Cath Staincliffe - Go Not Gently

‘There’s a limit to what I can do.’ I put my cup down. ‘One or two visits to Kingsfield, see Lily, perhaps find a friendly staff member to ask about her case. Try to establish what happened the night she was transferred and whether Goulden had failed to see she was getting worse. Even if we could prove that and made an official complaint there’s no guarantee anything would come of it. Did you talk to Charles about getting a second opinion?’

‘He said he’d consider it. I think he thought I was overreacting. Charles doesn’t like to rock the boat.’

‘Well, now she’s at the hospital she will be seeing a different doctor. It might be better for her.’

‘Yes,’ she nodded. ‘Can you go tomorrow?’

‘Yes. With you?’

‘I can’t,’ she began to load the tray, ‘I’ve a funeral in the morning.’

‘How about the afternoon?’

‘The chiropodist.’

I was surprised that she wouldn’t be rearranging the routine appointment to visit her friend. She seemed a little ashamed too, refused to meet my eye as she busied herself with the tea things. Maybe she’d waited months for the chiropodist to come; perhaps she’d drop to the bottom of the list if she cancelled.

‘All right. So I just turn up.’

‘They call it the Marion Unit. If you could take some things for her. I’ve sorted out the essentials for now, things she might need immediately. There’s a bag in the hall.’

‘OK. So, I’ll go along tomorrow. We can always visit together after that and I’ll see if I can arrange for us to meet the consultant.’

‘Yes,’ she said, without much enthusiasm. Dr Goulden’s tantrum had probably put her off the profession altogether.

I had a swim at lunchtime, followed by a disappointing shower. Cold. More of a dribble than a shower really. There was lots of talk about what super new facilities hosting the Commonwealth Games would bring to the region but as far as I could remember the pools were to be somewhere over in Wigan and I doubted whether the showers at Withington Baths were even on the list of works. People said the Games would bring jobs and investment – it sounded great but how come we’d been the only city actually to bid for them? Was there something that they weren’t telling us? Agnes’ news had clouded my day and my cynicism was showing.

Kingsfield was originally built on the outskirts of the city, far enough away to protect the citizens from the ‘lunatics’ in the asylum. Since then the city had grown and now the hospital and its grounds nestled between a private housing development and an industrial estate.

It was a vast Victorian edifice, all redbrick pomp, three storeys high with wings at either end. On top of the central entrance a small bell tower rose. The gardens to the front were mainly converted to parking, and signs pointed the way to the Plasma Research Centre, Service Supplies, Speech Therapy, Artificial Limb Centre and the Marion Unit (psycho geriatric).

I went through the main entrance, which was all green and black tiles and tasteful indoor plant features, and was directed down the main corridor for some way. It was huge, the size of any major infirmary. In its heyday it must have housed hundreds of people. Where had they all gone? Being cared for in the community, or not, if one believed half of the reports being issued.

I was directed along a corridor to the right and then out and across a courtyard. The gardening budget had obviously been cut. Untended beds and containers sprouted dead grass and frost-hardy weeds.

The Marion Unit was a modern, two-storey concrete rectangle with a large grey metal triangle leaping upwards from the flat roof. As if the architect had tried to redeem the utter lack of imagination by plonking a concept on top.

Inside and immediately opposite the heavy glass entrance doors there was a reception area with a glass booth and a small office. Three women, one in uniform, were chatting there. I approached and the huddle broke up. A woman in a smart grey wool dress, her name badge identifying her as Mrs Li, greeted me.

I asked if I could visit Lily Palmer and explained she’d been admitted on Monday night. She told me to take a seat for a moment.

She went into the office and used the phone. I sat in the waiting area. Some attempt had been made to make it comfortable. The seats were padded foam, there were a couple of inoffensive prints on the wall and a large drinks machine. There were magazines on the table here too along with leaflets about the Alzheimer’s Disease Society, ‘Caring for an Elderly Person’ and ‘How to Stay Warm in Winter’.

After a couple of minutes a young nurse appeared from one of the doors to the waiting room and took me through to the dayroom. It was large and brightly lit, with a television at the far end. Low tables and chairs were clustered here and there, as well as a couple of ordinary ones with cards and dominoes on them.

There were quite a lot of people in the room. Some sat quietly, withdrawn, others muttered or sang to themselves. One man was shouting. The room stank of potpourri and there was a stale, sour smell that it couldn’t quite mask.

I followed the nurse briskly through the lounge to the corridor at the bottom. I glanced into the rooms as we passed by. Most seemed to have four beds in. Some beds were occupied.

‘How’s she been?’ I asked the nurse.

‘Fine,’ she spoke with an Irish accent, ‘just fine. There’s a lot they can do with the medication. She’s a bit sleepy with it but a lot calmer.’

‘Who decides on the treatment?’

‘Dr Montgomery, he’s the consultant. Have you not seen him yet?’

‘No.’

She paused outside one of the doors, knocked, then without waiting for a reply she opened the door and we went in.

Lily sat in a chair next to her bed, eyes half-shut. She wore a hospital-issue nightgown and a blanket round her knees.

‘I’ve brought her some things of her own.’ I turned to the nurse, uncertain whether Lily could hear me.

‘They can go in the locker. They might go walking. Some of them lose track, they’ve no sense of personal possessions. There’s nothing valuable, is there?’ I shook my head. ‘Do you hear that, Lily?’ The nurse raised her voice. ‘Here’s someone to see you. They’ve brought your things. You can put them in your locker.’

Lily opened her eyes but they remained unfocused.

‘I’ll leave you then,’ said the nurse. ‘I’ll be in the dayroom if you’re needing anything.’

I pulled up a second chair and sat down. ‘Hello, Lily. Agnes asked me to bring these for you.’ There was no response. She gazed across the room, her glasses smeared and speckled with dirt. I placed the bag on her lap. She never moved. She didn’t seem to be aware of it let alone the fact that I was there. I felt foolish. When she got up the bag would fall on the floor, she could trip over it and hurt herself.

‘Shall I put it in your locker?’ I reached over and put my hand on the bag. Swiftly Lily brought her hand up and gripped my wrist.

‘Agnes won’t come,’ she said urgently.

‘She couldn’t,’ I replied, ‘not today. She had a funeral to go to and an appointment.

‘Won’t come,’ she repeated. ‘Kingsfield. Nora came.’ She let go of my wrist suddenly so I almost overbalanced. I sat down again.

‘I’m sure Agnes will come as soon as she can,’ I said, ‘and I’ll tell her Nora’s been. Agnes is worried about you. She wants to know if you’re all right. Is there anything you need?’

She closed her eyes. I sat waiting for her to open them but she’d gone to sleep. I took the bag and placed it on top of the locker.

In the dayroom the man was still shouting and the Irish nurse was joking with a group of residents. I found the sister in charge, Sister Darling. I told her I wanted to talk to the consultant about Lily. Was I next of kin? A close relative? No. She apologised but Dr Montgomery could only see next of kin.