Paradise Lodge

by Nina Stibbe

  And then, eventually, she said, ‘Yeah, I’m getting through it slowly, it’s not the most riveting read—especially after The World Is Full of Married Men by Jackie Collins.’

  One time she said that Anne Frank seemed like a ‘right little madam’ and Sister winced.

  Miranda took ages to read a book. Days. You’d see her at break times reading the same book day after day. Whereas I’d read Girl From the Outback in a day and was now rattling through Animal Farm by George Orwell even though it was highly allegorical. I mentioned this and Miranda retorted, ‘You try reading The Diary of Anne Frank and having a full-time boyfriend and rehearsing for the open day.’

  One day Miranda was at the kitchen table reading Anne Frank’s diary and she cried out in anguish.

  Sister Saleem looked concerned. ‘Are you all right?’ she asked.

  Miranda slammed down the book and put her head in her hands. Everyone stopped what they were doing and it was a solemn moment. ‘Finally,’ we all thought, ‘the significance of the book has struck her.’

  ‘I’ve been following this girl’s life, day after day after day,’ said Miranda, gloomily ‘and she just completely misses my birthday. She goes the 22nd blah-di-blah, 23rd blah-di-blah, 24th blah-di-blah, then the 26th. She totally ignores the 25th.’

  Sister Saleem looked stunned.

  Mike Yu had a secret. He’d told Miranda and sworn her to secrecy because his parents mustn’t find out. He’d had to tell Miranda, though, because it involved her. It was his ambition to move to the USA. He was allowed because he’d lived there slightly as a baby, or maybe he was born there, and that qualified him to go back for as long as he wanted.

  Miranda told me, obviously, that’s how I knew. The idea captivated her and she couldn’t stop talking about it. She’d had a visit to America in 1972 when her family had gone to see Boston in the Fall and it had been the holiday of a lifetime. I remembered this trip well because her sister Melody had given a talk to the class when they got back and had made it sound terrific.

  ‘The funny thing is,’ said Miranda, ‘I had this feeling when I was there, that I sort of belonged somehow.’

  ‘Oh, well, that’s handy,’ I said.

  ‘Mike says he’s planning to go in 1980, when he’s finished his degree and his parents have paid off their mortgage. He wants me to go with him,’ she said, doing a fake grimace and gripping my hand.

  I was smoking on an empty stomach and hearing this awful news made me nauseous. ‘Fantastic,’ I said.

  And even though it was a secret, the subject of America and moving there and the American dream and so forth began to crop up all over the place.

  Mr Simmons said we, as a nation, became envious of the Americans. It had started in the Second World War. And only got worse in the 1950s when things were so bleak here but looking attractive over there and they seemed to do things better. And people would go there and come back full of it. Like the Longladys—when they’d been to see Boston in the Fall and came back talking like they’d never seen a leaf go yellow and die before, or had too much to eat.

  Mr Simmons had himself been there and been impressed by the place—the attitude and the confidence and the idea that a man could get on. They’d cracked it, he said, because there was an equality you’d never get here. And Sister Saleem had laughed. She’d been there too. A black woman. And Mr Simmons had apologized for his statement and backed away.

  ‘Will Mike be OK over there?’ I asked Miranda, later, privately.

  ‘Why shouldn’t he be?’ asked Miranda.

  Miranda didn’t care about equality for Mike, she just wanted an exciting adventure and to snub her mother into the bargain. Mike was just a vehicle.

  The owner still mourned his marriage and, even though he’d adopted Rick the Yorkshire terrier, he missed Lazarus—the retriever his wife had got custody of. And he missed the children he might have had but hadn’t because of his ex-wife despairing of the awfulness of the world. And though they’d been in full agreement about it, he’d begun to worry that she might now have a child, with a new lover—because the world probably didn’t seem so awful any more. Not that it had become any better than it was, but because she might be in love—and being in love clouds your perceptions.

  ‘Who’d want to bring children into this awful world—where you can be abandoned and have your dog taken from you, not to mention all the muggings on short cuts and the bombings and the way Venice is overrun with tourists?’ the owner kept wondering. And the cook kept agreeing—she’d come in for a chat and a drink but wasn’t working because of the money she was owed.

  Of course I thought of Danny and all the babies I was planning to have later on and hoped the world would get better—but I felt a bit disheartened. And then Matron piped up with one of her long rambles about how the world was a damned sight better than it used to be and if ever there was a time for hope and babies and for women, it was now and we’d got Paul McCartney to thank for it. And I wondered if the world getting better for Matron was the same thing as it getting awful for the owner but decided it probably wasn’t that neat.

  Although the cook fully agreed with the owner about the awful state of the world (her being, like him, from the upper classes fallen on hard times), she did have one child now aged twenty-something. The cook defended her decision to bring Anthony into the world.

  ‘I’ve always been open and frank about how fucking awful the world is,’ she said, ‘and he is suitably cynical.’

  ‘That’s good to hear,’ said the owner.

  ‘He rages against the establishment in satirical artworks,’ said the cook, ‘and he’s changed his name to “Blue”.’

  ‘Bravo,’ said the owner.

  The change in Lady Briggs was striking and occasionally alarming. For a start, she’d stopped eating all her meals from a small bone dessertspoon and had begun using a knife and fork and had even complained that the forks had only three tines, not four.

  She’d become sociable. She’d gone from recluse to life and soul of the party within a matter of days. I felt it was like a starving person eating too much cake, too soon and if she didn’t slow down, she’d overdose (on metaphorical cake).

  She was considerably more mobile than we’d given her credit for and because she’d got hold of one of the Paradise Lodge leaflets (and believed every printed word) it meant we actually had to do some of the things listed, including chairobics, bingo and window bird-spotting and Nurse Eileen had to give the short talk that was advertised as an example of the pastoral care offered (‘Constipation: Causes, Cures and Common Sense’). Also, because the leaflet advertised ‘interesting excursions’—a thing people would like the idea of but not many would actually want to do—Lady Briggs stirred up an interest where previously there’d been none and formed an excursion committee with a few of the more able ladies and gents. Inevitably, an excursion to a farm in a nearby village was planned.

  Matron fell out with Lady Briggs. The two argued like a sitcom, with Lady Briggs as the nice old girl and Matron as the spiteful old harridan.

  ‘Now she’s given up being a recluse, she’s become a show-off,’ said Matron, right in front of Lady Briggs.

  ‘No, she’s just enjoying life,’ said Eileen. ‘She’s an ambassador for Paradise Lodge, aren’t you, Lady B?’

  Matron didn’t agree. ‘She’s gone like a man,’ she said, ‘bossing everyone around and demanding adventures, just because she’s down here being listened to—I preferred her shut up there.’

  Lady Briggs had chummed up with Mr Simmons, which was the real problem, now Matron had him in reserve.

  Lady Briggs broadcast the possible farm excursion and recruited so many patients we needed to borrow a larger-than-average vehicle from Zodiac Cabs. A minibus was organized and the trip to Burrows’ farm was confirmed and arranged. Lady Briggs herself had suggested Burrows’ farm because they had a flock of Bluefaced Leicesters—a breed she’d wanted to look at, having heard the fascinating history of it. No
one else knew what a Bluefaced Leicester was, except we supposed it was an animal of some sort—but it might have been a turnip for all we knew.

  Anyway, the trip was on and we discovered that a Bluefaced Leicester was a sheep and this farm not only had some, they had over a hundred and they’d just been shorn. And that was just the beginning of it.

  I hadn’t planned to go on the trip but changed my mind when Mike Yu was drafted in to drive at the last minute because Matron’s feet wouldn’t reach the minibus controls without the steering wheel digging into her 18-hour girdle.

  Anyway, off we went with Mike at the wheel and Matron in the passenger seat and six patients and me in the back.

  Lady Briggs started off on a lecture. ‘Bluefaced Leicesters are a longwool breed of sheep which evolved from a breeding scheme here in Leicestershire in the eighteenth century. Recognizable through their Roman noses and dark blue skin which can be seen through the white hair, hence the name. They are related to the original Leicester longwool breed, and commonly used as sires for mules.’ She droned on, reading from a book. ‘Fully grown Bluefaced rams can weigh as much as… and they have curly threadlike wool, yes, which is lighter than other breeds. They have no wool on the head or neck…’

  She’d run out of breath and had to pause and Matron put the radio on. ‘The Price Of Love’ by Roxy Music blared out and I suspect the urgent beat made Mike Yu drive a little faster than was sensible on the undulating lanes.

  ‘Our trip today,’ shouted Lady Briggs, like a tour guide, ‘will include a close-up experience with a very famous ram—stud name ‘Gunner Graham’—the most prolific breeding ram in the county.’

  Mike turned into a farmyard and after a few words with the farmer we bumped slowly across a field and stopped. A large flock of sheep started walking towards the minibus. I can’t explain what happened next but it was something to do with Lady Briggs opening the window to take a photograph of Gunner Graham and dropping the camera out of the bus.

  Lady Briggs shrieked and Matron swore at Lady Briggs, ‘You stupid old fucker,’ and the patients gasped at the curses. Mr Simmons gallantly got out of the bus to retrieve the camera. Matron then got out, slid the side door shut, jumped back into the passenger seat and ordered Mike Yu to drive away.

  ‘But, Mr Simmons?’ said Mike.

  ‘Drive on!’ she shouted. ‘I said, drive on.’

  So Mike started the engine and drove away—leaving Mr Simmons out in the field surrounded by Bluefaced Leicesters. Mike drove slowly and protested, trying to reason with Matron, but she yelled at Mike again, ‘I said, drive on.’

  Mr Simmons was now sitting on the grass.

  ‘Hang on,’ I said, ‘Mike, wait!’

  But Matron shouted, ‘Drive on, I’m the superior here–’

  And I butted in, ‘No, you’re not.’

  And Lady Briggs just stared out of the back window at a sheep removing Mr Simmons’ Ascot cap with its mouth.

  Sister Saleem was surprised to see us back so soon and questions were asked as the patients—most of whom were shaken and upset—filed back into the day room. Matron took herself off and sat in the owner’s nook, like a dog waiting to be whipped.

  Sister Saleem told Mike and me to go back and collect Mr Simmons. As we set off Sister asked, ‘Why did she do it?’

  And I said, ‘I don’t know.’ But I did know. She was jealous and mad and I suddenly believed she had strangled that nun over the award-winning coffee cake.

  Mike Yu was a bit freaked out by what had happened and he likened himself to a young German officer doing what he was told even though he was a decent person at heart etc.

  There was no sign of Mr Simmons at the farm—not in the field and not in the farmyard. We’d been told not to ask the farmer but just to find him. He wasn’t on the roads between Paradise Lodge and the farm—about three miles of country lanes.

  We walked along the canal towpath.

  It’ll sound terrible now but no amount of worry for Mr Simmons could stop my romantic feelings for Mike. I was worried and acting worried at the same time, and trying to chat with Mike. Mike himself was very worried, and perfect. He kept thinking of sensible things, like, ‘Perhaps someone stopped and offered him a lift,’ and I’d say, ‘He did talk about the canal, though, so I think we might find him along here.’ Just to prolong our walk.

  A thought occurred to me and I gasped. I’d realized that Mr Simmons’ actual home, Plum Tree Cottage, was in the next village and that he would obviously have walked back there.

  I didn’t tell Mike my thought, though, because I wanted the joy of strolling with him and maybe seeing a kingfisher and remembering the last time we’d been on the towpath together and I’d brought peace to Grandpapa Yu. It was selfish and awful. I’m not going to try to justify it.

  ‘What?’ Mike Yu asked.

  ‘What?’ I said.

  ‘You gasped,’ said Mike Yu.

  ‘I thought I saw a kingfisher,’ I lied.

  We ambled on. Mike Yu kept squinting into the distance, around the curves of the towpath, hoping to see the shuffling figure of an old man.

  ‘What do you make of Sally-Anne?’ he asked.

  ‘Sally-Anne?’

  ‘Yes, what’s she like, you know, as a person?’ asked Mike.

  ‘She’s dead inside,’ I said, and then I pointed out our narrowboat, Harmony, which was either back for another visit or, less romantically, had been parked there all this time, meaning the inhabitants lived on that bit of canal, and never floated along forgetting their cares and spent all their time simply keeping the boat spick and span and admirable for passers-by.

  ‘Harmony!’ I pointed.

  Mike was preoccupied and seemed desperately worried about Mr Simmons. We walked for a while, but there was no sign of him so we turned round.

  Back in the Datsun, Mike asked if I knew what had caused Sally-Anne to be dead inside. I didn’t mention the twins and her baggy downstairs and numb heels—due to a fast and multiple birth, and never being able to marry royalty. I suspected Miranda had already told him all that, plus I didn’t want to spoil our walk with gossip of that kind. Instead, I said she suffered with a difficult past.

  ‘Oh, God!’ I yelled. ‘I’ve just realized where Mr Simmons is.’

  Mike looked at me. ‘Where?’

  ‘He’ll be at his cottage, I’ll show you.’

  I directed Mike and soon we pulled up outside Plum Tree Cottage. Mr Simmons was shuffling up the path and, at that moment, the front door opened and there stood the Deputy Head.

  I leapt out of the car. ‘Mr Simmons!’ I called.

  He didn’t hear and, after ushering him inside, Miss Pitt looked at us and gave me that hand signal that means ‘OK’ to an adult (but can also indicate ‘vagina’ if used concurrently with a prodding index finger). Miss Pitt thought I’d delivered Mr Simmons home as per our tacit agreement in spite of our fight at the cemetery. It was unbelievable but that was teachers for you. No grudges.

  Sister Saleem hadn’t decided whether or not to sack Matron for leaving a patient in the sheep field—she suspended her from duty while she thought it through and spoke to her church minister.

  Matron popped up when Sister Saleem wasn’t around. Just to say what a know-it-all monster Lady Briggs had become and what a love-struck idiot Mr Simmons was and how she didn’t care what happened and she was all packed and ready for St Mungo’s in case Sister Saleem sacked her. And what was Mr Simmons saying about the incident?

  ‘Mr Simmons isn’t here,’ I told her.

  ‘Where is he?’ asked Matron.

  ‘At home,’ I said.

  ‘Home?’

  ‘Plum Tree Cottage,’ I said.

  I spoke to Lady Briggs. It wasn’t as natural to chat now she didn’t spend hours on the commode and was living in communal areas, but we did have a very meaningful talk about the sheep field incident.

  ‘Lizzie,’ she said, ‘what made Matron behave in such a peculiar way?’

&n
bsp; ‘What?’ I said.

  ‘Leaving Mr Simmons in that field of Bluefaced Leicesters.’

  ‘She’s turning into a monster,’ I said, ‘because she’s facing a frightening and uncertain future.’

  ‘How so?’ asked Lady Briggs.

  ‘Her mother smothered her father with a pillow and they had to run away and now she has no pension coming and believes she’ll end up in a homeless shelter near the prison,’ I said.

  ‘Good grief,’ said Lady Briggs. ‘But why did that cause her to leave Mr Simmons in the sheep field?’

  I told her about Matron’s quest to find a live-in companion position and her fear of other women encroaching, like Nurse Hilary had done with Mr Greenberg.

  ‘But she could be my live-in companion,’ said Lady Briggs, clapping her hands.

  ‘No,’ I said wearily, ‘it has to be someone who can leave her a bungalow to live in—after they’ve died.’

  ‘I see,’ she said, ‘how very quaint.’

  28. Punk

  I got to work a few days later and discovered a lot had happened. Serious things. Firstly, Mr Simmons was back. Matron had rescued him. Mr Simmons told me all about it. Matron had knocked at the door of Plum Tree Cottage and Miss Pitt, thinking she was there to return Mr Simmons’ car, opened the door to thank her, but Matron pushed her aside, told Mr Simmons to get his stuff together, helped herself to the spare car key—which was helpfully hanging on a car-shaped hook—and brought him back to Paradise Lodge.

  She told Mr Simmons it was the least she could do after leaving him in the field and him ending up back at home. Mr Simmons had said she shouldn’t worry about the sheep field incident, he hadn’t minded at all, plus he was getting used to being kidnapped and rescued and abandoned and had since then armed himself with an Acme Thunderer, which I thought might be a weapon but turned out to be a police whistle.

  Secondly, Matron had been sacked and she was gone. Sister Saleem refused to discuss the ins and outs of this to begin with. All we knew was that Jeremy Hughes, the owner’s solicitor, had come and spoken to him (presumably about the sheep field incident) and it was presumed that he and Sister Saleem had had no choice but to sack her for gross negligence etc.