Go Not Gently

by Cath Staincliffe

  After ten minutes of gathering up paintings, coats, lunch boxes and shoes I managed to remove Maddie and Tom, ignoring the protests and complaints.

  It only took fifteen minutes to get tea on the table: three-minute macaroni and cheese sauce, tomato salad and bread and butter. Once fed the children crawled off to play puppies with Digger. The dog treated the whole thing with detached caution, poised to remove himself if any indignities were committed.

  Ray got back from work and went for a shower. I warmed through his pasta and washed up the rest of the dishes. ‘Your mother would have a fit,’ I said.

  ‘What do you mean?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s three-minute macaroni,’ I said.

  ‘What? You haven’t made fresh?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Neither does she,’ he said. ‘Well, only to impress. She’s a cupboard full of tinned spaghetti hoops, you know.’

  ‘She hasn’t!’

  ‘Yeah. She’s not stupid,’ he said. ‘She might not admit it but she’s discovered there’s more to life than home cooking.’

  ‘Like the bookies.’

  ‘Definitely the bookies.’

  Nana Tello – her real name is Costello but Tom’s baby version had stuck – had a penchant for the horses. Ray spent a lot of time worrying about whether she was getting into debt or betting within her means. She refused point-blank to discuss it with him and denied it a lot of the time, like addicts do.

  I liked her gambling. It proved she had weaknesses like the rest of us. Whenever she started on about how a good cook or a good mother or a good homemaker should do things I could conjure up an image of her entering her bets in a smoke-filled office.

  As far as she was concerned our silly set-up was a diversion from Ray’s (Raymundo, as she called him) real need to find a pretty young mother for his poor motherless child. She couldn’t accept that our arrangement was platonic and equitable. She veered between casting me as a hussy, a landlady or a housekeeper. Ours wasn’t an easy relationship.

  Once the children were settled I claimed the sofa. I flicked the channels hoping against hope that they’d got the listings wrong in the paper: football, darts, a TV movie (all big hair and heroism in the face of fatal illness) and a documentary. I watched this latter for a few minutes. They were uncovering abuse in private old people’s homes. Everything from verbal cruelty and petty bullying to systematic physical and sexual abuse. I kept seeing Agnes and Lily in place of the brave faces on the screen. I recalled the savagery of Dr Goulden’s face in the mirror. He’d been livid at our enquiries. Again I wondered why he’d reacted so strongly.

  I zapped the TV. What would Agnes do now? She’d been so certain that something was awry and we’d found nothing. She had to face the inevitability of her friend’s illness and eventual death, though she could go on for years. In the books I’d read there were examples of people who had lost all sense of who they were, who no longer recognised family or friends, who’d lost all personality and needed constant care and reassurance. It would be hard for Lily but it’d probably be harder for Agnes to watch her friend disappear.

  It was too depressing. I sought out my library book. A bit of Patricia Cornwell, forensic sleuthing, stateside – just the ticket.

  I made sure I was in my office in plenty of time the next morning for Jimmy Achebe’s call. He rang a little after ten. I’d already decided to ask him to come in and see me; I didn’t want to go into details over the phone.

  ‘Hello, Jimmy. I’ve got some information for you. I ought to say it doesn’t look very good.’

  ‘Oh, right.’ He sounded uncertain, very young.

  ‘Perhaps if you called over after work?’

  ‘Erm, yeah right.’ I could only just hear him above the noise of the depot.

  ‘What time do you finish?’ I asked.

  ‘’Bout five. I’ll be there just after.’

  ‘OK. I’ll see you then.’

  The guy would be in purgatory all day.

  I rang Ray at the site to see if he could get back before five. No problem. Relief. I wouldn’t have to ring round sorting out a babysitter for a half-hour meeting.

  I called at the photo shop and picked up the prints. They weren’t brilliant but they’d do.

  Back at my desk I pulled out the file I’d opened and wrote up my notes on the investigation. I always listed in detail the job I’d done. Just in case. Then I added up the time I’d spent following Tina, and my expenses. The tenner to the receptionist, the rail and Metro fares, even the food I’d bought at the station.

  I’d learned the hard way that it all adds up. It’s tough enough to make a living without being soft about the real costs of a case. I prepared the bill for Jimmy Achebe.

  Later that morning I got an enquiry from someone wanting a night watchman. I passed them on to a firm I know in Stockport. After that it was very quiet. I tidied files and finally admitted to myself I was time-wasting.

  I walked back home, pleased to see the pale sun had succeeded in emerging from the clouds. There were even a few wisps of blue sky. The ground was damp but not frozen. I’d be able to do some pottering in the garden.

  For a couple of hours I lost myself in the pungent odour of damp earth and vegetation, the feel of brick and mud and dead wood, as I repaired the low wall of the herb garden, tidied up shrubs and prepared a sweet pea trench.

  The children were tired on the way back from school and dived for the telly when we got in. Once Ray got back at four thirty I went round to the Dobsons’. I stuck my head in the kitchen to warn them I was expecting a client at five.

  He was early. The stench of cigarette smoke hit me as I opened the door. He had a baseball jacket over his uniform.

  ‘Come in.’

  Once he’d sat down I recited the bald facts as I’d uncovered them. I described following Tina from home to the Worcester Hotel. Tina registering as Mrs Peters, as she’d done several times before. The man joining her, leaving after an hour, Tina coming out later. I had photographs of each of them outside the hotel, nothing of them together.

  ‘Shit.’ He made as if to rise, then slumped back into his seat. ‘Shit.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I ventured.

  His jaw muscles clenched as he bit down hard. His fist pressing against his mouth. ‘You know anything about this guy?’

  ‘No,’ I answered.

  ‘I asked her,’ he said, ‘last night, whether anything had happened, what she’d done with the day. She’d been bored, she said, she’d rung her mum to arrange to go over for the weekend. She was thinking of taking up another class, something to do. Shit.’

  I passed him the photos of the man. Jimmy looked at the top one, his hand trembling.

  ‘Do you know him?’

  He shook his head. Breathed in sharply and sat upright. ‘OK, can I take this?’

  ‘They’re yours.’

  ‘And the money?’

  I passed him the bill, he read it and drew out some notes from his pocket. ‘There’s sixty there, I can pay the rest next week.’

  ‘Fine. I’ll give you a receipt.’

  He brushed the offer aside. He stood up, his whole body tense. I wanted to make it better but this wasn’t a child with a grazed knee. Jimmy and Tina were adults and only they could sort this out, for better or worse. I passed him the photo he’d given me of Tina. I felt a flicker of fear for her. ‘If you and Tina want any help…’ I held out a leaflet from Relate. I keep a pile to give out. If I have to go around uncovering betrayal and adultery then at least I can hand out a lifeline to those couples who might not want instant divorce.

  He snorted and stuck his hands firmly in his pockets.

  ‘I’ll see you out.’

  He bounded up the stairs to the door.

  ‘Hey,’ I said, as he made to leave. He turned to me, his face taut, his eyes bright with anger.

  What could I say? Don’t do anything daft? ‘I’m sorry.’

  He wheeled away to the van at the gate, ha
nds fumbling in his pocket for his cigarettes.

  CHAPTER TEN

  It was Tuesday of the following week. Temperatures had plummeted and black ice glassed the roads and pavements. I was in the office with the little convector heater blasting out hot air. The phone rang. I picked it up, automatically pulling pen and paper towards me. Agnes introduced herself.

  ‘I wanted to speak to you about Lily,’ she said. ‘They’ve moved her. When I went to visit yesterday Mrs Valley-Brown saw me. They transferred her during the night.’

  ‘To Kingsfield?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Oh, I am sorry.’ I waited for her to carry on. I sympathised with Agnes but what was she ringing me for? Was I the only person she could tell? I had a sudden chill as I imagined Agnes becoming dependent on me, investing me with the role of social worker as she herself became less independent, ringing me in the night, turning up on the doorstep…’

  ‘I expect you’re wondering why I rang you?’ she said, wiping out my fantasy. ‘You see, I’d like to hire you again.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘To find out more. That probably sounds a little feeble,’ she said, ‘but I still feel…I can’t shake…’ Emotion prevented her continuing. I gave her a few seconds.

  ‘Perhaps I’d better come round,’ I suggested.

  ‘Or I could come to you,’ she rallied.

  ‘No, I’ve got the car. I’ll be there in a quarter of an hour.’

  I squirted de-icer over the car window inside and out and created streaky gaps to peer through. The steering wheel was so cold it made my fingers ache. Other people bought steering wheel covers or driving gloves. Somehow there was always something higher up my list like new shoes for Maddie or getting the vacuum cleaner fixed.

  Agnes had tea already made and laid out in the front room. I took my coat off and sat down. I motioned to the teapot. ‘It’s been a while since I’ve seen a tea cosy.’

  ‘It keeps it warm,’ she said. ‘It’s not leaf tea, mind. I went over to tea bags as soon as they came in. All that mess, clogging the plug hole.’ She smiled. She poured the tea and passed me mine.

  ‘So?’ I invited her to talk.

  ‘You probably think I’m foolish, throwing good money after bad. Maybe so. I’m just so worried about Lily. I want to make sure she’s all right.’

  Apart from having dementia, I thought to myself. ‘What’s actually worrying you?’ I asked. ‘What do you think might be wrong?’

  ‘They’ve rushed her into hospital, it’s all so sudden. Too sudden. Just like with her illness. Why all the hurry?’ She looked at me, eyes dark blue, frank. ‘I’m not an illogical person. I don’t like the way things are happening so quickly. I can’t stop worrying about Lily. I’m making myself ill with it.’ Her eyes glittered but she made no move to wipe them.

  I set down my tea. ‘Lily’s ill. She’s deteriorating. Pretty soon the Lily you know will have gone. And sometime later there’ll be her physical death. It could be this that you’re anxious about.’

  ‘I have thought about that.’ As she spoke tears trailed down her cheeks, catching and spreading along the network of creases. ‘And I have tried to accept it. But there are these inconsistencies,’ she said. She stood up and went over to get a tissue from the box on the sideboard. ‘Alzheimer’s doesn’t progress so quickly, read any of the books. Two months ago Lily was at home, leading an independent life. Now she’s in hospital, transferred there in the middle of the night. It doesn’t add up. And that Dr Goulden, he’s been funny with me. He more or less accused me of taking Lily’s tablets.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He apologised later. It was yesterday. After talking to Mrs Valley-Brown I went to gather Lily’s things together. I was doing that when I heard people arguing in the corridor. It was Mrs Knight and Dr Goulden. He was shouting something about checking the bottles, accounting for everything. I couldn’t hear her reply, then he said he knew it had been the middle of the night, except he used very strong language, but it was still her responsibility.’ Dr Goulden seemed to have a propensity for bawling out his female colleagues.

  ‘Then they came into the room. He asked me what the hell I thought I was doing and told me to put everything back. Mrs Knight explained I was a friend and when he realised I wasn’t another resident his manner changed. I think she was quite embarrassed, she went crimson. Well, he explained that Lily’s tablets hadn’t been returned to the medicine cupboard as they always were in between doses. He said it had probably been overlooked in the commotion. He asked me to empty out the bags I was filling so he could check I’d not packed them by mistake.’

  Agnes leant forward and replenished our cups. ‘I knew I hadn’t and I told him so but he insisted. He said it was a serious offence for drugs to be unaccounted for. So I tipped it all out and he rifled through it and thanked me and apologised for any confusion, as he put it, then off he went. I suppose they worry about somebody taking the wrong drugs.’

  ‘Lily hadn’t taken them with her?’

  ‘No. She didn’t take anything at all. Just the night clothes she was wearing. Mrs Valley-Brown said she had been extremely distressed and they’d found it impossible to calm her. She was already on tranquillisers, she didn’t respond to the sedative they tried and they didn’t want to give her anything stronger.’

  I wondered whether Dr Goulden had done anything about Lily’s medicine in the week since we’d seen him. The situation certainly hadn’t stabilised and Lily had obviously become worse. But again I came back to the fact that I was no doctor. I might be able to uncover signs of negligence if Goulden had ignored our concerns and had not been monitoring Lily, but I thought that was about the best I could hope for.

  ‘There’s a limit to what I can do.’ I put my cup down. ‘One or two visits to Kingsfield, see Lily, perhaps find a friendly staff member to ask about her case. Try to establish what happened the night she was transferred and whether Goulden had failed to see she was getting worse. Even if we could prove that and made an official complaint there’s no guarantee anything would come of it. Did you talk to Charles about getting a second opinion?’

  ‘He said he’d consider it. I think he thought I was overreacting. Charles doesn’t like to rock the boat.’

  ‘Well, now she’s at the hospital she will be seeing a different doctor. It might be better for her.’

  ‘Yes,’ she nodded. ‘Can you go tomorrow?’

  ‘Yes. With you?’

  ‘I can’t,’ she began to load the tray, ‘I’ve a funeral in the morning.’

  ‘How about the afternoon?’

  ‘The chiropodist.’

  I was surprised that she wouldn’t be rearranging the routine appointment to visit her friend. She seemed a little ashamed too, refused to meet my eye as she busied herself with the tea things. Maybe she’d waited months for the chiropodist to come; perhaps she’d drop to the bottom of the list if she cancelled.

  ‘All right. So I just turn up.’

  ‘They call it the Marion Unit. If you could take some things for her. I’ve sorted out the essentials for now, things she might need immediately. There’s a bag in the hall.’

  ‘OK. So, I’ll go along tomorrow. We can always visit together after that and I’ll see if I can arrange for us to meet the consultant.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, without much enthusiasm. Dr Goulden’s tantrum had probably put her off the profession altogether.

  I had a swim at lunchtime, followed by a disappointing shower. Cold. More of a dribble than a shower really. There was lots of talk about what super new facilities hosting the Commonwealth Games would bring to the region but as far as I could remember the pools were to be somewhere over in Wigan and I doubted whether the showers at Withington Baths were even on the list of works. People said the Games would bring jobs and investment – it sounded great but how come we’d been the only city actually to bid for them? Was there something that they weren’t telling us? Agnes’ news had clouded my day and my cynicism
was showing.

  Kingsfield was originally built on the outskirts of the city, far enough away to protect the citizens from the ‘lunatics’ in the asylum. Since then the city had grown and now the hospital and its grounds nestled between a private housing development and an industrial estate.

  It was a vast Victorian edifice, all redbrick pomp, three storeys high with wings at either end. On top of the central entrance a small bell tower rose. The gardens to the front were mainly converted to parking, and signs pointed the way to the Plasma Research Centre, Service Supplies, Speech Therapy, Artificial Limb Centre and the Marion Unit (psycho geriatric).

  I went through the main entrance, which was all green and black tiles and tasteful indoor plant features, and was directed down the main corridor for some way. It was huge, the size of any major infirmary. In its heyday it must have housed hundreds of people. Where had they all gone? Being cared for in the community, or not, if one believed half of the reports being issued.

  I was directed along a corridor to the right and then out and across a courtyard. The gardening budget had obviously been cut. Untended beds and containers sprouted dead grass and frost-hardy weeds.

  The Marion Unit was a modern, two-storey concrete rectangle with a large grey metal triangle leaping upwards from the flat roof. As if the architect had tried to redeem the utter lack of imagination by plonking a concept on top.

  Inside and immediately opposite the heavy glass entrance doors there was a reception area with a glass booth and a small office. Three women, one in uniform, were chatting there. I approached and the huddle broke up. A woman in a smart grey wool dress, her name badge identifying her as Mrs Li, greeted me.

  I asked if I could visit Lily Palmer and explained she’d been admitted on Monday night. She told me to take a seat for a moment.

  She went into the office and used the phone. I sat in the waiting area. Some attempt had been made to make it comfortable. The seats were padded foam, there were a couple of inoffensive prints on the wall and a large drinks machine. There were magazines on the table here too along with leaflets about the Alzheimer’s Disease Society, ‘Caring for an Elderly Person’ and ‘How to Stay Warm in Winter’.