Chapter twenty-eight #2
Although I’d put on a confident front for Pam and Lewis, the niggling insecurities I’d been collecting for years silently gathered like swallows on phone wires, preparing for mass flight, sometimes dropping into my head as individual worries (What if I blanked on key figures?
What if someone else had an accident while Eric was there?), sometimes flocking together in one smothering blanket of stress (What if Eric was just humouring me, a small-business accountant with zero experience of care homes, and told us he’d already done a deal?) I’d been having dreams about my mum, for the first time in ages.
Dreams in which I asked her questions and she just smiled at me, and I knew I’d only ever hear my side of her story, and I woke up, dark and lost with aching.
I arrived far too early, having got up at five to bath and brush a bemused Tomsk – he’d been pressed into duty to demonstrate Rosemount’s ‘pets as therapy’ programme.
Pam was already up and about, looking dynamic in a navy-blue jumpsuit that was probably giving certain male residents flashbacks to their time in the RAF.
‘I’m so nervous I’ve gone beyond nervous,’ she said, offering me a bottle of homeopathic stress tablets, which I declined. I’d seen what mixing herbal medicine with espresso could do and I didn’t want to tell Eric Alexander to fuck off by accident.
‘You’ve no need to be nervous,’ I told Pam. ‘I mean, look at this place! It’s spotless. It speaks for itself.’
Everything was gleaming. The cleaners had been working double shifts.
Volunteers had raided their gardens (and Tesco) to create flower arrangements, and every corridor smelled light and bright.
The whole place hummed with happy energy: Ellie’s ‘Do You Remember . . . ?’ memory boards had been replenished with fresh photos of soap stars and discontinued chocolate bars, and there was something going on in every public room – but casually, as if every day was filled with optional enrichment activities.
As we’d established in our strategy brainstormer – me, Lewis, Pam, Martine, Ellie, Nigel and Eunice, as the residents’ reps – we wanted to convey a powerful impression of what might be lost if the home was sold for flats.
Lewis had agonised over how much he should be involved in the meeting with Eric.
‘I don’t want him to think I couldn’t make this place work for Acorn, and yet I could suddenly make it work for an outside interest,’ he explained.
‘Best if we take the line that you want to carry on the sterling work Acorn has done, but sadly can longer continue to sustain in the current difficult climate. And I’m here to advise you on that. ’
‘But you’ll stay if Martine buys it?’
‘I’ll have to wait to see if I’m offered a job.’ He kept his face straight, but above his moustache, his eyes twinkled.
Lewis had been waiting with a strong coffee for me when I arrived – so God knows what time he’d got to work, or how much coffee he’d consumed himself – and nobly offered to take charge of Tomsk while I delivered Martine’s pitch.
I thought this was brave, given both his nervousness around dogs, and his newly cleaned suit, and I told him so.
‘Whatever I can do to help. I’m right behind you, Beth.’ He’d gone into maximum efficiency mode, I could sense, but now I knew Lewis better, the nerves were there underneath. ‘You’re going to do a great job.’
‘You’re sure?’
Lewis nodded. ‘You don’t need me to tell you that. Do you want to run through some figures again?’
He’d only tested me on a few when Ellie skidded round the corner. ‘Beth! Beth! I think he’s here!’
I handed my coffee to her, parked Tomsk temporarily in Lewis’s office, and brushed myself down as my heartbeat sped up.
You can do this, I told myself, as Lewis and I went to the front door to welcome Eric Alexander.
Lewis’s boss was smaller than I’d expected, but apart from that, exactly as I’d anticipated from the sheaf of meticulously prepared research Nigel Callaghan had slipped me. (‘Sure you’re on top of this, but just in case. Old habits, and all that.’)
Lewis introduced me – as Martine’s head trustee and business advisor, no less – and we shook hands and exchanged pleasantries.
‘I appreciate you’re a busy man,’ I said, my heart hammering, ‘but before we start the meeting, I wonder if I can show you – very quickly! – some of the projects that have become such a vital part of the residents’ experience here.’
That was Lewis’s cue to excuse himself for a social care meeting, and, with one last secret squeeze of my arm, he left me to steer the ship.
Eric allowed me to escort him to the library, which was occupied by Kay and the ukulele orchestra, then to the dining room, currently playing host to a 1950s pop-up Italian coffee bar, complete with table jukeboxes, to the refurbished beauty salon which Pam’s cousin Lesley, a hairdressing tutor at the further education college, had offered to staff, twice weekly, with volunteer students. Perms were, it turned out, back in.
As we passed through the various areas, I noted a general upswing in the standard of dress amongst the residents.
Stan Walkingshaw was wearing his medallion but over a polo shirt.
There was also an unusually high attendance rate in the morning activities, including the classical music hour, which usually only had two people, both asleep.
My phone vibrated in my pocket. While Pam was telling Eric about the magic of group singing, I checked it sneakily, in case Lewis was warning me of impending disaster, but it wasn’t Lewis.
The floor fell away from under my feet.
It was Fraser. The first line of the message read Hey Beth. Really need to discuss but then it was cropped.
I stared at the screen in disbelief. Just seeing his name triggered an involuntary reaction: I’d willed him to text me for so long and now, there it was. Dark hysteria swirled in my chest. No no no. I didn’t want to think about Fraser right now.
He’s reaching out to you. He needs your help. This is all you dreamed of for years. Aren’t you going to answer him?
‘Beth?’
Pam was looking at me. ‘Sorry!’ I dragged on a smile and shoved the phone in my pocket. ‘Shall we head back to the office, Eric? Are you ready for a cup of tea?’
Eric asked me whether the famous Rosemount ghost had made another reappearance, and I wasn’t sure if he was joking or not.
My balance had been thrown by Fraser’s text; half of my brain was now focused on that – what it meant, whether I should reply – and I couldn’t concentrate.
Fraser’s text had hurled a stone into the lovely clear pond of my preparation, stirring up old feelings of confusion and helplessness, despite my attempts to stay in control.
My phone vibrated again, as we approached the family conference room set up for our meeting, and again, I checked it, in case it was Lewis, but again, it was Fraser.
Beth, I really need your
‘Oh God,’ I said under my breath.
‘Sorry?’ Eric turned.
‘Nothing!’ I gestured towards the room, where Martine was waiting at the table. She gave me a quizzical look, which made me wonder if my confusion was so evident. As I was introducing them, my phone buzzed again – seriously? – and I bit my lip.
What happens next, Beth?
I felt the phone vibrate again. My armpits were damp with sweat. ‘Sorry,’ I said, as Eric took a seat. ‘Before we begin, would you excuse me for one moment?’
He nodded, but checked his watch, and I felt a momentary panic.
Martine’s quizzical look intensified. I tried to give her a reassuring smile, and slipped into the corridor, out of earshot.
I stared at my phone. Three messages now from Fraser. My finger hesitated over the screen.
Whatever it was must be urgent. Had he found out about the trust? Had something happened with Iwona? Did he want my advice about—
‘It doesn’t matter.’
I looked round quickly. The thought was so loud and clear I wasn’t sure if I’d spoken it aloud. Had I?
I gripped the phone, as my brain held the thought in front of me like a huge placard.
It really didn’t matter what Fraser wanted. Or what he wanted me to do. What anyone wanted me to do. This wasn’t even really about Fraser, it was about letting other people push in front of me, in my own head.
I’d had the idea for this project. I’d set the wheels in motion. I was leading the meeting. I could make this happen. Was I going to let someone else derail it?
Yes, I’d had help from people who wanted this as much as I did, and yes, I’d asked for advice where I needed guidance, but ultimately this was down to me. Me.
I felt a sudden elation in my chest, as if all the swallows of stress gathered on the wires had simultaneously launched themselves skyward, lifting me with them.
Carefully I turned my phone off, placed it inside a brass plant holder where it could wait till later, and went back into the meeting room.
It was too quiet. A little frosty, even. The refreshment tray had been delivered but was sitting there, untouched.
‘Tea, Eric?’ I asked, picking up the teapot with a warm smile. ‘I can’t wait to talk to you about what a difference Rosemount’s been making to the people of this town, and all the ideas we’ve got to pick up the baton and take it to another level, if you’re willing to work with the Cellars Trust.’
‘I’m all ears,’ said Eric, and sat back with a custard cream.
And with that, I got my slide show started.
An hour later, we waved Eric off as his Bentley disappeared down the drive, and I let the adrenalin slowly dissipate.
I had done it. With some appropriate contributions from Martine, and subtle use of Nigel’s briefing notes to push Eric’s hot buttons (community, dignity, Newcastle FC), the meeting had gone from formal to, as Martine put it, ‘positively chummy’ by the end.