PART SIX
With Quentin incapacitated, Paddy’s flat became the meeting place.
Sinnick had carried up three cans of Heineken for Charlie, three bottles of Guinness for Paddy, three bottles of Old Peculier for Quentin and a bottle of Sunny Delight for himself.
Down below, Hamid, Agniesta and Gabriela were in charge of frying and serving.
With his bandaged foot outstretched before him, Quentin formally opened the session. “Apologies for absence?”
“None, chairman.”
“Treasurer?”
“Twelve pounds in kitty,” Charlie said. “We need to top it up but I’ll need to forgo I’m afraid. Things are tight.”
“No worries,” Quentin said. “Sinnick will sort it. Being a public servant he’s the only one with a decent income.” He took a swig of his Old Peculier. “Right then. Item one’s for you, Sinnick. Diarrhea. I heard you suffered on Friday night.”
“How the hell…?”
“Small community, Sinnick. Want to elaborate?”
“Not especially.”
“Pity, because it leads onto an idea of mine.”
Sinnick gave in and sipped his orange juice. “I sensed a minor problem at two in the morning. Got up, went to the bathroom. No pain, no strain, just sat and let it drain. Real trouble started at three o’clock when Mrs. S came banging on the bathroom door because I’d fallen asleep.”
“She had it as well?”
“Far worse. I never slept a wink afterwards for the noise.”
"Fook’s Wok?” Quentin checked.
“Correct. I was half an hour late for dinner so my pork sausage was fed to the cats…….”
“Disgraceful. Put cats on the next agenda again, Paddy.”
“……. So, I went out and called in at Fook’s Wok for some…….”
“King prawn sweet and sour with special fried rice. I know, Sinnick. Just get on with it.”
Sinnick sniffed. “I looked to see if the light was on in your room above, Charlie. I thought I’d share it with you but it was in darkness.”
“Very thoughtful, Sinnick but I don’t have a window.”
“When I got home, Mrs. S said it smelled nice so I handed most of it to her to avoid a dispute. And that’s why her problem was worse than mine.”
"Serves her right,” Quentin said with no apparent concern. “Next item.”
“Have we finished with this subject?”
“Yes, but it links to agenda item two - my book. You’ve all heard about it by now. Sitting here in the comfort of Paddy’s living room I’ve already drafted the first few chapters on women between the ages of twenty-one and sixty. I now propose to move on to studying the over seventies as I suspect they’ve never had quite so much money to fritter away on non-essentials.
“So, whilst I’m incapacitated and we’re renting the wheelchair, I am proposing to infiltrate Grey Gables Old Person’s Home which, by coincidence also suffered an outbreak due to it being Fook’s Chinese take-away night. Once inside I’ll study the ways of its residents whose ages, I understand, range from seventy-six to one hundred and six. In that way we might get a feeling for those who saw things during the First World War.”
“Only just, Quent,” Sinnick interrupted. “Edna Pearce was born in 1918. She’s familiar with such things as Pampers now but they didn’t exist in 1918.”
“Of course. You know them all, Sinnick.”
“Every one, Quent. I’m Grey Gables’ on-call doctor. They’re the only patients I feel comfortable with.”
“Didn’t you know about the diarrhea?”
Sinnick shook his head sadly. “Perhaps Mrs. Pettifer knows but I don’t. I’m their appointed physician and yet, quite clearly, she hadn’t the decency to tell me. Why? Probably because she decided there was no need.”
Sinnick’s voice then doubled in volume.
“You see how things are, Quent? I told you to do something about employment law and gender and equality and the political correctness that now overrides basic common sense. I’m a white middle-aged professional man, blamed for the errors of the past, present and the future and granted less respect than a lower caste Indian latrine cleaner.
“I’m over-ridden by a woman whose last job was an assistant administrator in a junior school where box-ticking, petty regulation, government inspections and political correctness took priority over plain common sense. Bullying when I was a kid meant getting beaten up in a corner of the playground by a bunch of thuggish kids with no brains. It was unusual but it happened. We got over it and were stronger for it. Bullying nowadays means one kid upsetting another by a text message. To listen to Mrs. P I’m a bully for saying that the member of her staff who fell fast asleep over her nail polishing is bone idle and that I’d like to put a lighted firework inside her underwear.
“It’s me who’s bullied, Quent. It’s me who’s discriminated against and me who’s demeaned. I’m assaulted by an army of box tickers and an avalanche of political correctness and taken to task for everything my dear mother taught me about politeness, common courtesy and good manners. I’m treated as if I’m a relic of an outdated system, a system that once respected knowledge and experience and could take a touch of humor to make a serious point. We now live in a world where no-one can fail, where failure is now supposed to make the world a better and fairer place. The system’s gone crazy, Quent, and the only way I can deal with it is by trying to appear humorous and light-hearted. But then I’m told that my humor is unacceptable and tantamount to more bullying.”
Sinnick took another deep breath.
“You know, I had a drunk woman to deal with this morning. It took me ten, God-damned minutes to right her notes. First, I was tempted to write, pissed as a newt again” but changed it to “drunk once more” before crossing that out and writing “intoxicated”. But even that was not good enough for Mrs. P. She took it upon herself to overrule my words with ‘chemically inconvenienced.’”
Sinnick’s cheeks had turned from his usual pasty white to pink and flushed. It had happened before. His outbursts were well known and always short lived but were potent reminders of his daily heartache. He quickly calmed down but the others remained silent just in case he started again. He did, but with far less noisy passion.
“I need a change,” he said almost beneath his breath. “It’s urgent. The system has drained me of all my reasons for being a doctor.”
He sniffed anxiously and leaned forward. “Do you know if my dear Edna in Room 63 got diarrhea? Do you know if she suffered, Quent? Did she have enough Pampers? I must go and see her.”
It seemed to the others that Sinnick was just as concerned for the health of his patients as he’d always been, so much so that he was about to jump up and run to Grey Gables with a fresh pack of incontinence pads for one old lady.
But Charlie, sitting on the floor beside him, put a hand on his knee, patted it, looked up at Quentin and Paddy and then back to Sinnick. “Grey Gables is up for sale,” he said, “It was on the list I gave Paddy.”
A thoughtful, meditative silence descended; a silence ruined by a sudden shout from downstairs.
“Meester Paddy! Come quick. Eez the chip fryer. Eez too ‘ot.”
Paddy jumped. “Jesus wept. The rips in Hamid’s jeans have got caught in the switch again.”
He ran downstairs and Quentin moved from his almost horizontal position on the sofa to sitting up. “I’m staying here for the night,” he announced. “Are you both in a hurry to go home?”
Charlie shook his head.
Sinnick said: “I’ll say I had an urgent call-out – nasty outbreak of Salmonella poisoning at Grey Gables. Anyway, my liver and onions will have been fed to the cats by now.”
Paddy returned. “I told you. It was Hamid’s ripped jeans. But his fly zip was also open. God knows what was happening behind the haddock slicer. Agniesta looked very flushed. Where were we?”
“Grey Gables,” Quentin said and another silence descended. Brains were ticking.
Sinnick was the first to speak. “Let’s buy it,” he said.
Perhaps it was the enormity of the suggestion because no-one said anything for another minute before Sinnick continued.
“I’ll be medical director, Paddy on personnel and human resources, Charlie on finance and Quentin on sales and marketing. I can then take care of Edna. Instead of going home I can stay and read to her every night.”
“She likes being read to, Sinnick?” Paddy asked. “At night?”
“At any time, Paddy. Let me tell you something. Edna was Professor of English Literature at Oxford. Edna has been abandoned, not only by her family but by academia itself. She’d love it if you read her some of your Irish poetry because she now struggles to see or hear anything. She lies there in the dark desperate for someone to talk to and listen to her and all I’ve ever got time for is to stroke her forehead and plump her pillows. A lot of them are like Edna, Paddy. Many of them were professionals – skilled and knowledgeable – but they’re abandoned. Now ask me, Paddy. Who would I prefer to listen to and spend my time with? Petty Pettifer or Professor Edna Pearce?”
They all looked at him. Paddy’s eyes were sparkling, Charlie was sniffing and Quentin was stroking his swollen ankle whilst looking at Sinnick from the corner of a rapidly blinking eye.
“Right then,” Quentin said at last with a noticeable crack to his voice. “I’ll move in tomorrow. In disguise, of course. Good look around, Check the place out from a user’s perspective. We can’t have them knowing we’re potential buyers or they’ll sweep the corridors and empty the trash bins.”
By morning, Quentin’s ankle was twice its normal size but he’d been busy on the phone. Claiming to be a doting son caring for an ageing mother but about to move to Canada as an adviser to the Canadian government, he’d convinced the manager at Grey Gables to accept his mother to fill a vacancy.
“Your dear mother could move in today. I’ll make sure her room is ready by 3pm. Will you be bringing her before you fly to Toronto?”
“Not too sure about that,” Quentin said, “I’m meeting the Canadian Ambassador for lunch but I’ll arrange some sort of transport for her.”
Job done he turned to Paddy who’d been listening. “Despite the excruciating pain I must go shopping, Paddy. If I’m to resemble an old lady of eighty-six I’ll need a few more things from the Help the Aged shop. There’s a lady there who said she’d always voted for me in the past.”
“Right now, I need to fix the chip fryer,” Paddy said. “But Charlie would be free once he’s cleaned Fook’s kitchen and bathed in the sink.”
Quentin called Charlie and by midday, he and Charlie had done the shopping and were back at Paddy’s flat with Quentin desperate to try on his purchases.
Sitting in his wheelchair, Quentin looked at the pile of bags laid out on the floor. According to the lady in Help the Aged, the grey cardigan was a classic that would have cost a good £25 back in 1986. The tweed skirt had labels, one saying Made in Scotland, the other £3. And then there was Quentin’s pair of thick lady’s stockings complete with suspender belt.
“I do so like my hat, Charlie. It makes me feel like a working-class version of Miss Marples. What do you think?”
“But how are we going to get you into those, Quent?”
“First, help me out of my trousers, Charlie.”
Charlie did as he was told and then picked up the stockings. “Definitely pre-worn. The nylon has got what my mother used to call a ladder.”
“That’s fine. I’m just a poor old widow living on a basic state pension.”
“I thought you were the mother of a highly paid Canadian government adviser, Quent.”
“In truth he’s a mean and heartless bastard, Charlie. The torrid story will make interesting listening once I’m inside. How do these suspenders work?”
“No idea, Quent. And what about your new, size 10 brown lace-up shoes.”
“One shoe only, Charlie. The other foot will stay bandaged beneath my stockings to attract sympathy.”
“And your extra-large bra?”
Quentin held it up and winced. It hung like a pair of dead puffer fish. “I’ve gone off it,” he said.
“And your knickers, Quent?”
“I like the pink colour, nice long legs and strong elastic.”
“And your handbag? Plenty of pockets inside to put your phone, credit cards and driving licence etcetera. This pocket might do for your lipstick.”
“Be realistic, Charlie. I’m eighty-six for God’s sake. A dab of talcum powder is all I’ll need.”
“Want to try standing up?”
Quentin struggled up. “How do I look? Does Paddy have a full-length mirror? And where’s my walking stick?”
“Here. The curved part goes at the top.”
Quentin stood on one leg, supported by the stick. “I think we’ve cracked it, Charlie. Now for the crowning glory. My wig.”
“It goes the other way around, Quent.”
“Lovely. Silver with a touch of blue. I’ll need a shave before I go. I don’t suppose Charlie will mind me using his razor.”
“What time do you check in, Quent?”
“Around 3pm. I’ll be wheelchair-bound for a few days. If she sees I’m five feet eleven in my stockings it might raise some awkward questions.”
“And did you decide on a name?”
“Ada Marples, Charlie. What do you think? Do I look like an Ada?”
“You still look like Quentin to me.”
“That’s because you know me. I feel reborn, Charlie. Go and see if Paddy could send up cod and chips with mushy peas for two. After lunch I’ll head for Grey Gables. You can push me to the taxi rank.”
Sinnick had locked himself inside his office to think things through. Freud had already persuaded him to abandon Sinnick’s Hair Inducing Treatment.
“You became too excitable. SHIT! For goodness sake, man. What got into you? Just removing the S for Sinnick would have given you HIT. HIT would have been far better but no, off you went on a bout of shameless self-publicity and it took a Chinese youth in flip flops and ripped jeans to point it out to you.”
“Shameless self-publicity, Freud? That’s a bit strong.”
“Not strong enough, my friend. Most unlike you. Rushing off like a demented fool with some badly thought through idea. Grow up man.”
Freud was right. It was a shameless venture driven by visions of his private clinic where Mrs. Pettifer with her plastic rain hat was a distant memory and because he’d had a return of the erotic dream with his very own team of neat, blonde nurses wearing short skirts, white socks and plimsolls and quaint little white hats who welcomed him each morning with wicked looks, rose-bud kisses and expectant smiles.
Two days ago, he’d even written about a bottle of shampoo he’d spotted in the supermarket. ‘I bought a pack and checked the price, then saw with mounting glee, as my business instincts hit me, a chance to earn a fee. It tempted me to thinking that I should move away. To Harley Street or Brighton or Worthing by the Sea. With my name on a shiny plaque outside my new-found private clinic: Consultant to the balding, that brilliant Dr Sinnick!’
It was pathetic.
“Are you crying?” Freud asked.
“Almost”
“Good. Nothing like a touch of reality. But what about a nursing home? An old people’s final resting place?”
“Better but I don’t like the name, Freud. Grey Gables sounds so depressing.”
“Get real Sinnick. You’re far too hung up on names. If the name is so important, then change it.”
“I suppose you’re right but grey is not suitable for an old people’s home, Freud. When reaching the final straight of a long marathon you need to see bright and shining colours ahead to drive you across the line. There needs to be a big golden archway and a welcoming party with your final medal.”
And then, of course, he remembered Fook’s Golden Arches and wondered whether the medals that Fook handed out took the form of cheese burgers or Fortune cookies.
Then he went online and downloaded a book entitled, “Nursing Home Management.” He was smiling as he began reading it.
Paddy arrived with two boxes of cod and chips. “Where’s Quent?”
Charlie looked exhausted. “Having a shave. He worries me, Paddy.”
“You’ve not known him as long as me. He’s a politician.”
“So why did he lose the election?”
There was a crashing sound from the bathroom, the door swung open and Quentin appeared. “How do you steer this thing?”
Paddy stared. “Lovely hair and nice skirt Quent, but the stockings are wrinkled.”
“Impoverished working-class widows all have wrinkled stockings, Paddy. But, until further notice, please address me as Ada. Ah, lunch. Last decent meal before my confinement. Any ketchup?”
“What about your voice, Quent?”
Quentin swallowed a mouthful of battered fish and chips, cleared his throat and shook an invisible hand. “Ada Marples,” he said in cracked soprano. “Nice to meet you, Mrs Ricketts. Glad to see the trash bins are empty and plenty of spare car parking spaces. I assume my room’s ready with nice clean sheets? How fast is the Wi-Fi? How’s that?”
“How long are you planning to stay, Quent?”
Quentin munched away. “A few nights. Get to know the residents. Write a few chapters. Sign autographs if recognized.”
“And what about buying the place?”
“We’ll split duties. I’ll conduct a thorough inspection. Charlie will check current and past accounts and Sinnick, who already knows the staff and how’s it’s run, is reading a book on nursing care management.”
“What can I do?”
“Think up fresh menus more suited to the over eighties whilst pushing me to the taxi rank. I need to arrive in style.”
“You walk and hobble like a man, Quent,” Paddy said.
“He looks like a man,” Charlie added.
Quentin waved away the negativity. “I intend to remain in my wheelchair. With my wig, my skirt, my cardigan and sheep skin slippers no-one will notice.”
Charlie and Paddy looked at one another.
“If I may say so you both seem unconvinced. Contingency is that I’ll come out as an eighty-six-year-old cross-dresser and will threaten to report any intolerance of my newly chosen gender as age discrimination and a hate crime. And there’s always Cyril.”
“Cyril?”
“Cyril is the only male resident at Grey Gables.”
A police car was parked next to the taxis outside the train station as Paddy pushed Quentin along. “Stop a minute, Paddy.”
From his wheelchair, Quentin knocked on the side window and a face appeared from inside. “Allo Quent, mate. How’s it going? Nice to see you. Been to a fancy-dress party?”
“I’m not Quentin, Steve. I’m Ada Marples. Any chance of a lift to Grey Gables Old Folks Home? Save me the price of a taxi?”
“Sure. Jump in.”
“I can’t jump. I can’t even walk. Can you put the wheelchair in the back?”
“Sure, sure. Nice wig, Quent. I like the blue tint. So, what’s up, Quent? Missed seeing you around since……you know.”
“Confidential, Steve. But hurry up. My underwear is killing me.”
Paddy waved him off.
At 3.30 pm Sinnick emerged from his usual mid-afternoon soul searching. Like a Buddhist monk in a meditative trance he sauntered slowly along the corridor to reception.
“Oh, there you are,” Mrs. Pettifer said. “I need you, urgently.”
Sinnick looked up. “You’ve never said that to me before, Mrs. P. Change of heart?”
“This is urgent, Doctor Sinick. It's Krupton Radio. Live. They're waiting for you. Come quick. Here, on this phone."
“What the Dickens……?
“Spoons, Doctor Sinnick. Spoons.”
"Spoons? Krupton Radio? Live? What the hell?"
Sinnick was still not entirely in this world. His trance-like state, caused by worrying what books to read Edna Pearce without knowing what she’d already read, had still not worn off but he took the phone only partly aware that all nine of Mrs. P’s female staff were there. From Cynthia the appointments clerk to Polly Anne Druss they were all there with their eyes wide open, their hands over their mouths, nodding away like excited donkeys.
What the hell?
"Hello?” Sinnick said into the phone. “Who is this?”
"Good afternoon, Doctor Sinnick. Welcome and thanks for joining us. We're live on Krupton Radio and we've been discussing spoons."
"Spoons?"
In his side vision, Sinnick could see that everyone had surrounded a tiny speaker linked to a smart phone in the corner. So, this was what they did while they thought he was out at lunch.
"So, here we are," the unknown radio woman continued. "We're joined now by Doctor Sinnick from Krupton Health Centre. As you know, Doctor Sinnick, every Wednesday afternoon we discuss beauty tips and this afternoon we’re discussing all those weird and wonderful ideas that we can use whenever those beauty-related emergencies catch us out. You know the sort - like when you leave your makeup bag in the office over the weekend or have mislaid your……"
It sounded like a question Sinnick was expected to answer but what the heck did he know about lost make-up bags? He stood erect, like a statue, frowning and scratching his head with his mind still holding a vision of Edna propped up in bed by pillows and all of it made worse by Paddy having just told him that Quentin’s plan was to come out as an eighty-six-year-old cross-dresser if things proved difficult.
“Doctor Sinnick. Do we still have you? I think he’s still with us. Yes. Just before you came on, we were discussing the interview with Pop Sugar and……”
“What the……...?” Sinnick mumbled.
“….and how Aussie supermodel, Patsy, revealed how she'd discovered the art of curling eyelashes with - wait for it – a spoon! How exciting is that? So, feeling we needed to check this out, ladies, we decided to seek medical advice from Doctor Sinnick so that everyone knows exactly what type of spoon to use and how to use it. After all, we don't want to get carried away and injure ourselves, do we, Doctor Sinnick? Better safe than sorry……. Yes?”
“No.” Sinnick said.
"Good. He’s still with us. It’s so exciting to be speaking to one of our own local celebrities. So, Doctor Sinnick, what size and shape of spoon should we use and which way round should we use it? Listeners will know that earlier, in the studio, we tried a spoon as a mirror to check our eye lashes but found that on one side we were upside down and on the other we just looked really weird. So how should we use our spoon, Doctor Sinnick?”
“To eat your cornflakes?” suggested Sinnick.
“Ha Ha. Well, that's one use, I suppose," the woman giggled. “But what we need to know is how best to use a spoon to curl our eyelashes!.............Doctor Sinnick. Have we lost him again?.........Doctor Sinnick?"
Sinnick glanced around the reception area and the increasing numbers of female staff and even patients now crowding around the speaker. That’s when his trance vanished and panic struck. He supposed he'd better say or do something, but what?
“Doctor Sinnick?”
Several quite unconnected words suddenly joined together in Sinnick’s confused brain as if this was it - the total breakdown he’d been expecting for months. Either the world had gone mad or he had. He took a deep breath.
“Cornflakes and lashes and snowflakes and rashes,” he said, the words gathering effortlessly on his tongue like iron filings around a magnet.
He glanced at the group of excited women for confirmation that he was still in this world but, at the same time, saw himself standing on a Swiss mountainside with Julie Andrews swirling over an alpine meadow in a wide skirt, a sound of music and a metallic clattering of knives, forks, spoons and his very own Gillette razor. And then, to his horror and because (if Mrs. Sinnick’s TV watching was anything to go by) singing, dancing or both was what modern mass entertainment expected, he began to sing:
“When the blade cuts, when the soap stings. That’s when I try out my favourite things - like carving knives, dinner forks, rubbers and pencils - spray paint and spanners and wall paper stencils - and then I remember that eyes are to see - that curling my lashes means nothing to me.”
His voice, even to him, sounded like a fret saw cutting through a sheet of corrugated metal so poor Sinnick took fright at the thought of millions of women listening to his performance, dropped the phone, ran to his office and locked the door. Then he leaned on his desk with his head in his hands.
“What the fuck’s the world coming to Freud? Do people have nothing better to do on a weekday afternoon? Are there not a billion undernourished people out there who need food first before they think of curling their bloody eyelashes. God help us!”
Unusually, there was no reply from Freud.
“Freud? Freud? Where the hell are you, man?”
“I’m here. I’m wondering what to say.”
“Say anything you like, man, but please tell me I’m no longer suited to a world of women, selfies, Pop Sugars and dim-witted Australian lamebrains called Patsy? And why the hell would a fifty-year-old female divorcee who arrives at work in a plastic rain hat and regards me with vengeful green eyes and vertical slits for pupils think I’m remotely interested in joining in her mid-afternoon shenanigans in the clinic’s time? I pay them to work for the benefit of our community’s health and wellbeing, for God’s sake. Come on, man, speak.”
“You’re singing was awful, Sinnick.”
“That wasn’t singing, Freud. That was…….”
A sudden knock on the door made Sinnick jump and he turned to face it with a fear that turned his stomach to jelly. Was this it? An official complaint? A summons? A Court Order?
“Albert?”
No-one called him Albert except Quentin, Paddy or Charlie. And then it was usually when they were trying to console him. The knock came again. “Albert? It’s Charlie.”
Charlie! It was like being thrown a bunch of fresh roses. Reprieve. Sinnick unlocked the door and there he stood in all his hairy glory, black leathers, boots and blue-tinted sun glasses.
“Come in, come in,” Sinnick said, grabbing him by his leather clad arm. “Am I glad to see you? How did you get past the guards?”
“They were huddled over a radio. The only men were a few patients looking at their watches.”
“I’m so glad to see you, Charlie.”
“You said that once.”
“Freud’s just gone on one of his silences which means he’s disgusted with me.”
“Freud?”
“No matter. What’s up?”
“Quent,” Charlie said. “He’d just got into a police car dressed in drag. Thinks he’s Ada Marples.”
“Sit, Charlie. Right now, I need some company. Tell me all about it.”
Charlie explained how he’d helped Quentin get dressed. “So off he went, Sinnick, looking like Dame Edna Everage without the glasses and lipstick. I’m worried sick about him.”
“Don’t worry, Charlie. Quent is in his element. Even if they see through his disguise, he’ll manage it.”
“I hope so,” Charlie said thoughtfully. “I suppose it’s because I don’t want him to mess up this opportunity. I reckon Grey Gables might be the saviour of us all.”
Sinnick looked at him affectionately. “Why don’t you take your glasses off, Charlie?”
“Sorry.” Charlie stuffed them in his top pocket.
It was Sinnick’s turn now. He patted Charlie’s cold, dry hand and for the first time in weeks felt like a real doctor with a real patient - a man like himself who needed some TLC. “Your dark glasses,” he said, smiling. “Did you put them on to creep past the guards?”
Charlie nodded, smiled through the beard and his eyes twinkled with something Sinnick saw as emotion. “What is it, Charlie? Tell me.”
“Since last night I can’t help thinking about Grey Gables. It’s my life, Sinnick – I mean, Albert. I don’t know what I’m doing or where I’m going any longer.”
Sinnick nodded. “Go on.”
“I hate that bloody room over Fook’s. I can’t even see the sky. What did I do to deserve it?”
Sinnick was still holding Charlie’s hand and Charlie looked down at it but didn’t remove it. “Did you know I still pay for the kids?” he said.