Chapter 8 #5
A few young toddlers played with toys in a corner where a shelf overflowed with books and a big red plastic chest was stuffed with toys, puzzles and other items. ‘We encourage whole families to come and spend time here. It’s important for our residents that they can receive their friends and family, just as if they were in their own home, only with someone else doing the washing-up!
’ She smiled. ‘There is no set visiting time. If people want to come here at three in the morning or ten o’clock at night, they are more than welcome.
We are also able to put guest beds in the residents’ rooms for overnight stays.
It means the kitchen is always busy, providing three balanced meals a day and catering for varied, special diets.
You are just as likely to get a request for fish fingers or a plate of sandwiches for guests. We need that flexibility.’
‘Well, luckily I am flexible and fish fingers and sandwiches I can manage!’ Nina felt a surge of optimism. This was going well.
Fiona returned her smile and the tour continued.
The staff members wore bright pink polo shirts so they were easily identifiable and name badges pinned to their shirts.
They reminded her of holiday reps whose responsibility it was to ensure that everyone had a good time.
There was the faint tang in the air of decay, of urine, of rotting teeth and of breath laden with the chemical residue of pills, that no amount of bleach or room scent could mask.
This she knew was the reality of old age behind the shiny veneer.
That aside, it was all very inspiring, she had to admit; the bright dining room was clean and comfortable with a beautiful view of the gardens, and the treatment rooms were well kept.
There was even a hair salon and chiropodist. Nina managed to keep a lid on her excitement, smiling and nodding with enthusiasm in all the right places with half her mind on the time, thinking how the boys might be wondering what had happened to her.
Fiona took her up to the residents’ floor above. They stopped outside a room. Nina looked at a shallow memory box on the wall. Inside were a few family pictures, what looked to be a striped regimental tie, and an image of a plane cut from a magazine. There were other boxes like it lining the wall.
‘What’s this?’ she asked.
‘We find that a lot of our residents don’t respond to a number or a colour, but will know their room because they recognise the things that mean something to them – a photograph of a loved one or, as in Mr Sandler’s case, a plane.
He used to be a pilot.’ She nodded. The door opened and a middle-aged man came out.
‘I couldn’t help but overhear. Do come in and have a look. Feel free, Dad loves a visitor.’
‘Oh, no, I really don’t want to impose!’ Nina felt awkward, embarrassed.
‘Not at all, in you come!’ the man urged.
Nina walked in slowly. ‘I heard, Mr Sandler that you used to be a pilot. I can’t think of anything more amazing than flying above the clouds.’ She smiled at him, as though they were engaged in conversation, though Mr Sandler was staring out blankly into space with his head on his chest.
‘I think it’s lovely here,’ Nina said, smiling at the son.
He answered on his dad’s behalf. ‘It really is. Dad is calm, safe, well-fed and settled.’
‘Ah yes, and well-fed is where Nina’s interest lies.’ Fiona gave her a knowing look and Nina pictured herself working here, preparing fish fingers for people like Mr Sandler . . .
‘Right, let’s make our way to the kitchen. I’m sure you’re keen to see it.’
Nina followed along the corridor. ‘Food, as I am sure you know, becomes the focus of the day for residents and visitors alike. It punctuates the time and is very much looked forward to. We hold afternoon tea dances with lovely cakes and themed evenings, Italian and so forth, so the catering is varied. Would that suit you?’
‘Yes.’ Nina nodded, thinking how she might make fancy cakes and trying to remember sponges and fancies she had whipped up for the boys on occasion.
‘We have a lot of parties.’ Fiona smiled.
‘Don’t listen to her! This place is a prison!’
Nina turned to look at a diminutive elderly lady with short-cropped grey hair, steel blue eyes and a wraparound cardigan encasing her tiny frame. ‘I had a date with Humphrey Bogart and they wouldn’t let me go. He was pressing that buzzer all night and they wouldn’t let him in.’
‘This is Eliza.’ Fiona smiled.
‘I tell you what, Eliza. My husband had to ask me out three times before I agreed to go. I think you’ve done the right thing, making Mr Bogart wait. He’ll only be keener when you do go for that date,’ Nina whispered.
Eliza seemed to consider this. ‘Where’s your husband now?’ she shouted.
‘He died,’ she managed. It didn’t get any easier saying it out loud and was no less confusing for her, still torn between missing him and cursing him.
‘So did mine.’ Eliza held her gaze for a second, ‘It’s terrible, isn’t it?’
‘Yes.’ She nodded. ‘It really is.’
Eliza patted her bent fingers against her arm, before shuffling off along the corridor. ‘Come and talk to me any time.’
‘Thank you.’ Nina felt quite overcome by the gesture.
Fiona gave her a knowing smile and they made their way to the kitchen. There were two older women in hairnets and tabards, one mixing bread dough and the other peeling vegetables. Nina smiled meekly at them.
‘So, it’s a fairly standard industrial kitchen,’ Fiona said with a wave.
Nina stared at the vast multi-rack ovens, the large, shiny chrome mixing machine and a huge griddle, all unfamiliar.
The counter-tops were shiny stainless steel and a packed fire blanket and extinguisher sat within reach on the walls.
She felt her enthusiasm sink, her smile fade and her nerves bite once again.
‘Where are you working at the moment?’ Fiona asked, her tone a little altered as if picking up on her unease.
‘I . . . I’m not. I am new to the area and job hunting.’ She hoped this practised response would suffice.
‘So, tell me about your last role.’ Fiona folded her arms across her chest.
‘I’ve been a homemaker for the last few years,’ she said, the heat rising to her cheeks and neck. ‘But I am a passionate cook and a quick learner.’
The two women stood in silence for a beat or two, until Fiona asked the direct question.
‘Forgive me, Nina, but what culinary qualifications do you have?’
‘I . . .’ She faltered, remembering the man on the phone who had been so sharp: ‘We all need a job. The difference is, some of us are qualified to do a job and others are trying to wing it without the relevant experience.’ She felt her confidence crumble; her eyes darted towards the exit.
Fiona again prompted. ‘Tell me about your experience in mass catering. Any culinary qualifications? Anything?’
Nina shook her head. ‘I am sorry to have wasted your time. I just need a job. I really need a job.’ She faltered again.
‘I didn’t think it through. I can cook and I hoped that might be enough.
’ She turned to leave and looked back at the woman and the two kitchen assistants who all stared at her.
‘I do think it’s lovely here, and can you please tell Eliza that I hope our paths cross again.
I would have liked to talk to her.’ With her head held high, she walked back to the atrium to collect her bag, and then left the building.
Nina felt the sting of tears at the back of her throat.
‘Are you okay, love?’ called a man in fingerless gloves and a grubby fur hat. He swapped his beer can to the other hand and reached out as if to hold her arm.
‘I’m fine, thank you.’ She smiled at the kindness of the stranger.
‘Then why are you crying?’ He pointed at her face.
Running her palm over her cheeks, she looked at him. ‘I didn’t realise I was.’
‘Would you like a drink?’ He held out his can of beer towards her.
‘No, but thank you, that’s really kind.’ She squeezed his arm as she left, making her way back along Portswood Road.
She heard Declan run towards the front door at the sound of her key in the door, and watched his smile disappear, replaced by fear as he took in her distress.
‘What’s happened, Mum?’ His chest heaved and his brow furrowed. She hated that she was making him worry, recalling their recent trip with his bed linen bundled into a bin bag.
‘Nothing to worry about. Not really.’ She tried to stifle the sobs, but she couldn’t stop.
‘I’m sorry, I can’t seem to stop crying.
I just feel a bit stupid and a bit sad. I .
. . I went to try to get a job, but I couldn’t do the job and I’m angry with myself for thinking that I could. ’ Her tears sprang in a fresh wave.
‘Shall I . . .’ The little boy looked around, as if trying to figure out what needed to be done that might make things better. ‘Shall I get you a glass of juice?’
Nina reached out and stroked his hair, her face wet with tears and mucus. ‘No, thank you, my sweet boy, but I tell you what,’ she sniffed. She mustered a fake smile. ‘You can . . . you can put the groceries away while I have a little nap. I think I am just very tired.’
Connor came out of the bathroom. ‘What’s happened? Are you okay?’ He too looked worried. She knew he would have heard some of their conversation.
She nodded. ‘I’m feeling sorry for myself and I’m going to have a little nap.’
‘I’ll help Dec.’ She was grateful for his conciliatory gesture, not sure how much more she could have coped with today, and left the two of them in the kitchen.
Closing the bedroom door behind her, she fell onto the mattress without removing her shoes and closed her eyes.
‘Do you know, Finn, I used to think I was capable of lots of things. I should have insisted. I should have worked. I should have done a lot of things . . .’ She closed her eyes, and the sobs came again.
As her eyes flickered open, she was for a second surprised to find herself fully clothed on the bed and was unsure of how long she had slept.
Her sadness was a little diluted, but the swell of embarrassment would take a little longer to dissipate.
She sat up on the bed. Her eyes felt as if they were full of sand and her throat was dry.
Stretching up towards the ceiling she took a deep breath and reluctantly climbed from the bed where she knew, without the boys to tend to, she would happily have stayed for eternity.
Declan sat on the sofa under his duvet with a book, mouthing the words he read silently. He looked up. ‘Are you feeling better?’
‘I am.’ She nodded. ‘The wonderful restorative powers of sleep.’ She heard Connor in the kitchen. Turning her head, the first thing she saw was the pickle jar on the counter-top, half-filled with water and stuffed with snowdrops she’d seen growing on the verge. She walked slowly towards them.
‘I thought they might cheer you up a bit,’ Connor said, shifting from one foot to the other, as if he might be regretting the gesture.
Nina ran her fingers over the relief pattern on the edge of the glass and then the little sticky area where glue stubbornly held on to a sliver of the label, before picking up the jar and cradling it to her chest. She thought again about the grand display of blooms that used to grace the round table in the hallway at The Tynings.
So much money. I wasted so much money . . .
This pickle jar filled with simple flowers was the most beautiful expression of love, the most precious gift of flowers, that she had ever received.
‘Thank you. Thank you, Connor.’ She stared at her boy.
‘Oh no, are you crying again? They were supposed to stop you crying,’ he pointed out, sighing.
‘Happy tears, darling,’ she explained. ‘These are happy tears.’