Chapter twelve
‘After four weeks of focused spot improvement and a root-and-branch review of operations, I’m happy to report that Rosemount Court has met its revised monthly targets.’ Lewis flashed his most confidence-inspiring smile. ‘I’m happy to take more specific questions?’
Normally he didn’t do weekly updates to the senior team, but as Eric Alexander, Acorn Care’s owner, had made crystal clear, Rosemount’s performance reflected so much on the group as a whole that it required performative oversight.
He’d also made crystal clear that it was by no means a foregone conclusion that Rosemount would be staying open. Even with Lewis in charge.
Donald Partridge, lead nutritionist, jumped straight in. ‘Talk to me about those atrocious kitchens that are still giving me nightmares. What’s happening there?’
‘Ah! Amazing things! Marek has completely overhauled the menus – we’re introducing a Round The World in Fifty Meals month, starting today.’
‘Nothing too spicy, right?’ Cheryl (care director) looked wary. ‘The last thing we need is a gastric incident like the one at Darlington Hall.’
‘You wouldn’t believe how many of our residents don’t feel our food is spicy enough.
’ Just that week Lewis had heard about married life in Bangkok and RAF postings in Singapore and community outreach projects in Bangladesh.
Judy Vance was sharing her memories in the form of family recipes, as were some of the nursing staff.
Lewis had fed it all straight back into the Nutrition Plan.
‘Of course there’ll still be a choice to suit everyone – in accordance with the CQC guidelines. ’
‘Rosemount scored very poorly on staff satisfaction and retention,’ Greta (director of compliance) observed from the top left of Lewis’s laptop. ‘Have you got to the bottom of why that is?’
‘A pattern is emerging,’ said Lewis. Eric and the team were aware of David Rigg’s shortcomings; Lewis had noted that Nuala from Legal was now cc’d into any email involving David.
‘Historically, communication has been disappointing. Worries turn into problems because staff didn’t feel able to raise concerns.
I’m reminding staff that I’m available for any queries, no matter how small, and offering on-going training to demonstrate our commitment to supporting their development. ’
‘And how is team cohesion going?’ asked Eric. ‘I know that’s one of your priorities.’
Cheryl muttered something under her breath about ‘paintballing’.
‘Good,’ said Lewis. ‘As expected, there were some resignations to begin with, but I feel that’s strengthened the team rather than diminished it.’
Pam had warned him about the handful of ‘bad apples’ David Rigg had failed to pluck from the Rosemount tree – the slopers-off, the tick-boxers, the half-arsers, the rogue cleaner who stole entire pallets of fabric conditioner and flogged them on eBay.
It hadn’t taken Lewis long to remove them: he had a system, starting with a friendly chat, moving on to performance plans, and then a less friendly chat.
One team-building afternoon (a fiendish escape room he’d personally devised in the library) had flushed out the worst offenders in one easy go, albeit with an unscheduled ‘panic attack workshop’ from Anita, the first-aid lead.
‘Does that include the alleged whistleblower?’ Greta arched an eyebrow.
‘I’m confident that the whistleblower is no longer part of our team,’ Lewis assured her.
Despite his ongoing detective efforts and several calls to the editor of the local newspaper, he still hadn’t pinned down exactly who it was who’d been leaking damning photos of mould and soggy medications to the Gazette’s investigative journalist. Someone was.
But there had been nothing more in the last week or so, which suggested that they’d been one of the ejected cohort.
Or maybe now he was tackling the issues, they felt their job was done.
Still, he didn’t know exactly who it had been and that bothered Lewis. He didn’t like loose ends.
And yet those lightbulbs had gone missing. Why? He frowned. Don’t get distracted.
‘We do need to discuss enrichment!’ Frances the HR director insisted. Frances was a keen exponent of theatre across the group’s care homes. ‘I was sad to read that Rosemount didn’t even have a choir.’
‘I’m so glad you asked about enrichment, Frances!’ Lewis said. ‘We’ve just begun a fascinating project to explore the life stories of—’
‘That’s tremendous, Lewis – sorry, Frances, I’m going to have to park that for next week, as we’re running out of time,’ said Eric; Frances had already launched into her usual spiel about the community glue of music.
‘But, in conclusion, Lewis, we still need to form a realistic picture of Rosemount’s viability.
The CQC reinspection could be much sooner than the statutory six months.
We’re struggling to make the numbers add up, even without the investment it clearly needs.
Devin sent you the financial year projections, didn’t he?
On top of fixing compliance issues, we need at least four new residents by the end of this quarter – I see you’re running at eight empty units. ’
Lewis nodded. He’d pored over Devin’s spreadsheets night after night until it made sense. Figures weren’t really his strong point – he tended to see rooms and people, rather than units – but he was confident that if he could get the people right, the rest would follow.
‘We’re on the way, Eric,’ he said confidently. ‘Leave it with me.’
Pam knocked on Lewis’s open office door while he was writing up his summary of the meeting, and he could tell from the way she was knotting her lanyard around her fingers that there was an awkward question incoming.
It was one of the many qualities Lewis admired in Pam: it was obvious how much she hated asking awkward questions, yet she forced herself to ask them.
‘Hello, Lewis.’ She had just about dropped the Mr Levison. ‘Am I interrupting?’
‘It’s always a good time!’ Lewis gestured at the chair opposite his desk. ‘Have your ears been burning? I’ve just been singing your praises to the senior team.’
She sat down gingerly. ‘What about?’
Lewis inclined his head towards his laptop. ‘Updating on the great progress we’re making, thanks to our dedicated staff. How can I help?’
‘Oh, it’s silly, really.’ She wiped her nose with her hand, another tell. Pam would be a terrible poker player. ‘You know Ellie, one of our nurses?’
Lewis nodded. Ellie had scored five out of five on his key staff assessments, and had been a key player in the escape room teambuilding game. Literally, when they couldn’t get the door open, and she saved the day with a hair grip.
‘Ellie’s been recording Ken McConnell’s life story, you know, for the project.
And he’s told her he was in the secret service during the seventies.
Went into lots of detail about it, where he served, the mission he went on to East Germany, what have you.
’ Pam frowned. ‘But as long as I’ve known Ken, he’s been a postman. ’
‘And how long have you known him?’
‘Well, he was our postman when I was a kid. I checked with my mum, who used to work at Grainger’s jam factory with his sister, and she said she’s got no recollection of Ken McConnell being in the secret service.
In fact, if anything . . .’ She blushed.
‘She remembers a story about him having another family in Bradford, but she can’t swear to it. ’
‘But presumably if he was in the secret service, then he’d want everyone to think he was a postman?’
‘That’s what he said to Ellie. That he had to build up a cover story.
’ Pam looked askance. ‘But who was he spying on? And when? I mean, we often have residents telling us some odd tales, especially if they’re upstairs.
’ She indicated in the direction of the Memory Wing.
‘And that’s fine – the doctors say to agree with them, join them in their reality, as it were.
But we don’t generally say oh yes, so you used to play bridge with Omar Sharif, then put it on a storyboard in the lounge, do we? ’
‘We are absolutely sure Ken didn’t have a career in intelligence?’
Pam arched her eyebrow. ‘You’ve not been here long, have you? If Ken used to work for MI5, half the staff would be able to tell you his codename. It’s not a big place, Longhampton.’
Lewis nodded. He’d already familiarised himself with the care plans and basic notes of each resident, and Ken had no markers for dementia, compulsive lying, or espionage work.
‘Ellie doesn’t want to upset Ken by accusing him of taking the mick,’ Pam went on.
‘But as she said to me, she doesn’t want him to waste time messing about winding her up when there are folk who want to share real memories and might not – excuse me for saying this – have long to tell us about them.
But then . . .’ Her face clouded. ‘What if he’s not making it up?
I mean, I feel terrible checking up on him with my mum, but if Ken was James Bond and he was protecting national security as well as delivering our parcels . . .’
She threw her hands in the air, defeated by the possibilities.
‘It’s a good question.’ Lewis got up to pour himself a cup of coffee from the filter machine; tea had an important social function, but strong coffee kept his brain in the overtaking lane.
‘What’s the most important thing here, recording the truth or listening to someone?
’ He waved the filter jug at Pam, who shook her head.
‘I’ll ask Gayle later – we’re hosting a visit from a journalist this week.
Carrie Clark from the Longhampton Gazette, do you know her?
She’s going to come in and do a feature about the Story project.
I thought it would be a good bit of publicity. ’
And also a chance for him to grill Carrie subtly about the whistleblower.
‘This week?’ Pam’s gaze shot around the room, automatically hunting for cobwebs. ‘Are we ready?’