Paradise Lodge (17 page)

‘I
am
going to report you,' I said.

‘I'll be gone soon.'

‘I'm going to report you today,' I said.

‘The world's changed, Lizzie. It's all regulations. It wasn't like that in my day.'

‘What's that got to do with stealing the patients' medicines?' I asked.

‘I can't help myself since she came and locked everything up.'

‘But that's the normal, correct procedure,' I said.

‘And she's more a fake than I am. The owner has no memory of taking her on—she's just turned up, on the make,' said Matron, ‘she's been tipped off by some scoundrel selling coal or in the pub.'

‘This isn't about Sister Saleem, it's about
you
,' I said.

To my astonishment she then asked if
I'd
go to the doctor and pretend I had severe chronic back pain and insomnia—and pass on whatever was prescribed.

‘Just say you're totally knackered all the time but when it comes to bedtime, you can't get off to sleep and your head's buzzing and if you do drop off, you're awake again in no time with your heart thumping in your ribs.'

‘
NO
!' I said.

‘Well, then I have no choice but to keep stealing the pills,' she said.

‘But the patients need them. They're their pills,' I said.

‘I have the greater need,' said Matron. ‘I have work to do. I can't sit in the window reading a large-print romance or snoozing the afternoon away.'

‘Just go and register with Dr Gurley in Flatstone,' I said.

‘I can't,' she said, ‘I'm under an assumed name because I fled here with a fugitive.'

‘What fugitive?' I asked.

‘My mother—she smothered my father with a goose-down pillow,' she said.

‘Was he ill?' I asked.

‘No,' said Matron, ‘he was a beast.'

‘How did she have the strength to smother a healthy, full-grown man?' I asked.

‘It's easier than you think—with goose down,' said Matron.

‘Well, that was your mother, not you,' I said. ‘Just go and register under your true name.'

Then her excuses became ridiculous. She told me a whole yarn about taking a wrongly labelled chocolate cake instead of award-winning coffee cake in a self-service café and then, in some kind of disappointed trance, strangling a nun.

‘I strangled a nun,' she said.

‘I'm not colluding with you,' I said.

I didn't care about the dad-smothering or the nun-strangling, I told her if I saw her taking the patients' pills ever again I'd report her to Sister Saleem. And she just sniffed. She didn't care. Or she didn't think I'd do it.

‘Anyway,' she said, ‘I expect I'll be leaving with Mr Godrich.'

‘Mr Godrich?' I said. ‘He's not even here yet.'

‘I'm hoping to become his live-in companion,' said the poor, deluded old woman.

I didn't believe a word of the cake-and-nun story—mainly because cafés weren't self-service back then. But I did believe she was frightened, and I felt merciful. I let her talk about Mr Godrich and I wished he'd hurry up and arrive, get better and then leave—with Matron.

And then, thinking that, I remembered I still had to tell Lady Briggs about the move.

One day, my sister telephoned. She never usually telephoned because of the lock on the phone and because she hated phone boxes because of the smell of old windowpanes and all the urine.

I knew something awful must have happened because she was all whispery and said ‘Hi, Lizzie, how are you?'

So I said, ‘Why are you ringing?'

And she tried to speak through her tears and I had a horrible moment thinking Sue had died. But it wasn't Sue, it was Marc Bolan—which was terrible, but certainly less bad (for me) than it being Sue.

Marc Bolan was a big favourite at Paradise Lodge. Not among the patients, of course—I don't think they were aware of him—but among the staff he was definitely number one, pop star-wise. Partly because he'd remained important after they'd grown out of David Cassidy and The Osmonds. Also, he was known to be just up the M1 in London messing around being a star and sexy and probably a bit druggy, not all the way over in California being American and out of reach and married to the Church.

Once the full story was known—Marc died when a Mini driven by his girlfriend, Gloria Jones, hit a tree—I felt sorry for Gloria Jones. People were pointing the finger of blame—as they always do when you're the driver, especially if you survive. I knew from bitter experience how Gloria Jones felt. Bereft and to blame and yet probably not to blame. In my version of events Marc Bolan had been messing about in the passenger seat—grabbing the wheel as a joke—high on the excitement of being a pop star etc. Not that we can ever know for sure that he was, but you have to assume.

But Gloria Jones couldn't say any of this. Marc had died and she knew the country would be in mourning—she couldn't go blaming him for causing the crash with his crazy behaviour. It was exactly the same as when Miss Mills had died. I couldn't blame her, I couldn't say, ‘She kept shouting and making a fuss and disturbing all the other ladies in the ward,' or, ‘I'd lifted her on to the bed fine, but she wouldn't shuffle back and toppled forward.' I had to take the blame, 100 per cent.

Anyway, Marc Bolan had died and it felt strange. I have to compare it to the day—exactly one calendar month earlier—when the catering grocer had given us an ultimatum about the unpaid bill and Elvis had died and the owner said he didn't know if he wanted to exist in a world without Elvis. And one of the barmaids at the Piglet Inn had sat and sobbed on the bench outside the bar saying her ‘hunka hunka burning love' had died on the toilet and she was just going to sit there and think about him and if anyone wanted a pint, they'd have to pull their own.

The owner and the older staff had been devastated by the death of Elvis, but in general the nurses hadn't. They'd been saddened but not devastated.

Marc Bolan was different. Granted he'd had fewer albums and hadn't brought rock 'n' roll to a whole generation but he was ours and we'd got used to him and he had his own telly show, smoky eyes and girlish good looks. And you couldn't imagine him eating two whole burgers or not wanting to have sex. You could imagine him having sex twice and not wanting a burger. That was the difference. I didn't adore him myself. But the others—including my sister—did. And they wailed and sobbed. Melody got the London bus—even though she'd entered a punk phase—and went to put flowers and glitter by the crash tree and there'd been thousands there (people and flowers).

Mike Yu turned up with a box of cabbages and carrots that were on the turn for us to use for a stew dinner. And, since practically everyone was in a sad daze about Marc or—in Miranda's case—on the brink of weeping, Mike ended up making the stew himself.

Miranda ‘cried' on Mike Yu's shoulder in front of everyone in the kitchen as he chopped the carrots.

Sally-Anne was sad too but she didn't show it. ‘You don't look bothered at all, Sally-Anne,' said Miranda. Sally-Anne calmly replied that she was sad but she couldn't cry because she was dead inside. And the thought of Sally-Anne being dead inside seemed sadder to me than Marc.

My sadness about Sally-Anne's deadness inside meant I must have, momentarily, looked sad and Mike said to me, over Miranda's shoulder, ‘I'm so sorry the T. Rex guy has died, Lizzie, I know you all really liked him.'

And, for some reason I can't fathom, I replied, ‘Oh, he wasn't really my favourite.'

Everyone looked surprised. It was a terrible thing to say about a 29-year-old person who'd died and I tried to make amends by saying how dreadful it was when anyone died—especially a young person, and so on. But the damage was done and I seemed so cold—colder even than Sally-Anne, who at least had the excuse of being dead inside.

Maria Callas's death, which we heard about later that day, was of course very sad too. The owner shuffled into the kitchen, in floods, and noisily plugged in his Panasonic. And after a lot of rewinding and the sound of operatic music being fast-forwarded, he then played the most God-awful racket anyone had ever heard (the late Maria Callas singing an opera).

‘Music is an illusion of a better world,' he said. ‘Ah, La Divina Maria!'

Mike Yu popped back in to check on the stew and asked what was the matter with the owner.

‘His favourite singer has died,' I said.

‘I thought Elvis was his favourite,' said Mike.

‘That was just for sex with his ex,' said Miranda, shouting to be heard above the music.

‘Who's this, then?' asked Mike.

‘It's Maria Callas—she died,' I said, and I began to cry. I wiped the little tears that ran down my cheek and that very thing was enough to make me cry a bit more. I don't know what made me cry—it might have been Maria Callas and the rising music or the owner dabbing his tears away with a great big white handkerchief, or it might have been Mike standing there in a cloud of steam and stripy oven gloves.

Mike gave me a brotherly pat and I felt relieved to have shown some emotion.

The tickets for a Purcell medley that arrived the next day were more appealing to Mr Simmons than the Chopin recital. Miss Boyd also fancied it and I said I'd go too. The concert was in the Haymarket Theatre which was more modern but had fewer parking opportunities so we took the bus there and had a taxi booked for the return, with time built in for refreshments at the Swiss Cottage just over the road—where Miss Pitt would presumably turn up unexpectedly and have a chat with her stepfather. I telephoned her to let her know we'd be going. Speaking to her on the phone felt disgusting. She was all pleased and cooperative, treating me like an accomplice.

‘I shall arrive afterwards,' she said, ‘and Dad and I will probably go and have a cup of tea somewhere and then I'll drive him back to Paradise Lodge.'

‘Just as long as you're not going to kidnap him,' I said.

Miss Pitt laughed. ‘No, no, don't worry, I shan't kidnap my own father.'

‘Stepfather,' I said.

The concert was unexpectedly moving, due to it being partly like a very sad funeral—in which the songs were sad and slow and very affecting. The main female singer—dressed in black feathers and a black net veil—was not only a fantastic singer but a brilliant actor too and seemed to be singing about her own imminent death. And partly about the composer's own life and his journey through it, including royal and sacred themes. The concert ended with these words, narrated by a young man from the choir:

And in 1695, at the height of his fame, aged just thirty-five years, Henry caught a chill after returning home one night late from the theatre to find that his wife had locked him out. His body is buried next to the organ in Westminster Abbey and the music he composed for Queen Mary's funeral was performed at his own.

It was all quite heartbreaking (imagine being the wife who locked him out). Mr Simmons and Miss Boyd both clutched their handkerchiefs. I was already miserable at my treachery and churning in trepidation about what was going to take place after the concert. I regretted the whole thing and was on the brink of telling Mr Simmons to hide in the gents until I gave him the all-clear when I saw my Granny Benson ahead in a little gaggle of posh old women and I hurried my companions out of the foyer.

‘Let's go for a quick cup of tea,' I said, breezily.

‘If you like,' said Mr Simmons, ‘but I have my flask so I'll not need any.'

And then, as we went to cross the busy road, Miss Pitt's distinctive pale blue Dolomite pulled up at the kerb a few yards ahead of us. Two blokes got out, grabbed Mr Simmons by the elbows and marched him to the car quicker than his little feet could go. His tartan flask dropped to the ground and rolled away down the street.

He struggled and looked round at me. ‘Nurse!' he shouted.

And I shouted, ‘Hey, no, let go of him,' and pulled at the sleeve of the nearest bloke. ‘Get off him!' I yelled again.

But they pushed him into the car, jumped in themselves and the car drove off.

In the taxi on the way home Miss Boyd kept mithering me about the incident. ‘Who was that? Why did they take Mr Simmons?' and so on.

‘It was his stepdaughter,' I told her, ‘she's taken him for a cup of tea.'

‘Oh, that's nice,' said Miss Boyd.

I had to keep my face turned away from her so she wouldn't see I was upset, but when we got back to Paradise Lodge I collapsed into Sister Saleem's arms.

‘What's happened?' she asked. ‘Where's Mr Simmons?'

‘We bumped into his stepdaughter and she's taken him off—probably to try and keep him at home,' I said.

‘Was she aggressive, unpleasant, violent?' asked Sister. ‘What was she like?'

‘Well, she was quite assertive,' I said.

As soon as I could, I ran up to Lady Briggs and told her the whole awful truth—including my treachery. She didn't seem surprised and wasn't at all cross.

‘She'll have taken him back to live at Plum Tree Cottage—what shall I do?' I cried.

‘There, there, dear,' said Lady Briggs, ‘let me see what I can do.'

And though there was nothing she could do, I felt better for having poured my heart out.

Mr Simmons still wasn't back a couple of days later and though I was genuinely devastated, I had to face up to the truth that this was exactly what I'd planned to happen. Plus it occurred to me that should Miss Pitt successfully prevent Mr Simmons from returning to Paradise Lodge, then Mr Godrich, the imminent convalescent patient and his little dog, could have Room 8 and Lady Briggs needn't move out of hers. On the other hand, Mr Simmons had been almost single-handedly running the place.

I felt bad about it—and selfish and all those awful things—but I was more worried about Lady Briggs having to move into Ward 2 than Mr Simmons having to live with a controlling woman with bad taste.

Then, as I was justifying myself (to myself), Mr Simmons appeared with a pot of cream in his hand.

‘You're back,' I said, ‘thank God.'

And Mr Simmons said, ‘Yes, and I must apologize most sincerely that you were dragged into the incident at the Haymarket. I am sorry.'

‘That's
OK
,' I said, ‘but how did you get away?'

‘That's the curious thing, the milkman called at the cottage and said he'd heard I needed a lift back here—so I just walked out and got into the float.'

‘How marvellous,' I said.

I couldn't work out where this left me, ‘O' Level-wise. I guessed the deal was off.

Mr Simmons made himself two rounds of bread and butter and a cup of tea.

Matron watched him eat it, smiling. ‘Thank God you're back,' she said.

Later I spoke to Matron. ‘Don't pin your hopes on Mr Simmons,' I said. ‘You won't beat the Deputy Head.'

‘No, no, indeed not,' she said. ‘I'm hoping to leave with this fella Mr Godrich, when he's ready.'

‘Fantastic,' I said, wearily.

‘Have you told Lady B that he needs her room yet?' asked Matron.

It was true I did know Lady Briggs a bit better than the others but only because every single break time, every lunchtime and teatime and many times in between, her bell would ring and ring and everyone would ignore it—except to call out, ‘Lizzie, her ladyship's ringing.' And I'd go up.

Occasionally Lady Briggs' bell-ringing would be to ask for one of her stationery boxes to be lifted out of her tallboy and given to her. She had work to do, she claimed, but mostly it was that she needed the commode, and then, nine times out of ten, there'd be nothing in the pot at the end of it—even though she'd make a point of visibly ‘trying' which involved tensing up, holding her breath and bearing down and sometimes asking you to whistle.

There was no point leaving and coming back, her room being at the end of the corridor and miles away from everything else. So I'd stay and we'd chat about the goings-on at Paradise Lodge and she'd feign an interest in the administrative side of things just to keep me there. And then she'd say, ‘Oh, I give up,' and I'd sometimes say, ‘There you sit, broken-hearted, paid a penny but only farted,' and she'd laugh.

It was during one of those five-minute interludes—her on the commode, trying to go—that I was supposed to introduce the idea of her leaving the quiet and pretty solitude she loved, and moving downstairs to a shared, rather chilly ward with a bunch of lunatics and a hospital bed with a chipboard cabinet beside it and no space for her nice bevel-edged nightstand and Chinese ablutions jug and basin.

But there was no immediate rush. Mr Godrich wasn't due for a week or two.

I began to enjoy chatting with Lady Briggs about Mike Yu. Her memory was poor enough not to worry overmuch about her bringing it up again. And I couldn't stop being impressed that she'd quite rightly known I was in love—before I even had.

One time I'd gone up there determined to tell her about the room move but ended up confiding in her my concerns about Mike and Miranda's zodiacal compatibility—Miranda having been born in the Year of the Ox and therefore being either a perfect match for him or, more likely, a sworn enemy in the long run and might even murder him. The thing was, I was an ox too and so the same applied to myself and Mike. But I just knew which one of us would be the perfect match (me) and which one would end up stabbing him to death over a minor disagreement (Miranda).