Now my thoughts centred on Constance Bell once more. How did she cope with her disability? I wondered. My heart suddenly ached for her and not just out of pity. It was cruel enough to be born such as I, ugly both in features and shape, for at least it was a corporate image, a bitter unification; but this woman bore the extra torment of having the face of an angel shackled to an impaired body. Perhaps this was the inner turmoil I thought I had recognized in her earlier, the dealing with the dichotomy of her own identity. All these reflections of mine were fleeting as most thoughts are, and soon we had reached the broad stairway.
The care-supervisor, this lovely creature Constance Bell, turned to me. ‘Are the stairs all right? We could take the lift if you’d prefer, although it’s only one flight.’ One of her hands rested on the post of the thick, oak stair-rail.
‘No problem.’ I gave her a smile, more concerned for her than myself: I didn’t need crutches to get about on.
‘We like to keep the lift free for our more elderly and infirm residents. And those in wheelchairs, of course. Besides, the exercise is good for me.’
I wondered if she simply refused to give in to her condition.
‘How long have you worked at PERFECT REST?’ I asked as we began to climb. I was curious about this extraordinary woman, wanting to ask much, much more.
She smiled. ‘Oh my goodness, for more years than I can remember. Dr Wisbeech brought me here when I was a teenager.’
Another print mounted over the stairway caught my eye. I couldn’t be sure, but I thought it was a Modigliani, a portrait of a girl’s face, the shapes distorted, elongated, yet the expression revealing grace and vulnerability.
‘You said Hildegarde was the midwife who delivered you into the world,’ Constance said, a slight breathlessness to her voice now that we were half-way up the stairs. She used her crutches expertly, but I sensed the climb was harder for her than she pretended. She added, with a hint of playfulness: ‘I bet you gave her a shock.’
I almost missed a step and she laughed, the sound as pleasing as her voice.
‘I’m sorry.’ She was smiling again, enjoying the tease. ‘You just looked so . . . well, so concerned with yourself.’
‘Is that how I come across?’
‘To me you do.’
My turn to smile. And to apologize. ‘Some days it just gets you down, y’know?’
‘Oh, I know, Mr Dismas, believe me, I know. Try to remember there are others even worse off.’
‘You think so?’ I meant it lightly, but in a flash her humour was gone.
‘I know so,’ she said.
We began the next flight of stairs and until we reached the landing there was no more communication between us. I’d observed the stark cleanliness of the place before, the freshly painted pale cream walls, polished woodwork and doors, the crystal chandelier hanging over the main hall; now I noticed the change in smell, from chemicals and senility to the mixture of boiled cabbages, decay, disinfectant, the general malodour of such places, when the old mingled with the old-sick. I supposed nothing on earth could ever truly disguise the resident scent, not even in the grandest of old folks’ homes.
Two ladies of late years and dressed in nightwear shambled past us, supporting each other, their heads close as if sharing a secret. They broke their journey to look back at us, their imperious expressions rather spoilt by their obvious curiosity. To them I guess the care-supervisor and I were the odd couple exemplified.
Constance greeted them with that wonderful smile. ‘Good afternoon, ladies. Hildegarde has a visitor today, isn’t that nice?’
One of the ladies sniffed, while the other muttered something I couldn’t quite catch. But at least they each faked a quick smile before turning and shuffling on their way.
‘I’m not sure they even know who Hildegarde is,’ Constance confided to me in a low voice.
‘It’s got to cost quite a bit to be a guest in this place,’ I commented as we began walking again.
‘It is quite expensive,’ she replied, ‘particularly as PERFECT REST is completely privately run without any funds at all from the government or local council.’
‘I hadn’t realized Hildegarde Vogel was wealthy,’ I said, bemused.
‘She isn’t,’ Constance replied.
‘Then how – ?’
‘Hildegarde is a special case.’
Before I could follow up this new piece of information, we were interrupted by someone leaving a room – from the glimpse I caught, it appeared to be an office of some kind – we had drawn level with. She was a tall woman, five-nine at least, and her build, while not hefty exactly, was substantial. She looked as if she had more than average female strength and knew how to use it. Her red hair was a little faded, as though it had lost much of its original vibrancy, and it was curled back over her ears in sensible fashion. I guessed her to be in her early forties. The uniform she wore was similar to the care-supervisor’s, except a wide black belt drew in her waist and the long sleeves ended in white cuffs. Her eyes were small and puffy, and they seemed to regard me with suspicion.
She shifted her attention to Constance, a question in her cool expression.
‘Rachel, this is Mr Dismas,’ the care-supervisor responded quickly. ‘He’s here to see Hildegarde Vogel.’
The look I now received from this tall woman could have frozen chili. ‘On whose authority?’ she demanded, continuing to look down on me.
Constance was flustered. ‘Hildegarde is much better today – I was sure it would be all right.’
‘You should have checked with me first,’ came the rebuke. ‘You know Hildegarde becomes very confused.’
I thought it was about time that I spoke. ‘I’ve come a long way and I’d really like to see her.’ Not if she’s that confused though, I thought to myself. How would I get answers from someone who didn’t know what day it was?
Her piggy eyes glared and her fleshy throat appeared to quiver, but just as she was about to speak the door behind her opened again. A big bruiser of a man clutching a document of some kind stepped out to join us. His uniform was obviously the male equivalent of the supervisor’s: pale blue, short sleeves (revealing well-muscled, hairy arms), but reaching just below the waist and with a buttoned Nehru-type collar; he wore joggers rather than trousers, the same shade of pale-blue as the tunic, and casual, white Nikes rather than formal shoes. His dark hair was cut short, brushed forward, speckles of white adding texture, and I imagined he modelled himself on ER’s George Clooney, although he looked more like Stallone – Stallone gone wrong, if you can imagine that; even his chin was heavily shadowed as if he’d neglected to shave that morning (although he was probably the type who had to shave twice a day). A hooked nose and a curled-lipped mouth completed the presentation. Oh, and the sorry smell of Blue Strata.
‘Rachel,’ he began, ‘they want us to confirm the order for – ’ He broke off when he saw me. He glanced at the tall woman, his eyebrows raised.
‘A visitor for Hildegarde Vogel,’ he was told curtly.
His eyes came back to me. ‘That’s not a good idea, is it?’ he said. ‘Has Dr Wisbeech been informed?’
I was becoming a little annoyed at people staring at me while speaking to someone else.
‘I only want to spend a couple of minutes with her just to, y’know, just to let her know someone out there cares,’ I said, appealing to the tall woman.
‘I doubt she’ll even know you,’ was her chilly response.
The man – orderly, nurse, I didn’t know what he was – nodded in agreement. ‘Some days she doesn’t even remember who I am and I’ve dealt with her for nearly ten years.’
He may have been around six-foot-two, but I didn’t like the way he said ‘dealt with her’. What was wrong with ‘cared’ or ‘helped’? ‘I think she’d like to see a friendly face,’ I said, not caring what they made of that remark. ‘And I gather she doesn’t get many visitors.’
‘None at all, actually,’ Constance chimed in helpfully.
‘So I might just cheer her up a little bit. And besides, for my own personal satisfaction I’d like to thank her for all she did for me years ago, even if she can’t remember me.’ I said all this in a firm, no-nonsense voice that sometimes worked for me. By then, I’d realized that Hildegarde’s senility might, in fact, run in my favour – when she failed to recognize me it would be blamed on her condition.
‘All right,’ said the woman called Rachel, irritation on her face and in her tone. ‘Dr Wisbeech is away today but, Constance, you’ll have to let him know of Mr Dismas’ visit this evening when he returns. And next time I’d like you to check with me first.’
‘Of course,’ Constance agreed meekly. ‘It was such short notice and I know how busy you are . . .’ She let her words trail away.
Without further comment, although disapproval was still evident in her body language, the heavy-set woman turned on her heels and marched off down the hallway, the big guy following, holding the paper he clutched towards her. ‘I need your signature and then it can be faxed through,’ we heard him say before they disappeared from sight round a corner.
‘Nice lady,’ I remarked as their footsteps faded.
‘Rachel Fletcher. She’s both senior nurse and chief administrator.’
‘I can see why she’s busy then.’
‘I hope you won’t be too disappointed if Hildegarde doesn’t remember you,’ my companion said, moving on towards the same turn in the hallway that the senior nurse and orderly had taken.
I’m counting on it, I thought to myself, although hoping her memory wouldn’t be completely wiped: I needed the ex-midwife to tell me about Shelly Ripstone’s long-lost baby. I groaned inwardly, realizing how slim the chances were.
‘Tell me something,’ I said. ‘With senile dementia, does the victim forget everything?’
‘Good gracious, no.’
Good gracious? I loved it. I hadn’t heard that kind of exclamation in many a year. A curse or blasphemy usually did the job nowadays.
‘The victim might be unable to think clearly or understand complex ideas, and they will forget people’s names, even the names of relatives or close friends. They might also forget recent events, even what they had for breakfast, but some can remember what happened in the distant past as if it were yesterday. They could tell you what they did fifty years ago, yet be unable to tell you what they did that morning. It’s one of the mysteries of the illness.’
By now we had reached the corridor leading off from the main hallway and we turned into it. It must have run along the centre of the building, for there were doors on either side, some open, others shut. I heard the muted rumbling of a large aircraft passing overhead.
‘Isn’t it a bit noisy for your patients?’ I asked as we went on. ‘You know, with the airport so near?’
That coaxed a smile again. ‘Most of our guests,’ she corrected, ‘are hard of hearing anyway, and the windows here are double-glazed, so the noise doesn’t bother them much. Sometimes the vibration might, especially when a plane is too low or Concorde is passing over, but it isn’t often and you soon get used to it.’
‘It’s in an odd location, though. It was pretty hard to find.’
‘Dr Wisbeech likes it that way – it’s more private for our residents. Besides, the house belonged to the Wisbeech family long before the doctor turned it into a nursing home for the elderly. He completely renovated the place to make it suitable.’
‘He must have come from a wealthy family.’
A plump, blue-uniformed figure appeared from a doorway further along the corridor and gave Constance a wave. Her hands occupied with the crutches, Constance gave a nod of her head in response. I peeked into open doorways as we passed by, catching glimpses of sparse but comfortable-looking rooms: iron-framed beds with multi-pillows, bright bedcovers, fresh flowers on small cabinets, a wardrobe here and there, small, portable televisions on sideboards, all cosy and well kept. Occasionally, an old face returned my curiosity, but mainly the residents I saw seemed preoccupied with their newspapers, their little television sets, or the empty air in front of them. Some had tubes attached to their bodies, while others lay still in their beds as if already dead. Through the windows in the rooms to my left I could see fields and sparse woodlands, distant houses dotted here and there, yet on my right, from where the views of the River Thames and beyond would have been glorious, there were only blank walls.
I had no time to ponder this, for the nurse who had waved to Constance was strolling towards us.
‘’Lo, there. A new friend, is it, Constance?’ There was a nice Irish lilt to the plump nurse’s voice.
‘Just someone to see Hildegarde, Theresa,’ Constance replied, showing no strain at having to repeat the familiar line.
Theresa – pronounced Theraisa – was a pleasant-faced girl, with a chubby, freckled face and an easy manner. ‘Is that right, now?’ she said. ‘That’s a good thing. Hildegarde will enjoy that.’ She seemed genuinely unfazed by my appearance and I wondered if that was because of her daily contact with Constance. ‘I’ve just left the poor old’ – auld – ‘thing an she’s as quiet as a mouse. Not sleeping, though, so you won’t be disturbin her.’
As the plump young nurse stepped aside to allow us by, she gave me a little wink, then grinned at Constance.
‘There’s a fine feller,’ she said, and you know, I think she meant it.
When I peeked a sideways look at Constance, I was amazed to see she was blushing. I almost laughed.
‘I’ll be seein youse later, Constance,’ Theresa called as she went on her way. ‘An see youse both behave yerselves, mind.’
We heard her chuckle to herself and Constance gave me a sheepish glance.
‘Don’t mind Theresa,’ she said. ‘She’s always jolly.’
Jolly? Oh yes, I loved the words Constance used. ‘I bet she’s a good worker, too,’ I replied trying to help her out of her embarrassment.
‘She certainly is.’
‘How many medical staff or carers work here?’ I asked, waiting for the redness in her cheeks to fade.
‘Eight in this unit, five in our other section. Then there’s Rachel Fletcher, our chief administrator-supervisor/senior nurse, and her secretary, and our main lobby receptionist, of course.’
‘The guy with Nurse Fletcher – he’s a nurse, too?’
‘Bruce is a general orderly, but also a kind of assistant to Rachel.’
‘What is this other section you mentioned?’
For some reason she seemed almost relieved that we had reached the doorway from where Theresa had waved. Was I asking too many questions? If so, I still didn’t understand why that should make her uncomfortable. Then again, why was I asking so many questions anyway? Too many years as a professional snooper. I thought at the time it was my natural – some might say unnatural – instinct, the one I relied on so much in my line of work, needling me, sending little vibes to pester me; little did I realize it was so much more than that.
‘If you’ll just wait a moment I’ll check on Hildegarde first,’ Constance said, ignoring my last question.
She disappeared into the room and I heard her say in a voice that was louder than normal: ‘Hildegarde, your visitor is here. Remember I told you someone was coming to see you? Are you feeling well enough?’
There was a throaty sound that might have been assent or just a cough.
Constance returned to the doorway and dropped the pitch of her voice. ‘She’ll be fine. But please don’t make your visit too long, will you? There’s a buzzer by the bed should you need any assistance.’
With that, she looked directly into my eye again, as if searching for something there. Perhaps it was the truth behind the lie.
‘Th-thank you.’ Yes, I actually stuttered and it was my turn to feel sheepish. There was a sudden warmth to her gaze, and then she was gone, moving awkwardly around me and heading back towards the main stairway. With one last look at her hunched back, I entered the room.
br /> It was like all the others we had passed, the walls painted the same peaceful cream colour, the woodwork white. The large sash window overlooked the drive and lawns, the light from the north subdued. In one corner was a small sink, a rectangular mirror with a strip light over it. A free-standing screen stood close by, the edge of what looked like a commode just visible behind it. A picture of Christ hung on the wall opposite a narrow iron-framed bed, a deep red heart burning from His chest, golden rays bursting from it like brilliant shafts of sunlight. The compassionate eyes seemed to watch me as I crossed the room, and one of His hands was raised in benediction.
The thin, frail figure of Hildegarde Vogel, ‘Sparrow’, was raised by pillows at her back, a nebulizer and other apparatus close at hand on a bedside cabinet. Like the Christ image, she watched me as I drew near.
Her trembling, skeletal, blue-veined hands reached out to greet me.
In a voice so tearful and weary that the last word fell away in a moan, she uttered: ‘My . . . poor . . . baby . . .’
15
Pale and watery though those aged eyes were, they seemed to burn with an inner fever. I was dismayed at the pity and deep sadness I saw in them.