Read Online Paradise Lodge by Nina Stibbe - Free Book Online Page A

‘London,’ I said again, ‘it’s such a nice word, and exciting.’
    Just before I went off duty, things seemed to have taken a turn for the worse. I could see from the doorway. She seemed to be breathing—but only in-breaths and not out. I stood a while and then she took a breath in… and then nothing but a gurgling noise… and then another breath in… and so on.
    I looked from the doorway for quite a few minutes, hoping someone would just happen along and take over. I had no intention of going any closer but I told myself I had to do something, there were two other ladies already in the ward beginning to get ready for bed. One of them, Miss Boyd, saw me and was about to speak. I turned and walked as quickly as I could without rattling the floor tiles, and bumped into Nurse Hilary.
    â€˜Whoops-a-daisy,’ said Hilary.
    â€˜It’s Miss Granger,’ I said, ‘I don’t think she’s very well.’
    Hilary strode to Ward 2. I followed and noticed she was cow-hocked. I felt sorry for her, it being such an unattractive walk—especially as the outsides of her pork-pie shoes were worn right down. Maybe the two things were connected. Maybe it was another defect, like the pitted teeth.
    Hilary stood by the bed and looked at Miss Granger.
    â€˜She’s Cheyne-Stoking,’ she said, ‘or, to use the vernacular, she’s got the death rattle.’
    â€˜Does that mean she’s dying?’ I whispered.
    â€˜Yes, she’ll be gone in a few minutes—she’s slowly drowning in her own bodily fluids—it’s how most of us go.’
    And Hilary walked off on her cow-hocks to telephone Miss Granger’s great-niece who lived locally but hadn’t shown up yet.
    I felt I should stay and not let this woman die alone. Not that I could be of any comfort, but I’d be in the room and that must surely count for something. I couldn’t bring myself to get close enough to dab her brow, or wet her parched lips, so I just spoke some more gibberish on her favourite subject. ‘I’ve been to Madame Tussauds in London twice,’ I told her, ‘they’ve got Kevin Keegan in there,’ and I listed other famous names that I thought she might know.
    I stood and waited, feeling as if I might faint. I think I was half expecting her to rise up, clutch her chest, groan dramatically and flop down again, at which point I imagined I might say the Lord’s Prayer. In fact, the gurgle grew softer and then nothing until her bottom denture popped out like a candy pipe, and her chin dropped into her neck and her eyes stared off at nothing and she didn’t look like herself any more.
    Hilary returned and marched up to the bed, took Miss Granger by the chin, calmly twisted the denture back in and pulled the sheet over her face.
    â€˜Is she dead?’ I asked.
    â€˜No, I just can’t stand to look at her,’ said Nurse Hilary, and she laughed and pulled a face at me. ‘Only joking—yes, she’s gone to Heaven, Lizzie.’
    Hilary flicked the switch on the ripple mattress to ‘off’ and the slight hum died away and the two ladies called out, ‘Is she dead, then?’ and, ‘Thank goodness!’ etc.
    I couldn’t help but make a tiny cry sound. I was sad about the death. I always was. Even the merciful ones. I still had silly ideas about people miraculously recovering and laughing about it the next day over a hearty breakfast and all the nurses and relatives saying what a close thing it had been.
    â€˜Go and get yourself a cup of tea and a fag,’ said Nurse Hilary.
    In the kitchen, Matron had literally just breezed in and still had her headscarf on. They’d had a lovely time, her and Mr Greenberg, at the Weetabix factory and she was extolling the virtues of a cereal breakfast in place of bread and marmalade and praising the countryside. I didn’t want to spoil it with the sad news