Paradise Lodge

by Nina Stibbe

  I went to Miss Pitt’s office in the Victorian part of the school and knocked. She called me in and I started to speak, half-heartedly, about limestone.

  ‘I didn’t ask you to speak,’ she said, which was actually a relief. And she told me, in no uncertain terms and at length, that she would not tolerate truanting. I tried to butt in—to blame baby Danny—but she really didn’t want to hear me.

  ‘You were a perfectly good pupil and now you’re absent half the time,’ she said, taking a deep breath and looking at a register. ‘You’re aware of the 1960 Beloe Report, are you, Lizzie…?’

  ‘No,’ I said, ‘I wasn’t born in 1960.’

  ‘… marking the introduction of the CSE examinations—for the less academic pupil.’

  ‘No,’ I said.

  ‘It explains the criteria for regarding pupils as academic or less academic,’ she said. ‘It states that a pupil with erratic attendance should not be entered to study or sit the GCE “O” Levels, but the CSE examinations.’

  I couldn’t think of anything to say. I shrugged. I disliked her too much to ask for clemency or try to explain again.

  ‘Off you go, Lizzie,’ she said, ‘and please bring me a letter from your mother to explain your recent absences.’

  As I opened the heavy door, she said, ‘By the way, how is your mother?’

  It seemed a personal and somehow nasty thing to say and, even though I was continually trotting the baby out as an excuse for my doing—or not doing—a thing, I felt under threat. I looked at her.

  ‘I mean with the baby,’ she said.

  ‘She’s fine,’ I said, and just thinking of Danny made me smile.

  Miss Pitt smiled too. ‘Well, just as long as that clever sister of yours doesn’t disappear off to university and leave you holding it—so to speak.’

  It was puzzling. Was she being nice, or not?

  ‘I mean, your mother might consider one brilliant daughter sufficient and quite like the second one to stay at home and help,’ she said.

  ‘No, my mother wants two brilliant daughters,’ I said.

  ‘Let’s not disappoint her, then,’ she said.

  6. Jackie Collins

  The live-in nurses weren’t all that interested in me. I suppose I seemed so much younger and had nothing to offer. So I was forced to let Matron befriend me, and a vicious circle started. Not that there was any viciousness. Just that the more I sampled Matron’s different tea leaves—including Lapsang and pink Darjeeling—and watched Stars on Sunday with her instead of going home to do normal teenage things, the less normal I seemed.

  It seemed my role was to do things none of the others could face, from talking to unpleasant relatives, answering the upstairs bells or feeding a patient who was very hungry but toothless and incredibly slow—and it taking half an hour—to sometimes taking a pinch of snuff to cheer everyone up with a funny sneezing fit, and being nice to Matron. Being nice to Matron became more important than almost anything. Matron was like another patient—to be chatted to and listened to—but I soon realized the only way to be friends with her was to try to understand the heart of her. It was my English literature class and she was the baddy who’s had a tough past.

  First and foremost Matron was tired, she didn’t sleep well. Her eyelids were puffy and if you looked up close, when she wasn’t looking, you could see she was very, very old. You could see it in the papery skin, the brown marks, her milky old eyes and the very awkwardness of her bones. You could hear it in her breathing and the crackle of her old dyed hair. She was deep in old age but hadn’t made the arrangements for it. She hadn’t any savings and, due to tax avoidance or some kind of bogusness, she wasn’t eligible for the state pension or the health.

  She envied the patients their carefree lives, their breakfast trays and the certainty that there’d be someone to help them with their stockings for as long as they lived. Whereas she worried day in, day out that she’d end up at St Mungo’s homeless shelter. Like her dear friend, who owned nothing but her name—but whose name she couldn’t remember.

  Matron told me all this one day as we sat on a bench in the drive. I asked her what she planned to do.

  She told me she’d always banked on landing a live-in companion situation to a nice solvent gentleman, which was what women in her position did and had always done. It was a tit-for-tat thing where the live-in companion was like a friendly slave but ended up with a small bungalow.

  ‘Does it have to be a gentleman?’ I asked—gentlemen being that much harder to come by than ladies.

  ‘Oh, yes, it has to be. Ladies leave their bungalows to the cats’ home or church,’ she said, ‘whereas a gent likes to pat the coin into your palm, it makes him feel important, even after he’s dead. A gent is like a Labrador—you just give him a titbit, rub his shoulders and pat him, engage and play.’ She paused. ‘Ladies don’t want to be Labradors.’

  Matron had let two gents slip between her fingers just that year and had known a handful over the time she’d worked at Paradise Lodge who might have been, but had come to nothing. But there had been one gent who she had moved in with—Mr Arthur Minelli, from Barrow upon Soar. He’d shortened the name to Minell without the ‘i’ at the end to make it sound English but Matron hadn’t known it, and not knowing it had been her downfall. When Mr Arthur Minelli’s nieces had swooped in, they’d been able to say, quite rightly, ‘You’re just his nurse, you don’t even know his real name.’

  And she’d got nothing. Not a bean, not even the little egg pan she’d paid for with her own money. And she’d looked after him and lived in the tiny spare room in his house and done up his buttons and rubbed his shaggy old shoulders for more than three years. And he’d been happy every day until she’d found him one night, standing in a corner, his brain gone, and she’d taken him to his day bed and lain with him, singing Irish songs, until the new day came and he was dead.

  ‘Why did he die?’ I asked.

  ‘They do, they just do,’ said Matron. ‘That’s why you need the paperwork done. I meant to tell him I was in need. I always planned to. I had three Xmases with him—not that I had any better offers—but we never saw hide nor hair of the nieces and only got a card and a box of biscuits each year from the two of them together,’ she rambled.

  The Xmas Days had been just like any other day, except they’d cooked chickens and had tins of gravy. She and Arthur had amused themselves every day the same, reading funny books, watching telly in the evenings and making up nicknames for the people who wandered in and out of their lives: the butcher ‘Beaky’—on account of his nose—and the doctor ‘Sprout’—on account of his hair—and the two nieces ‘Gert’ and ‘Daisy’—which was hilarious, except Matron never knew why.

  ‘I never knew who Gert and Daisy were, but hadn’t the heart to ask,’ she said.

  ‘My mother would know,’ I said, seeing a way out. Jumping up from the bench, I said, ‘I’ll phone her.’

  And we went up to Lady Briggs’ room and I helped Lady Briggs on to the commode, since we were up there, and we whistled ‘To Be A Pilgrim’ until our lips ached because Lady Briggs always said whistling hymns helped her go.

  While we waited, I rang my mother and she explained Gert and Daisy were two gossiping women from Workers’ Playtime, which was on the radio during the war—blah, blah. And then—can you believe it?—Matron began telling Lady Briggs the whole tale of Mr Minelli and I snuck away so as not to have to hear her tell it again only slightly different.

  Matron kept putting me on the rota but no matter how much I liked being at Paradise Lodge, I had my future to think of vis-à-vis school and catching up and not ending up being deemed ‘un-academic’. I was very keen to put in a decent attendance, especially as the end of term approached and that was when all the totting up would be done.

  It wasn’t long after my meeting with Miss Pitt that Nurse Hilary phoned to ask me to come into work the following morning. I said I was sorry, but no, I couldn’t because it was a school day. Immediat
ely afterwards Matron phoned to tell me I was down on the rota for the next day—to do a split shift—and could I please confirm I’d be in?

  I said I couldn’t—I was being monitored by the Deputy Head regarding my attendance, and it was imperative that I go to school. Matron begged. She’d been offered the chance to go on a tour of the Weetabix factory, she said, with a convalescent patient, Mr Greenberg (proprietor of Greenberg’s Bespoke Tailors on Granby Street), and she believed he was on the brink of asking her to become his live-in companion.

  ‘We’ve got an auxiliary nurse off with impetigo,’ she said, ‘and I might not get this opportunity again—I was counting on you.’

  I stuck to my guns and hung up before she could wear me down. The phone rang again but I flung my brother’s parka over it and ignored its muffled tinkles.

  I felt strong and proud to be on the way to school the next day as we sailed through the villages. I was doing the right thing. We were about to go past Paradise Lodge when the bus stopped suddenly. Matron had flagged it down. She clambered up the steps and spoke to the driver. He called me to get off the bus. ‘There’s an emergency at the old folks’ home,’ he said.

  I ran ahead of Matron up the drive, thinking I’d find Miss Brixham stuck in the cattle grid, or something like that, but there was no emergency, only Mr Greenberg sitting in his Austin with a no-cheese packed lunch and a hat on his head—waiting to go off on his excursion.

  I was annoyed and started to walk down the drive, back on to the lane. I drew level with Matron. ‘You mad cow,’ I said, but she pulled me by the sleeve and then forced me backwards, up against the wall and held me there by my collar. She was surprisingly strong.

  She told me in a hoarse whisper that Mr Greenberg had practically asked her to become his live-in companion, and she just needed this excursion to tip him over. She reminded me she was facing a penniless retirement with no state pension or health, unless she could find a companion position and have a bungalow bequeathed to her.

  It was a major rant and all the time she held me under the chin, like a school bully. She said that the departure of the Owner’s Wife would result in Paradise Lodge going to ruin and if she ever got an interview for a new job—which was unlikely, due to her age—she’d be tainted by its failure under her command. ‘I thought I’d explained all this,’ she said.

  I knew Matron had had a tough life. She often talked about the bad old days wherever it was she’d grown up—when you weren’t allowed to eat a bag of crisps in the street and they probably didn’t even have crisps anyway, but even if they did, she couldn’t afford them and people’s parents were always drowning themselves or drowning kittens or leaving in the night or whipping the children.

  I agreed to work her shift. ‘Not because you deserve it,’ I said, sullenly, ‘but because I want to buy a floppy mackintosh.’

  ‘Good gel,’ she said, ‘a floppy mac covers a multitude of sins.’

  ‘But you’ll have to drive me to school first, so I can register.’

  We got into the Austin, I sat in the back and Mr Greenberg drove. It was the oddest thing I’d ever done. Matron kept laughing and eating sweets out of a tin and pointing at cows and horses. ‘You’re like our very own little gel,’ she said.

  They waited outside in the street while I ran to the school office to register as a late arrival and then snuck back out of the gates. It was all ridiculous and I felt really annoyed.

  Back at Paradise Lodge Matron thanked me and said she was much obliged and then, as they were driving away, she shouted through the window, ‘Keep an eye on Granger.’

  In the kitchen, I read the Day Book to see what Matron had meant about Miss Granger.

  O/B+++ black stool. Agit’d, ref. Food. NOK informed by tel.

  I asked Nurse Hilary what it all stood for.

  ‘She’s coming to the end,’ said Hilary with a sniff.

  It seems so obvious now, but at the time I wasn’t entirely sure what Hilary meant. And daren’t ask. I spent the day obsessively creeping in and out of the ladies’ ward looking at Miss Granger.

  Between chores, I offered her sips of water, dabbed her forehead with a flannel and talked to her about any nice thing I could think of. I’d been told by my mother that old people liked being read to, or spoken to, especially when they were dying or close to dying—that it was soothing and the next best thing to having a lullaby.

  So I talked to Miss Granger just in case. I talked about Jackie Collins, ex-pupil of Miss Tyler’s, who’d written a bestselling book that some of the staff had read and loved. I fetched the book and read her an excerpt:

  ‘All right, I’m sorry I spoke. I just don’t know why you want this stupid career of yours. Why don’t you–’

  ‘Why don’t I what?’ she interrupted coldly. ‘Give it all up and marry you? And what do you suggest we do with your wife and kids, and all your other various family entanglements?’

  He was silent.

  ‘Look, baby.’ Her voice softened. ‘I don’t bug you about things, so why don’t we just forget it? You don’t own me, I don’t own you, and that’s the way it should be.’ She applied lipgloss with a flourish. ‘I’m starving. How about lunch?’

  After that it got a bit saucy, so I switched to chit-chat. I told her that Matron had gone out for a tour of the Weetabix factory and that I actually disliked Weetabix since having it one time with slightly sour milk. And for some reason I told her my favourite word was London.

  ‘London,’ I said, ‘London.’

  And that was the only time she opened her eyes, and it occurred to me that maybe London was the only word she’d understood all day. ‘London,’ I said again, ‘it’s such a nice word, and exciting.’

  Just before I went off duty, things seemed to have taken a turn for the worse. I could see from the doorway. She seemed to be breathing—but only in-breaths and not out. I stood a while and then she took a breath in… and then nothing but a gurgling noise… and then another breath in… and so on.

  I looked from the doorway for quite a few minutes, hoping someone would just happen along and take over. I had no intention of going any closer but I told myself I had to do something, there were two other ladies already in the ward beginning to get ready for bed. One of them, Miss Boyd, saw me and was about to speak. I turned and walked as quickly as I could without rattling the floor tiles, and bumped into Nurse Hilary.

  ‘Whoops-a-daisy,’ said Hilary.

  ‘It’s Miss Granger,’ I said, ‘I don’t think she’s very well.’

  Hilary strode to Ward 2. I followed and noticed she was cow-hocked. I felt sorry for her, it being such an unattractive walk—especially as the outsides of her pork-pie shoes were worn right down. Maybe the two things were connected. Maybe it was another defect, like the pitted teeth.

  Hilary stood by the bed and looked at Miss Granger.

  ‘She’s Cheyne-Stoking,’ she said, ‘or, to use the vernacular, she’s got the death rattle.’

  ‘Does that mean she’s dying?’ I whispered.

  ‘Yes, she’ll be gone in a few minutes—she’s slowly drowning in her own bodily fluids—it’s how most of us go.’

  And Hilary walked off on her cow-hocks to telephone Miss Granger’s great-niece who lived locally but hadn’t shown up yet.

  I felt I should stay and not let this woman die alone. Not that I could be of any comfort, but I’d be in the room and that must surely count for something. I couldn’t bring myself to get close enough to dab her brow, or wet her parched lips, so I just spoke some more gibberish on her favourite subject. ‘I’ve been to Madame Tussauds in London twice,’ I told her, ‘they’ve got Kevin Keegan in there,’ and I listed other famous names that I thought she might know.

  I stood and waited, feeling as if I might faint. I think I was half expecting her to rise up, clutch her chest, groan dramatically and flop down again, at which point I imagined I might say the Lord’s Prayer. In fact, the gurgle grew softer and then nothing until her bottom denture
popped out like a candy pipe, and her chin dropped into her neck and her eyes stared off at nothing and she didn’t look like herself any more.

  Hilary returned and marched up to the bed, took Miss Granger by the chin, calmly twisted the denture back in and pulled the sheet over her face.

  ‘Is she dead?’ I asked.

  ‘No, I just can’t stand to look at her,’ said Nurse Hilary, and she laughed and pulled a face at me. ‘Only joking—yes, she’s gone to Heaven, Lizzie.’

  Hilary flicked the switch on the ripple mattress to ‘off’ and the slight hum died away and the two ladies called out, ‘Is she dead, then?’ and, ‘Thank goodness!’ etc.

  I couldn’t help but make a tiny cry sound. I was sad about the death. I always was. Even the merciful ones. I still had silly ideas about people miraculously recovering and laughing about it the next day over a hearty breakfast and all the nurses and relatives saying what a close thing it had been.

  ‘Go and get yourself a cup of tea and a fag,’ said Nurse Hilary.

  In the kitchen, Matron had literally just breezed in and still had her headscarf on. They’d had a lovely time, her and Mr Greenberg, at the Weetabix factory and she was extolling the virtues of a cereal breakfast in place of bread and marmalade and praising the countryside. I didn’t want to spoil it with the sad news straight away but Nurse Hilary came in behind me just as Matron was telling a tableful of staff about Northamptonshire’s gently undulating hills.

  Hearing this, and seeing Matron all smiles with a sample box of Weetabix and a tin of sucky sweets, Hilary put her hands on her hips.

  ‘Sounds as though you’ve had a lovely day, Matron, I’m so glad.’

  ‘Yes, we did, thank you–’ Matron began.

  ‘Well, the news here is that Granger’s dead,’ she snarled. ‘Died with her fucking teeth in and no relative.’

  ‘Another eighty quid a week gone,’ said Nurse Gwen. ‘I thought she had another year in her.’

  There was a general sadness but no one reacted philosophically. None of them imagined it being their granny, mother, sister or themselves. No one seemed to care that this woman—who’d once been someone’s baby girl, who’d seen Captain Scott leave for the Antarctic, whose favourite colour had been peacock blue and whose dressing gown had caught fire on a candle one winter’s night when they still had candles—was dead and gone. And the last image in her mind having been the waxwork model of Lester Piggott.