|
From chapter 9 - Christmas Dinner at Oakfield House nursing home, where Lorna Pearson is convalescing after a botched bunion operation. At 39, she is considerably younger than the other (mostly decrepit) patients, although hardly more fortunate when it comes to getting fed. Certainly this is one Christmas she'll never forget!
'Everyone's on drugs these days.'
'Everyone?' Lorna demurred.
'Oh, yes.' Dorothy was adamant. 'And the schools are full of murderers. Children carry guns and knives routinely. I blame the parents. There's no discipline. When we were young, we were beaten for the tiniest thing. My father had a stick as thick as your arm. It didn't do us any harm.'
'Well, I'm not sure ...'
'Do you want this?' Hilda pressed her holly-printed paper napkin into Lorna's hand.
'It's all right, I've got one, thanks.'
'Take it! Take it!' Hilda whimpered.
'Oh, well ... yes, OK.' Lorna was afraid the poor woman would burst into tears. She spread the second napkin on her lap, on top of the first, although both were somewhat superfluous. The food hadn't arrived - and probably never would, since, according to Sharon, the chef had stormed out after an altercation with Matron. His timing seemed a trifle remiss. The residents were sitting at their tables (some in bibs and many perched on waterproof incontinence cushions) waiting for their turkey and Christmas pudding.
Not all had sat in silence. Dorothy had been pronouncing on the latest crime statistics and their relevance to the abolition of corporal punishment - a polemic totally lost on Hilda and Sydney. For the past half-hour Lorna had been caught in a three-way conversation on 'Bring back the birch' (Dorothy), the likely content of the Queen's Speech (Ellen), and incoherent musings from Hilda on a certain dearly beloved William. Whether this was her husband, son, dog or budgerigar, Lorna never did discover. In truth, she was finding it hard to concentrate when hunger was her main concern. Presumably the turkey was already cooked, as the chef hadn't been gone long. If they just wanted someone to carve, she would gladly volunteer - although perhaps it would be better minced, given the general dental deficiencies.
A ripple of dread swept the dining-room as Matron strutted in - an imperious character somewhere between Pol Pot and the Empress Catherine of Russia. Lorna, however, perked up when she saw the tray of sherry glasses; in the absence of food, a liquid lunch would be perfectly acceptable. It did strike her as rather odd, though, that Matron herself and not one of her minions should be distributing the Christmas tipple. On their only previous meeting, Lorna had taken a dislike to the thin-lipped martinet with her concave chest and cold grey eyes. Today's smiling version was no improvement - in fact, positively unnerving. The smile was like the tinsel round her cap: an artificial accessory, to be swiftly discarded after the festivities.
'No, Hilda. Not for you. I'll get Sharon to bring you some fruit juice.'
'I want sherry,' Hilda wailed.
'Alcohol doesn't mix with your pills. You know what the doctor said.'
'I want sherry,' Hilda repeated.
Ignoring her, Matron passed a glass to Dorothy. 'Happy Christmas, Mrs Fleming.'
'I'd like to know what's happy about it.'
'Now, now, my dear - we must make an effort. And how are you, Mrs Pearson?'
'Oh, I'm ... fine.'
'Good! That's the spirit. Sherry for you?'
'Yes, please.'
When Matron moved to the next table, Lorna attacked her drink with gusto. 'Cheers,' she said to Ralph again, wondering if he was already the worse for wear or too ill to lift a glass.
Sharon bustled up with orange juice for Sydney and Hilda, in glasses so small they looked more suited to a doll's house. The sherry glasses, weirdly, were more generous.
'I want sherry,' Hilda persisted.
Sharon made a face. 'Why the hell didn't you say so? It means trekking all the way back to the kitchen.'
'You couldn't get me another, could you?' put in Lorna quickly, 'while you're there.'
'I'll have another, too,' said Dorothy. 'Though it's pretty foul, isn't it? I like a decent Tio Pepe, not this British muck.'
Sharon returned with not three but ten more glasses, all brim-full. She looked rather flushed, as if she'd been having a tipple herself. 'I've brought enough to last you - to save my feet. Otherwise I'll be crawling about on my hands and knees by teatime.'
Lorna felt uneasy as Hilda seized a glass and gulped the contents - suppose it provoked some terrible reaction … Yet reporting her to Matron would be sneaky and unthinkable. The only solution was to down most of the sherry herself, to keep it from those on medication. At least Sydney seemed quite happy with his orange juice (though he had already spilled half of it down his front), and Ellen was more concerned about missing the Queen's Speech than with refreshment solid or liquid. The sixth person at the table, a stone-deaf lady called Irena, stared straight ahead, much to Lorna's discomfiture. Earlier she had tried smiling at her, then addressing her in a loud, clear voice, so that she wouldn't feel left out, until Dorothy said dismissively, 'Don't waste your breath. Even if she could hear, she wouldn't want to talk to the likes of us.'
'Why?' asked Lorna.
'Because she's a countess - so she says. Polish, mind you, and countesses are two a penny in Europe. But it doesn't stop her giving herself airs.'
Even so, thought Lorna, to be foreign and profoundly deaf in this hotbed of prejudice couldn't make life easy. She offered the countess a glass of sherry. The offer was neither accepted nor refused. Irena continued staring at the wall; not a muscle moved in her face or body. Even her eyes seemed disturbingly expressionless, and her hands looked dead, the fingers pale and bloated. Was she genuinely disapproving? Or suffering from depression?
'What this country should do' - Dorothy rapped her fork on the table - 'is bring back the hangman, and quickly.'
Lorna wondered if this draconian measure was aimed at Irena in particular or the lawless population in general. Luckily she spotted Sharon just coming from the servery with a tray. 'Oh, look,' she said. 'Food!'
Not, alas, the turkey, but a starter: melon boats, each adorned with a glacé cherry and half an orange-slice - the first fresh fruit she had seen at Oakfield House. However, it didn't please Dorothy or Hilda.
'I want soup,' said Hilda plaintively.
Dorothy waved the proffered plate away. 'Melon gives me indigestion.'
'It's a treat,' said Sharon, banging down Dorothy's plate in front of Sydney. 'For Christmas.'
'Hardly a treat! It's not even ripe.'
'I want soup.'
'There's no soup today, Miss Chambers. Tomorrow you'll have soup - turkey soup all bloody week, no doubt.'
'Did you say "bloody", Sharon?'
'No, 'course not, Mrs Fleming. I said -'
'I want turkey.' Hilda again, changing tack.
'Yeah, so do we all. Tommy's just carving it - or hacking it to pieces, more like.'
Tommy was clearly versatile, juggling the roles of bath attendant, Santa Claus and chef. Melon-cutter too, perhaps. Each slice had been cut crossways, to form bite-size chunks, although this didn't prevent mishaps on the part of the less dextrous. Soon melon bullets were flying in all directions, landing on the carpet or the tablecloth. Lorna retrieved one from her lap, wondering whether to hand it back to its owner.
A care assistant was trying to feed Irena, who stubbornly refused to open her mouth. 'OK, be like that,' the girl said, snatching the plate away. (Peace and good will had reached a depressingly low ebb.)
'I want soup,' Hilda reiterated, in case her previous demands had gone unheard.
Soup would certainly have been a better choice for Sydney, whose lack of teeth made unripe melon hazardous. He did rather ill-advisedly put the orange-slice in his mouth, but then took it out, half-chewed, and offered it to Irena. The countess haughtily ignored him.
'Well, down the hatch!' said Lorna brightly, raising her second glass. She felt better already, in spite of having to sit with her foot propped up at an extremely awkward angle, which sent spasms of pain down her back. One took so many things for granted, like being able to sit four-square at the table, with both feet on the floor.
'Chin-chin!' responded Hilda, also embarking on her second glass. Fortunately there was no sign of Matron nor any obvious change in Hilda's condition, but Lorna kept an eye on her, prepared for emergency measures.
The carers started to clear away the melon plates, and indeed most of the melon. At Oakfield House serving the food was clearly of more importance than ensuring its consumption. Maybe the recent spate of deaths was due less to strokes and heart attacks than to simple malnutrition.
Lorna refused to relinquish her plate until she had scraped the melon skin clean and even eaten the orange rind (to provide a few extra calories). After all, there was no guarantee that any more food was on its way. Knowing Tommy's temperament, the turkey might end up on the kitchen floor.
But no, she was wrong. Sharon and a small, spindly, dark-skinned fellow were approaching with a tray of plates.
'Good God,' Dorothy expostulated. 'What's this supposed to be?'
The turkey, anaemically white, was reduced to shreds - a sorry heap spattered with blobs of stuffing and accompanied by a single boiled potato and a mush of disintegrating, greyish Brussels sprouts.
'Where's mine?' asked Lorna anxiously when everyone but her had been served.
'Coming.'
While she waited she sipped yet more sherry. Pure benevolence, of course - to keep the others out of danger. In fact, Dorothy must have drunk as much as she had, although her tongue was as sharp as ever.
'If I've told them once, I've told them a thousand times. There's no goodness left in vegetables if they're cooked to a pulp like this.'
'I want vegetables.'
'You've got them, Hilda,' Dorothy said tartly. 'That disgusting mess there.' She poked it with her knife. 'If you don't mind, Lorna, I'll start. Mustn't let it get cold. A joke, of course! In all the time I've been here, I've never known a meal served hot, and I doubt if today's will be any different.' Sampling a piece of turkey, she gave an exaggerated shudder. 'Tough, tasteless and probably swarming with Tommy's germs. Well, if this is Christmas dinner, they can keep it. Sharon!' She snapped her fingers at the girl, who was now serving the adjoining table. 'Bring me a round of buttered toast. This food's inedible.'
'I can't be making toast, Mrs Fleming. Not now. I've got all the others to serve.'
'Including me,' Lorna reminded her. Tough, tasteless, germ-infested turkey was still preferable to none.
'I won't be spoken to like that, Sharon. It's time you learnt some respect.'
'And it's time you learnt to get off your high horse,' Sharon muttered, marching off in a huff.
Lorna sighed. With Sharon gone, she would have to beg a dinner from one of the other carers. She craned her neck to look into the servery, where a couple of girls appeared to be doing nothing. Then she realized to her horror that they were, in fact, helping themselves to the residents' Christmas pudding, apparently unaware they were being watched. They gouged out lumps with their hands, licking their fingers greedily before digging into the pudding again. No wonder Dorothy had talked about germs; she too must have observed such flagrant breaches of hygiene. Their behaviour was outrageous. Wasn't anyone in charge? Surely if Matron saw them, she would sack them on the spot. Some of the residents had only just recovered from flu. Now, it seemed, they were in danger of food-poisoning. Revolted, she turned back to the table. Maybe just as well she hadn't any food. But then all at once her stomach rumbled audibly, as if informing her that a stomach upset was preferable to starvation. And at that moment the small, spindly fellow happened to be passing, so, suppressing her scruples, she caught his eye. 'Sorry to bother you ...' - she squinted at his name badge - 'Hashim, but I haven't had my main course yet.'
'You Mrs Clark?'
Oh dear. With his thick accent, there were bound to be more misunderstandings. 'No, I'm Mrs Pearson. Or Mrs Paterson, if you prefer. Either will do fine.'
'You Mrs Fine?'
'No.' (The Monster would die laughing.) 'Mrs ... Peear ... sonn.'
'Oh.' He frowned, abandoning further attempts to use her name. 'You like melon?'
'Yes, very nice. But I've had my melon. Now I want turkey.'
'Turkey?'
Was it such a peculiar request - on Christmas Day, when everyone else in the room was tucking in? 'Yes, turkey, please. Lots.' Untouched by human hand, she added sotto voce.
'I go ask Chef.'
'Chef not there.'
'He's not there, if you ask me,' Dorothy put in, removing a black bit from her potato. 'It's always the same with these darkies. God knows what language they speak at home - if they've got homes, which I doubt - but it's certainly not English.'
Lorna sprang to Hashim's defence, regretting her earlier irritation. The poor man might be struggling to support an invalid mother or a brood of under-fives. 'At least he's trying,' she said, crunching a stray orange pip to fight off her hunger pangs.
'They have to do more than try, Lorna. That's the trouble with this country today: no standards, no national pride. Is it any wonder we're going to the dogs.'
'I want sherry!' Hilda reached for another glass.
'No, that's mine,' said Lorna, alarmed at Hilda's hectic flush and having visions of her keeling over - would they all be charged as accessories to murder?
'You've had more than your fair share already, young lady!' The words were perfectly enunciated, the voice unmistakably English. Astonished, Lorna looked at Irena - deaf, foreign Irena, who met her eyes with a malevolent glower. The countess said nothing further, although the unflinching gaze was condemnation enough.
'Gosh, yes, you're right. I'm ... sorry,' Lorna stammered. Perhaps Irena was neither Polish nor deaf. Feigned deafness could be useful here, as an escape from largely pointless conversations. Had she known in advance the vagaries of Oakfield House, she could have come forearmed with a hearing aid (switched permanently off), a canteen of cutlery, a supply of ready-meals, and several rolls of toilet paper (there had been none this morning, and no one to ask).
Every time she glanced up, she met the intimidating Gorgon stare. Again she gave thanks that she wasn't actually eating - subjected to such venomous scrutiny, even a morsel of food would have choked her.
'Goodnight,' said Sydney suddenly - the only word Lorna had heard him utter.
'Er, goodnight,' she replied. Was it wishful thinking on his part, to make the day go faster?
'Goodnight,' he said again.
'Goodnight,' she countered valiantly.
'Goodnight, Madge.'
Madge? Lorna gave a bewildered smile. He was evidently still addressing her, his rheumy eyes fixed doggedly on hers. Another name to add to the collection.
'Goodnight,' he prompted.
Her turn. 'Goodnight.'
'Goodnight.' Would they continue like this till it was night? Well, in the absence of other distractions there were worse ways of passing the time.
After a dozen more goodnights, Hashim came to the rescue by bringing her meal - not turkey, not stuffing, not even vegetables, but a small piece of plain white fish marooned on a large white plate. She goggled. 'Fish?'
'Matron say you on special diet.'
'Special diet? Certainly not!'
'Matron say no meat.'
'Goodnight.' Sydney spluttered bits of stuffing in Lorna's direction.
Dorothy rounded on him in annoyance. 'It happens to be lunchtime, Sydney. I admit you have cause to doubt it, since several of us here have failed to get any lunch - or anything worth calling lunch - but it certainly won't help matters if you keep insisting that it's bedtime.'
Her outburst was largely wasted on Sydney, although it did succeed in reducing him to silence. In the lull, Lorna told Hashim again that she wasn't on a diet. In fact, in the two days she'd been at Oakfield House she must have lost half a stone. And this was Christmas, for heaven's sake, when the rest of the nation was gourmandizing.
'You fish!' beamed Hashim, his comprehension levels roughly similar to Sydney's.
'He's mixing you up with Miss Bagley,' Dorothy explained. 'She eats fish for every meal, including breakfast. It's some religious thing. She's stark staring mad, but they have to humour her. Her husband's a big noise on the Council.'
'Where is she? Can't we swap?'
'No, she's in her room. She never comes out except for church.'
'So how could they muddle the plates?'
'Here they can muddle anything. I suggest you eat it, dear. If you ask for it to be changed they'll probably bring you Rodney's meal, and he's a vegan. It's up to you. If you'd prefer a plate of sunflower seeds ...'
'No, no, this'll do.' After removing several bones, Lorna took a cautious mouthful, and washed it down with sherry. At least fish was marginally better than last year's cheese and deadline sandwiches, even if it was flavourless and semi-raw. No one else was eating. Hilda had hiccups, Sydney was now serenely dribbling (perhaps imagining that night had fallen at last) and Irena engaged in fisticuffs with a despotic care assistant who had tried to force a fork between her lips. Dorothy was in full flow about over-fishing in the North Sea, presumably inspired by Lorna's minuscule portion of cod. All the while the rain provided a counterpoint, slamming against the windows with gleeful malice.
'Who's that woman with the bad foot?' A loud voice from the adjoining table.
'I think she's Hilda's daughter.' Equally loud.
'She can't be. Hilda's not married.'
'Well, whoever she is, she's no business to stick her leg up like that. It's bad manners. And right in Dorothy's way. If there's something wrong with her, she should stay at home.'
Lorna froze. Should she explain the situation? Best not. Judging by their volume, the speakers were deaf, which meant she would have to shout, and she didn't fancy introducing the shameful subject of bunions to the assembled company. (Actually the dining-room was much less full than yesterday. Only the rejects left - those without families, or too ill or decrepit to go out for the day. A few relatives had come for lunch, looking wretched for the most part as they made stilted conversation between mouthfuls of cold turkey.)
'Oh, my God!' Dorothy exclaimed, interrupting her own tirade about dwindling haddock stocks.
'What's wrong?' asked Lorna, startled.
Dorothy leaned towards her and hissed in a stage-whisper: 'They're about to remove Mr Wilcox.'
'I beg your pardon?'
'Mr Wilcox. Who passed away this morning. They always smuggle the corpses out at mealtimes. They think none of us will notice. But I always know. For one thing, it's the only time they shut the dining-room doors. Look out of that side window and you'll see the ambulance.'
Lorna swivelled in her chair. A long, low, white vehicle was parked by the dustbins, with 'Private Ambulance' in blue letters on the side. The piece of fish in her mouth turned rubbery and dead. She was chewing Mr Wilcox - that same cold, stiffening body being trundled past the firmly closed dining-room doors. 'Where's M... Mrs Wilcox?' she asked.
'Over there.' Dorothy pointed to the table in the corner. 'The lady in green.'
The lady in green, sublimely indifferent to the fate of her late husband, was tackling her food with vigour, trying to stuff a whole potato into her mouth.
'Isn't she ... upset?'
'Not at all. Just before lunch I saw her cuddling up to Rodney. One man's as good as another as far as Edna's concerned. It's OK - all clear now. They're opening the doors again.'
Lorna clutched her sherry glass. How appalling it must be to live here permanently and watch your fellow residents die off one by one, knowing you might be next. She glanced again at Mrs Wilcox, who now appeared to be choking and had sicked potato down her bib. The others at her table sat in silence, making no attempt to eat. Was the Christmas dinner really worth the effort? Maybe better, and safer, to have invested in a few dozen jars of baby food; it would have been far less work for the carers, who were now stacking the dirty plates and scraping vast amounts of uneaten food into a plastic pail - whole dinners in most cases. Lorna hoped it would go to the pigs; they at least would enjoy their Christmas dinner.
After an interval punctuated only by Hilda's hiccups, Sharon came slouching back to their table. 'Do you want Christmas pudding or mince pie?'
'Both, of course,' snapped Dorothy.
'Sorry, one or the other.'
'It's a scandal, considering the fees we pay. I shall write to the management, on principle.'
Sharon merely shrugged.
Lorna was surprised there was any Christmas pudding left, after the depredations of the two thieving care assistants. She herself resolved to opt for pie - if she could manage to eat anything, that is. Mr Wilcox was still lodged in her throat, decomposing, as the Monster had predicted.
'Which for you, Miss Bancroft?' Sharon said with increasing exasperation.
'I'm very worried, dear, about missing the Queen's Speech. I've heard it without fail for the past seventy-odd years and I wouldn't want to break the tradition.'
'It's not on till three. And it's only five past two now. Do you want pudding or mince pie?'
'They said it was in the lounge, but the lounge television's broken. Do you think I ought to tell that man who -?'
Sharon raised her eyes to heaven, but finding no help there either, she turned instead to Hilda. 'Miss Chambers, pudding or mince pie?' The only response was a hiccup, and since Sydney was incapable of choosing and Irena refused to hear, Sharon announced irritably, 'I'll bring three of each, OK?'
'Yes, fine,' said Lorna, to keep the peace.
'It's not fine, Lorna. If you don't take a stand, who will? The food's an absolute disgrace. I've complained till I'm blue in the face but no one ever listens.'
Lorna wondered if she could persuade Aunt Agnes to take up residence here, with the express purpose of inculcating gratitude into Dorothy. But that would require a miracle, and miracles were beyond even Aunt Agnes's capabilities.
Both pudding and mince pie eventually arrived, in the same piecemeal state as the turkey. Tommy's heavy hand again, or had all the carers had a go at sampling it? The choice was between dark crumbs (pudding) and pale crumbs (pastry - mincemeat was practically nil). Sharon slammed the plates down indiscriminately. Lorna got pale crumbs, with a coarse black hair - Hashim's? - draped tastefully across the top.
'Brandy sauce?' Another girl was hovering with a large metal jug of something white and viscous, which looked and smelt like distemper.
'Oh ... thank you.' Lorna removed the hair before it could be swamped. Fortunately Dorothy hadn't seen it, otherwise she would have summoned the health inspectors on the spot.
'I want brandy,' Hilda hiccupped.
'Well, you won't get it,' retorted Sharon. 'And there's none in that sauce, neither. Only starch and chemicals.'
'Sharon, I intend to report you, for gross impertinence.'
'Go ahead, Mrs Fleming. Find some other idiot who'll work all Christmas week for a pittance, waiting on ungrateful sods like you.'
Apoplectic with rage, Dorothy tottered to her feet. 'Matron!' she shrieked.
'Matron go home,' Hashim informed her helpfully.
'Yeah. Me too, if I had any sense.' Sharon turned on her heel and stalked out.
Lorna seized the last glass of sherry and drained it at a gulp. The only way to endure the remainder of this unspeakable Christmas Day was to get completely and utterly smashed.
|
