‘He said he’d consider it. I think he thought I was overreacting. Charles doesn’t like to rock the boat.’
‘Well, now she’s at the hospital she will be seeing a different doctor. It might be better for her.’
‘Yes,’ she nodded. ‘Can you go tomorrow?’
‘Yes. With you?’
‘I can’t,’ she began to load the tray, ‘I’ve a funeral in the morning.’
‘How about the afternoon?’
‘The chiropodist.’
I was surprised that she wouldn’t be rearranging the routine appointment to visit her friend. She seemed a little ashamed too, refused to meet my eye as she busied herself with the tea things. Maybe she’d waited months for the chiropodist to come; perhaps she’d drop to the bottom of the list if she cancelled.
‘All right. So I just turn up.’
‘They call it the Marion Unit. If you could take some things for her. I’ve sorted out the essentials for now, things she might need immediately. There’s a bag in the hall.’
‘OK. So, I’ll go along tomorrow. We can always visit together after that and I’ll see if I can arrange for us to meet the consultant.’
‘Yes,’ she said, without much enthusiasm. Dr Goulden’s tantrum had probably put her off the profession altogether.
I had a swim at lunchtime, followed by a disappointing shower. Cold. More of a dribble than a shower really. There was lots of talk about what super new facilities hosting the Commonwealth Games would bring to the region but as far as I could remember the pools were to be somewhere over in Wigan and I doubted whether the showers at Withington Baths were even on the list of works. People said the Games would bring jobs and investment – it sounded great but how come we’d been the only city actually to bid for them? Was there something that they weren’t telling us? Agnes’ news had clouded my day and my cynicism was showing.
Kingsfield was originally built on the outskirts of the city, far enough away to protect the citizens from the ‘lunatics’ in the asylum. Since then the city had grown and now the hospital and its grounds nestled between a private housing development and an industrial estate.
It was a vast Victorian edifice, all redbrick pomp, three storeys high with wings at either end. On top of the central entrance a small bell tower rose. The gardens to the front were mainly converted to parking, and signs pointed the way to the Plasma Research Centre, Service Supplies, Speech Therapy, Artificial Limb Centre and the Marion Unit (psycho geriatric).
I went through the main entrance, which was all green and black tiles and tasteful indoor plant features, and was directed down the main corridor for some way. It was huge, the size of any major infirmary. In its heyday it must have housed hundreds of people. Where had they all gone? Being cared for in the community, or not, if one believed half of the reports being issued.