little rumour girl

The stair lift was out of action. The engineers had been out earlier in the day to fix a broken switch, and now that they had gone, the thing would not move at all. Mrs Ellerman’s carer had tried to get them back, but what with one thing and another, the soonest they could fix the lift was midday the following day. As Mrs Ellerman’s knees lacked the chutzpah to make the climb to the first floor, the carer had made up a temporary bed in the lounge, dragging down the single mattress, layering it with a paisley, duck down quilt, a rainbow-coloured crochet throw, sheets, blankets and numerous pillows and cushions, all artfully arranged in the centre of the living room floor, looking like a thrift shop take on a Sheikh’s tent.

Mrs Ellerman sits on the carpet beside it all, her grey eyed stare falling strangely short, hanging somewhere in the quiet space between us.
‘Did I do the right thing?’

Physically she is in good health, apart from a pair of creaky knees. She looks up at us, like a child who suddenly found themselves sitting on the lounge floor in the dark hours of the morning, eighty years later.

‘My Phil caught that trout,’ she says, looking over to a silver framed portrait of a man holding up a fish. Phil supports the fish with both hands, emphasising the weight. He has a moon man smile, a big shining curve running from one side of his hat to the other. The fish stares out through his fingers.

‘I used to work in a typewriter factory,’ she says as we help her into a chair. ‘I went in to work one day and I says to the foreman “There you are, mate. That’s your lot. There’s my resignation. I’m off”. “Why’s that, then, Rene?” he says. “How come’s you’re off?” So I turns round and I says “You know full well why I’m off. It’s that little girl, always hanging round, spreading rumours, tittle-tattle. You ought to know better than listen to someone like that.” So the next day I goes to him and I says “Let’s have that job back then.” And he turns round and he says: “What about little rumour girl?” and I says “Never you mind about her, mate.”

‘Do you take any medications for anything, Mrs Ellerman?’
‘Only what they give me. I don’t know.’
She looks over by the table with the fish photograph. Underneath it is a silver suitcase with a combination lock.
‘In there,’ she says.

Gertie

Suddenly a curtain of fine water sweeps down from the night sky and closes across the world. I’m piloting a submarine, the headlamps straining forwards through the gloom; somebody clutching an umbrella glides past like a jellyfish; I see an elderly woman standing in a lighted doorway, clutching a dressing gown together at her chest with one hand and waving with the other; we turn out of the cab and swim across the pavement towards her.

‘What a night!’

‘Thank you so much for coming. I’m afraid Geoffrey isn’t too good. I just can’t seem to wake him.’

Her bungalow is a warm, yellow sanctuary. The water cascades noisily just behind us beyond the open door, but in here the air is quiet and bright, the walls neatly painted, hung with delicate portraits of people, and dogs, and people with dogs – on a low walnut table guarding the hallway is a marble statue of a Jack Russell, sitting on its haunches looking backwards over its shoulder, as if it had been turned to stone in the middle of a walk. 

‘Through here.’

A black and white photograph of a young pilot; an oil painting of a young woman; a row of framed kennel club certificates.

And into a clinically white room where Geoffrey lies slumped on a pneumatic bed, his puffy face flushed red, breathing noisily. He has a nasal canula leading off to a cylinder of oxygen, and a catheter leading out from under the bed sheets to a bag hung on the side. 

‘Geoffrey? Hello, Geoffrey – it’s the ambulance.’

 
He opens his eyes and grunts slightly. We sit him more upright and check him over.

Rae finds the care folder – emphysema, palliative care at home, no DNR.

Geoffrey’s wife Jean touches me on the arm.

‘I didn’t know what to do. I can’t cope if he’s as bad as this.’


It’s late at night. Despite the palliative care order, there’s nothing else available to us but to take him to hospital. We ask Geoffrey if he wants to go, and he nods.

‘Don’t worry, Jean. We’ll take good care of him.’

We can just fit the trolley into the house. I feel bad about the tracks the wheels make down the carpet, but Jean waves that aside. I have to move the table and the statue of the terrier to get along the hallway.

‘Ah, Gertie,’ says Jean, patting the statue on the head. ‘She was a good dog.’

I put the statue to one side, just by the doorway to the sitting room.


***

As we wheel Geoffrey back along the hallway, Jean asks us to wait a moment whilst she says goodbye to her husband. She pushes a few strands of white hair away from his eyes, looks at him intently, then kisses him lightly on the lips. He barely responds.

‘I hate to see him go to the hospital on his own, but I just can’t cope.’

‘It’s okay, Jean. No one will think badly of you.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Absolutely. Get some rest tonight. Call the hospital in the morning.’


She gives him one last stroke on the arm and we carry on down the hallway.


Looking ahead out of the front door, it seems as if the rain has stopped. We pass the living room. Gertie is there, looking over her shoulder. I expect her to run after us as we manoeuvre the trolley over the front step and head out into the shining dark.

Rock and roll

Even if we had no experience of the area we’d know this block was trouble; it takes Mr Jessop about a minute to let us in his front door, with a formidable scraping of bolts, catching of locks, rattling of chains, sliding of metal props. Finally he peeps round the opening, a frail, crinkle-cut old man in shiny trousers, button down shirt and a white wig so conspicuous it could be a nylon mop-head placed carefully on his head for a prank.

‘Come in,’ he smiles, and carefully shuts the door behind us.

‘This way.’

We follow him into the flat; he plops himself back down in his command chair, a patchy, corduroy affair quietly steaming in front of a cylindrical fire so old it’s a surprise to see it runs on electricity.

‘I’ve got this pain,’ Mr Jessop says, leaning to one side. ‘Just here.’ He rubs the right side of his abdomen. ‘The last lot checked me over and said they couldn’t find anything wrong, but it’s really no better.’

‘When were they here?’ I ask him, looking at his clock. Five in the morning. The room is so hot I feel myself being drawn down into a stifling pit of unconsciousness. ‘The ambulance,’ I add, suddenly opening my eyes wide and wondering for a moment if I’d actually passed out.

‘Early,’ he says. ‘About two.’

‘Did they leave a sheet?’

He points to the table.



Everything is lined up. A comb wrapped in a single sheet of kitchen towel; a pen, a pencil and a shopping list; a cardboard sign saying water off; a glasses case; a list of phone numbers; three packets of medication, and a German phrase book.

‘Do you have any relatives nearby?’

‘My sister and her husband live up in Scotland,’ he says, then adds: ‘She’s not well,’ as if she’d be round every day if she was.

I find the ambulance sheet and read through it.

‘It says here you did some vigorous dancing last night?’

‘Yes,’ he says. ‘I was up at the community centre.’

‘What kind of vigorous dancing?’

‘Jive. It’s coming back, apparently.’

 

I try to imagine Mr Jessop jiving. His wig falling over his eyes.

‘Do you think you might have injured yourself – erm – jiving?’

‘It’s possible,’ he says, rubbing his side. ‘It was a bit sore after.’

‘Everything checks out,’ says Rae, taking off the BP cuff. ‘How old did you say you were, Mr Jessop?’

‘Eighty two.’

‘Well, your blood pressure’s better than mine.’

When he smiles his silvery teeth crackle audibly.

‘I look after myself,’ he says.

Medusa from the bingo

When we pull up outside the smart block of flats, there are two patrol cars and a video surveillance unit double parked either side. Rae puts the ambulance where she can, and we hurry up the steps into the lobby, a neat little area with a leather sofa, a potted plant, and a table with a spread of pamphlets.

‘Just going in now,’ says the young buzz-cut officer into his shoulder radio; his black flak jacket, radio and tattoos all of a piece, like an outfit rented from a fancy dress shop.



The call had been dramatically concise: Female, 76. Collapse behind locked doors. Son on scene. Police en route.

The son, an extruded beard of a man in a tired blue jumper and sandals nods anxiously as we join the back of the queue outside his mother’s door.

‘Go for it!’

Buzz Cut draws his enormous boot back and starts kicking at the door. As he draws away each time and slams repeatedly into the panels, we all lean in to study the way the door shudders, passing comment on the locks and bolts that may or may not be employed on the other side.

‘She wasn’t well when I left her,’ the son says. ‘Puffing and blowing. I phoned to say goodnight and didn’t get an answer.’

We wait to one side as Buzz Cut redoubles his efforts. Another team comes through the lobby carrying an iron battering ram between them.

‘We’ve brought the key,’ one of them says.



Suddenly there is a shrill cry from the entrance.

‘What the hell are you doing?’

An outraged woman stands in the frame of the glass doors, her bag slack on her shoulder, her keys held up in mid-air, as if they held some power to make things explicable.

‘Don’t! Don’t you dare do that!’

She hurries forward, brushing aside anyone not in direct contact with the carpentry.

‘What on earth do you think you’re doing?’

The son comes forward and puts his hands on her shoulders.

‘Mum. I didn’t know what had happened to you.’

‘I was at the bingo,’ she cries.



The buzz-cut officer wipes his forehead and presents himself to the woman.

‘Your son thought you may have collapsed,’ he said. ‘He was worried.’

‘I went to the bingo,’ she shouts. ‘Is that such a crime? Get away from my door.’

She puts her keys in the lock and begins rattling them speculatively.



‘She seems fine,’ I say to Buzz Cut. ‘We’ll be off.’

I pick up the resus bag and discreetly reverse down the hall.

Everyone leaves quickly; when I look back, the only people left standing there are Buzz Cut and Sandal Son, leaning back from Angry Woman, who is shaking her keys in their face, and swinging her tresses from side to side like a mop of blanched snakes.

A new ride

‘Hello? Is that Mrs Walters?’

‘Ye-es.’

‘Hello, Mrs Walters. My name’s Spence. I’m with the ambulance. I’m calling about Mirabelle. Nothing to worry about, but Mirabelle had the ambulance out to her this afternoon and we’ve brought her to hospital.’

‘Mirabelle?’

‘Yep. Mirabelle. I understand from the card she’s carrying you’re the host family. Is that right?’

‘Ye-es.’

‘Did you know Mirabelle had come in to town to visit the fair today?’

‘The fair?’

‘Yep. The fair. In town.’

‘But she’s down on the beach.’

‘Well – not any more. We picked her up at the fair. She was with a bunch of friends from the language school.’

‘Was she.’

‘Without an escort.’

‘Was she.’

‘I’m afraid so. Nothing radically wrong, Mrs Walters. She banged her knee on the walters – waltzers. Nothing serious, as far as we can tell. Everything’s fine. But for some reason she had to be carried off. And then when they took her to the manager’s office, she fainted. Or appeared to.’

‘Mirabelle?’

‘Yep.’

‘Oh.’

‘Does any of this surprise you?’

There is a long pause; the crackles and scratches on the line sound like furies tearing up Mrs Walters’ head. Finally I’m driven to say: Mrs Walters?

‘No,’ she says. ‘She’s a difficult girl.’



***



The crowd moves sluggishly round the fair, coin corpuscles in an artery of colour and noise, the stalls and rides on every side harvesting the goodness from their pockets. Jump up, Cowboy – No Fear, No Limits, Come on people, Every one a winner, Two to a car, Hold very tight …. All the single ladies, All the single ladies … sirens, klaxons, a pulse of light around a tableau of skulls, cars in flames – screams from a sudden column of bodies thundering overhead – scorched rubber, static dust, doughnuts, chips and hydraulic fluid – stupefied babies with ice-cream beards – feral gangs, lost families – a head through a hole, a gypsy in a caravan, a man with a radio.

Follow me.

We fall in behind him as he machetes his way forward with the aerial; hostility on the faces turning round, slackening to curiosity when the uniform and equipment register. Another attraction. Something else to see.

The office is soundproofed, but the Plexiglas screen pulses and rattles with the noise; we can barely hear each other beneath the muted roar.

She’s unconscious.

Mirabelle lies in the recovery position on the hardboard floor, but even from here I can see her eyelids fluttering. I kneel down and shout in her ear, giving her fingertip a little tweak, too. She doggedly carries on the pretence; when I go to lift an eyelid, she holds it shut.

Did she fall?

Nope. She grazed her knee on the safety bar. When the ride stopped, she wouldn’t get out then went funny. So the guys carried her in here, and she collapsed on the floor.

Have we got someone who speaks French?

Danielle, her friend.

Danielle – can you ask Mirabelle if she’s in any pain?

Danielle looks at me, confused.

But she is unconscious.

No, she’s not. Just ask her.

Danielle kneels down and puts a hand gently on her shoulder.

It’s a slow process. Even if Mirabelle was prepared to talk to us, she has no English. Danielle translates everything reluctantly, as if she thinks we’re being overly cruel with our line of questioning. The fairground manager looks about set to have a stroke. I wonder how many hours he’s worked today; how many situations he’s dealt with.

Let’s just get her out to the ambulance.

You can go on the truck.

What truck?

We’ve got a little green truck. You’ll love it.

He slaps me on the shoulder, then gestures for radio man to fetch the truck.

A minute later he pulls up outside in a tiny green John Deere flatbed with a flashing amber light on a stalk. Rae opens the office door and radio mangestures to the back with his thumb.

All right in the back?

Between the four of us we half-walk, half-carry Mirabelle out to the truck. She moans bonelessly, like a sleeper dragged from her bed.

Come on Mirabelle. Allons-y.

We sit either side of her, our feet almost dragging along the ground as the truck moves off. The truck beeps a warning and radio man keeps punching the horn, but still our progress is slow. As the crowd parts it falls back together behind us. People stare. Whatever kind of ride is that?



***



‘So that’s where Mirabelle is at the moment, Mrs Walters. In minors at A&E.’

‘The hospital?’

‘Yep. The hospital.’

Another long pause.

‘The hospital in town?’

‘Yep. I’m afraid so.’

I doodle some hair on the smiling face I’ve drawn on the patient report form, but as the silence continues I add some fangs.

‘But she’s going to need someone to come and sit with her, Mrs Walters. Pick her up after she’s done, that kind of thing.’

‘Yes. She will, won’t she?’ says Mrs Walters. ‘And I suppose that’ll be me, then.’

‘So I can leave that with you? Mrs Walters?’

‘Ye-es,’ she says. And before I can add anything to sweeten the pill, the line goes click.