Tread Softly (9 page)

The lift doors clattered open and she was trundled down a passageway past rows of numbered doors.

‘This is it, Mrs Pearson.'

Kathy had stopped at number thirteen. No wonder the room was free – thirteen was a death warrant.

‘The house is very old, so we don't have bathrooms en suite. There's a toilet just round the corner.'

‘But I … I'm not meant to walk. Not for another fortnight, the surgeon said.'

‘Oh, it isn't far. But we can bring you a bedpan, of course, if you prefer.'

‘No, I'll manage, thank you.' She'd had enough of bedpans. While her foot was infected they hadn't allowed her out of bed at all, and since the antibiotics had upset her bowels and stomach the humiliation had been total.

Kathy wheeled her into the room, which was dark and low-ceilinged and looked out over the dustbins at the back. No thick-pile carpet or poppy-fields. The floor was covered with a scruffy sort of matting, and the only art on the walls was a tasteful gouge in the plaster, surrounded by a collage of dirty marks. Lorna did her best to ignore the smell of urine (stronger even than downstairs). She had a bed, a chair, a wardrobe, a small table and a television. What more could anyone want? Well, an escape-ladder might come in handy.

Kathy helped her into the chair, placed the crutches beside her, and showed her where the call-bell was. ‘Just press this if you need anything. Sister Joyce is the nurse in charge of this floor and she'll be along to take your details. I wish I could do it myself, but I'm afraid I have to rush off. I've left a new care assistant bathing a patient, and I'd better make sure she's coping. We're terribly short-staffed.'

‘Oh … right. Thank you.' Lorna was sorry to see her go. Left alone she might succumb to the Terrors (although, incredibly, the Monster hadn't yet pursued her here).

Should she undress? she wondered. It had been difficult enough putting her clothes on; taking them off again might be worse. One leg of her tights hadn't fitted over the bandage and so was wound around her middle. The bare leg was cold and the room itself distinctly on the chilly side. She levered herself up, using her crutches to hobble over to the radiator. Barely tepid. Ah well, too much heat was bad for the complexion.

While she was on her feet (foot), she decided to unpack, knowing she would feel less desolate with familiar things around her. Unpacking wasn't easy, though. You couldn't carry much on crutches, and there were no hangers in the wardrobe and only one tiny drawer, which jammed. She laid Ralph's gold-and-diamond bracelet in the drawer. She couldn't fasten the fiddly clasp single-handed, and the staff hadn't time to be helping her put on jewellery, with emergencies on all sides. The gift still meant a lot, though. Ralph seldom gave her presents and when he did they tended to be uninspiring things he wanted himself, such as a steering-lock or an automatic video rewinder. But the bracelet was truly special, as was her wedding-ring – Victorian rose-gold, engraved inside ‘For Ever'. Ralph was a romantic at heart, but he hid his feelings for fear of seeming vulnerable.

There was certainly nothing romantic about the new nightdress he'd bought her for the nursing-home: a brushed-nylon affair (spin-sterishly high-necked and long-sleeved) in a shade between mould and mushy pea. She stuffed it into the bottom of the wardrobe and collapsed, exhausted, into the chair. Mr Hughes had told her to keep her foot up on two pillows, but she hadn't the energy to get up again and fetch them – if indeed there were any. The bed looked worryingly flat. At least the TV remote-control was within reach, so she switched from channel to channel in search of some distraction. It was shameful to admit, but even earth-shaking events failed to make much impact at the moment. Pain turned you into a cretin, too fixated on your malfunctioning body to take an interest in the wider world. Her back still hurt as much as her foot. The X-rays had revealed degenerative changes in the vertebral bodies, with some loss of disc space – whatever
that
was supposed to mean. All she had really gathered was that she was degenerating. Fast.

There was a knock at the door. ‘Mrs Paterson?'

‘Mrs
Pearson
.'

‘Hi! I'm Sharon.' A small blonde girl appeared, looking about thirteen-and-a-half and wearing a gingham overall with a name-badge saying, ‘Valerie'. There seemed to be some confusion regarding names.

‘I've brought your tea. I hope you don't take sugar. We've run out.'

Running out of staples like sugar didn't augur well. Still, there were worse tragedies in life than unsugared tea. She took the plastic beaker, which had a slight greasy scum on top. No flower-sprigged cups and saucers as in the hospital, although there was a biscuit to go with it: a custard cream (minus its top layer).

‘Anything else you want?'

‘I'd love a cushion for my back. It's hurting.'

‘Mine too. It's agony! And my feet are killing me. I've been on duty twelve hours and there's no chance of going home yet, not with new admissions.'

‘Look, don't worry about the cushion if you're busy.'

‘Sure?'

‘Yes.'

‘By the way, what d'you want for your tea?'

‘Isn't
this
tea?'

‘No, I mean the evening meal. It's served at five, so the kitchen staff can get off.'

‘Oh … What is there?'

‘It's sausage rolls or sandwiches tonight.'

‘Um, sandwiches.'

‘Ham, cheese, Marmite or sardine.'

‘Sardine, please.' At the Princess Royal the sardines had been fresh, grilled with basil and oregano. Not that she'd eaten more than a mouthful. A waste, she realized now, to lose her appetite when four-star food was on the menu. Here the only menu was Sharon's sing-song recitation.

‘And afters is stewed prunes or tapioca.'

‘I, er, think I'll pass on afters.'

‘Pardon?'

‘No pudding, thanks.'

‘Please yourself. Will you be coming to the dining-room?'

‘Do we have to? I'm not feeling all that brilliant.'

‘Matron does prefer it. It's less work, you see. We haven't time to be lugging trays around, except for them that
can't
move.'

‘Could you let me off just once, seeing as it's my first day?'

‘OK, Mrs Paterson.'

‘Pearson.'

‘What?'

‘Oh, nothing. Look, before you go could you wheel me to a phone? I've got to ring my husband.'

‘We don't have phones – not public ones.'

‘Well, is there any way I could order one for my room? I'll happily pay extra.'

‘You'd need to arrange it yourself – you know, get on to BT or …'

‘Without a phone I can't get on to anyone.'

Sharon laughed. ‘Yeah. True.'

‘Look, could you ask Sister if I can use the nursing-home phone? My husband's not well and –'

‘Got this awful flu, has he? They're dropping like flies here. We had two deaths only yesterday.'

Lorna swallowed. Ralph might die, alone and unattended. It was a particularly virulent strain of flu that had more or less prostrated him and was in fact the reason she was here. With a high temperature and a streaming cold he could hardly look after an incapacitated wife. Although, when Nurse Ingrid had suggested a nursing-home, Lorna had imagined a cross between a health farm and a hospital, with patients of all ages, not a geriatric waiting-room for Death. Still, she was lucky to have found a place anywhere, especially one in Woking, only five minutes' drive from home. The first half-dozen establishments they'd phoned had no vacancies at all. Sickness and old age were clearly growth industries – and jolly profitable too, judging by the fees. Fortunately BUPA had agreed to pay, otherwise she and Ralph would have landed in the bankruptcy court.

‘Sharon, you won't forget to ask Sister about the phone. Tell her it's urgent, will you?'

‘If I see her, yes. Must fly, Mrs Paterson!'

This time Lorna didn't correct her. There was something to be said for being Mrs Paterson: then she wouldn't have to worry about Ralph. Unlike her, he had no one to wait on him, no one to stew him prunes or make him sardine sandwiches. At this very moment he might be suffering dehydration, too feverish even to fetch himself a drink.

‘No, I
won't
go!' yelled a strident female voice. ‘I'm not budging and that's that.'

‘But, Mother, it's all arranged.' A male voice now, also unnaturally loud.

‘Well, you can
un
arrange it.'

‘I can't. Fay will be frightfully upset. She's –'

‘Bugger Fay!'

A door opened and then slammed.

Lorna shifted uneasily in her chair. Her neighbour, by the sounds of it. She could hear the two voices through the wall, the mother deaf to the son's pleading – and literally deaf, judging by the way he had to shout.

‘I'm
not
being pig-headed, Mother. You can't disrupt everything just because …'

Eavesdropping on a family row was not a pleasant pastime. But Lorna had no alternative – unless she perished from cold in the next few minutes, which did seem increasingly probable. She had forgotten to ask Sharon about the radiator, and the room must have been sub-zero. She dragged herself up once more, hopped over to the bed, heaved the blankets off it and hauled them back to her chair. Bundling them round her as best she could, she sat staring at the window. Dusk was falling and the dwindling light was the colour of bonfire ash. According to the calendar, yesterday had been the shortest day. Strange that today should feel the longest.

She winced as a string of expletives reached her through the wall. Was it just the television, now blaring out with a rival shouting-match, or was the woman next door about to murder her son?

Then all at once an uncanny silence descended. Lorna could almost see the corpse lying bleeding on the floor, the deaf and doddery murderess staring aghast at her lifeless offspring.

‘I was
watching
that programme, John, I'll have you know. Will you kindly turn it on again.'

‘No. It's tea-time, Mother. I'll take you down.'

‘I don't want tea. It's muck they give us. Anyway, I'm not ready.'

‘Yes you are. You only came up here to fetch your teeth.'

After further protracted argument the door finally opened and shut and the voices faded to a murmur along the passage.

Within minutes there was more disturbance: Sharon and some other girl bickering outside.

‘It's not my turn – it's yours.'

‘I did it yesterday. And the day before.'

‘Poor diddums!'

‘Oh, shut your face!'

Lorna's door crashed open and Sharon stormed in, red-eyed. ‘I'm giving notice,' she announced, slapping a tray down on the table.

‘Oh dear. What's wrong?'

‘If I told you, you wouldn't believe the half of it.'

‘It can't be that bad, surely.'

‘
You
try working here. It's living hell. They never give you a break. I'm on all Christmas Day. And Boxing Day. And –'

‘Look, sit down and –'

‘No, they'll kill me if I stop. I'm way behind as it is. Good grief! What's happened to your bed? I only made that an hour ago.'

‘It's OK. I'll put it straight. But could you please do something about the radiator. It seems to have …'

Too late. She'd gone, banging out in a whirlwind of further complaint. Lorna felt
she
ought to take the trays round and let Sharon have her bed, as the girl was so distraught. A waitress on crutches would be a novelty, at any rate – a much-needed diversion in this forbidding place.

For the first time she looked at her tray. They had given her the tapioca she'd said she didn't want, although perhaps it was just as well, since the sandwiches were minuscule. She balanced the plate on her knee and took a bite of one, gagging on something slimy. Pulling the bread apart, she discovered not sardines but a large piece of white ham-fat, smeared with margarine. Was this someone else's tea, or had they run out of sardines as well as sugar? No point summoning Sharon – she would have a nervous breakdown on the spot. Best to leave the fat for the birds, if any, and eat the bread on its own.

Which took precisely three minutes. The bread seemed flavoured with urine, but maybe she was muddling taste and smell. The smell was strongest in the chair – the previous occupant must have had an accident. But at least the chair wasn't wet: another blessing to be counted.

Next she tackled the pudding – or tried to. They had forgotten to give her a spoon, so she struggled to her feet again and rummaged through her sponge-bag to find a suitable alternative. But neither comb, nail-file, nor toothbrush handle proved particularly efficacious in transferring glutinous tapioca from the bowl to her mouth. Having spilled some on her lap (and on to the blankets she would be sleeping under tonight), she abandoned the whole exercise. She disliked tapioca anyway, especially lukewarm and unsugared. The tea was also sugarless, of course, but she drank it gratefully in the hope it might warm her up.

Supper over, she ventured out on her crutches to the toilet, surprised to see that most of the doors along the corridor were open. Was it to make the patients feel less isolated, or for the benefit of the staff? Curiosity overcame good manners and she couldn't help glancing into the rooms. They were much the same as hers: small and cramped, with little in the way of a view. Each bed held a body, lying comatose. Were they already dead, and Sharon too busy to remove the corpses? The televisions shrilled on regardless – tuned to the same programme in every room:
Wheel of Fortune
.

Turning the corner, she all but collided with a nurse.

‘Hello, dear. You must be the new arrival. I'm Sister Joyce.'

‘Oh, how d'you do?'