‘So I told him, absolutely not. No way was I going to do that.’
‘Too right.’
‘For a start, it would hurt.’
‘Yes!’
‘Honestly, some men are disgusting. No, make that all men are disgusting!’
‘Did you tell him about Kevin?’
‘No, there’s nothing to tell, is there? Except for, you know, that thing that happened round the back of Aldi…’
I always wish I could ask questions during these conversations. Like, who the flip is Kevin? And why on earth did you let him do anything to you behind a budget supermarket? Have some standards, ladies! Demand Waitrose at least.
You see, it isn’t just music that forms the soundtrack of my daily life. Given my ghostly status, I get to overhear all kinds of great stuff, like that conversation between Magda and Jane as they changed my bed. They are outrageous, that pair.
Given that I can’t talk, overheard conversations and noises shape my day. Right now, for example, I can hear clattering dishes in the kitchen; the postman leaving parcels outside the front door; Rosie, one of my fellow respite care inmates, yelling in the bathroom. She despises having her hair washed.
The downside of being great at listening, however, is that I also have to hear Mum and Dad arguing. They bicker pretty much constantly when he’s home nowadays, mostly about the day-to-day minutiae of my needs and how they fit in (or, let’s face it, don’t fit in) with their daily needs. Mum definitely believes Dad doesn’t do enough to help. His frequent absences for work make her resentful and she has high expectations when he returns. In fact, I think they’re so high, it’s not actually possible for him to meet them.
And of course, I also hear things that I’m not supposed to hear.
Secrets.
I know all of Eliza’s secrets because she has told me. I’m the vessel she keeps them in. And Mum, bless her, I don’t think she has any secrets; she has no time for intrigue. But Dad – he’s a closeted sort, you know. He keeps his cards close to his chest usually. He’s let his guard down only once in my hearing.
Mum went away on a weekend break for carers a few months ago, run by a charity. Dad had invited his brother Steve around to our house for company while she was away. Dad and Steve’s childhood was tough, I think, and whenever they meet, it’s like a pressure cooker letting off steam – they give each other permission to vent. They were sharing a twelve-pack of beer in the lounge, watching football, talking loudly over it. They were so loud, in fact, that I could hear them clearly in my bedroom down the hall. And what I heard Dad say, well, I’m guessing he doesn’t want Mum to know.
I am worried about it, mostly because I don’t think they have ever kept secrets that big from each other before. They really only deal in little white lies, like hiding presents they’ve bought from each other, or not mentioning that the other has got a bit fat, or those bottles Mum has started secreting in the understairs cupboard. But this is in an entirely different league.
I’m supposed to be napping right now, but I’m not tired. So instead, I’m lying on my back examining the ceiling. There isn’t much else to do in this position, is there? One of the carers recently stuck a few Take That posters up there, so I have something to look at when I’m in bed here, a bit like they do for people at the dentist who need distracting from the cavity they’re filling. These posters are a small joy, so I’m here, in the present, examining them. I count them left to right – one, Gary, two, Robbie, three, Mark, four, Jason, and finally, five, my current favourite, Howard. This poster is very out of date, of course. Not only is there no Robbie any more – except for their reunion tour, of course, I’ve got that DVD somewhere – there is also no Jason. His departure was a bit of a shocker. I found out about it from the This Morning presenters, Phil and Holly, who were chatting about it on TV. I was being given a drink at the time and I almost choked, prompting a quick whack on the back and a precautionary visit from the doctor.
I sobbed when Take That announced that they were breaking up in 1996. Partly because they wouldn’t be making more music, of course, but also because I’d just heard that I was actually set to meet them, in real life. It was supposed to be a surprise, but of course, everybody talks about me in front of me, don’t they? Eliza had written to the Take That fan club about me (that’s sisterly love for you – that must have hurt) and the lads had decided that I was worthy of a personal meeting. I remember so well the flurry of excitement, a jostling to decide who would come with me to my little audience. Even Eliza expressed interest. And then they announced that they were splitting up, didn’t they? And our meet up, my once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to actually dribble on Howard Donald, was cancelled. I was distraught.
Not that the band ever really broke up in our house, mind you. That old VHS just kept on rolling, replaced with a DVD version eventually and replenished with eBay finds when scratches made the earlier versions untenable. I am a cinch to buy for every birthday and Christmas. In my bedroom, you see, those three middle-aged men I saw perform at the O2 are still a group of five, all smooth-skinned and skinny, sleeping with groupies in hotel rooms and being re-dressed and redesigned by stylists daily, like dolls.
Here’s Beth. I like her. She has purple hair and tattoos.
‘Patience, welcome back! I hear you’ve been a very ill girl! So nice to have you back with us for a break. We were so worried about you. Now, let me see… What would you like to do? Watch a DVD? Now where is that Muppet one you like – oh, I’m sorry lovely, Magda was supposed to reorganise them all back into their boxes, wasn’t she? She’s got man trouble, I think. We’ll look in a bit. Now – when did we last take you to the toilet? Was it lunchtime? Crikey, best get on with it then, hadn’t we?’ And Beth’s caring monologue continues, brightly, breezily, without pause, because she will never get a response.
I lie there as she checks to see if my pad is dry and then she rolls me over and sits me up. It feels good to not be lying down for a change, despite the fact that my back muscles are totally pathetic. I was developing a sore patch after all that lying down in hospital, and crikey, yes, I really do need the toilet again. It stings down there, in fact. Beth calls Magda in to help her with the hoist, which transfers me from my bed to my wheelchair. And as she pushes me into the bathroom, the relief to be moving again, escaping bed, makes me smile.
‘Ooh, look at you, Patience. Smiling away!’ she says, as she manoeuvres me through the door frame. She definitely thinks I’m simple. They all do.
Magda is now back again, fresh from being sent to find a cloth. I have a bit of dribble running down my chin, you see.
‘My lovely Pat! Oh crikey, look at you,’ she says, wiping me. She’s the only person who calls me Pat. I hate it.
I suspect that Magda is the cause of things being a bit ‘off’ here this weekend. For example, I was given the wrong breakfast cereal this morning – shredded wheat instead of Weetabix. I had always fancied trying them; Ellie has them, but I’ve never previously been allowed them, due to the choking risk. In the event, however, they were a bit of a disappointment. I reckon that’s what cardboard tastes like. I’m so fed up of eating mush, though, that I’ll take what I can get.
So yes, something is definitely up. I think it’s the endless staff shortage, frankly. A rather limp and useless teenager, Karen, left last week after only a few months. Magda is an agency carer plugging the gap and, as sweet as she is, she doesn’t know her arse from her elbow – or the difference between breakfast cereals, when it comes to that.
Things are about to change, however. I overheard Maggie, the care home manager, tell Beth that someone new was starting today. Staff turnover here in the respite bungalow is high, always – the pay is low and the hours antisocial – so the hiring of a new member of staff is always a reason for celebration at Morton Lodge.
And here is another reason to celebrate. I’ve finally been hoisted onto the toilet. I’ve been wanting to go for hours. I let go of a welcome stream of urine, exhaling in pleasure. It stings at the end, mind you, but the relief was worth that small amount of pain.
I wait while Magda wipes my bottom, pulls up my leggings and then hoists me, with the help of Beth, back into my chair. Then she pushes me into the dining room where Beth is mopping up Ellie after a very late lunch. Ellie is a tremendously messy eater, with more usually hitting the floor than making it into her mouth. She has cerebral palsy. I overheard Maggie saying it had something to do with being deprived of oxygen at birth. She’s got something on me, though – she can move her arms deliberately, albeit in jerky movements. She can also manage some words; slow, slurry, but definitely there. I envy her. She looks at me sometimes when we’re alone together in the TV room, and I wonder if she knows that I can understand her.
Magda has just come in to get us, to put us in front of late-afternoon daytime TV, which is as inane and vacuous as morning daytime TV. I enjoy catching the occasional afternoon news bulletins on BBC1, a welcome relief from the endless antiques programmes which seem de rigeur at this time of the afternoon. Just now I’m having to watch a show in which Den and Belinda – a couple in their sixties who probably applied to the TV production company because they had run out of conversation – pretend to look shocked at the goodies their tangoed presenter is finding in their garage.
‘Ooh, Belinda, look at that! I would never have thought that old chamber pot of my gran’s would have any value!’
‘I know! But will it sell for the reserve price at the auction?!’
I do hope they’ve washed it…
The front door bell! A very welcome distraction. I watch as Maggie runs to get it. Maggie rarely runs for anything – at eighteen stone, it isn’t something she takes to easily. It’s only a matter of seconds before I understand her urgency. Walking alongside her down the hallway, towards the day room, is a man. A very handsome man. He has curly brown hair, left long on the sides, cut just above his collar. His eyebrows are strong and sleek and his jaw is purposeful; I can see the muscles in it dance as he swallows. Come to think of it, doesn’t he have a look of Howard Donald?
‘So you’ve worked in care homes before?’ asks Maggie, craning her neck upwards to gaze at him through her stubby blue eyelashes, preening her mousy, frizzy mane as she does so.
‘Yes, several,’ he answers in a voice laced with chocolate, as she reverses him into her tiny office, like a spider closing in on her prey. She doesn’t shut the door, though; she probably needed to sit him in the doorway so that there was enough space. This means that I can hear everything they say.
‘But I’ve only looked after men before,’ he continues. ‘That’s originally what I applied for here, to work next door, with the men.’
‘Yes, I’m sorry about that,’ replies Maggie. ‘But we’re short of staff at the moment, so I snapped you up for here. You won’t be able to do the personal care with the girls, of course, but there’s lots you can do, and we definitely need you. Do you mind coming over?’
‘No, no. I’m happy to help wherever’s needed,’ he replies.
‘You’re doing a college course, is that right?’
‘Yes, sort of. I’m doing my GCSEs again, part-time,’ he replies. ‘Very late. I’m having a bit of a career rethink. It depends on my grades, really.’
I hear Maggie laugh. ‘Well, don’t do those exams too quickly! Lord knows, we need you here. Shall I show you around the place?’
I move my head as far as it will go to watch them come out of the office and head down the hall. I hear Maggie showing him our bedrooms – all as close to a home from home as you can manage with hoists and medical beds everywhere you turn – and into the bathroom, complete with its padded bath with a side that lowers so you can be lifted into it, and its extra tall, comfortable toilet. Then they turn and head my way.
‘This is Patience,’ says Maggie. ‘Patience, this is Jimmy. He’s going to be working here from now on.’
Jimmy squats down and looks straight at me. ‘Yes, I’m the new boy,’ he says, grinning. I feel the colour rise in my cheeks, but I don’t think they notice. I have a rash on my cheeks anyhow, from the cream they use to get rid of my burgeoning beard. The joyful effects of hormone imbalance are another glamorous element of my existence, by the way; it’s not all about my bum.
‘Hello, Patience. I’m Jimmy,’ he says. He’s already been introduced, of course, but it is nice that he decided to do it in person, face to face, on my level. ‘I’m a bit new at this, so please be gentle with me.’
I can behave in no other way, fella.
‘Actually, Jimmy, Patience is due a drink,’ says Maggie. ‘Could you do that, do you think? Beth will show you how to make it up.’
‘Sure,’ he says, putting his hand on my shoulder. ‘I’ll go and get it and I’ll be right back.’
Maggie smiles with approval and goes back to her office, singing to herself quietly. She’s out of tune. I want to smile, but decide to keep it in. They’d probably assume I’m smiling because I like this bloody auction programme and make me watch it every day for all eternity. It’s not worth the risk.
A few minutes later, Jimmy comes back bearing a plastic beaker full of chocolate milkshake, which he’s forgotten to put the thickener in. Bingo, this one’s a keeper. I detest that stuff. It’s like drinking lumpy custard.
He pulls up a chair next to me, grabs a handful of tissues from a box on a nearby table and proceeds to tip the glass into my mouth.
‘Now here goes, Patience. I’m sorry if I get this wrong and make you choke.’
I laugh before I can stop myself, and splutter. It probably sounded more like a choke than a laugh.
‘Now then, lovely, don’t give me a heart attack! Are you OK? Are we good?’
He cradles my face as he asks me that. I look straight at him, composed and ready. Jimmy tilts the glass once more and I try to drink it more carefully. This has the dual benefit of making sure I won’t choke – my tongue is a constant hazard – while allowing me to savour the attentions of this lovely man. If you have to spend your life being cared for, you might as well be cared for by someone nice to look at.
*
After Jimmy goes off shift, I feel flat. He brightened up the whole place, and this rubbed off on the other staff, who all, magically, became more enthusiastic, more hard-working, more helpful. But I can’t let this low mood colour the rest of my day, because I have a visitor this afternoon.
Her name is Janet and she’s a music teacher at one of the local primary schools. When she’s not torturing herself by trying to persuade six-year-olds to learn the recorder, she works as a music therapist. I always look forward to Janet’s visits. She has a mass of curly hair and smells of flowers, and I know that I’m not going to have to switch off during her session, even if it goes on for ages. She brings all sorts of percussion instruments with her, things that even I can use, like bells which I can wear around my wrists and drums I can try to hit with my clasped hands. Each impact, each jangle, sends a shockwave of joy up my arms and legs and into my brain. And when she puts on a backing track for me to play along to, my limbs fizz and I rock side to side, miraculously free of pain.
This sensation only lasts as long as the music does, however. When it’s over, I go back to being frozen, brittle, rigid. For I am only truly alive while the music lasts.