The care home
You’ll find the Madding Crowd Care Home in the picturesque and atmospheric town of Dorchester in West Dorset, Thomas Hardy’s Casterbridge. From Dorchester it’s an interesting drive along the A35 to the shopaholic’s paradise known as Bournemouth, the destination of many a sun-seeking and beach-loving holidaymaker over the decades.
In the past Dorchester had the dubious distinction of being the town with the highest ratio of three-car families. To the north-east is the uniquely beautiful and sacred city of Salisbury, its cathedral towering above neighbouring buildings. And only eight miles to the south, a short and exciting journey over the Ridgeway, lies the intimate town of Weymouth. From the Ridgeway is signposted the aptly named ‘Came Down Golf Course’. Resculptured in places for the 2012 Olympics, much of Weymouth looks the same as it did when King George the Third visited it some time ago.
In bygone times Dorchester was a much smaller and more rural town. Parts of it still look rustic and unchanged from previous centuries and the days when Judge Jefferies sent the Tolpuddle Martyrs to a warmer climate. But despite its fascinating history, the local authority felt the need to earmark strategic sites for housing, retail and industrial development. Consequently, new housing estates appeared, one of which was the Castle Park Estate with its accompanying array of supermarket, post office, school, themed pub and garage. This part of the town, changed beyond recognition, lies in the shadow of Maiden Castle, a 6000-year-year old earthwork that remains unchanged and sentry like, surviving as a vast and grassy monument to earlier human settlements.
After a series of planning applications and appeals, another housing estate was nearing completion. Spreading to the dual carriageway that separates the twenty first century from the remnants of a fourth century temple that our Roman friends built on Maiden Castle, was the Maiden’s View Estate. It was here that the Hindmarshes had a detached house at the end of a cul de sac, far from the madding crowd.
* * * * * *
The Hindmarsh’s care home was not a new, purpose-built structure. It was a converted building. Most visitors agreed that a reasonable job had been made of the conversion. Doorways were widened for wheelchair access, ramps with handrails replaced steps at the front and back of the building and three lounges were provided, one on each floor. Other rooms were turned into an office and a staff room, the latter, thankfully, some distance from the residents’ areas. A spacious laundry was created and the old lift replaced with a new model. The kitchen and the main dining room had been placed next to one another, something that might seem obvious, but which is evidently not obvious to all architects.
In former days Dorchester had enjoyed its own small hospital, Dorset County Hospital in Princes Street, a solid-looking stone structure with blue metal fire escapes scarring the exterior. Other small hospital units were spread around the town. With the town’s expanding population these facilities were initially enhanced by putting Portakabins on the Princes Street site as a temporary measure.
These had formed the Children’s Unit and the Geriatric Unit, as it was then called. Eventually, to the relief of almost everyone, it was decided that money would be better spent building a completely new hospital for Dorchester and the surrounding villages on a new site away from the town centre, so the old hospital was closed and sold off to developers. One of the satellite units sold off at the same time was a geriatric unit in Damers Road. It was this unit that Mr and Mrs Hindmarsh purchased and converted into their 40-bed care home.
The Trumpeting Major Care Home for the Elderly and Infirm of Casterbridge therefore looked grand and elegant. Stone walls merged with double glazing. The main entrance was right of centre and led into a foyer. This has been designed to serve as a reception area with an administrative office, but it was found that there was no need for a receptionist, so it became a store for resident records and other documents, alongside zimmerframes.
Primrose Jenkins managed the day-to-day running of the home from her office down the corridor. A large photograph of Brian and Jill Hindmarsh was displayed ostentatiously in the foyer and a small spotlight in the ceiling highlighted the smiling couple.
On the whole, the Hindmarshes were reasonable proprietors and employers. Little was known about their background, since they sought to keep their personal lives well away from their business activities, but they appeared to be a normal middle-aged couple. They chose not to interfere with the running of the home, since neither of them had any nursing or medical experience. It was said, however, that they had once had a female relative in a nursing home who had died in tragic and mysterious circumstances. The passage of time and the absence of hard facts had allowed the details of this dark episode to be embellished. Was there any truth in the story that the old lady had been murdered by another resident?
When the Hindmarshes came into money from somewhere they decided to buy their own care home. The rumour that they were big national lottery winners was doubted, but could not be altogether dismissed.
The couple generally visited the home at least once a month, usually by prior arrangement with Mrs Jenkins, staying for an hour and discussing matters of the moment. They would introduce themselves to any new residents and members of staff. Brian would also call in each Saturday morning to collect any residents’ fees, sign cheques and, as he said, to make sure that all was well.
Alas, the home had little in the way of lawns or gardens. It could only boast a couple of very small flower beds and several concrete troughs. Some of these had daffodil bulbs planted in them, forgotten all year round until they made a welcome display each spring. The others had various bits and pieces growing in them, planted by an elderly bow-legged man who was employed to do the gardens.
In fact old Frank was not actually paid for his labours. His frail old wife had died at the home after a long illness some three years back. Having been a regular visitor during Beryl’s slow demise, he had missed his visits when she eventually died. With time on his hands, he had volunteered to look after the flower beds, which had until then been woefully neglected. And so, from time to time old Frank would appear in his green apron and wellies to ‘do the gardens’.
* * * * * *
Mealtimes were often hard work at The Mince and Mash Care Home for the Masticatorially Challenged. Breakfast was the easiest meal of the day, because it arrived in several stages. Folks had their porridge or Weetabix, their tea and toast. They seemed to want none of the alternatives. Perhaps there weren’t any. But dinner time was different.
It’s time for your rations, Dave. What do you have to do, Dave? I have to eat it all. I have to eat it all. All of it. You need your strength, Dave. Remember the escape. You’ll need your strength. The situation is grave, Dave. Be brave, Dave!
‘Dave, use your knife and fork!’
Wendy took a paper napkin from the nearby trolley and wiped Dave’s gravy-covered fingers. She put the knife and fork in his hands.
‘Now try to eat properly.’
Be brave, Dave.
* * * * * *
Dinner was served at one for most residents. The ‘feeders’, who couldn’t manage to feed themselves and needed various levels of assistance, were served earlier. Twisted arthritic fingers might be a problem for some, while for others it was remembering what to do with a knife and fork. For both care and kitchen staff it was easier to cope with lunch by having two sittings. The other residents appreciated this, since sitting next to the likes of Peggy or Dave and watching them eat could be enough to destroy the heartiest of appetites.
The dining room was furnished with eight square tables, each accommodating four people. On each was a tablecloth of some description, four plastic place mats and a small vase of silk flowers. The tablecloths didn’t match one another these days. The green chequered ones had been brought in by ‘laundry Clare’ who had bought them in a car boot sale.
And so Dave and Peggy sat at one table with Wendy attempting to stay in charge of proceedings while Eve was sitting at another with Tracey to help her. Tony had cooked chicken and mushroom pie, carrots, broccoli and potato, which he’d pureed for Eve.
‘There you are, you lucky people! Get that down you!’
Wendy’s task was to ensure that the equally muddled Peggy and Dave didn’t try to eat each others’ meals, which they constantly seemed to find more appetising than their own, that they didn’t use their fingers to eat with and that the food went more or less straight from plate to mouth. Each wore a plastic apron to minimise collateral damage. Salt and pepper pots, vinegar bottle, sugar bowl and silk flowers were all put out of harm’s way.
‘If ever the expression ‘second childhood’ was applicable to old people, it’s at mealtimes’ said Wendy out loud.
She could remember the day when, not long after Peggy had moved into the home, her family had decided to take their mother home for the afternoon and return her after tea. This, they had announced with evident self congratulation, was going to be a regular thing. It turned out to be an isolated event and the experience was never repeated. What caused the change of mind was never disclosed, but it wasn’t hard to guess.
It’s an unfortunate fact of life that even the best food, when it has been pureed, seems to imitate other substances with disgusting accuracy and manages to look quite inedible. But, for Eve there was no viable alternative. Semi-solid food was difficult for her to swallow, so Tony would puree her meals. She was also encouraged to drink nutritionally-fortified drinks. Soup, yoghurt and pureed meals were regularly offered to her and though she would attempt to eat something, she didn’t manage very much. Tracey patiently tried a few teaspoons of pie, then a couple of yoghurt, followed by a sip or two of tea from a spouted drinking cup. This took all of twenty minutes.
Eve was then returned to the secure familiarity of her room. She was suffering from a malignant growth somewhere in her bowel. This would eventually be the death of her, but in the meantime it caused her to tire easily and she needed a lie-down in the afternoon. With the aid of a hoist the ever-capable Tracey lifted the ever-delicate Eve on to the protected bed, covered her in a crocheted blanket, drew the curtains, raised the cot-sides, put her buzzer and a drink within reach and left her to enjoy some rest. Dave and Peggy walked back to the lounge with Wendy. The dining room could now be made ready for the remaining residents to enjoy the fruits of Tony’s labours.
As was the case in the lounges, so it was in the dining room. There were no set places and residents were free to sit where they pleased, but most residents had their chosen or allotted place and woe betide anyone who dared to sit in it. Some of the most spiteful exchanges between residents occurred as a result of someone sitting in the wrong seat.
With thoughtfulness and imagination Tony had compiled three seven-day menus. He had put these into clear plastic A4 envelopes and pinned copies on the back of the kitchen door and stuck copies on the dining room wall. They were supposed to be followed in rotation. The residents had no say in the compiling of these menus. They ate what they were given. Cost was the governing factor, not resident’s choice or preference.
Not that Tony’s meals were poorly cooked or the portions meagre. They were nothing of the sort. They looked appetising and were nutritious. It would be doubtful if many of these residents could have eaten so well had they remained in their own home and lived from a state pension. Yet despite this, and the efforts Tony put into providing an adequate meal, each lunchtime saw a disheartening amount of waste.
‘You would never think that this was the generation that experienced food shortages and had to get by with ration books’ an offended Tony would complain as he scraped food into a black bucket.
* * * * * *
‘Ah, Bev, just the person I’m looking for.’
‘Oh no, I don’t like the sound of that!’
‘Busy?’ asked Anna.
‘Of course…! No, not really. What is it?’
‘You’re needed in room 18 until the next buzzer goes off.’
The relatively quiet hour between two and three was an opportunity to make some progress in the preparations for the Summer Fayre. All sorts of items were appearing in room 18, which was looking more chaotic as the days passed and the great event approached. Although an unoccupied double room, it looked far too small to store the growing mountain of carrier bags and boxes. Anna wasn’t sure where she and Bev ought to begin.
‘I’ll tell you what. Shift everything up this end where the beds are, look, and as you sort it out put it down that end. Clothes by here and other things over there.’
‘Right.’
Since Anna couldn’t think of anything better, she settled for Bev’s suggestion. Slowly, without much enthusiasm, books were sorted from knick-knacks, children’s books from adults and clothes into men’s and women’s. Pictures were put into one large cardboard box and jigsaws into another. Pricing all of this would be a headache, but one that could wait until another day.
* * * * * *
At seven each evening Samuel would press his buzzer for the carers to hoist him into bed. This evening was no exception to the rule. Sometimes he would have to wait several minutes for staff to arrive, which he presumed was because they were busy attending to someone else. Sometimes it was. Sometimes it was because he had to wait for someone to come in from outside where they were having another fag break. Such was not the case this evening, however. He soon heard footsteps approaching his room and the door being knocked, a rare courtesy that Samuel appreciated. Tracey and Val entered.
‘Evening Sam.’
‘Evening Sam, my precious!’
Samuel couldn’t see very well and had difficulty in distinguishing faces, but he recognised voices. Since moving into the home he had grown to prefer some carers above others. Tracey was one of his favourites. He felt safe with her.
‘Hello my dears! Are you still here, Tracey?’
‘I’m working a double shift today and then I’m off Friday and the weekend.’
‘Lovely, my dear.’
‘You ready to get into bed, then?’
Samuel was not a particularly big man, but even without his legs he was probably around the thirteen stone mark. A portable electric hoist that was kept on charge in the corridor was brought into the room. The two carers manoeuvred the red nylon sling behind his back and down around his thighs. The straps were clipped to the arms of the hoist and Val pressed the button.
‘Hold on tight!’
Sam held on tight. He was lifted up until he was out of his wheelchair and dangling in mid-air. He was then pushed over his bed and lowered on to it. The straps were detached and Sam was rolled to his left and then to his right to release the sling.
‘Lovely, my dears. Lovely. Thank you both very much.’
‘You’re welcome. Is that all, Sam?’
Tracey folded up the wheelchair and put it against the wall.
‘Yes, that’s all, my loves.’
‘Goodnight Sam!’
‘Goodnight!’
Sam’s diabetes had been diagnosed soon after his retirement at sixty-five from the Post Office. He was now eighty. Since his diagnosis he had lost both his legs below the knee. The loss of the first had been an especially traumatic event and one that he had struggled to come to terms with. He had been so active, walking the streets as a postman and playing bowls in his leisure time. The recent amputation of his other leg was less of a trauma in that Samuel could see history repeating itself. He was also becoming partially blind in his left eye. The problem with his feet had been due to worsening blood circulation which had led to a blackening of his toes and to gangrene setting in. This was not an uncommon problem for diabetic sufferers, as was the worsening of his sight.
Samuel understood that his sight was only going to get worse and that the longer he lived the greater were the chances of his going completely blind. May had been unable to cope with her husband’s second amputation, coupled with his increasing degree of blindness.
‘I think it’s for the best, really,’ she would tell the neighbours, their friends from the Dorchester Bowling Club and her fellow worshippers at Bethel Baptist Church. ‘I mean, he has all the attention he needs and they can keep an eye on him day and night. They do regular tests for his diabetes, so he’s in safe hands.’
Despite knowing it was for the best, May found the nights very lonely after so many years of marriage. Their companionship, the core of every marriage, had been removed.
Samuel had read the ninety-first psalm many times in his large print Bible. He knew it by heart. He found the psalms to be a great source of strength.
‘The best medicine of all!’ The old man closed his eyes.
‘He who dwells in the shelter of the Most High’ he whispered.
He let the words sink in. Samuel had for many years dwelt in the shelter of the Most High. This evening’s meditation was brought to a close with a prayer in which he thanked God for the care home and for carers like Tracey. He asked God to comfort May, now alone at home, and to bless Matthew in his work as a doctor in Kenya. He was hoping to see his son when he came home for a few weeks in the summer. He would probably see his wife the following day.
‘Amen’ whispered the old saint.