the sake of cordiality, Maura caved in and took the baby wipes. No wonder the salary for this job had been so generous. She assumed it was Dr Moss who had wanted private nursing care; he must have known that whoever he hired would have their work cut out. If the bastard had asked for her by name, she would make him pay. They had never seen eye to eye and his presence in the house earlier had felt like much more than a coincidence. She didn’t know who she was most angry with, herself or Dr Moss.
Gordon stood patiently and compliantly while Maura stripped him of his trousers and underpants, a smile of victory playing around his mouth. She asked him to step out of his wet clothes and he did so without complaint, holding on to Cheryl’s shoulders while she looked away in disgust. The only frisson of trouble occurred when Maura pulled a few baby wipes from the packet and asked him to clean himself up. He hesitated, looked confused, then angry. ‘I do not do these things for myself,’ he said with more coherence and pomposity than she’d expected from a man who was supposedly terminally demented.
‘And I don’t get paid to do things for people who are perfectly capable of doing them for themselves, Mr Henderson.’ She held the wipes out. He stared at them for a moment, glowered at her, then took them and did as he was asked.
It was a dance, a setting out of the rules of engagement, and it happened with everyone. Maura was used to it, wise to it, and, nine times out of ten, could outstep the opposition in three moves flat. With Gordon Henderson it just took the two, but there was a good chance he would muster and try it on again. She wasn’t being cruel, far from it. Despite her feelings about the Grange and its owner, she’d be a poor carer if she did too much for him. The goal was independence and her job was to help him maintain it.
She helped him into his clothes while Cheryl fetched tea and he was as docile as a lamb the whole time. Once she’d got him settled in his chair she sat down opposite him. ‘So, Mr Henderson, is there any particular reason you couldn’t make it to the toilet?’
He looked away from her and mumbled something she couldn’t quite make out. ‘I didn’t quite hear you.’
‘I said I find you very rude.’
‘And I find you very difficult, Mr Henderson, so we can either battle it out while we both have a really horrible time or we can call a truce and try and work with each other – what’s it to be?’
‘If either of us lasts that long,’ he said, avoiding her gaze. She was in no mood for amateur dramatics and chose to ignore him, busying herself tidying the dirty clothes. Feeding into it would do neither of them any good.
By the time Cheryl had come back with his tea – weak, splash of milk and precisely a quarter level teaspoon of sugar – he seemed to have got the measure of Maura and decided to play ball. For now.
According to Cheryl’s crib sheet, Gordon normally took a nap after his afternoon cuppa, so they left him to doze in his armchair.
As they walked back to the kitchen, Maura asked Cheryl what had happened to Miss Hall. ‘Daft old bat took a tumble down the stairs, broke her hip, bashed her face into the newel post and bust her jaw, according to Dr Moss,’ Cheryl said, painting the picture for Maura. ‘Nasty do, I reckon. Mind you, it isn’t half quiet round here without her – quite demanding is our Miss Hall.’
Maura seized her chance. ‘I don’t know of any local GPs of that name. The only Dr Moss I know is a consultant in psychiatry.’
‘Yes, that’s him. He’s their doctor, has been for years. They go private, see?’
It seemed an odd set-up to Maura. OK, all psychiatrists had to have basic medical training before they specialised, but it was the first time she’d heard of one dealing with general medicine privately. ‘They don’t have contact with a local GP?’
Cheryl paused by the door and turned to Maura, a puzzled look on her face. ‘Why would they? There’s no need. Dr Moss takes care of everything for them.’
Maura could bet he did, and no doubt he billed them handsomely for it. He was notoriously flash, which was why she’d been surprised not to see his sleek Lexus parked outside.
They made for the kitchen via the bloody baize door and all it represented. Maura knew she was about to be abandoned and the thought filled her with the kind of anxiety she hadn’t felt since she was a child.
‘Right, that’s me done for the day. I’ll be back in the morning at nine so all you have to do is make his porridge like I told you, and don’t forget he likes his toast with the crusts cut off. Don’t forget his cocoa at nine-thirty, and his hot water bottle, and I need to give you the key for the medicine cupboard,’ she said, slipping her arms into a faded blue mac. ‘His pills come in one of those reminder thingies, so all you have to do is dole them out in the right colour order – don’t get them mixed up or he’ll refuse to take them. And make sure the old sod doesn’t palm them or hide them under his tongue – he’s a bugger for that and a nightmare if he doesn’t take them.’
Maura nodded and held her hand out for the small key that Cheryl had taken from the bunch in her pocket. Abrasive though the woman had been at times, Maura felt a ripple of trepidation at the thought of her departure and the prospect of being left alone in the house. None of it had turned out as she had expected: the house was a maze, the patient was a nightmare and, despite the new housing estate being less than a quarter of a mile away in any direction, she felt as though she might as well have been abandoned in some remote castle in the middle of nowhere. ‘Who do I contact if anything goes wrong or there’s a problem?’
Cheryl looked heavenwards in a gesture that smacked of sheer despair and judgement. ‘There’s a list of phone numbers stuck on the side of the fridge. Don’t call me because I won’t come out at night. If anything goes wrong with him just call the doctor. If it’s anything else you can call Bob, the gardener and odd-job man – lives in a bungalow at the bottom of the orchard. He’ll come out if you need him. Just stick to what you’ve been told, don’t go poking around, and nothing will go wrong.’
Maura glanced at the list and wondered whose name had been scribbled out and why they were no longer a contact. The paper itself was old, yellowed and curling at the edges, yet the name and number had been obliterated recently judging by the bright colour of the pen marks. It seemed someone had fallen out of favour. She contemplated ringing Bob to see if he wanted to come and keep her company, which was an utterly ridiculous idea and more pathetic than she wanted to admit. The sound of his name, its ordinariness, had implied something comforting, something normal, something she instinctively felt was rare in the Grange. ‘Thanks, Cheryl, I appreciate your help.’
Cheryl gave her a brief nod and a “huh” then left unceremoniously. Leaving Maura standing in the brightly lit kitchen, hugging herself and wondering what on earth she was going to do until Gordon needed something and she had a purpose again.
Without Cheryl’s shrill voice to dominate her attention, the house was far from silent. In fact, now she was listening, it seemed to be cracking its knuckles and flexing its muscles through a series of creaks and groans, as if it was getting ready to tussle with her. The Grange struck her as a place where it would be easy to lose your sense of self and your grip on real time. It was old and grudging, full of dogged antiquity in the form of ancient furniture, faded formality and pointless knick-knacks. Maura hadn’t paid detailed attention to them but she knew they were there, oozing claustrophobia and gloom. The place felt as though it was stuffed to the gills with the collected kitsch of generations and all those long-dead Hendersons still making their presence felt, lurking in the shadows and breathing down her neck.
Maura
