by P. I. Paris
‘Make him walk the plank,’ shouted Mr Adams.
‘Get him to scrub the kitchen,’ cried Joyce.
‘Hey, my feet could do with a massage!’ said Mrs O’Reilly.
The three ratings were grinning widely, while the lieutenant and Matron discreetly moved away from the limelight.
‘I say off to the brig with him while we have tea and cakes and decide his fate,’ shouted the cook. ‘What say all of you?’
There was an immediate chorus of ‘Aye, aye’. With that, the young man was manhandled out of the room, along the corridor and locked in a cupboard alongside dozens of boxes of incontinence pads. The ‘kidnappers’ returned to great applause and began to help serve hot drinks and treats.
Beatrice slipped away, anyone noticing simply assuming that she was going to the bathroom. Her first destination was the chicken coop. She quickly found Mabel and tucked her tightly under an arm before heading upstairs. Beatrice stepped over the mat inside her bedroom, quietly closed the door and, still holding the hen, dialled 999.
‘You must come immediately to We Care For You,’ she said with great desperation in her voice. ‘A man is being held at knifepoint. He’s been kidnapped!’
Beatrice thanked the person on the other end of the line when they confirmed that the police were on their way. She put down the receiver, smiling.
The people at the emergency services were always so pleasant, as well as taking you seriously. It was such a real pleasure to speak to them that she was already looking forward to the next time. Before leaving the room, she tucked Mabel up carefully within an old cardigan at the bottom of the wardrobe.
Representatives from HMS Ross-shire visited the care home whenever the ship was nearby and there was a huge camaraderie between the residents and crew. The ratings were excellent ambassadors, immediately sitting down and chatting to those who were less able to get out of their chairs, while the lieutenant took around cups of tea and plates of baked treats, much to everyone’s delight.
Seeing that the visit was going so well, Matron nipped back to her office for a few minutes. However, she was rather concerned to spot through the window a police car, with its blue light flashing, driving at speed into the car park. As she walked into reception, two policemen came hurrying through the doors.
‘We’ve had a report of someone being held at knifepoint,’ said the older of the two men, already suspecting that this was a false alarm.
‘Ah,’ said Matron, completely forgetting for the moment that she was wearing a pirate’s hat and had a large stuffed parrot on her shoulder. ‘There is some truth in that, although it’s nothing to be alarmed at. Shall we go to the lounge?’
As they entered, the lieutenant was walking past with a plate of biscuits.
‘I’m afraid someone has called the police to report that one of your crew is being held against his will,’ said Matron.
‘Goodness me, I do believe he is,’ said the lieutenant, holding out the plate to the nearest policeman. ‘Chocolate biscuit, officer? I can recommend those round ones.’
‘Thank you very much, sir. I don’t mind if I do.’
Twenty Five
The fun during the day gave way that evening to sadness with the impending departure the next morning of Mrs Campbell. She had been at the home for longer than any of them and residents and staff alike felt it was a crime that she was being moved away because of the fees. The cook baked a cake and people tried to make a little party of it, to celebrate the happy times she had experienced there, rather than look to the despair that was now her future.
She put on a brave face, but her apparent joviality didn’t fool anyone. Most people felt that she would be a great loss. Even Miss Ross held her in high regard and she wasn’t impressed easily.
The old lady made a valiant effort to speak to everyone in the room, wishing them the best and thanking them for their friendship over the years. She was particularly kind to Albert, to whom she chatted for quite a while, holding his hand and nodding intently whenever he said something.
When Albert experienced one of his periods of clarity, he not only talked sensibly and could remember accurately, he also knew that he had dementia. Miss Ross thought it must be a terrifying condition to have, yet to actually know you have it must surely take that fear to a new level. She sat quietly in a corner and watched the others.
Walter and Angus were playing chess, each with a wee dram next to the pieces they had captured. It was quite common for residents to have a tot after supper. For some, it represented more than a simple pleasure, and Matron kept alcohol owned by these residents safely locked up, with staff doling out a set amount. Sometimes family members would smuggle in bottles, thinking that they were doing no harm and it was a bit of a laugh. Of course, they were never around to clear up the physical and emotional mess afterwards.
Near the piano, Deirdre and Mrs MacDonald were deep in conversation and gave the appearance, as they generally did, of plotting. Joyce was happily munching into a second slice of the leaving cake. Miss Ross suspected there was much more to the comical larger-than-life woman than met the eye, although she knew very little about her past. Maybe that was what made her so intriguing. Still, everyone was entitled to their secrets.
Then there was Dorothy in the next chair, knitting of course. Her innocence of so many things gave her an air of vagueness that didn’t do justice to the wisdom hiding behind those big NHS glasses. Every now and again she would come out with such a perceptive observation that at times it was impossible to know what was going on in her head.
Anna was helping Beatrice with a jigsaw: the image on the lid showed Highland cattle with Ben Wyvis in the background. It was the third evening they had been working on the puzzle and although the carer was doing most of it she made the older woman feel it was her who was putting the pieces together.
A few people were asleep and a couple were sitting in front of the television, although it was on fairly quietly, so perhaps they were asleep as well. Joan was in her room, talking to one of her sons, who had called in after work.
Miss Ross only had a couple of distant relatives. She kept in touch via letters, though they rarely met. One of the few visitors she had was an ex-pupil who was now a minister. She had always lived her life alone, which had suited her well enough. When there is no alternative to a situation, there isn’t much point in railing against it. Coming into the home had resulted in a huge life change. She had lost so much yet gained something she had never known.
* * *
Miss Ross and several of the others were sitting in the dining room the next morning when Matron entered, looking quite shaken. She tapped a glass with the end of a teaspoon and the high-pitched clinking resulted in an almost immediate hush.
‘I’m very sorry to have to tell you that . . . Mrs Campbell passed away during the night. She died peacefully in her sleep.’
The general intake of breath was accompanied by several gasps and cries of ‘Oh no’. A couple of residents started to cry. Miss Ross wondered how Matron knew the old woman had died peacefully, unless someone had been with her at that very point and, as Mrs Campbell had appeared in normal health the previous evening, it seemed unlikely that this was the case. She suspected it was a standard comment, designed to put people’s minds at rest.
‘Mr Dunn will be here later and anyone who would like to pay their respects should gather in reception at eleven. I know this is a great shock to all of us. She was a very well-liked and much-loved member of our little community.’ Matron left to inform people in other parts of the building and her departure was followed by an awful silence.
Almost everyone – residents, carers, kitchen staff, cleaners – waited patiently for the body to be brought from the bedroom. All of the men had dressed smartly. Even Albert, standing near the exit, was wearing his best clothes.
Anna and Matron had washed Mrs Campbell and dressed her in the ‘going away’ outfit which had been hanging in the wardrobe. When people reached their
nineties, they were generally very practical about the end being near and many of them had given instructions about what they wanted to wear for their funeral. More than one woman had a shroud, carefully packed away in a drawer.
The care home always prepared the deceased as much as possible in this way. After all, the staff had cared for them, often for many years, helping them out of bed in the morning, back to bed at night, and aiding them with their most intimate needs in between. They had laughed with them at funny events, hugged them when they were sad, met their families and rejoiced when there was happy news.
And then there was Mr Dunn, steering the trolley on which the coffin had been placed, his assistant at the far end pushing. Their movements were slow, precise and dignified. The undertaker was nearing the end of his long career. When they reached the centre of the reception area, the two men stepped away and stood at the back of the group.
‘I know we are all very sad at the sudden loss of our dear friend,’ said Matron. ‘We had expected to be saying goodbye to her this morning, as she left for another home. Many of you spoke to her last night and I had a long chat with her earlier in the day.
‘Mrs Campbell felt that she had lived a long and good life. She had loved and been loved by her dear husband, and was extremely grateful for the care she had received here over many years. She would not have wanted us to be sad. Perhaps we could have a few moments to reflect and remember.’
Matron bowed her head and the others present followed her example. There was complete silence for several minutes and then, almost magically, soft music could be heard.
It was Albert.
He had brought out his mouth organ and was playing ‘The Last Post’ with such extraordinary feeling that the sound was haunting. Many heads turned in his direction, but no one said anything. When he finished, even Mr Dunn reached up and wiped his eyes.
Still nobody moved or spoke. Albert walked up to the coffin and gently laid the shiny silver instrument on the burnished mahogany, before stepping back to stand next to the double doors that led outside. The moment was so intense with emotion that there wasn’t a single person present who wanted to destroy it by moving or speaking.
Eventually, however, Matron looked over at Mr Dunn, who took the gesture as an instruction to continue. He moved forward with his assistant and together they slowly pushed the trolley towards the doors. As the coffin drew level with him, Albert saluted, the smartest salute he had ever given.
Then they were past him and outside, the automatic doors closing behind them, as if signalling the end of an era rather than one individual life. Albert, tears streaming down his face, slowly dropped his arm. Joan was the nearest to him and gently laid a hand on his shoulder. He had such an expression of misery that she felt her own eyes filling up again.
‘I loved her,’ he said simply.
‘I know, sweetheart,’ said Joan, reaching up and tenderly wiping away some of the tears from his cheeks. ‘We all did.’
‘She was so kind to me.’
‘Mrs Campbell will be greatly missed.’
‘Now she’s gone, nothing will be the same.’
Joan was rather at a loss as to what to say, so hugged the old man who was so upset at the resident’s death.
‘You played that music beautifully,’ said Joan, eventually pulling back from him. ‘She would have been pleased.’
‘I’ll never play again.’
‘You mustn’t say that. Come on, love. It’s not warm by the doors here. Let’s go to the lounge and have a cup of tea together.’
Joan, with her arm around Albert’s waist, led him away, his sobs clearly audible as they walked down the corridor. Everyone else had dispersed, except Matron, Dorothy and Miss Ross, who were standing nearby.
‘I’ve never heard Albert play anything so beautifully,’ said Dorothy.
‘He’s very upset at Mrs Campbell’s death,’ said Miss Ross.
‘Yes,’ said Matron, ‘it’s not surprising. They had been married for more than sixty years.’
The significance of what had just been revealed was so staggering that neither of the women could respond straight away.
‘Married?’ said Miss Ross finally. ‘You mean . . . Albert and Mrs Campbell were husband and wife?’
‘I never knew,’ said Dorothy, astounded that after being a resident for so long she had still been unaware of the relationship.
‘Yes. You see, everyone who was around when they came here has gone. Albert’s dementia got worse and Mrs Campbell didn’t appear to want to tell later arrivals that they were married. The staff knew, of course, and we all respected her decision. I think she was concerned that he might be put under pressure by not always being able to remember that she was his wife.’
‘But she was leaving him behind,’ said Dorothy.
‘The rise in fees meant that they couldn’t afford for both of them to stay and Mrs Campbell believed it would be detrimental for him to be removed from the surroundings he was familiar with and the people he knew. She spoke to me about it and I had to agree with her conclusion.’
‘So she was leaving him?’ said Miss Ross.
‘It was the kindest thing to do,’ said Matron. ‘She was totally committed to him. When he had his lucid moments, the two of them could still connect with each other. At other times, she was content to know that he was close by and being well looked after. She was with her husband every day, even if he didn’t always know she was his wife.’
Dorothy brought out a hanky and dabbed her eyes.
‘She gave up,’ said Miss Ross. ‘She lived ninety-three years and died the very morning she was going to be separated from everyone she loved.’
‘I think her spirit decided it was time and the body simply obeyed,’ said Matron, putting a hand on Miss Ross’s arm. ‘I’ve seen it before and on every occasion it’s always seemed to me to be the best way.’
Matron left the two women alone. Dorothy was sobbing quietly. Miss Ross, in a rare display of physical affection, put her arms around her friend, hugged her tightly and wept.
Twenty Six
Deirdre was, in every conceivable way, ‘thin’. Her long thin nose stuck out too far from her thin head, which balanced precariously upon a neck that looked unable to support anything at all. Her thin body had thin limbs and the thin limbs had thin fingers and toes. When she spoke, her voice was thin, but the ‘thinnest’ thing of all was her mind.
‘Thank you all for finding the time in your busy schedules to come along to this very important meeting.’
Deirdre had managed to persuade a small group to gather in the conservatory to discuss the woman claiming to be Walter’s niece. She knew there weren’t likely to be many on her side and that it would take all of her skills to win around sufficient of them to stand a chance of being able to prevent Julie from entering the building.
The promise of fresh éclairs from the local bakery had ensured the attendance of Joyce, while Angus had come along without any bribery, although Deirdre suspected he might be spying for Walter. Dorothy was already in the conservatory, so had simply stayed on, and Albert had wandered in then refused to leave. In reality, only Mrs MacDonald could be relied on to support the cause and she could be terribly vague at times. This was going to be very tricky.
‘We have gathered here today,’ said Deirdre, who thought it might be impressive if she tried to sound like a minister in the pulpit, ‘to put a stop to the visits that are taking place by someone who is not suitable for We Care For You.’
‘We car.’
‘I’m sorry, Mr Adams?’
‘In the high winds the other day, the ‘e’ fell off the sign outside. It’s now We Car For You.’
‘I prefer small cars,’ said Mrs Weaver. ‘They’re more economical, don’t you think so, Mrs MacDonald?’
‘Oh, yes. I’m sure you’re right. We have to consider the environment and future generations.’
‘The young these days,’ continued Mrs Weaver, ‘they have so many p
ressures and now there are rising water levels.’
Deirdre was horrified at how quickly she had lost control of the debate. Within moments they were discussing cars, the environment and water levels when they were supposed to be talking about THAT WOMAN.
‘Please! I’m sure Matron will soon have the sign repaired. We must keep to the subject of the meeting.’
‘What’s that, then?’
Deirdre groaned. Now Albert was involved. She should have been firmer about not letting him stay.
‘To put an end to the visits by that woman.’
‘What woman?’ said Albert. ‘Not Haggis?’
‘She calls herself Julie, although I bet that’s not her real name.’
‘She’s ever such a nice girl, helped me out just last week,’ chipped in Mrs Weaver.
‘She’s a prostitute!’ shouted Deirdre in frustration. This wasn’t going to plan at all. The room fell silent, apart from the clicking of Dorothy’s needles, as they all absorbed the information in various ways.
‘Can’t they still be nice?’ asked Mrs Weaver.
‘How do you know she’s a prostitute?’ said Joyce sharply. ‘It’s a serious accusation to make.’
‘Well . . . well, you only have to look at her.’
‘I didn’t know you could tell such a thing by looking at someone.’
Deirdre was taken aback. It was completely out of character for Joyce to be angry at anything or anyone. In fact, it was more than anger. There was almost a threat in her voice that transformed the person they all knew as a natural comedian, someone who was happiest when making those around her laugh.
‘The young today . . .’ said Mrs MacDonald. ‘They wear such extraordinary clothes.’
‘It was never like that for us,’ said Mrs Weaver. ‘We had to wear sensible items that were hard-wearing and kept you warm. Fashion was only for the famous.’
‘I have endured great personal distress in order to gather the information that confirms it,’ said Deirdre, trying to impose some sort of authority.
