Tread Softly

by Wendy Perriam

  She swallowed. Her lips felt dry and there was a foul taste in her mouth.

  ‘Were you asleep?’

  ‘Yes … I think I must have been.’ She was still trapped in the dream: four years old and newly arrived at Aunt Agnes’s. House, meals, surroundings, bath-time were all frighteningly unfamiliar. ‘What … what time is it?’

  ‘Half past five. Tea’s meant to be at four, but I’m miles behind. I’m new here.’

  ‘Oh …’ She ought to be friendly, say it didn’t matter, but the tendrils of fear from the dream were threatening to shoot up to monstrous proportions, like Jack’s beanstalk. She focused instead on her headache – physical pain was much easier to deal with. ‘Could you possibly bring me some aspirin? My head’s pounding like a sledgehammer.’

  ‘I’m not allowed to give out drugs. But I’ll ask Sister if you like.’

  ‘No, it’s OK.’ She didn’t want anyone seeing her like this. Her clothes were creased and she probably stank of sherry. Worse, the commode was disgustingly full, although she didn’t remember using it.

  The girl put the cup down by the bed. ‘There was supposed to be Christmas cake, but it ran out, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’m not hungry.’

  ‘Too much Christmas dinner, eh?’ The girl laughed, not unkindly.

  Lorna considered: a sliver of melon, two mouthfuls of fish, a few pastry crumbs and possibly a hair. But the thought of food induced a wave of nausea.

  ‘Well, I’d better be off. I’m Becky, by the way.’

  ‘Oh, right. Becky.’ She could barely remember her own name. Back, foot and head all ached hideously. If only she could speak to Ralph. His Christmas Day must have been worse than hers – all alone, with flu. And yet what good would she have been at home? Her natural instinct would have been to bring him drinks and meals; hold his hand literally as well as metaphorically. But illness for Ralph was a slur on his masculinity, a sign of personal failure. He hated the indignity of wearing pyjamas in the daytime or having a thermometer stuck absurdly in his mouth, so everyone, including her, was banned from entering the sick-room.

  She hauled herself up in bed to drink the tea. Over-sugared this time but short on milk. Well, it made a change.

  ‘Sorry, Mrs Pearson, I forgot to give you this.’ Becky again, with a folded piece of paper.

  The first instalment of the bill? No, three messages scrawled in biro.

  ‘Your husband rang. Sends his love.’

  ‘Clare says Happy Christmas. Keep your chin up!’

  ‘Aunt Agnes wants to know why haven’t you phoned?’

  Three lifelines. Ralph cared, Clare was thinking of her, and even Agnes had rung, if only with a rebuke. She sat fingering the piece of paper as if it were a love-letter. If Father Christmas had given her a mobile instead of a pair of lace-edged hankies (which she had loaned to Hilda yesterday to help staunch a sudden nose-bleed) she could have returned the calls. Being without a phone made her feel marooned, an exile from the outside world.

  Gradually she became aware of a moaning sound coming from the room next door – not her aggressive neighbour (who, judging by the quiet, must still be out with her son) but the other side. Slowly it increased in volume to become a keening, desolate wail. In alarm, Lorna glanced around for her crutches, but they were nowhere to be seen. She vaguely recalled coming back from the dining-room in a wheelchair. The crutches must be still down there.

  The crying continued unabated. Lorna pressed the bell. Becky seemed a decent sort – surely she would help. But no one came.

  As the minutes ticked by with no sign of any assistance, Lorna’s agitation turned to panic. What if there was a genuine emergency? The poor wretch next door already sounded desperate, and as for herself she couldn’t move a step. Without her crutches she was as helpless as a baby, as helpless as in the dream.

  She jabbed the bell so hard it hurt her finger, and almost at once heard footsteps outside. Not Becky but the angry woman, with her family in train. Soon a full-scale row was in progress, which Lorna couldn’t avoid hearing through the wall.

  ‘I’m not ungrateful. I didn’t want to go out to lunch. I told you twenty times.’

  ‘Oh sure, and if we’d left you here on your own we’d never hear the end of it.’

  ‘Fay, please, don’t provoke her.’

  ‘Shut up, John, I’ll say what I bloody well please.’

  ‘Look, why don’t we all –’

  ‘I’m sick of kowtowing to your mother.’

  ‘She’s old. She doesn’t understand.’

  ‘Oh, I’m old, am I? And stupid? I’ll have you know I …’

  In desperation, Lorna turned on the television. However, the manic jamboree on screen was nearly as bad as arguments and sobs. Couldn’t they make a special programme for those who didn’t enjoy Christmas – the sick, old, lonely and bereaved – something uplifting and consoling? Switching channels, she was assailed by peals of canned laughter. It struck her that Matron might invest in something similar, to give visitors the impression that the Oakfield residents were a cheerful bunch, given to bouts of irrepressible mirth.

  Next door, meanwhile, the real-life family were leaving, still hurling accusations in their wake. Once the voices had faded, Lorna turned off the TV. Silence? No. Although the woman on the left had stopped crying, now the other one had started, presumably upset by the quarrel.

  Lorna pressed the bell yet again. If nothing else, she had to get her crutches back.

  ‘OK, OK, I’m coming! I haven’t got seven-league boots, you know.’ Sharon’s impatient voice came from down the corridor, although it was some time before she reached Lorna’s door. She tottered in unsteadily – as a result more of drink than of exhaustion, Lorna reckoned. (But who was she to talk, with a hangover herself?)

  ‘Yeah, what d’you want?’

  ‘Oh, Sharon, it’s my crutches. I think they’re downstairs. Could you be an angel and –’

  ‘No, sorry. Can’t do nothing now.’

  ‘Well, could you please ask someone else?’

  ‘Who, I’d like to know? There’s only Becky. She’s about as much use as a fart in a colander. She forgot to give Mr Hall his lunch. He’s a diabetic on insulin, so of course he’s gone hypo.’

  ‘Oh dear. Is that serious?’

  ‘I should say! He’s shaking like a leaf. He could even go into a coma, like he did last month.’

  ‘Good gracious! Shouldn’t you call a doctor?’

  Sharon yawned hugely, without bothering to cover her mouth. ‘It’s Sister’s problem, not mine.’

  ‘Well, I only hope she can sort it out. And when she’s free perhaps you’d tell her that the lady next door sounds terribly upset.’

  ‘Mrs Owen? She always sounds upset. If you bought her bloody Buckingham Palace she’d complain about the neighbours. Did you hear her just now – giving her son what for? If she was my mother I’d have throttled her years ago.’

  ‘Yes, but she’s crying now. And the lady the other side was crying too, earlier.’

  ‘That’s nothing new. Take no notice. It’s her sister – died of cancer last August, but she’s still banging on about it. They didn’t even like each other.’

  ‘But it seems callous just to leave her.’

  ‘Look, it’s all we can do to get them washed and fed. We’re not agony aunts, you know. I’ve got enough problems of my own, without listening to theirs. For one thing, I haven’t seen Danny all day –’

  ‘Danny?’

  ‘Yeah, my kid.’

  Kid? Sharon was no more than a kid herself. ‘Where is he?’

  Sharon’s face crumpled and tears welled in her eyes. Only now did Lorna notice how terrible she looked. Her face was swollen and flushed, and her hair was coming adrift from its ponytail. ‘Sit down for a minute,’ Lorna said gently, passing her a box of tissues. ‘I expect you’re just tired out. You’ve been working such dreadful long hours.’

  ‘It … it’s not that – I’m us
ed to it. It’s Danny. He’s only four and I promised him I wouldn’t be late, not tonight of all nights.’

  Lorna bit her lip. Children of four roused her instant compassion.

  ‘I tried to ring him and explain, but he’s obviously shit-scared. He’s on his own in the house, you see.’

  Lorna was shocked. ‘All day, you mean?’

  ‘Oh no. He spent Christmas with his dad. But Steve’s no good with kids. By tea-time he’d had enough. So he’s pissed off out with his mates.’

  ‘But, Sharon, that’s appalling! You must get home and make sure he’s all right.’

  ‘How can I? Matron would do her nut.’

  ‘I thought she’d gone.’

  ‘Yeah, but she’s back now and raising hell. You see, me and Tommy had a little drink. Well, you wouldn’t think they’d begrudge us one on Christmas Day, would you? But Matron didn’t see it like that.’ Sharon screwed a Kleenex into a tight, damp, lilac ball. ‘If anything happens to Danny I’ll kill her.’

  Lorna averted her eyes from the overfilled commode. ‘Sharon, I wonder if it would help if I had a word with Sister Kathy? She might understand.’

  ‘Yeah, Kathy’s OK. But she doesn’t like me much. None of the nurses do. Can’t say I blame them really.’ She gave a hollow laugh. ‘I’m not exactly a little ray of sunshine. But then nor would they be if they was trying to bring up a kid on their own. Steve never wanted children. He says it’s my fault I lumbered him with Danny.’

  Lorna fixed her gaze on the carpet. Exactly what Tom had said. She could be in Sharon’s position, a single parent struggling to make ends meet. What if Danny were her own child, alone on Christmas Day, likely to injure himself, or maybe venture out in the dark in search of his mother or father …? It didn’t bear thinking about. ‘We’ve got to do something, Sharon. You go and find Kathy and ask her to come up here. If I explain the situation I’m sure she’ll be able to help. And if she can’t I’ll tackle Matron myself!’

  ‘Oh no! You’ll get me sacked.’

  ‘OK, I’ll tell you what. If all else fails we’ll send a cab to Steve’s place and get them to pick Danny up.’

  ‘I can’t afford cabs.’

  ‘Don’t worry. I’ll pay.’

  ‘But where can he go? There’s no one at my place, bar the cat.’

  Where indeed, thought Lorna, trying to force her brain to work. There was always Ralph, of course, but even if he were well he would hardly welcome an errant four-year-old. And nor would most of her friends. ‘He’d better come here, Sharon.’

  ‘Here? They’d have a fit!’

  ‘They won’t know. I’ll say he’s my nephew or something. I’ll ask the cab-driver to bring him up to my room, and I’ll look after him till you’ve finished work.’

  Sharon stared at her in amazement, evidently not used to being offered help. ‘Would you, Mrs P … P …? That’s fantastic! Thanks ever so much.’

  ‘Don’t thank me yet. We’ll try Kathy first, in any case. Now off you go and find her. And no more drinks!’ Hypocrite, Lorna told herself, pressing a hand against her aching head. Well, playing social worker was a good way to forget a hangover – and dispel the threat of panic. She was also greatly cheered by the thought of looking after a child. For so many years she had longed to have a child around at Christmas. Now her wish might be granted.

  Chapter Eleven

  ‘Come in,’ Lorna said listlessly, flipping over a page in her magazine. It would only be someone to collect her tray.

  The door opened to reveal a tall, lean, haggard figure in an impeccable dark suit.

  ‘Ralph!’ she exclaimed, ‘What a lovely surprise!’ Unable to leap up and embrace him, she reached out her arms and drew him down towards her.

  For once he didn’t resist, and she pressed her face into his chest, inhaling his familiar smell of pipe-tobacco and Silvikrin shampoo. ‘I’ve missed you, darling, terribly.’ At Oakfield House she had come to realize how precious a husband was. So many of the residents were widowed, or had no one in the world to care for them or about them. And today she had been feeling bereft, stranded in her room, unwell, with only a new and singularly ungracious carer bringing her meals on a tray. ‘Did you miss me?’ she dared to ask.

  ‘Mm,’ he murmured, embarrassed. ‘How are you, darling? I couldn’t get much sense out of anyone when I phoned.’

  ‘I’m doing well,’ she lied. He looked so tired and ashen-faced she didn’t want to burden him with more problems. ‘More to the point, how are you?’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘Fine? With flu?’

  ‘It wasn’t flu.’

  She hid a smile. Rather than inflating a cold to flu, as many people did, Ralph was more likely to pass off double pneumonia as simply a sore throat.

  ‘Good God!’ he said, alarmed. ‘What’s that awful noise?’

  ‘Oh, it’s only the woman downstairs. She’s paralysed, so they have to use a hoist to get her in and out of bed.’

  He prowled over to the window, grimacing at a sudden blare of music. ‘Do they have to have their televisions so loud? These walls are paper-thin.’

  ‘Mrs Owen’s deaf. Sometime she even has it on full volume in the middle of the night.’

  ‘How on earth do you manage to sleep?’

  ‘With difficulty!’

  ‘You can’t stay here, Lorna.’ He turned to face her, raising his voice above a booming commercial. ‘It’s absolutely appalling! I couldn’t believe it when I walked in – all those fossils sitting around in various states of decrepitude.’

  ‘Oh, come on, Ralph, it’s not that bad. We’ll be old one day.’ You sooner than me, she thought.

  ‘And this room …’ He gazed around in disgust. ‘It’s so small and shabby. And the smell.’

  ‘You get used to it in time,’ she said, although she had to admit that with Ralph here the room did seem smaller and shabbier. He was too tall for it, too smart. Suits were unknown at Oakfield House. The few male residents she’d met were kitted out in standard-issue sweat-pants to disguise their bulky incontinence pads. Seeing Ralph’s tailored trousers, she suddenly remembered their first meeting – how elegant he’d looked compared with Tom: a good deal older, yes, but distinguished. It had been part of his attraction: the crisp white shirt and navy cashmere coat, the quiet silk tie and gold cufflinks, all of which seemed to preserve him in a time-warp – old-fashioned, sober, safe. (And ‘safe’ was crucially important to her, as much then as now.)

  He ran his finger across the television set, leaving a pale pathway in the dust. ‘I thought this was a proper convalescent home, not a … a mausoleum.’

  ‘I couldn’t find a convalescent home. Apparently they don’t exist any more. One of the nurses told me. The NHS wouldn’t fund them, so they sort of … withered away.’

  ‘Well, in any case, it’s time you came home. You’ve been here over a week.’

  ‘Six days.’

  ‘Is that all?’ He sank down on the chair and rubbed his eyes. ‘It seems like years.’

  ‘So you did miss me!’

  He gave a non-committal grunt, fumbling for his pipe.

  ‘I’m sorry, darling, you’re not allowed to smoke in here. Only down-stairs in the Smokers’ Lounge.’

  ‘I’m not flogging down three floors again. It was bad enough walking up.’

  ‘Didn’t you find the lift?’

  ‘Yes, full of old biddies in wheelchairs. And then the doors wouldn’t close.’

  ‘Have you eaten?’ she asked, changing the subject.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Do you fancy a couple of cold fish fingers?’ She indicated her untouched supper-tray. ‘Or there’s fruit jelly, if you like. Well, that’s what Gary called it, although I can’t see any fruit. Still, it seems a shame to waste it.’

  ‘Aren’t you hungry?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Nor me. Just dying for a smoke.’ He was sitting cradling his pipe. Suddenly he rooted in his pocket for the matches and struck one
defiantly, lighting the pipe with a series of short, coaxing puffs, before inhaling with a sigh of satisfaction.

  She prayed Matron wouldn’t choose this moment to appear. ‘They’ll go mad, Ralph! It’s a fire risk.’

  ‘Don’t worry. I’ll hide it if anybody comes.’

  ‘But the smell …’ She wafted the magazine to and fro, to disperse the smoke.

  ‘I’ll open the window.’

  ‘No, please don’t. It’s perishing in here.’ The manic-depressive radiator was in its depressive phase, which was why she had put on Ralph’s old towelling dressing-gown in addition to two nighties and a sweater – hardly alluring nightwear to attract a long-absent spouse. She pulled the sheet up to cover her clothes; and as for the pipe-smoke, she would tell Matron it was the only way to mask the stench of urine. In fact it was working rather well – St Bruno was infinitely preferable to pee. Much as she hated Ralph smoking, she did feel a certain affection for his pipes. They were like his children: endlessly loved and indulged. The downside, of course, was that they provided a wonderful excuse for him not to talk. When an intimate conversation threatened, he would select his most refractory pipe and go through a laborious repertoire of scraping, filling, prodding, poking, puffing, sucking, blowing – ample demonstration that words were out of the question. Now, however, he seemed surprisingly communicative – a result of their week-long separation perhaps.

  ‘So how’s the foot?’ he asked, disposing of his spent match in the jelly-dish.

  ‘OK. Well, I had a bit of bother on Christmas Day. A little boy ran his toy truck right over my bad toes, and, God, did I yell!’

  ‘Little boy? Whose little boy?’

  ‘Oh … just one of the visitors’ children.’ She knew he would disapprove of her babysitting for Sharon, although, sore toes notwith-standing, Danny’s impudent charm had cheered her up enormously.

  Ralph exhaled another plume of smoke. ‘Look, I don’t want to push you, darling, but when d’ you think you’ll be back in harness?’

  The phrase conjured up the image of a horse – a sickly, spavined creature stumbling between the shafts of its cart. She tried to picture instead a young racehorse raring to go. ‘Oh, not long now, I hope. How about you?’