PART EIGHT:
It was three days later that Sinnick’s phone rang at 6.30 am.
It was Quentin’s normal, baritone voice, “I can’t sleep, Sinnick.”
“But it’s time to get up, Quent.”
“I’ve got a hangover. I was up until 3am with Cyril. My suspender belt rubs on my crotch and I’ve got holes in both stockings.”
“No-one wears stockings these days, Quent.”
“I wouldn’t either but they hide the hairs on my legs. Can you get here with Charlie and Paddy about 11am? A lot to discuss.”
“I’ll need an excuse for Mrs. P.”
“Nonsense Sinnick. Why do you need an excuse? What are you? Man or mouse? Call in sick.”
Sinnick made himself a plate of toast and marmalade, took it to the bathroom, put it on the floor alongside his crumpled trousers, took a bite and sighed. Why on earth did he feel the need for an excuse just to leave the clinic for a few hours on a private matter? He was in charge for heaven’s sake. He was the boss, the senior partner. His time was his own.
But he did care. He had an old-fashioned sense of duty and a need to set an example. He worried in case his excuse would not be believed, that he’d be caught out and would need an alibi in case it went to Court. But no-one else cared about time off so why did he? He sat there compiling a growing list of possible excuses but none of them felt convincing enough.
“You’re pathetic, Sinnick,” Freud said.
“It’s my upbringing, Freud. The time-keeping, the self-discipline, the law-abiding obedience, the fear of being smacked.”
“No-one cares anymore. Smacking has been outlawed. Discipline is a thing of the past. Relax.”
He pulled an old copy of Nursing Times from the pile beside the toilet and became engrossed in an article on childhood asthma. When he looked at his watch it was 9am. Then the phone rang.
“Where are you Doctor Sinnick?”
“Right this moment, Mrs. Pettifer, I’m attending to my morning ablutions.”
“What’s that noise?”
“Toast, Mrs. P. I like it cold, dark and crunchy. Why have you called?”
“Have you seen Polly-Anne’s eyelash?”
“Pardon me?”
"Polly-Anne. She's lost an eyelash. None of us can find it."
"An eyelash? For heaven's sake. Mine fall out every day. I don't go crawling around the floor looking for them."
"It's a L'Oreal one. You'd crawl around if it cost half your weekly salary,"
"Dear God! What in heaven's name is wrong with you women?"
"Excuse me, Doctor Sinnick, but can we not engage in yet more petty, sexist and unbecoming arguments? Have you seen her eyelash or not?”
“Unless it was that furry object, I tripped over outside the female staff toilet yesterday then no. Very sorry.”
“That would have been Bella’s lucky key ring.”
“Lucky for who, Mrs. P? It was like one of the fur balls my wife’s cats cough up. It was so big it caught in my trouser turnups and I almost fell into the clinical waste bin. By the way, before you ask, I’ll be in late today, Mrs, P. Things to do. You’re in charge.” He switched off.
“There,” said the familiar voice from his frontal lobe. “That’s the way to do it.”
By 11am Quentin was holding court on the bed in his room. Sinnick had declared his ankle was much improved but, in the interests of inviting compassion, advised a further period with his leg outstretched.
Sinnick was in the wheelchair, Charlie was cross-legged on the floor and Paddy was in the arm chair by the window next to a vase of wilting roses with the label ‘Welcome to Mrs. Ada Marples, from the Grey Gables team.’ When presented with it at breakfast on his first morning, Quentin had squeezed a tear and everyone with enough energy had clapped.
“Right then,” Quentin began. “Meeting timed at 11.28am. Subject: Proposed Purchase of Grey Gables. Pass me the water bottle, Charlie. And the pain killers by the flowers, Paddy. Oh, and the wheelchair cushion tucked behind you, Sinnick. Thanks. But, first of all, a quick summary of my recent experiences.”
Quentin edged himself into a sitting position, swallowed a few paracetamol tablets and began but, as always, was instantly distracted.
“Before you all ask,” he said, “It was me who won all ten of yesterday’s Bingo games. I’ve become used to allowing Elsie to win but she had another bout of Fook’s. Cyril didn’t compete because he was doing his accounts, Beatrice was in a day long sulk about the nuts on the bird feeding table, Peggy fell asleep and Mary was in one of her swearing moods because the tartan carpet reminded her of a boyfriend in the Highland Light Infantry who dumped her in 1952.”
“But did you win a prize?” Paddy enquired because he knew Quentin would expect to be asked.
“Don’t remind me. Paddy. I was unsure whether to brandish it above my head as if I’d won the Cup Final or hide it beneath my tweed skirt. In the end I did the latter.”
“What was it?”
Quentin sighed and shook his head.
“What was it? It was an object, hand made by someone with a particular skill in creating soft toys out of old wool and straw, but this highly accomplished craftsperson was clearly someone who had not followed trends in political correctness for at least thirty years. My prize, I regret to announce, was an object now associated with racial discrimination. You can imagine the fear that struck me that someone might take a quick snap on their phone and I’d be front page before the day was out.”
He shook his head again as the others waited patiently for enlightenment.
“You can have pink ones, blonde ones, brunette ones, plastic ones, rag ones, paper ones, ugly ones, ones born in cabbage patches and ones that sleep, wet themselves and cry out loud. You can own fluffy versions of nearly every species of animal that roams the earth. You can own pink horses with long hair and a million types of he bears and she bears. You can play with puppets on strings and fight battles with military action men and, if you so desire, you can even copulate with full size ones complete with every anatomical feature imaginable and no-one bats an eyelid. But not this one. Oh no.
“This one may have been perfectly gender neutral but in these enlightened times there’s no way you can own one with curly black hair, big red lips and a pair of startled eyes as big as dinner plates.”
“Don’t tell me!” said Sinnick. “Was it a golliwog, Quent?”
“Aaargh! Wash your mouth out, Sinnick. Shame on you, but you are right. Needless to say, I was so embarrassed in case I was reported to the Race Relations Board with all the implications for my hopes of re-election, that I immediately stuffed it inside my knickers where I could feel its mop of curly black hair clinging to my private parts. Strange feelings persisted for a while until I managed to dislodge it and felt it slide down to reappear at my knees smiling at everyone with its bright red lips.”
“Did anyone notice, Quent?”
“I don’t know. There was a repeat of X Factor on the TV and Mary was shouting abuse at it so I left them to it and limped up to see Cyril by holding it between my knees.”
“So where is it now?” Paddy asked.
Quentin shifted on the bed and pointed behind him “There,” he said.
And there it was, sitting, tucked up in bed, smiling with its little black head on the pillow and its tiny, white-gloved hands holding onto the blanket.
“I had a golly when I was six,” Quentin said, tenderly adjusting the blanket around its neck, “But I lost him. I left him on the bus. I was distraught.”
They all got up for a closer view of him from the bedside.
“Was your old one also gender-neutral, Quent?”
“How the hell should I know, Charlie. Gender wasn’t important when we were six. Neither should it be now. We were who we were. He was who he was. I called him Jambo because it sounded friendly and welcoming and it suited him. My sister had a sinister-looking white doll made of plastic with nylon hair, blue eyes and pouting lips. She called it Maddy but it looked more like a pubescent Dame Edna Everage. I suppose she was very fond of her Maddy but so was I was very fond of my Jambo. Surely that’s what was important.”
“What do you call this one, Quent?” Charlie asked.
“Jambo Two.”
Sinnick nodded and then took Jambo Two out and sat him on his lap. Charlie knelt down and smoothed his mop of curly black hair. Paddy pulled up his little pair of red shorts to ensure he kept his secret and then, after a minute or so, Sinnick tucked him back into bed.
“He just won’t sleep,” Quentin said sadly. “He just lies there watching me with his eyes open.”
“It’s called nocturnal lagophthalmos,” Sinnick said. “It’s surprisingly common. Poor little fellow. I could operate on him. A simple incision and some stitching would help but you’d have to pull his eyelids down every night.”
“That wouldn’t be a problem,” Quentin said.
And they all sighed and continued to look at Jambo for a while longer until:
“Right then, where were we?” Quentin said.
“Purchase of Grey Gables,” Charlie said.
“Oh yes.”
And they were back on track. The meeting continued.
“The current owners claim it’s not profitable enough,” Quentin said, “But if a ninety-four-year-old D Day veteran can make money living as an inmate why can’t the current management make a better job of it?”
“So, what’s he doing, Quent?” Sinnick asked.
“Keeping the residents happy,” Quentin said. “Products and services. It’s not just alcoholic drinks. He’s got contacts at other old people’s homes: bored old men, retired businessmen, shopkeepers, engineers, doctors and accountants who’ve still got energy and miss the cut and thrust. Cyril can do or supply anything as long as he gets paid. If money’s a problem he knows someone who’ll do things for free. One old fellow at Parklands Nursing Home had always wanted a red, white and blue punk haircut so Cyril sorted it. He gets deliveries in boxes marked Pampers and has even learned how to use a laptop despite his Parkinson’s.
“Point is, chaps, unlike the Grey Gables management who think it only necessary to organize Bingo games, pass the beach ball sessions and comedy nights where no-one laughs and where everyone falls asleep to old Val Doonican recordings, Cyril’s found a niche: an untapped market in understanding old people’s needs because he’s one himself. He’s a bundle of energy and an endless source of ideas.”
Sinnick sat up. “Has he found anyone to read to Edna? To listen to her? Someone who really cares?”
“I asked Cyril about Edna. He didn’t know anything about her. He says he’ll order her some audio books and……. But do you see? We could run Grey Gables differently, reorganize it and get the residents themselves involved in running their own home. We’ll make it cool. The place to retire to. We could even use the patio for jazz and rock n’ roll bands and Shakespeare performances and…...”
Since introducing Jambo, Quentin’s voice had been getting louder by the second.
“Led by Cyril’s example we’ll challenge the way these female-dominated care homes are run,” he now roared. “We must fight this prejudice and challenge these false notions that men cannot be trusted to care for old ladies who outlive us and then dominate these evil-smelling establishments with their sole objectives of perpetuating misery by keeping the old dears alive with contraptions like hoists, ulcer-inducing rubber mattresses and pathetic exercises involving beach balls, singsongs and Bingo.
“These depressing establishments must at long last see that it is men, pioneering visionaries like Cyril, who’ve got the ingenuity and fresh ideas to invigorate, change things and offer some quality of life for abandoned elderly, men and women alike. If the old ladies still require L’Oréal lipstick and nail varnish into their nineties – which I discovered they do - then who are we to deny them. If they need help to find some lost treasure from their past to press to their bosoms in their dying moments then we should help them, even if it means sifting through their many handbags and shoes still locked away in the boxes they arrived with.
“And if the old men need a cool haircut and a cheap bottle of Bell’s whisky or a few cases of Carling Black Label and Liebfraumilch for a party on the second floor why should it be denied? And if, during the party, they need to scatter the contents of a packet of Durex and their room keys on the floor as a sign to the tipsy and giggling old ladies then why not?”
By the time Quentin’s address had finally come to an end, Sinnick had leaped from the wheelchair, Paddy had knocked over the vase of roses and Charlie was punching the air.
And by afternoon, they’d bought an off the shelf, ready-made company called Silverways Limited. Sinnick had already enquired about changing its name to Silver Arches and Charlie had phoned the sales agent and started on a deeper financial investigation.
“Give me a week,” Charlie said. “And I’ll provide an easily understood report with recommendation just as I used to do for clients.”
Paddy was tasked to understand care home regulations and Sinnick, being the only one with a job, a pension and money in the bank made an appointment with his bank manager to look into borrowing.
Finally, Quentin said he had been hoping to remain for a few more days but his task was becoming difficult because Mrs Ricketts had confronted him over why he constantly left the toilet seat up and left drips on the floor. So, the next morning Quentin checked out carrying just one plastic bag of belongings.
On the doorstep, he shook Mrs Rickett’s hand. “Short but sweet, Mrs Ricketts,” he said in his normal deep baritone. “Thanks for having me.”
Mrs Ricketts massaged her almost broken fingers and looked up at him. “Mmm,” she said. “I can’t say I’m sorry to see you go. I’ll need to replace the bathroom carpet and I see you’ve left a case of Bollinger champagne under your bed. Goodbye Mrs Marples. Or should I say Mr Kelp.”
Quentin fled, leaving his wheelchair behind and holding up his knickers with one hand and his plastic bag, hat, wig and mobile phone in the other. At the gate, as arranged, PC Steve Perkins was waiting in his blue and yellow police car.
“If I may say so, you don’t look your usual breezy self, Quent,” he said as Quentin clambered in.
Quentin was biting his fingernails. “No,” he admitted. The stay had, quite unexpectedly, affected him. “I don’t want to grow old,” he added.
“Who does, Quent? Eyeopener was it?”
“Yes,” Quentin replied softly.
“Make any new friends?”
Yes,” he said with an unusually vivid memory of Mary swearing and hurling her slippers at the TV. ‘Fucking rubbish. Where’s the remote?”
Mary was right to get upset of course. Why should she have had to watch X Factor on the wide screen in the community lounge when she preferred watching rugby. Cyril liked rugby as well but Mrs Ricketts constantly switched the channels back again without asking.
And then there was Beatrice. He could hear her now, still talking about the bird table outside her window. “You see lots of nice birds, Beatrice?” he’d asked her thinking the question might pose a problem for her fading memory.
She’d told him off. “I’m Beaty,” she said sternly. “No-one ever called me Beatrice until I came here. I’ve always been Beaty, even when I was in Antarctica. There were two Beatys in the camp: Beaty Boswell and me, Beaty Brownhill.”
That had shocked him. “You were in Antarctica?” he’d asked.
“Head of Astronomy and Ornithology,” Beaty said. “Invented a star tracking device. Nice bit of kit. Now look at me. Daughter in Australia, son in Japan and me sat here because of my hip and problems with my ears and balance.”
“Does anyone ever talk to you about astronomy, Beaty?” Quentin had asked her.
She’d shaken her head. “When I came here and told Mrs Ricketts I was an astronomer she asked me if I could be Grey Gable’s fortune teller.”
Quentin had almost cried then. If he’d known anything about astronomy, or even astrology, he might have engaged in conversation but he was hard pressed even to identify Jupiter or Saturn in the night sky.
Slumped in the back of the car, Quentin took a deep breath. “There were a few lighter moments, I suppose,” he said.
Steve started the engine. “When were they then, Quent?”
“I heard two old ladies, Joyce and Patsy talking about their dead husbands,” Quentin said.
Steve waited, watching Quentin in the mirror. He was he still holding tightly onto his plastic bag. “Go on Quent. What happened?”
Quentin sniffed. “Joyce said her husband used to chew his nails and it was very annoying. Patsy then said that her husband also used to do that. They both agreed it was extremely annoying so Patsy asked Joyce what she did to stop him.” Quentin sniffed again.
“So how, Quent - how did she stop him biting his nails?”
“She used to hide his teeth,” Quentin said and then he curled up on the back seat with Jambo Two and tried not to cry.