This old bird scared me with her incongruous clothes – jeans and Doc Marten boots, baggy tie-die T-shirt, short hair dyed blackcurrant. An eighty-two-year-old punk, and mad as a hatter.
She turned her attention away from the ‘precious things’ on her desk and towards me. ‘If you promise to keep a secret I’ll tell you something.’
‘Um, okay.’
‘You promise?’
I offered the old lady a pinky, but she didn’t understand, so I withdrew it. ‘I promise.’
‘What?’
‘I promise I won’t tell.’
‘Won’t tell what?’
Ha! She’d already forgotten. I’d never known anyone really sick, or anyone really old. This sick old woman was as unknown and as ugly to me as a ferret. That’s what this woman looked like! A ferret. All skinny and bony and yellow-white and crinkly and she might totally dig her teeth into my neck.
‘You two getting on okay?’ A nurse appeared at the door. Her badge said Nurse Gabriella. She had pointy tits, a grey bob and bright red lipstick.
Rose looked terrified when she spotted her. ‘You not heard of knocking? Get out of my room.’
Gabriella smiled at me. ‘Don’t worry. She just gets a little mixed up.’
As the nurse left, Rose turned to me: ‘How do you know her?’
‘I don’t.’
‘And the others? Are you friends with the others?’
‘What others?’
‘Out there, the others out there.’ She pointed to her door. I assumed she meant everyone in the care home.
‘No. I met Marcus yesterday, everyone else today. I’m new.’
‘So you won’t tell them what I’m about to say? You won’t tell anyone till I decide what we should do?’
‘Not a word.’
‘Who do you love?’
‘What?’
‘Who do you love most in the world?’
‘Um, my mum.’
‘You swear on your mother’s life?’
I crossed my heart, said: ‘Hope to die.’
‘Don’t hope to die.’
‘Okay, but I do promise, I won’t tell anyone.’
The ferret lady leant in towards my neck, and whispered: ‘Something very bad is going on in this place.’
I took a step back. From the ferocious-ferret look on her face, I feared she’d be sucking blood from my neck any second.
‘You’re scared of me. Oh Jesus Christ. Don’t be ridiculous. It’s not me you should be scared of. You have to believe me! Are you hearing me?’
It was hard not to hear her – her whisper was becoming a yell.
‘You don’t believe me! I can see it in your eyes, you stupid little girl. Get out of my room!’
Nurse Gabriella had heard. She raced in, directed Rose to bed, popped a pill in her mouth, and watched until she’d closed her eyes. ‘Stay with her, and don’t let her upset you. She says the strangest things.’
‘Okay.’
‘And could you do a daily search of the room? She keeps stealing matches from the kitchen, always when she’s travelled back in time. We never catch her, and we have no idea where she stashes them. She’s fast and sneaky as a ten-year-old.’ Having given her orders, the nurse headed for the door.
‘But it’s her room.’ I thought I’d said this under my breath.
Nurse Gabriella walked back towards me and stood quite close. ‘And?’
‘And I don’t feel right about it.’
‘Oh, in that case, if you don’t feel right about it.’
We stared each other out. I blinked first.
‘Now do as you’re told or go home.’
After Gabriella shut the door, Rose opened her eyes, looked straight at me, put her bony finger to her lips and said, ‘Shh.’ Then she closed her eyes again.
Scarier than Freddy Krueger, this woman.
I shut the door to avoid helping with lunch, and posted a photo of myself on Facebook titled ‘working woman.’ (Pose #1 chin down, fringe over eyes, serious expression, gorgeous obv.) Ten likes in fifteen minutes. Not bad. Craig hadn’t emailed or texted about my un-friending. He would. They always did. And I’d ignore him like all the other desperados.
The bookshelf in the corner was filled with Tilly books. They were up there with Katie Morag in my childhood. Most families had at least one series. Obviously this old bird couldn’t manage to read more than a kid’s picture book. Mum had bought a box set for my seventh birthday and read one each night in bed. She loved how independent and strong Tilly was (‘How a girl should be! Don’t depend on some idiot to take care of you!’). I flicked through the one that was my favourite (Tilly and the telegram). So sad and uplifting still, this story. The farmer’s two sons were at war. Bridget, one of the girls billeted to the farm, had collected the mail in the village, and it included a dreaded telegram. On the way back to the farm, she got into a mud fight with the annoying neighbour. She returned to the house covered in mud, and with no telegram. Tilly covered up for her, and dug through mud for hours before retrieving it. The farmer’s oldest son was missing in action. As punishment, Tilly had to muck out the sheds, alone, until the war ended. But somehow, she found a way to enjoy it. It was better being in the sheds than in the house, Tilly decided.
*
Was I really reading children’s books while a scary old alien lady slept in bed beside me? And when she woke, would she go on about ‘bad things’ again, or worse, need help going to the toilet? No, this was gross and wrong. I decided I’d see this shift out, head to the Queens for a drink, and work out what to tell Mum – something to do with health and safety, no doubt. The place was badly managed and dangerous! Did she want her only child to be seriously injured, maimed for life, emotionally damaged, for £6.19 an hour?
There were cards on Rose’s wall from people who loved her enough to send cards, but not enough to let her stay in their houses.
Love you Granny Rosie!
Hey Mum, Sorry we can’t come and see you, but you do understand it’s for the best? It makes things worse. Gregor’s been spending most weeks in Brussels so I’ve been holding the fort here. Work’s going well, despite the economy. Got a new BMW yesterday – I love love love it! Hope Chris’s looking after you, Janey.
Dear Granny, I wrote this story! Do you like it?
Dear Mum, Happy Christmas! Work and kids have been mad busy. Ally and Cat send their love. Big hugs, Elena.
There were black-and-white photos. A grim-looking groom, hers no doubt; dead now, I supposed. Two small girls in a garden. And there were colour photographs – the next generation, doing the same things as the last: getting married, having kids, smiling. She’d made those lives, yet here she was, alone, reliving a past trauma and imagining a present one.
If I wound up here, with the same cruel dementia, what trauma would I relive? The time Mum caught me looking at porn? Nah, that was just embarrassing. When Mark cheated on me? No, I’d done it first, and he was a wank. I realised I had no trauma to relive. My dementia, if and when it came, would be a kind bonnie, bonnie banks one. I took another photo of myself. Pose #2: fringe flicked back, lips saying Prune. Gorgeous obv.
And, at that moment, traumaless.