Cages by David Mark (reading fiction TXT) 📗

visited the place before. There was a decent independent bookshop near the cathedral, and he had given a talk there one night, years before, when he was still being touted as the next big thing. He remembers thoughtful questions and good wine, and a night in a decent hotel courtesy of the publisher’s publicity budget. It all seemed a very long time ago now. He thinks he may have been taken on a tour of the cathedral, but he could just as easily have read a book about it and imagined pictures that are every bit as clear as authentic recollection.

The old people’s home is just north of a little hamlet called Queen Adelaide, backing on to the River Ouse. It’s an impressive property: a grand, red-brick affair surrounded by landscaped gardens and ringed with a high wall that must be reassuring to the families of prospective tenants: uniformly run ragged by Grandma or Grandad’s continued bids for freedom. Rufus has done his research. He knows that the house is a former hunting lodge converted into a statement home by far-sighted Victorians, and that it was converted to its current use thirty years ago. It’s part of a chain now – the jewel in the crown of a property portfolio owned by a London company that has managed to steer clear of any bad press.

Rufus pulls in to a large, circular parking area, the tyres crunching over neatly raked gravel. The car broke down twice on the journey down but on both occasions he was able to restart it through sheer force of will. He isn’t sure it will get him home again, but at the moment he doesn’t really care.

It’s a pleasant blue day: the sky smudged in places by tattered strips of cloud. The wind is harsh, when it comes, but Rufus is grateful for it. The journey down was hot and uncomfortable and his shirt is sticking to his damp skin as he stands, immobile, and tries to get himself together. He feels jittery with nerves, as if he’s going for a job interview and knows he’s already lied upon his CV. He’s interviewed scores of people over the years – all in the name of research – but this feels very different. He doesn’t know yet if he’s researching a book, or trying to put himself at the centre of a story.

He grabs his battered satchel from the rear seat, locks the car, and makes his way past a large picture window to a big set of double doors. There’s a mosaic on the floor: different shades of sepia and black artfully arranged to form an approximation of a church. Beyond that is the cool of reception, with its dark wood floors and a staircase that curves up towards the high ceiling. There are fresh flowers in a huge Chinese-looking vase on the reception desk and the buttermilk-coloured walls are hung with the kind of oil paintings favoured by people who use words like ‘gelding’, ‘yearling’ and ‘cob’ rather than ‘horse’. They’ve got a George Stubbs air to them: glossy-coated stallions standing proudly in stables or in front of dusky, tree-lined landscapes.

‘You must be Rufus.’

He turns at the sound of the voice. The woman marching towards him plays havoc with his sense of perspective. He can’t quite work out how far away she is. She’s tiny, but so round as to be almost spherical. It’s hard to guess her age, but Rufus decides she’s probably around fifty. She has long dark hair, nice blue eyes, and a face that goes from forbidding to beguiling as soon as she smiles. She’s wearing a black suit over a cream blouse and he notices as soon as she gets close enough that safety pins have been discreetly employed to pick up any slack left by inexpertly-placed buttons.

‘I’m Wendy,’ she says, extending a hand. It’s small and fleshy and there’s a wedding ring on her finger: the only ornamentation other than the ruby-coloured nails. She gives off the scent of body spray, liberally applied. It makes him note the absence of other smells he had expected to assail his nostrils upon entering the lodge. He’d expected bleach and school dinners and the faint but unmistakable trace of funeral parlour lilies and ammonia. All he can smell is furniture polish, and Wendy.

‘You’re right, I must be,’ says Rufus, taking her hand in his. He gets into character at once: the affable and bumbling English gentleman, delighted to have been given some of her valuable time. ‘Lovely to be here. Lovely to be anywhere really. I have two teenage daughters so I’m forever looking for reasons to make myself scarce. Some days I pour the last of the milk down the sink so I’ve an excuse to drive to the shop.’

‘I hear that,’ smiles Wendy, grinning. ‘I was saddled with sons. Three of them. The youngest is still at home and I can’t see him leaving any time soon. Got it too good. The others come home when they’re hungry or need their washing doing. I should say no, but I can’t bring myself to.’

‘You’re obviously in the right job. You’re a giver.’

She considers this. ‘Either that, or I’ve raised three takers.’

Pleasantries exchanged, she rubs her palms together: the international sign language for getting down to business. Rufus reads the signs. ‘So, as I said on the phone, this is rather a new direction for me. Your Mr Iveson – apparently he’s the absolute authority, but I was warned that he’s not always on the correct wavelength.’

Wendy nods, understandingly. Lowers her voice, even though there’s nobody around. ‘He’s growing increasingly frail, I’m sorry to say. Has been for some time now. We treat the pain, but the dementia is quite far advanced and it’s heartbreaking to see him not understanding what’s happening to him. You don’t want to keep reminding him, as you can imagine. Sometimes ignorance is bliss.’

Rufus softens his expression. ‘There’s nothing about getting old that I’m looking forward to.