Tread Softly (11 page)

‘Bloody cheek!' Tommy grunted, reappearing with a large towel marked ‘Property of Oakfield House'. (Since it was virtually threadbare, she couldn't imagine anyone wanting to steal it.)

‘Are you able to stand, Mrs Pearce?'

‘
son
,' she added
sotto voce
, although it was an advance for him to address her by name. Up to now his manner had verged on insolence. ‘Yes,' she said, ‘on one foot.'

‘OK, let's get moving.'

He hauled her up, pulled off the nightie (with no delicacy, in any sense) and plonked her into the plastic chair. As the machinery groaned into action, she was lifted over the side of the bath, then lowered slowly into it.

‘Keep your leg up!' Tommy warned as her bottom made contact with the water.

She managed to lodge it on the side, and kept her hands crossed over her chest, trying to conceal her breasts and the rash. Being naked in front of a man, and a total stranger at that, was unnerving in the extreme. She was intensely conscious of her thighs (too fleshy), her pubic hair (wiry, with a copper tinge) and the fact that her nipples were erect (only from cold, although Tommy wasn't to know that). However, he clearly had no interest in her body other than as an object to be soaped, and set to with Herculean force. She hoped he wasn't so violent with the elderly residents, whose bones would be much frailer than hers. Flinching under the onslaught, she tried transposing herself to the television commercial: veiled modestly by bubbles and indulging in a languid reverie rather than being subjected to a drubbing by a misogynist. At least the water was pleasantly warm, and it was bliss just to be clean.

‘Do you think you could wash my hair?' she asked him tentatively.

Without ceremony, Tommy dunked the back of her head in the water and, seizing the soap again, pummelled her scalp as fiercely as he had the rest of her. Shampoo must be an unknown refinement here, never mind conditioner.

‘That's it, Mrs Pearce. All done.'

‘But shouldn't you rinse the soap out?'

‘I have – mostly. You're lucky I even washed it. Most people go to Betty.'

‘Who?'

‘Bulbous Betty in the hair boutique.'

‘Oh, there's a proper hairdresser?'

‘Well, I wouldn't call her proper, but …'

‘Can I make an appointment?'

‘Not today. She's fully booked. They're all getting dolled up for this damn-fool party – the ones that know what's going on. A lot don't, of course. One poor old bugger thinks he's still fighting the First World War. OK, let's have you out.'

More strong-arm tactics, this time with the towel, which left her looking as if she had a rash all over. Still, the stimulation warmed her up, as did the wheelchair-dash down the passage.

‘Need any help dressing?' Tommy asked, already backing away through the door.

‘No, I'll manage, thanks.'

The question was: What to wear? Her grey skirt and sweater would look distinctly drab if the others were being beautified by Betty. A pity Clare was still away, otherwise she could have borrowed something from her, plus a hairdryer and a decent (non-bald) towel.

She sat, locks dripping, on the end of the bed, wondering if the exotic satin nightdress would double as an evening gown. Except it was creased and sweaty by now, and the low neck would reveal her rash. Well, it would have to be the grey outfit and soap-streaked hair. Never mind – however well coiffed and togged the others might be, she did have youth on her side. Twenty-three, Oshoba had guessed, so she couldn't look that bad. If
he
had bathed her instead of Tommy it might have been a rather different experience.

She closed her eyes and imagined the creamy-white bar of soap in his broad, black, teasing hand. He was letting it smooch slowly across her stomach and along the insides of her thighs, tracing tantalizing circles as it inched towards her bush. Whorls of pearly lather frothed across the copper curls, making her exquisitely moist. Tiny tendrils of hair lassoed his long dark fingers, which then slipped deep inside her, to fondle, to explore.

What did it matter that she had nothing to wear for a dreary Christmas party, when she and Oshoba were enjoying a blissfully naked celebration?

‘And this is Marjorie.' Sister Kathy indicated a big, shapeless woman who had slipped sideways in her wheelchair. Everything about her was slightly askew. Her skirt was rucked up, her cardigan misbuttoned, and her spectacles were sliding down her nose.

Lorna murmured a hello through a mouthful of potato crisps. (The Christmas party ‘feast' hadn't yet materialized, and lunch had been cold macaroni cheese without the cheese.)

‘And next to her is Dorothy.'

Puzzled, Lorna glanced at the imposing-looking lady with iron-grey hair and aquiline features. ‘But I thought Dorothy was that other …'

‘They're both Dorothys!' Kathy explained. ‘We have eight Dorothys altogether.'

‘Oh, how … unusual.' Given the confusion engendered by her own relatively simple surname, it occurred to her that perhaps the staff called all the women Dorothy, to make things easier. Would she, too, be Dorothy by nightfall? The men were less of a problem, since there were so few of them. So far she had met only Fred and Sydney. Statistically it was well known that women lived longer, but at Oakfield House they outnumbered the weaker sex by roughly ten to one. With Ralph so much older than her, was she doomed to decades of widowhood?

‘And this is Marjorie's son, Trevor. He's come all the way from Poole today.'

The tubby middle-aged man was visibly perspiring in his tight blue suit. Lorna could see from his expression that he would rather be back in Dorset. And, offered the chance, she would have gone with him like a shot. The room was stuffy, smelly and crammed with wheelchairs – hers but one among dozens, locked almost wheel to wheel. Her foot was causing further obstruction, propped up on three pillows atop a padded stool. One elderly woman had been using it as an overflow plate, depositing half-chewed morsels of crisp and Twiglet into the folds of the bandage. No one seemed to have noticed, which was hardly surprising in the general chaos. She hadn't realized that relatives were invited to the party, including the under-fives. Babies' screams mingled with the wails of the demented; children fought and squabbled, while a cracked recording of Christmas carols quavered in the background. She could do with a stiff drink – or three – but the only liquid refreshment on offer was orange-squash or the ubiquitous tea. However, Sharon and another girl were just emerging from the servery, carrying trays of what looked like food. How they would negotiate the obstacle course of Zimmer frames, wheelchairs, walking-sticks and obstreperous toddlers wrestling on the carpet remained to be seen.

Lorna kept an eye on the progress of the food while trying to follow the conversation between Dorothys One and Two – an account of their respective operations, going back a good fifty years. The saga of Mr Hughes's lost saw paled into insignificance beside their grim experiences. Dorothy One had inadvertently lost a kidney during a routine appendectomy, and Dorothy Two had lost several pints of blood (and all remaining hope of a child) when at the age of thirty-five she was given a hysterectomy instead of a D and C. They continued in the same vein with graphic descriptions of vital organs damaged or mislaid, which Lorna feared would put her off her food. Luckily, though, the discussion moved on to a comparison of knee-replacement scars. Most of the women's knees were, in fact, on view. Despite the wintry weather, ankle socks were popular, or hold-up stockings (which failed to live up to their name and sat concertinaed around the patients' calves). And as for shoes, she was in good company. Normal footwear was restricted to the visitors; the residents wore carpet slippers or shapeless felt contraptions with Velcro fastenings. And, judging by the swellings and protrusions, Mr Hughes could have a field-day here, slicing off a plethora of bunions and straightening renegade toes. Legs too were in need of medical attention – many bruised or ulcerated, some swathed in crêpe bandages or elasticated supports. With every hour that passed her gratitude increased. A rash on the chest was nothing compared with suppurating sores, metal kneecaps or varicose veins the size of bell-ropes.

And now cause for yet more thanks: Sharon was standing before them with the tray of snacks. Gnarled and wrinkled hands stretched out to grab sandwiches, cheese tartlets or sausages on sticks. One lady took six sausages but, having sniffed them suspiciously, put them back again. Lorna helped herself to a sandwich, taking the precaution of first pulling it apart to see what it contained. In fact it contained nothing, but that was preferable to ham-fat, and at least the bread was fresh.

‘Take plenty,' Sharon urged. ‘Then I won't have to keep coming back.'

Lorna willingly piled her plate with food. Some of the other sandwiches looked more promising, with a pinkish-coloured filling. But whether it was fish, fowl or face-cream she couldn't tell, even when she'd swallowed it. Like the sausages, it had no taste whatever. One man was eating the sausage sticks instead and appeared not to notice the difference. She kept wanting to intervene: to wipe faces or noses, brush crumbs from laps or help those who lacked the coordination to feed themselves. But that was the job of the staff, who already had their hands full restraining the more murderous of the children and dealing with relatives' complaints. Trevor, for example, was demanding to know why his mother hadn't had a bath for two weeks. Instantly Lorna felt guilty. Had it been Marjorie this morning trying to storm into the bathroom? No, the poor woman looked incapable of speech, let alone creating such a fuss. Neither did she smell – which was more than could be said of some of them. Still, one learned to develop an imperviousness to smells, as the only way to cope with malodorous rooms and residents.

This
room was actually quite attractive, with floral curtains, a squiggled carpet and a dozen round dining-tables, six people to each. Christmas decorations abounded, in the form of paper-chains, bunches of balloons, artificial holly-wreaths, and Christmas crackers piled on every table. The staff sported Santa caps or tinsel in their hair, while the residents' dress varied from 1930s cocktail frocks to baggy, food-stained sweat-pants. (One woman was trying to
un
dress, much to the consternation of her son.)

It would be better, Lorna thought, had the ratio of food to decorations been reversed. She would have been satisfyingly full by now, munching holly and balloons, whereas in fact she was still ravenous. Biting into a sausage roll, she found only a smear of grey gunge in the tough and greasy pastry. However, she was lucky to be able to bite. Teeth were by no means a standard commodity here.

A sudden bang startled her. Some of the children were pulling the crackers, which without exception contained plastic whistles or noise-makers. Soon a cacophony broke out, eclipsing the strains of ‘Silent Night'. Sydney trembled in alarm, possibly confusing the din with a past campaign when he had been under enemy fire.

The care assistants began picking up the paper hats that had fallen out of the crackers and placing them on residents' heads. The contrast between festive hats and bleak expressions was marked, and deeply sad. But this was Christmas Eve, so everyone must enjoy themselves, even if the jollity was forced. Would they play party games later on: Pass the Parcel or Blind Man's Buff? – although more were deaf than blind at Oakfield House. (Perhaps just as well considering the volume of noise.) Another potential game might be throwing balls – or food – into the many permanently open mouths. Not only were teeth valuable, she realized: so was the ability to close your lips. Several residents dribbled constantly or made repeated chewing movements, even though their mouths were empty. Others simply sat with gaping Os.

Another tray of food had materialized – the second course, presumably: iced fancies, Penguin biscuits, slices of Swiss roll, and individual pots of shop-bought trifle. These last posed a problem since they still had their foil lids on, which few of the elderly could manage to remove. Even the relatives were having trouble: one woman broke her thumbnail, and Trevor finally resorted to jabbing Marjorie's lid with his penknife, spattering himself and his mother with cream. Lorna decided not to risk it – she had only a couple of outfits to wear and didn't want them messed up (especially if laundry facilities were as scarce here as were bathrooms).

Watching Trevor feed his mother with spoonfuls of the trifle, she was reminded of Ralph again. He was partial to trifle and she always made him one on Christmas Eve – a gloriously alcoholic concoction with brandy, sherry, raspberries and ratafias, toasted almonds and proper custard. She could just imagine his reaction to this wodge of orange-jellied sponge, topped with synthetic cream and a meagre sprinkling of hundreds and thousands.

But her attention was jolted back to the proceedings when the activities organizer, Val, fought her way to the centre of the room. A Titian-haired giantess, she bore an uncanny resemblance to a lampshade in her fringed pink tent-style dress. Clearing her throat commandingly she announced the cabaret.

Cabaret! Lorna waited with bated breath while Val somehow managed to coax the children to sit down and be quiet – a minor miracle – before ushering in a man in a black evening-suit. The music switched abruptly from ‘We Three Kings' to ‘Isn't It Romantic?' and he burst into song, crooning into his hand-held mike and wiggling his bony hips.

Many of the audience continued to gaze into space, as if they hadn't actually registered his arrival, while Lorna found it incongruous that he should sing so passionately of romance yet be so blatantly over the hill. His dyed hair and haggard face made his Elvis Presley-style gyrations acutely embarrassing for the relatives and induced sniggers in the children.

He bowed low in all directions, acknowledging the tepid applause and declaring grandly, ‘My name is Rodrigo' (Brian or Keith, more likely, Lorna thought) ‘… and I'm absolutely delighted to be here. Are you all enjoying yourselves?'