The Whole Truth

He pours himself a glass of water and pushes the kitchen window open a little further. They do Shakespeare productions in the castle courtyard in the summer, and he can see the edge of the stage and the steps where the audience sit. He’s been to a couple of productions now, including a Henry V with only four actors that hadn’t sounded very promising but turned out to be a wonder. At night, when it’s quieter and the trees at the top are flood-lit, he can sit on his balcony and listen to the entire show. It was Titus Andronicus last night. Not a play he knew, but the gaggle of schoolkids were clearly lapping it up. Cannibalism, revenge and rape – what’s not to like, if you’re fifteen.

* * *

Ten miles away as the crow flies, Ev is getting in a quick early visit to her dad. He’s only been in the care home for a couple of months and it’s taken time to get him used to the place, never mind accept it. She’d been almost as reluctant to agree to it as he was, but after a fall that nearly left him with a broken hip she knew she no longer had a choice. The doctor said so, the manager of the home said so, even Fawley said so. But none of that makes her father’s reproachful stare any easier to take, or his simmering self-pity any easier to hear.

She’s visited every weekend since, but this is the first time when they haven’t had the heating on. Every mobile resident is outside in the garden, which Ev hasn’t ventured into before and turns out to be much nicer than she’d expected. Beds of roses, marigolds, petunias – the sort of flowers her father’s generation grew up with. But, of course, he still found something to criticize (‘the gardener’s one of those greenies, but he won’t get rid of blackfly like that with bloody Fairy Liquid’). Still, at least he had a bit of colour in his cheeks when she helped him back into his armchair. And then there was tea and soggy garibaldis, and more daytime TV with its demoralizing adverts for funeral plans and denture fixative and, that euphemism of the decade, ‘sensitive bladder’. Ev is uncomfortably aware that the same sort of advertising has started turning up on her Facebook feed – just how old do those people think she is? By half past ten she’s had enough, and decides she’s earned a decent coffee in the peace and quiet of her own sitting room. She gets to her feet, mumbling something about feeding Hector, only for her father to bark out that his only daughter ‘cares more about her bloody cat than she does about me’ at foghorn volume. A couple of other visitors turn to stare as she leaves, but one gives her a sympathetic look that says, Don’t worry, I’ve been there.

She’s picking up speed as she crosses the lobby, the open front door already in sight, when she hears her name.

‘Miss Everett?’

She turns. It’s Elaine Baylis, the manager. Ev’s heart sinks. Another half-hour between her and that coffee. And that’s at best.

‘I thought it was you – could I have a quick word?’ Baylis must have seen the look on Ev’s face because her own hardens a little. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t keep you long.’

Baylis can’t be much older than Ev, but the combination of a studiously dreary wardrobe and a sanctimonious professional manner gives her the aura of an elderly fifty-five.

She shows Everett into the office and closes the door behind her. Ev takes a seat on one of the uncomfortable plasticky chairs.

‘I just wanted to say,’ starts Baylis, taking her own seat and tucking her skirt neatly under her – her mother would have been proud – ‘we’re really pleased your father is settling in.’

Ev wonders if she’s speaking on behalf of the whole staff or if it’s some sort of Royal We.

‘But?’

Baylis frowns. ‘I’m sorry?’

‘It sounded like there was a “but” coming.’ She smiles. ‘Or perhaps I’ve just spent too long interviewing suspects.’

Baylis looks momentarily wrong-footed. Now there’s a first, thinks Ev.

‘I just meant,’ she says, sitting forward now, ‘that it’s always a relief – for everyone – when a resident starts to feel at home.’

Ev waits. There’s something else coming. No question. Like she said, she’s been at the interrogation game a very long time.

Baylis sighs. ‘I know we talked about this before, before your father became one of us.’ She makes it sound like the Masons. ‘But I feel I do need to say it again. Meadowhall is a residential home, not a nursing home. We don’t have specialist resources –’

‘The Alzheimer’s.’

She blinks. ‘Yes, the Alzheimer’s.’

‘The GP says it’s still very early stages. He prescribed those drugs –’

‘I know, and we’re making sure he takes them. But that’s about all we’re able to do.’ She emphasizes the words. ‘We don’t have full-time medical staff. We wouldn’t be able to cope –’

‘If it got worse – yes, I know. You told me.’

Baylis gives her a long look, not unkindly. ‘It’s not a case of if, Miss Everett. It’s a case of when. Alzheimer’s always wins in the end.’

Ev’s throat is suddenly tight with tears.