PART SEVEN:
PC Steve Perkins pushed Quentin in his wheelchair right up to the front door of Grey Gables and wished him well. “Thanks, Steve. You can go now.”
Quentin then pushed the bell with his stick and heard it echo along corridors like a prison. The door opened and Mrs. Rickets stood there in a blue uniform with her name, title and a slogan across her chest. “Mrs. Marples?”
“Yes,” Quentin croaked whilst trying to read the slogan through an unfocussed mist, courtesy of a pair of old spectacles Paddy said he’d found in the street.
It had probably once said, ‘Life after Life,’ but the letters were frayed and now said ‘Lie after Lie.’
“Welcome to Grey Gables,” Mrs. Ricketts said. “Where are your things?”
“Things?”
“Bags, cases, personal belongings.”
“Arriving later,” Quentin said. “I got a lift.” He pointed to the departing blue and yellow striped police car.
“Are you confined?”
“Confined?” Quentin repeated, trying to keep to his cracked soprano delivery and wondering if she really meant incontinent? “I’m eight-six,” he croaked. “Things are not as sound as they once were.”
“I meant are you confined to a wheelchair.”
“Oh, I see. Yes. Temporarily.” Judged by her facial expression, Quentin wondered if Mrs. Ricketts might be Mrs. Pettifer’s twin sister. “Badly sprained ankle,” he added.
“And where’s your son?”
“My son? Oh yes. Just flown to Toronto. A very busy boy these days.”
She then peered at his bound ankle. “Can you make your own way up the disabled access?” She pointed to it. “The ramp. There.”
Quentin disliked her already but he managed to propel his chair up the slope.
Next, it was the smell that struck him – boiled cabbage, urine and pine disinfectant was not something he’d smelled in that triple combination before. Portcullis House in Westminster was known for its faint smell of pine disinfectant but only during early mornings after the cleaners had left when the aroma of fresh coffee took over.
“I’ll show you your room. Follow me.”
Quentin coughed to suggest he also had breathing difficulties but also to prepare his throat for the croaking sound he needed to maintain for the next day or so and followed Mrs. Ricketts’s squeaking plimsolls along a dimly lit passageway to a lift whilst trying to scribble a note or two into the pad on his lap. She pressed a button. “What are you doing?”
“Mild Parkinson’s,” Quentin explained.
Another corridor, worn carpet and a different smell: pine disinfectant, washing powder and rubber. “Here’s your room. The rubber sheet on the mattress is just in case.”
“Very considerate. Am I allowed visitors?”
“Between 9am and midday, two thirty to five and six thirty until lights out at 9pm. Groups of no more than two and everyone must sign the security book.”
Quentin had often told Paddy he should delegate more so that evening he put Hamid and Agnieska in charge and went upstairs to the flat with a plan to relax for an hour with a book. But he knew, all along, that relaxing would be impossible. Evenings and night-times were always the worst time for Paddy. Increasingly, at night-time, he felt old and decrepit as if it was all downhill from now on. For years he’d wondered if he should call Maeve’s sister but he never had so, as always, he leaned on the windowsill and looked out. As usual it was as if there’d been an outbreak of plague and he was the only survivor.
“Ah well,” he said to himself. “The tears of the world are a constant quantity. For every one that stops another one starts.”
Perhaps, he thought, he’d read some Spike Milligan tonight. Spike had always said he wasn’t afraid of dying. He just didn’t want to be there when it happened.
Then his phone rang.
“I’m ensconced,” Quentin announced breezily. “Just had dinner with thirteen old ladies – cottage pie with vanilla ice cream, followed by a cup of tea. Cyril didn’t turn up, though. Apparently, he was busy with a customer.”
Paddy perked up. “Am I hearing right, Quent? A customer? How old is Cyril?”
“Ninety-four.”
“And he runs a business?”
“Just as Sinnick said, a vast amount of talent lies with these old folks.”
“What about the book?”
“Chapter seven. Contents of handbags. Mrs. Ainslie dropped her bag during dinner. Everything fell out including lipstick and a pack of condoms. I think she did it on purpose.”
“How old is Mrs. Ainslie?”
“Eighty-three. Neat and tidy, blue highlights and a twinkle in her eye.”
Paddy, still looking out of the window, was suddenly distracted. “Looks like the evening rush has started, Quent. No, no. I’m wrong. He’s gone away again. Took one look and left. It’s happened before. I expect Hamid forgot to turn the ‘Open’ sign around. I’d better go down and sort it, Quent. See you tomorrow.”
In his room overlooking the staff car park, Quentin scanned the four walls with its wallpaper of pink roses and checked his watch. It was only 7.30 and he was already bored. The place was too quiet. He tried the TV: A quiz game, so he turned it off and sat on the bed. He removed his cotton knickers, suspender belt and stockings. He unwound the bandage on his ankle, spat on his finger, tried soothing the blue flesh to cool it and then rewound the bandage.
He was lying on the bed in his boxer shorts when there was a knock on the door. Panicking, he wound a towel around his waist, adjusted his wig, grabbed his stick, opened the door as far as the chain would allow, looked out and then looked down. Looking up at him was Cyril, all five feet six inches of him, wearing an army beret poised at a nifty angle and a blazer with a row of bright ribbons as if for a veterans Remembrance Day march. Wisps of fine grey hair floated around his ears and two rheumy blue eyes looked up at Quentin.
“Hello, Ada, my dear. Glass of sherry?”
A veiny, shaking white hand rose to the crack of the door next to Quentin’s nose. It held a bottle of something.
“Nice medium Amontillado – twenty percent alcohol. Guaranteed to get the juices running, Ada. What do you think?”
“Got two glasses as well, Cyril?” Quentin said in his best contralto croak.
“I can easily pop back for a couple. Or how about a nice Gordon’s gin and tonic?”
“Got any vodka, Cyril?”
“Only a drop of Beluga left, perhaps with a dash of Red Bull. Cynthia drinks it like a fish.”
“I prefer Finlandia, Cyril. With a drop of cranberry juice.”
There was a pause. The bottle of sherry was lowered slightly. “Ada?”
“Yes, Cyril?” Quentin’s contralto had become a high tenor but the croak was lasting well.
“How do you know my name, Ada?”
“How do you know mine, Cyril?”
“From the new arrivals list. But……” he paused. Quentin could almost hear his brain ticking.
“What is it, Cyril?”
“Can I come in?”
Quentin’s voice changed to soprano. “Oh, Cyril. How do I know I’ll be safe with you?”
Another pause. Cyril was still thinking. The bottle disappeared from sight.
Quentin undid the chain and eased the door open a few more inches. “Oh Cyril,” he squealed. “I never could resist a man with medals.”
Cyril pushed on the door as if ravishing a willing maiden was the only thing on his mind. “Bloody hell,” he said in his east London accent. “Bloody hell if it ain’t my old mate, Quentin. How’re you doing, mate?”
“Not so bad, Cyril. How’re you?”
“Doing OK, Quent. Ain’t seen you since the election. Why the bleedin’ towel? Hiding your modesty, Quent? What’re you doing here?”
“Come in and I’ll tell you. Sit on my bed but take your hat off in the presence of a lady. I’ll keep my boxers on if you don’t mind. Not sure if I trust you.”
“Ha Ha. Well I’ll be. If it ain’t my old pal, Quentin. I like the wig. This calls for a celebration, Quent. Got a cup or a mug?”
“Only the toothbrush one, Cyril.”
“That’ll do. I’ve got a nice set of Waterford Crystal in my room if any of the old dears gets a bit pernickety but you and me are mates, ain’t we? No airs ‘n graces.”