Paradise Lodge

by Nina Stibbe

Miranda came back. ‘Shall we try to lift her?’ she wondered.

  I said, ‘No, definitely not, let the ambulance men do it.’

  And Miranda was wonderful then and started chatting like you do when something awful has happened and you want to take a person’s mind off it. She said she was so sorry she hadn’t answered the bell but she’d been kissing Mike Yu in the car (at least she was honest) and after that she’d been making him a birthday card and just needed to get it finished, and the problem was she’d committed herself to bubble writing.

  She chirruped on and on and it was perfect.

  Mike hated shop-bought things, especially the fake greetings in shop-bought birthday cards, but really appreciated a gesture. She’d drawn the card herself—a horse rearing up in a heart meadow—and had written: HAPPY BIRTHDAY MIKE YU. ALL MY LOVE MIRANDA X.

  All in bubble writing, each letter a different colour and coloured in with shines and shadows. It did sound impressive and I pictured it in my mind, but I wished she’d answered the bell before Miss Mills’ teeth had dropped out of her mouth. And then I wondered why she hadn’t done it in Cantonese or Mandarin or whatever his language actually was.

  ‘Keep talking,’ I said, ‘please, keep talking.’ Because it was true, it did take your mind off the situation.

  Miranda continued, quite like a maniac, and it was perfect and much needed and the best thing she could possibly have done and I’ll never be able to repay her for it.

  She told us that she’d offered to have sex with Mike for a special birthday treat but that he’d turned her down. Not because he found her unattractive, far from it (they’d had numerous dry rides and kissing marathons), but Mike Yu didn’t believe in sex before marriage because he was afraid of losing something. Something long term, important, philosophical and possibly Chinese.

  I wondered briefly, out loud, if he might have that phobia where the man imagines the vagina has teeth like a shark’s mouth, or even a hamster’s. Miss Mills murmured ‘vaginas’. And Miranda said she’d heard of it but didn’t think Mike had it. He was phobic about cows and daren’t go for a country walk in case he got trampled, but he seemed fine with vaginas.

  I agreed with Miranda. I couldn’t see Mike Yu having a phobia of vaginas either. Why would a man with that particular phobia keep picking a girl like Miranda up in his Datsun Cherry? Surely you’d keep away from girls in short nurse’s dresses, wouldn’t you?

  After some time, the talk got less interesting. I mean, no one could keep it up forever and soon Miranda was dredging up stuff about her family. The time her mother tried to kill her father with a Flymo and once, when her father had accidentally unplugged the deep freeze, she’d called him a ‘bandit’, which made me rock with laughter, and that had hurt Miss Mills and that made me cry. Miranda carried on, though, like a hero. About her sister, Melody, my ex-best friend who’d gone manly in puberty, as previously mentioned, and thanked God for punk arriving so that she could join in with fashion and feel she belonged without trying to look girly.

  Eventually, we heard the telltale clanking of the cattle grid and knew the ambulance had arrived. Somehow Matron appeared at the same time and acted professional. Miss Mills was lifted off me by two big men and strapped on to a stretcher on wheels.

  Miranda helped me up and I leant on her as we watched Miss Mills being wheeled away—one of her bent legs sticking up, as usual, and the other not—and heard the clanging of the doors and then the clanking of the cattle grid. No one went with her in the ambulance. She went on her own. I was relieved not to have been asked to go but soon became troubled at the thought of her alone without her teeth or her blanket. I think I ranted about it for a while.

  ‘She’s not alone,’ said Matron, ‘she’s got the medics with her.’

  ‘But she doesn’t know them and they don’t know her. And what about her wheelchair,’ I whined, ‘and her teeth?’

  ‘She won’t need a wheelchair at the Royal, she’ll go straight on to the ward,’ said Matron. And because I was worrying, it was decided I must be in shock so they poured me a large glass of sherry, and lit me a Consulate.

  Later, someone rang from Leicester Royal Infirmary to inform us that Miss Mills had a suspected fractured femur and concussion and would be staying in hospital for the time being.

  ‘I’ll go and visit her in the Royal on Saturday—I’ll take her teeth,’ I said.

  ‘I thought we were going roller-skating Saturday?’ said Miranda.

  Matron butted in. ‘She’ll be dead by Saturday anyway.’

  I didn’t want a lift in Mike Yu’s Datsun. I walked the mile and a half home—slightly downhill all the way, until you got to my actual road and then it was a short, sharp uphill climb.

  I tried to keep my mind busy. I noted that the hawthorn and blackthorn hedges along the Collington Hill for a quarter of a mile, which had been brutally layed the winter before—when the sap was down—now looked wonderfully thick, neat and safe. The village had been shocked by the loss of so many trees in the lane but it had worked well and the animals were safe from the road. You had to admire the farmers.

  ‘She’ll be dead by Saturday.’

  I hated Matron. Why did she say things like that? Miss Mills was going to be fine—she’d only broken a leg. We’d talked about lilac and lino and she’d seemed intrigued by the vagina phobia. But Matron saying that had frightened me. It seemed so true-sounding.

  At home one of my mother’s relatives had called in. It was most unusual for him to be at our house; relatives never called on us and we only ever saw them at family occasions. I didn’t feel up to seeing him. He was one of those over-educated, soft-spoken types who don’t seem to mind that everyone’s uncomfortable around them just as long as they’re always in the right—like a killjoy kid who won’t jump on the furniture even though there’s a wonderful game in full swing, and it spoils the fun for everyone.

  I crept upstairs, lay on my bed and smoked two cigarettes, one after the other. Then, looking out at the empty space behind our house where three beautiful elms used to be and the line of greyish washing that had been there, hanging from mildewed pegs, since Monday, I prayed and prayed that I hadn’t just killed my favourite old lady.

  I must’ve been in shock or, more likely, tipsy from all the anti-shock sherry, because I crept downstairs into the hall and did the most extraordinary thing. I took the telephone out on to the front step—as far as the lead would reach—and vandalized it swiftly with a boot heel, until the dial-prevention lock fell off. And then, sitting on the step, I dialled Good Luck House—whose number I knew by heart.

  Mike Yu answered. ‘Good Luck House,’ he said, in a busy voice.

  I stayed quiet.

  ‘Good Luck House,’ said Mike again. ‘Can I help you?’

  I hung up, replaced the phone and listened at the sitting-room door. My sister was awkwardly talking to the relative about her various holiday jobs.

  ‘I worked on Easter Day this year,’ she said, chirpily, ‘but Christmas Day is more important than Easter, so I didn’t mind.’

  ‘Whaaat?’ said the relative, laughing. ‘More important?’

  ‘I mean, in terms of having to work,’ said my sister, now uneasy.

  The relative laughed more and louder. ‘Christmas Day is more important than Easter, is it?’ he said. ‘Try telling that to Christ!’

  I burst in.

  ‘Telling what to Christ?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh, hello, Lizzie,’ said the relative, startled.

  ‘Try telling what to Christ?’ I said again.

  ‘That Christmas is more important than Easter.’

  ‘No one gives a shit about Easter round here,’ I said.

  My mother gasped (not at my swearing, at my anger). ‘Are you all right, Lizzie?’ she asked and put her palm to my forehead, pretending to be concerned.

  ‘I just miss the elm trees,’ I said. I hung my head and stood there in the middle of the little room. The relative coughed and said he’d better be o
ff and I didn’t even look at him.

  When he’d gone I apologized. My mother said it seemed as if I’d gone insane. My sister said it was as if I’d turned into my mother. My mother had to agree. I told them about Miss Mills. My mother told us about the time she’d helped at a donkey derby and the donkey she was in charge of had gone berserk and kicked the Lord Mayor’s wife in the head and it had ended up in the Mercury.

  ‘Did she die?’ I asked.

  ‘No,’ said my mother, ‘but she never liked donkeys after that.’ As if that was almost as bad.

  The seriousness of Miss Mills’ accident caused the owner to give one of his pep talks. Attending pep talks was always awful. It was like watching a foreign film and being obliged to respond normally to abnormal, confusing things. This pep talk, however, was more straightforward than usual. He told us we must be careful not to injure the patients and that losing Miss Mills really would be the last straw.

  ‘We must make every effort to prevent losing the patients,’ he said. ‘Quite apart from the unpleasantness and suffering caused to Miss Mills, frankly we cannot afford it.’

  He paused as if he’d only just thought of it himself and was taking it in for the first time.

  ‘The death of a low-maintenance patient who might very well have years more,’ he said, ‘is terribly vexing.’

  ‘She’s not dead yet,’ said Matron.

  ‘True,’ said the owner, ‘but she’s no longer here at Paradise Lodge and in all honesty we have to accept that we have—in effect—dropped below the bank’s required minimum income. And, unless Miss Mills returns within a week, I think I will have to contact her solicitor and have her fees frozen.’

  He was looking at me as he lectured. I didn’t flinch or say, ‘What you looking at me for?’ as I would have at school or home. It would have been inappropriate in the circumstances.

  Nurse Eileen spoke up and said that Miss Mills’ accident was a result of the staff shortage and under-trained auxiliaries basically running the place. She told him it was now time to face the music and take on a senior nurse.

  The owner said he’d asked Nurse Gwen to come back but she’d got a job working for his wife at Newfields and was doing a further diploma in palliative care just to add to the home’s catalogue of wonderful features.

  The owner told us that the two prospective convalescent patients who’d been to look round earlier in the week had decided to go to Newfields.

  ‘So, please, let’s all pull together and try to keep our existing patients alive,’ he said, finishing up, ‘and let’s hope Miss Mills is back with us soon.’

  I nodded along with the others and puffed away on Nurse Eileen’s duty-frees, but in all honesty I couldn’t have sworn I’d do anything differently. The owner then launched into a lecture on money-saving and was commending Mr Simmons (who had joined us for the pep talk) for making trips to the wholesale grocers where he had discovered boxes of oatmeal soap which worked out at a staggering 3p per bar and a perfectly good sherry that was less than half the price per bottle of Tio Pepe and certainly more than half as good. Just then Lady Briggs’ bell went and everyone looked at me. I excused myself and trotted upstairs.

  ‘What’s going on downstairs?’ Lady Briggs asked.

  ‘Nothing, we were just having a pep talk from the owner,’ I said.

  ‘But you look so upset—what’s it about?’ she said. And I told her about the accident with Miss Mills. Lady Briggs seemed shocked and angry. It was a strange thing—telling an old lady I was about to help on to the commode that I’d dropped and seriously injured another old lady doing that exact thing.

  ‘It was an accident, she was very heavy,’ I said, ‘I shan’t drop you.’

  ‘But you shouldn’t have been alone,’ said the sensible Lady Briggs.

  ‘I know, but I was,’ I said.

  ‘This place is going to the dogs,’ said Lady Briggs, which had been said many times before but sounded strange and serious coming from her.

  ‘We’re doing our best,’ I said.

  It was Mike’s birthday. Miranda had handed him the birthday card that she’d done all in bubble writing and Mike had seemed really pleased. I wished Miranda hadn’t given it to him in front of me—it seemed a bit intimate. They kissed on the lips but hardly touched lips. It could not have been more sexual but gave me no pleasure at all. I just felt a wave of nauseating jealousy and wanted to punch Miranda in the face.

  Many evenings after work I got a ride home with Miranda and Mike Yu in his Datsun Cherry. Knowing how private he was, I felt a bit uneasy knowing so much about him—his kissing skills, hand-holding eroticism and the size of his feet etc.—I felt guilty, looking at his eyes in the rear-view mirror as he checked for vehicles behind before indicating to turn or pull in and stop. I felt sleazy. But it was better than walking.

  Mike and Miranda often stopped in a lay-by on the way home before he dropped Miranda off at home because of her mother not approving. Usually they’d do that barely-touching kissing—unless I was there, in which case they’d just chat and maybe kiss once or twice while I had a cigarette outside the car and monitored the progress of various hedges. And I’d puff away and make up names for a pop band or my children or imagine what I’d do if I won the pools.

  I went into town as planned with Miranda and her egg-twin, Melody, on the Saturday morning. They were going roller-skating first and then to look at clothes and lipgloss. My plan was to visit Emma Mills at the Royal Infirmary while they skated and meet them for shopping afterwards (I was thinking I might look in C&A at macs and berets). I’d got with me Miss Mills’ little crocheted blanket in a carrier bag and, though I knew hospitals were like furnaces, thought she’d like to have it. And I’d taken her teeth wrapped in damp kitchen paper to avoid shrinkage.

  When we got off the bus near Granby Halls the Longladys got into the queue for a skating session and I jogged across to the Leicester Royal Infirmary.

  On the way in, on the bus, I’d not believed in Matron’s words. Emma Mills wouldn’t be dead; it was the sort of deliberately unsettling, ghoulish thing she liked to say. She’d be on the mend and pleased to see me, and she’d hold the blanket to herself and ask if I’d brought any New Berry Fruits. But entering the hospital I started to think the worst, that she would be dead and she’d had no one there to speak soothingly in her last hours and minutes. I cursed myself for not coming before.

  I went to Odames Ward and spoke to the nurse in charge. She was pretty with red hair and blue mascara.

  ‘Miss Mills, Emma Mills,’ I said, ‘she came in on Wednesday evening.’

  The nurse in charge leafed through a book and looked up at me.

  ‘Are you a relative?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes,’ I said.

  ‘What relation?’ she asked.

  ‘Friend,’ I said.

  The nurse stood up straight then and closed the book. I had to be related, she said, before she could look at the book for me.

  ‘But I’m a good friend, I’m her only friend,’ I said.

  The nurse shuffled papers and looked at her upside-down fob watch.

  ‘I mean, not everyone has relatives, so does that mean they can’t have visitors?’ I said. ‘Or people knowing how they are or if they’d like a blanket or fucking something?’

  I shouldn’t have said ‘fucking’ because then she slammed the desk with her hand and said she wouldn’t be spoken to like that.

  ‘The thing is,’ I explained, ‘I work at Paradise Lodge where Miss Mills lives and she thinks I’m her sister and she’ll be wondering where I am—I’ve got her teeth.’ I held out the little pink pot to prove it.

  ‘Oh,’ she said, softening right down, ‘you’re Fanny-Jane?’

  ‘Yes, yes I am!’ I said.

  ‘Hold on here a minute,’ she said and clipped off.

  Soon a different nurse popped her head out of a doorway and peered at me as if the other nurse had said there was a clown in the corridor.

  ‘Are you F
anny-Jane?’ she called.

  ‘Yes,’ I said.

  The new nurse came out and walked towards me, lips pressed together.

  ‘I’m afraid Miss Mills died yesterday afternoon,’ she said.

  ‘Oh,’ I said.

  ‘I’m terribly sorry,’ said the nurse, ‘she did ask for you, but, I, we thought–’

  ‘It’s OK,’ I said, ‘I’ve got to go.’ And I strode out into the street. I put Miss Mills out of my mind. Gone. Dead. Over. No one would be surprised. Matron had predicted it. There was no need to think about it again.

  I crossed the road and stood at the entrance to the Granby Halls where I could see Miranda and Melody and a few others skating anti-clockwise, laughing, shrieking, red-faced. The song, ‘Sugar Baby Love’, and the thumping on the boards were so loud you couldn’t hear the laughing and shrieking, you could only see it. They looked wonderful, they were good enough skaters to move along quite nicely, and they knew the song and mouthed the words and did a kind of routine.

  I waited at the bus stop on Welford Road for the County Travel to take me back to Paradise Lodge. I didn’t feel like trying on macs and berets after all.

  I wish I could say I went to Miss Mills’ funeral and tossed the crocheted blanket into the grave. But I didn’t—we never went to the patients’ funerals. I don’t know why we didn’t, we just didn’t. It wasn’t the done thing.

  I found Mr Simmons reading in the owner’s conservatory. He was engrossed and didn’t notice me. Strictly speaking, the room was out of bounds for patients because there were no bells out there and, in theory, the staff weren’t able to properly look after the patients out of bell reach. But he was there and I sat down opposite him.

  ‘Hello,’ he said.

  ‘I’ve been to visit Miss Mills,’ I said, ‘at the Royal.’

  He shifted round to look at me full on and the wicker squeaked horribly. ‘How is she?’ he said.

  ‘She died yesterday,’ I said.

  ‘She died?’ he said.

  ‘Yes,’ I said and I did a bit of sniffly crying. And he blinked rapidly and shed a few tears.