I wondered if my fascination with these strangers’ lives was because my own happy family life had been cut short. Perhaps I was searching for a sadder life than mine or my poor mother’s. But if any of the residents had lived hard lives, it wasn’t obvious. It was probable that they hadn’t brought their secrets with them. Their secrets – perhaps that was what drove my curiosity. Secrets like the ones my father had kept. The ones I kept. Who could have thought, looking at my father, that he was a lying bigamous cheat. Who’d have guessed, looking at me, that I had killed twice, and was contemplating killing again?
I needed to be in private homes with access to all the detritus of the person’s life. That’s where I’d find the juicy stuff.
Unfortunately, the agency’s reply to my second email was less than promising. They wanted me to know how appreciated I was, and they knew I would understand that they were unable to facilitate my request because work was allocated as it came in. It was, they said, given to whichever nurse was free.
Such crap!
It didn’t help that the same day, I had a message from Carol.
The position with that poor man in Lansdown is lasting longer than I’d expected. Let’s meet up soon and I’ll tell you all about it.
It was an indication of how pissed off I was about her good luck, that I hoped the person she was looking after would die soon.
It was three weeks before I heard from Carol again. I had been tempted to send her a message to ask how work was going, but my recent shifts had been in one of the nursing homes we all dreaded being assigned to, and I was afraid she might know and gloat. I refused to give any credence to the thought that she might have a hand in my being assigned to the home, unwilling to believe she had that much power. Or maybe afraid she had.
Carol’s message was short.
Coffee?
I stared at that one word for a long time before finally tapping out my reply.
If it suits, how about meeting for breakfast after I finish my run of night shifts on Wednesday?
Great idea! Where?
Manvers Café?
I was being extraordinarily nice, meeting there would allow her to park across the street in Manvers Street car park.
Perfect. See you then.
I tossed my phone aside and rested my head back. Maybe I should swallow my pride and ask her how she’d managed to get that position. Lansdown Road. It would be a big house. Grand. There’d be secrets there, I just knew it. Carol said she’d tell me all about it. I know what she meant though. She’d talk about the patient, his illness, the care she was giving, how wonderful she was. Whereas I’d want to know about the house, what was in the drawers, the wardrobes.
I’d want to know all the secrets of the man, his past, what he was hiding.
Because everyone hid things.
Didn’t they?
And if I could find ones worse than my father’s, maybe even worse than mine – maybe then, I’d feel more normal.
25
By the time Wednesday arrived I was exhausted. I’d worked four nights in one of the most difficult homes. Too many challenging residents and too few staff was always going to be a bad combination. I regretted my stupid idea to meet Carol and wondered if it wasn’t too late to cry off. I was still wondering ten minutes later when I pushed open the door to the café.
Carol was already seated at a small table in the far corner of the large airy space. Was being early a power thing for her? It was our second meeting and once again, it looked as if she’d been there a while, the plate in front of her almost empty. She held a knife in her left hand, the fork in her right. It looked awkward and I wondered if she was defying convention because she thought it made her look eccentric, or if she simply did it to annoy. I immediately wanted to snatch the cutlery from her hands and switch them around, a bit like when you see a painting hanging slightly askew and you can’t rest until you’ve straightened it.
To my surprise, she was in uniform. I took the seat opposite and dropped my bag onto the spare chair between us. ‘I don’t know how you can eat that,’ I said, waving to the sausages and beans that remained on her plate.
‘Easily.’ She speared a fat sausage with her fork and bit off almost half in one bite, proceeding to chew as she spoke. ‘You not getting anything?’
My gaze switched to the menu written on a whiteboard over the till. It was typical heart-attack fare. No smashed avocado on sourdough toast served here. I’d chosen the place for convenience but hadn’t been inside before and regretted my choice. ‘I’ll just get a juice.’
The assistant behind the till couldn’t have cared less, handing over my order with a bored expression on her heavily made-up face. I was tempted to ask if she did the eyeliner and heavy foundation fresh every morning, or if she simply trowelled more on top. Hard unfriendly eyes made me think twice. I took my juice and sat as Carol was sliding a piece of toast around her now empty plate. God forbid she should miss a drop of that artery-clogging fat.
‘How was your night?’ she asked, giving the plate a final polish.
I took a mouthful of juice before answering, my nose crinkling at the taste. Despite what the menu had stated, it most definitely wasn’t freshly squeezed. Or at least not that year. ‘It was manic. I didn’t get a wink’s sleep.’
Carol pushed her plate away and picked up her mug. ‘It was a waking night, you aren’t supposed to sleep, you know.’
Why had I agreed to meet her? I didn’t even like the sanctimonious smug cow. ‘You never sleep, I suppose?’
‘Not if it’s supposed to be a waking night, I don’t. You could get into serious trouble if you’re caught.’ She leaned closer and dropped her voice to a barely audible whisper as if the café was packed with people desperate to know what we two were talking about. There was only one other person in the café, a heavy, scruffy-looking man who was shovelling beans at speed into his mouth as if he was afraid someone was going to try to take them away. I wondered what his story was. He’d probably be more interesting to talk to than the woman sitting opposite. I sipped some more of the orange liquid in my glass and tuned back in to what she was saying.
‘There was a nurse fired from the agency last year for doing exactly that,’ she said.
She spoke in the kind of voice some people assumed to tell the worst kind of news. I’m sorry, your mother/father/aunt/uncle – delete as necessary – has passed away. She probably put on a matching expression too – the downturned mouth, the sad eyes – and I just bet she added the hand wringing.
‘The family of the woman she was supposed to be looking after had put hidden cameras up when the woman claimed she’d been left alone for hours. There’s a rumour they sued the agency for thousands.’
She leaned even closer, almost within kissing distance. I’d have liked to have spat in her eye. ‘Shocking,’ I said, although it wasn’t.
‘The nurse was struck off the register.’
That was slightly more worrying. I needed my job, or rather the money it brought in. ‘I’m talking about sleeping for minutes, not hours.’ I was sounding defensive, and it annoyed me. ‘Anyway,’ I said, determined to change the subject, ‘how’s it going in Lansdown Road? I thought the job was only going to be for a couple of days.’