topping. As
she was staring out of the window, May’s eyes zoomed in on the building opposite, a grand old house almost hidden behind a high brick wall and tall trees. There was a sign at the side of the
gate which she could just make out: The Pines. Her heart started to thump faster. Was it
The
Pines, the one in which Susan Hammerton resided? It had to be. Michael had said it was in the
Clapham area and surely there couldn’t be two establishments around here with the same name.
She drank the last of her coffee and wondered if this was a sign that she should do what she had intended to do for ages now: volunteer some money towards Susan’s care. There must be
luxuries that weren’t on the basic bill that would make her life easier. She had broached the subject with Michael but he waved it away, too proud to accept. He didn’t need to know,
though – she was sure that she and The Pines could have a secret arrangement.
May crossed the road and walked down the path that led to the front door of the magnificent Georgian building with a large and established front garden. It must be costing poor Michael a
fortune, thought May.
The reception area had large, square, black and white floor tiles and as May walked over them towards the main desk, she felt as if she were a piece on a chessboard.
‘Morning, my love. Can I help you?’ asked a white-uniformed woman manning the desk. She had a thick and friendly West Country accent and a welcoming smile.
May opened her mouth but didn’t really know how to start. So she plunged in.
‘Hello, I wonder if I could speak to someone about one of your residents.’
‘Well, would you give me a few more details, please?’
‘I’d like to see if there is anything I could contribute to make her stay here a little easier?’
‘I’ll get the matron for you,’ said the receptionist. ‘Would you take a seat over there for a few minutes? There’s a coffee machine if you’d like a
drink.’
‘Thank you.’ May took a seat and waited, though she didn’t use the machine as she was all coffee-ed out. Anyway, she wouldn’t have had enough time as the woman returned
almost immediately with someone who was just like a matron from a
Carry On
film – flat shoes, wide girth, short curly hair under a white starched cap, and oozing efficiency.
‘Hello, there,’ she boomed. ‘I’m Marian Plaistow, Matron of The Pines. Would you like to come into my office?’
‘Certainly.’ May followed her through the door to the left of reception and took a seat at the other side of Matron’s neat and tidy desk in her large, square and very sunlit
office.
Matron settled her bulk into her big leather chair, threaded her fingers together and asked, ‘So how can we help you?’
‘I hope I’ve got the right place,’ began May. ‘It’s about Susan Hammerton.’
‘Ah, yes. Susan. Are you a relative?’
No, I’m shagging her husband.
May settled for: ‘A friend of the family. I understand that she is unlikely to improve.’
Matron gave a slight nod, clearly used to not divulging any confidential information.
‘I wondered if there was anything she might need that isn’t standard issue. Any medicines or treatments that might make things easier for her, luxuries, anything at all?’
Matron shook her head slowly from side to side.
‘Not really,’ she said. ‘I can’t think of anything we could do that we aren’t already doing. She is a very old lady. We can only make her comfortable.’
May shrugged her shoulders. ‘Ah, I just thought I’d ask. No worr—’
Then her brain caught up with her ears. Crikey – if thirty-five was very old, what the heck was eighty?
‘Very old? You said “very old”.’
‘That’s right.’
‘She’s thirty-five.’
Matron looked confused. ‘I think we might not be talking about the same . . .’
‘Susan Hammerton?’ Surely there couldn’t be two Susan Hammertons living in two The Pines in the area? May felt a tightness in
she was staring out of the window, May’s eyes zoomed in on the building opposite, a grand old house almost hidden behind a high brick wall and tall trees. There was a sign at the side of the
gate which she could just make out: The Pines. Her heart started to thump faster. Was it
The
Pines, the one in which Susan Hammerton resided? It had to be. Michael had said it was in the
Clapham area and surely there couldn’t be two establishments around here with the same name.
She drank the last of her coffee and wondered if this was a sign that she should do what she had intended to do for ages now: volunteer some money towards Susan’s care. There must be
luxuries that weren’t on the basic bill that would make her life easier. She had broached the subject with Michael but he waved it away, too proud to accept. He didn’t need to know,
though – she was sure that she and The Pines could have a secret arrangement.
May crossed the road and walked down the path that led to the front door of the magnificent Georgian building with a large and established front garden. It must be costing poor Michael a
fortune, thought May.
The reception area had large, square, black and white floor tiles and as May walked over them towards the main desk, she felt as if she were a piece on a chessboard.
‘Morning, my love. Can I help you?’ asked a white-uniformed woman manning the desk. She had a thick and friendly West Country accent and a welcoming smile.
May opened her mouth but didn’t really know how to start. So she plunged in.
‘Hello, I wonder if I could speak to someone about one of your residents.’
‘Well, would you give me a few more details, please?’
‘I’d like to see if there is anything I could contribute to make her stay here a little easier?’
‘I’ll get the matron for you,’ said the receptionist. ‘Would you take a seat over there for a few minutes? There’s a coffee machine if you’d like a
drink.’
‘Thank you.’ May took a seat and waited, though she didn’t use the machine as she was all coffee-ed out. Anyway, she wouldn’t have had enough time as the woman returned
almost immediately with someone who was just like a matron from a
Carry On
film – flat shoes, wide girth, short curly hair under a white starched cap, and oozing efficiency.
‘Hello, there,’ she boomed. ‘I’m Marian Plaistow, Matron of The Pines. Would you like to come into my office?’
‘Certainly.’ May followed her through the door to the left of reception and took a seat at the other side of Matron’s neat and tidy desk in her large, square and very sunlit
office.
Matron settled her bulk into her big leather chair, threaded her fingers together and asked, ‘So how can we help you?’
‘I hope I’ve got the right place,’ began May. ‘It’s about Susan Hammerton.’
‘Ah, yes. Susan. Are you a relative?’
No, I’m shagging her husband.
May settled for: ‘A friend of the family. I understand that she is unlikely to improve.’
Matron gave a slight nod, clearly used to not divulging any confidential information.
‘I wondered if there was anything she might need that isn’t standard issue. Any medicines or treatments that might make things easier for her, luxuries, anything at all?’
Matron shook her head slowly from side to side.
‘Not really,’ she said. ‘I can’t think of anything we could do that we aren’t already doing. She is a very old lady. We can only make her comfortable.’
May shrugged her shoulders. ‘Ah, I just thought I’d ask. No worr—’
Then her brain caught up with her ears. Crikey – if thirty-five was very old, what the heck was eighty?
‘Very old? You said “very old”.’
‘That’s right.’
‘She’s thirty-five.’
Matron looked confused. ‘I think we might not be talking about the same . . .’
‘Susan Hammerton?’ Surely there couldn’t be two Susan Hammertons living in two The Pines in the area? May felt a tightness in
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