Chapter Thirteen
Saturday 17 November. Kendrick House.
I’ve learnt to make porridge the slow way. Haneen doesn’t believe in microwave oats. It’ll be my job in the morning now because Haneen is going away for ten days.
They’re going on holiday, she, Evan and their little girl, Henrietta, as well as a slightly older boy that I hadn’t seen before. Rhys is Evan’s seven-year-old nephew. It’s for him this unusually timed holiday in mid-November. The boy normally lives in a residential school for deaf children and it’s their half-term. So the family is off to visit Haneen’s brother somewhere in the Channel Islands. This morning, I watched Evan pack suitcases into his car while little Henrietta and Rhys chatted silently in sign language.
To someone like me, it’s amazing to watch this patched up family. Evan isn’t Henrietta’s father. Rhys is the son of Evan’s late sister. From what I’ve gleaned, the four of them only met last Christmas. Yet, they seem very close, as if they’ve been a family forever. There’s no missing the love and joy as they all chat and hug and pile up into the car on their way to Southampton.
Haneen left me in charge not only of breakfast, but also of a couple of their young volunteers. Wyn who helped me clean and furnish my room, and Meredith who is hoping to become a chef. She’s taking over Haneen’s mash and gravy takeaway business and spends half the morning peeling potatoes and chopping onions.
I have little to do aside from making breakfast. No one needs my help at Kendric House, so I drive to a cash and carry to buy large boxes of biscuits. I also fret about apologising to Hagrid-Raff.
Every day, I’ve taken care to arrive early and hang around long after tea has been served. I’ve walked slowly from front door to lounge, lingering in front of framed paintings on the wall, and noticing frayed carpets, stained armchairs and the faint smell that hangs about the place. I smile and say a bright hello to staff whenever I see them and thank them for looking after my grandfather. Everyone is polite enough except trolley lady. She has clearly decided to hate me.
According to Bill, she’s not employed by the care home but by a private catering service. She deeply resents my visits ever since the manager made her offer better tea and more biscuits, at least to the small circle of residents around my grandfather. Even my bringing in packets of biscuits is starting to cause problems. Bill offers them around at other times like the morning break. Everyone likes them which highlights the poor quality of what’s normally on offer. Now when she sees me she mumbles angry complaints about people who have nothing better the do with their afternoons.
It's only been five days since I started coming; already she’s complaining that there should be a limit on visits. Today, however, things escalate. On my way to the visitor’s bathroom – another one of my ploys to walk up and down the corridor in case Raff is there, he never is – I pass the main TV lounge.
People in this larger room are less active, most of them sit dozing in their chairs. The TV drones on. Trolley lady is in there handing out the usual cups of tea and two chocolate bourbons. When she completes the circuit, she goes round a second time to those still asleep and haven’t realised tea was served. She collects the biscuits and drops them back in her plastic tub.
Just then one man wakes up, sees her just about to leave the room.
“Wait. I need my biscuits.”
“You already had them.”
He checks his side tray. “No,” he says in a quivering voice. “I like to dunk them in my tea. Please give me my biscuits.”
“You finished. I’m taking empties.” She scolds him. And to make her point she tries to take back the teacup.
“No. I haven’t finished it,” he complains.
That’s when it happens. I’m watching the cup because it’s full and steaming. If I hadn’t been looking at it, I might have missed what happened, maybe thought it was an accident. But it wasn’t. She deliberately poured half the cup on the old man’s trousers, right on the crotch.
He shouts in pain
“Be careful. You spilt your tea,” she barks at him.
In an instant, I’ve crossed over to them, grabbed the plastic jug of water on the table and poured half on his crotch to cool him down.
“What are you doing?” Trolley lady shouts at me.
I ignore her and grab the tea towel hanging on the side of trolly and use it to soak up the excess liquid. “Do you have a first aid box?”
Various people in the room start talking at once, asking questions. A couple try to get up.
“Get away.” She grabs the towel from me.
“What’s happened?” Cynthia, the manager, hurries in.
“It’s her.” Trolley lady points a shaking finger at me. “Look what she’s done.”
I’m still trying to mop up the old man’s trousers, which are now soaked to the knees. He continues to moan in pain.
One of the other residents, a man who until a minute ago had been sleeping in the nearest chair says, “She burnt him. I heard the shouting.”
“Yes,” I agree before realising he means me. It must be because he only heard trolley lady’s accusations.
“Mrs Jenkins?” Cynthia turns to the other woman.
“Yes, she did. She knocked his tea over him. She should be banned from coming here.”
I stand up. “Never mind any of that, you need to call the nurse. This gentleman has had scalding hot tea poured on him.”
Cynthia addresses the man. “Jack, can you get up and come with me to see the nurse?”
I stare at her in disbelief because even if he could get up and take his Zimmer frame, it would be too slow. He’s still crying and shaking.
“Can’t the nurse come here?” I ask.
“I’ll take him.” Raff materialises as if by silent magic, and steps in between us. He bends over. “Alright, Jack, put your arm round my neck.” He scoops up the old man and lifts him out of the chair as if he weighed nothing. In one seamless motion, he turns and carries him out of the room very fast.
I go to follow but trolley Jenkins grabs a handful of my jumper and pulls me back. “Where do you think you’re going? Stay here until we call the police and report you.”
“Please take your hands off me,” I say as calmly as I can.
“Not until you’re in handcuffs,” she spits.
Cynthia cuts in. “Mrs Jenkins, let me deal with this.”
Reluctantly, very reluctantly, trolley Jenkins untwists her fingers from my jumper; she’s twisted it so tight that some of the stitches have pulled. I try to smooth the knitting back into place, keeping my eyes on my hands because I’m so angry, tears come to my eyes.
Bloody quick tears! This has always been my weakness. When angry, I cry. It’s like that scene in Friends when Rachel’s confrontation with her boss makes her cry.
“Let’s go to my office,” Cynthia urges me with a hand on my elbow. She sounds professional, polite, but not especially sympathetic.
Once in her office, the second such visit in less than a week. This time she doesn’t invite me to sit, she doesn’t offer me her card and a promise to help. Her ingratiating sweetness is gone, Cynthia is a different woman.
Hard as nails, she says, “I have to tell you, this is very serious. As a relative, you’re welcome to visit, but we have a zero- tolerance policy about causing injury to our residents. Since we have a witness, it’s going to be difficult for me to help you.”
My tears must have looked like an admission of guilt. I try to steady my breathing because of the tightness in my throat. “Cynthia. I didn’t cause any harm. It was your Mrs Jenkins who did it. I saw her, she deliberately poured hot tea on that poor old man.”
Her lips tighten. “Really? Mrs Jenkins? She has worked here for years, we’ve never had a complaint about her. “
I count to ten in my head to give myself time to de-stress. “I saw her do it.”
“And she says she witnessed you do it. So, I’m sorry to say it’s a case of her word against yours.”
“Are you going to ask the other people in the room? Are you going to ask the victim himself?”
She ignores this question and instead comes back with, “There was another resident in the room who agreed it was you who caused the burn.”
“He was asleep and even if he wasn’t, he was behind Mrs Jenkins. He wouldn’t have seen.”
She inclines her head as if talking to a child. “Can you prove he didn’t see anything?”
A knock on the door, then it opens and Bill walks in.
“Can you wait, please? We’re in a meeting.” Cynthia tells him. Cold as ice and just as hard.
“If this concerns my granddaughter then I need to be here.” He steps closer to me and takes my hand in his warm one.
Never have I ever felt so grateful for support as I do at this moment.
Cynthia’s eyes flick from me to Bill. Then she seems to make a decision. “As this is your relative and you are a valued resident, I’m not going to involve the police—”
“Oh, please call them.” Now with granddad holding my hand, the lump blocking my throat dissolves. “I think Mrs Jenkins should be reported, and I’m happy to take my chances because they will ask the old man who was burn—”
“As I was saying,” Cynthia interrupts me. “In situations such as these, the guest would be banned from The Glyn, but in your case, as you don’t have many visits from relatives, I’m prepared to make an exception. She may continue to visit you. But ,” she lands heavily on the ‘but’. “Your visitor will have to sit with you in your own room. I can’t allow her in the common areas. And she’ll have to be accompanied to and from the entrance to your door. She’s not allowed to walk freely or interfere with the residents.” And she fixes both of us with a hard stare. “Are we agreed?”