Caring for cathy, p.2
Caring for Cathy, page 2
“I’ll get Rose or Keith as well,” he said.
Desmond’s visits to Cathy, apart from being sparse, had settled into a routine. He avoided mealtimes, and thus the performance of sitting in the dining room, listening to Mark Demeter, and others. He showed some distaste at either feeding Cathy with a spoon himself, or watching her being fed by a carer. He usually came in the mid-afternoon, at afternoon tea time, and had a cup of tea with her in the sitting room. He was at least prepared to manage Cathy’s non-spill mug for her. Often, David joined them. Desmond liked having David there. He was somebody to talk to, who knew the practices at Denby Hall, and could help with the wheelchair.
After afternoon tea, Cathy would be taken away by a care assistant for a cigarette, and when she was returned David might play a tune on the piano, or the three of them would go to Cathy’s room and listen to a Freddie Mercury CD. Cathy always chose Freddie, and it was the high point of her day, judging by her smiles, and excitement.
Desmond was bored with playing the CDs and DVDs in Cathy’s room. He had long since given up buying new ones, because Cathy only wanted the old songs. He said to David that he had heard Queen’s greatest hits so often, that the sound tracks were scored into his brain. Cathy never got tired of Queen, and had their work played to her over and over again, through all her years at Denby Hall. Desmond tolerated these sessions, only rising occasionally from his chair. He would prowl around the room, looking in drawers, and the wardrobe, pulling out items of clothing, and examining them, studying the labels on the toilet articles in the shower cubicle, and reading old postcards he had seen more than once before.
On the day of Poppy’s appearance, Desmond arrived with a Mr Piper. The solicitor was dark suited, with a saturnine complexion, and a fat neck, choked in a shirt, with a club tie. David met them at the door. As they went through the lobby on their way to Cathy’s room, Mr Piper appeared to tip-toe, looking cautiously about himself at every step, turning his whole body rather than his head. Barney Colas, a long term inmate, accosted him, a hand on his arm.
“I know you,” Barney said, “you’re from Belize, aren’t you? Just over on business?”
Barney, dressed in an orange singlet, and khaki shorts, did not look as serious as he sounded.
Mr Piper, who was from Drummond’s Chambers, Beach Street, Brighton, veered away from Barney, and hurried up the stairs behind Desmond, without answering.
In a quiet way, Desmond managed the people he wanted present in Cathy’s room; David and Keith, one of the shift managers. Keith’s usual restless desire to be doing something, was stilled. The set of Desmond’s face, with his penetrating, almost black eyes, hawk nose and sallow skin, was one of sincerity. On Cathy’s dresser, the silver framed studio photograph of Desmond, with sleek black hair, which curled at the nape of his neck, looked out earnestly.
David decided he would say nothing about Poppy’s appearance, and clearly he could not disclose his own hand in the affair. He thought no further ahead than enabling Cathy and Poppy to meet in the next few days.
Mr Piper addressed them, unfolding a heavy, bluish piece of paper on a table, cleared and placed beside Cathy’s wheelchair.
“Mrs Marsden, I have drawn up your will in accordance with what I understand …”
“I gave you her instructions,” Desmond said.
“Mrs Marsden …?” Mr Piper said to Cathy.
Cathy was looking out of the window. The pigeons across the road were fluttering, and then sweeping across the skyline in ragged formations.
“Carry on, William,” Desmond said.
Mr Piper scowled, and looked at the document. “In this will you are leaving everything to your husband, and it differs from your previous will only in omitting your brother and sister as small beneficiaries.”
“Hardly been to see her. Amazing, isn’t it? Miserable …” Desmond said to David and Keith.
Mr Piper placed the document on, rather than in, Cathy’s hands, which were not receptive.
“Please read it.”
Cathy did not look at him. She did not even appear to be listening.
“Don’t bother with reading. It’s all right. She already knows,” Desmond said.
Mr Piper opened the will, and showed Cathy where to sign, but she looked the other way, and the will lay awkwardly, half folded beside her arm.
“She can’t hold a pen,” David said.
“That’s no problem,” Desmond said, genially. “Let me help you, my dear.”
Desmond reached over Cathy, trapping her small hand, and the pen, in his large one, and moved it quickly across the paper in a semblance of a signature. “There!”
“Excellent. Now, will the witnesses please sign, adding their occupation and address?” Mr Piper asked.
Keith went first. David was troubled by having to record his occupation. He looked uncertainly at Mr Piper.
“Just put clerk,” Mr Piper suggested.
“But he’s not a clerk,” Keith said.
“What is he, then?” Mr Piper asked, his neck quivering at this intervention.
“He’s unemployed,” Keith said.
“That’s not a very… that gives an unfortunate impression.”
“Nothing to be ashamed of in being unemployed, if you are,” Keith said.
“I’m a patient in a neurological disability home,” David said.
“That’s not an occupation,” Mr Piper said.
“It is for some people,” Keith said.
“ ‘Unwaged’ is better, or ‘job-seeker’,” Mr Piper said, with finality.
“Balls,” Keith said.
“Put ‘unemployed’, David,” Desmond intervened, soothingly.
Mr Piper expelled a loud sigh, and explained that the next document was a short deed in which Cathy gave to Desmond, here and now, all the money and other property she expected to get from her aunt, when her aunt died.
“Of course there are gift duty implications…” Mr Piper began.
“Let’s skip that,” Desmond said.
David already knew about this from Cathy. The aunt was a fragile old lady of ninety-five living in a residential home in Hove. When Cathy had been a student at Edinburgh University, a wealthy woman professor of sociology had taken a liking to her. Impressed by Cathy’s sporting prowess, as well as her studies, the professor had boasted that she would keep Cathy in tennis balls for the rest of her life. In fact, she died quite soon after this promise, leaving Cathy a small sum in cash. But the rest of the professor’s property, an estate in the Peak district, was left to Cathy’s aunt for her life. Only after the aunt’s death, would it come to Cathy. The aunt, at ninetyfive was now nearing the end of her span. The estate would soon come to Cathy. Cathy had told David that it was worth a lot of money, but she had no idea how much. She had only mentioned the bequest vaguely to Desmond when they married, because it had seemed so far in the future. Desmond had, however, become very concerned about it when Cathy moved to Denby Hall.
When Mr Piper asked Cathy to sign the second document which he had unfolded, she was equally unable to hold the pen. Desmond bent forward again, offering to help. He took Cathy’s hand, but she angrily swiped it aside. The pen, and the deed, were knocked on to the floor.
“My dear…”
“Arrrrgh!”
“My dear, this is something we discussed and planned. You know there’s no point in the money coming to you. If it does, it’ll end up in the pocket of the Chancellor of the Exchequer. Come what may, you’re going to be well looked after for the rest of your days.”
Cathy looked at him sourly.
“David, you have a try,” Desmond asked, picking up the pen and paper.
David tried to get Cathy’s hand, and the pen, over the document. Cathy did not resist, but the result was a few unrecognisable squiggles on the paper. Desmond tried once more, only to be angrily rejected. David made a second attempt, and produced more squiggles. Cathy sat in imperious silence throughout this performance.
Mr Piper picked up the deed and looked at it closely.
“I believe we have enough here to regard it as Mrs Marsden’s signature, albeit somewhat sketchily done!” he beamed.
Desmond turned to Keith and David, and spoke in emollient tones.
“I hope you’ll understand the difficulties we have in arranging Cathy’s affairs. Of course, all this has been fully discussed with her over quite a period.”
He asked Keith and David to sign again as witnesses.
Keith looked around with wide eyes, his mouth hanging open slackly, as he bent over the document, and said, “You’re sure this is all right?”
Desmond smiled feebly.
“Perfectly, my boy,” Mr Piper said.
3
In the afternoon, David went to the kitchens. He persuaded Sally, the cook, to supply scraps of meat, and a plastic bowl for water. He told her candidly that he wanted to feed a dog, and she didn’t mind. She had already had a glimpse of Poppy, and heard the story. Poppy’s arrival was like seeing a flight of geese, or a school of dolphins, or a wedding party. Everybody had brightened, and talked with each other about it.
“I’m not sure that beauty eats ordinary meat, unless it’s fillet steak cooked rare,” Sally said, “but I’ll give you something.”
She heaved a leg of beef out of the chiller, and cut off two thick red slabs. David wrapped them in a newspaper. He obtained another hour’s leave from Keith, and went outside. After he had wandered around the grounds, and along the nearby road, Poppy suddenly broke cover and bounded alongside him. He coaxed her back to a sheltered place behind the Hall’s garages. He fed her and put out the bowl, filled with water from the garden tap. Poppy ate hungrily, and drank all the water.
“I don’t know what I’m going to do about you, but stick around, and when the weather warms, maybe tomorrow, I’ll bring Cathy outside, and we can have a walk together,” he said to her.
David’s idea, that he would be able to spend time with Poppy and Cathy in the grounds, was not very well thought through. Poppy could not be expected to disappear and reappear conveniently, and temporarily. She now raced around him, bouncing and barking, celebrating her liberty. She fell in at his heels, and followed him. This was dangerous. He stopped out of sight of the windows of the Hall.
“You can’t go any further with me, or they’ll catch you, and tie you up again.”
The dog mewled in response, but continued alongside. With his deadline expiring, David patted her head. “I’ve got to go, but I’ll be back.”
The door was opened by Maggie, David’s key worker – the person who kept an eye on his particular case – thin as a match under her blue workshirt.
“Hey, David. Greyfriars Bawbee is still around!”
Maggie had a wicked look that said, ‘Shall we let her inside?’ And she might have done so, until Mark Demeter appeared from the hall.
“Achtung! Herr Oberlieutenant approaches,” he said, and Maggie shut the door.
Helmut, the proprietor of Denby Hall, came into the lobby. Helmut halted and watched. The dog squatted on the porch, head on one side, questioningly. David decided to get Cathy. He rescued her from the smoking room, and pushed her into the lobby. Poppy was still sitting. She yelped, and pawed the tiles at the sight of Cathy. Cathy’s face rippled with suppressed or inexpressible emotion, but other than a throaty sound, she was quiet.
Helmut saw Cathy’s reaction. He patted Cathy’s shoulder.
“Vee can’t let her inside,” he said, regretfully.
He had obviously heard about Poppy’s earlier visit, and David thought that Helmut, who was regarded as a kind of guru, as well as the boss, was an essential part of any plan to enable Cathy to see Poppy regularly.
Helmut Schniewind was universally known, and addressed as Helmut, by residents, staff, health officials, and everybody else who came into contact with Denby Hall. Most residents had no idea of his last name. Some of the more savvy ones sometimes imitated his German accent, as Mark Demeter had attempted. David did not know whether the use of his first name was an act of friendliness, or because ‘Mr Schniewind’ sounded rather ugly. Perhaps it was both. David thought Helmut would have liked to be Dr Schniewind, but he wasn’t a doctor of medicine, even though he looked and acted like one. He had a card on a chain around his neck, and a complicated looking mobile phone in his pocket. He was, however, closely involved in the therapeutic work. It was because Helmut was often hovering over the residents’ treatments, that David drew this conclusion about an unfulfilled wish to be a doctor. Helmut didn’t know all the residents personally, as Rose, and Keith and Ian the other shift manager, did – Helmut had another neuro-disability home in Kent to look after – but he was often amongst them, talking with residents, and listening to staff.
Helmut was in his late forties. His complexion was stained and lined like a tobacco leaf. His eyes often resolved to narrow slits, which gave him a good-humoured look. His manner was quiet. He had thin, slicked back grey hair and he dressed in off-whites, fawns and beiges. His jackets – he always wore a jacket and tie – fitted his slim figure well; he had a silk handkerchief in his breast pocket, and he wore soft moccasins. Helmut looked dashing most of the time, but occasionally, if he was overcome by a problem, his elegant clothes seemed drab and faded.
What was remarkable to David, and his friends amongst the more able-minded inmates, was that Helmut had enthused the staff, in a way which enabled them, at most times, to pass through the barrier that surrounded the disabled, and cut them off from people ‘out there’. Training was too mundane a word to describe the gift Helmut had bestowed on the staff. He had imbued them with the ability to move across the chasm between the universe of those who are fit and well, and the many universes of the disabled. David could see the staff making this flight many times each day and night, back and forth. He knew how difficult the journey was, from his talks with Caroline and his father. Inevitably, there were times when the staff were confused about which universe they were in. The logic and sense which guided Denby Hall was not always that which applied outside its doors.
David, when he was standing in the grounds, and reading the noticeboard which advertised a ‘Home for mostly mobile patients with neurological disabilities,’ could see that from the outside, Denby Hall appeared to be a place of sadness and misfortune. Inside, under Helmut’s influence, the atmosphere was light-hearted, one of amused tolerance. Beside the usual schedule of therapeutic classes, there were lots of meetings, talks, concerts, parties, singing and even dancing, which included those who were wheelchair-bound.
The décor of the Hall was faded, the wallpaper scuffed, the carpets worn and stained, and the rickety furniture seemed to have been assembled from a flat-pack by somebody who had lost a few critical screws. But there were vases of fresh flowers, pots of green plants, and bright pictures painted by the residents on the walls. Denby Hall was suffused by a culture of acceptance of what happened in the moment, which warmed David, and all the other residents. Helmut was acknowledged as the author of this. The ethos of Denby Hall emanated from him.
While they were staring at the dog, Keith came dashing through the lobby muttering to himself, and saw Poppy outside.
“Dammit, the beast is back!”
He diverted his course, headed for the door, and keyed in the combination of numbers for the lock. He let himself out, disregarding the rain, which quickly soaked his blue check uniform shirt once he was beyond the porch. Poppy was wary of him now and ran off a few yards, before turning to watch him. Poppy retreated as Keith advanced, until they were both out of sight of the windows.
Helmut turned away, to go back to his room. “Iss a beautiful animal,” he said to Cathy and David, “but vee have to send it away.”
David had decided as he watched, that he had to do something more about Poppy. It was not satisfactory that the dog should be returned to Desmond, and the book closed. He was irritated at his own inability to work out what to do. He pushed Cathy’s wheelchair into the games room. It was empty because the residents were mostly in classes, painting, modelling, listening to music, or receiving different treatments, and therapies. Cathy could not now follow this schedule of events even passively. Her disease made her disruptive at times. Her suspension from the daily schedule also signalled the possibility that she could be sent away from Denby Hall. It was a deep worry of hers which she had communicated to David. He was a different case, free to attend, or develop his own pursuits.
“Do you want me to try to keep Poppy here so that you can see her?” David asked her.
Cathy assented strongly to this, her chest heaving. “Mmmmmmmh!”
David thought that he was probably undertaking a task he could not complete, and really had no clear idea how to perform. He simply felt impelled to do it if he could.
David had never thought about the implications of keeping pets in a care home for people with neurological problems. Rose was probably right about having a dog indoors, but he thought it might be possible to keep Poppy in the grounds of Denby Hall. All that was necessary was a kennel, and arrangements for regular dog-food and water. Or, if Poppy was lodged at the local kennels, it might be possible for him to bring her to see Cathy. But lodging at the kennels would cost money, and other than a small sum of pocket money, he had nothing.
Later in the day, David managed to get Keith’s attention. Keith was usually tensely preoccupied with several tasks at once. He would give orders, all at the same time, to different members of staff, break off to counsel a resident, or talk on a mobile phone. He rushed from one fuss in the Hall to another. But he was always jovial, bantering as he moved, and he could be halted. Keith knew every resident by first name, and remembered a lot of personal things about each one of them. David stopped dead in front of Keith in the corridor, blocking his path.
“What’s the trouble, David?” he asked, his eyes and mouth wide open in his long, vertically lined face.
Keith had a way of concentrating on a resident expectantly. It was slightly unnerving, but meant kindly. A resident could certainly get a hearing, but Keith was a hard man to fool.
