Before I make my escape I’m required to read and sign a couple of forms. I duly oblige and, with my fate sealed, stand to leave.
“Oh, and one final thing, Toby.”
“Yes?”
“Try to approach this with an open mind and a pinch of positivity. I can’t promise you’ll enjoy it, but with the right attitude you might actually get something worthwhile from the experience.”
“Alright. I’ll try.”
But not very hard.
8.
At infant school we used to sing hymns during the morning assembly. The religious connotations were wasted on me, but I enjoyed the singing. I particularly liked one hymn, Sing Hosanna, and recall the third verse mentioning joy a lot. Even at such a young age, I knew what joy felt like because life as a child is littered with moments of joy: waking up on Christmas Day, unwrapping birthday presents, returning from the newsagents with a paper bag full of sweets, watching cartoons, scoring a goal in a playground football match. Life had so much joy back then.
As I got older and the joyous moments became less frequent, I wondered if we are born with a finite amount of joy. We seem to use an awful lot during childhood and maybe that’s why those moments become so scarce during adulthood. To test my theory, I nipped into our local newsagent a few years back and purchased a paper bag full of the same sweets I loved as a child: cola bottles, jazzies, flying saucers, and pink shrimps. I can still recall the disappointment as I sucked dispassionately on a Swizzels Drumstick. The joy had gone.
There is, however, one moment of joy which has not left — that moment when you awake to the prospect of another day at work, and then realise it’s the weekend and you can stay cocooned in your duvet for another hour or two.
This morning I’ve been robbed of even that small pleasure.
I silence the alarm on my phone and clamber out of bed.
“Give me joy in my heart,” I grumble. “Just a tiny bit, please.”
I’m expected at the Trinity Place Nursing Home at nine sharp as I’ve committed to ten-hour days rather than the six hours I’m obliged to work each week. As much as I’m dreading the prospect of ten straight hours surrounded by the old and the infirm, the extended working day means l only lose six Saturdays rather than ten. It also means I’ll be free from this hell by early March.
Guessing there’s no dress code, I shower and get dressed in jeans and a hoodie. A bowl of cereal and I’m out of the door.
In an exercise akin to shopping for your own gravestone, I spent a half-hour last night researching my temporary workplace. It’s only a ten minute drive away, but sufficient time to recall what I’m letting myself in for. Trinity Place is home to elderly residents who require varying levels of care. In amongst the various conditions they cater for, such as dementia and physical disability, I noticed the term ‘end-of-life care’. If there is a more depressing term in the English language, I've yet to hear it.
At precisely three minutes to nine I turn into Weydon Street. I slow to a crawl as I approach a weather-beaten sign which confirms I have arrived at my destination. The stark building beyond the sign looks as if it were designed by an eight-year-old child rather than an architect; blocky and featureless.
I pull into the car park and locate a space. Switching the engine off, the temperature in the car falls and I consider whether staying put and enduring hypothermia would be preferable to whatever lies ahead. If only I didn’t need a piss.
I exit the car and, after a fifty yard trudge, step through the doors of Trinity Lodge. The warmth is welcome; the strange odour less so. I can’t place it but I’d imagine a breakfast of boiled cabbage and Weetabix would create a similar hum.
Somewhere in my coat I have a letter from the Probation Service which I’m supposed to hand in to the member of staff whose name I’ve forgotten. I stand and search my pockets until the receptionist enquires about my reason for being there.
“Are you looking for someone, sir?”
“Yes, I have a letter somewhere with their name on it.”
I finally locate said letter and open it up.
“I’m looking for … Tambara Akintola. He’s expecting me.”
“She’s expecting you?”
“Oh, right.”
“I’ll call her down.”
The receptionist picks up a phone and taps a number. After the briefest of conversations she tells me to take a seat — Tambara Akintola will be down soon.
Content to spend the whole day on a plastic chair, I settle down and wait. Two minutes later I hear laughter echo from one of the corridors — not a chuckle or a snigger, but a booming belly laugh loud enough to move furniture. It’s followed by the squeak of rubber-soled shoes on tiles; growing louder until a woman who might not be a woman emerges into the reception area.
Holy fuck!
Decked in a uniform of dark blue trousers and tunic, the woman looks at the receptionist, and she nods in my direction. The woman — who I fear is Tambara Akintola — then strides over as I get to my feet. As she nears, eye contact requires an upward glance.
“You must be Toby Grant?”
“Um, yes.”
She thrusts a hand in my direction.
“I’m Tambara Akintola, but you can call me Tammy.”
Notwithstanding the excessive volume, her bizarre accent suggests Tammy has led a nomadic life. There’s definitely a West Midlands lilt but it’s tempered by the tone of a South London council estate. And announcing her name exposed a distinct Nigerian twang.
I accept the handshake.
“It’s nice to meet you, Tammy.”
“Do not be so sure,” she replies sternly.
An inch or two over six feet and built like an Amazonian Warrior, I don’t doubt Tammy could bust me up without breaking a sweat.
“Pardon?” I gulp.
“You’ve been a bad boy, haven’t you?” she chides, stepping uncomfortably close. ”It is my job to make you or break you.”
If Tammy’s size isn’t terrifying enough, her face is the thing of nightmares: taut ebony skin, eyes like a bull shark, and bright red lipstick. I assume it’s lipstick but the shade of red is close to that of fresh blood.
“I … err.”
Suddenly a set of brilliant white teeth appear, followed by the same bellowing laughter I heard in the corridor. I remain rooted to the spot while Tammy works through her hysteria.
“Oh, boy,” she chortles. “I’m just messing with you.”
“Ah, you got me,” I chuckle nervously.
Her stern face returns.
“But just to be clear: you’re here to help, not hinder. I don’t have the time or patience to be dealing with feckless wasters looking for an easy ride. Understood?”
I nod.
“Good. Follow me.”
Trying to keep pace with her long strides, I follow Tammy through a door and up a flight of stairs. A stretch of corridor later, we arrive at an office I presume is hers.
“Sit down,” she orders.
I comply and pull up a chair in front of the desk.
Tammy then opens a cupboard at the far side of the room and searches the shelves.
“Here we go,” she says to herself before turning to face me. “Put these on.”
Two navy blue garments are thrown in my direction. I untangle the trousers and tunic.
“I have to wear a uniform?”
“First rule, Toby: do as I ask.”
“Right, um, where shall I change?”
“Just change here,” she replies matter-of-factly; taking a seat behind the desk.
“I wouldn’t mind a bit of privacy.”
“And I wouldn’t mind a date with George Clooney. Seems we're both out of luck.”
“But …”
“I’ve raised four sons so I’ve seen it all before. Now, get changed … or would you like me to do it for you?”
“I’ll get changed.”
To protect some modicum of modesty I turn around and pull off my hoodie.
Thankfully, I layered up this morning so I’m able to slip the tunic over my t-shirt without exposing any pasty parts of my anatomy. Worse is to come though.
“Chop, chop,” Tammy snaps. “We’ve got a lot to do this morning.”
If I’d known about the uniform, I wouldn’t have donned my skinniest of jeans. It takes almost a minute to peel them off and I lose both socks in the process. Panic mounts but I eventually tug the polyester trousers on. I return to the chair and reinstate my trainers.
“Very smart,” Tammy remarks. “Let’s get on.”
I’ve barely tied my laces when I’m ushered out of the office.
“I’ll show you around and then we can work out what we’re going to do with you. Okay?”
“Err, okay.”
And so begins a whistle-stop tour of Trinity Place. The first port of call is a large, square lounge with wingback chairs lined up around the perimeter. A handful of residents are already settled in for the day; either napping or dead. Next up I’m shown the dining room and kitchen. The dining room is busier than the lounge but I wouldn’t call it a hive of activity. It’s also ground zero for the cabbagey Weetabix odour. Finally, I get to see a few of the residents’ rooms.
Rapping her knuckles on a random door, Tammy then bursts into the room without waiting for an invitation. I’m ushered in.
“Hello, Miriam,” she bellows. “How are you this fine morning?”
A tiny, white-haired woman looks up from her chair and smiles.
“Not too bad, my dear.”
The frail voice matches her physical appearance.
“This is Toby. He’s going to be working here for a while so I thought we’d drop by and say hello.”
I wave at Miriam but I’m not sure she notices.
“Say hello,” Tammy orders. “Her eyesight isn’t great.”
“Oh, um, good morning, Miriam.”
“Good morning, dear. Are you enjoying it so far?”
A firm glare from Tammy confirms I should answer in the affirmative.
“Yes, thank you.”
“That’s lovely to hear.”
Tammy then strides over to Miriam’s chair and kneels down by her side. The two women talk in hushed tones; quite an achievement for Tammy. Whatever is being said, it isn’t for my ears so all I can do is gaze around the room — not that there’s much of it to gaze at. It reminds me of a budget hotel; dull, functional furniture, and walls the colour of watered-down custard. Considering incontinence must be rife amongst the residents, it’s no surprise the floor is covered with dark brown carpet tiles. Ugly, but easy to clean and capable of disguising almost any stain.
It’s not a room you’d call cheerful. In fact, it's probably a fair visual representation of my mind.
Tammy stands, tells Miriam she’ll be back later, and then shoos me back out the door.
“We have to check in on the residents every two hours,” she confirms. “I’ll introduce you to them all and maybe you can do the rounds later. You seem like a nice enough boy and capable of ticking boxes on a form.”
Considering some of the awful tasks I’ve imagined over the last few days, I’ll take a day of knocking on doors.
For the next hour I’m introduced to the residents of Trinity Place. Most of them are polite, some bewildered, and a few no longer interested in remaining alive; let alone chatting to a random stranger in an ill-fitting uniform. Tammy provides concise instructions what I’m to do if any resident requests assistance or I encounter any emergencies. Every room has a pull cord next to the bed, and each resident is furnished with a small paging device they keep on them — both will summon a trained member of staff if the resident needs urgent help. I’m instructed to use either if the situation warrants it.
As we reach the final stretch of corridor, Tammy poses a question.
“Tell me then: what did you do to end up here?”
“The Probation Service didn’t tell you?”
“Nope. I’m sure someone here knows but they don’t tell us. We’re just the saps who have to put up with you.”
“Oh.”
“Well?”
“Am I obliged to tell you?”
“No, but I’m not obliged to make your life easy. It’s freezing outside and the car park needs sweeping.”
“Point taken,” I sigh. “They found me guilty of outraging public decency.”
“What does that mean?”
“You really don’t want to know.”
Tammy comes to an abrupt halt and places a firm hand on my shoulder.
“If I’m working with some kind of pervert then yes, I do want to know.”
“Christ, I’m not a pervert. I, err …”
Besides offering a few sketchy details to Danny, I’ve so far avoided telling anyone about what happened that evening in the park. I’d like it to remain that way but Tammy doesn’t appear the type to take no for an answer.
“Spit it out.”
Reluctantly, I explain the events which led me here. As I wrap up the sorry tale, Tammy’s expression rests in an indecipherable frown, as she processes my confession. She might be wondering how I could be treated so harshly, or she might be planning to throw my perverted arse out of the nearest window — I really can’t tell.
“You had a conversation with a policewoman?” she then asks. “With your pecker hanging in the wind?”
“I’m afraid so.”
Her balloon-like breasts begin to heave. The now-familiar belly laugh soon follows.
“Oh, my life,” she cries. “Sorry, but that’s hilarious.”
I shuffle on the spot as Tammy bawls with laughter. It takes a full minute before her composure returns.
“Oh, Toby. You’ve made my day.”
“I’m so glad you find it amusing,” I strop.
“Now, hush with the sulking. Can’t you see the funny side?”
I can’t, and my face says as much.
Still chuckling to herself, Tammy continues along the corridor; coming to a stop outside the final door. I catch up just as she turns to face me — all traces of her previous merriment absent.
“This is the final resident,” she says, knocking on the door.
I step forward, expecting her to enter. This time she stays put and waits.
“You never enter this room without seeking permission,” she confirms, in a low voice. “Clear?”
“Yes, but why?”
“You’ll see.”
A gruff voice barks a response from the other side of the door. A single word: what?
“May we come in?”
Much swearing ensues, but the voice confirms we can enter.
Tammy puffs her cheeks and looks to the heavens.
“Give me strength, Lord.”
“What’s the problem?” I ask.
“Vernon Kirby,” she sighs. "That’s the problem.”
9.
Like a zoo keeper about to enter a bear enclosure, Tammy nudges the door ajar with a degree of trepidation. Poking her head in, her shoulders slump before she finally steps inside.
Curious what could have unsettled such a fearsome woman, I follow close behind.
At first glance, the room is exactly the same as the twenty-odd other rooms I’ve visited this morning. The one key difference is the figure hunched on the floor at the end of the bed.
He looks up.
My first impression of the man I assume to be Vernon Kirby is he should probably be kept in a cage. Dressed in a grubby white vest, jogging pants, and slippers, he’s the closest thing I’ve ever seen to a feral pensioner.
“Don’t just fuckin’ stand there, woman,” he snarls. “Help me up.”
Tammy calmly steps forward and takes hold of Vernon Kirby by the arm. She helps him to his feet and once steady, the old man snatches his arm away. He then shuffles towards the bed and sits down on the edge.
“Are you okay, Vernon?” Tammy asks.
“You’ve done your bit, now piss off.”
“There’s no
need for profanity. I’ve brought someone to meet you.”
He turns his head and looks up at me. It takes an effort not to recoil at the sight of his gaunt, ghostly white face; framed with lank, collar-length silver hair.
“Who the hell are you?”
“I’m Toby. I’ll be helping here for a while.”
“You can help by fetching me a bottle of single malt.”
Tammy rolls her eyes.
“You should know the rules by now, Vernon. No alcohol.”
“Then you’re no fuckin’ use to me. Get out.”
Ten seconds later, Tammy and I are back in the corridor.
“He’s a ray of sunshine,” I remark as we walk.
“You’ll get used to him.”
“Is he always like that?”
“No … today is a good day. Let’s just say Vernon Kirby is a complex character.”
“Why do you put up with him?”
“What else are we supposed to do? He’s suffering from Parkinson's disease so we can’t exactly throw him out.”
“What’s Parkinson's disease?”
“It’s a degenerative disorder of the central nervous system. You probably noticed his hands shaking and his movements were particularly stiff — both classic symptoms of Parkinson’s.”
“That’s awful, obviously, but surely no excuse for his behaviour. Can’t you have a word with his family?”
“We would if he had any family. He’s been here three years and not received a single visitor in all that time.”
I can’t say I’m surprised. Who’d want to visit such a venomous old git?
We reach Tammy’s office and I’m told to take a seat again. I’m then handed a raft of health and safety forms to complete while Tammy heads off to deal with more important matters. Twenty minutes and six forms later, I’m done.
With nothing else better to do while I wait, I pull out my phone and open the Facebook app. My news feed is littered with positive posts from people enjoying their Saturday morning or bragging about plans they have for the day ahead. I scroll through the posts for a few minutes until envy gets the better of me.
Tammy bustles back in.
“That should be switched off. Staff aren’t permitted to use mobile phones during work hours.”
Tuned Out Page 7
