Page 11 of Good Bad Girl

“About what?”

“It is always a difficult path to navigate when a loved one reaches the end. Have you spoken to the rest of the family?”

“Aboutwhat?” Clio asks again.

Joy bristles. “If you can’t afford this month’s fees, and your mother remains in good health, please ensure you make the necessary arrangements for alternative accommodation for her.”

“And if I don’t? Then what? It isn’t as though you’re going to chuck an elderly woman out on the street.”

“We can only look after residents who pay for their care. This is not a charity.”

“I’m starting to wonderwhatthis is.”

“Do let me know what you decide about room thirteen.”

Clio snaps. “I will end you if anything happens to my mother.”

She stands to leave, flings open the office door, and walks right into the old man still loitering outside it. He was clearly eavesdropping and heard every word.

Patience

I only have one more bedroom to visit on the top floor of the care home before I can get back to Edith and Dickens. As a trainee carer with no qualifications, it is my job to clean up after the residents as well as care for them. I make their beds, clean their rooms, wash their clothes. When necessary—if they need help, which many of them do—I washthemtoo. I dress them, brush their hair and false teeth, cut their toenails, feed them, talk to them. I help them go to the toilet, which can be tricky if they are unsteady on their feet, or can’t remember where the toilet is. Every resident is different and each one requires a different level of care. At eighteen I’m the youngest person on the team, and I basically do all the jobs nobody else wants to do. It’s a hard way to make a lousy living, but it’s also the only job I could get, and keeping it hasn’t been easy.

I check the time on my phone and see that I have a text message:

Hi Patience, we need to talk. How about I come over later—

I delete it without reading the rest or replying. Any message starting with “we need to talk” rarely ends well. I’m pleased to see the top floor of the home looks empty again; there have been too many visitors here today. The place is full of them on days like Mother’s Day. They come crawling out of the woodwork once or twice a year, sniffing out their inheritance. I think as little of them as I know most of them think of me. I’m just the invisible help, taking care of the people they don’t want to, or don’t know how to.

I slip the phone back in the pocket of my polyester uniform, then push the trolley that is piled high with cleaning products and fresh linen to the next bedroom door. The trolley seems as reluctant to go inside the final room as I am, its wonky wheels squeaking in protest on the patterned carpet. The door is locked—even though it shouldn’t be—so I use the master key to let myself in.

Room fourteen should be just as beautiful as room thirteen—they are decorated exactly the same way, with identical furniture and matching far-reaching views of the city—but room fourteen is currently occupied by a man who should be dead. Mr. Henderson hates the world but refuses to leave it. Every time life conspires to kill him, he survives. War, a pandemic, and an unfortunate incident with a double-decker bus all failed to do the trick. Our exchange when I arrived downstairs for my shift today is still playing on a loop inside my head. It began with his usual greeting.

“You again? Nobody likes you.”

“I guess that’s why I get paid the small bucks,” I said with a smile, trying—as always—to remain cheerful. “Good morning, Mr. Henderson.”

“Piss off, you little runt. Stay out of my room and don’t touch my stuff.”

“I wish I could and didn’t have to.”

“Less of your lip, you little shit. Your generation are all the same. Bugger off back where you came from, you ugly little bastard.”

He calls methatword a lot: bastard. And whenever he doesI think it might be true: I am a fatherless child. But he uses that word when speaking to most of the staff, so his insults are rarely personal, just rude. Rich people have the poorest manners. I bite my tongue and remind myself that Mr. Henderson is just a sad old man. If he does have any friends or relatives they never visit. I think some people are lonely for a reason. Most people tend to think that the elderly are all kind and cuddly, the generic geriatric is a friendly cardigan-wearing grandparent, with an endless supply of tea and wisdom. But from what I have seen working here, bad young people grow up to be bad old people. Hate doesn’t fade with age.

I heave open the sash windows in room fourteen, keen to let in as much fresh air as possible, so it can mingle with the stale variety in Mr. Henderson’s bedroom. Then I pop in my earphones and choose a suitable soundtrack before pulling on my heavy-duty black rubber gloves. I start in the windowless bathroom, tugging the cord to shed some light on what I already know will be unpleasant viewing. This part of the job used to make me feel sick, but it’s human nature to adapt, adjust, evolve. It’s how we survive. Armed with industrial disinfectant, I observe the scene and assess the damage. There are damp towels all over the floor, toothpaste and beard trimmings in the sink, and shit stains in the unflushed toilet bowl. In any other room, I would pick up the toilet brush and open the bleach. But after what Mr. Henderson said to me downstairs earlier, I use his toothbrush to clean away the unpleasantness he has left behind. It’s a fancy toothbrush. Electric. Expensive. It does the job nicely and I flush the toilet to rinse it clean.

When the bathroom is finished I return to the bedroom. I strip the sheets from the bed first, relieved that there are no unpleasant stains today. Sometimes Mr. Henderson likes to leave surprises for me to find. Sometimes I imagine pushing him down the stairs. Last week—as well as the standard insults and hitting me on the arm with his walking stick—he accused me of stealing things fromhis room and I almost lost my lousy job because of it. So I swapped his dentures with a set that had belonged to a resident who died. It was days before anyone could figure out why they didn’t fit. But that’s not the same as stealing.Thisis stealing.

Once the bed is made, I have a little nosey through the drawers in the dressing table. I find a chocolate bar, unwrap it, and take a bite. Then I check the wardrobe, wondering why one man who never leaves the building needs so many fancy-looking shirts and ties—dressing like a gentleman doesn’t mean someone is one. In one jacket I find a silver money clip containing a hundred pounds in ten-pound notes. I slip most of the cash in my pocket and notice that the money clip is engraved:Grandad. The idea of someone so unpleasant having a family when I have nobody makes me want to cry. I hear his words inside my head again: “Bugger off back where you came from, you ugly little bastard.”

People who throw stones don’t seem to understand that they sometimes bounce back.

“He’s just a different generation,” miserable Joy said when I dared to complain the last time he hit me with his walking stick. As though age is an excuse for hate and abuse. I showed her the bruises on my arm but she didn’t care. Joy knows I’m trapped here for financial and other reasons. She is the variety of manager who always manages to make everything worse. Ihateher—all of the staff do—and she uses my situation like a boot to walk all over me.

I think I know why today’s collection of insults upset me more than usual.

I can’t go “back where I came from” because I don’t knowwherethat is.

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