Cath Staincliffe - Go Not Gently

‘Hello, it’s Jean Brown here from Social Services. I’m just checking on current clinic arrangements between general practitioners and local nursing and residential care homes for the elderly. Now I’ve got Dr Goulden down for Homelea – does he still run a clinic there?’

‘Yes,’ she replied, ‘and he does Aspen Lodge as well.’

‘Oh, yes! Over the page! Thanks for your help.’

Aspen Lodge was in the phone book. This time I was Monica Saunders researching transfers to the Marion Unit for the Health Commission.

‘We’re doing an audit now to assess the current attainment targets and the efficiency of the Unit. I need the details of any transfers over the last twelve months.’

‘Hang on,’ said the woman at the other end, ‘I’ll have to check the card index.’

‘Would you like me to ring back?’ I was keen to sound plausible.

‘No, it shouldn’t take long.’ She put the phone down and I could hear the flick of cards and the sound of a radio in the background.

‘Hello? We’ve had four in the last twelve months – since March. Do you want the names?’

‘Yes, please,’ oh yes, please, ‘and dates of birth. Then I can crosscheck with our records.’

‘Mrs Rose Mary Connelly – fourth of the ninth, 1914. Miss Margaret Anne Underwood – eleventh of the sixth, 1905. Mr Philip Braithwaite – sixteenth of the first, 1903, and Mrs Winifred Saltzer – twenty-third of the tenth, 1916.’

‘And have they remained at Kingsfield?’

‘You’d have to check with the hospital. None of them came back here.’

‘Thank you.’

Would Homelea be as forthcoming? Not if I got the icy Mrs Knight. I steeled myself. I got her. I did my spiel and waited.

‘Where did you say you were from?’

‘Resources, research, monitoring and management – we come under the Health Commission administration. We were only established this year so you may not have heard of us before. I can leave my number if you’d prefer to ring us back with the information.’

‘Yes.’

I sat watching the phone repeating my alias over and over to myself. I let it trill twice before picking it up.

‘Resources, research, Monica Saunders speaking.’

‘Sorry,’ mumbled a voice at the other end, ‘wrong number.’

‘Who is it?’ I yelped.

‘Is that Sal?’

‘Yes.’

‘It’s Diane. What are you playing at?’

‘Work. Look, can I ring you back? I’m waiting for a call.’

‘Oh, go on then.’

As soon as I replaced the handset it went again. I picked it up and said my bit.

‘It’s Homelea here,’ said Mrs Knight. ‘We’ve had two transfers to Kingsfield this year.’

‘Can I check the names and dates of birth with you? I’ve only got a Mrs Palmer listed and that was very recent.’

‘The other was Mr Ernest Theakston.’

‘Now, we’ve not got him down for some reason. I’ll have to check the records again. What’s the date of birth?’

‘Second of the twelfth, 1922.’

‘Thank you for your help. Goodbye.’

Six patients transferred to Kingsfield in the last year, from just two homes. Homes with the same GP. And the Marion Unit wouldn’t have a large number of beds. Apart from Saltzer, they were all common names, not that easy to track down. I checked the phone book. There was a Saltzer in Gorton and one in Chorlton. I tried the Gorton number first, they’d never heard of Winifred. But the man in Chorlton had. He was her widower.

‘She passed away in October,’ he said. ‘Who is this?’

I didn’t want to lie but I couldn’t tell him the bald truth.

‘My name’s Palmer, Sal Palmer. My great-aunt has gone into Kingsfield – she was at Aspen Lodge for a while. My grandmother is beside herself with worry. I thought it might help if I talked to relatives of other patients – then I could tell Grandma what people thought of the care there. She’s talking about going private, you see, but we really can’t afford it.’

He didn’t ask how I’d got his number or anything. ‘Well, we’d no problem with the setup there. They did all they could, lovely staff. But…I don’t know…what happened to Winnie, it’s not going to be that reassuring for your grandmother, is it? She had Alzheimer’s, you see, and there’s no treatment yet. Mr Simcock, he’s the neurosurgeon at the Infirmary, he was very good as well. She went there for a scan, you know; they can see exactly what’s going on. But there was nothing they could do for her really. It’s a terrible thing.’

‘I am sorry. Had she been at Aspen Lodge for a long time?’

‘Three years. I couldn’t manage her at home. I’ve angina myself and she was wandering a lot. She settled in all right. It was a lovely home – well, you’ll know yourself. Then she started getting very agitated, last summer. She became very confused, she wouldn’t eat. She didn’t know who I was any more, couldn’t remember her own name from one minute to the next. Dr Goulden thought she’d be better off at the Marion Unit. Like I said, they really did their best for her. She was in there just two months before she died.’

I thanked him for talking to me.

There were some similarities in the path that both Winifred Saltzer and Lily Palmer had taken, although from the sound of it Winifred had been ill for several years before going to Kingsfield – nothing like the sudden deterioration that Lily had undergone.

Mr Saltzer’s willingness to help prompted me to try contacting relatives of some of the other patients. I thumbed the phone book and started by calling the names listed as living in South Manchester. I spent an intensive hour on the phone. My luck held. It was one of those days when everyone was in and happy to talk. I was flying. Some days I get nothing but answerphones or people being cagey, obstructive, stroppy.

I’ve always wondered what determines the pattern – me or them.

I crowed as I put down the phone after the last call. Did a little dance round the office. I’d found everyone bar Ernest Theakston.

The information I’d assembled didn’t tell me anything earth-shattering but there were some interesting facts.

Of the six patients transferred by Goulden to the Marion Unit at Kingsfield three suffered a slow decline and were moved there not long before the disease killed them. Ernest Theakston was an unknown and the other two people – Lily Palmer and Philip Braithwaite – had become ill more rapidly. Mr Braithwaite had not only had dementia but a scan had revealed a brain tumour. A biopsy had been done at the MRI but Mr Simcock felt it was too late to operate.

‘He was on tablets,’ his daughter had said, ‘to try and calm him down but there wasn’t anything else they could do for him.’ As it was the tumour hadn’t killed Mr Braithwaite: he’d caught flu while in hospital and died there.

Was Ernest Theakston dead too? It wouldn’t be unexpected. These were elderly, often frail patients, so ill that they could no longer be nursed at Aspen Lodge or Homelea.

Time for school pick-up. I still needed to ring Diane back, I wanted to give Moira a nudge over the tablets and I hadn’t done anything yet to find out more about any links between Goulden and Simcock. I didn’t get a chance to do anything until after six o’clock. The kids were both in needy mode. Tom had developed a cold, which gave him a pair of permanent green nose-candles and an uncharacteristic tendency to whine. Maddie couldn’t bear the diversion of attention and promptly came up with tummy ache and a sore ear. I dispensed drinks and toast and honey and proceeded to read stories to them – the only activity they’d both go along with.

At half-five we had beans on toast and when Ray came in I asked him to take over. He loaded Snow White into the video.