The Nurse(26)

Her face was a picture and I struggled to keep from grinning like a naughty child. Really, I wasn’t asking for much, but I knew, and she knew, it would undermine her authority to be seen to be giving me preferential treatment. Sadly, she didn’t have a choice.

There was no reason to wait for an answer, I had all the negotiating advantages after all, so I stood. ‘I’ll leave it with you then, eh?’

I closed the door gently behind me and went off for my lunch break. I wasn’t planning to rush back.

For the remainder of my time in the hospital, it amused me to push Pippa as far as I could. I took longer and longer breaks, took a sick day off each week, and generally did what I wanted. Luckily for Pippa, who had developed an obvious tremor when I was in her vicinity, this leeway didn’t satisfy my creeping dissatisfaction. A month after our arrangement began, I handed in my notice and took a position with a private nursing agency.





19





Creeping dissatisfaction was one reason I decided to leave the hospital. The other reason, as it always was, was money. The care home where my mother languished had changed hands two years before. The change of ownership coincided with the last of her money and the necessity for the state to step in and provide for her care. Or at least, the sum they considered acceptable. That it wasn’t sufficient to pay for the care where she was, was immaterial. The last of her savings paid the difference – the top-up fee – and her expenses for a year. After that, I had a choice, pay the sum myself or move her to a different home.

My thoughts on this hadn’t changed over the years, rather they had become more rigid. My mother would stay where she was. Initially, the top-up fee was set at £100 and wasn’t too burdensome. The following year, it jumped to £200. Still not too onerous. Unfortunately, when the home was taken over by a huge private care provider, this doubled to £400.

‘There are cheaper homes,’ Jason Brooks said when he rang me to discuss the matter.

There were. I’d looked at some of them. ‘No, I’ll cope, don’t worry.’ He no longer managed my mother’s affairs, but he kept in touch, and was happy to offer me his advice. Luckily, free of charge. I think he thought of himself as a father figure. I suppose he was. But not like mine – the solicitor was honest.

I could have stayed in the hospital, applied for promotion, worked extra hours. More nights, more weekends. I could have; instead, I left and joined the nursing agency where the pay was better, and I could work what hours I wanted to make the income I needed.

I lived in a small studio apartment near the hospital. I’d learned to drive and used Mother’s car for a few years, but when it started to give trouble, I decided to get rid of it. It was only a five-minute walk to the hospital, it seemed to make sense. I considered buying another car when I joined the agency, but they insisted there were plenty of nursing homes in and around Bath that I could get to by bus.

Some of the places required a bit of a walk. It didn’t bother me; I liked the fresh air before and after being shut up for hours with sick or elderly people. The only day I had a problem with was on Sunday when the bus timetable ignored those who needed to be somewhere early. My solution to that dilemma was simple, I didn’t work an early shift that day.

Some months, I had a surfeit of jobs to choose from, allowing me to be picky as to which shifts I took. Other months, I had to take what I was given. I didn’t have the luxury to turn down work. The £400 a month I needed to pay the care home was a big chunk out of my salary, but it wasn’t the only expenditure. There were all the little extras my mother required: the hairdressing, manicures, chiropody, toiletries and clothes.

The rent on my studio apartment in Bath, despite its small size, took most of what was left. It was convenient when I was working in the nearby hospital but now it made sense to move out of the city to find something cheaper. Not bigger though, I liked my accommodation to be small, cosy. Almost womblike.

Apart from accommodation, I lived frugally. The navy polyester tunics and trousers I wore for work were hard-wearing and rarely needed replacing. The remainder of my clothes came from charity shops. The only thing I spent money on was shoes. Comfortable laced ones for work, sturdier ones for walking.

With the decision to move from Bath made, I spent a couple of weeks searching for suitable accommodation. Since I wasn’t interested in sharing with anyone, or renting a room in a multi-occupancy house, my options soon dwindled. Further, and further I went until, almost to my amusement, I ended up back where I’d started. In Bathford. The other end of the village from where I’d grown up.

I’d almost given up hope when I saw the advert on the noticeboard in my local Co-op. The tatty piece of paper with the corners curling and the telephone number barely legible probably put off a lot of people. It might have done me, except by that stage I was desperate. The information provided was basic:

Small studio apartment for rent. No children. No animals.





No indication as to cost. More annoyingly, no reference as to where it was.

The advert had obviously been there a long time. Unsurprising really. I took a photo and when I got outside, rang the number. It was answered almost immediately with a gruff curt, ‘What?’

Charming! ‘Hi. My name is Lissa McColl. I’m enquiring about your advert. For the apartment,’ I added when the silence lingered.