Paradise Lodge Read Online Free

disappoint me. And she took me into a long room containing eight beds. Two, side by side, were occupied, a skull-like head on the pillow and a basic human shape draped in softly pleated white linen. It reminded me strongly of the stone tomb effigy of T. E. Lawrence in a Dorset church. His head, in Arabian headdress, resting on the saddle of his favourite camel—which, our mother told us, was called Faisal. I’ve always remembered it. The smooth coldness of the stone, and the idea of the camel and everything.
    Strange, unsettling noises filled the ward—loud snoring and some awful gurgling, as well as a gentle motorized hum which, I found out later, came from the electric ripple mattresses used to prevent bedsores.
    Back in the hall, the Owner’s Wife stood for a moment to let an old man pass. He was tall and a bit wobbly and because his sandal buckles were undone he jangled slightly as he walked.
    â€˜Morning!’ he said as he drew close and he stood, looking at the Owner’s Wife, and she did a small cough and said, ‘This is my husband,’ and then, gesturing to me, ‘Lizzie is one of the new auxiliary nurses, Thor, I’m showing her the ropes.’
    â€˜Oh, jolly good,’ said the owner (I realized he was the owner). ‘How are you getting along?’
    I said I was getting along fine and commented on the hallway. ‘It’s like a stately home,’ I said, thinking it a complimentary thing to say.
    â€˜Yes, yes,’ he said, ‘the floor tiles are knockout, aren’t they? You won’t see better in the Alhambra—Euclidean geometry and whatnot.’
    I said, ‘Brillo pads!’ which was a normal thing to say in those days, meaning ‘brilliant’ (I’d picked it up from Miranda), but the owner misunderstood and became anxious. Some of the tiles were loose, he explained, because previous staff had used Flash, which had eroded the grouting (he tapped at the floor with his sandal to demonstrate).
    The Owner’s Wife groaned. ‘Off you go now, darling,’ she said, and he shuffled off, but called back, ‘Take her up to meet Lady B.’
    â€˜Yes, yes, all in good time,’ said the Owner’s Wife.
    I felt sorry for the Owner’s Wife. It was always embarrassing seeing people’s husbands; especially the idiotic sort, and you seldom saw any other. Also, I was at that age where you can’t stop yourself imagining the couple having sexual intercourse. And it was really awful.
    â€˜The tiles are lovely,’ I said to the Owner’s Wife after he’d gone, to make her feel a bit better about him.
    If it had been up to her, she said, they’d have been covered with a practical, non-slip linoleum years ago, and she went on to list the many ways the building was unsuitable for its elderly residents. The flooring in particular, which she said was unstable, and the driveway and paths, which were ever changing, like a dry riverbed. And there was no passenger lift, even though there was nothing to prevent the installation of a small one—only the owner’s unwillingness to compromise his living quarters. Talking about it seemed to upset her but she pulled herself together and gave me a recap on the golden rules of working with the elderly, which we’d been through at the interview.
    The most important thing seemed to be
(a)
that I appreciate the huge privilege of being among them and remember they had a lot to teach a young woman like me. And
(b)
that I must take them to the toilet frequently and regularly, but do my utmost to avoid calling it ‘the toilet’, suggesting ‘comfort area’ and ‘spend a penny’ if I absolutely had to say anything.
    The comfort round had to be done after breakfast, coffee, lunch and tea, and carers had to be ready to help at all times in that respect above all others.
    It was a bit like looking after a toddler, I said, and started to talk about my