Paradise Lodge

by Nina Stibbe

  Eileen had taken slightly against Sister Saleem but, to be fair, she didn’t try to influence anyone against her. Except to mimic her behind her back.

  Sister Saleem had been trained in modern ways and she made changes on the spot, as and when, and she shifted things around in a most disruptive way. For example, she approached Miranda and me one morning in the day room.

  ‘Why are the residents’ chairs arranged thus?’ she asked, gesturing at the circle of chairs around the edge of the room. Neither of us knew quite what ‘thus’ meant at the time.

  Miranda began to babble and talk rubbish but I knew to be direct and honest, and said, ‘What do you mean, “thus”?’ and Sister Saleem said, ‘Like this, in a ring around the margin of the room—as if they are the audience of something that is going to happen in the middle of the floor.’

  So I said, ‘Because that’s how it’s always been.’ And Sister Saleem’s head went to the side while she translated it into Dutch, or whatever language she had in her mind, which gave me a further moment to think about it and quickly add, ‘And the patients like it like this.’

  For the next half-hour we rearranged the ring of chairs into little clusters of three or four with coffee tables dotted about, some by the windows and others by the fire and each with its own focus. The patients looked on, puzzled, and Nurse Eileen popped her head in and muttered ‘ridiculous’ under her breath. I must admit, the chair clusters looked attractive—like a coffee shop for hippies but with very ugly chairs. I wasn’t sure it was right for the patients because it wasn’t what they were used to and that was what they preferred. Always.

  Nurse Eileen hit out at Sister one day, saying her father was a business manager and he knew never to make any changes in a new situation until week six—or later—by which time he’d have got the confidence of the entire workforce via trust-building chit-chat and cups of good old-fashioned tea. This didn’t rattle Sister Saleem, she simply opened her eyes very wide, thanked Eileen for her ideas and said, ‘Ah, if only we had the time for that palaver.’

  It was unsettling, Sally-Anne said, meaning the atmosphere between Eileen and Sister. It was like having bickering parents. Miranda agreed, Mr and Mrs Longlady were constantly at each other’s throats, apparently, trying to bankrupt each other on the Monopoly board and blaming each other for Melody going into punk after such a promising childhood.

  One day, Nurse Eileen had thawed towards Sister Saleem, which was an all-round blessing. Sister Saleem seemed to know it even before Eileen did and gave Eileen a little pat, and somehow the little pat was the final thing that made Eileen like her. It was a curious circular situation. And then Sister Saleem was 100 per cent liked. Even Miranda, who found things to criticize in even the nicest person, liked Sister Saleem a lot—particularly, she said, on account of her arriving like Mary Poppins.

  The owner liked her too. Except every now and again you might find him scratching his head and saying, ‘Who is that curly-headed woman in the green trousers?’ and Nurse Eileen or Matron would reply, ‘It’s Sister Saleem. You recruited her.’ And he’d say, ‘Did I? I don’t remember—I must have been in my cups.’

  Sister Saleem’s nursing trousers—the pale jade, drip-dry with patch pockets—had caused consternation from the off. The patients, you’ll recall, having been aghast. The staff, on the other hand, had fallen for them when we’d seen her climb a stepladder, on the day she arrived, to unplug a portable telly and hadn’t had to worry about anything silly—like showing her pants, or looking like Dick Emery.

  Now Nurse Eileen and Sister Saleem had become friends, Eileen asked if she might order herself a pair of sea-green culottes and matching tabard from Alexander’s, the workwear specialist, and we all joined in wanting them. Sister said she was sorry but the owner had enough unpaid bills. Then, only a couple of days later, she plonked a batch of the pale jade trouser suits on to the kitchen table.

  It turned out that a hospital in Birmingham, where Sister had worked temporarily, had obsoleted them due to changing livery after merging with another hospital under the BUPA umbrella and going back to traditional all-white. Eileen was the first to change into the pale jade and looked superb. Actually, Nurse Eileen made the trouser suit look fashionable and attractive—she looked like a fashion plate (Mr Simmons’ words).

  I tried some but they were either too small or too big, and in the end I settled for a too big top and too short trousers. Miranda declined, saying one of the few nice things about working there was being dressed up as a nurse.

  Next Sally-Anne tried on a trouser suit and, though it fitted well, I was dismayed to note that it looked all wrong on her. And I could see from the faces of everyone else that they thought the same. We didn’t say anything until she was out of the kitchen and then we did. It was really sad, and I hate writing it, but Sally-Anne didn’t suit trousers. It was to do with her stance (imagine an oldish man about to toss the caber). The trousers seemed to bunch up under her bottom. I felt so sorry for her—imagine not suiting trousers.

  Matron said she would never fall for trousers. ‘You see them in the catalogues, looking reasonable on a model with a perfect trouser-figure standing in a cornfield, but the truth is, they’re going to look ridiculous on anyone who doesn’t have the posture of a semi-ape.’ The patients agreed and were appalled by the proliferation. Miss Boyd said trousers caused diseases and Miss Tyler said they were for deviants. The owner said it was vexing to see the staff going about like the crew of the Starship Enterprise. I felt very happy, though, seeing most of my colleagues in the pale jade, it seemed modern and sensible. In fact, the trouser suits gave us the sense that the place was changing for the better.

  Sister Saleem very quickly instigated some other simple changes—such as the habit of taking our coffee breaks sitting in garden chairs in the little orchard with our top buttons undone and a Labi Siffre cassette playing through the office window. Sister believed a lack of sunlight and decent music gave you the blues and that a dose of either perked you up no end. And some of the more daring nurses, including Eileen and a new nurse called Carla B (who I haven’t mentioned yet), started wearing sarongs to go to the Piglet Inn and showing their tummy buttons. Not me, though—I went as far as a cheesecloth shirt with a tie waist but I was conservative when it came to clothing. I’m sorry to drop Carla B in like that. She was new around then, she had defected from Newfields and, though she had lots of gossip about it, was banned from sharing it with us for the time being. Nurse Carla was a year and a half older than me and seemed very grown up in some ways. She had a cowlick—and I felt it somehow unsuitable for a nurse to have a cowlick, the nurse’s hats looking medically official but the cowlick looking like a disorderly little kid. Anyway, Carla B was there and she didn’t mind showing her tummy button and tiny cleavage.

  Sitting out in the garden was delightful and caused neighbours to wave and it helped us to appreciate our surroundings and Sister Saleem loved it. There were a few sunny days in a row and Sister Saleem commented on the patients not coming outside more often on warm days. It was true that when I first began at Paradise Lodge, back in May, the garden patio had been so pretty and inviting and a few of the patients did actually go out there and sit under a rug. But since then, the shrubbery had grown and become impenetrable, and it was true also that the patients couldn’t see the bird bath from the windows—or the feeders, or the cows meandering along the lane back to Briars’ barn.

  Anyway, it was agreed that something must be done to make the garden more accessible to more of the patients. ‘If the staff can come and sit outside and hear the birds and feel the sun on their skin, I think the residents should, don’t you?’ Sister asked us. And, not really needing an answer, she ranted about it until I butted in and said I’d do it.

  ‘Ah, Lis, good.’ She got up and announced to the patients in the day room that I was on the brink of renovating the garden and looking for volunteers to help. And I did do some gardening after that but it was too dull to describe in det
ail here, except to say it scratched my hands and, as with everything, it was the tidying up afterwards that took most of the time. And soon, thank God, Mr Simmons took over and seemed to love it more than anything else.

  Talking further about the garden and the patients that lunchtime, I admitted that the patients weren’t encouraged to sit in the garden due to the difficulty of getting them back inside in a hurry—to the comfort stations—should they need.

  Sister looked up suddenly. ‘What do you mean?’ she said.

  ‘It’s tricky, getting them back inside, to the comfort stations,’ I ventured.

  ‘The comfort stations?’ said Sister. ‘What in the name of God Almighty are comfort stations, Lis?’

  ‘The conveniences,’ I said, ‘the WC.’

  ‘I know. But please, if you mean the toilets, then say the toilets,’ said Sister. ‘I can’t keep translating.’

  So I said, ‘Yes, the toilets.’

  And Sister Saleem said, ‘Oh, if there’s an accident—let the Lord judge us the way he sees fit.’

  Sister Saleem’s fury about the comfort stations/toilets provoked a rather aggressive and immediate ban on all euphemisms. You might imagine this was a good thing but it was unsettling and I actually thought it harsh.

  ‘We can’t talk like this,’ she said, ‘this is a medical establishment. We must call things by their proper name.’

  I explained that the Owner’s Wife had actually banned us from the real words and that it was the norm in England.

  ‘But it is ludicrous,’ said Sister Saleem, ‘and confusing and unprofessional.’

  And she told us of the wasted half-hour she’d had trying to help Miss Boyd find her bank book, because she was complaining of a problem with her ha’penny. ‘This isn’t even modern coinage,’ she’d said and laughed, even though she didn’t seem to find it funny, overall, and it was the nearest I came to a proper argument with her.

  That evening I made her a euphemism translation card—to make up for the row—in nice writing with tasteful but honest illustrations. It wasn’t as easy as it sounds because some things I thought were proper terms were euphemisms and sometimes it was hard to find the real term.

  Comfort station—toilet

  Powder room—toilets

  Cloakroom—toilets

  Lavvy—toilet

  WC—toilet

  Powder my nose—go to the toilet

  Spend a penny—urinate

  Tinkle—urinate

  Wee wee—urinate

  Number two—open bowel

  Do business—open bowel

  Pass away—die

  Pass on—die

  Gone—died

  Fallen asleep—died

  Taken—died

  Ha’penny—vagina

  Tuppence—vagina

  Twinkle—vagina

  Downstairs—vagina

  Sweetie—vagina

  Place—vagina

  Soldier—penis

  I gave it to her and she read with a serious face and then she laughed. I’ve never seen anyone laugh so much. I felt silly for a moment but she thanked me and said I’d made her day.

  She kept it in her pocket.

  ‘Lis, this is wonderful,’ she said, ‘I love it, thank you.’

  16. Harmony

  While Sister Saleem was getting to grips with Paradise Lodge, a cloud on my horizon was the new school term and the question of ‘O’ Levels. I decided that within the parameters of continuing to work at Paradise Lodge (to use Sister Saleem’s parlance) I would do my utmost to attend school. With hindsight, that seems unrealistic but, to be fair to my younger self, I had every intention of keeping up with my academic work at home. I was easily bright enough to manage both and I knew it was achievable because our neighbour, Lynda Goodchild, had achieved a C grade in English ‘O’ Level and a diploma in Number at night school—in a year—while working at the Leicester Building Society and all the while shopping and cooking her husband’s tea with home-made gravy. And she’d re-curtained the whole house and planted a row of tiny privets, which would one day be a screening hedge. Plus being pregnant half the time with baby Bobbi—and she wasn’t a genius or anything.

  Anyway, that was my plan (not the hedge or the hot meals, but the working-while-studying aspect). However, Sister Saleem’s programme of change had hardly begun and I’d obviously not got the school-to-work ratio quite right because Mrs Hargraves, the truant officer, pulled up beside me in the village on my way to work a late shift one day. School spent a lot of energy trying to keep pupils in school, such as sending Mrs Hargraves roaming the villages to pick up strays and bring them in—like the Disney dog-pound man.

  I wasn’t in school uniform but neither, thank God, was I in my nurse’s dress. I told her I’d been to the dentist and that I hoped my mother had remembered to phone the school to report my lateness. Mrs Hargraves drove me home in her ugly white Ford and waited outside reading Woman’s Own while I changed. Then she drove me to school. I was on her list of non-attendees, she told me. And could I explain my frequent absences? she asked.

  I didn’t tell her I had an important job and that I had no intention of going back to school full time, having become accustomed to a new standard of living. I said I’d simply been having the odd day off to help my mother who’d not long had a late baby and was finding it tough to manage everything since becoming addicted to short stories—reading them and writing them (which was true)—and it using up so much time she hardly got the baby fed. Which was half true. Mrs Hargraves responded sarcastically, saying she supposed we should be grateful it wasn’t long stories my mother was addicted to.

  At school, she walked with me to the Deputy Head’s office, knocked twice and popped her head round the door. I could tell the two women were in bitchy cahoots. I heard a muffled conversation, including, ‘Ooh, well done! Top marks, Jill.’ And a lot of sniggering. Then Hargraves reappeared and told me to wait for Miss Pitt there in the corridor.

  ‘Thanks for the lift,’ I said.

  ‘My pleasure,’ she said, and winked. ‘See you soon.’

  ‘Not if I see you first,’ I said.

  Miss Pitt called me into her office and had another go at me about my erratic attendance. Her hair was a bit matted at the back, as if she’d been rolling her head about in bed with a troubling dream and hadn’t had a hairwash since. I felt different towards her since I’d seen her being rough with Mr Simmons.

  I felt superior. I hated her. And I was not going to let her beat me.

  ‘So, Lizzie Vogel,’ she said, ‘here we are again.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said.

  ‘Tell me please, Lizzie,’ she was reading the back of a paperback while she spoke, ‘that you do not have a burning ambition to wipe old people’s backsides for a living for the rest of your life.’

  ‘I might,’ I said.

  ‘A clever girl like you?’ she said. ‘Don’t you think you should be aiming a bit higher than that?’

  ‘I want to do my “O” Levels,’ I said, ‘if that’s what you mean.’

  ‘Oh, good. So how about we help each other?’ she said.

  ‘What do you mean?’ I asked.

  ‘I agree to your coming back into the “O” Level group and you help me with my stepfather.’

  ‘How?’ I asked.

  ‘Let me know what he’s up to… when he’s going to be in or out, or… at a concert,’ she said, ‘that kind of thing, just so I can keep tabs.’

  ‘But he doesn’t want to see you,’ I said. ‘You’re barred from seeing him.’

  ‘He says that, Lizzie, but I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t make an effort,’ she said.

  ‘Mr Simmons barely knows you. But he knows you well enough to know you just want to control him,’ I said.

  I could see fury burning in her little eyes and though I felt strong, I blushed.

  ‘Very well, Lizzie. Go back to your class now,’ she said, ‘and let me know if you come to your senses.’

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nbsp; I walked out of the office, out of the building, out of the school grounds and phoned Paradise Lodge from a tiny phone box near the Esso garage to apologize for being late. ‘I’ve had an emergency dental appointment,’ I said. ‘I’m on my way.’

  And then I jogged and walked and jogged again along the canal towpath. I walked past a pretty boat called See More and saw a kingfisher skim the water. And then, on the last bridge before mine, I saw Mike Yu standing, pointing things out to an old man leaning on the bridge. I waved.

  ‘Lizzie!’ he called, looking down at me.

  ‘I’ve just seen a kingfisher,’ I told him. I knew he’d be pleased.

  And he turned straight away to the old man and said in a loud voice, ‘Pootong kew neow.’ And the old man looked out on to the water, breathing heavily through his mouth, and stared up and down. And then he looked down at me and smiled and bowed and thanked me with his eyes.

  Mike began to help his grandfather into the passenger seat of the car. I called goodbye to them and walked on. Mike called out, ‘Wait, Lizzie!’ He spoke softly to his grandfather for a moment and joined me down on the towpath. We walked along and I asked how he was. ‘I’m fine, thank you, Lizzie. How are you?’ He was so polite and correct.

  ‘I’m fine,’ I said. And we walked in silence for a while.

  We passed another boat, even prettier than See More. This one was called Harmony. Mike pointed to it. ‘Harmony,’ he said. We said how much we liked the boat, how smart the paintwork and how pretty the shutters, and how well-kept it was. And I said I’d love to float along in Harmony for a few days and forget all my cares and he said he would too and he wished we could.

  ‘Harmony,’ I said.

  ‘Harmony,’ he said.

  And we smiled.

  How could this day—that had started out so badly—suddenly be so nice? I wondered. How could I be watching the same dragonfly as a boy as lovely as Mike Yu, touching arms on the narrow towpath and talking about floating carefree in a boat called Harmony?

  ‘Is your grandfather all right?’ I asked.