The staff

 

Alice sat in bed leaning against a wall of pillows.  Her white hair in loose waves, clothed her head like little ripples on a sandy beach beside the ebbing sea.  Her bright eyes glistened like glass beads in the soft light of the bedside lamp.  Christopher and I stood beside her bed and considered.  Chris, six feet tall, shock haired and seventeen and me, five feet, grey haired and sixty plus were discussing the evening’s work.

 

So you put her to bed, did you, Chris?”, “Yes” a short paused followed.  “She wanted a bath”.  “Oh, did she?  She’ll have to wait for a day or so until we are less busy”, then to Alice, “Won’t you, Alice?”  Alice peered up at me from her small bright eyes and glanced at Christopher.  Chris, looking down at me from somewhere just below the ceiling, prepared a defence.  Conspiratorial atmosphere crackled around us.

 

“Why?” said Chris, “I bathed her”.  Incredulously I pursued the enquiry, “You?  How did you manage it?”  Chris explained.  With the aid of a chair and his brute strength, he had slid her into the water, washed her all over and pulled her out the opposite way from putting her in.  I felt I ought to object.  Supposing she had slipped.  Supposing … but she hadn’t and my admiration for the lad could not really give way to criticism.

 

“Did you make sure she went to the lavatory before she got into bed?”  From a very lofty position, I received reassurance, “Of course I did”.  I could imagine the incident.  Three hundred arrived at the Camp at about 2 p.m.; the wheelchair and bedridden people in charge of twenty ‘staff’, three qualified nurses, five adult women and six tough hefty men and half a dozen students, of whom Chris was one.  They all had boundless energy, unbelievable capability and limitless confidence.

 

The setting in process was always prolonged and exacting and often chaotic.  Most wanted extra pillows, some needed and additional mattress to raise the bed level.  Blankets, tooth mugs, hot water bottles to be filled, gradually the interminable list of requests would be satisfied, the complaints and criticisms would be resolved and peace would be established.  By 11 p.m., most of the guests, like Alice, would have had their last drink, would be tucked neatly in their beds and if not asleep, ready for it.  I could just imagine the pantomime between Alice and young Chris.  Alice: “Do you think I could have a bath?”  Chris: doubtfully, “I’m not sure; I’d better ask Maggie”.  Alice: “Oh!” then tactically, “don’t bother her; she’ll be ever so busy this evening”.  Chris; “I may be needed to help someone else”.  Alice: “Why?  There are plenty of others.  It’ll only take ten minutes”.  Both of them knew that baths were out for the first evening of the holiday.  Both of them knew that another person should be available in case of trouble.

 

Alice glanced up at me with her beady eyes.  “The last proper bath I had was last year when I came with you” she observed with disarming pathos.  I knew this was true.  I weakened.  Poor old thing, the nicest part of the holiday was being able to feel the warm soft water round her plump limbs and soothing her tired joints.  She always brought with her the smelliest bath salts she could get and a large tin of equally fragrant powder.

 

“Oh well”, I conceded, “we may be able to get you in again later in the week”.  Alice’s eyes shone.  Retrospectively, I realised later, they glittered.  “Will you be able to?” she queried, and then, “I’ll remind you”.  The last three words were a threat; she would implement them every few hours until she got what she had been promised.  I sighed.  Would I, I wondered, every learn?