Cheryl chuckled. There was no warmth to her laugh and it sounded as mean and thin as her tea. ‘Suppose you better had. Brace yourself.’
Gordon Henderson was on the floor, sitting in a puddle of his own urine and looking up at the two women with the innocence of an untrained puppy when they entered the room. ‘Don’t be fooled, this is all for your benefit,’ Cheryl whispered.
Maura was too busy trying not to gag on the stench of ammonia that stung her eyes and burned her nose to pay much attention to Cheryl. This wasn’t the first time the old man had peed himself by the smell of it. She glanced at Cheryl, who seemed to be immune to the fumes.
‘Best get you up, Mr Henderson, eh?’ Cheryl said, speaking to the man as if he was a deaf five-year-old.
He raised a thin hand and pointed a wavering skinny finger at Maura. ‘She can do it, not you.’
Cheryl sighed. ‘Whatever. I’ll get you some clean clothes.’
Maura knew instinctively that she was being tested, perhaps by both of them. ‘OK, but introductions first. I’m Maura. I’m going to be staying with you until Miss Hall is recovered. I’m a nurse, I’ve come to take care of you, and Miss Hall when she comes home. I’ll be here until she gets better.’ She added what she hoped was a reassuring and confident smile. ‘Right, I’m going to crouch in front of you and I want you to put your arms around my neck. Then I’m going to lift you into a standing position. Do you think we can do that?’
The old man nodded, but there was a cold sparkle in his eye that invited caution. Maura was not unfamiliar with the wiles of awkward patients, and the likes of Gordon Henderson were ten a penny, nasty old men with a touch of the vicious. Not all of them could be changed by good nursing and a dose of compassion but she was prepared to give it her best shot. She crouched down in front of him and placed her arms around his back under his arms – he had the thin frame of a waif, but looked tall. She hunkered in, ready to lift from her knees to save her back. It wasn’t ideal, but he couldn’t stay on the floor, so she had no choice but to lift him badly. He slipped his arms around her neck and leaned in. His breath was sour and smelled of pear drops – ketones, which told Maura he wasn’t eating well, so no wonder he was so thin. She tightened her hold and began to lift, hauling him to his feet in one deft move. Once upright, he turned his lips to her cheek and, for a fraction of a second, she thought he was going to kiss her. Then he opened his mouth and took the flesh of her cheek between his teeth and bit down, holding her skin at a point where damage might be done if he felt the urge for it.
She didn’t flinch. It was an old trick. ‘Mr Henderson, if you continue, and you bite me, I will drop you straight back on your backside, call the police, tell them I’ve been assaulted, and they will come here and take one look at you, and you’ll be in a psychiatric unit quicker than either of us can reconsider our decisions. Do you understand me?’ They were harsh words, but she needed to set some boundaries if they were to come to terms with each other. She’d never be able to nurse him if he thought she was afraid. She was, but he didn’t need to know that.
He didn’t move. His teeth remained on her skin and she could feel his thin body quivering with malice. ‘I’m here to care for you, not to put up with abuse. I don’t care how ill you are, I will not put up with abuse – do we understand each other?’ She had come full of good intentions, hung on to them despite her instincts, but they were waning fast. Maybe she wasn’t ready for this after all. The sight of the little girl and all the reminders of why Maura had become a nurse had fuelled her enthusiasm and conviction and made her remember her compassion. She’d wanted to be kind, to show she was still a decent person and could still care, but this man was sucking it all away by the second.
It took a moment, but eventually he relaxed both his grip around her shoulders and his hold on her cheek, but it bothered her that he’d had to think about it for so long. There seemed to be a streak of cruelty in Gordon Henderson that had the potential to send shivers crawling down the spine. He stank, not only of piss, but of evil, and the combination made Maura’s gut churn again. The feeling did not abate when he whispered in her ear, ‘There’s bad in this house, mind you be careful of it. It gets us all eventually. Ask the nurse, she’ll tell you.’
‘I am the nurse, Mr Henderson,’ she said. Her instinct was to shove him away from her, but she couldn’t. He was old, frail and demented if the agency was to be believed. No wonder they were paying so well; no one in their right mind would have taken this job on. But Maura wasn’t in her right mind – the pack of Prozac that lay in her bag unopened was proof of her own GP’s belief in that. Maura was desperate and lonely and full of self-pity. The depression was telling her she wanted to foist that pity onto someone else so she didn’t have to feel it herself any more. Coming to the Grange hadn’t been an act of altruism, it had been an escape route. She had hoped this elderly man would an eager recipient of her willingness to care, no matter how poor the reason, but it seemed she had made a mistake there too. She wasn’t ready, and no matter how mean and vile Gordon Henderson appeared to be, he deserved better. Everyone deserved better.
Instead of pushing Gordon away she held firm, resolving to call the agency the next day and ask to be replaced by someone who was up to the job. They could have the money; she didn’t want it. She just wanted to feel useful again and keep hold of a good mood when it came along.
Cheryl came back into the room carrying clean underwear, trousers and a pack of baby wipes.
‘Soap and water would be better,’ Maura said, which got her an impatient scowl from Cheryl and a smug smile from Gordon Henderson.
‘You can always go and fetch some if you’re so keen,’ Cheryl said impatiently. ‘I’ll hold him, you clean him up.’
For the sake of cordiality, Maura caved in and took the baby wipes. No wonder the salary for this job had been so generous. She assumed it was Dr Moss who had wanted private nursing care; he must have known that whoever he hired would have their work cut out. If the bastard had asked for her by name, she would make him pay. They had never seen eye to eye and his presence in the house earlier had felt like much more than a coincidence. She didn’t know who she was most angry with, herself or Dr Moss.
Gordon stood patiently and compliantly while Maura stripped him of his trousers and underpants, a smile of victory playing around his mouth. She asked him to step out of his wet clothes and he did so without complaint, holding on to Cheryl’s shoulders while she looked away in disgust. The only frisson of trouble occurred when Maura pulled a few baby wipes from the packet and asked him to clean himself up. He hesitated, looked confused, then angry. ‘I do not do these things for myself,’ he said with more coherence and pomposity than she’d expected from a man who was supposedly terminally demented.
‘And I don’t get paid to do things for people who are perfectly capable of doing them for themselves, Mr Henderson.’ She held the wipes out. He stared at them for a moment, glowered at her, then took them and did as he was asked.
It was a dance, a setting out of the rules of engagement, and it happened with everyone. Maura was used to it, wise to it, and, nine times out of ten, could outstep the opposition in three moves flat. With Gordon Henderson it just took the two, but there was a good chance he would muster and try it on again. She wasn’t being cruel, far from it. Despite her feelings about the Grange and its owner, she’d be a poor carer if she did too much for him. The goal was independence and her job was to help him maintain it.
She helped him into his clothes while Cheryl fetched tea and he was as docile as a lamb the whole time. Once she’d got him settled in his chair she sat down opposite him. ‘So, Mr Henderson, is there any particular reason you couldn’t make it to the toilet?’
He looked away from her and mumbled something she couldn’t quite make out. ‘I didn’t quite hear you.’
‘I said I find you very rude.’
‘And I find you very difficult, Mr Henderson, so we can either battle it out while we both have a really horrible time or we can call a truce and try and work with each other – what’s it to be?’