Chapter seven #2
Martine Henderson tilted her head, as if to say, ‘There’s always time for coffee.’ ‘Would you mind if I made a quick call?’
‘Of course not. Would you like to use my telephone?’
‘No, thank you.’ She opened the handbag on her knee and took out a mobile phone.
Lewis turned to his computer and pretended to be checking his email – there were already one hundred and fifty-two unread emails in his inbox. He’d cleared it before leaving work the previous evening.
He heard a polite cough and looked up.
Mrs Henderson was staring meaningfully at him, mobile phone in her hand.
‘Oh.’ Lewis pointed to himself, then to the door. ‘You want me to . . . ?’
‘If you wouldn’t mind?’
‘Not at all.’ He wasn’t fazed; she was probably going to pretend to call someone who would then be unable to collect her – Lewis had seen this before too.
‘So kind,’ murmured Mrs Henderson.
He pushed back his chair and headed into the hall; he noted that she didn’t even lift her mobile phone until he was almost out of the room. Lewis pulled the door to – but not closed – and stood behind it in the corridor until he heard her start to speak.
Mrs Henderson really had called someone.
‘Beth,’ he heard her hiss in an undertone. ‘Finally! It’s Martine. Did you get my messages? Look, it doesn’t matter, I need you to do me a favour. I’m at the old people’s home on the Worcester road, and I need you to collect me as soon as you can, please.’
Pam Woodward was hurrying down the corridor with a tray. She’d unearthed some silverware from somewhere, although it needed a polish, and piled her mini pastries into a wire basket lined with a paper doily.
‘Mr Levison, um, Lewis,’ she started but Lewis put a finger to his lips.
They stood at the door and listened. Lewis dismissed any guilt at eavesdropping; Mrs Henderson had a very carrying voice, even when she was hissing discreetly.
‘Oh, it’s too ridiculous! I was at the hospital for a routine appointment and the transport service dropped me off here instead of taking me home. I only got out to help one of the old dears inside and when I turned round, the silly woman had left!’
‘Who is that?’ Pam mouthed.
‘A lady called Mrs Henderson?’ He pointed upward. ‘Is she from the Memory Wing?’
Pam’s eyes rounded. ‘Mrs Henderson? Martine Henderson?’
He nodded.
‘God, no! She’s not one of ours – she’s a local .
. .’ She struggled for the right word. ‘A local dignitary? Well, her husband was. Ray Henderson, the mayor, did a lot for charity. He died last year.’ Pam rattled off the information, casting quick glances towards the office to reel off all the facts before Martine reappeared.
‘Golf-club chairman, lovely man. Round Tabler. Father Christmas at the hospital for years. Family had Longhampton Cellars, the posh wine merchants on the high street. I had a Saturday job at the Cellars when I was at school, plum job it was – Mum was thrilled, thought I’d meet a nice boyfriend there.
I didn’t, but I learned how to mix a good gin and tonic. And one time—.’
‘Ah! Mrs Henderson.’ Lewis gave Pam a nudge as the door opened to reveal Mrs Henderson, her phone call completed. Whatever had been discussed had restored her equilibrium, and now she was drawn up to her full height. ‘Here’s the coffee.’
‘Hello, Mrs Henderson,’ said Pam politely.
Lewis watched as Pam also stood up straighter, her shoulders drawing back so suddenly the cat pendant bounced on her bosom. She was one reaction away from a curtsey.
‘Pamela!’ Martine Henderson’s voice was warmer now. ‘What a nice surprise to see you here.’
‘I’m the housekeeper,’ said Pam, as Lewis said, ‘Pamela is our acting manager. She’s been excellent.’
Martine nodded approvingly. ‘Well done, Pamela.’
‘She was just telling me how you two first met,’ said Lewis. ‘The more I hear about this community, the more I like it.’
‘That’s Longhampton!’ said Pam. ‘Everyone knows everyone. No secrets here!’
What was that tiny ripple passing across Mrs Henderson’s face, wondered Lewis? Her smile took a microsecond longer to appear than it should have done.
‘Will you excuse me?’ said Pam. ‘I’m run off my feet this morning settling in a new resident. If I’d known it was you, Mrs Henderson, I’d have put the blackcurrant jam on the tray!’
They both laughed, as if Lewis should know understand the significance of the blackcurrants, and then Pam deposited the tray on Lewis’s desk, and hurried off.
Lewis poured the coffee. ‘We’re very lucky to have a housekeeper like Pam, let alone someone who can step up to acting manager the way she has.’
‘Pamela’s a very capable girl,’ said Mrs Henderson, although Lewis put Pam somewhere north of fifty.
She added one lump of sugar to her cup with the tongs Pam had found along with the silverware, deploying them with an elegant deftness.
‘How are you settling in? Lots to do, I expect. I heard about the inspection.’
Everyone had heard about the inspection.
‘It’s not the result we wanted for our residents or our staff,’ Lewis conceded.
‘But I intend to use the report as a launchpad for improvement. I’ve already started planning strategies to change Rosemount’s environment for everyone, staff included.
It’s important that the whole team feel as if they’re part of a bigger picture, too.
For instance, have you heard of the Life Story project? ’
Mrs Henderson shook her head.
He leaned forward. Pam had intimated that Mrs Henderson was a community-minded woman, and right now Lewis needed volunteers. Plenty of volunteers to make his big plans for Rosemount work. Starting with the plan that he hoped would turn around Rosemount’s ‘attitude’ problem.
‘One of the biggest problems we encounter in the care sector is staff turnover. Care assistants come and go, there’s constant pressure to get things done with limited resources, everyone’s always rushing, people leave, new people start – we do our best but sometimes the checklist takes over from the human beings.
What the Life Story project does is to remind us that we’re not just names on a rota, we’re individuals with a past, a present and a future. ’
‘That sounds rather idealistic. How does that work in reality?’
‘We invite our residents to share their life stories with volunteers – the parts they want to share, of course. And then our volunteers hand their notes over to a creative writer who creates a master document that we can use as a reference point, and which the resident can keep for themselves too. It’s the best way for us to really understand them – the child, the young adult, the parent, the sister, not just the person they are now.
Plus, it helps us to target care, having a broader understanding of where our resident has been, how they’ve been shaped by their experiences, what makes them proud or scared.
The most important aspect, in my opinion, is that it gets us talking. Talking is always a good thing.’
Lewis made himself stop. He could get carried away with his pet projects, so he’d trained himself to pause in order that the other person could digest. Pauses were polite. And also power.
Mrs Henderson had started off listening half-heartedly, one eye on the window which looked out on to more neglected flowerbeds and a weed-speckled croquet lawn, but her attention had returned to Lewis. ‘And you need a creative writer to do that?’ she said.
‘As the project leader says herself, stories aren’t always about hard facts. Sometimes they’re about what people leave out. How they choose to recall events. The stories hidden in the gaps, as she put it. Creative writers are good at spotting those.’
She nodded. ‘How interesting.’
‘Isn’t it?’ said Lewis.
There was a knock on the door and, without warning, the most beautiful face Lewis had ever seen peered around it.
He was about to tell Mrs Henderson about the introductory session he’d arranged for Friday, and whether she’d like to come along herself, but every thought slid straight out of his head to be replaced with a wordless sense of wonder, like a perfect chord.
The chord his laptop made when it started up in the mornings.
Randomly, Lewis wondered if this was his heart, starting up.
‘Ah, Beth!’ said Mrs Henderson. ‘At last.’
The clouds had drifted away outside, flooding spring sunshine into the corridor behind the office door, and all Lewis could think was: this is an angel.
The woman at the door was pure golden softness, a round face with huge blue eyes and a high, smooth brow, the kind normally adorned with flowers in Victorian paintings.
Her hair was blond, scooped up into a messy bun escaping around her face, and judging by the loose, oatmeal-coloured drapery she was wearing, she seemed to have come straight from a potter’s studio or a yoga class or something – Lewis wasn’t strong on women’s fashion.
What he did suddenly understand, very clearly, was that all the nonsense talked about Cupid’s arrow was real, because he felt a distinct piercing sensation in his chest, as if he’d been hooked by something invisible.
It made him feel exposed, yet at the same time, weirdly elated.
‘Sorry?’ She sounded apologetic. ‘Am I interrupting?’
Lewis blinked. His throat had gone dry. He felt light-headed. For once, he didn’t know what to say.
Although Lewis had managed nearly every crisis imaginable in his career, from unexpected leaks to unexpected deaths, he hadn’t had a lot of practice at managing romantic situations, thanks to an unfortunate combination of bad luck, bad timing and circumstances in his early life.
Not that he didn’t want to meet the right person – he very much wanted that – but spending most of your working hours surrounded by elderly people and their demanding relatives didn’t offer many opportunities to meet suitable candidates.
He struggled to his feet. ‘Hello there! Lewis Levison. Lovely to meet you.’
His voice sounded wrong in his head, his tongue too big for his mouth. Hello there, too hearty, like a vicar in an Agatha Christie novel, ugh.
‘Lewis, this is Beth Cherry, my . . .’ Martine frowned, then smiled. ‘How would one describe you, Beth?’
‘Your lodger?’ she suggested.
Martine laughed and Lewis sensed there was another in-joke there he wasn’t getting. He really, really wanted to know. He wanted to know everything about Beth Cherry.
‘Delighted to meet you, Beth,’ he said, and extended a hand. When she took it, and shook it, electricity tingled up his arm at the contact with her warm palm, and out of shock, he dropped her hand, much sooner than he should have done. Or wanted to.
She reacted, startled, and Lewis wanted to grab it back and start again, but that would have looked bizarre, so he smiled too hard instead and, going by the freezing of her expression, that didn’t help.
Oh God, he thought, despairing at his awkwardness.
Luckily Martine had taken charge. ‘Lewis was telling me about a fascinating project he’s planning for the residents,’ she explained.
‘He needs volunteers to gather life stories from the old people. Wouldn’t that be perfect for you?
’ She turned to Lewis. ‘Beth is a writer! She’s been working on a screenplay for as long as I’ve known her, so I’d say she’d be ideal to help out with this project of yours.
’ Almost as a second thought, she turned back to Beth. ‘Wouldn’t you?’
‘Um, yes?’
Of course she was a writer. She looked creative, Lewis thought. He didn’t know any writers or artists or actors, but he imagined this was exactly what they’d look like.
‘When are you planning to hold the first session?’ Martine inquired.
‘Friday,’ said Lewis. ‘But there will be more than one introduction session, I hope. I want all the staff to attend so we’re staggering the sessions around rotas.’ That wasn’t true – yet – but he didn’t want to give her a chance to say no.
Martine turned to the angel. ‘Would that work for you, Beth? You’re working from home, you said, so you’re flexible, aren’t you?’
‘I’d have to check my diary,’ said Beth mildly. ‘Working from home doesn’t mean I don’t have client meetings.’
‘Do you write for clients?’ Lewis asked. ‘What kind of writer are you?’
‘I’m not a writer, I’m an accountant.’ She looked down at the floor, then up again. ‘The writing is . . . it’s just a hobby. I’m not even . . . I mean, I wouldn’t say I was—’
‘Good!’ Martine clapped her hands together. ‘There we go. A positive outcome! Thank you so much for the tea, Lewis – so kind of you. Beth, would you like to try one of these pains au raisin?’
Beth eyed up the plate with reluctant interest, and Lewis found himself offering her the whole plate. ‘Take them,’ he said. ‘Please. With our compliments.’
She looked shocked. ‘Um, no, honestly, I’m trying not to . . .’
‘Oh, you must,’ Martine urged her. ‘Pamela will be hurt if we don’t take some home.’
‘Yes. Please do!’ Lewis needed no further encouragement to fold up the pyramid of pastries into the paper doily Pam had added to the plate ‘to give it a bit of occasion’.
Beth took them, to put an end to the argument. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘And . . .’
She met his gaze, then flicked her huge blue eyes momentarily towards Martine, who was fiddling with her handbag, then back to him, as if she was trying to convey something.
Lewis didn’t know what, and again, he desperately wanted to know.
‘Thank you for taking time to chat to us when you must be so busy.’
It was there and it was gone, and he wasn’t sure what she intended by it, but the intimacy of that tiny shared moment made him feel dizzy.
‘Oh, it was my pleasure,’ said Lewis. In the back of his mind, his professional instinct was shuffling the interpretative options: did Martine often turn up in managers’ offices? Was she prone to wandering? Or was she just very bossy?
But he didn’t get very far, as Martine and Beth were standing up, and Beth was shaking his hand again, and the rest of his mind was flooded with a warm sense of spring, bursting out across his soul like the green shoots on the trees outside.