Paradise Lodge Read Online Free Page B

theory, you’d be able to chuck a sugared almond at Prince Charles as he trotted past to tackle Mr Oliphant’s cross-country course (which he was rumoured to do occasionally).
    Signs of the previous incumbent were still very much in evidence (that’s what the Owner’s Wife was so flapped about)—a square, silver-backed hairbrush and a tortoiseshell comb sat on a shelf in the bathroom and a pair of grey trousers was still sandwiched in the press. These had all belonged to Mr Cresswell who’d passed away the Thursday before, the Owner’s Wife explained. I gazed at the talcy outline of two enormous feet on the cork bathmat and felt a wave of anxiety.
    â€˜Now, Lizzie, Mr Simmons’ stepdaughter is a tricky one,’ said the Owner’s Wife, ‘tread carefully if you have dealings with her.’
    â€˜In what way?’ I asked.
    â€˜She’d rather Mr Simmons wasn’t here—she thinks it unnecessary,’ said the Owner’s Wife.
    â€˜And is it unnecessary?’ I asked.
    â€˜Well, we don’t think so, but I suppose it’s her inheritance being spent.’
    The Owner’s Wife gave the room a final blast of Haze and sent me downstairs for a tray of coffee and biscuits while she went to fetch Mr Simmons and his tricky stepdaughter, who had just arrived.
    At the bottom of the stairs we separated and I went to the kitchen for the refreshments. I almost caught up with them, a few minutes later, approaching Room 8. Mr Simmons shuffled along slowly and the Owner’s Wife walked behind with his relative. I followed behind at a distance and, as she turned to take the bend on the stairs, I saw to my dismay that Mr Simmons’ relative was a teacher from my school. Not any old teacher but Miss Pitt—the Deputy Head.
    I turned on my heel and strode—tray and all—back to the kitchen. It was troubling in the extreme to see Miss Pitt in this context. I hadn’t been doing anything wrong, I wasn’t smoking or skiving, but having been respected all day I really didn’t want to be humiliated in front of my new mentor/boss and a convalescent patient.
    Miranda and the old Matron were now in the kitchen with Nurse Sally-Anne. Matron was wiping the edge of a tiny china cup with a piece of kitchen paper.
    â€˜You’re to take this to Room 8,’ I said to Sally-Anne, thrusting the tray at her.
    â€˜Why can’t you?’ she mumbled.
    â€˜She wants someone more senior,’ I said.
    Sally-Anne took the tray.
    Miranda and I groaned at the thought of Miss Pitt and I told Matron what a tyrant she was and gave her lots of examples, like the time she’d given me a detention for saying ‘For coughs and colds take Veno’s’ and her absolute horror of anyone having the odd day off school for their real life, even in an emergency or for a funeral.
    At the end of the day, the Owner’s Wife gave us little brown wage packets, thanked us and said we might as well go and get changed out of our uniforms. Then, just before I’d left the kitchen, the cook asked me if I’d mind taking Mr Simmons his teatime sandwiches, cake and pills which had been forgotten due to him being a day early and not getting on to the lists. I had no choice, so I took the tray and prepared myself mentally for an encounter with the Deputy Head. When I got to Room 8 I was relieved to find Mr Simmons was alone. He’d fallen asleep in his chair, bent over like a hoop, with his head almost in his lap. I placed the tray on the little table beside him and he sat up, startled and disorientated.
    â€˜Where am I?’ he asked.
    â€˜Room 8,’ I said, and again it was like the start of a Hammer Horror.
    It was my first proper encounter with a patient—not just a natter on the way to the toilet—and I could tell Mr Simmons was in some discomfort. I pointed to the little cup of pills on the tray and he gulped them down.
    â€˜Shall I put the