Cathy’s going-away party was held on Monday, at lunchtime. Lunch was the main meal of the day. The tables in the dining room were rearranged to make a u-shape, with a seat of honour for Cathy in the centre. They were set with coloured cloths, table napkins and a paper hat for every place. Streamers and paper lanterns were hung across the room. On one side, a table was piled with brightly wrapped presents from the staff and residents, and the giant best wishes card, made by two of the residents and signed by everybody. The old piano had been pushed in from the sitting room, and stood against the wall.
The lunch started with a toast in rasberry juice by Helmut, made in an atmosphere of suppressed excitement.
“Cathy, I vant to say, on behalf of staff and residents, that we are sorry you are leaving. We know that you will be well looked after in your new home, and we wish you every happiness there. You have been with us more than three years, and we have come to know and love you. To Cathy!”
Helmut raised his glass high, and those who could stand, sprang to their feet. “To Cathy!”
Cathy sat imperiously in her privileged seat, while one of the carers gave her sips of juice from her non-spill mug.
John Murdoch remained on his feet when the others sat.
“I want to add a few words to those of our esteemed managing director,” he said, pulling a sheaf of notes from his waistcoat pocket, and squinting at them. “Cathy, we know that the bosses have ordained that you must go, against your will, to a place that must, by definition, be inferior to the perfection of this establishment…”
Ian, the duty shift manager stood up clapping, “Thank you, John, thank you. Speeches and personal items will come later. Cook’s ready to serve.”
Amid a small spray of clapping, Ian put his hand on John’s shoulder, and pressed him gently back into his chair. Helmut left the room with a wave of his hand, as the volume of the babble began to rise.
“Come on, everybody,” Rose shouted, putting on a paper hat.
The residents put on their paper hats. Carrot soup was served, followed by roast chicken with roast potatoes, pumpkin, cabbage and thick gravy. The food was consumed with noisy gusto. The last course was jelly and ice-cream. Cathy’s pureed version of each course was spooned into her mouth by Rose, who never usually did such tasks. Sally the cook, and a helper, carried in two huge rainbow sponges with vanilla icing, and one had four candles. There were loud cheers, while Rose neatly performed the trick of asking Cathy to blow out the candles, and then blew them out herself. Cream sponge was a special treat, and there were only a few crumbs left when it had been shared out.
While the staff discreetly cleared the tables, Ian took the floor to hand over the goodbye card, and preside over the unwrapping of the presents, one by one, with announcements of the names of the donors, usually to much whistling and hooting. Cathy appeared to watch, as a pile of soft toys, costume jewellery, and toiletries grew on the table in front of her.
“Now, Cathy,” Keith said, “some of the staff and residents are going to perform a few items for you. They’ve all been practicing hard, and this will be better than a floor show in Las Vegas! First, Barney, with a bit of Shakespeare.”
When Keith sat down, David whispered to him, “Have you ever been to Las Vegas?”
“Never, mate. Wish I had.”
Barney Colas recited the sonnet, Let me not to the marriage of true minds Admit impediments. Love is not love which alters when it alteration finds. Barney had worked hard, and found words that David could recall from the darkness. The audience enjoyed hearing the poem. It touched well known chords, like the songs David played, or a famous hymn, and as with many of those tunes and hymns, seemed to reach for the unattainable.
Two members of staff, Maggie and Paula, sang a duet, Now is the Hour, which David found sad. But the audience hummed, and swayed lightheartedly through the song. Mark Demeter restored hearty laughter with a conjuring trick that went wrong. About to show that he could retrieve, from the shuffled pack, a card that his audience knew, but he ostensibly did not, he fumbled and dropped the pack on the floor. The whistling and the stamping of feet was fierce. Mark gave up, thrusting his fist high above his head, like a footballer who has scored a goal.
David sat down at the piano, and everybody joined in a loud sing-song: Pack Up Your Troubles, Tavern in the Town, When Irish Eyes are Smiling and Coming Round the Mountain. When David had been through his repertoire, he played a compact disc of Queen’s ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ on the old stereo system. As the last words of the melody, Nothing really matters to me, were sung in Freddie Mercury’s pure, imperative voice, Cathy’s eyes glistened, and she struggled as if to speak.
In the lull, Keith appeared with Poppy.
“Now quiet everybody! Too much noise, and we’ll have Helmut down here, and I’ll get hell,” he said in a loud voice. “We’re going to have a group photo.”
Cathy was wheeled out from behind the table, into the centre of the floor. Poppy sat on her hind quarters beside Cathy, seeming to understand the need for calm, although her tail never stopped beating the floor. The residents and staff gathered behind Cathy, all grins, and paper hats askew. Keith wise-cracked with everybody as he took the shots. Then Keith led Poppy toward the door, pushing through those residents who wanted to touch Poppy as though she was a talisman.
“Now we’re going to have a dance, to end Cathy’s party,” Rose said, as care assistants moved some of the tables out of the way.
Dancing was a regular event at Denby Hall, enjoyed by almost every resident, and the staff. Cathy, accompanied by Rose, took her place on the floor ahead of everybody else. David seated himself at the piano again, and pounded out his flawed versions of favourites like Goodnight Irene and Home on the Range. Everybody else was dancing in pairs, trios, foursomes or alone. Some pushed a wheelchair-bound resident from behind, some leaned over the front of the chair, resting their arms on the armrests, moving the chair in time to the music.
After twenty minutes, David was sweating and tired. He switched on the stereo for those who were left, and took Cathy upstairs in the lift. The presents, and the card, were in two bulging plastic bags, hooked over the handles of the wheelchair.
In her room, Cathy refused a Freddie Mercury recording.
“Do you want me to go?”
Cathy made a ‘no’ noise, and David sat on the bed for a while, his hand on hers. Cathy was wide awake, staring ahead, occasionally turning her head to him, and then away. In profile, with her hair drawn back, tied at the crown, and plaited, she looked regal as the shadows deepened in the room. Churning clouds were overhead, and it was going to shower. Before them, tumbled on the bed, were the presents, and the farewell card. The card was covered in scribbled drawings, verses, and short comments, as well as signatures. It had a big red heart, with a red ribbon, glued on the front.
David left Cathy after more than half an hour, and found Rose. He said he thought Cathy looked ill.
“I’m not surprised, after what she had today,” Rose said.
Rose and David went to Cathy’s room. She was calm. Rose took her pulse.
“You’re fine, aren’t you darling? You’ve had a lovely, lovely party,” Rose said.
“She’s not fine,” David said.
“Bit of indigestion. I think she’s all right, but I’ll get Dr Floor,” Rose said, frowning at David.
Dr Floor arrived half an hour later. He felt Cathy’s pulse, and took her blood pressure.
“Probably excitement. The party. Blood pressure’s a bit high. Bed now. I’ll see her in the morning.”
After the care assistants had washed Cathy, and put her to bed, David went to her room. She was lying on her back, with her eyes open. The high sides of the bed were up – a safety precaution – so she was lying in a padded box. He asked her whether she wanted him to sit with her a while, and she indicated, yes. She refused any music. David stayed until it was dark, and she closed her eyes.