‘I’m concerned about her,’ she was saying, ‘she’s so…’ the patina of lines on her face creased into a frown as she groped for the word she wanted, ‘distant. She’s losing interest.’ Her voice rose in agitation. ‘It’s not like Lily.’
Agnes Donlan was beautiful. And very old. Clean, airy white hair framed her face. Not the sort of colour you could get out of a bottle. White teeth too, very even, probably not her own.
‘How long has she been there?’ I pulled my notebook closer to jot things down.
‘Eight weeks. She had the bad fall at the beginning of October and she was in the week before Christmas. It was all such a rush. She’d made up her mind. I was against it. Once you leave your own home, your independence…’ She left the sentence hanging, its implication clear.
‘So her decline could well be due to the move?’
Agnes fiddled with the jet brooch on her coat. ‘Oh, I don’t know. If that was it, then, well,’ she spread her hands, palms up, ‘I’d just have to accept it, but…’
She couldn’t bring herself to say it aloud.
‘Listen, Miss Donlan.’ I leant back and made eye contact. Her eyes were a deep blue, almost navy, like her coat. ‘If I’m to help I need to know exactly what’s worrying you. What you’d like me to do.’
‘It sounds so melodramatic,’ she protested.
I smiled. ‘Everything between us is completely confidential. If I think the case is ridiculous, a waste of my time and your money, I’ll say so.’
‘Good. It’s so hard to know.’ She took a breath and straightened up in the chair. ‘Very well. I’m concerned,’ she spoke slowly, choosing her words with care, ‘that Lily’s health is being affected, that something in that place is making her ill.’ Her composure wobbled as she voiced her fears, and tears glistened in her eyes. She blinked them away. ‘It sounds far fetched, doesn’t it?’
‘No. You may be right. We’d need to find out about conditions there, try to discover whether there’s anything practical that can be done to improve her care. Sort out whether it’s the upset of moving that’s unsettled her or something else. Has Mrs Palmer got a social worker?’
Agnes nodded. ‘There was someone helped with the move, I think. The doctor sent them.’
‘Well, perhaps you can talk to them first.’
‘Oh, I don’t feel I can, you see. I did talk to Mrs Knight, she’s the matron. She said we just had to accept it, she said Lily was starting with Alzheimer’s or something similar.’
‘But you’re not sure?’
‘It’s been so sudden. Everything I’ve read or heard suggests it comes on gradually. I can’t just leave it like this. I feel I owe it to Lily to do something.’
I nodded. Considered what she’d said. Perhaps this visit to me was her way of refusing to face reality. Her reluctance to accept her friend’s rapid decline. Without further investigation it was hard to make a judgement.
I suggested to Agnes that we arrange a visit to Homelea once I’d done a little research to establish whether Lily’s symptoms were par for the course. The initial visit would be free of charge and afterwards I would advise her whether to retain my services or not. She agreed and thanked me, relief relaxing her shoulders as she sat back in the chair.
‘All right,’ I said, ‘I’ll need to write down all the facts we’ve got.’
Twenty minutes later I followed Agnes up the stairs to the ground floor. I rent office space in the cellar of the Dobsons’ family home, round the corner from my own house. When I first set up business, I went knocking on neighbours’ doors to find a room; the Dobsons were happy to take me in and it’s worked out well. It’s basic accommodation, to say the least, but I pay a peppercorn rent for it, which is all my irregular income runs to.
She got a plastic rain hood from her bag. I opened the door. She tilted her head at the steady drizzle. ‘They forecast rain.’ She tied the hood under her chin. ‘Thank you.’ She pulled on her gloves.
‘Bye-bye,’ I replied. ‘I’ll be in touch later in the week and we can arrange that visit.’
I watched while she made her way down the path and along the street, her pace slow but assured. When she reached the corner she turned a little stiffly and raised her hand in farewell. I waved back and went in.
Down in the cellar I put the kettle on and recapped on the notes I’d made. Lily Palmer had been in Homelea Private Residential Nursing Home for two months. In that time, to quote her friend Agnes, ‘The life had gone out of her’. She’d lost weight, interest and seemed disoriented. She’d complained of headaches and palpitations. Sometimes she was drowsy and unresponsive, at others agitated, restless. She was often confused and forgetful.
