Michelle, 32
Present Day
Grenville Care Home, London
I don’t know what it was about this particular morning that made me think about the letters I used to send to Richard. And of course, the letters that he used to send to me. Perhaps it was because of the argument that we had this morning (though it was becoming routine as husband and wife). Or perhaps it was because I’d been receiving rather important letters recently. However, this time instead of love letters, they were Doctors notes.
“When is Penny going to visit me? Was it sometime this week? What day is it?” The old woman in the wheelchair muttered to me.
“It’s Wednesday Marigold, remember?” I said. “And no, Penelope can’t visit this week. My boss, Susan, she talked to you this morning? Penelope phoned in, didn’t she?” I picked a leaf out of her snow-white hair and ran my fingers through the intruded section; before continuing to wheel her around the garden.
“Oh yes, yes, yes, yes. My memory’s not what it was.” She muttered to herself, as if still speaking full volume to me, but hardly any sound was made.
Her lips were thin and almost constantly quivering, along with her long pale fingers, that look like she could have been a fantastic pianist (though perhaps she used to be). Her face was perfectly shaped by her short, permed hair, her straight nose and her deep green eyes - the only bit of colour left of her it seemed, apart from her personality.
“But I don’t care what anyone else says, I’m not barmy!” She snapped.
“No one thinks you’re barmy” I smile, wearily wheeling her around the fruiting apple tree.
“Ohhh yes they do! Yes, that Agatha gives me some right stern looks, like I’m not good enough to be in her presence, either that or she thinks I have a screw loose.” She said pointing her pianist like finger at her skull, then getting it entangled in her hair. She twisted and twirled the strands, as if that were what she was doing in the first place.
There is an unwritten contract that we carers sign which states that we are not allowed favourites; comparable to that of teachers and parents. Every resident should be seen as equal after all, and we do care for them all equally; therefore, no favouritism is permitted. But like every contract, there is very small print, and that very small print reads: but of course, we have them silently anyway. Marigold is my favourite resident. No matter how bad my day may be going, she is guaranteed to bring a smile to my face. “Yes, it’s okay when you’re young.” She said.
“What to be barmy?”
“Yes. Yep, yeah - it’s no fun to be normal. Always remember that darlin’. When you’re young,” she took a wheezy breath, and I rubbed the top of her back “it’s okay to be a bit nuts! It’s when your old that being weird and wonderful isn’t so – well, wonderful.” She chuckled to herself and then coughed her wretched cough. It’s always sounded so painful. I rummaged through my pocket to find a tissue, gave it to Marigold so she could take it to her mouth, albeit weakly. I tend to lean over - like a nosey neighbour - checking for spots of blood. Thankfully the tissue was clean. “Thank you my dear, where would I be without my darling you, eh?”
One of the other rules in that unwritten contract of ours, was to ‘never get too attached’ to residents; but I couldn’t help it when it came to Marigold. She’s not my mother, and she can never replace her; but there is part of me that can’t help but see her as a mother figure. She has such a warmth, such a tenderness about her. Love for the little life she’s restricted to. She’d certainly mistaken me for her daughter most days of late.
When I first started working here, that was difficult. Watching people think that I was someone close to them; their daughter, their sister, their best friend. Someone who should be irreplaceable became replaced in their dying brain. You’d think that would make this job quite depressing, but really, if I have had a bad day, coming here and nursing the elderly is very therapeutic. These people have nothing and no one most of the time; and all they want to do is to see the things that are quickly becoming invisible.
“Michelle?” Susan, my supervisor called. I wheeled Marigold to the stone path as Susan walked towards us in a brash fashion. She’s a tall slender woman with thick, busy ginger hair down to her shoulders; well it would be to her shoulders if she ever kept it down, but it’s always tied up with a green clip. How it stayed up all day was a mystery.
This woman doesn’t seem to have a dark side either; she’s so kind it’s almost sickening. She cares for these elderly people as if her life depends on it, knowing everything about everyone, and all the residents absolutely adore her. She is rather pretty, in a non-typical way; smart, clean and always organised; always ahead of every step laid down before her. But I’m not completely fooled; I had once seen her on the phone to her solicitor when she was going through her divorce. I had the privilege to witness her mysterious dark side - and it was very dark indeed; mouth like a sailor, eyes like a hawk; and not very lady like at all.
“Michelle, can you do a bit of overtime tonight?” She said sweetly, dissolving my flashback.
“I-”
“I know I’m asking a lot here, and I’m dreadfully sorry to have to put this on you, but Tanya has just gone home sick, we’re understaffed as it is. And she was supposed to be caring for Derek Lepton tonight.” She leaned in with a whisper “One of the B.As”
B.A stood for ‘Bats on Acid’, meaning that that particular elderly person was known as a bad sleeper. It made them sound more like an education achievement than an endurance challenge. Those residents who were considered Bats on Acid were not to be taken lightly.
“I know you haven’t much experience with Derek, but you won’t be alone, I just need an extra pair of hands on deck.” Great. That last bit didn’t put my nerves on edge one bit. If I didn’t have Marigold acting as my warm, comforting sunshine I would have probably had goose bumps.
“Yes of course, I’ll help.” I replied. It was in that moment that I realised how much I didn’t want to go home. Working a late shift with dangerous residents, was still far more attractive on my personal Richter scale then going to my own home. How much I didn’t want to see my own husband. How tired I had become.
It was another reason I had thought about those love letters this morning, because it was not long after I had sent that letter that Richard had come over to England, with no plan or thought of what to do next. Yet somehow that seemed like our happy ending. But that’s just it about ‘happy endings’, none of us as children ever looked at the wording properly.
“Thank you so much, you’re an angel Michelle you really are! If you take Marigold back to her room now and then you can have a tea break. I must go find Calum.” Calum was another care worker, Susan’s favourite care worker to be precise. She probably needed some eye candy after her divorce. “Apparently Margaret’s taken Harold’s walking stick and has gone off somewhere with it, you haven’t seen her in the garden, have you?” She said.
“Which one’s Margaret? And no, no one else has been in the garden while we’ve been out here”
“She’s the new member, 76, a H.M.” That meant a ‘Human Magpie’, another common characteristic. They were residents who tended to take other people’s belongings and stash them somewhere, like a nest. I wonder where her hiding place will be?
I’ve worked at Grenville for a whole year now. Sometimes it seems like only yesterday that I came here after working in a Library for just over six years, what a massive change that was. Six years is a long time to spend day in day out of a Library, but I think it was secretly the best time of my life. Out of all my jobs, it felt like it was where I fit in the most. From working for my infamous friend Maggie in retail to paying my due in society by working two jobs (reluctant waitress by day, bar-lady by night). And then I finally became a librarian. Being so close to practically all of the literature in the world was perfect, so many books to enclose me within their pages, and stain me with the very ink used to tell their tales.
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