Paradise Lodge
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For Victoria Goldberg
At the age of eleven or thereabouts women acquire a poise and an ability to handle difficult situations which a man, if he is lucky, manages to achieve somewhere in the later seventies.
P. G. Wodehouse, Uneasy Money
PART ONE
Paradise Lodge
1. Linco Beer Shampoo
May 1977
The job at Paradise Lodge was Miranda Longlady’s idea. I happened to bump into her outside Pop-in stores one day and she pointed out a card on the noticeboard.
Paradise Lodge—nursing home for the elderly.
Non-unionized auxiliary nurses sought for part-time duties—35p per hour.
Ideal part-time position for outgoing, compassionate females of any age.
Miranda wanted to apply and was hoping to talk her sister, Melody, into going with her. But when Melody came out of the shop with a loaf of Take ’n’ Bake and read the notice she said it wasn’t for her. She’d gone into a punk phase around then and had pierced her upper ear with a needle and an ice cube and had intellectual obscenities felt-penned on to her T-shirt.
‘Go on,’ Miranda whined, ‘I don’t want to go on my own.’
While they bickered, I read the card again closely and realized that I wanted the job. I was fifteen and I loved the idea of being professionally compassionate. I was longing for something that might blossom into a new phase that didn’t involve horses, or school or becoming a punk like Melody, or having a full-time boyfriend—all of which seemed too exhausting to commit to—plus 35p per hour would work out at almost £3 a day—a huge amount then. You could practically live on it. Plus it was a walkable distance and I was a hater of bus travel.
‘I’ll go with you,’ I said, and Miranda spun round and looked at me gone out. We’d never been particularly friendly. Actually, I hated her and ditto she me, but for the reasons above, I ended up walking with her to the next village to ‘apply in person forthwith’ as per the card.
The walk to Paradise Lodge was fascinating. Miranda opened up to me about her reason for needing the job and it was so compelling and romantic and unlike the Miranda of old, I changed my mind about her. I still didn’t like her, as such, but she seemed interesting, which was more than could be said for most people.
Miranda and her mother were at loggerheads regarding her boyfriend, Mike Yu. Miranda had gone on the pill to be poised to have intercourse with him—when the time came—and Mrs Longlady had twigged it because of Miranda suddenly going up two bra sizes in spite of a recent switch from real bread to low-calorie Slimcea. Mrs Longlady had stopped Miranda’s pocket money and was now refusing to give her a penny until she stopped seeing Mike Yu.
The real problem was that Mrs Longlady preferred Miranda’s ex. A boy from Market Harborough called ‘Big Smig’ who was posh but tried to play it down by swearing and whose dad worked for British Leyland on the admin side and whose mum did charity work for Princess Anne with a horsey connection and was single-handedly arranging five interconnecting street parties for the Queen’s Silver Jubilee.
Miranda’s mother was offensive about Mike Yu, calling him ‘Buttercup’ and saying he was Japanese. This infuriated Miranda because Mike wasn’t, he was from Hong Kong and the people from there are British or Chinese—unless they’re another nationality. But they weren’t usually Japanese for some reason. Miranda had researched the whole thing thoroughly with an encyclopaedia and had even asked Mike Yu about it, even though that had been awkward and intrusive.
Miranda had recently had a bad dream in which her mother made a voodoo doll of Mike and stuck a pin in it. While poor Mike writhed in agony (in the dream) Miranda had shouted at her mother, ‘Stop doing voodoo on Mike, I love him.’ And it was via the dream that Miranda was first aware that she’d actually fallen in love with Mike.
Since then, Miranda’s relationship with Mike Yu had become so serious she’d been to dinner twice with the whole Yu family (Mike, his parents and an old granddad). On the first occasion they’d had food sent up to their flat from the Good Luck House takeaway, which they owned and was downstairs—and it had been very nice.
The second time, though, it was disgusting. Mike Yu’s mother had attempted to cook in the English style, in her honour, and though it was a kind gesture Miranda had very nearly been sick at the table. Mike Yu’s mother had served great big onions as if they were a vegetable, just cooked whole and plonked at the side of the plate—next to a slab of pork. Miranda had struggled with the pork (chewy/salty) and the onion (slimy/sweet) and had literally gagged and only just managed to cover it up with a pretend coughing fit. Plus it hadn’t helped that Mike Yu’s old granddad had sat there with his plastic face and glued-up eyes, eating hard-boiled eggs with his fingers.
In spite of all this horror, Miranda was so keen on Mike she’d tried to learn Chinese so they could chat in his language. It had come to nothing, though. Just learning Tuesday (tinsywaah) had taken her a week and then no sooner had she learned Wednesday (tinseeteer) than she forgot Tuesday. Miranda had expected it to be a doddle, her mother having become semi-bilingual (English/Spanish) within a matter of weeks when attending a night class.
Miranda had thrown in the towel and just spoken in English and signs. She did learn Mike Yu’s mother’s name (Yu Anching), which meant ‘Quiet’, and his father’s (Yu Huiqing), which meant ‘Good Luck’, but hadn’t bothered with the old granddad because she didn’t want to have to look at him.
She thanked God for Mike having an English name, otherwise she might not have been able to go out with him.
‘But he must have a Chinese name,’ I said.
‘No,’ Miranda assured me, ‘Mike’s Mike in Chinese.’
Anyway, Miranda needed the job for money to buy clothes and cosmetics to look trendy and attractive for Mike Yu, especially as she had outgrown all her clothes with her new bigger bust. She had given away her Dorothy Perkins bras to her sister, Melody, who wasn’t on the pill and needed the padding and had gone a bit manly in puberty.
My reasons for wanting a job didn’t seem anywhere near as exciting or romantic as Miranda’s, nor as straightforward—which was just as well, since there was no time. Her story had lasted the entire forty-minute walk.
‘There,’ said Miranda, pointing, ‘Paradise Lodge.’
I flicked my fag into the drain and we tiptoed over the cattle grid.
Miranda—being in high shoes—was cautious and had to watch her footing. Looking down, I saw a walking stick lying in the oily water in the pit underneath.
‘Jesus,’ said Miranda, wobbling a bit, ‘there’s no way the old cunts are escaping from here.’
We knocked and while we waited I gazed around and saw a lady at the window above the door. She wasn’t looking out but had both hands and her cheek on the glass—a thing my brother Jack used to do when he wanted our mother to come home. He’d have to keep rubbing his breath off the glass. Eventually, the front door was opened by an old nurse who took us through to a large, steamy kitchen.
A woman in an apron introduced herself as the cook and announced it was almost teatime. She gestured us to sit and she began ladling hot stringy frui
t from a great copper pan into bottles lined up at the other end of the scrubbed table. By the look of it I guessed it was stewed rhubarb.
We were joined then by a woman of around forty called Ingrid who was very tall and obviously the boss. ‘Shall we have some tea?’ she said, looking at the cook, and the cook smiled and said, ‘Yes, let’s. And a scone, perhaps?’
We were interviewed there, together, at the table. Trays of tea foods were lined up along a dresser and a little gaggle of nurses appeared and took the trays, and the cook filled two catering teapots with boiling water and it was like the nicest tea you’ve ever seen from days gone by or a royal palace. The whole thing was delightful, except I noticed Ingrid had very red eyes and had either been crying for ages or had something wrong with her. If I’d been her, I’d have said, ‘Sorry about my red eyes, I’ve got a bit of hay fever,’ whether I had or not. But she didn’t say anything about it.
It’s strange now, calling her Ingrid, because after that first meeting she was only ever known as the Owner’s Wife, and though this seems wrong now, that’s how it was. Also, I’m not 100 per cent sure now her name was Ingrid, it might have been Inga, or Irena. I only know it began with a vowel and meant ‘Divine Strength’ in Old Norse. You can look it up.
The interview was brief. She told us the golden rules for working with the elderly and asked if we’d had any experience with an Aga, which she said was the heart of the house. Miranda hadn’t but I had and was able to speak intelligently about riddling and raking. The cook, particularly, looked pleased to hear it.
The Owner’s Wife then asked us why we wanted the job. I answered first, explaining that my family couldn’t afford two types of shampoo or two types of coffee so I was stuck with Vosene and Woolco’s econo-coffee (which was half coffee, half chicory extract). And since my sister had begun bringing home all sorts from a part-time job at Woolworth’s, it had become my ambition to progress on to Linco Beer shampoo in its little barrel and Maxwell House coffee with its fresh-aroma promise.
The Owner’s Wife was intrigued. ‘It sounds as if you’ve been seduced by the advertisements on the television,’ she said.
‘I’ve tried the products and they are actually nicer than the cheap brands,’ I assured her.
Miranda butted in to explain her reasons for wanting the job. She was eager to work in a caring setting because she was a compassionate person who had experienced illness but was now in full good health. It sounded very impressive and I felt slightly outdone.
The Owner’s Wife smiled and nodded at Miranda and turned back to me. ‘Linco Beer shampoo?’ she said.
‘Yes,’ I said, and I described how Linco Beer shampoo made your hair feel. ‘It contains real beer and makes it all bouncy, thick and healthy-feeling.’
‘Well, I shall remember that, Lizzie,’ she said, ‘it sounds marvellous.’
And that was pretty much it. I forgot to mention my outgoing, compassionate nature but it must’ve come across because we both got the job and were to report for our induction the following Saturday at 8 a.m., in sensible footwear.
After the interview Miranda and I walked home. I felt quite comradely towards her now we were workmates and thought it right to share my reasons for wanting the job, since I’d heard hers in such detail and because the things I’d said in the interview will have seemed shallow and childish. I was keen to present myself in a more philosophical light.
‘It’s not just the money,’ I said, ‘I want my independence.’
It was true. I didn’t want another year of trying to cheat the vending machine, relying on handouts and lifts and third-hand information, medicated shampoo, sugar sandwiches and scrounging cigarettes, babysitting for neighbours just to steal a pot of jam or some good quality tea bags from their cupboard, another year of being in the way of other people, trying to make ends meet. I felt like a great big, grown-up nuisance.
I started on this, but Miranda wasn’t the least bit interested so I changed back to the subject of her and Mike Yu, which was lovely to hear about anyway.
Miranda immediately confided in me that Mike was so good at kissing, it made her pelvis twang. He had three different types of kiss. The first type was barely a kiss at all, just his mouth hovering close to hers, almost touching but not, and blowing hot air from his nostrils on to her upper lip. ‘Like a friendly dragon?’ I suggested but Miranda ignored me.
The second type was to cover her entire face and head with hundreds of tiny kisses while she just sat there—eyelids, earlobes, the lot, and one time he removed her birthstone earring (sapphire) with his teeth and spat it gently into her hand as a surprise finale.
And the third type of kiss was to poke all round the inside of her mouth with his tongue, including where she’d had a molar removed and the gum was shrunken and half numb, half sensitive.
The kissing was all they were doing for now, apart from erotic hand-holding. Mike Yu didn’t want to go all the way because he felt it wrong and undisciplined and said that there was so much more and that having intercourse was like galloping through the forest on the Emperor’s best horse—which was a tremendous thing but shouldn’t be experienced until you’ve walked slowly through on foot a hundred times and noticed the drops of dew on the leaves, the moss in the bark and all the shafts of light coming through the trees etc. Which was annoying, seeing as Miranda had gone on the pill specially and was gaining weight by the day.
At the edge of the village Miranda went into a phone box and told me to come in too. She rang Mike and told him that she’d got the job, she described the interview and added a few details that I’d missed, like the Owner’s Wife telling Miranda she was exactly the kind of candidate she was looking for. For some reason she told him I was in the phone box with her and put me on to say hello. Then the pips went and Miranda grabbed the receiver back and shouted, ‘I love Mike Yu!’
Walking home, Miranda continued on the theme of Mike. He was a size seven in shoes, she told me, which was smaller than average but meant she could borrow his slippers when she was with him at the flat. This really appealed to me. I told Miranda I’d love to wear a man’s coat or shoes, just to show I could, and she said that was one of the tragedies of coming from a broken home, I’d forever be wanting to wear men’s clothing. She herself could take it or leave it, having had a full-time father in residence since birth.
Mike never ate puddings, except for tinned lychees and the occasional plum. He wrote poems—including one, dedicated to her, called ‘The Snow-Fairy and the Sun’ which was hopeful but realistic, and one which was quite porno called ‘Chick Penis’ about a half-man, half-woman, half-hen and was really about identity and mercy, but had a sad ending.
As we reached the edge of the Sycamore Estate Mike Yu pulled up in his Datsun Cherry.
‘Look, it’s Mike,’ said Miranda and ran across the road.
I recognized him but he looked completely different, now I knew so much about him.
Miranda jumped into the passenger seat and kissed Mike’s cheek. They spoke briefly, then Mike shouted, ‘Hey, Lizzie!’
I went over.
‘Can I give you a lift?’ he said.
Miranda answered, ‘No, she only lives on the Sycamore Estate.’
‘Thanks, though,’ I said.
‘I thought you lived the other side of the village,’ said Mike.
‘She used to,’ said Miranda, ‘but her family went bankrupt.’
Mike looked alarmed. ‘God, so sorry,’ he said.
‘It was ages ago,’ I said.
‘Bad luck,’ said Mike.
2. The Comfort Round
I was shown the ropes at Paradise Lodge on day one by Ingrid, the Owner’s Wife, the authoritative, red-eyed woman who’d interviewed us a few days previously. I could tell straight away that she was the linchpin of the place. She noticed everything, from a tiny stray thread on the day-room carpet to a patient lying flat out on the floor after tripping on a loose tile. She was eagle-eyed and always on the alert.
The staff were just the same. It wasn’t just her tallness, it was her niceness—or probably the two things together. The staff went out of their way to share her opinions and nodded in agreement when she said a thing. One minute a nurse would be saying how rotten some old man was and what a fucking old bossyboots and a typical German and how she’d like to shove the broom handle up his backside, and the Owner’s Wife would gently mention that that old man had renounced Hitler, had a high IQ and had been runner-up for the Max Planck Medal, and the nurse would say she supposed so and what a clever old thing he was.
It was Miranda’s first day too and she was shown the ropes by a peculiar old woman wearing Foster Grant’s called Matron, who was supposedly a senior nurse but could easily have been an overindulged patient with delusions and a nurse’s outfit. Matron was the opposite of the Owner’s Wife. She was short and squat, the patients ignored her and the staff liked to contradict her.
At morning coffee break that first day, for instance, when everyone else was playing with Nurse Hilary’s brand-new Crazy Baby curling tongs and setting Farrah Fawcett flicks into their fringes, Matron suddenly announced she’d seen Gordon Banks washing his Ford Granada wearing Marigolds and she had lost all respect for him because of it.
The staff rounded on her.
‘Why shouldn’t he wear Marigolds?’ they asked.
Even Miranda, whose first day it was, chipped in saying it was impressive of Gordon Banks to wash his own car and not get his wife to do it for him. I was surprised at Miranda ganging up on her day-old mentor like that. And though I didn’t care a jot about the Marigolds it put pressure on me to contribute, so I said, ‘True,’ in a mature way, which is always a safe bet, yet non-committal.