Chapter five
Lewis Levison’s initial impressions of Rosemount Court Residential Home were not favourable.
First, he noted the lawns hadn’t been mown in some time, and the rose bushes that should have offered an uplifting welcome to residents and visitors alike were underfed and unpruned.
It was late March, but even so, Lewis would have had daffodils in the beds, at the very least. Tulips too: red and yellow, for optimum cheeriness.
Second, there were five black wheelie bins visible by the imposing stone porch, two of them overflowing with cardboard, which should have been in the green recycling bin.
And third, an elderly lady in a wheelchair was being forcibly wheeled down the drive by her middle-aged son and his wife, who were engaged in a furious argument with three nurses and a woman of a similar age in a pink suit, while several residents watched on from upstairs windows. And the windows needed a good clean.
Fortunately, none of the residents were filming it on mobile phones, Lewis thought. Small mercies.
He pulled out the small notebook and integrated pen that he carried everywhere with him from the pocket on the back of his Lycra cycling shorts, and wrote down: rose bushes, spring colour, bins, window cleaner?
This wasn’t how he’d planned to introduce himself to his new staff, but since the confrontation showed signs of boiling over, he propped his bicycle against what had once been a half-barrel of geraniums (but which now contained weeds and discarded vapes), unclipped his cycle helmet and walked towards the scene, ruffling his thick brown hair back up where the helmet had flattened it into a second under-helmet.
The participants were too fiercely engaged to notice Lewis’s approach, even with his cleated shoes clicking on the tarmac.
‘I’m taking my mother home now, and you can expect to hear from my solicitor regarding the fees by the end of the day,’ roared the man. His eyes bulged with indignation. ‘It’s appalling. Absolutely appalling.’
‘Appalling,’ agreed his wife.
The old lady in the chair shifted her eyes from her son to the nurse, then on to another nurse, then back down to her lap. Lewis thought she looked embarrassed, not maltreated.
‘Mr Stafford, please. I hear what you’re saying, but can we not discuss this in a more . . .’ stammered the woman in the suit.
Was this the temporary manager? The suit looked as if it had been borrowed from a much bigger person, or picked up in a hurry from a charity shop; the sleeves were too long for the petite woman inside, and the skirt had washed out two shades lighter than the jacket.
The name badge on the lapel said pamela woodward, jotted in hasty capitals that got smaller as they went on, to fit in all of Woodward.
This woman looked more like someone who’d escaped from a conference than the competent captain of a flagship retirement home.
Lewis checked himself. He couldn’t be critical of the suit.
Pamela Woodward was doing her best to project authority, and it was better than the awful ‘team sweatshirts’ in the last home he’d had to overhaul for his boss, Eric.
Pamela clearly wasn’t a suit person, but she was trying and that was half the battle, in Lewis’s opinion.
‘There’s nothing to discuss! I’ve seen enough with my own eyes,’ Mr Stafford went on theatrically. ‘This place is a shambles. A shambles! My poor mother has told me things that make me ashamed we ever considered letting her live here.’
‘Terrible things!’ echoed Mrs Stafford the younger. ‘Terrible!’
Pamela Woodward seemed on the verge of tears.
Her round face was flushed a painful crimson, which didn’t go well with her outfit, and she kept pushing her glasses back up her nose with her forefinger.
‘I can assure you that we are aware of the problems, Mr Stafford, well aware, and there is a plan in place to—’
But Mr Stafford wasn’t finished. ‘My mother tells me that she’s seen rats in her room!
And that two of her neighbours have been hospitalised with food poisoning in the last week alone!
And that another resident was trapped in their own bathroom for nearly twenty-four hours before any of the nurses even noticed! ’
There was a sharp intake of breath from all three nurses. ‘Eunice!’ said one reproachfully. ‘You never told—’
Mr Stafford wheeled on the nurse. ‘Are you calling my mother a liar?’
Mrs Stafford crouched by her wheelchair, at eye level with her mother-in-law. ‘Eunice. You didn’t tell me about the rats!’
Eunice Stafford’s eyes went from side to side, then she sighed deeply and closed them, as if too exhausted to speak.
Mr Stafford pointed at her, with a sharp ‘see?’ look towards Pamela Woodward. ‘I will be seeking legal redress for the fees we’ve already paid.’
Lewis had seen quite enough himself. He had a busy day ahead and, besides, more faces were gathering at the windows, goggling at the spectacle below.
The Staffords and the staff been too preoccupied squabbling to acknowledge his approach – probably assuming he was a visitor – but now he stepped forward, projecting the business confidence for which he had won several awards in the care industry.
‘Good morning, everyone. Mr Stafford? Mrs Stafford?’ He held out his hand and the Staffords were too confused to do anything but shake it.
‘My name is Lewis Levison, I’m the performance consultant for Acorn Care Homes.
I’m so sorry to hear about these experiences your mother has had.
Quite inexcusable. However, as Ms Woodward says, there is indeed an ongoing review in place to address these concerns, and I’d be delighted to set your minds at rest regarding Mrs Stafford’s care plan – perhaps in more congenial surrounds? ’
He gestured towards the house, and smiled.
The Staffords – and the three nurses and Pamela Woodward – blinked.
Lewis smiled back.
He knew they were taking a moment to reconcile his unexpected appearance (the long legs and the sturdy chest clearly demarcated in his cycling gear, the red ring around his forehead where his cycle helmet had been, the brisk business-like voice coming out of the body of a weekend triathlete) with the confident way he’d taken control of the situation.
And his moustache. Lewis’s lavish moustache was a multitasker: it drew attention, it conveyed authority, it broke the ice, it gave his boyish face a focus, it hid his natural shyness.
It also, he hoped, made him look older than thirty-eight, which is what he was.
For some reason, despite his track record and years of experience, no one had taken him seriously until he grew the moustache, as if a man of his tender years couldn’t be driven by a lifelong mission to improve elderly care.
It had been his grandfather who’d advised him to grow the moustache. Granda Levison had flown Lancasters over occupied France the summer after he’d sat his Higher School Certificate. A thick moustache, he’d told Lewis, had somehow strengthened his spine.
‘Ms Woodward?’ He turned his smile towards the woman in the suit, who nodded, stunned. ‘We can arrange some tea and biscuits?’
‘Of course,’ she said, suddenly on more solid ground. ‘We also have coffee, and homemade pastries?’
According to Lewis’s briefing notes, emailed to him over the weekend by his PA Freda, Pamela Woodward had been the housekeeper before her unexpected promotion to acting manager.
Mrs Stafford appeared swayed by the offer of pastries, but her husband put a hand out to stop her turning back, and fixed Lewis with a beady glare.
‘I only have one question. Has this home, or has it not, failed the most recent CQC inspection? And,’ he added swiftly, as Lewis opened his mouth to reply, ‘was that investigation, or was that investigation not, triggered by a series of shocking reports in the local paper, including some revelations from a whistleblower on the staff?’
There was a muted gasp from one of the nurses.
‘Yes,’ said Lewis. He didn’t believe in fudging big issues.
You had to face them. ‘Yes, I’m sorry to report that Rosemount failed a recent inspection.
And yes, you’re also correct that the local paper has taken a keen interest in the matter.
However, the reason I’m here is because Acorn Care Homes takes any dip in our care provision very seriously.
I’ve been tasked to ensure that by the time the inspectors return to repeat their assessment, Rosemount will have become the first choice for anyone thinking of moving into supported accommodation within a hundred-mile radius. ’
‘You’re going to do that?’ Mr Stafford adopted a semi-sneer which Lewis ignored.
‘I have done exactly that several times before.’ He was being modest, but accepted that was probably going to be lost on his current audience. ‘And I will do it here.’
The Staffords stared at him, as did Pamela Woodward and the nurses. Out of the corner of his eye – Lewis wasn’t going to risk losing the moment by turning his head – he was aware of yet more residents gathering at the upstairs windows. It was like an advent calendar of old people.
He made a mental note to get the windows checked for safety catches and bars. It wouldn’t do to have someone falling out.
Finally, Eunice Stafford spoke, in a reluctant tone. ‘I suppose I could manage a small pastry.’
‘No, mother, we’re going home,’ announced Mr Stafford.
‘Why don’t we have a pastry first,’ the younger Mrs Stafford piped up. ‘For the journey? It’ll save us stopping on the way. You know how much service stations charge for a croissant.’
‘They’re extortionate,’ agreed Lewis. ‘Ms Woodward, why don’t you go and expedite some tea and pastries, while I assist Mr Stafford with his mother?’
And before Mr Stafford had a chance to argue Lewis had swivelled Eunice Stafford’s chair in one dynamic motion towards Rosemount, and was propelling her back towards the house faster than she’d ever been pushed, the nurses following behind at a quick march.