Chapter 16
MARY
The end of the advent service was still buzzing in my head as one by one I met the cast, whipping my tape measure around waists and up inside legs while my capable assistant recorded the numbers I called out.
I hadn’t been completely honest with Beckett about my hopes. I did hope that I didn’t make a hash of the costumes. Cheris and Carolyn were so delightfully invested in producing the best show on earth, and it had been a good few years since I’d sewn outfits from scratch.
But at the end of the day, I had far bigger dreams at stake.
What I had determined to hope in those quiet few minutes, deep in the marrow of my bones, was that I’d not mess up being a mother.
I’d find my way through this maze of old wounds, do my utmost to figure out who I was now, and where Bob and I were meant to be heading.
I’d stop wallowing, and even as I unboxed my creativity for the first time since I’d moved, I’d commit to designing and crafting a life Bob deserved.
One where he never felt unimpressive, or a let-down, or as if he didn’t really belong.
I also hoped that the men sitting beside me would be a part of that. Bob would need a good role model, and my dad or my brother weren’t getting that position, even if they were remotely interested in applying for it. Beckett, on the other hand?
I’d known him for five weeks, but I’d trust him with my life. Of course, when I thought about it, I remembered that I already had.
* * *
Some godsend had found Gramps a sandwich and crisps, which he was happy enough to sit and eat while I got the numbers I needed, but once he’d finished, we were all more than ready to leave the cast busy learning the ‘Everyone’s a Santa’ theme song.
I was disappointed when Beckett turned down my offer to have lunch at my house, but when he explained that another care manager was coming to discuss their service, I solved that by inviting myself to his.
I offered the pasta bake Patty had given me for that day’s meal train, but Beckett insisted I saved that for later. Instead, we stopped at a café in Bigley to pick up cheese toasties and pots of curried parsnip soup, eating them in companionable silence while Gramps and Bob slept.
Things might have gone better had the care manager not arrived seven minutes early. However, at the point Beckett opened the door, I happened to be in the middle of changing a ghastly nappy on the hall floor, due to it being a lot cleaner than the living-room carpet.
‘Oh my… oh my good grief!’ the man who marched into the hallway exclaimed, whipping out a handkerchief from his black blazer and pressing it over his face. He was around fifty, with a bald head and beady eyes that were currently squinched into tiny black raisins. ‘What is that?’
‘Sorry, we had something of a volcanic eruption,’ I said, with an apologetic wince. It didn’t even smell that bad. Although I had already used half a packet of wipes, and Bob’s sleepsuit and cloth nappy lay discarded in a browny-yellow heap about three inches from the manager’s polished brogues.
‘Have you deliberately left exposed human faeces in a public thoroughfare?’ the man barked through the hanky. ‘Are you not aware that this constitutes a significant health and safety hazard?’
‘It’s not a public thoroughfare,’ Beckett said, furrowing his forehead. ‘It’s a private residence.’
‘One where an elderly, vulnerable male with multiple serious health conditions lives?’
‘Well, yes.’
‘And presumably he uses this corridor to access other…’ The man paused to gag. ‘Other essential areas in the home, such as the kitchen or bathroom facilities?’
‘Not while I’m changing a nappy,’ I said, doing my best to secure a fresh one around an increasingly disgruntled Bob.
‘But if he experienced the urgent need to empty his bladder, he has to run the risk of slipping in or tripping over a pile of human waste, resulting in potential cross-contamination, injury or at the very least an attack on his dignity.’
‘Please, come through to the kitchen,’ Beckett said, although his heart clearly wasn’t in it. ‘We can talk properly there. Mary doesn’t live here. This is a one-off situation. She would usually use the bathroom, but I’ve got a new bathchair in there waiting to be set up, so there isn’t space.’
‘I’ll remain here until the area has been disinfected.’
I did my best to hastily double bag the clothes and nappy, dispose of the wipes and then one-handedly clean the floor, side of the stairs and everywhere else I could think of with anti-bacterial spray while holding Bob, who wailed as though he’d been the one to slip in human waste and break his hip.
Beckett stood helplessly watching, because this stranger now standing in his hallway and jabbing at a phone insisted they wait by the front door until the hazard had been correctly dealt with.
Needless to say, I was mortified, realising I could have ruined Beckett’s chance to secure another carer.
‘Right. After that delay, we’d better get straight to it.’ The man marched into the kitchen, where he carefully inspected a chair before sitting down.
Beckett gave me a surreptitious smile. My having cleaned the kitchen at least went some way to assuage my guilt for the nappy.
‘My name is Kenton Cumberworth the Third. Time of meeting, fourteen twelve. Present, Kenton Cumberworth the Third, Mr Beckett Bywater?—’
‘Doctor,’ I added, equally businesslike, keeping my eyes firmly away from Beckett.
‘You’re a medical professional?’ Kenton Cumberworth asked, mouth curling up in distaste as he glanced back at the hallway.
‘He is.’
‘And you are?’
‘Mary Whittington.’
‘The baby?’
‘What?’ I couldn’t help laughing. ‘You want to record the baby’s name in your meeting minutes?’
‘Unless you want to resituate him in another room. Which would be preferable.’
‘He doesn’t have an official registered name yet.’
‘Infant Whittington.’ Kenton Cumberworth rolled his eyes as if to say, ‘of course a woman with such appalling hygiene habits would leave it until the last minute to register her child’s birth’.
‘Now, may I stress, Dr Bywater, that my agency upholds the most stringent of standards at all times. If I’m sending my team into an alien working environment, I must be able to guarantee that it is sanitary. For example, food waste is securely disposed of, not left breeding bacteria on a worktop.’
‘That’s my lunch. I hadn’t finished eating it yet,’ I said. Because, of course, I was the culprit.
He ignored me. ‘All I’m asking is that the premises are clean. Is that achievable?’
Beckett sat back, arms folded. ‘Previous carers have incorporated cleaning tasks into their role. Washing up, vacuuming. It does state on your website that this is achievable .’
‘That would depend on the service user. Are you able to confirm that Mr Bywater is safe to be left unattended while my team member is cleaning up your mess, or are you paying for a two-person package?’
‘Mr Bywater will be sleeping for prolonged lengths of time. Usually the carer does some tidying up then.’
‘Do you have a copy of his daily schedule?’
‘Excuse me?’ The lines between Beckett’s eyebrows grew even deeper than his growl.
‘A detailed itinerary, describing what he does and when. I prefer it to be broken down into fifteen-minute slots, but we can work with thirty to start with.’
‘He likes to watch quiz shows in the afternoon. Apart from that, your guess is as good as mine.’
‘No, Dr Bywater. A guess is not good. We don’t care for vulnerable people using guesswork. My team members will follow the schedule to the minute, unless an incident arises requiring them to implement emergency procedures. This way, we can ensure consistency of care.’
‘To start with, you could try asking my grandfather what he wants. He’s quite capable of expressing his needs. Once the carer’s got to know him, they can settle into their own routine, surely?’
‘No.’
‘What do you mean, no?’ Beckett pushed his chair back. This meeting was about to be over.
‘No. I operate with a broad team of carers. That way, no unhelpful attachments develop. In my experience, a personal relationship, friendship, affection, whatever you call it, risks decision-making that may not be in the objective best interest of the service user. The schedule removes the need for such decisions.’
‘You do realise that this is a human being we’re talking about?
’ I bristled, unable to keep quiet. ‘The number-one thing Marvin needs is friendship, and some control over what decisions he’s still able to make.
Like any of us.’ I couldn’t help glancing at Beckett.
‘Someone who knows and cares about him, not a stupid schedule.’
‘I apologise, I’ve been remiss.’ Kenton Cumberworth gave me a hard stare. ‘I forgot to record your relation to Mr Bywater.’
‘I’m his friend.’ I gave myself a mental kick for allowing my voice to tremble.
‘So, Mary Whittington has no agency when it comes to planning care,’ Kenton said slowly, typing it up as he spoke.
‘We’re done here.’ Beckett stood up.
‘I haven’t finished asking questions.’
‘Yes, you have.’ Beckett opened the kitchen door.
‘Or logged photographs of the house.’
‘That won’t be happening.’
The force of Beckett’s presence was enough to propel the care manager up and into the hallway, which now smelled of disinfectant along with a faint whiff of dirty nappy, and right out of the door.
* * *
‘Have you really not registered Bob’s birth yet?’ Beckett asked once we’d finished going over our mutual abhorrence of Kenton Cumberworth.
‘Yeah, the midwife said something about that. I think I’ve still got ages.’
Beckett did a quick search on his phone. ‘It’s six weeks. So that’s what – next Sunday?’