‘Can I help you?’
‘We’ve come to see Mrs Palmer,’ said Agnes. ‘She was transferred yesterday evening from Kingsfield.’
‘Oh yes, she was admitted last night,’ said one of the seated nurses.
‘She’s gone up, I think,’ said another.
‘Yes,’ said the nurse at the wall, ‘she’s in pre-op at the moment. It could be quite a while before she’s through. There’s a waiting room round the corner or you could ring in later.’
‘Is there someone we can talk to?’ I asked. ‘We’ve only just heard about the fall. We don’t know any of the details.’
‘I’ll see if we can get one of the doctors down to have a word. Would you like to take a seat in the waiting room?’
We went into the lounge, which was empty apart from one woman in a tartan tracksuit watching a quiz show. There was a drinks machine in the corner. I got us each a dubious-looking tea, then went off in search of the toilet.
When I came back Agnes was sitting ramrod straight, looking anxious. ‘I’ve just seen Dr Goulden,’ she said.
The tracksuit woman flicked her eyes our way, obviously interested by the tone in Agnes’ voice.
‘With another man, very tall,’ said Agnes.
‘Moustache?’ checked the woman.
Agnes agreed.
‘That was Mr Simcock – he’s the brain surgeon. They reckon he’s up for a knighthood. Ahead of his time and all that.’
‘You know him?’ I asked.
‘He’s looking after my dad. Simcock’s done his very best for him. Four operations he’s had, counting the one today. Four. Last one took eight hours. Brilliant man. If he’s on your case you know you’ve got the best.’ The credits rolled on screen. ‘Time for a fag,’ she laughed and padded out the room.
‘Which way did they go?’ I asked Agnes.
‘That way – towards the main corridor.’
I had a look round but the two men had gone. Why on earth would a humble GP like Goulden be here with the great brain surgeon? My scant knowledge of how the NHS worked told me that GPs and consultants usually communicated by letter, not in person. I determined to find out a bit more about Simcock and Goulden.
It was almost half an hour before a fresh-faced junior doctor appeared and introduced himself to us. We asked him to tell us what he could about Lily.
‘She was admitted after a fall,’ he began. ‘I think Dr Montgomery suspected there might have been a small bleed, what we call an extradural haematoma. She’s in theatre now so they’re probably removing a clot and they may need to tie off an artery.’
‘But you’ve not seen her?’ Agnes asked.
He hesitated. ‘No. Mr Simcock did and he’s doing the operation. I’m afraid I don’t have her notes here so I can only give you a general idea of what’s going on.’
‘Can’t we see Mr Simcock?’ said Agnes.
‘I’m afraid he’s got a very busy schedule today. If you make an appointment, that would probably be best.’
‘How serious is it?’ I said. ‘Is this…is it life-threatening?’
‘It can be, yes. The fact that she’s been seen quickly and that she’s not in coma so they’ve been able to operate, those are grounds for optimism, but there’s no denying it is a critical situation. They could be up in theatre for a while but you’re welcome to wait or you could ring the ward for details later.’
Agnes agreed there was no point in waiting.
‘Very well,’ said the doctor, ‘goodbye.’ He made a point of shaking hands with both of us before he went.
I dropped Agnes off and offered to take her back later – it’d have to be after six as I’d got to pick the children up and feed them. She would ring the hospital to find out when Lily was back from theatre.
I called home for a sandwich and stuck a load in the washing machine. I walked round the corner to work. Where the pavement had flooded, the water had frozen into puddles of ice. The city’s low lying, the land’s flat and full of clay, there are countless underwater streams as well as the River Mersey to swell and seep every time it rains. If it’s not falling on your head it’s creeping up your ankles.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The office was so cold I could see my breath. I switched the convector heater on full and began to defrost. Mused over Lily’s moves, from her own home to a residential home, then to the psychiatric hospital, now the Infirmary. Dr Goulden had been very quick to get Lily Palmer out of the community and into the Marion Unit at Kingsfield. There hadn’t been any waiting about. Was that unusual? Hoping that Dr Goulden was still out of his surgery I rang his receptionist.
‘Hello, it’s Jean Brown here from Social Services. I’m just checking on current clinic arrangements between general practitioners and local nursing and residential care homes for the elderly. Now I’ve got Dr Goulden down for Homelea – does he still run a clinic there?’
‘Yes,’ she replied, ‘and he does Aspen Lodge as well.’
‘Oh, yes! Over the page! Thanks for your help.’
Aspen Lodge was in the phone book. This time I was Monica Saunders researching transfers to the Marion Unit for the Health Commission.
‘We’re doing an audit now to assess the current attainment targets and the efficiency of the Unit. I need the details of any transfers over the last twelve months.’
‘Hang on,’ said the woman at the other end, ‘I’ll have to check the card index.’
‘Would you like me to ring back?’ I was keen to sound plausible.
‘No, it shouldn’t take long.’ She put the phone down and I could hear the flick of cards and the sound of a radio in the background.
‘Hello? We’ve had four in the last twelve months – since March. Do you want the names?’
‘Yes, please,’ oh yes, please, ‘and dates of birth. Then I can crosscheck with our records.’
‘Mrs Rose Mary Connelly – fourth of the ninth, 1914. Miss Margaret Anne Underwood – eleventh of the sixth, 1905. Mr Philip Braithwaite – sixteenth of the first, 1903, and Mrs Winifred Saltzer – twenty-third of the tenth, 1916.’
‘And have they remained at Kingsfield?’
‘You’d have to check with the hospital. None of them came back here.’
‘Thank you.’
Would Homelea be as forthcoming? Not if I got the icy Mrs Knight. I steeled myself. I got her. I did my spiel and waited.
‘Where did you say you were from?’
‘Resources, research, monitoring and management – we come under the Health Commission administration. We were only established this year so you may not have heard of us before. I can leave my number if you’d prefer to ring us back with the information.’
‘Yes.’
I sat watching the phone repeating my alias over and over to myself. I let it trill twice before picking it up.
‘Resources, research, Monica Saunders speaking.’
‘Sorry,’ mumbled a voice at the other end, ‘wrong number.’
‘Who is it?’ I yelped.
‘Is that Sal?’
‘Yes.’
‘It’s Diane. What are you playing at?’
‘Work. Look, can I ring you back? I’m waiting for a call.’
‘Oh, go on then.’
As soon as I replaced the handset it went again. I picked it up and said my bit.
‘It’s Homelea here,’ said Mrs Knight. ‘We’ve had two transfers to Kingsfield this year.’
‘Can I check the names and dates of birth with you? I’ve only got a Mrs Palmer listed and that was very recent.’
‘The other was Mr Ernest Theakston.’
‘Now, we’ve not got him down for some reason. I’ll have to check the records again. What’s the date of birth?’
‘Second of the twelfth, 1922.’
‘Thank you for your help. Goodbye.’
Six patients transferred to Kingsfield in the last year, from just two homes. Homes with the same GP. And the Marion Unit wouldn’t have a large number of beds. Apart from Saltzer, they were all common names, not that easy to track down. I checked the phone book. There was a Saltzer in Gorton and one in Chorlton. I tried the Gorton number first, they’d never heard of Winifred. But the man in Chorlton had. He was her widower.