Читать книгу The Choir on Hope Street: A gorgeously uplifting romantic comedy to make your heart sing! - Annie Lyons, Annie Lyons - Страница 12

As I drove to the nursing home on a bright spring morning, I sang along to the Adele song on the radio. I wouldn’t normally sing in the car but last night’s rehearsal had rekindled my love of singing, leaving me feeling refreshed and ready to face the inevitable adversity of today’s visit. Goodness only knows that I needed a little positive energy for what lay ahead. I was fully expecting an argument but I was ready too.

I couldn’t have been happier with our first choir rehearsal. It would be a challenge to transform us into a proper choir but all in all, it had gone much better than I’d expected. The standard of singing was reasonably high and I could see that Guy was the perfect man to run it. I had even found talking to Natalie a surprising pleasure. She was something of an emotional train-wreck and I was happy that I’d been able to help her with a little marriage guidance.

When I got home from choir, I had flicked my phone into life to see that I’d had three missed calls and a voicemail message from the home. I recognised Peter Jarvis’ humourless tone immediately.

‘Mrs Taylor, we believe you’re coming in to see your mother tomorrow. We need to have an urgent meeting to discuss her care options.’

Care options? It sounded so innocuous. I knew what they were going to say.

‘Your mother’s behaviour is increasingly challenging, we’re no longer able to cope with her frequent outbursts. We may need to re-think.’

Re-think all you want. You knew the deal when you took her in and I pay you an extortionate amount to care for her. Take the money and get on with it.

The sun was shining as I pulled into the drive and one of the gardeners was planting some geraniums, begonias and snapdragons ready for the summer. All looked calm and lovely. I made my way through the door into the bright entrance hall. St Bartholomew’s corridors bore the sharp tangy smell of old age underpinned by the cabbagey whiff of whatever meal had just been consumed. I loathed everything about the place but especially the smell. I always breathed through my mouth when I visited but could still detect the stench on my clothes when I got home.

The home itself was a pleasant enough chalet-style building with wide corridors and lots of windows looking out towards a lovely garden. Apart from being a nice enough place to live, I had chosen it because they had a specialist team who could deal with people with dementia. At least that’s what they’d told me. However, given the number of calls I had to field because my mother was being difficult, I was starting to wonder.

I visited once a month because to be honest, that’s all I could take. Quite apart from the shifting sands of my relationship with my mother, I couldn’t bear to spend any more time than necessary in this place. It made me consider things I didn’t want to think about – Zimmer frames, wrinkles and the pervasive stench of urine. This wasn’t my world. I was young and fit and didn’t want to be reminded of the inevitability of old age. Call me shallow, call me unfeeling but spend an hour in the company of my mother and you would feel the same.

The receptionist looked up at me from behind black-framed glasses that didn’t suit her. She acknowledged me with a brief smile of recognition. There was judgement behind that smile.

‘Good morning, Mrs Taylor. If you could just sign in, I’ll let Peter know you’re here.’

‘Thank you,’ I replied, taking the pen from its holder. I wrote my name before taking a step back into the waiting area, doing my best to ignore the neat piles of Saga magazines.

‘Mrs Taylor,’ said a voice behind me. I turned to see Peter Jarvis, manager of the home. He didn’t even try to smile. ‘Shall we go into my office?’

I followed him along the corridor. When I first came here to look round, they had offered me tea and cake. I could remember rooms full of snowy-white-haired old ladies and well-turned-out gentlemen doing stimulating activities, smiling and happy. This time, there was no offer of tea and all I could smell was that day’s lunch, which reminded me of cat food. My stomach flipped.

Peter ushered me into his office and heaved his large backside onto the chair behind his desk. I took my place opposite him, noticing the certificates rewarding ‘excellence in care’ on the wall and a framed photograph on the desk of his similarly fat wife and two chubby children.

He pressed his fingers together and looked at me. ‘Mrs Taylor, I have to tell you that we have a problem. Did you get my call last night?’

I was irritated by his accusatory tone. How dare he talk to me in this way? I decided that attack was the best form of defence. ‘We most certainly do have a problem,’ I replied. ‘I pay a great deal of money for my mother’s care and I do not expect to be called in the evenings because your staff are unable to do their job.’

He blinked at me in surprise before regaining his composure. ‘Your mother tried to stab one of our staff with a pair of nail scissors.’

It was my turn to be surprised now. My mother had certainly been trying in the past but it was mostly verbal abuse. She had never tried anything physical. ‘I see.’ I wasn’t sure what else to say.

‘So you can understand that we have a problem. I appreciate that your mother requires specialist care but I cannot have my staff placed in danger.’

‘Where is she now?’ I asked. I had visions of her locked in a padded cell.

‘In her room. We had to call out a doctor to sedate her. It took two nurses to restrain her. She’s very strong.’

I felt an odd sense of pride at this, even though I knew it was wholly inappropriate. ‘I take it she didn’t actually hurt anyone?’

He shook his head. ‘Our staff are well trained and fortunately the nurse in question saw what was happening and reacted quickly. She managed to get the scissors from her but your mother kept trying to fight them, which is why we had to call the doctor, unfortunately.’

‘Can I see her?’ I asked.

‘She may be a little sleepy but I can get a nurse to take you to her, of course.’

‘I meant the nurse,’ I replied. ‘I want to apologise on behalf of my mother.’

Peter looked confused. ‘There’s really no need.’

‘All the same, I’d like to.’

‘Okay, and then we can take you to your mother.’

‘Well if she’s sleepy, there’s probably no point.’ I knew I was trying to wriggle out of it. Peter Jarvis knew this too. He gave me a grave look.

‘Mrs Taylor, I really think you need to see your mother. Forgive me if I speak out of turn but I think she needs to see you. The nurses tell me that she calls your name at night sometimes.’

Anger and guilt washed over me. ‘You are speaking out of turn, but seeing as we are laying our cards on the table, I will try to reason with her if you can promise to continue with my mother’s care as you see fit. Confiscate anything dangerous, sedate her if necessary but please, don’t cast her into the street.’ I stared him down, noticing how he shifted with discomfort in his seat. See? I can layer on the guilt and drama too.

He pursed his lips and smoothed his tie. ‘We will continue to care for your mother but please take this as a first and final warning. If anything like this happens again, we may need to exclude her.’

My cheeks burnt red with humiliation but I took it. I had to. St Bartholomew’s was my only hope. ‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘I appreciate your honesty and commitment to her care.’

He nodded, raising his hefty bulk from the chair. I followed him back along the corridor. Two nurses were walking towards us. ‘Oh, Laurie,’ said Peter to one of them. A woman of about my age with an open, friendly face stopped and smiled at us. ‘This is Mrs Winter’s daughter.’

I watched her face and saw no flicker of reaction to the incident. In fact, she held out her hand to me. It was small and cool to the touch. ‘Pleased to meet you,’ she said. ‘Shall I take you down to see your mum?’

‘I’ll leave you to it,’ said Peter, turning away. ‘I’ll be in touch, Mrs Taylor. Thank you for your time.’

Laurie nodded to her colleague before ushering me along the corridor. As we reached the door to my mother’s room, I stopped and turned to her. ‘I just want to say sorry—’

Laurie held up her hand. ‘There’s really no need,’ she smiled. ‘Your mum would never hurt me. It’s a stage of her disease, although I am concerned that something has upset her lately. She seems more het up than I’ve seen her before.’

‘Oh. I see.’

‘I’ve only been working here for about three months but she seemed a lot calmer back then. Have you noticed anything?’

I stared at her, unable to think what to say. I only saw her once a month so honestly had no real way of knowing. ‘Perhaps.’

‘I’m very fond of your mother. She thinks the world of you.’ She smiled again.

‘Does she?’ I asked with genuine surprise. Unlikely, given our history.

Laurie nodded. ‘She says your name all the time. I think she’s lost in memories from the past but you’re always in them.’

I felt my chest grow tight as she opened the door and I saw my mother lying in her bed. She looked tiny, like a child. Her face was grey, her hair matted and thin. I thought she was asleep at first but she turned her head towards me, a confused frown creasing her expression.

‘Hello,’ I said in a croaky voice.

Her face flickered with recognition but she didn’t speak. She just gazed at me as if searching for the answer to a question.

‘How are you, Mrs Winter?’ asked Laurie. ‘Are you feeling better today?’

My mother’s gaze transferred from me to Laurie. She raised her eyebrows and then smiled in reply.

‘That’s good,’ said Laurie. ‘And lovely to have your daughter visiting too.’ My mother glanced at me and then back to Laurie, like a spectator at a tennis match. ‘I’ll let you have some time together,’ she said, giving me an encouraging smile before she left.

I stood by the side of the bed and took in my surroundings. I didn’t usually come in here. My mother was normally sitting in the lounge area, staring into the middle distance, whilst activities such as bingo or singing went on around her. She reminded me of a lonely person at a party and I felt sad that she couldn’t seem to take part in her own life any more. Then I would remember how she had barely participated when she’d had her marbles and dismissed the thought.

The room was very pleasant, with two windows looking out over the garden and apart from the adjustable bed, it felt much like a miniature version of her old home. There were fresh flowers on the table by the window and a bowl of fruit as well. She had brought one of her chairs, her bookcase and quite a few of her knick-knacks. She had liked to collect miniature Wade figures and these were all arranged on a little wall-shelf in one corner.

I could remember loving these as a child but never being allowed to touch them for fear of breakages. One day, I had crept into the dining room where they were kept and picked up a tiny porcelain hedgehog that I liked the look of. I made him jump from surface to surface but had accidentally chipped his perfect black nose. My mother appeared at that moment, turning white with anger when she saw what I had done. She sent me to my room but I had been happy to hide there until my father got home, whereupon he had done his best to quell her anger.

I stared at the figures now, noticing the replacement hedgehog my father had bought, resisting a childish urge to knock it off the shelf. I turned away.

My mother was looking at me again now, so I pulled up a chair and sat next to her bed. I wanted to get this over with. ‘Do you remember what happened last night?’ I asked. She seemed to shrink into the bed even more. I should have felt sympathy but I was still heavy with childhood anger. ‘I’ve had to beg Mr Jarvis to let you stay here.’ My mother mumbled something. I frowned and leant in closer. ‘What did you say?’

‘Sorry,’ she whispered.

I was taken aback. Perhaps the sedation was still having an effect. My anger started to dissolve. ‘Okay, well, I’m glad you’re sorry.’ She stared up at me with huge eyes made all the more pathetic by her shrinking frame. I transferred my gaze to the garden and was surprised to see Guy Henderson wheeling an elderly lady in a wheelchair. My mother’s eyes rested on them too. There was a moment’s silence before she started to pound her fists on the bed, her face enraged.

I leapt up from the chair. ‘What’s the matter?’ I cried. She lashed out a fist in my direction but missed and slumped down onto the bed, before looking up at me. She seemed twice the size all of a sudden, her eyes narrow and angry. I recognise you now, I thought.

‘Fuck off,’ she hissed.

‘I beg your pardon?’ I cried. I had never heard my mother swear before.

‘Fuck off,’ she repeated. ‘Fuck off, fuck off, fuck off.’

I pulled the emergency cord and within seconds Laurie and a colleague were there. ‘All right Mrs Winter, let’s try to breathe and calm down, shall we? Jem, call the doctor,’ said Laurie, taking my mother by the shoulders in an attempt to soothe her.

‘I have to go,’ I said, heading for the door, not looking back. ‘I’m sorry,’ I added, but I’m not sure to whom. I hurried along the corridor, signed out and fled back to my car.

Once inside, I realised that I was shaking. I could hear my heart beating, a sense of panic coursing through my body. I could not believe what I had just witnessed and my urge to flee had taken over. I contemplated going back, to check if my mother was all right but I realised that I didn’t want to. I simply didn’t want to know. This woman was a stranger to me. She’d always been a stranger in that she never seemed like the mothers of picture books or films. There was no softness or gentle kindness in our relationship, no lap in which to snuggle or shoulder on which to cry.

Why should I care about her now if she had never cared about me? Why should I pick up the pieces of her shattered life? What was the point? She barely knew me.

The people at the home claimed that she asked for me but they could be making it up. There were flickers of recognition but it was fleeting. She was trapped in her own world, like she had trapped me in my room for every minor indiscretion as a child.

She hadn’t wanted anything to do with me back then so why should I bother now? I didn’t need her. I had carved out a life away from this ageing and decay. I didn’t need it in my life. I could simply drive away and not come back.

And yet, there I remained. Silently cursing my indecision. Why couldn’t I just leave? Go back to the order and harmony of my real life? There was a tap on the glass and I jumped in surprise at the sight of Laurie’s concerned face. I wound down the window.

‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘I just couldn’t take seeing her like that.’ It sounded as if I cared and I felt immediate guilt for being disingenuous.

Laurie gave me a reassuring smile. ‘Of course. It’s very hard sometimes. Do you have any idea what brought it on?’

I shook my head. ‘We were just sitting, looking out into the garden. I saw someone I knew – Guy Henderson with an elderly lady in a wheelchair.’

Laurie nodded. ‘Mrs Henderson has only recently arrived at the home. Sometimes, people with dementia react badly to change, a new face or someone who reminds them of something from their past.’

‘I only met Guy this week, so there’s no connection between my mother and his.’

Laurie smiled. ‘Well, your mother is much calmer now, so we’ll monitor the situation and keep in touch, okay?’

‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘Thank you so much.’ I gave her a final wave before starting the car and driving off, feeling relieved that my mother was someone else’s problem for the time being, tucked away where I didn’t have to think about her, her illness or the pain of the past.

Run away, Caroline. Run back to your place of safety and don’t look back.

I switched on the radio. They were playing ‘Weather With You’ – a Crowded House song that Oliver and I used to sing along to while we were decorating the house at weekends. I turned up the volume and sang at the top of my voice, drowning my worries with happier memories.