by Alison Clink
As we talk about leaving soon before the traffic gets too heavy Adrian looks around the flat he’s lived in for the past twenty-two years.
‘I need to get everything now. I might never be coming back,’ he says.
‘We can always come back for anything…’ I offer.
The Picasso print, the Buste de Femme au Chapeau, hangs above the dining table in the lounge. Adrian loves this picture – it’s big, dominated by the scarlet and yellow face of a large-eyed lady with strands of blue black hair showing beneath a hat which looks like an apple pie. The picture represents so much of what is essentially him. It’s unusual, striking and tells a story. When we were on our Med cruise Adrian took me to the Picasso Museum in Barcelona which is where he bought this poster. He told me how Picasso had been fascinated by the Velázquez painting Las Meninas.
‘Come and look at this painting, Ali,’ he’d urged me as we dodged gangs of Japanese tourists. ‘Picasso painted hundreds of different interpretations of this painting. The little girl at the front of the painting is depicted over and over in various pictures. Each version of her becomes less and less like the original. Look, Ali, isn’t it fantastic!’
I studied in awe the different interpretations, some representing the whole and others individual figures from Las Meninas. The Buste de Femme au Chapeau is, I think, an interpretation of the small girl figure in the forefront of the Velázquez painting. I know what this picture means to him and he’s wondering whether to bring it. If he doesn’t he may never see it again.
‘Bring it,’ I say with a sense of urgency and a lump in my throat.
‘It won’t go with the room,’ he replies, probably thinking of the photo I showed him of the interior of the bedrooms in St Vincent’s, which are typically old fashioned flowery chintz style.
‘Bring it anyway,’ I manage to get the words out whilst biting my lip to hold back the tears.
Peter carries the picture down to the car. As we drive out of London, Adrian sits in the back reading the Daily Mirror for a while and then dozes. We speed away from his home and all his old haunts, managing to get out of Putney and East Sheen before rush hour. The roads are clear as we negotiate our way out of West London towards the M3. I sit back and relax. We’ve done it, we’re away and it feels like the beginning of a new phase in all our lives.
*
We reach St Vincent’s at seven and as soon as we drive up the sweeping entrance to the house I realise we’ve made (I’ve made) a big mistake. The place is large, grandiose in fact, but there’s something wrong. Some instinct makes me feel Adrian will not be happy here. Two of the night staff open a door as tall as a London bus, greet us and show us to his room. It’s clear as we go in that none of us is impressed. The room is small with a bathroom off it linked to another resident’s room. The outline of an old lady lying in a bed is just visible in an adjoining room. The matron didn’t tell me Adrian would be sharing a bathroom when I rang this morning. In fact I’d made a point of requesting an en-suite. This is not my idea of an en-suite.
As we’re all hungry and there’s nothing on offer at St Vincent’s except sandwiches, we decide to go to a pub Adrian noticed at the end of the road as we drove up through the village. When we’re back in the car he thanks us for all we have done today. We both eschew his thanks. It doesn’t feel like we’ve done much.
The Woodman is dirty and reminds me of the pubs in the Essex countryside in the early seventies. At the side of the bar is a grotty looking sink with an even grottier looking draining board where glasses are drying upside down. This means the rims of the glasses are not in any way, clean. How did this place get past health and safety inspectors?
A woman, who’d given us directions half an hour ago, is sitting at the bar, and asks if we found St Vincent’s. She tells me she used to work there – for seventeen years. But she left when the present matron arrived.
‘The matron there now brought cheap labour in and standards went down.’ She keeps looking at Adrian while she’s speaking. ‘St Vincent’s isn’t the right place for someone like him.’ She tells me about another home, Robins House, where she, and her mother, now work. I decide to investigate Robins House tomorrow.
Meanwhile Adrian is struggling to exist in the outside world. He disappears to the Gents for a good fifteen minutes. When he comes back he says he’s lost his wallet. Like other things, (Phils, Caroles), he has two wallets, a brown one and a black one, and has lost the black one in the loo. Peter manages to find it while Adrian and I stand at the bar. I can tell he’s not happy with the idea of St Vincent’s. So much was riding on today – too much. I have let him down big time. He orders a glass of wine and sinks a pint of beer and then the whole glass of wine in one. He begins talking about Mum.
‘Since all this began,’ he says, patting his chest. ‘Since I’ve had this illness, I’ve been thinking about Mum a lot. Just little things like how she found it so hard getting in and out of cars when she was really elderly…’
I don’t want to join in this conversation even though I know I will regret this later as we’ve never really talked about Mum since she died. I’m just too exhausted to begin another journey down another emotional road.
Instead I say, ‘Do you mean, before she died?’ which, on reflection, is an absurd comment since she didn’t climb into many cars afterwards.
All the same he answers, ‘Yes.’ But I can’t pursue this. After the drink, having discovered there is nowhere we can get anything to eat (I resort to ordering a packet of pork scratchings) we drive back to St Vincent’s.
‘I’ll call in tomorrow and we’ll find somewhere better for you to stay,’ I say, trying to deflect from the let-down of this place. ‘Either here, Dorset or Robins House or Higham Lodge…’ which was another home I found on the net. We are back in his bedroom and Adrian phones Phil G to tell him he’s arrived in Somerset.
Peter and I drive away in the dark of the summer country night. We’ve kept the Picasso in the car – a symbol of the fact that Adrian will not be staying at St Vincent’s. I’ll sort it all out tomorrow. Find somewhere more suitable. Tomorrow is another day. I’m beginning to feel like Scarlett O’Hara again.
Friday 20th July 2007
How could I have begun to imagine yesterday what today had in store?
This morning I am on a mission. I must find somewhere for Adrian to stay other than St Vincent’s. The rain pours and the streets are literally flooded as I head for Robins House to see if they will take him.
Robins House turns out to be a Regency town dwelling. Jane Austen or any of her middle-class characters would certainly have been at home here. I’m tempted to leave my calling card on a plate in the hallway – well, I’m not really – and actually I don’t have one – but it’s that sort of place. I’m greeted by a nurse and invited to wait in a drawing room where I am served decaf coffee in a cup and saucer with three different types of biscuit arranged in a semi-circle on a plate.
As I nibble around the edges of a Garibaldi I notice a group of people sitting in the opposite corner of the room. An elderly lady, who I take to be a resident, a younger woman – her daughter? – and two men, both dressed like undertakers. From ear-wigging their conversation I gather the men are probably financial advisers. The two men and the daughter are discussing the fees in the home, the old lady’s funds and her fiscal situation. However, none of them makes any attempt to include her in the chat. She looks a game old bird. Determined not to be brushed aside, she keeps chipping in with phrases like ‘the fees here went up five per cent last year’, and ‘I’ve been here since the 19th of January 2004’.
I guess she’s running out of cash. Maybe she’s hung on longer than expected. But why don’t the others take any notice of her? From the way she’s talking I imagine she may have been an accountant in her day. She’s getting on a bit but she’s very hot on percentages – and has a huge head of curly hair. A wig, though. Almost a hundred per cent certainty a wig.
The manager arrives.
I’m led to the available bedroom – a largish bed-sitting room (complete with en-suite) on the ground floor with French windows leading out to a flower-filled garden. The room is newly decorated with luxurious armchair and decent-sized television. The place has a good feeling about it and I immediately want it for Adrian. But as I talk to Rose, the manager, she wonders about the home’s suitability for my brother, as Robins House is a residential home and not a nursing home. When she asks me what exactly is wrong with him I begin the now familiar list; lung cancer, cancer of the liver, kidney and pancreas, and heart problems… I wobble a bit here and she offers me a tissue.
‘Poor man,’ she says. She points me in the direction of Higham Lodge, which she feels may be more suitable for his needs.
*
Higham Lodge is a huge detached residence which, in contrast to Robins House, looks more Bates Motel than Jane Austen. The gothic style building is located, unexpectedly, in the middle of a new housing estate. The car park is full and I’m already frustrated by the time I get to the reception desk, having been forced to abandon my car in a puddle at the side of an unmade road. There’s no one on the desk, but it is lunchtime. A woman, with her elderly mother in a wheelchair, stands near the entrance. The mother who has a small pinched up bird face screeches like a parrot every few minutes. There’s no way I’d inflict this place on my ailing brother.
All the same, I’ve come this far and so continue to wait at the reception, deciding to keep an open mind. From the desk I can see the dining room where some residents are waiting for lunch. A man with wild white hair, strapped into a high backed wheelchair contraption (bringing Hannibal Lecter to mind) who is staring with crazy eyes at nothing. A painfully thin woman sitting in her place at a dining table, shaking. A sweet little old lady, neat and tidy sitting primly at another table, who looks fine, but I know from past experience when my mother stayed in homes like these she’ll most likely be in a world of her own, waiting for the maid to serve her from the silver service and then to be whisked off to a tea dance with Fred Astaire.
The most disturbing thing about these places is the thought of ending up somewhere like this oneself, although apparently only one in ten people do. I make a mental note to inform my children on no account are they ever to put me into any kind of old folks’ home. Shoot me or administer poison preferably.
A woman arrives to give me the guided tour. Everything about Higham Lodge would be fine and dandy if the date was 1943. But it’s 2007. The rooms are depressingly dingy with central ceiling lights, heavy old mahogany furniture, small windows and tired décor.
‘I won’t waste your time any more,’ I say after viewing room number four. ‘I think it’s all a bit old for my brother. He’s only fifty-six.’
As we walk back to the main reception area I notice the dining room has gained another lady resident, one of those really cheery types who call out to everyone and everything.
‘Hello!’ she trills as we pass.
‘Hello!’ the manager and I both call back. Still no sign of any food on the table, though. My mother once told me she was served with bread and butter for every meal in one of the homes she was in, and that was with fees of three hundred pounds a week. As a relative I was always wary of complaining about these things in case the staff took it out on my mum.
*
Armed with directions to St Vincent’s I leave, at the same time hatching a plan to persuade the manager at Robins House to take Adrian there.
I arrive at St Vincent’s just after two. My first visit in daylight. I realise how impressive this house is. As I wait in a vestibule which has wide curved windows, a visitors’ book and a telephone, I can see through some glass doors into the main hallway which is home to a sweeping staircase reminiscent of the one in Tara in Gone With The Wind, and with ceilings so high they’re almost beyond view. A Del Boy chandelier hangs to the right of the staircase. The hallway is tastefully decorated with fresh flower arrangements in every available space.
I wait in the vestibule, ringing the bell for several minutes before a woman appears. I ask whether I can let myself in in future as I notice the entry phone on the main door has a coded door knob.
‘Goodness me, no,’ she replies. ‘Even the staff don’t have access to the code.’
So this is Matron, who sounded really nice and keen to be of service when we spoke on the phone, but who I’ve already gone off slightly since my meeting with the woman in the pub last night. She certainly isn’t as I’d expected. She’s less engaging and a wee bit intimidating. In her forties, or possibly older, her greying hair is cut in the style of a man, she wears half-moon glasses and a navy skirt which is a tad too short for her milk-bottle knees.
‘Mrs Clink, I’d like to talk to you,’ she says peering over the specs. We enter her office, a room the size of a small billiard hall. Now I know how Matilda felt when confronted by Miss Trunchbull. I glance around the room half expecting to see canes arranged in order of size on the walls.
I’ve been rehearsing my speech for this meeting all day. Considering I am on tricky ground, having booked Adrian in here only to immediately arrange his removal, I feel nervous. My plan is to be straightforward. No messing. I’ll admit Adrian doesn’t wish to stay here and express my dissatisfaction with his bathroom arrangements.
However, I don’t say any of this. Instead Matron calls the shots. She sits down, clears her throat and asks me what is wrong with Adrian. Yet again I trawl through his list of ailments. Cancer of the lungs, kidneys, liver and pancreas, and heart disease.
‘What about the diarrhoea?’ she asks. The way she puts this question is accusatory. I feel increasingly uncomfortable. I remember him having a bad stomach, but it wasn’t something I’d considered worth mentioning. In view of his other woes, an upset stomach seemed insignificant.
‘I thought his tummy bug had cleared up,’ I reply. ‘I’m sure the hospital said it was gone…’ I mumble, trying to remember exactly what they did say.
‘Well the hospital shouldn’t have discharged him and if we’d known your brother had this bug we certainly wouldn’t have agreed to have him here. We only took him because Aniela, who was on duty last night, is Polish and she didn’t understand the abbreviation ‘C.diff’ which was written in the hospital transfer notes. English is her second language. Although she is properly trained and a very good nurse, she wasn’t familiar with this particular abbreviation. If she’d understood what it meant she would certainly not have let him in.’
Suddenly in a bizarre U-turn I feel supremely grateful Adrian was allowed to stay here last night. I thank God for the twist of fate that meant Aniela was on duty. Matron goes on to explain that the infection which kept my brother in isolation in St George’s is one of the most lethal superbugs.
So this is why the hospital was so upset when he went AWOL, and also probably the reason they were so keen to get rid of him. On top of everything else, my brother has contracted some horrendous hospital superbug. My heart sinks to an even lower place than it has sunk on many occasions during the past weeks.
‘I’ve already rung St George’s and given them an earful,’ Matron goes on. ‘And to be perfectly honest, I’m surprised the C.diff hasn’t killed him. He’ll have to move to a different room. He can’t possibly share a bathroom with Mrs Jackobson. If this spreads to any of the older residents it could wipe them out.’
‘What exactly is this C.diff?’ I ask her. ‘I’ve never heard of it before.’
‘It’s like MRSA but causes violent diarrhoea. It’s very dangerous. In his condition I’m surprised it hasn’t killed him. He’s already living on borrowed time.’
Okay, she’s said this twice now. I get the picture.
*
Matron produces a form from her desk drawer and asks more questions. She broaches the uncomfortable subject of resuscitation. I remember this coming up with Mum. If anything happens, do I want my brother to be resuscitated? Of course my initial response is ‘yes’. Obviously. I mean, she is as
king if this person I’m related to and love very much has a heart attack, do I want them brought back to life? The answer is straightforward. Yes, of course I do. But it’s not as simple as it might seem. When I had to make this decision for Mum, I was told the process of resuscitation usually means force i.e. breaking ribs, often causes a delay in oxygen reaching the brain, and can leave the patient in a vegetative state. Would I want my brother to go through this? Thanks, but no thanks.
Matron carries on with her list. Is she enjoying herself? Or is it revenge for lumbering her with a new inmate who’s carrying a deadly superbug?
‘Of course his heart is weak and if his kidney is impaired too then this could lead to heart failure or heart attack.’
‘Aren’t they the same thing?’ I venture.
‘No, not at all…’
She launches into a lecture on the difference between heart failure and heart attack but I’ve stopped listening, because I can’t stop thinking. I’m overwhelmed by this new information about the C.diff. This explains a few things – why Adrian was in the loo for such a long time when we were in the pub yesterday evening, and why he was in a private room in St George’s which I’d naively imagined was for his own safety to keep him away from infection. How ignorant I’ve been, and how uninformative St George’s Hospital in Tooting.
‘I’ve been wondering,’ I tell her when she’s finished her lecture on the possible malfunctions of my brother’s heart. ‘I’ve been wondering about my holidays, and whether we ought to go to Portugal or cancel.’
‘Would you like me to ask him?’ She says this in the same business-like tone.
‘Yes, please!’
Despite her lack of compassion I feel as if a weight has been lifted from my shoulders.