Cath Staincliffe: Go Not Gently

‘Dr Goulden. He holds a regular surgery here every week. Mrs Palmer transferred when she moved in.’

‘So we could ask him about this?’ I ventured.

‘By all means. But Dr Goulden is only going to repeat what I’ve already told you.’ Her voice was icy.

‘Do you have his number?’

‘Certainly.’ She gave me it then rose from her chair. The interview was over. Then she made an effort to redeem the atmosphere. ‘I hope he’ll be able to set your minds at ease. We do feel it’s important that friends and relatives have all the information they can about each individual care plan here.’ Still no smile, though. It was unnerving. A missing bit of body language that made it feel that the whole conversation was askew. Well, the exchange had hardly been harmonious. Medical types sure don’t like their judgement questioning.

Agnes wanted to sit with Lily for a while so we returned to the TV lounge. Lily didn’t resist when Agnes sat beside her and took her hand. They were like that for ten minutes or more. Lily staring at the box, Agnes, her eyes cast down, looking up at her friend every now and then.

Lily was small, her feet barely reached the floor. Her neck craned forward and the top of her spine was curved with age. She had steel-grey hair, tightly permed. Her face was round, crosshatched with fine lines. A pair of modern glasses with pink and cream frames rested on her small nose. A trickle of saliva edged its way down from the side of her mouth. Agnes wiped it away with her hanky. Lily didn’t notice.

I pretended to watch a feature on how to cook borsch.

Agnes stood up and said goodbye, told Lily she’d come again tomorrow, bent forward and kissed her cheek. No reaction.

We were halfway back to Agnes’ house before she broke the silence. There were tears in her voice, and determination. ‘I want you to see that doctor, talk to him about the diagnosis. I wasn’t at all satisfied with that woman’s explanation. She hardly gave much consideration to concerns.’

‘Made up her mind already,’ I said. ‘People like that don’t believe in uncertainties. She’d never admit they were wrong, I bet. Too much at stake. She was frosty, though, wasn’t she? Did you notice she never smiled, not once?’

‘It’s all happened so quickly,’ said Agnes, ‘that’s what I was trying to tell her. Lily got ill suddenly, not progressively, and today she’s much worse.’

‘You’ve never seen her like that before?’ I asked.

‘No. She’s always known me, known…’ she shook her head, grappling for words to explain, ‘known herself, even if she’s been quiet or distressed. I’m so worried.’ She broke off.

I pulled up outside her house and turned the engine off. It ticked as the metal cooled.

‘I want to see that doctor and I’d like you to be there. Sometimes people are a little dismissive because of my age. I realise you’ll want a fee and I’ll be happy to pay for your time. And I’ll ring Charles, Lily’s son. He should know. I’m sure he’d want to.’

‘Is he close to his mother?’

‘Not really. I think he functions on guilt. He sends money. He’s a very busy man.’ There was a bitter edge to her voice. ‘I must sound harsh. It just seems so unfair. Still, I shall talk to him.’

‘It might be worth contacting Lily’s former GP as well,’ I suggested. ‘The doctor I talked to said to get the whole physical history, find out the order in which things happened.’

‘Well, that’s Dr Chattaway. He’s my doctor, too. I’m sure he’ll help if he can.’

‘I’ll try and make an appointment with Dr Goulden first,’ I said. ‘Are there any days that are bad for you, any regular appointments?’

‘Nothing I can’t break.’ She smiled. ‘So you don’t think I’m being silly, wanting to know more?’

‘No, not in the least. In the end we might find that Goulden’s diagnosis is right but there’s enough doubt in my mind to ask a few more questions.’

Agnes nodded. ‘Thank you. I’d never forgive myself if there was anything…’ She sucked in a breath and let it go, unbuckled her seat belt. I got out and opened the door for her.

‘I’ll ring as soon as I’ve fixed a time.’ I waited until she’d opened the front door before turning the ignition. She waved and I drove off. It was twelve thirty, I was ravenous and a Greek feast awaited.

Rachel, my social worker contact, was one of life’s great prattlers. She burbled on over stuffed vine leaves and tzatziki, vegetarian moussaka and kebabs. I’d never worked out whether she did this to her clients as well or whether behind closed doors a listener emerged – mouth shut and all ears.

We were sipping strong coffee from dinky cups before she asked me about the case. I sketched it in for her without giving away anything that would break confidentiality.

‘Check it out with the doctor,’ she agreed. ‘But there could well be a lot of denial going on, you know, from the friend. Alzheimer’s is the new scare, worse than cancer. People are very frightened. It’s understandable – you have to watch someone lose their identity, their personality. How do you keep loving someone who’s not there any more?’

‘She’s no fool, the friend,’ I defended Agnes.

‘I’m not saying she is. You could always get a second opinion – ask her old GP to come and see her or get a referral to a consultant.’ Rachel fished a sugar cube out of the bowl on her spoon.

I nodded. ‘What about her social worker?’

‘How do you mean?’

‘I think there was a social worker involved with the move. Would they have made reports on the woman at the time, her state of mind and so on?’

‘Oh, yes.’ She lowered the spoon into the tiny cup, the sugar cube turned brown. ‘There’d be case notes. Probably just the standard things, a general outline of the case, assessment of needs. But from what you’ve said the social worker might only have seen her once. She’s not at risk. I wouldn’t rely too much on finding anything very illuminating there.’ She tipped the coffee-soaked cube into her mouth and sucked.

‘Wouldn’t they do any follow-up?’

‘No need. The home’s registered, they take responsibility for her care. Which one is it?’

I hesitated.

‘It’s all right,’ Rachel laughed at my caution, ‘I can keep a secret. It’s just that there’s a couple of places have got a bad name for themselves.’

‘Homelea, on Wilbraham Road.’

She shook her head. ‘Nope. Did it look OK?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Smell all right?’

‘What?’

‘It’s a good indicator. If it stinks of piss or even boiled cabbage you know they’re not doing all that they can.’

‘No, it was fine, nice. People looked busy, you know. Well, apart from the TV lounge.’

Rachel laughed. ‘There’s always a TV lounge. Mind you, we’ve all got them, haven’t we? Just looks different if you’ve a dozen people sat in high-backed chairs watching it.’

I asked Rachel a few more questions about the role of Social Services in the care of older people. She told me that in the situation I’d described it would be peripheral. My research complete I sat back and listened while Rachel chuntered on and sucked sugar cubes.

I paid the bill wondering whether it hadn’t been a rather pricey way of finding out virtually nothing. On the other hand I had enjoyed my time with Rachel. She was lively company, and when you work alone it’s fun to have lunch out. Later, though I didn’t know it then, her help was going to be invaluable. In a totally unexpected way.

There was a van parked outside the Dobsons’, a white Transit with the words ‘Swift Deliveries – Swinton’ emblazoned in vivid red along the side and an arrow in flight underlining the message. A man sat in the front seat, reading a tabloid and smoking. He flicked his eyes from the paper to me as I turned to walk up the drive. A black guy with a serious haircut. A precisely honed wedge.