mean that no one has to be isolated if she’s not feeling well enough to be downstairs with everyone else.
Maggie’s not interested in being with everyone else. She lives in her room. Which is why the women are creeping towards it like they’re about to spot a unicorn.
Nick knocks gently on the door. ‘Maggie? It’s only Nick. May I come in?’
When he puts a steadying hand on my shoulder, I want to lean into him. Of course, I don’t do that. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind. It’s just not appropriate anymore.
‘Come!’ Maggie orders.
With the ladies so keen to get a good look at Maggie, we all nearly fall through the door.
‘To what do I owe this… visit?’ she asks from her deep blue velvet sofa. Though her voice isn’t loud, it won’t be ignored. She holds herself so upright that she could be wearing a back brace. Her narrow, regal face barely moves when she speaks. It’s unnerving, like suddenly having a marble statue demand what you think you’re doing in its museum.
She’s dressed as usual in swingy black wide-legged trousers, like they used to wear in the seventies. As a rare fashion concession to Mum, I once tried on a pair of M&S ones. I looked like an extra-wide loft board standing on end, but Maggie has the tall, slender figure to pull them off. They swirl around her legs as she re-crosses them. Her blouse is perfectly pressed, white and stiff. Much like the woman herself. Everything about Maggie seems metallic, from her short iron-grey hair to her steely blue eyes to her cold, imperious voice that can cut you in half.
The only hint that she might have a softer side – possibly only seen under a microscope – is the selection of long, flowy brightly patterned silk cardigans that she always wears over her trousers and top, with the most gorgeous floral lapis lazuli brooch pinned on. It’s always the same blue one.
Laney is sitting in the stiff reading chair facing the sofa. ‘Oh, hello,’ she says. When she smiles, a few of the women wave back at her.
‘Maybe you should wait outside?’ I suggest, gently pushing them back over the threshold. Maggie’s fridge face has turned to deep freeze. ‘We were just looking for Laney,’ I say to Maggie.
‘I’m here!’ Laney sings, grinning and squeezing her shoulders to her ears. Her tawny brown eyes are creased in a smile, as usual, as if she’s eager to hear the most hilarious punchline. She and Maggie couldn’t be more opposite. Where Maggie is sharp-edged, Laney is soft, though she’s not fat. Everything about her oozes warmth, from the top of her head – she wears her hair in short wavy golden-brown layers – to the tips of her toes, poking out from the bottoms of her frayed jeans and shod in shiny blue Converse high-tops.
‘You’ve got your mobile off, Laney,’ says Nick. ‘We were getting worried. We thought you might have run away.’
Her smile disappears. ‘Oh, is my phone off? I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to worry anyone. I’d never run away from here! Not in a million years.’
The women behind us, who are still jostling in the doorway for a good look, all start murmuring.
‘Run away from here? Who’d want to do that?’
‘All my friends… Love you—’
‘I can’t imagine—’
‘They’ll take me away from here in a box—’
‘I was just…’ Laney’s eyes search the ceiling for the answer. ‘I guess I got distracted. I am sorry.’
‘But why would you…’ want to be with Maggie? I start to ask. I can’t keep the surprise out of my voice, but Maggie is tetchy enough without hinting that it would take wild horses to drag me to her room, so I don’t finish. ‘As long as you’re okay,’ I say instead. ‘We’ll leave you to your visit.’
‘I’m quite tired, actually,’ Maggie says, as something catches her eye out the tall sash window beside her. ‘That man! You!’ She raps on the window. ‘You there, stop it!’
I go to see what’s wrong, even though I think I know. ‘Terence!’ I fling open the window. ‘Terence, we see you.’
‘Not again,’ Nick says.
‘In the rhododendron bushes this time,’ I say. ‘We’ve warned you, Terence. I’m telling Max! That’s not hygienic.’
‘I was going to give those a trim today too,’ Nick grumps.
Terence flips me two fingers from where he’s standing in the border. He doesn’t even bother doing up his flies first. Then, relieved, he saunters back to his cottage. His thick, beige button-up cardigan hangs loose from his shoulders and goes nearly to his knees. I often wonder whether it originally belonged to his wife. He’s always in rumpled beige cotton trousers, one of those checked shooting shirts and scruffy trainers. A casual observer (who hadn’t just seen him wee into the bushes) might mistake him for a kindly grandad.
‘That man needs to be put down,’ Maggie says. ‘It would be the kindest thing.’ Then she rubs her temples. ‘Laney can go back downstairs with you now.’
Just like that. I’d like to tell Maggie where to get off, dismissing Laney like the dog she just called Terence. But Laney isn’t offended, so I keep my mouth shut. ‘Oh, right, well, Maggie, I’ll see you later.’
‘Cook,’ Maggie says as I turn to leave. She knows my name perfectly well. But no, I’m just the domestic help to her. She calls June ‘Manageress’ and Nick is simply ‘you’. ‘Don’t bother with supper tonight,’ she continues. ‘I won’t be hungry. I’ll have breakfast as usual tomorrow. One hard-boiled egg, please.’
I bob my usual curtsy. It’s completely ironic, but it doesn’t faze her.
Everyone sucks up to Maggie around here. That’s because she’s the only resident who pays full price. That also means she gets the biggest room, since the servants’ quarters were turned into suites before I started work here. Although in an old house like this, all the bedrooms are spacious enough for a bed and a little seating area. Maggie also gets to have her meals in her room instead of down in the dining room with everyone else. We’d kick up a fuss about it, but that would only backfire. Then we’d have to spend more time with her. This way, everyone is reasonably happy. Max gets his money, Maggie remains a recluse, and the residents don’t have the Ice Queen with them at mealtimes.
We might never know what made Laney want to go see Maggie when, for everyone else, facing her means drawing the short straw. Laney’s mind works in very mysterious ways.
It’s not dementia or Alzheimer’s. Otherwise Laney might have to go to a nursing home, where they’ve got specialist medical care. We’re more of a tea-and-sympathy type set-up around here. There is round-the-clock help with cleaning, dressing and that sort of thing for those who need it, and the carers keep track of everyone’s medication. Though personal care assistants aren’t exactly sought-after well-paid jobs, so there’s a high turnover amongst the staff. It’s June, Nick and I who really try to make it feel stable and homely here.
At first glance we probably look like an ordinary care home. We’ve got handrails, call buttons and shower seats, but the residents don’t all need care in the traditional, council-approved sense of the word. The women range in age between
