“What are you doing?” Trolley lady shouts at me.
I ignore her and grab the tea towel hanging on the side of trolly and use it to soak up the excess liquid. “Do you have a first aid box?”
Various people in the room start talking at once, asking questions. A couple try to get up.
“Get away.” She grabs the towel from me.
“What’s happened?” Cynthia, the manager, hurries in.
“It’s her.” Trolley lady points a shaking finger at me. “Look what she’s done.”
I’m still trying to mop up the old man’s trousers, which are now soaked to the knees. He continues to moan in pain.
One of the other residents, a man who until a minute ago had been sleeping in the nearest chair says, “She burnt him. I heard the shouting.”
“Yes,” I agree before realising he means me. It must be because he only heard trolley lady’s accusations.
“Mrs Jenkins?” Cynthia turns to the other woman.
“Yes, she did. She knocked his tea over him. She should be banned from coming here.”
I stand up. “Never mind any of that, you need to call the nurse. This gentleman has had scalding hot tea poured on him.”
Cynthia addresses the man. “Jack, can you get up and come with me to see the nurse?”
I stare at her in disbelief because even if he could get up and take his Zimmer frame, it would be too slow. He’s still crying and shaking.
“Can’t the nurse come here?” I ask.
“I’ll take him.” Raff materialises as if by silent magic, and steps in between us. He bends over. “Alright, Jack, put your arm round my neck.” He scoops up the old man and lifts him out of the chair as if he weighed nothing. In one seamless motion, he turns and carries him out of the room very fast.
I go to follow but trolley Jenkins grabs a handful of my jumper and pulls me back. “Where do you think you’re going? Stay here until we call the police and report you.”
“Please take your hands off me,” I say as calmly as I can.
“Not until you’re in handcuffs,” she spits.
Cynthia cuts in. “Mrs Jenkins, let me deal with this.”
Reluctantly, very reluctantly, trolley Jenkins untwists her fingers from my jumper; she’s twisted it so tight that some of the stitches have pulled. I try to smooth the knitting back into place, keeping my eyes on my hands because I’m so angry, tears come to my eyes.
Bloody quick tears! This has always been my weakness. When angry, I cry. It’s like that scene inFriendswhen Rachel’s confrontation with her boss makes her cry.
“Let’s go to my office,” Cynthia urges me with a hand on my elbow. She sounds professional, polite, but not especially sympathetic.
Once in her office, the second such visit in less than a week. This time she doesn’t invite me to sit, she doesn’t offer me her card and a promise to help. Her ingratiating sweetness is gone, Cynthia is a different woman.
Hard as nails, she says, “I have to tell you, this is very serious. As a relative, you’re welcome to visit, but we have a zero-tolerance policy about causing injury to our residents. Since we have a witness, it’s going to be difficult for me to help you.”
My tears must have looked like an admission of guilt. I try to steady my breathing because of the tightness in my throat. “Cynthia. I didn’t cause any harm. It was your Mrs Jenkins who did it. I saw her, she deliberately poured hot tea on that poor old man.”
Her lips tighten. “Really? Mrs Jenkins? She has worked here for years, we’ve never had a complaint about her. “
I count to ten in my head to give myself time to de-stress. “I saw her do it.”
“And she says she witnessedyoudo it. So, I’m sorry to say it’s a case of her word against yours.”
“Are you going to ask the other people in the room? Are you going to ask the victim himself?”
