Tread Softly (24 page)

‘He's probably unfaithful
and
dead,' the Monster sniggered. ‘You know what happens when men of his age start shagging a new bird. The excitement's too much and they cop it on the job. A few groans of ecstasy and bingo! – their heart gives out.'

‘Look, will you kindly leave and not come back?'

‘No way! I want to be here when they break the news. I wonder who'll come first – a policeman or a reporter from the
Sun
? Or maybe the other woman's husband, brandishing a carving-knife.'

The Monster had barely finished speaking when there was a knock at the door. Lorna closed her eyes. Was it one of them already?

‘Hello, dear. I've brought your sleeping-pills.'

Lorna looked at the nurse in surprise. She had been written up for antibiotics and pain-killers, but not for sleeping-pills.

‘You are Mrs Murray, I take it?'

Couldn't the woman read? It said ‘Mrs Paterson' clearly on the door. Unless they'd got it wrong again.

Decisively she sat up. ‘Yes,' she said, ‘Mrs Murray – that's me.' She held out her hand for the pills and swallowed them at once. Whatever the deception involved, she damn well
would
get some sleep tonight.

Lorna scrabbled at the earth with her bare hands. She must get them out. They were under the ground, in a box. But the soil was so hard it broke her nails.

‘Mummy!' she shouted. ‘Daddy! Where are you? I can't find you.'

‘Stop that noise at once! You'll wake the other girls.'

Suddenly she was lying in the dormitory with Miss O' Donnell looming over her bed. Miss O'Donnell's breath smelt like dead chrysanthemums; her eyes were tiny, dangerous points of fire, glinting in the darkness; her voice was a nutmeg-grater.

‘Every night the same – it's high time you pulled yourself together.'

She opened her eyes. Miss O'Donnell vanished. And it wasn't even dark. She had gone to sleep with the light on. She looked at her hands – not a trace of mud, although she had been digging for her parents all night. And she seemed still ensnared in that terrifying childhood confusion about where her parents were. Aunt Agnes said in heaven, Uncle Neil said underground. But Uncle Neil wasn't her real uncle, so maybe he was lying.

There were other puzzling things. Why didn't she have grandparents, like most children? Were they, too, underground? And why would no one answer when she asked where babies came from, or why you couldn't see God?

She peered at her watch: 1.15. What use were sleeping-pills if they only put you under for three hours? Put you under. She shuddered. It was years before she saw her parents' grave. And then her first reaction was surprise that they should have so many names. Not Mummy but Margaret Anna Martha Rose. And her father's names took up two whole lines: Garret Michael David Alexander. Their ages were there too. She knew it was rude to ask people how old they were, so it seemed odd to write their ages on the gravestone for everyone to see. And Daddy's age was wrong. He couldn't be fifty-two. Fifty-two was terribly old and Daddy wasn't old. In fact, gazing at the headstone, she'd felt more and more uneasy. Parents didn't live in boxes underground. They had run away, more likely, but no one dared to tell her.

None the less, most nights she continued digging. Even after marrying Ralph she'd had dead-parents dreams. He'd been kind when she woke up screaming, despite his months of disrupted sleep.

Yesterday's conversation suddenly flooded through her brain like a tide of dirty water. She sat up with a start.
Ralph
! Where was he? In his bed or someone else's? If he left her she would be orphaned again – although at least she would be spared his gloominess. She tried to imagine being married to a man who laughed and joked, confided in her, cuddled her; who loved parties, outings, fun. No, not possible: she had too many fears. Except Kathy disagreed. Kathy regarded her as strong.

Strong? Just now she felt as helpless as a child without a mother, as bewildered as the man at darts who'd kept saying, ‘I don't know.' Every question put to him received the same response: ‘I don't know.' ‘I don't know.' ‘I don't know.'

Lorna had recognized the fear in his eyes. It was terrible, not knowing. When the girls at school had asked her where her parents were, she often said, ‘I don't know.' It was safer than saying dead. Dead was like damn – a word that got you into trouble.

‘
Help!'
she whispered, tempted to press the call-bell. But then that agency nurse would come and there'd be more trouble about pretending to be Mrs Murray.

She clenched her fists. She
would
be Mrs Murray. Happy, calm, content. And inseparable from her husband after sixty years of marriage, still deeply in love.

Nonsense! Mrs Murray was probably a widow, alone, depressed and ill. Anyway,
she
was stuck with Ralph's name: Mrs Ralph Pearson. Ralph's creation – his lackey, Kathy would say, trapped in a marriage based on weakness. Yet without him she would crumble. Already a roller-coaster of panic was heaving through her stomach. She levered herself out of bed and, not bothering with her special shoe, seized her crutches and made for the door. She couldn't stay a moment longer in this claustrophobic room; the walls were closing in around her, the ceiling pressing down. She must get out and speak to someone – anyone, just to make contact with reality.

In the corridor, she steadied herself against the wall. The sleeping-pills had left her feeling hung-over and with a foul taste in her mouth. It was deathly quiet as she limped along the passage. Were all the patients drugged? And where were the staff? Normally at night you heard them moving about and chatting, or answering patients' bells. Terrified, she doubled back to the staircase and tried to negotiate the steps. The second floor had twice as many rooms; surely she would find a nurse down there.

No one. The same morgue-like quiet prevailed. Perhaps this was another nightmare and she was in the realm of the dead, still seeking her lost parents. She glanced up at the windows: blank black squares like the gaping mouths of graves.

Heart pounding, she hobbled along the corridor. Most of the doors stood open and she could see ghostly white shapes in the beds. That could be
her
one day, lying helpless, awaiting death.

Suddenly there was a shout of ‘Nurse!' from a room a few doors down.

Thank Christ, she thought – now someone will come: someone living, able-bodied. But there was no response at all.

‘Nurse! Nurse!' The cry grew more insistent, increasing her own panic. She had become one with the unseen patient, begging for a lifeline. But still no nurse appeared.

She paused outside the room, listening to the frantic voice. In the absence of staff,
she
would have to help. Timidly she knocked, and ventured in. ‘Is there anything I can do?' she asked.

The bundle in the bed stared at her in fright and she realized how peculiar she must look: an apparition in a long white nightdress, hair awry, and stumping about on crutches, one foot bandaged, one bare. ‘I'm sorry,' she said gently. ‘I didn't mean to alarm you. I'm a patient here too, and I wondered what was wrong.'

The woman looked shame-faced. She was a shapeless creature, with rheumy eyes and straight grey hair clipped back in a plastic slide. ‘Well, I've wet the bed, you see. I'm sorry – I didn't mean to, only I can't get out on my own, and when I ring no one ever comes. It's gone cold now. It feels horrid. Do you think you could change the sheets?'

Not a practical proposition on crutches, even if she knew where the clean linen was kept. ‘I'll … get someone,' she said, wondering who and how. At least her panic attack had been halted in its tracks. Fear had turned to anger – that the residents should be so shamefully neglected. Along the entire length of the corridor she didn't find a single member of staff. Then suddenly there was a sound of giggling from behind a closed door. Opening it a crack, she saw a buxom black nurse lying on a sofa in the arms of Sunil, the male carer from Sri Lanka. Her gaze strayed to the carpet, littered with incriminating objects: a wine bottle and two glasses, an ashtray studded with fag-ends, and a pair of white lace knickers – presumably the nurse's. Brilliant! While the patients called in vain for help, the staff spent their time smoking, drinking and shagging. She coughed loudly and they sprang apart.

‘There's a patient needs you,' she said curtly.

The nurse had the grace to look embarrassed as she smoothed her crumpled uniform, but her tone was aggressive in the extreme. ‘And what are
you
doing down here, may I ask?'

‘I couldn't sleep.'

‘That's no reason to go prowling about.'

‘I needed some pain-killers and there's no one on duty up there.'

‘Excuse me but there most certainly is. Oshoba's on duty. And Janet. Go back to your room and I'll phone through for Janet to bring you some aspirin.'

‘I don't want aspirin. I want an explanation. What's the point of patients having bells if you never take any notice? There's a poor lady along the passage getting cold in wet sheets. And yesterday Sydney fell out of bed and it was over two hours before anyone discovered him. He could have been lying unconscious for all you lot cared.'

The nurse drew herself up to her full height. (Sunil had already fled.) ‘How dare you speak to me like that?'

‘Because I'm utterly disgusted! This place is a scandal. Kathy's the only decent member of staff, and she's rushed off her feet. You'll be old one day, and then you'll know what it feels like to be stuck in a cold, wet bed.'

‘Stop shouting, Mrs Pearson. You'll wake the patients.'

‘They're already awake, some of them, calling for help, but you're so busy necking on the sofa, you –'

‘That's outrageous! I shall tell Matron what you said.'

‘Please do. I'm sure she'll be interested to know what her staff get up to.'

The nurse turned on her heel and stalked off.

Lorna stood trembling, with triumph, anger, fear. She had spoken up for Kathy's sake. Kathy was too professional to admit that Oakfield House was badly run, but it was obvious to anyone. And the patients were mostly too ill or confused to know their rights, let alone demand them.

She steadied herself on her crutches, overcome by a wave of dizziness. What the hell had she done? They would probably expel her now, as they had tried to do at school. (And, unlike school, she didn't want to leave, whatever the abuses.) It was only her word against the nurse's, and Matron was duty-bound to support the staff, especially after that business with Ralph's pipe.

God! She had forgotten about Ralph, and that she didn't know what was happening in his life. If they sent her home tomorrow she might find him already gone.

‘Ah, Lorna,
there
you are!'

Hearing the familiar deep voice, she looked up in relief. ‘Oh, Oshoba!' she said, and clung to him. He put his arms around her and she realized with a jolt that Ralph would never hold her so close. Often when she tried to hug him he would back off or pull away, as if such contact was emasculating.

Oshoba was even stroking her hair. ‘I saw you were missing from your room,' he said, ‘so I came downstairs to find you. What's wrong, my lovely lady?'

‘I've just shouted at a nurse and –'

‘That's not the end of the world!'

‘No, but the reason I was angry is that no one here seems to … care.'

‘I care. I care about you especially. You know that. Remember, I brought you the chocolate. And the bar of lavender soap.'

She wiped her eyes. ‘Yes, you did.' A succession of little treats. Treats that had meant a lot.

He took her elbow and guided her towards the stairs. ‘And the cream for your bedsores.'

‘Yes. You're an angel.' She leaned on him gratefully as they made their slow way up.

‘How
are
the bedsores?'

‘Not good.'

‘Maybe we should bandage them.'

She smiled, despite herself. A bandage on her bum?

‘You're smiling! That's better. You have a very beautiful smile, Lorna.'

Pathetic how his flattery could cheer her. Yet he seemed a genuinely decent person – in fact he and Kathy were the only two unfailingly compassionate staff.

‘And is the rash any better?'

‘Not really. Still itching like mad!'

In her room, he took the crutches from her and rested them against the wall, then lifted her bodily on to the bed.

‘No, Oshoba,' she protested. ‘I'm too heavy.'

‘Not at all. You're as light as a feather.' He peered intently at her foot. ‘And how are those poor toes of yours?'

‘A bit messy, I'm afraid.'

Unexpectedly, he leaned over and planted an ardent kiss on the blood-encrusted toes. Lorna was dumbstruck. Here was a man she scarcely knew, who had not only embraced her but was now performing an intimate act of devotion more suited to a parent or a spouse. Yet Ralph, her husband of eleven years, would no more dream of kissing her foot than of stripping naked in Hyde Park. The gesture was so potent it was as if Oshoba had healed her foot – instantly, miraculously; made her feel that, even with the infection and the scar, she could climb a mountain, run a marathon.

‘Now, before I leave you to sleep, I'm going to bring you a cold compress for the blisters.'

‘No, really, Oshoba, don't bother. I know how busy you are.'

‘It isn't any bother. I want to make you comfortable, and it'll help cool the irritation.'

He returned with a small metal bowl of water, a folded piece of gauze and a bottle of calamine lotion. He placed them on the bedside table, then dipped the gauze in the water and wrung it out.

‘I'll do it,' she said, embarrassed. Surely an untrained male care assistant wouldn't presume to bathe the rash himself.