Sorry? What’s he sorry about? That he made me suspicious? That I misjudged him? That he really was a bad apple?
If possible, his words are even harder to understand than the eyebrow.
All this leaves me feeling worse than ever. Grandad pats my hand gently. “Don’t worry. Raff’s alright.”
I wish people would stop sayingRaff’s alright. How is he alright?
It’s still a quarter to four, not time for the daily tea trolley, but I can’t wait. Inside me, a need to find Raff gets hold of me and drives me out of my chair. “Here are the bickies,” I say laying the box of assorted petit fours on the low table. I mumblesomething about being expected back at Kendric House before hurrying out of the lounge.
Which way did he go?
He’s not in the hallway or the other room full of residents. I walk all the way to the front door but he’s not there.
I can’t find him.
Not that afternoon or the next day. Or the day after.
Chapter Thirteen
Saturday 17 November. Kendrick House.
I’ve learnt to make porridge the slow way. Haneen doesn’t believe in microwave oats. It’ll be my job in the morning now because Haneen is going away for ten days.
They’re going on holiday, she, Evan and their little girl, Henrietta, as well as a slightly older boy that I hadn’t seen before. Rhys is Evan’s seven-year-old nephew. It’s for him this unusually timed holiday in mid-November. The boy normally lives in a residential school for deaf children and it’s their half-term. So the family is off to visit Haneen’s brother somewhere in the Channel Islands. This morning, I watched Evan pack suitcases into his car while little Henrietta and Rhys chatted silently in sign language.
To someone like me, it’s amazing to watch this patched up family. Evan isn’t Henrietta’s father. Rhys is the son of Evan’s late sister. From what I’ve gleaned, the four of them only met last Christmas. Yet, they seem very close, as if they’ve been a family forever. There’s no missing the love and joy as they all chat and hug and pile up into the car on their way to Southampton.
Haneen left me in charge not only of breakfast, but also of a couple of their young volunteers. Wyn who helped me clean and furnish my room, and Meredith who is hoping to become a chef. She’s taking over Haneen’s mash and gravy takeaway business and spends half the morning peeling potatoes and chopping onions.
I have little to do aside from making breakfast. No one needs my help at Kendric House, so I drive to a cash and carry to buy large boxes of biscuits. I also fret about apologising to Hagrid-Raff.
Every day, I’ve taken care to arrive early and hang around long after tea has been served. I’ve walked slowly from front door to lounge, lingering in front of framed paintings on the wall, and noticing frayed carpets, stained armchairs and the faint smell that hangs about the place. I smile and say a bright hello to staff whenever I see them and thank them for looking after my grandfather. Everyone is polite enough except trolley lady. She has clearly decided to hate me.
According to Bill, she’s not employed by the care home but by a private catering service. She deeply resents my visits ever since the manager made her offer better tea and more biscuits, at least to the small circle of residents around my grandfather. Even my bringing in packets of biscuits is starting to cause problems. Bill offers them around at other times like the morning break. Everyone likes them which highlights the poor quality of what’s normally on offer. Now when she sees me she mumbles angry complaints about people who have nothing better the do with their afternoons.
It's only been five days since I started coming; already she’s complaining that there should be a limit on visits. Today, however, things escalate. On my way to the visitor’s bathroom– another one of my ploys to walk up and down the corridor in case Raff is there, he never is – I pass the main TV lounge.
People in this larger room are less active, most of them sit dozing in their chairs. The TV drones on. Trolley lady is in there handing out the usual cups of tea and two chocolate bourbons. When she completes the circuit, she goes round a second time to those still asleep and haven’t realised tea was served. She collects the biscuits and drops them back in her plastic tub.
Just then one man wakes up, sees her just about to leave the room.
“Wait. I need my biscuits.”
“You already had them.”
He checks his side tray. “No,” he says in a quivering voice. “I like to dunk them in my tea. Please give me my biscuits.”
“You finished. I’m taking empties.” She scolds him. And to make her point she tries to take back the teacup.
“No. I haven’t finished it,” he complains.
That’s when it happens. I’m watching the cup because it’s full and steaming. If I hadn’t been looking at it, I might have missed what happened, maybe thought it was an accident. But it wasn’t. She deliberately poured half the cup on the old man’s trousers, right on the crotch.
He shouts in pain
“Be careful. You spilt your tea,” she barks at him.
In an instant, I’ve crossed over to them, grabbed the plastic jug of water on the table and poured half on his crotch to cool him down.
