The Nurse(51)

‘I don’t know what’s going on!’ Jolene’s voice, high and whiney. ‘I don’t make drug errors. I’m very careful. If there was an error, it was down to the disorganisation of the drug trolley. A total mess.’

Stefan walked to the entrance door, pressed the code to release it and pushed it open. ‘You know the old saying, a poor workman blames his tools. You made a serious error. I’ll be having words with your agency and will be reporting the error to the NMC.’

He was too professional to slam the door in her wake; I wasn’t and punched the air in satisfaction before returning quickly to my seat. The Nursing and Midwifery Council took any breach of their code seriously and medication errors were dealt with severely. Jolene would be struck off the nursing register. Patients and residents, anyone unfortunate enough to have been in her care, would be a little safer.

Stefan was very apologetic. ‘It shouldn’t have happened and thank goodness you were here today and noticed.’ He pressed his lips together. Jolene’s supposed crime reflected poorly on him and on the home. ‘You have our apologies and assurance this won’t happen again.’

It was an assurance he shouldn’t make. Unfortunately, mistakes did happen, medication errors were made. Usually, they had no repercussions. A lack of care, however, was a different matter. It would be a while before I could forget poor Mr Wallace.

‘I’ve always been happy with the care here. I’m sure it won’t change.’ I’d make damn sure it wouldn’t. ‘It was a once-off accident, Stefan, please, think no more of it. I’m impressed you acted so swiftly.’ More than impressed, I was delighted.

I was back with my mother just as one of the dining room staff was walking towards her room with her supper tray.

‘A bit late today,’ she said, putting the tray down on the table in front of my mother.

‘No problem. It looks good, thank you.’ I waited till she was gone before pulling my chair closer. ‘Chicken curry, Mum. Your favourite.’ It had been. In a different time, a different life. One of the meals she’d often cooked. From scratch. Crushing spices, marinading pieces of chicken. I’d sit and watch, my nose twitching as the aromas hit me. And then, in the glow of the overhead light, we’d sit, Mother, Father and I, and we’d laugh, talk and eat the meal. Such happiness.

Was it real? I don’t know if it was, or if over the years I’d painted my past in pretty colours, reinventing it to make everything easier. I was no longer able to separate the life I’d had, from the life I longed to have lived.

Sometimes, like now, I’d drift off and forget my role. Mother wouldn’t reach out and nudge me, wouldn’t complain to be kept waiting for the next mouthful, wouldn’t say the food was cold when I did eventually remember what I was supposed to be doing.

After lunch, I’d read snippets from the newspaper I paid to have delivered every day. I had asked that the staff take time to read even a little of it to her when I wasn’t there, but sometimes I’d find the previous days’ newspapers in such a pristine shape that I knew they hadn’t been opened.

Annoyance at their neglect would be balanced by a reluctant understanding. They felt, no doubt, that their time was better spent than reading the news to a woman who showed no evidence of caring what was happening in the world. I could have saved myself a great deal of money, and read the same newspaper over and over and my mother wouldn’t have known the difference.

‘Let’s see what’s happening today, Mum.’ I unfolded the paper on the table and started to read it, page by page.

‘That’s it, Mum,’ I said, helping her to drink the last drop of tea. ‘I’m going to head home now, okay?’

Sometimes, when I leaned close and pressed my lips against her cheek, I’d be certain she was going to say something, going to reach up with her hand and pat my cheek, turn her head to meet my lips with hers, look me in the eyes and silently beg my forgiveness.

Sometimes, I was really good at fooling myself.





36





I always switched my phone off while I was visiting Mother, wanting to give her my undivided attention. As I left that evening, and walked down the avenue to the road, I reached for it and switched it on. There were the usual messages from the agency confirming shifts I’d already agreed to, and a missed call. I wasn’t too surprised to see it was from Mother’s solicitor, Jason Brooks. Although there was no longer any need for his services, he kept in touch and offered me advice – whether I wanted to take it, or not.

But he was a nice man, and probably the nearest to family I had, so I returned the call as I walked slowly along. ‘Hi, it’s Lissa,’ I said when it was answered.

‘Lissa, thanks for getting back to me. Are you at work?’

‘No, I was visiting Mum.’

‘Ah, right. I called in myself last week. I thought she looked well.’

‘She doesn’t change very much really.’ I stopped at the end of the avenue and leaned against the trunk of a sycamore tree. It wasn’t unusual for Brooks to ring me, but there was something in his voice that said this was more than a mere courtesy call. ‘How’re things?’

‘Good, good. Listen, I was wondering if you were free for lunch sometime?’

Lunch? Now, this was unusual. We’d had several meetings over the years, all were held in his office. I might have had a biscuit with a cup of instant coffee but that was about as far as it went. I had no worries his intentions weren’t honourable. He was happily married to a stunningly beautiful woman, and I, well, I was just me. ‘Lunch sounds great. I’m free tomorrow if that’s any good.’