driver and a schedule that would kill a hamster on speed. I only wish JJ could be here with me. I’m not sure if I mentioned him before? I met him at a merchandising company’s plush party in Mayfair. My publisher wanted me there to discuss a deal to sell a range of fluffy toys based on the extra-terrestrial characters in my latest book. You’d be right to think that I was positively aghast at such a suggestion. But when they told me the amount of money this sort of deal brings in, I shut up and let my publisher do the talking …
Anyway, JJ’s company is right into merchandising his brand. They sell T-shirts, posters, mouse pads, all sorts of stuff, and he was able to point out all the pitfalls I should watch out for. He was just so open about it, I was really lucky. JJ is such a sweetie, you’d never know he was so famous. He’s quite a big name over here.
I thought at first it would be purely platonic but things didn’t take long to get out of hand. Enough said! And I know you get so moralistic about that sort of thing. At least this time you can’t accuse me of being a cradle-snatcher because he’s quite a bit older than me …
Well, that did it. My rising bile overcame my diminishing curiosity and I hit the delete button right there and then, crying ‘Enough!’
My loud expostulation must have been heard throughout the office, because within seconds both Tracey and Ginny were at the door asking what was going on.
Head Over Heels Page 8