‘That carer, she’s very good, isn’t she?’ Sam said.
‘Cal?’ said the nurse. ‘Brilliant. She came in initially to help out with her uncle-in-law. Seamus over there. But she stayed. Don’t know what we did without her to be honest. For some people it’s a job, but for her, it’s a vocation.’
That woman, Sam decided, that woman would be perfect to talk about what caring for someone with dementia meant. She was connected to the nursing home by family and yet she had that rare and precious gift of being able to take care of people.
Rona, Callie and Sam sat in a small sitting room and shared a pot of tea.
‘I’m trying to get a vision of what it takes to be a carer,’ Sam explained to the woman who’d been introduced to her as Cal, who looked a little uneasy. ‘Rona tells me you started coming as a volunteer to help with your uncle and it turned into a job?’
Callie nodded mutely.
‘Are you feeling all right?’ asked Sam. Her instincts were pricking like crazy – there was something wrong. This poor woman was very stressed.
‘No – I, I think I’m going to be sick.’
Callie bolted from the room.
‘Callie,’ said Rona, standing up.
‘I’m fine,’ Callie said as the door slammed.
The name made all the puzzle pieces fall into place.
‘Callie Reynolds,’ Sam said suddenly. ‘Oh gosh, no wonder she was so stressed. Poor woman. I am so sorry – I never meant—’
‘It’s my fault,’ said Rona shamefacedly. ‘I was so desperate for money and Callie is so brilliant with patients, and she could tell you so much and ... Please don’t tell anyone she’s here.’
‘Of course I won’t,’ said Sam, horrified. ‘I read the papers too. I think she’s suffered enough.’
Ginger
Johnny got them into the nursing home and Ginger went into the loos to try to collect herself before they started this horrible job. She couldn’t do it. Couldn’t ruin someone’s life. This wasn’t why she had come into journalism.Girlfriendwas. That was her calling: helping people.
A very thin blonde woman came out of one of the cubicles, crying.
Their eyes met in the mirror.
It was her, Callie Reynolds. The blonde hair was still blonde, but the face, the amazing face that had graced so many newspapers, looked tireder.
She looked like a hunted animal, huge grey eyes dark with fear.
This woman had been let down, hurt. She had a daughter to protect, and people wanted to hound her? At that moment, Ginger knew what she had to do.
She was Girlfriend helping women, a woman who would not let another woman down.
Taking a deep breath, she said: ‘You don’t know me, but I am here to help you. There is a photographer looking for you. I’m the reporter.’
Callie recoiled.
Ginger shook her head. ‘No. Actually, you know what: I quit. Right now. I am not making a living hounding people.’ She reached forward and grabbed a startled Callie’s hands. ‘Please believe me.’
Callie, her heart pounding, nodded.
‘We need to keep you out of sight because he will know what you look like,’ said Ginger, desperate to make this woman believe her. ‘I need to find someone to say you never worked here, right? Where can we go?’
Callie, although she had no reason to do so, somehow trusted this young woman. It was her face: wide, open and honest. Callie was, she realised, trusting her gut, something she should have done a long time ago with her husband.
But people let you down... That doubt was written across her face.
