‘Why did you put this up on the board?’ he fumed, closing the office door sharply and waving my notice about laundry procedure in the air.
‘People were putting things in the wrong colour bags,’ I answered, honestly. Bill sat behind his desk, but I had a feeling he would not be there long.
‘For one thing, I don’t believe you and for another, couldn’t you just have told them? You didn’t need a notice!’ The temperature was rising; an outburst was imminent.
‘Yes, but it seemed easier, as I don’t see everyone on every shift.’
‘And what’s this?’ His anger reached boiling point. He was red in the face and stood up suddenly, large and threatening, pushing the chair away behind him with his legs. He was referring to a note I had left myself; he had assumed it was for him because I’d left it in the wrong place. The brevity of the note had made him jump to the wrong conclusion. I tried to explain, but by now he was in full flow.
‘You have no respect for me!’ he bellowed. ‘I should never have agreed to your coming here. You come in, with your degree and your fancy ideas, trying to take over the place! Never mind what I’ve done to get this house to where it is now!’
The thunder rolled on and I resigned myself to not getting a word in. I felt sick. Bill was not going to listen to anything I had to say anyway. He was the House Manager and woe betide anyone who challenged a single one of his decisions or procedures. When the storm was over, I opened the office door calmly, to find two junior staff looking rather sheepish. I did not make eye contact.
There was one faintly amusing aspect of Bill’s behaviour, however: about a week after he’d dismissed one of my ideas out of hand, he would think of it, so that it became acceptable – good, even, something to point out and be praised for, when senior management came to call.
Pride is a strange thing if it is at another’s expense. So is jealousy of someone with bipolar disorder, when you don’t know the first thing about it. Normally jealousy, which can never hide for long, strives to make someone feel ashamed of something they would usually be proud of. In this case, fear was mixed with it. Bill had made this plain. He really didn’t know what to make of me but at the same time he obviously felt threatened. I was better educated, but I was also a woman, and in his little world, Birch House, I should know my place. But then there was this strange illness; what might she do?
My reaction to this was to stay as calm and distant as possible; I had nothing to prove. This change of tactics however made Bill suspicious of my sudden desire to be part of the furniture and he began to push a bit, do things which he knew would annoy me. It was as if he needed an adversary. For instance, he kept giving me only two days off after a ten-day stretch, changing the rota in very bad grace when I pointed out, quietly, that this wasn’t fair.
I was relieved that the situation was in the end short-lived. I was in sole charge one day and was expected to make a decision – I can’t even remember what about now – but it was quite important at the time. Needless to say, it was the wrong decision for Bill when he came back. There was a showdown with senior management, my quiet protestations carried no weight and I was moved promptly to Alder House as an extra to be observed, under threat of demotion if I “caused any further problems”.
Alder House residents were female and over fifty. Age did not, however, prevent them from being very much more vocal than their male counterparts about whether or not they should have a bath and what they should wear.
The House Manager was a woman called Sandra, who looked two or three years older than me, with short fair hair and darting brown eyes. Jean, her deputy, who agreed with everything Sandra said, was about sixty with a grown-up family. Sandra had no children, and seemed bitter about this. In normal mode (and she had several modes), there was a certain cynicism which tainted her dealings with others; the attitude of the House Manager is crucial and she had no idea that the way she coped with her own circumstances could have a significant effect on those she worked with. That was normal mode. I experienced others as time went by.
I knew that neither Sandra nor Jean wanted me on Alder House. I had been dumped on them, after all. The feeling of reluctant acceptance trickled down into the lower grades. Sandra seemed uneasy in my presence. I didn’t know whether this was because she knew about my qualifications or because of the axe-murderer syndrome, but on the Centre, both were considered afflictions to be whispered about in corners. I don’t think Sandra knew how to behave towards me, any more than Bill had, so she opted for the dismissive approach. I was a lower form of life.
‘Vee, go and get the post now. Why haven’t you thought to get it already?’ It was raining. ‘Nat, would you check through this list of supplies with me?’
Natalie, or Nat, as everyone called her, was a Starter Grade of about nineteen, but was obviously held in high regard. The post was collected twice daily from the admin block; it wasn’t far, but still not pleasant in the rain. I took a carrier bag as I anticipated sarky comments about the letters being wet. She knew I couldn’t refuse to go, but it wasn’t the first time she’d made sure Nat, Sally or Liz had the “dry” jobs and sent me out. I got back to Alder just as Jack Marshall, Senior Manager, Care, arrived. I hadn’t seen him much until then, apart from at my hearings, but I noticed he was becoming a regular visitor to the house.
‘Do come in, Jack!’ gushed Sandra. (Attempt at “light and feminine” mode?)
‘Thank you. Not a nice day. Where can I put this?’ He held out a dripping umbrella.
‘Let me take it for you. There.’ She put it in a stand by the door. ‘Come through to the office. How are you? And Mrs Marshall?’
‘We’re fine, thank you. And you?’
‘Fine, fine. Oh, don’t sit there. Have this chair – it’s more comfortable. What can I do for you?’
‘Er, I wonder if we could have a word in private.’
‘Sure. Vee, would you please go and see if tea’s arrived yet love?’ Another of Sandra’s modes was being a good actress. I was glad to be able to leave the room.
As usual, I had nobody to talk to about these things except Bella. I got on with my work, but without the warmth of sharing jokes or stories from the past, which had brightened the day in Forest House. Doing the occasional shift in the old House was like putting on comfortable clothing after a day in something too tight. In Alder, by contrast, I had to apply what I had learned with Bill on Birch House; in other words I had to keep quiet and not voice an opinion about anything, as I knew that every word I said would get back to Sandra and be ripe for misinterpretation. There had always been something about me which seemed to invite criticism; though I couldn’t understand why this was, I had to be alert at all times.
Sandra spent most of her shift chatting in the office: her territory. I would go in there only if absolutely necessary or if Jean was in charge. My permanent insanity gave Alder House staff a comfortable ride. That sounds like a contradiction, but what I mean is that it afforded them the luxury of being the responsible, level-headed ones, who were always right. So if anything went wrong, it was easy to see who would get the blame.
Catherine was one of only two residents on Alder who smoked and along with Jean had to stand outside in the porch when she wanted a cigarette. All three had terrible coughs. An autumnal chill made the porch a draughty place.
‘Bloody Norah, I could do with a brew!’ Catherine muttered as she came in, passing the office door, coughing and rubbing her hands.
‘I’m just going to put the kettles on,’ I called. I liked Catherine. She’d had a hard life according to the notes, but she was always cheerful. She was sixty-six and very wrinkled, as if her brown paper face had been screwed up and then flattened out again; her top lip looked as though it had been blanket-stitched. Then there was June, in her late fifties, who enjoyed helping me in the kitchen when she could.
‘D’you know, Vee,’ said June in her tiny voice, ‘this is my favourite weather today, cold and bright.’ She put some mugs on th
e tea trolley.
‘I know, June. Oh, I meant to ask you: would you like to go shopping next week? We could get you a new dress for Christmas. Sandra said it would be OK.’
‘That’d be lovely!’
I couldn’t find any other staff on the house to help give everyone their tea; they could have been toileting or fetching people from Activities, I reasoned, as it was about half past three. I wasn’t too concerned. June and I managed; at least it made her feel she was doing something important, I think. About half an hour after the ladies had had their drinks, most of them had congregated in the lounge to watch a particular programme. I took a couple of them to the toilet, checked some of their rooms, then headed for the office, where I had some phone calls to make before my shift ended. The only sounds were the television and the residents’ laughter in response to it. I remembered there was also some urgent paperwork after my calls. The office was quiet. But where were Sandra and Nat? It seemed I had been left on my own, just when I was due off. A knock at the open door startled me.
‘Vee-vee?’ Gladys moved herself forward with her frame.
‘Yes, Gladys. Are you alright?’
‘Yes, but … I can smell something funny.’
‘Oh? What kind of smell? Where’s it coming from?’
‘Down there, in the end room. You know, Doris’s old room.’
‘I’d better have a look. You stay here in the office, Gladys.’
Doris had died a few months earlier, and we were using her room as a temporary store-room until another resident moved in. I walked along the corridor. What if? It was not unknown for Catherine to sneak into Doris’s room for a quick one in the warm.
Then, as I turned the corner, I saw smoke pouring under the door. I peered through the small window and could just make out a figure lying on the bed. I raced to the office phone, smashing an alarm button on the way. The admin block had to be notified first, then they contacted the emergency services. That was the procedure. I could hardly make myself understood on the phone, the alarm bell was so loud. The next half hour passed in a blur as I got the old ladies outside. Where were the other staff, for goodness’ sake?
There wasn’t time to ring another house for help. Those who could walk made their way outside, while I grabbed dining chairs and put them on the lawn in front of Birch House next door, our assembly point. The other residents were going to take longer to get out. One lady was so deaf she couldn’t hear the alarm, but when she saw the smoke, she panicked, slid off the bed into her wheelchair and I was able to rush her out. I knew that there were six more ladies in the house. I grabbed more chairs, practically throwing them on the grass. Meanwhile the fire was taking hold and it was getting harder to see, despite the emergency lighting, and harder to breathe. I went as far round the house as I could, coughing, and managed to get four of the six out onto Birch lawn.
‘Need a hand?’ It was Jimmy from Birch. There was still no sign of Sandra or Nat.
‘Please,’ I gasped. Just then the fire exploded out of the lounge window, sending debris everywhere. The TV set must have gone. My ladies were by now far enough away – there was a garden between the houses – but they wailed in distress. Luckily it wasn’t raining, but it was a chilly afternoon and nearly dark. Birch House staff were looking after the ladies, wrapping them in blankets, then taking them indoors.
Jimmy and I tried one last time to rescue Catherine and June, but it had now reached the stage where we couldn’t go in again. At last a fire engine arrived, as flames engulfed the lounge area, crackling as high as the roof, and thick dark grey smoke poured from the main door. Jimmy and I stood in the road, exhausted, our hands on our knees.
‘Who’s inside?’ shouted a fireman. A burnt joist crumpled into the building.
‘Two women,’ I shouted back. ‘I think one of them started it by accident. I couldn’t reach them.’
‘Now you must stay here! We don’t want any more casualties!’
They unravelled the hoses quickly and worked the water over the blaze. An ambulance pulled up, blue lights flashing. Then I caught sight of Sandra and Nat approaching. Nat was chewing as usual and their faces were yellow in the light from Alder House, now completely ablaze. The two women didn’t show any sign of concern. Every minute or so, some part of the building would crash down, sending up sparks and groaning as if in pain.
‘They’re all out,’ I said, still coughing. ‘Except for June and Catherine. All the others are in Birch. Catherine was in Doris’s room … I don’t know if they’ll make it.’
‘You mean, they might be dead?’ Sandra shouted over the noise.
‘I don’t know.’
‘Weren’t you keeping an eye on them?!’ she thundered. A fireman looked round.
‘I had been, then I had stuff to do in the office,’ I said lamely. I was desperate to know where she and Nat had been for the last two hours, but I knew that if I vented my spleen it would be misinterpreted as illness and I would get that look which said “calm down!” along with an arching of the neck and a prolonged raising of eyebrows. This reaction could occur at any time actually, regardless of circumstances.
‘Honestly, leave you alone for five minutes and this is what happens! If Catherine or June, or both of them die, it will go down on your report as negligence!’
A fireman appeared at the front door, pushing off his mask when he reached the road. Another followed him out. I wanted to ask if Catherine and June were OK, but thought better of it. An angry, greedy crackle filled the air and the orange light flickered over the buildings opposite. People were watching from the windows. Jimmy suggested we leave them to it now that Sandra was here and go and get a cup of tea.
A great cheer went up among the ladies when I entered the lounge in Birch, which was full to bursting, but Bill didn’t acknowledge me. Jimmy and I sat in the office with our tea, trying to recover and get used to the idea that two residents might be dead. The other ladies from Alder would have to be split up. Sleeping arrangements would have to be made.
‘What time does your shift end?’ asked Jimmy.
‘Oh, I forgot all about that! I was due off at four. What time is it now?
‘Half past six. Want a lift home?’
‘But what about June and Catherine?’
‘There’s nothing else you can do. You’ll just have to leave it to the professionals.’
‘I feel so guilty, Jimmy.’
‘Hey, you did all you could. Nobody could have done more. If anyone should feel guilty, it’s us in Birch for not coming out sooner. But we didn’t know you were on your own.’
When we went back outside, the fire brigade had brought the blaze under control and Alder House was now a smoking black shell. The ambulance had gone. I went over to Nat, who was talking to one of the firemen.
‘Where’s Sandra?’ I asked.
‘Gone in the ambulance with Catherine.’
‘Oh! So they got her out, then? What about June?’
Nat shrugged. ‘Catherine’s got bad burns. Might not make it either. You’d better watch out.’
After a couple of days off all round, Sandra, Nat, Liz and I were moved to work on Grove House. Sue and Sally went to Birch and Brian to Forest. The night staff were also divided up.
‘Is Catherine going to be alright?’ I asked Sandra.
‘You’d better hope so,’ she replied, leaning towards me, too close, confiding not a secret but a threat.
On my first day in Grove, I watched from the window as workmen erected a temporary fence round the Alder site. “Danger. Keep Out,” read the signs. But the burnt shell could not be demolished until a thorough search had been made for June’s remains. These were never found. I heard some time later that they were going to call a new house after her. A short service was held in the chapel and flowers appeared on the grass by the fence. About two weeks later, what was left of Alder House was razed to the ground.
Not only was Sandra desperate to find me lacking, she also wanted me to feel guilty. S
ince I knew that guilt feelings were part of my depression, I wanted to resist. Even if Catherine died, I was determined not to let Sandra open the white door again. She might not have been able to see it, but somehow she knew it was there, and kept scratching, working at it. If she succeeded in kicking it open, she would be able to declare a victory: “There you are! What did I tell you? She is useless!”
When I had first arrived at Alder House, bruised from my encounter with Bill (and another disciplinary hearing), I had made the mistake of repeating that I’d done nothing wrong. Now Sandra was seizing every opportunity to prove that I had done something wrong – several things, in fact.
With Catherine so ill, of course I was having doubts about my actions on the day of the fire. Perhaps I should have checked round one more time before I sat in the office. I fought these doubts by remembering that Sandra should have been on the house at the time, or at least told me where she was going. I couldn’t make a formal complaint about Sandra’s absence that day because I knew I would not be believed. I was low down in the Centre hierarchy and a nutter as well. Whichever way I looked at the situation, Sandra was in a stronger position.
She did have to work harder now, though, as she shared the role of Manager with Helen, who had done a stint on most of the houses but was at present managing Grove. I had begun to like Helen, especially when I found out her surname, and I looked forward to her shifts as a break from Sandra.
‘Excuse me for asking, Helen,’ I said, when we were alone in the office one day.
‘But is your husband a psychiatrist?’
‘He is indeed. Why?’
‘Oh, I’d … heard of a Doctor Greenwood, that’s all.’
‘He sometimes gives talks for people like Mind. Perhaps that’s how you heard his name.’
‘Could be, yes.’
Helen smiled and went back to her paperwork. I liked her style. She must have known there was more to it, but her tact was a breath of fresh air.
From a Safe Distance Page 14
