Paradise Lodge Page 27

  ‘Where’s the groom?’ shouted Mrs Longlady, as if she were a firm friend of the couple. ‘He’s needed to cut the cake and make a joint wish for the future.’

  ‘He’s popped away to the laundry depot,’ said my sister.

  ‘Popped away,’ said Mrs Longlady, ‘from his new bride, for the cutting of the cake? It’s a most significant ceremony.’

  ‘Yes,’ said my sister, ‘but yours isn’t the official wedding cake anyway, so don’t worry.’

  My mother did the honours with Mrs Longlady’s cake and made the first cut with Little Jack—who was glad to step in, seeing as he’d been denied giving her away—and our mother made a wish on behalf of herself and Mr Holt but ruined it by blurting it out, which made it unlikely to come true because it should have remained a secret in their hearts, apparently.

  ‘I’ve wished for harmony,’ she said and hearing the word I glanced at Mike Yu, Harmony being the name of the narrowboat we’d admired on our romantic towpath walks—and I’d gone as far as imagining us navigating Foxton Locks and photographing each other struggling with the heavy mechanisms. Mike Yu didn’t glance at me. Harmony meant nothing to him.

  I helped Mrs Longlady cut the Chocca-Chocca cake into tiny cubes and wrap each one in kitchen paper to hand out to guests. And though it was a cheek—putting her cake up as the official wedding cake when my sister’s Battenberg heart was there on the table surrounded by Sally-Anne’s sickly cup cakes—it felt good, someone that horrible being nice and taking the marriage seriously, and we took the Battenberg heart home to have as a family.

  And then Melody was there and to my relief was exactly as nice as she’d always been. And even though she was wearing a genuine dog’s collar that she’d got from the pet shop near the Odeon, she looked quite nice with eyeliner and black lipstick and she’d bought my mother a lovely wedding present of a book of love poems written by a Chilean politician. She told my mother she remembered her and Mr Holt first meeting and said things that were both romantic and sensible at the same time and then she told my mother she admired her. I felt proud to be friends with Melody that day and vowed to fix our friendship asap.

  33. The Entertainers

  At 3 p.m. precisely—as per the agreed schedule—Mike Yu appeared in white pyjamas and a black belt ready to begin his kung fu demo and dance. Eileen banged a cup with a spoon and announced that Mike Yu and Miranda Longlady—senior nursing auxiliary—would perform an ancient Chinese folk tale, and that anyone who’d rather hear her talk on bowel health should go next door to the morning room. There was some mumbling but no one moved, guests and patients alike were intrigued by Mike—in his outfit—standing there, trancelike, with such dignity, looking like a warrior of peace.

  It was about to begin—Sally-Anne was just about to press ‘Play’ on the Panasonic—when the rumble of Big Smig’s Kawasaki Z1B 900 broke the mood and Miranda rushed from the room.

  ‘Hang on,’ she called back, ‘don’t start the demo yet, it’s Big Smig.’

  The Kawasaki appeared on the patio and its throbbing engine made some of the ladies tremble and put their hands to their lips in fear.

  ‘What is it?’ they asked. ‘Who is it?’

  And Sally-Anne spoke, ‘It’s Miranda’s boyfriend, Big Smig.’

  Mr Simmons said, ‘Sounds like a Hell’s Angel.’

  ‘Oh, no, he’s a smashing lad,’ said Mrs Longlady.

  But the words ‘Hell’s Angel’ hung in the room and we all looked at Mike Yu, who seemed ready to defend us.

  ‘Switch the fucking engine off!’ Carla B shouted. ‘We’re waiting for the kung fu dance.’

  Big Smig cut the engine after a flourish. He dismounted and, leaving the Kawasaki centre-stage, strode through the French windows into the day room wearing Belstaffs and a full-face helmet. He looked like an alien intruder who wanted to force us all into his spaceship and the room was silent and terrified. Even Mrs Longlady looked perturbed.

  He took the helmet off and tousled his hair with his free hand and suddenly he was just a handsome young man with freckles and a chipped front tooth, not unlike Huckleberry Finn or Tom Sawyer or some other nice American boy who you can probably trust. Miranda rushed up to greet him and it was easy to see that he’d parked his car in her garage and Mike Yu stood there, feet slightly apart in the position of readiness.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Big Smig, ‘silly me—I thought it was time for us.’

  Miranda stood beside Smig. ‘I’m not doing the kung fu dance, Mike,’ she said.

  Mike Yu looked downcast but seemed to accept it. The room groaned. Mike nodded and stepped forward. ‘I will give you a modern, kung fu interpretation of The Weaver Girl and the Cowherd—a Chinese folk tale about the love between Zhinü, the weaver girl, and Niulang, the cowherd. Their love was not allowed, and they were banished to opposite sides of the Silver River. But once a year hundreds of magpies would flock together, wing-to-wing, to form a bridge to reunite the lovers for one day.’ He paused, then said, ‘I will do my best on my own.’

  Before he could begin Miss Tyler interrupted excitedly to tell the audience she had a serving platter depicting this very tale.

  Sally-Anne pressed ‘Play’ and ‘Kung Fu Fighting’ filled the room. Mike Yu began, there in the middle of the day room, a routine of kung fu moves perfectly in time with the music. And after a bit of a nervous start, the audience were soon clapping to the beat.

  Mike performed alone until Sally-Anne joined in. The audience made noises of approval. Biting her lip from shyness, she sort of karate-chopped the air and you might have thought she was a terrific actor, looking all modest and anxious like a weaver girl might have and glancing over at Mr and Mrs Yu who were sitting in a corner, but I knew she was just being herself and it was a lucky coincidence. And I’m not being mean when I state that Mike would have been better off alone, looking the part and doing very good moves.

  The kung fu demo and dance was a huge success, though, and the whole room clapped like mad. Even Miranda, who rushed to take over the Panasonic, was clapping and smiling. Then there was much clanking and whirring as she searched for the music track she wanted.

  ‘That was great,’ said Eileen, banging a cup with a spoon again. ‘Thank you, thank you, Mike and Sally-Anne.’

  Sally-Anne stood beside Eileen and, speaking clearly, said, ‘His name is Jiao-Long.’

  ‘Oh, righto,’ said Eileen, ‘thank you to Jiao-Long and Sally-Anne.’ And, then, consulting her schedule, ‘Now, I think Miranda Longlady, senior nursing auxiliary here at Paradise Lodge, will perform “Motor Biking” with Big Smig.’

  Big Smig remounted the Kawasaki and started it up, ‘Motor Biking’ blasted out of the Panasonic and Big Smig sped off towards the summer house. He then performed a turn so sharp, gravel cascaded from his sliding rear tyre and his knee almost touched the ground. Everyone gasped.

  He came past the French windows again and did a small wheelie and was then out of sight briefly. To everyone’s delight, he reappeared and rolled slowly past with Miranda, in hot pants, riding pillion, kneeling behind him, waggling her feet. Again they went out of sight and then reappeared, this time with Miranda standing up behind Big Smig. This caused gasps and clapping. The motorbike disappeared again for quite some time, finally reappearing with Miranda standing on her head behind Big Smig. She then jumped down and into a cartwheel and Big Smig roared off at high speed and didn’t come back. The effect was slightly spoilt by the fact that the audience kept thinking he was about to reappear, and then a car would drive past in the lane and you’d hear Miss Boyd say, ‘Here he is.’ And so that went on until Eileen suggested it was time for Carla B’s party games.

  Musical chairs was set up and played but lacked the enthusiasm and chaos usually associated with the game and Carla B moved swiftly on to ‘pin the tail on the donkey’. And then it was time for another cup of tea and a talk from Miss Tyler entitled ‘My Life at Paradise Lodge’.

  Mike Yu played his thumb piano and explained the
workings of it to some of the more technically minded patients. I was scheduled to do a backbend into crab and kick-over but the length and narrowness of my bridesmaid’s dress made it impractical so we went straight to Sue jumping out of the window and Mindy Banks’ nephew singing ‘Wings Of A Dove’ rather beautifully. I wished he were going to sing the Miserere mei, Deus after all, the mood I was in.

  The open day drew to a close and there were only a few patients still awake, and a couple of stragglers, when Miranda entered the day room and gave Sally-Anne a bitchy look. Sally-Anne, unusually bold, asked Miranda what her problem was. Miranda replied that she didn’t have a problem—and what was her problem?

  Sally-Anne said she didn’t have a problem and reminded Miranda that she’d asked her first. There was a lot of loud talking about which one of them might or might not have a problem when Miranda suddenly remembered she did have a problem.

  ‘Oh, yes, I do have a problem,’ she said, ‘that you stole my boyfriend.’

  ‘I didn’t mean to steal Jiao-Long,’ said Sally-Anne, ‘he came to me.’

  ‘Bollocks,’ said Miranda.

  ‘He doesn’t fancy you.’

  There were gasps at that.

  ‘You what?’ said Miranda.

  ‘He’s never fancied you,’ said Sally-Anne, in her quiet voice.

  ‘Yes, he has,’ said Miranda, furious.

  ‘So, how come you never had intercourse?’ said Sally-Anne.

  ‘Who says we never?’ asked Miranda.

  ‘You did,’ I said, wearily, ‘you said Mike wanted to walk through the forest on foot, remember, and see all the dewdrops etc.’

  Miranda stormed out of the room.

  A few of us, including my mother, sat chatting in the kitchen. Sister Saleem came in, flopped into a chair dramatically and beamed. It had been a very successful afternoon.

  ‘I think that went well,’ she said.

  The owner said he supposed so, except he’d been on tenterhooks all afternoon waiting for the Attenboroughs to pop back—he’d been longing to speak to Dickie about The Bridge on the River Kwai. And Sister Saleem put her hand out and told him not to be silly and he put his hand on her hand.

  ‘We didn’t need the Attenboroughs,’ she said, and put her other hand on top of his hand, and we all stared at their hands. ‘We’re on the map.’

  Mr Holt arrived in the van to take us home and tooted outside. Jack got up to go and my mother told him we’d be out in a minute. She thanked Sister Saleem and the owner for sharing the open day with her and Mr Holt, and then she added her hand to the pile of their hands and it was all very affectionate. Sister Saleem said some things about my sister and me—praising our niceness and our invaluable contribution to Paradise Lodge etc.—and my mother said it was lovely to hear but she wished I wouldn’t work there quite so often and that I’d go to school more. I basked in these two women talking and worrying about me—as any normal fifteen-year-old would.

  Then, as we got up to go, my mother told Sister Saleem how she’d very nearly not recognized Matron when she’d delivered towels to St Mungo’s shelter, because she’d been wearing slacks.

  Sister Saleem and I leapt up in shock.

  34. The Travellin’ Man

  We drove into Leicester in Sister Saleem’s Daf Variomatic. It was slow and had no radio but the highest-pitched engine I’d ever known, so that by the time we’d reached our destination we were all on edge. Sister and I went into the hostel and the owner waited in the car because of the parking situation. Sister, still in her yellow ensemble, and me, in my bridesmaid’s dress and tiara.

  Inside, Sister Saleem spoke to a staff member.

  ‘My name is Sister Saleem and this is my colleague. We’re looking for Maria Moran, she’s a nursing matron and may be wearing uniform,’ she said, ‘navy blue.’

  ‘Or possibly slacks,’ I added.

  The staff member said they’d had a number of enquiries regarding a Maria Moran and I said, ‘Yes, that was me enquiring—we still haven’t found her.’

  ‘I’m sorry, we can’t help you. According to our records, Maria Moran isn’t here and never has been,’ said the staff member.

  Sister Saleem was forceful. ‘Actually, someone saw her here a couple of days ago.’

  ‘Really?’ said the staff member. ‘We’ve had only two new residents recently—one, a male, from Nottingham and the other, a female, from London, I believe.’ He consulted a ledger and whispered, ‘a Bridget Monaghan.’

  ‘Oh, my God, Bridget Monaghan! She’s the owner’s distant cousin,’ I shouted.

  The staff member said he’d go and tell Bridget we were here, but it was up to her whether or not she wanted to see us—in his experience these situations could be difficult. As he walked away, Sister whispered that we should say nothing about the Bridget Monaghan thing for the time being and leave it to the solicitor.

  ‘We shouldn’t jump the gun, Lis,’ she said.

  Her English was really coming on, I thought.

  Matron appeared in the foyer looking grumpy and self-conscious. She was wearing slacks and a St Michael blouse I recognized as Miss Brixham’s.

  ‘Wow,’ I said, ‘I hardly recognized you.’

  Matron made a joke about Sister Saleem’s Syreeta hairstyle. Sister told her gently that Lady Briggs had died. Matron paused for a moment, ‘So, is that what you’ve come for? To tell me that Lady Briggs has died?’

  ‘We’ve come to take you home, Matron,’ said Sister.

  Matron reminded Sister that she’d sacked her and she was no longer Matron. And Sister Saleem reminded Matron that she had never been Matron, if she was going be argumentative.

  ‘I sacked you for gross negligence,’ said Sister. ‘You left a vulnerable patient in a sheep field, remember.’

  The member of staff looked up from his desk.

  ‘He isn’t vulnerable, he’s a spoilt old bastard,’ said Matron.

  ‘I sacked you, but I didn’t throw you out into the street,’ said Sister. ‘I made it clear you were entitled to keep your room until you sorted out somewhere to live.’

  ‘Yes, and I sorted out here,’ said Matron, ‘and it’s fine.’

  ‘Are you coming home?’ asked Sister Saleem.

  Matron shrugged. The member of staff looked up again.

  ‘Are you coming or not?’ I asked. ‘I want to see my mum off on her honeymoon.’

  Matron toddled off and reappeared, struggling with her Teasmade and a small bag. I travelled with her and Sister Saleem back to Paradise Lodge in You Jolly Fucker, which had two parking tickets on the windscreen and a note saying the car was in danger of being towed away unless it was moved within forty-eight hours. Sister asked me to go with the owner in the Daf because he was on his own. I refused, saying I never wanted to go in the Daf ever again.

  Back at Paradise Lodge, the owner phoned to ask Jeremy Hughes if he’d mind popping in, to speak to Matron/Bridget Monaghan.

  I’d missed seeing my mother and Mr Holt off, so I rang The Bell Inn, Moreton-in-Marsh, where they were staying the night and having dinner. Miraculously I was put through to their room and had a chat with my mother while Mr Holt had a bath. I told her we’d got Matron back and hurriedly explained about Matron turning out to (possibly, probably) be the woman to whom Lady Briggs had willed a cottage. My mother was very excited and sent a message of congratulations.

  ‘We haven’t told her yet,’ I said, ‘just in case.’

  My mother understood and said also it might come as a huge shock and that we should be prepared for ructions. ‘It’ll be like winning a competition she didn’t know she’d entered,’ she said, ‘she could have a heart attack.’

  When Jeremy Hughes the solicitor arrived that evening, he went straight into the owner’s nook with the owner and Matron and broke the news about Lady Briggs bequeathing the cottage. No messing about or coffee and Coffee-Mate. You could tell he wanted to get it over with and get home for his dinner, and fair enough—it was Saturday night and I
bet they were having a steak. He was the type.

  Sister Saleem, Eileen and I eavesdropped and were ready for ructions.

  ‘… to live in for your lifetime, after which it will revert back to the Anderssen estate, and furthermore you may live on the proceeds therefrom, should you need further accommodation,’ rambled Jeremy Hughes in legal jargon.

  ‘So, I can live in it, and then what?’ asked Matron.

  ‘You can move out and live somewhere else on the rental proceeds—a nursing home, for instance—should you so wish,’ said the owner, ‘or need.’

  ‘Do you think I could have one of the flats instead?’ Matron asked. And Jeremy Hughes said no, he didn’t think she could.

  I broke away from the other eavesdroppers and went into the nook with the three of them. I wanted to sort something out.

  ‘Matron,’ I said, ‘did you know Lady Briggs was the owner’s mother?’

  I said it very clearly because I was certain Matron would not be able to comprehend the question.

  ‘Of course I did,’ she said, ‘didn’t you?’

  ‘No, I didn’t.’

  ‘What was all that grovelling for, then?’ she said.

  Jeremy Hughes looked at his watch and I left them to it. I hated Matron.

  Afterwards, when Jeremy Hughes had gone, we celebrated Matron’s return and her good news with a cup of coffee and rum. Staff and patients (some in their nightgowns) wandered in to welcome her home and hear her tales of running away, which had apparently started when she was a teenager. We had to listen to quite a bit of historical stuff and some obvious lies before she reached the most recent adventure.

  It felt as though the day had gone on and on forever—even writing it, it seems impossible—and I longed to get home but Gordon and Mindy Banks had called in and Gordon was quite emotional so I stayed. ‘Paradise Lodge wasn’t the same without you,’ he said, with great meaning. But Matron still had no respect since seeing him washing his car in the Marigolds, and she just shrugged.

  ‘I heard you stole old Bert’s car,’ chuckled Gordon, meaning You Jolly Fucker.