Chapter Fourteen
Sunday November 18 The Glyn. 4pm
The following day, this agreement really sticks in my throat.
An insulting, humiliating and unfair agreement. I have right on my side, but Cynthia has authority on hers.
She has the power to ban me from The Glyn. Regardless of whatever the police might discover, she’s the manager. She has the authority to make decisions about this place. She can, if she wants, keep me and my grandfather apart.
“Sometimes.” Bill squeezes my hand when we’re sitting in his room. “You have to choose between bickering with the barman or drinking ale. Learn to pick your battles, my sweet girl.”
I’m fuming and angry and, yes you guessed it, in tears again. “That horrible Mrs Jenkins was taking away people’s biscuits. And I bet she recycles tea bags. That’s why it tastes like something you’ve soaked your socks in.”
He sighs, long and sad. “Biscuits are the least of it. Be glad you haven’t had dinner here. Don’t think tea bags are the only thing they recycle in that kitchen.”
“But why do you put up with it? Why not complain or, hell, leave? There must be better places.”
I look around the room. It’s crammed with furniture because the room isn’t big enough for a bed, a wardrobe, dresser, desk and armchair. Squeezing in a second chair for me blocks the door to the bathroom. When I went in to wash my face and hands, I couldn’t help noticing the towel was stiff as cardboard, and the lino floor around the bath was almost black with old dirt where the mop never gets in.
“I can’t really leave.” Bill sighs. “Here, I’m close enough for your father to visit once a month.”
Once a month? Is that all? He’s only three miles away. It’s practically walking distance.
Bill suddenly chuckles. “Don’t look like that. Will was never one for family ties,” he says this so lightly, like a fact he’s come to terms with long ago. How can such a warm, loving man produce a son so cold? Over the last week, Professor Jones has not shown any interest in my visits to his father. He knows because I told him that I came here every day. He just smiled vaguely. “Good, good.” And went back to his book.
I offered to bring him with me, but he declined because it wasn’t his usual time for a visit.
Once a month.
Cynthia had known Bill wouldn’t want to lose me and she had used that to pressure us to accept her nasty ban. No more jolly afternoons with his friends. I can’t even say hello to them because one of the staff walks me down the hall too fast to see anyone.
The only good thing about being confined here is that we’ve been given our own kettle, so I can make Grandad fresh tea from a box of PG Tips. It only makes me think of the awful brew the others are having to drink. At least I load him with biscuits so he can offer them around after I’m gone.
“You must be getting sick of biscuits,” I say, placing several packets of custard creams, chocolate digestives and always popular shortbread fingers. “Can I bring you something different tomorrow?”
“You know what I really want?” His eyes drift upwards to the right.
“Name it.”
“Scones and jam with proper clotted cream.” His face goes all wistful. “When your grandmother was alive…” He pauses, his perceptive gaze taking in my expression. “I’m sorry you never met her.”
“I couldn’t have, could I? She passed away before I was even conceived.”
A grandmother. How nice that would have been. “What was she like?”
“Elegant.” He reaches to his bedside cabinet and takes a framed photograph. “She used to wear beautiful clothes.”
The woman in the picture is almost the spitting image of the professor. The same serious smile. She has glossy hair and a bright blue double-breasted suit, tight around the waist and hips with wide shoulder pads. A short pencil skirt and high heels. Next to her, a boy of about twelve. My father. In jeans and a T-shirt that has a Support the Miners printed across it. 1980s fashion, 1980s politics. It feels like a century ago.
I hand him the picture wordlessly. Gently, he steers the conversation to safer grounds. “We used to go out to a place by the park and have afternoon tea every Sunday. With cucumber sandwiches.”
A dreamy smile breaks on his sweet, wrinkled face. “And egg and cress. She loved those.” Then he gives his head a tiny shake as if banishing the dream. “Never mind all that. I don’t suppose they have clotted cream around here. But scones and jam would be lovely.”
“I’ll do my best,” I agree but secretly I plan to find clotted cream even if it means a drive to the nearest city.
This afternoon, though, when it comes time to leave, it’s Raff who comes to walk me out.
He knocks and waits to be invited in. “Hey, Bill, had a nice visit?”
He places a small white thing on the dresser. “New earbuds. These are Bluetooth, so they won’t tangle up on your shirt buttons.”
“Will they talk to my phone, though?” Bill stands up, fishing in his back pocket.
“Should do. I’ll help you link them when I’m back tonight.”
Bill reaches for his wallet, but Raff holds his hand up. “We can settle this later after we’ve sorted out the subscription.”
Intrigued, I ask, “What’s the subscription?”
“I like to listen to audiobooks at bedtime but Raff showed me it’s so much cheaper with a subscription.”
When we’re walking out, I thank Raff for looking after my granddad.
He merely shrugs. “No problem.”
He’s so laconic, it’s difficult to bring up a new subject. The question I really want to ask is about the incident with the hot tea; the care assistant yesterday refused to tell me anything. So, I start with the Bluetooth buds, hoping to segway to the other old man later. “You know it makes me want to laugh. While Professor Jones always has his nose in a book, his eighty-year-old father is up with the latest technology.”
Raff raises his eyebrows and gives me a curious look. Just for a second, then his face is back to normal. He must think me strange saying the professor instead of my father. It’s the last thing I want to discuss with a stranger, so I just continue.
“So granddad is into audiobooks?”
“They’re easier for older people. Reading glasses and so on. And they can adjust the volume to suit their hearing.”
It’s the opening I needed. “How is Jack?”
He’s doesn’t answer right away, then very carefully, says, “Fine,”
By now we’ve reached the front door, but he doesn’t let me out and shut it behind me as others have done. Instead, he suddenly says, voice unnecessarily loud, “let me show you where you can park next time so you don’t block the service entrance.”
Was my car blocking the service entrance? What service entrance? My little Fiat is in the car park to the side of the building. Not near anything.
It all becomes clear when he follows me out until we’re far enough from the house. He explains in a softer voice. “Jack’s fine, some slight skin-burn, nothing that an icepack couldn’t deal with.”
Something about his answer feels incomplete.
“But?” I prompt.
Again, he hesitates for an instant. “But…It was all very upsetting for him. He was very frightened. Now, when either Mrs Jenkins or Sue” – he shoots me a quick look – “she’s one of the other carers. Whenever they go near him, he starts crying.”
“Sue?” I stop walking. “So not just Mrs Jenkins?”
“Not just Mrs Jenkins,” he repeats in a quiet but grim tone.
The implication of this stands between us unspoken but loud as a scream. Trolley Jenkins isn’t the only abusive person at The Glyn.
We continue walking until I reach the car; my mind shuffles through a hundred questions I’m desperate to ask. Where to begin? Raff is already starting to turn to go back.
“Why don’t you say something?”
He stops and turns back to me. “I did. Why do you think you’re still allowed to visit? I told Cynthia if she banned you, you’d have nothing to lose by taking further action. She doesn’t want that kind of headache.”
Wow. Welsh Hagrid is so much more than meets the eye. Talk about not judging a book by its cover. Or a man by his hair and beard.
“I mean why don’t you say something about what goes on here? Report the kind of neglect, the poor food, the bad treatment?”
He holds my gaze. “And that would help how exactly?”
His calm makes me frustrated. “What do you mean how? Cynthia would be fired, or at the very least reprimanded. As the manager, it’s her responsibility…” My words fade.
It’s surprising how when most of someone’s face is covered with hair, the little left visible can be so expressive. Raff’s eyes, eyebrows, nose and even cheekbones, all tell me that my suggestions aren’t new to him. He’s considered taking action but it would achieve nothing.
“You mean senior management? The owners? They don’t care?” I ask on a small breath.
His eyes are full of defeat.
“And if you go to the police? Take pictures as proof?”
He glances behind him at the building then turns back and starts pointing towards the road that goes up the hill, as if he’s showing me the way. “You know what would happen? Cynthia would be moved to another branch, replaced by someone else the same. And I would lose my job.”
“Do you need this job?” I can’t help retorting. “I mean you’re young and can get any job anywhere. You’d be alright.”
“I would, yes. But what about them?” He tips his head slightly in the direction of the building.
Suddenly it all makes sense.
His ever-presence, the way he seems to always pop up when someone needs help. His tight-lipped efficiency. His intervention on my behalf with Cynthia.
All the time I’d been suspicious of him.
“Tell me something,” I ask, remembering my first visit to The Glyn. “When Cynthia asked you not to open the door to the terrace, and you pretended to lock it but later opened it again, you were…I mean it was because the place is so hot…”
He stops pointing at the road and looks at me; there’s surprise in his grey-green eyes. “You saw that?”
“I didn’t understand. I thought you were putting elderly people at risk. Was Cynthia wrong?”
Unexpectedly, his teeth flash in a wide smile; the white beautiful teeth are an odd contrast to the Hagrid hair. “She was right, actually. The stairs can be a hazard. Also, the garden when the ground is soggy. But some of the old guys like to step out. I’ve installed safety gates at the top of stairs, so now they can go on the terrace but can’t go wandering down the steps or into the grounds.”
His explanation makes me feel very stupid. All the noise I made, all it achieved was nearly getting myself banned, forcing Bill to see me in the confines of a small room instead with all his friends. On the other hand, Raff while keeping quiet, managed to defend Philomena from Mrs Jenkins, carried Jack to the nurse and probably plugged a hundred other holes.
The phrase Raff’s alright suddenly makes sense.
It leaves me with no questions to ask. Not one.
Well…perhaps just one.
“Philomena says you used to be an actor.”
Instantly, his expression shutters. He starts to turn away. Clearly, this isn’t a subject he wants to discuss. But just for a split second, before the shutters came down, there was something, a look of…strain? Upset? It vanished before I could catch it properly, but it leaves me wishing I hadn’t pried into his private life.
“Do you think they’ll let me take Bill out for an afternoon? For tea?” I ask to change the subject, to bring him back to me.
It works. He doesn’t walk away.
“Of course. Bill’s not a prisoner.”
“Good, but I’ll need directions, real directions this time. He’d love a cream tea. Do you know the best place to take him?”
He lifts an eyebrow. “Cream tea?”
“You know, like a traditional afternoon tea with scones—”
“Yes, I know.”
“Where would I take him?”
His lip twitched slightly as if I’ve told him a joke. The slight upset of before has completely melted away. “You can try the Ivy in Cardiff. It’s pretty good.”
“Cardiff? Bloody hell, that’s at least an hour’s drive. I was hoping for something nearby, somewhere in the Brecon Beacons.”
He’s still fighting laughter. “No, I don’t think you’ll find much in the way of fashionable afternoon tea. Maybe try Brecon. They might have something. But if you’re going that far, you may as well go to Cardiff.”
“Nothing in the Brecon Beacons?” Surely this can’t be right. Then I remember my drive here ten days ago. The empty hills, the small roads with no sign of cities anywhere.
“And” – his brows rise again in that odd mannerism – “if you’re staying in the Brecon Beacons, you really should start calling them by their proper name. Bannau Brycheiniog. ”
Unpronounceable Welsh names are the least of my worries, just now. “I promised Bill. And since I’ve caused him so much trouble, I really want to do something for him. He told me he’s craving a traditional afternoon tea with clotted cream and finger sandwiches.”
“You could always make it for him. Are you any good at slicing cucumber and buttering bread?”
Making it? It never occurred to me. But of course, it’s easy to drive to a big Sainsbury’s and buy scones and clotted cream and everything else I need.
I could make it at Kendric House and bring him there.
Yes, why not? The kitchen is a warm, friendly space, and…the idea is just waiting there for me. He would be able to see his son. And it would give me another chance to connect with the professor.
While Haneen and Evan have been away, the kitchen is seldom used. All the partners seem to have small kitchens in their own apartments. If I text Haneen to ask if I may use it to serve a small afternoon tea, and why not invite the professor to join us.
In fact…another idea hits me like a flashbulb.
“What about the others? I mean, my car can fit two more people.”
“Who are you thinking?”
“I was thinking about Philomena and Jack.”
Raff holds my gaze, and he can see; he absolutely understands why I’ve chosen the two people who’ve had the hardest time.
Raff flashes another smile, all white beautiful teeth and gleaming eyes. “I think it’s a wonderful idea.”
Then, after a moment of thinking, he says, “Cynthia won’t be happy about this. She’ll say it’s disrupting their routine or something. Let me see if I can persuade her. When do you want to do it?”