Go Not Gently

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Lily had gone. Agnes and I stood in the room next to the bed she’d occupied. It had been stripped down and made fresh. I looked in the locker. It was empty.

‘I’ll go and find out what’s happening,’ I said, sounding more relaxed than I felt. Agnes nodded. She looked bewildered, a tremor shook her lower lip. She’d been tense and silent on the journey to the hospital.

If Lily was dead, how would Agnes bear it? But Lily hadn’t been frail, not in that sense, when I’d called on Saturday.

I saw the Irish nurse, whom I’d met before, along the corridor and asked her if we could have a word. She came into the room.

‘Do you know what’s happened?’ I asked

‘Mrs Palmer, is it?’ She checked.

‘Yes.’

‘I think she had a fall. They’ve taken her into the Infirmary. You’d be better talking to Mrs Li. I wasn’t on duty.’

Agnes followed me back to the reception area. Mrs Li told us that Lily had fallen early the previous evening. Dr Montgomery had been at the Unit and was able to assess her immediately. He recommended her transfer to the Manchester Royal Infirmary. He suspected that the fall had caused a small bleed to the brain. A scan and X-rays would show whether that was the case and whether there was any need to operate.

‘Oh, my goodness,’ said Agnes, ‘how is she? How did she fall?’

‘I really don’t know, I wasn’t here. We do get a lot of falls,’ she tried to reassure us, ‘problems with mobility. It was fortunate she was seen so promptly and I’m sure she’ll get the very best treatment there. She’s gone to the Regional Neurosurgery Unit, Mr Simcock’s the consultant. He’s very good,’ she persisted, ‘one of the best neurosurgeons there is anywhere.’

The phone rang and we waited while she answered it.

A woman with ill-matched clothes and lank grey hair had been hovering nearby, muttering repeatedly to herself. She moved closer, her hands clasped in front of her.

‘Did she fall or was she pushed? Answer me that. Humpty Dumpty fell, Baby Bunting fell, atishoo, atishoo, all fall down. They fell. She didn’t.’

‘Lily,’ I said, ‘Lily Palmer, did you see what happened? Did she fall?’

The woman shook her head on and on. Did she mean Lily hadn’t fallen or that she hadn’t seen anything?

‘I do not like thee, Doctor Fell, the reason why I cannot tell; But this I know, and know full well, I do not like thee, Doctor Fell. They took her, just like that.’ She kissed the air, turned and wandered away. It was impossible to know whether she really had something to tell us or whether she was living in a world of her own.

Mrs Li finished her call. ‘I’m sorry, is there anything else?’

I asked her which ward Lily was on.

‘I’m not sure. If you find the Neurosurgical Unit and ask there, they’ll tell you.’

It was a fairly direct route up Princess Parkway towards Manchester and the Infirmary. The dual carriageway was always busy; it was one of the main links to the airport and motorways.

‘That woman,’ I said, ‘the other patient, she seemed to think Lily hadn’t fallen.’

‘Or that she’d been pushed?’ Agnes sighed. ‘It’s one thing after another. First her getting ill, then she’s so bad they send her to Kingsfield, now this…I do hope she’s all right.’

‘She has fallen before,’ I pointed out. ‘She can’t have been that steady on her feet. It could well be just one of those accidents.’

‘I wish there’d been someone…’

I braked sharply to avoid the lorry ahead, whose brake lights were conveniently covered by a lowered tailgate. ‘Sorry, go on.’

‘It would have helped to talk to someone who’d been there

at the time,’ she said. ‘I didn’t get any idea of how serious it

might be.’

‘I don’t think they’d take her in so quickly unless it was urgent. But Mrs Li said they’d do X-rays and scans before they decided if surgery was needed. I suppose they’ll know from those how bad she is. It sounded as if she might be all right without any operation.’

‘Oh, I hope so. You know, if they are doing a scan,’ she said, ‘they should also be able to see whether there are changes in the brain, lesions or plaques they call them. There were pictures in one of those books I read. They show up quite clearly on scans, apparently. It could confirm once and for all whether Lily has got Alzheimer’s.’

‘You’re still not convinced about that?’

‘No. Not until they prove it to me.’

‘But Dr Montgomery, he thinks it’s Alzheimer’s, doesn’t he?’

‘Yes. They all do. Charles said they were intending to book Lily in for a scan eventually to look at the extent of the disease but she’d have to go on the waiting list. It’s an expensive piece of equipment.’

We reached the Moss Side junction and I turned right past the old Harp Lager place and into Moss Lane East.

‘And eighty-five-year-olds aren’t exactly a high priority,’ she added dryly.

Manchester Royal Infirmary, another redbrick Victorian edifice, sits on the fringe of the university sector just up the road from the Rusholme curry shops. Day and night flocks of students can be seen parading to and from lectures and social events. We parked in the car park at the back and made our way to the main corridor. Murals and mosaics relieved the monotony of the long walk to the ward. The wide corridor bustled with a mixture of staff in various uniforms, visitors in everyday clothes and patients in varying degrees of undress – often swathed in cellular blankets.

At the Neurosurgery Unit we stopped off at the nurses’ station. Four nurses were there. They appeared to be discussing papers and one of them was standing and entering notes on a white-board. She looked across as we hovered at the door.

‘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.