Chapter Thirty-Three
Tuesday 20th December. The Glyn, Afternoon.
I could hate Evan. On my drive to The Glyn, my mind keeps wandering back to the orangery,
I can’t stop myself imagining what a café might look like.
I’d never call it the orangery; that’s too poncy. But what about the Orange Tree Café? Especially if I got large planters with mini orange trees, set against the walls, in the alcoves.
Stop it!
I park in front of The Glyn but stay in the car lecturing myself.
Don’t be a fool. You’re a semi-working actor, terminally short of cash. You know bugger all about starting a business.
Even if I let myself apply for a business loan, what bank would trust me with their money? They’d look at my CV and call security to escort me out.
As for my biological father?
Ha, ha!
He might have donated a thousand pounds towards the repairs of the west wing, but that was to protect his own enterprise. It doesn’t mean he can pull out thirty thousand pounds to help me restore and equip a café. Anyway, what right do I have to expect it; he’s already discharged all his duty towards me. He’s paid for my education until I was twenty-two. It’s more than enough for a mistake he made when he was nineteen.
Stop thinking, Leonie. Get out of the car and walk in, they’re expecting you.
I walk into the games lounge, and all thoughts of a café fly out of my mind.
They’re all there. Bill, DeNiro, Vanessa, Philomena, Shirley, Gethin, and the looks on their faces tell me right away something is wrong.
It turns out the Squad’s complaints have resulted in an internal investigation. A team of consultants have been going through everything and have made serious recommendations to upper management.
“Well, that’s good news isn’t it?” I look around the circle of high armchairs. There are cups of tea cooling on the table in the middle, and no one apart from Philomena has even touched the biscuits I brought.
“It’s what we wanted. For them to know about the abuses, the profiteering.”
DeNiro shakes his head. “They don’t care about that. The consultation was only about the lack of effective management. They think Cynthia has lost control so she’s being moved to a different job within the organisation.
“So, who is taking over as manager here?” I ask.
“No one.” Vanessa looks pale and old. Then I realise she’s not wearing any make-up, not a scrap. She who’s always groomed and polished. Even her normally sleek silver hair is not in its usual twist but hangs in limp grey ropes down to her shoulders.
“They’re closing The Glyn and moving us to a different home.” Bill says.
“No not to a different home,” DeNiro shakes his head. “To several homes.”
It takes me a minute to appreciate the full meaning of this. “The Squad is being split up?”
“We’re being scattered around the country.” Bill explains.
“They don’t like it that we’re working together.” Gethin looks small in his wheelchair.
“Is that…it’s not illegal for you to…I mean—” I can’t even find the words. “Because they are not allowed to—"
“Of course, that’s not the ‘official reason’ they gave us.” Shirley mimes inverted commas. “They’re saying it is because there is no room for all of us in any one location.”
Cold spreads through me. “They can’t do that.”
“Of course they can.” Bill says, his eyes very sad. “This building is closing.. We’re forced to move. We can hardly pitch a tent in the car park.” The skin on his hands seems drier than usual, papery thin, wrinkling over blue veins.
“When?” I ask in a whisper.
“A few weeks. Some of us will be moved sooner rather than later but it’ll start in January.” Shirley wipes her eyes. For the first time, she looks old. Her hair, usually a vibrant red, now looks dull and wispy as if it was left to dry naturally without the usual volumising cream and hot air diffuser to make it curl nicely.
It’s as if they’ve all aged ten years and have wilted. As if the spirit has gone out of them.
“January?” I ask.
“End of Jan for Bill,” Vanessa says, “but 20 th of February for me. We’re going to different homes.” She’s trying to maintain a dignified face but I can see the pain in her eyes. She’s close to my grandfather. They are friends at a time of life you lose more friends that you make. To be forced away from someone you care about is doubly unfair.
“January, February. Makes no difference.” Bill shakes his head. “In the end. They have the upper hand. We’ve been beaten.”
“That’s too soon.” A few weeks. That won’t give anyone time to make different arrangements. “Too soon.” I repeat.
“Sooner for Jack.” Shirley says, her voice sharp with anger.
“Jack?” I turn to look for him.
“They decided to move him to a hospice,” Shirley continues. “Somewhere Jenkins knows. She’ll be moving there.”
“What? That’s not possible. We can’t let them move him where she’ll have him at her mercy.”
Everyone looks at me, eyes troubled.
“How long have you known about this?”
“Three days,” Bill says. “We didn’t want to upset you when you had so much to deal with after Raff went.”
Oh God, Raff would have known how to handle this. The need to call him hits me like a thrown knife, sharp and imperative. Raff, Raff, come back please . I call for him inside my head hoping the strength of my need can reach all the way to the Sahara.
“I’m sorry we didn’t get to say goodbye to Jack.” Philomena says
“What do you mean?”
I look around the games lounge unable to believe it. But the faces of the Squad all tell the same story of disappointment and helpless anger.
“They moved him to that hospice wherever it is” Shirley almost sobs. “They knew we wanted him with us, so they did it in the middle of the night while we were all asleep.”
“With our hearing aids off.” Gethin growls.
“No way,” I gasp. “He wanted to spend Christmas with us. They can’t move him.”
“They’ve done it already.” Bill tells me. He gets up from his wing chair and walks to stare out of the window. The afternoon sunlight seems all wrong, everything is wrong.
My despair battles with my rage. How could they? How could they be so cruel? Haven’t they done enough to abuse that poor old man, did they have to deny his Christmas wish? It’s just five days.
“I’ll bet it was that Mrs Jenkins’ doing. She hates him.” Deniro says.
Deniro is usually a man of few words, but when he has something important to say he’s never shy about speaking. “All of last week she’s been grumbling an old man should not be taken to a private house full of builders.”
I turn to him. “How does she even know we have builders?”
“It’s small village, and she’s a busybody.”
Bill turns to us. “I think it was decided before but they rushed the timetable yesterday because Jack was on the phone to his lawyer. He requested a private phone call and had to be taken into the office. He was there for a long, long time.”
“Yes and he asked for one of the nurses to witness something.”
“Oh yes,” DeNiro nods his handsome head. “Jenkins hovered in the corridor outside the office for quite a while. My guess she gets a backhander from the hospice for bringing them another customer, and she didn’t want to lose that.”
I look from him to Bill. “They can’t just move him. He’s not a package to be bought and sold.”
Gethin scoffs bitterly. “Oh yes he is, we all are. Don’t you know? We’re a very desirable commodity. Easy money.”
Easy money or not, Jack isn’t alone. I will fight for him. It’s one thing to force people to move by closing the care home, but move him now, against his will? They must bring him back. I’ll make sure of it.
Before I know what I’m doing, I find myself marching to Cynthia’s office. I knock and walk in, too angry to even wait to be invited to entre.
“You had no right to move Jack without his permission.” My voice almost cracks with the stain of not shouting. “He’s not a prisoner. He has rights.”
Cynthia looks up, she’s in the middle of a phone call but I don’t care. “How could you be so heartless? I’ll never know why you chose to work in a care home when you don’t care. But the people here are human beings not things. You might think Jack just a doddering old man but he used to work at the United Nations. I wouldn’t treat a criminal the way you treated him.”
Cynthia speaks into the phone, “I’ll call you back.” and hangs up. A distant part of my mind notices it’s a desk phone with multiple buttons and lines.
She opens her mouth to speak but I rush on. “He wanted to spend Christmas with his friends. If he’s not here today,” I check my watch. “Before dinner, this evening, then I will call the police.”
Cynthia’s face is troubled but when she speaks her voice is very quiet. “Take a seat please.” She points to a leather chair in front of her desk.
“I don’t want to take a seat.”
“Miss Henderson, we didn’t move Jack.” She pauses. “He passed away last night.” She swallows. “We didn’t want to tell everyone until we’ve contacted his family.
“Passed—” I can barely comprehend.
She looks down at some paperwork on her desk. “Jack, John Ellis Bevan, died of a heart attack at a quarter past two this morning. The doctor signed the death certificate and” – her voice changes on the next word – “he was moved to a funeral home in Aberystwyth according to his wishes.”
I sit down in the leather chair. My knees won’t hold me up. I should say something but can’t think what.
“I’m sorry to give you such sad news.” She offers me a box of tissues to wipe my tears. “I know you cared about him. But Jack was a very sick man. It’s better that he went in his sleep, don’t you think?”
All I can think is, Christmas is cancelled. It was for him, because I promised him a last Christmas. Now there’s no point. How can we have a Christmas dinner without him? How can anyone enjoy food and drink, open gifts and laugh when he’s not here. We can’t, it’ll be too sad.
Cynthia picks up her phone again. “Can you bring me tea for two please.”
While waiting for the tea to arrive, she goes to a locked filing cabinet, selects a key from a large bunch and inserts it into the lock. The drawer opens with a metallic clang. She rummages in some hanging files and comes back with a sealed envelope.
“I was going to contact you in a few days, anyway. Jack left this letter for you.” She hands me the envelope.
The letter is typed, all except the first line and the signature. They’re handwritten in black ink and a shaky hand
My dear Leonie
I’m dictating this to nurse Ferguson who’s kindly agreed to type it for me.
Thank you for everything you did for me and the Squad. I never expected to enjoy my final days here, but since meeting you and visiting that wonderful house I have enjoyed every day. You can have no idea how much we look forward to our afternoon teas in that magnificent Kendric House. The lively chats with Evan Kendric himself and his partners in the business. It reminded me of the old days. You are a rare creature, a person who can bring joy to people. You made me feel young again, and for that I can never thank you enough.
But I am not young and my days are numbered. I don’t need the doctor to tell me how few sands are left in the hourglass. If you’re reading this, do not grieve for me my beautiful Leonie. Death is an appointment we must all keep, and I am happy it comes now and not when I’m bed-ridden.
Be happy my dear. And don’t let my departure ruin Christmas for you and the Squad. Makle them happy.
Yours Sincerely
Jack Bevan