The following Wednesday, as was his routine prior to Raymond’s admission to hospital, Cross bought a Chinese takeaway from his regular spot, Xiao Bao’s, and took it to share with his father. The fact that Raymond was in a care home with a restaurant made no difference to him. The additional fact that Xiao Bao’s takeaway was convenient for Raymond’s flat, but completely out of the way for the care home, also made no difference to him. It was their routine.
Xiao Bao now did deliveries and was more than happy to lend Cross one of the thermal delivery bags his riders used. He also told Cross that he would be delighted to deliver to the care home despite the fact that it was outside his area, if that would make things easier. Unsurprisingly, Cross declined this thoughtful offer. He found comfort in the routine of it all even though it was, for the time being, a little more protracted.
Cross had moved his father from the NHS dementia care home into one that was more suitable, as Raymond had predicted he would. Privately funded, of course, and Cross paid in advance. There had been no further mention of the father living in the son’s flat during his period of recovery. This was a relief to both of them.
Raymond was secretly touched by his son’s speedy rearrangement of his rehabilitation accommodation, but knew better than to say that to him. This kind of problem-solving was the closest his son ever came to a demonstration of emotion or a sentimental gesture to his father, and Raymond was happy with that. He also didn’t dispute Cross’s paying. Most people in this situation would make the offer, knowing it would be rebuffed but taken as a gesture of gratitude. Cross would not see it this way, and so a long and unnecessary discussion would have ensued, which would only have come to an end after he’d managed to convince himself that this was, as he’d thought all along, the right course of action for both of them. The implied gesture would have gone completely over his head.
The care home was purpose-built and located in Stoke Bishop just off the Downs. There were a number of halls of residence for Bristol University in the area and several sports fields. The population of the area seemed to vary according to whether it was term time or not. Cross hadn’t selected it by simply trawling the internet. He had narrowed Mackenzie’s list down to a shortlist of five. He then visited and inspected them. He discovered that care homes had moved on a lot since the squalid institution his grandmother had had to endure for the last months of her life.
This was not so much a philanthropic shift, he thought. It was more to do with medical advances resulting in an increasingly large elderly population, which in turn resulted in an increased demand for senior care. As people realised this, homes proliferated across the country so the private care sector had become very competitive.
He’d decided on the one Raymond was in for a few reasons. Firstly, he was dealt with by the manager and not an ‘account services manager’. Secondly, the manager had asked him questions about his father: who he was; what he’d done before retirement; what his interests were. All of these things were important to her, it seemed, even though Raymond’s stay would be for less than a month. There were no such questions from the others.
The home he chose was more like a four-star hotel in a respected national chain than a care home. There were sofas in the capacious reception for the residents and their guests to relax in and enjoy coffee from the ‘straight from the bean to cup’ coffee machine. Cross thought Raymond would be comfortable here, and the residents seemed a little younger and more alert than in some of the other homes.
‘I hope you haven’t eaten,’ said Cross, as he walked into Raymond’s room.
‘It’s Wednesday – of course I haven’t. I told them you’d be in at seven and it’s…’ but Raymond wasn’t wearing his watch.
‘Seven oh two,’ answered Cross, as he took the food out of the insulating bag and laid it out.
‘Did you buy that bag?’ asked his father.
‘No, it’s Xiao Bao’s.’
‘That was kind of him. Can I see?’ said Raymond. Cross passed it over and Raymond examined it inside and out. ‘Excellent quality, and look how the rice is still steaming. Did you know there are three main types of foam insulation for bags like this?’
‘I did not,’ answered Cross.
‘Polyvinyl chloride, which is a type of thermoplastic polymer known more commonly as PVC. Polyurethane – or PU – and Polyester. Terribly clever stuff.’
‘Interesting,’ commented Cross.
‘Isn’t it?’ Raymond continued enthusiastically. ‘Revolutionised the food delivery industry. Everyone mistakenly thinks it was the internet, but the fundamental shift occurred thanks to polymers and polyethers. No point in being able to order food on your computer if it arrives cold.’
‘Unless it’s a salad,’ said Cross.
‘Yes, that’s true,’ Raymond conceded.
This was typical of the conversations these two men enjoyed together. They then watched television and ate in silence. They did this often, but tonight the truth was that they were doing it to avoid the conversation neither of them wanted to have – about the clearance of Raymond’s flat to facilitate his return home. Cross had in fact come up with a solution. A good one, he thought, but not one he was going to mention to his father, as he knew that any compromise he suggested would never be good enough. The best thing for him to do was just get on with it.
Cross got up to leave as soon as he had swallowed the last mouthful of his egg fried rice. He packed away the takeaway containers in the insulating bag then threw away the paper plates and plastic knives and forks he’d brought with him.
‘There’s a retired policewoman here. Before your time, I think. In her late eighties. What’s her name…? Moffatt,’ said Raymond.
‘Don’t know the name.’
‘You should pop in and say hello,’ suggested Raymond.
‘No, I don’t think so,’ said Cross as he left.