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Authors: Wendy Perriam

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BOOK: Tread Softly
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‘I was just coming to take your details.'

‘D'you mind if I find the loo first?'

‘Go ahead. It's that door opposite. I'll be with you in five minutes.'

The bathroom was cavernous. A throne-like porcelain toilet sat beside a jarringly modern bath full of complicated equipment, including a plastic chair and a hoist. A battered wooden shelf-unit held packets of medicated wipes, disposable rubber gloves and yet more incontinence pads. Was she the only one with bowel and bladder control? A bumper blessing to add to the list – as was the chance of an early night. There weren't likely to be any late-night revels here.

Hobbling back to her room, she found someone sitting in the chair – not Joyce but an elderly lady in a sleeveless off-white nightgown, her limp grey hair straggling on to her shoulders.

‘Hello, Ethel,' the intruder said in a voice surprisingly forceful for her scrawny frame. ‘Nice to see you again.'

‘I'm, er, Lorna actually. And I don't
think
we've met.'

‘Yes, they told me. You've got to bring the yellow one.'

‘I beg your pardon?'

‘They don't want green, they said.'

‘Oh, I see.' She didn't. Resting her crutches against the wall, she perched on the edge of the bed – there was nowhere else to sit.

‘You can't take them with you. It's not allowed.'

‘Really?'

‘No, you have to leave them outside.'

‘Well, thanks for letting me know.'

The ensuing silence grew uncomfortable, but Lorna felt unable to contribute more to the conversation. Besides, it might encourage the woman to stay, or even to lay claim to the bed (although in its present state it didn't look inviting: a crumpled counterpane atop a plastic sheet).

Lorna consulted her watch. Joyce should be along any minute, so best sit tight and say nothing. She noticed that her visitor was studying the tea-tray with great interest, eventually picking up the piece of ham-fat and putting it into her mouth.

‘I wouldn't eat that if I were you,' Lorna cautioned.

‘You will bring the yellow one,' was the only response, mumbled through a mouthful of fat.

‘Yes … all right, I will. But, look, that stuff's not very good for you.'

‘Green's no use, they said.' Still chewing enthusiastically.

Lorna pressed the bell. She was afraid the woman might be sick, or choke – or both. Worse, sitting in thin nightclothes in an unheated room in December, the poor soul was in danger of hypothermia. A red light came on above the bed and continued flashing. At least the bell was in working order, if her visitor was not.

‘Ethel?'

‘Yes?'

No further remarks were forthcoming, so Lorna lay back on the plastic sheet. Her foot was throbbing unbearably – a result of failing to keep it elevated. She reflected on her new persona: Ethel Paterson. Ethel, she decided, was not only completely fearless but a stunning beauty, with first-class honours from Cambridge, Harvard and the Sorbonne, a string of Byronic lovers and –

A sudden crash made her jump. It was followed by a screech, this time from the room directly below. The woman carried on placidly chewing as if nothing had happened. Perhaps deafness was the norm here, along with incontinence.

She pressed the bell again. Why did nobody come? If the woman had a heart attack a delay could prove fatal.

‘You're lucky to
have
a bell. Think of that poor husband of yours, alone and seriously ill, with absolutely no one to …'

Yes, Agnes was right – poor Ralph. He was less than a couple of miles away and had two phones, a fax and e-mail, yet the pair of them might have been on different continents for all that they could communicate. She felt horribly cut off from him, from friends, from everyone.

‘Stop it!' she told herself. ‘You're Ethel Paterson, remember, so you
never
feel isolated. Nor do you feel the cold. You're super-resistant to bugs, germs, unkind remarks, hunger, pain, unpleasant smells, noise and extremes of temperature.

‘Ethel,' the woman said again, having finally swallowed her mouthful. ‘It
is
Ethel, isn't it?'

‘Yes,' Lorna said with a determined smile. ‘It most certainly is.'

Chapter Seven

Lorna opened her eyes, blinded by a light. A torch was shining directly into her face, the room beyond in darkness. A shadowy figure – broad-shouldered, burly, black – was looming over her bed. My God! she thought, a mugger … ‘
No!'
she shouted. ‘Go away!'

‘It's all right, Mrs Pearson. My name's Oshoba. I work here nights. I'm a care assistant. I didn't mean to wake you, but we have to check on the patients.'

‘Oh gosh, I'm sorry,' she murmured. He'd think she was a racist. ‘I was having a bad dream and …'

‘Yes, I heard you calling out in your sleep.'

Not a good sign. Was senile dementia catching? If so, she might forget her own name or find herself wetting the bed. ‘I … think I'll spend a penny now I'm awake.'

Oshoba looked blank. His English, although impressive, obviously didn't encompass euphemisms.

‘I need to go to the toilet.'

‘I'll bring you a commode.'

He left her on her own to perform, and returned a few minutes later with extra pillows and blankets, a cradle for her foot and a jug of water – all the things she had craved last night. Better still, he remade the bed and even tucked the covers round her, tenderly as if for a small child.

‘You're far too young to be here, Mrs Pearson. How old are you – twenty-three?'

She flushed. ‘No, almost forty.'

‘You can't be!'

Was he flirting with her? Well, a little flattery was harmless enough. And his voice was deliciously sexy: a rich, black-treacle bass that sounded as if it came from the depths of a well.

‘Do you know what the average age is here?' he asked, lingering by her bed.

‘No, tell me.'

‘Eighty-seven. My poor mother died at fifty.'

‘And mine at thirty-one.'

‘Oh, that's terrible. I'm sorry.'

His words seemed genuine, and his eyes were kind – huge, dark, rather bulgy eyes, the dazzling whites a contrast to his skin.

‘Tell me your name again. I didn't catch it.'

He grinned. ‘Yes, everyone finds it a mouthful. It's Osh-
how
-bah.'

‘And where do you live, Osh … oba?' Making small talk in the middle of the night was a trifle odd, but it was a relief to talk to someone both calm and
compos mentis
.

‘I've got a place in Woking, but I come from Nigeria. I only left a year ago.'

He must be lonely too, uprooted, far from home. ‘And are your family still there?'

‘Yes. All except one brother. We share a flat. He works as a chef.'

‘That sounds nice. Does he cook for you?'

‘Oh no. I'm out so much I hardly ever see him. I'm doing Business Studies at Brooklands College.'

When did he sleep, she wondered, studying all day, skivvying all night? Sharon had told her how disgracefully low the care assistants' wages were.

‘Well, I must let you get your beauty sleep. Although you're a beautiful lady already.'

He
was
flirting. No matter. Compliments were rare. Ralph never commented on her appearance. Indeed if she were to dye her hair and embark on plastic surgery, including total body reconstruction, she doubted if he would even notice.

‘Goodnight,' Oshoba said, switching off the light. ‘Have nice dreams, beautiful lady, not bad ones.'

Yes, she thought, I will: dreams of a torrid encounter with a broad-shouldered, kind-hearted and wildly passionate black man.

She woke with a start. An appalling noise was jangling on and on. The fire alarm! The building was alight. She would burn to death. No escape on crutches. She sat up, sweating, shaking, her heart pumping so hard it could have fuelled the national grid. Fear was worse than fire – would probably kill her first. Already she was paralysed. Couldn't move, couldn't stand. The noise crescendoed, a wail of terror stunning the whole house. Had someone called the fire brigade? No, jumping out of the window on a knotted sheet or going down a wobbly ladder would be as bad as burning to death.

‘Help!' she screamed. ‘Please help me!'

No one came. She could feel the flames licking at the door, smell the charred remains of burning timbers, burning flesh.

‘Help!' she yelled again. Still no response. All the staff must have fled, leaving her to perish in the flames. She could no longer see or breathe. Smoke poured through the room. She was dying – now – her last gasps stifled by the contemptuous bray of the alarm.

Then silence, suddenly – almost as shocking as the noise. Disoriented, she opened her smarting eyes. There
was
no smoke; the only smell was urine and, amazingly, Sister Joyce had appeared.

‘Are you all right, Mrs Pearson? I thought I heard you shouting.'

‘Yes. No. I …'

‘You did know about the fire-drill, didn't you? We test the alarm first thing every Thursday.'

‘No, I wasn't told.'

‘Oh dear, that
is
remiss. And no one's emptied your commode. I'd better do it now.'

When she'd gone, Lorna lay recovering. Every panic attack left her bitterly ashamed, and this one more than most. She hadn't spared a thought for her dozen octogenarian neighbours. Any decent person would have rushed to rescue them first, not given way to hysteria. Some brave souls risked their necks to save a
cat
, for heaven's sake. ‘Total fear casteth out love,' a wit had once remarked. Shamefully true.

Joyce reappeared with a tumbler of water and four pain-killers in a plastic pot. ‘You should have had these with your breakfast.'

‘That's OK. I haven't had breakfast yet.'

‘Not had breakfast? It's nearly half past nine!'

‘Look, please don't worry. I don't want any.' A craven coward like her didn't deserve to eat.

‘How about a cup of tea?'

‘No, really. This water'll do me fine.'

‘Well, it's the Christmas party this afternoon, so you'll be able to eat your fill. It's quite a feast, by the sounds of it.'

‘Oh … good.' Somehow she couldn't imagine a party here. Was a party frock
de rigueur?
Which reminded her – she hadn't had a bath for over a week. If Christmas celebrations were planned, she didn't fancy being singled out as the new arrival with BO. ‘I wonder if I could have a bath.'

Joyce looked dubious. ‘We are exceptionally busy. How much assistance would you need?'

‘Well, if someone could help me in and out I'm sure I could manage the rest. Though of course I mustn't get the bandage wet.'

‘I'll see if Tommy's free.'

Tommy? A man? No, remembering Phil, perhaps not. While she waited she swilled her mouth with water. Even cleaning her teeth was a trial – she might hobble all the way to the bathroom only to find it occupied.

Joyce popped her head round the door again. ‘Oh, by the way, there was a message from your husband. He phoned to send his love.'

‘Is he better?'

‘He didn't say.'

No, he wouldn't have done. Ever the stoic, Ralph. He must be getting weak, with only pipe-smoke to sustain him. And of course smoking could lead to complications: pneumonia, TB. Perhaps it was just as well they couldn't wish each other a happy Christmas tomorrow. Given their individual circumstances, happiness seemed a remote prospect.

There was a rat-tat-tat at the door. Sharon with an ultimatum? No – a man of about forty, with rimless spectacles and reddish hair, manoeuvring a wheelchair into the room.

‘I'm Tommy,' he said curtly. ‘I hear you want a
bath
.' He made it sound as self-indulgent as asking for a ton of Beluga caviar or a personal slave to cool her with an ostrich-feather fan. (During the night the radiator had gone from tepid to red hot.)

‘Well, yes, I –'

‘You'll have to make it sharp then. I'm meant to be taking the drinks round.'

Drinks? Did the Christmas party include a mid-morning gin? She'd need one if she was going to be bathed by a man. ‘I, er, thought it would be a female –'

‘It's me or nothing. Where's your sponge-bag?'

‘In that drawer.'

The drawer jammed of course, and Tommy's muttered ‘Fuck!' reminded her of the woman next door. (She seemed mercifully quiet today, but perhaps her son had dragged her home for an apocalyptic Christmas.)

Sponge-bag under his arm, Tommy helped her into the wheelchair, then whistled tunelessly as he jolted her down the passage. The passage was stiflingly hot, the bathroom corpse-cold. Evidently the heating at Oakfield House was as old and temperamental as its residents.

‘Soap?' said Tommy.

‘I haven't any.' Considering the mammoth fees, surely they could run to a bar of soap.

Tommy's sigh was hurricane-force as he stalked off on a soap quest. He returned with a bar of Pearl, which she recognized from a TV commercial featuring an ultra-glamorous model with a cascade of ash-blonde curls lolling sensuously in a bubble bath – an unfortunate contrast with herself. Her own hair hung lank and greasy after eight days without a wash, the antibiotics had brought her out in a nasty rash on her chest, and she felt acutely self-conscious about taking off Ralph's dressing-gown to reveal the mould-green number. Tommy, however, paid her no attention – too busy running the bath. She sat nervously in the wheelchair wondering what the procedure was. Should she strip, or would it look brazen or, worse, provocative?

Tommy turned to face her. ‘Ready?'

‘Yes.'

‘Towels?'

‘I wasn't given any.' Did they expect you to provide towels as well as soap (and cutlery)?

‘Shit! Why didn't you say?' He disappeared again, this time for much longer. She could hear some sort of skirmish going on outside – several voices raised in altercation while a particularly vituperative character demanded access to the bath. Well, it was big enough for two.

BOOK: Tread Softly
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