She ignores this question and instead comes back with, “There was another resident in the room who agreed it was you who caused the burn.”
“He was asleep and even if he wasn’t, he was behind Mrs Jenkins. He wouldn’t have seen.”
She inclines her head as if talking to a child. “Can you prove he didn’t see anything?”
A knock on the door, then it opens and Bill walks in.
“Can you wait, please? We’re in a meeting.” Cynthia tells him. Cold as ice and just as hard.
“If this concerns my granddaughter then I need to be here.” He steps closer to me and takes my hand in his warm one.
Never have I ever felt so grateful for support as I do at this moment.
Cynthia’s eyes flick from me to Bill. Then she seems to make a decision. “As this is your relative and you are a valued resident, I’m not going to involve the police—”
“Oh, please call them.” Now with granddad holding my hand, the lump blocking my throat dissolves. “I think Mrs Jenkins should be reported, and I’m happy to take my chances because they will ask the old man who was burn—”
“As I was saying,” Cynthia interrupts me. “In situations such as these, the guest would be banned from The Glyn, but in your case, as you don’t have many visits from relatives, I’m prepared to make an exception. She may continue to visit you.But,” she lands heavily on the ‘but’. “Your visitor will have to sit with you in your own room. I can’t allow her in the common areas. And she’ll have to be accompanied to and from the entrance to your door. She’s not allowed to walk freely or interfere with the residents.” And she fixes both of us with a hard stare. “Are we agreed?”
Chapter Fourteen
Sunday November 18 The Glyn. 4pm
The following day, this agreement really sticks in my throat.
An insulting, humiliating and unfair agreement. I have right on my side, but Cynthia has authority on hers.
She has the power to ban me from The Glyn. Regardless of whatever the police might discover, she’s the manager. She has the authority to make decisions about this place. She can, if she wants, keep me and my grandfather apart.
“Sometimes.” Bill squeezes my hand when we’re sitting in his room. “You have to choose between bickering with the barman or drinking ale. Learn to pick your battles, my sweet girl.”
I’m fuming and angry and, yes you guessed it, in tears again. “That horrible Mrs Jenkins was taking away people’s biscuits. And I bet she recycles tea bags. That’s why it tastes like something you’ve soaked your socks in.”
He sighs, long and sad. “Biscuits are the least of it. Be glad you haven’t had dinner here. Don’t think tea bags are the only thing they recycle in that kitchen.”
“But why do you put up with it? Why not complain or, hell, leave? There must be better places.”
I look around the room. It’s crammed with furniture because the room isn’t big enough for a bed, a wardrobe, dresser, desk and armchair. Squeezing in a second chair for me blocks the door to the bathroom. When I went in to wash my face and hands, I couldn’t help noticing the towel was stiff as cardboard, and the lino floor around the bath was almost black with old dirt where the mop never gets in.
“I can’t really leave.” Bill sighs. “Here, I’m close enough for your father to visit once a month.”
Once a month? Is that all? He’s only three miles away. It’s practically walking distance.
Bill suddenly chuckles. “Don’t look like that. Will was never one for family ties,” he says this so lightly, like a fact he’s come to terms with long ago. How can such a warm, loving man produce a son so cold? Over the last week, Professor Jones has not shown any interest in my visits to his father. He knows because I told him that I came here every day. He just smiled vaguely. “Good, good.” And went back to his book.
I offered to bring him with me, but he declined because it wasn’t his usual time for a visit.
Once a month.
Cynthia had known Bill wouldn’t want to lose me and she had used that to pressure us to accept her nasty ban. No more jolly afternoons with his friends. I can’t even say hello to them because one of the staff walks me down the hall too fast to see anyone.
The only good thing about being confined here is that we’ve been given our own kettle, so I can make Grandad fresh tea from a box of PG Tips. It only makes me think of the awful brew the others are having to drink. At least I load him with biscuits so he can offer them around after I’m gone.
“You must be getting sick of biscuits,” I say, placing several packets of custard creams, chocolate digestives and always popular shortbread fingers. “Can I bring you something different tomorrow?”
“You know what I really want?” His eyes drift upwards to the right.
“Name it.”
