The notekeeper, p.3
The Notekeeper, page 3
‘I’m not an invalid yet, dear.’ Mrs Harper’s smooth, firm voice rang out across the corridor as Zoe neared them. ‘Please don’t treat me like one.’
‘I’m only trying to help,’ Mr Harper pleaded. ‘I’m doing this for you.’
‘No, Simon,’ Mrs Harper cut in sharply. ‘You’re doing this for yourself. Don’t rewrite history by pretending otherwise.’
Zoe smiled in welcome, keen to dispel the altercation.
‘Mrs Harper, Mr Harper,’ she said, extending her right hand for each of them to shake. ‘It’s a pleasure to welcome you. I’m Zoe, one of the nurses who will be looking after you today.’
The older woman turned to Zoe and offered her a smile that didn’t reach her pale grey eyes. ‘Thank you, dear. I too would like to say it’s a pleasure but honestly, who wants to end up in a hospice at the end of their life?’
Zoe choked back a giggle as the woman gazed around the hospice in distaste, her eyes lingering on the magnolia walls, which were in dire need of repainting. She secretly enjoyed the more outspoken patients; they made life more interesting.
‘Mother, please,’ Mr Harper said again, and Zoe guessed he had heard this argument before.
Mrs Harper raised her hands in surrender. ‘Fine, I’m only joking. It’s just a day. I’m sure Zoe and I will get along famously.’
Recognising that was her cue to smile reassuringly, Zoe lifted the corners of her mouth and turned to her new boss. ‘Of course we will. Mrs Harper, let me show you around.’
A look of relief passed across Mr Harper’s face. ‘I’ll pick you up later, Mother.’
He bent down to kiss his mother’s cheek, then walked swiftly along the corridor.
Mrs Harper let out a sigh. ‘I know he means well, but since my diagnosis he’s fussed around me like an old woman. I swear it’s one of the reasons he wanted to buy this place.’
Zoe walked around to the back of the wheelchair and breathed in a cloud of Chanel No. 5. Mrs Harper clearly still had her pride, Zoe thought, as she pushed her latest charge towards the day room.
‘Why would that make him want to buy the hospice?’ the nurse asked.
‘Because before it was a hospice it was also my family home,’ the older woman said with a touch of vehemence. ‘The thing my son has conveniently forgotten, however, is the fact I hated it here.’ She turned around to look Zoe as they entered the brightly lit room filled with patients talking, reading and playing cards. ‘This was the dining room. My mother used to host fabulous parties, only for my father to get drunk and make a fool of himself. They were not happy times. I left as soon as I could.’
Pushing the wheelchair towards the window, Zoe patted Mrs Harper on the shoulder and made her a cup of tea from the urn on the other side of the room. Pressing it into the older woman’s hands, Zoe sat on the chair opposite. ‘Why did your son want you here then, as you begin your final journey?’
Mrs Harper rolled her eyes as she set the cup on the wooden coffee table that stood between them. ‘Because he thinks that by bringing me here it will be like coming home. He doesn’t remember how I rarely brought him here to see his grandparents. And when I did I was always keen to rush off.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Zoe said. ‘Do you want me to talk to him?’
Another snort of laugher escaped Mrs Harper’s lips. ‘My son, listen to someone else? I don’t think so, dear, though it’s kind of you to offer. Do you have children?’
Zoe was about to shake her head as she always did but something in Mrs Harper’s manner made her want to tell the truth.
‘Yes, a boy.’
‘Well, if you want my advice, don’t let them grow up,’ Mrs Harper said sagely. ‘It’s when they grow up they become men you barely recognise.’
Mrs Harper turned her bright eyes towards the window and Zoe tried to steady herself. She took a deep breath, her heartbeat racing as she did her best to force the image of Sean from her mind. She couldn’t allow her past to take over her work. Her job was the only thing that kept her going.
With so much to do, she passed the care of Mrs Harper on to Miles for the rest of the day and by the time her shift finished at six o’clock, she was more than ready to call it a day. Walking out of the hospice doors, she rounded the corner of the grounds. Once she was sure she was out of sight, she leaned against one of the large oak trees and groaned loudly.
‘Sounds like your day was almost as bad as mine,’ came a deep voice.
She jumped at the sound, feeling annoyed and embarrassed at being caught out in a private moment. Peering around the tree, she caught sight of a tall, dark-skinned man, dressed in a grey suit with a tie hanging loosely around his neck. As he leaned against the trunk, legs crossed at the ankle, she saw he was smoking what looked like a very expensive cigar.
‘You can’t smoke that here,’ she snapped.
‘Why?’ the man said, pursing his lips into a large ‘O’ and blowing a perfect smoke ring. ‘Last time I checked you could smoke outside.’
‘Yes, but this is a hospice,’ Zoe hissed, making a point of waving the smoke away from her face. ‘It’s not right.’
‘Why? Because everyone’s dying?’ The man laughed, his smile reaching his brown eyes. ‘I don’t think it will make a difference.’
‘No, because it’s disrespectful,’ Zoe countered.
She hated this argument. Sometimes visitors to The Oaks brought in whisky, wine and even on occasion drugs for their loved ones to help ease their final moments, all because ‘it hardly mattered any more’. It was an attitude Zoe struggled to understand. It wasn’t that the drugs and booze were going to kill them; it was a matter of respect. She offered the man her best scowl, and Zoe felt a flash of pleasure as he threw the cigar to the ground, then stubbed it out with his foot.
‘You’re right, sorry,’ he said, his face contrite. ‘Tough day.’
‘Yeah, me too.’
‘I take it you mean as a nurse rather than a resident?’ the man said, gesturing towards her scrubs.
‘What gave it away?’ she said in a sarcastic tone, her feathers still ruffled from their exchange.
‘Are you in charge then?’ he asked.
She shook her head, feeling impatient. She was tired and wanted to go home for a glass of wine. ‘No.’
‘You sure?’ the man said, raising an eyebrow. ‘You seem naffed off and the way you had a go at me for smoking definitely had a whiff of bossiness about it.’
‘I hardly had a go at you,’ Zoe countered. ‘I just asked you to stop smoking on hospice grounds. Who am I to stop you killing yourself?’
‘Quite.’ The man grinned. ‘Even though that cigar was a one-off, you wouldn’t mind if I lit up another one in a few minutes?’
‘Anything you do out there,’ Zoe said, jerking her head towards the road, ‘I couldn’t give a monkey’s about.’
‘You must be a hit with the patients,’ the man said with a smirk. ‘Your bedside manner’s a charm.’
Rolling her eyes, Zoe stuffed her hands in her pockets and walked towards the car park. She was in no mood.
‘Not even going to say goodbye?’ he called as she walked away.
Zoe swallowed her feelings of annoyance and as she reached the car, almost threw herself inside. Today had started badly and only got worse following her conversation with Mrs Harper. Resting her head against the steering wheel, she closed her eyes and finally allowed herself to think about her son. Images of him building sandcastles on the beach, grinning whenever he watched Toy Story and sleeping, safe and sound in his bed, flooded her mind like a movie on fast forward. It was then Zoe gave in to the threat of tears that had been brewing since she woke. The only saving grace was that the smoking man wasn’t around to see it.
Chapter Five
Arriving at work the following morning, Zoe stole past the nurses’ desk, eager to avoid interruption. There was something she wanted to do before she officially clocked on.
Padding towards Arthur’s room, she gently pushed open the door and saw he was lying in bed, gently snoring, his wife Audrey asleep in the chair beside him. Zoe looked closely at the couple and saw Arthur had his fingers wrapped tightly around Audrey’s. Despite all his bluster, it was clear Arthur adored his wife.
Taking care not to disturb the sleeping couple, Zoe moved Arthur’s water pitcher and set the two envelopes down on the bedside table. For Arthur she had chosen one of her favourite seascapes, with a few words inside, thanking him for the joy he always brought to her day. Her letter for Audrey had been written on a sheet of hand-dyed pale blue notepaper. She had bought it from a craft shop. The moment Zoe saw the silver shooting star embossed on top of the page, she knew it was perfect for someone needing a kind word to get through the day.
With the notes safely delivered, Zoe returned to the nurses’ desk and saw Indira perched on a chair, her eyes glued to Instagram.
‘What are you doing here?’ Zoe said.
Indira looked up and smiled. ‘Ben asked me to try and bring our Instagram account up to date. I’ve been uploading pictures, ready to capture any appropriate moments as we get rooms ready for new admissions.’
Zoe frowned as she peered over Indira’s shoulder. ‘I didn’t know we were taking in any new patients today.’
‘Couple of transfers from St Mary’s,’ Indira replied. ‘They were day patients but Ben has arranged for them to come here. Oh, and Mrs Kennington died last night.’
‘Oh no.’ Zoe set her rucksack on the floor. ‘Did she get her affairs in order?’
‘If you mean did anyone take her last words down, the answer is no,’ Indira said with an eye-roll.
Zoe bit back a feeling of irritation. Mrs Kennington had only been admitted yesterday and she had been so busy dealing with Mrs Harper and getting everything ready for Ben, she hadn’t had time to talk to her about any last words or even write a welcome card.
‘Look, don’t worry, she had a good end,’ Indira said kindly, seeing Zoe’s expression. ‘She went very peacefully and her daughter was with her.’
‘Oh, that’s good,’ Zoe said with a sigh. ‘I wish I’d had a chance to welcome her at least, though.’
‘You can’t do everything.’
‘No, but I hope now we have a new boss I might be free of paperwork.’
Indira said nothing as she looked out across the hospice. Zoe followed her gaze. As usual at seven in the morning, the place was busy with doctors making rounds, patients sitting up in bed, hanging on their every word. Others were in the day room, clinging to old routines like listening to breakfast radio, reading the newspaper or scrolling through their phones. It all seemed very much business as usual. Yet there was a man in the corner wearing the same navy scrubs as hers that Zoe didn’t recognise.
‘Who’s that talking to Mrs Taylor?’ she asked, as the man let out a belly laugh that reverberated across the day room.
‘That’s Ben Tasker. Didn’t you meet him yesterday?’
Zoe shook her head. ‘I didn’t get a chance.’
‘He’s lovely,’ Indira said warmly. ‘Go and introduce yourself.’
As Ben laughed again, Zoe found herself smiling too. There was something very comforting about the sound. It was a genuine laugh that came from the soul. Nodding at Indira, Zoe walked towards him, but as she did so Ben turned around, causing Zoe to stop abruptly. Ben Tasker was none other than the man she had shouted at for smoking last night.
As their eyes met, she felt her cheeks flame red and the blood pump too hard around her veins. She had been rude. Ben was a newcomer and also her boss. She would have to apologise. Urging herself to walk towards him, Zoe tried to ignore the dread building in the pit of her stomach.
As she drew closer, Zoe looked at him properly. With his bald head, dark skin and eyes that crinkled when he smiled, he seemed different to the man she had rowed with yesterday. More relaxed, friendlier even.
‘Zoe Evans,’ she said nervously, extending her hand. ‘I think we might have got off on the wrong foot.’
Ben didn’t speak straight away. Instead, he looked her up and down and took her hand.
‘You mean when you had a go at me for smoking a celebratory cigar after the first day in my new job?’ he said, eyes twinkling with mischief.
‘Something like that,’ Zoe replied, feeling awkward as she dropped his hand. ‘I didn’t know who you were.’
‘Ah.’ Ben’s mouth twitched at the corners. ‘You only shout at people who aren’t your boss?’
‘It wasn’t like that,’ Zoe tried again.
Ben smiled. ‘No worries. Let’s forget it.’
At the suggestion, Zoe felt relieved. ‘How are you settling in?’
Ben surveyed the day room. ‘All right. Everyone seems nice but it’s different from my last place.’
‘How so?’ Zoe asked.
‘Bigger, more patients,’ Ben explained. ‘This will be more of a challenge and the Harpers have got lots of plans.’
‘You’ve got a lot on your plate.’
‘Trouble is, I’m never in these roles for long, usually six months to a year, so by the time I’ve made any changes I don’t get to reap the rewards.’
‘That sounds hard, but I like the idea of a fresh start every so often.’
‘Yeah, it’s not bad,’ Ben replied. As he fell silent, Zoe saw his eyes land on the door leading to the children’s ward. ‘I think you have more children here than at my last place,’ he said in a low voice. ‘There, we had one every few months. I’ve already overseen two children’s admissions since I’ve been here. The parents looked bereft.’
‘I expect they were,’ Zoe replied. ‘It’s always tough for the littlies, but remarkably they’re always the chirpiest.’
Ben narrowed his eyes. ‘Littlies? Thought I detected an Antipodean twang. Where are you from?’
Zoe smiled, ready to repeat the answer to the question she was routinely asked. ‘Australia. Sydney actually. I keep thinking I’ve got rid of my Aussie accent, then I trip up.’
‘You shouldn’t want to get rid of it,’ Ben pointed out. ‘Accents are important. They ensure we’re not the same.’
‘And you of course are pure posh Bath,’ she teased good-naturedly.
‘I, my lover, am from the mean streets of this city,’ he said, dropping the neutral tones and striking up a very convincing West Country accent.
Zoe balked in surprise. ‘You’re either a very good mimic or telling the truth.’
‘I’m telling the truth.’ Ben’s eyes crinkled with genuine delight. ‘For the first twenty years of my life that’s how I sounded.’
‘What changed?’
‘I left Bath, went to Oxford to study biomedical sciences, then moved to London.’ Ben shrugged.
‘Ah,’ Zoe said knowingly. ‘If you’re from the mean streets of Bath, how come they let you in?’
‘I was the “minority did good”,’ Ben replied, a little wearily Zoe thought, as he shoved his hands in the pockets of his scrubs. ‘Black kid, clever, had encouragement from my single-parent mother and a neighbour who was good at maths. Got me excited about learning, enough for me to go to uni, the first in my family.’
‘I was the first to go to uni in my family too.’
‘What did you study?’ Ben asked.
‘Nursing,’ Zoe replied, as if it were obvious. ‘It was all I ever wanted to do.’
‘That must have been nice, having it all worked out from a young age?’ Ben mused.
‘I’ve never thought of it that way,’ Zoe said, rubbing her chin. ‘I suppose it was. I take it you didn’t dream of being a nurse?’
Ben laughed. ‘No way! I wanted to be a rapper.’
Zoe giggled with him. ‘And you studied biomedical sciences for that? What happened?’
‘I realised I was shit at rapping,’ he admitted. ‘Still, Drake’s loss is nursing’s gain.’
Zoe stared at him for a moment, realisation dawning. ‘Are you the Ben Tasker that won that Dying Concerns award a couple of years ago?’
Now it was Ben’s turn to look embarrassed. ‘Well, I was part of a very large team. I accepted that award for everyone.’
‘You wrote that book,’ Zoe continued, as if he hadn’t spoken. ‘You were in all the papers. It was all about the final stages of dying, with interviews from the patients. All the money went to charity, and you were called a hero for confronting the unconfrontable.’
‘The book was my idea. But it was my whole team that worked on it,’ he explained, looking embarrassed. He paused for a moment then changed the subject. ‘Listen, Zoe, I wonder if we could have a quick chat.’
‘Okay.’
Ben cupped her elbow with his palm and steered her out of the day room and into the nook of the stairwell. He looked around to check they were alone. ‘I wanted a quick word about your notes. They concern me.’
‘They concern you?’ Zoe echoed.
‘Yes.’ Ben nodded. ‘I need you to stop.’
Zoe felt as if the air had been sucked out of her lungs. For a moment she couldn’t think of anything to say.
‘Why?’ Zoe gasped.
Ben rubbed the back of his neck, a flicker of awkwardness passing across his features. ‘I think they could cause problems and you’re exposing yourself and the hospice unnecessarily.’
At the suggestion, Zoe felt a wave of anger. ‘You can’t be serious!’
‘I’m very serious. I’m sorry, Zoe, I’ve been told how important they are to you—’
‘And to the patients,’ Zoe interrupted. ‘They enjoy knowing that their last wishes will be passed on to loved ones, and the notes I give them when they stay with us brighten up their time here. Think how lovely it is to receive something handwritten these days. And for our patients, knowing someone has taken the time and trouble to write to them, to think about them as a human rather than someone facing the end of the line… I don’t think you have any idea how much of a difference it makes.’
‘I don’t doubt it, but the risks outweigh the benefits.’
‘What does Karen say about this?’ Zoe demanded.
Ben’s expression hardened. ‘I’m in charge and have the full support of senior management regarding this and any other decision. I’ve been brought in to troubleshoot the hospice’s problems and to me your notes are a problem.’
