Point of View - Julie

Third

The taxi swept up the gravel drive to the front of Twilight Years Nursing Home.  Cassie paid the driver and got out, looking round at the imposing building in front of her and the wooded grounds surrounding it.  There was a grand entrance with three steps, bordered on either side by a stone lion.  The large wooden front door had a sign on which read ‘Visitors, please walk in.’ Following the instructions, Cassie found herself in a huge panelled hallway, with a reception desk to the left.  A smiling, bespectacled receptionist asked ‘Can I help you?’ and Cassie walked forward. 

‘I hope so.  I’m here to see my Grandfather, Gerald Mitchell.’

The receptionist raised her eyebrows.  ‘Mr Mitchell?  He doesn’t often get visitors.  I didn’t think he had any relatives.’

Cassie paused, wondering how much to tell her.  ‘My father and him fell out some years ago.  I’m not sure why; that’s why I wanted to see him.’

‘Well, I’m not sure you’ll find much out, dear,’ she said kindly.  ‘Mr Mitchell is senile and probably won’t be able to tell you a lot.  He may get distressed and you may not be able to stay very long.’

Cassie nodded.  ‘I understand, but I would still like to see him.’

‘Course, dear, I’ll give you ten minutes.  Could you sign in, please.’  She tapped the visitors’ book with a pencil which was attached to the top of the reception desk by a piece of string and a drawing pin.  Cassie signed the page, dated it and, glancing at her watch, wrote the time: 2.15pm. 

The receptionist came round to the front of the desk and with a cheery ‘Walk this way,’ over her shoulder, set off towards the vast staircase in the centre of the hall.  At the top of the stairs she turned right, and Cassie followed, almost running to keep up, thinking ‘If I could walk that way I’d be in the Olympics.’  She caught glimpses into rooms either side of the corridor, which appeared to be small bedrooms, most of them empty.  The receptionist strode purposefully to a doorway at the end, from where Cassie could hear loud talking.  She entered ahead of Cassie and made straight for the source of the noise, a television, and turned it down.  A woman sitting directly in front of it on a wooden dining chair groaned loudly. 

Cassie waited awkwardly in the doorway.  About a dozen armchairs lined the walls on three sides, with much of the fourth wall opposite being taken up by the television and two enormous bay windows.  Several of the armchairs contained elderly occupants, most of whom seemed to be asleep.  Moving back from the television, the receptionist walked between the two dining tables in the centre of the room and beckoned Cassie over.  ‘Mr Mitchell is there,’ she whispered, pointing to an elderly man in a black blazer and grey trousers who was snoring gently.  ‘Now then, Mr Mitchell,’ she continued in a loud voice, making Cassie jump.  He opened his eyes, pursed his lips and grunted softly. 

The receptionist clasped the top of Cassie’s arm and propelled her forward.  ‘Mr Mitchell, this is your grand-daughter,’ she explained. 

He pursed his lips again and, after several seconds of thought during which he seemed to be processing this information, he cupped his right hand to his ear and said something which sounded like ‘Ughh?’

The receptionist patted Cassie’s arm in a comforting sort of way.  ‘Good luck dear.  You can make your own way down to the front door, don’t forget to sign out, and only ten minutes mind.’

Cassie watched her plump up a couple of cushions on her way out and then she turned her attention back to Mr Mitchell.  His eyes were shut again, and he was making a small ‘puh’ sound with his lips each time he breathed out.  Cassie stared at him for a moment, fascinated, then just as she started to feel awkward, he opened one eye and squinted up at her.  She flinched in surprise.  He opened the other eye and chuckled softly. 

‘Pull up a chair then, gal,’ he suggested, waving his arm in the direction of the dining tables in the middle of the room.  Cassie obeyed, and positioned the chair opposite him, about two feet away.  They observed each other without speaking.  She took in the bright orange cravat he wore, the sparse, grey hair and the alternate teeth, which he revealed as he chuckled again.  Breaking the gaze, he took out a pipe and a pouch of tobacco from the inside pocket of his blazer and turned his attention to the complicated task of commissioning his pipe.  The minutes ticked away as Cassie watched him press the tobacco down with his brown thumb.  He lit a Swan Vesta on the sole of his shoe and, sucking enthusiastically, began to cause vast clouds of foul-smelling smoke to be released. 

‘Mr Mitchell?’ Cassie began, choking slightly and wafting the acrid smoke away with her hand.

He nodded his head thoughtfully.  ‘So you’re Cassandra, are you?’

‘Yes, but most people call me Cassie,’ she answered, surprised he knew who she was.

‘They think I’m mad,’ he began, as if by way of explanation. 

Cassie waited for him to continue, while he sucked deeply on the pipe, closing his eyes and expelling the pungent smoke slowly.  She was about to speak when he suddenly opened one eye and squinted at her again.  She was less surprised this time, but nervousness was taking over now and she giggled uncertainly.  ‘Are you?’ she asked him finally.  ‘Mad, I mean.’

‘In the end, it’s all down to what someone else says.  Someone else’s opinion of madness.  Take Mrs Higgs.  She’s always running around shouting “Fire!”  Nobody takes any notice of her, but in her mind, she thinks there is a fire.  Who’s to say whether there is or isn’t, in her mind?  If there was a fire, her behaviour would be normal.’

‘Yes, I see,’ agreed Cassie, not really seeing at all.

‘Why have you come here?’ he asked, abruptly changing the subject.

Cassie had rehearsed this speech many times, and it flowed easily.  ‘I wanted to find out the truth: about my real father, about Mrs Fletcher, and about how it all fits together.’

He nodded thoughtfully.  ‘A fine woman, Mrs Fletcher.  So you want to know about Mrs Fletcher?’

‘Yes, please, if you feel able to tell me.’ 

The unexpected rattling of a tea trolley right behind her made Cassie jump, and she looked round to see a large lady, whose right breast was apparently called ‘Thelma’. 

‘Cup of tea, Mr Mitchell?’ she asked.

He stretched out his left arm, extravagantly, to reveal his wrist, where a watch might be if he wore one.  He looked at the place intently and, after a pause, said, ‘Five to eleven, Joyce.’ 

‘Go on with you,’ she giggled and poured him out a cup.  ‘What about you love?’

‘No thanks.’  Cassie looked at her own wrist, and was disappointed to see from her watch that the ten minutes had almost elapsed.

‘You know,’ the tea lady said to Cassie, as she placed the old man’s cup and saucer on a small table beside his chair, ‘I think he knows a lot more than he lets on!’  As the tea lady turned away, Cassie caught Mr Mitchell’s eye, and he gave her a mischievous wink. 

He watched as the tea lady moved her trolley further away and then he said, suddenly, in a grave voice, ‘Rupert Mitchell knew about me and his wife, you know.  I’m sorry to say that’s the reason he shot himself.’

Cassie gasped at this new revelation, at first only catching the significance of half of it.   ‘Charles Fletcher’s father shot himself?’

‘Well, yes, if you believe he was his father.’

‘How do you mean?’

He leant forward conspiratorially and winked again.  ‘Mary Fletcher and I were carrying on long before that.’

Cassie clapped her hand to her mouth and through it muttered ‘Oh my God!’

‘You know,’ he mused, ignoring her outburst, ‘I always did think this succession thing is all based on an assumption – an assumption that who your mother says your father is, is actually right.’  He was warming to his subject now.  ‘One day there’ll be a test, you mark my words, which will prove it one way or another, and that will really put the cat among the pigeons.’

Cassie was about to answer, when the receptionist called her name from the doorway and she looked round.

‘Time’s up, Miss Mitchell.’

Cassie nodded reluctantly.  ‘OK, just coming.’

She turned back to the old man and he leant forward suddenly, an earnest look on his face.

‘You will come and see me again, won’t you?’

‘Yes, course I will,’ Cassie answered automatically, thinking of all the questions she still wanted to ask him.

He looked back at her with watery eyes.  ‘Thank you, Cassie,’ he whispered, ‘I’d like that.’

She nodded, suddenly feeling a deep connection to him.  ‘I would too,’ she said, and realised she meant it. 

She stood up and he held out his right hand shakily towards her.  She clasped it, startled by its boniness, and then bent over and kissed him briefly on the cheek.  His face broke into a broad grin.

‘Long time since anyone’s done that.’

Cassie patted his hand.  ‘I will come back soon.’

Walking briskly, she headed for the doorway.  The receptionist had gone.  Cassie turned back to look at Mr Mitchell.  He had his head down, busying himself with his pipe again, but she had the distinct feeling that he might have been crying. 

There was no-one on reception when Cassie got downstairs so she signed out and left, closing the front door behind her.  As her taxi wasn’t due back until 3.00pm, she sat on the steps, between the two stone lions, and thought about Gerald Mitchell.  She would have liked him to have been her Grandfather, but that could only be possible if he were definitely Charles’ father, and if Charles turned out to be hers.  She decided to take another look at Christine’s diaries that evening.  As she mused in the sun, thinking about Mr Mitchell’s words and the accidents of birth, she could hear, from an open upstairs window, the faint cry of a woman shouting ‘Fire!’

First

The taxi swept up the gravel drive to the front of Twilight Years Nursing Home.  I paid the driver his extortionate fee and got out, looking round at the imposing building in front of me and the wooded grounds surrounding it.  There was a grand entrance with three steps, bordered on either side by a stone lion.  It was certainly worth a bob or two, and I’ll bet the beds there didn’t come cheap.  The large wooden front door had a sign on which read ‘Visitors, please walk in.’ Following the instructions, like a good girl, I found myself in a huge panelled hallway, with a reception desk to the left.  A smiling receptionist, wearing glasses which made her look like an owl, asked ‘Can I help you?’

I walked forward.  ‘I hope so.  I’m here to see my Grandfather, Gerald Mitchell.’  I knew this wasn’t strictly true, but if I had told her he was my step-father’s father, it seemed rather tenuous, and I thought she might not let me see him.

The owl raised her eyebrows, and I thought for a brief moment she had seen through my lie.

‘Mr Mitchell?’ she asked.  ‘He doesn’t often get visitors.  I didn’t think he had any relatives.’

I paused, wondering how much to tell her.  ‘My father and him fell out some years ago.  I’m not sure why; that’s why I wanted to see him.’

‘Well, I’m not sure you’ll find much out, dear,’ she said kindly.  ‘Mr Mitchell is senile and probably won’t be able to tell you a lot.  He may get distressed and you may not be able to stay very long.’

I nodded.  ‘I understand, but I would still like to see him.’  It didn’t sound very promising and I hoped I hadn’t come all this way for nothing.  Oh well, at least it was a nice day for it.

‘OK, dear, I’ll give you ten minutes.  Could you sign in, please.’  She tapped the visitors’ book with a pencil which was attractively attached to the top of the reception desk by a hairy piece of string and a drawing pin.  I signed the page, dated it and, checking my watch, wrote the time: 2.15pm. 

The owl came round to the front of the desk and with a cheery ‘Walk this way,’ over her shoulder, set off towards the vast staircase in the centre of the hall.  At the top of the stairs she turned right, and I almost had to run to keep up.  I thought to myself, ‘If I could walk that way I’d be in the Olympics.’  I had fleeting glimpses into rooms either side of the corridor, which appeared to be small bedrooms, most of them empty.  The owl strode purposefully to a doorway at the end, from where I could hear loud talking.  She entered in front of me and made straight for the source of the noise, a television, and turned it down.  A woman sitting directly in front of it on a wooden dining chair groaned loudly. 

I waited awkwardly in the doorway.  About a dozen armchairs lined the walls on three sides, with much of the fourth wall opposite being taken up by the television and two enormous bay windows.  Several of the armchairs contained elderly occupants, most of whom seemed to be asleep.  Moving back from the television, the owl walked between the two dining tables in the centre of the room and beckoned me over.  ‘Mr Mitchell is there,’ she whispered, pointing to an elderly man in a black blazer and grey trousers who was snoring gently.  ‘Now then, Mr Mitchell,’ she continued in a loud voice, which made me jump.  He opened his eyes, pursed his lips and grunted softly. 

The owl clasped the top of my arm with a strength which surprised me, and propelled me forward.  ‘Mr Mitchell, this is your grand-daughter,’ she explained. 

He pursed his lips again and, after several seconds of thought during which he seemed to be processing this information, he cupped his right hand to his ear and said something which sounded like ‘Ughh?’  I felt this wasn’t going particularly well.

The owl patted my arm in a comforting sort of way.  ‘Good luck dear.  You can make your own way down to the front door, don’t forget to sign out, and only ten minutes mind.’

I watched her plump up a couple of cushions on her way out and then I turned my attention back to Mr Mitchell.  His eyes were shut again, and he was making a small ‘puh’ sound with his lips each time he breathed out.  I stared at him for a moment, fascinated, then just as I started to feel awkward, he opened one eye and squinted up at me, making me flinch in surprise.  He opened the other eye and chuckled softly. 

‘Pull up a chair then, gal,’ he suggested, waving his arm in the direction of the dining tables in the middle of the room.  I obeyed, and positioned the chair opposite him, about two feet away.  We observed each other without speaking.  I took in the bright orange cravat he wore, the sparse, grey hair and the alternate teeth, which he revealed as he chuckled again.  Breaking the gaze, he took out a pipe and a pouch of tobacco from the inside pocket of his blazer and turned his attention to the complicated task of commissioning his pipe.  I was aware of the minutes ticking away as I watched him press the tobacco down with his brown thumb.  He lit a Swan Vesta on the sole of his shoe and, sucking enthusiastically, began to cause vast clouds of foul-smelling smoke to be released. 

‘Mr Mitchell?’ I began, choking slightly and wafting the acrid smoke away with my hand.

He nodded his head thoughtfully.  ‘So you’re Cassandra, are you?’

‘Yes, but most people call me Cassie,’ I answered, surprised that he knew who I was.

‘They think I’m mad,’ he began, as if by way of explanation. 

I waited for him to continue, while he sucked deeply on the pipe, closing his eyes and expelling the pungent smoke slowly.  I was about to speak when he suddenly opened one eye and squinted at me again.  I was less surprised this time, I could sense how this was going, but nervousness was taking over now and I giggled uncertainly.  ‘Are you?’ I asked him finally.  ‘Mad, I mean.’

‘In the end, it’s all down to what someone else says.  Someone else’s opinion of madness.  Take Mrs Higgs.  She’s always running around shouting “Fire!”  Nobody takes any notice of her, but in her mind, she thinks there is a fire.  Who’s to say whether there is or isn’t, in her mind?  If there was a fire, her behaviour would be normal.’

‘Yes, I see,’ I agreed, although I wasn’t quite sure what he was getting at.

‘Why have you come here?’ he asked, abruptly changing the subject.

I had rehearsed this speech a thousand times, and it flowed easily.  ‘I wanted to find out the truth: about my real father, about Mrs Fletcher, and about how it all fits together.’

He nodded thoughtfully.  ‘A fine woman, Mrs Fletcher.  So you want to know about Mrs Fletcher?’

‘Yes, please, if you feel able to tell me.’ 

The unexpected rattling of a tea trolley right behind me made me jump, and I looked round to see a large lady, whose right breast was apparently called ‘Thelma’. 

‘Cup of tea, Mr Mitchell?’ she asked.

He stretched out his left arm, extravagantly, to reveal his wrist, where a watch might be if he wore one.  He looked at the place intently and, after a pause, said ‘Five to eleven, Joyce.’ 

‘Go on with you,’ she giggled and poured him out a cup.  ‘What about you love?’

‘No thanks.’  I looked down at my own wrist, and was disappointed to see from my watch that the ten minutes had almost elapsed.

‘You know,’ the tea lady said to me, as she placed the old man’s cup and saucer on a small table beside his chair, ‘I think he knows a lot more than he lets on!’  As she turned away, I caught Mr Mitchell’s eye, he gave me a mischievous wink, and I began to think the tea lady might be right. 

He watched as she moved her trolley further away and then he said, suddenly, in a grave voice, ‘Rupert Mitchell knew about me and his wife, you know.  I’m sorry to say that’s the reason he shot himself.’

I gasped at this sudden revelation, at first only catching the significance of half of it.  ‘Charles Fletcher’s father shot himself?’

‘Well, yes, if you believe he was his father.’

‘How do you mean?’

He leant forward conspiratorially and winked again.  ‘Mary Fletcher and I were carrying on long before that.’

I clapped my hand to my mouth and through it muttered, ‘Oh my God!’

‘You know,’ he mused, ignoring my outburst, ‘I always did think this succession thing is all based on an assumption – an assumption that who your mother says your father is, is actually right.’  He was warming to his subject now.  ‘One day there’ll be a test, you mark my words, which will prove it one way or another, and that will really put the cat among the pigeons.’

I was about to answer, when the owl called my name from the doorway and I looked round.

‘Time’s up, Miss Mitchell.’

I nodded reluctantly.  ‘OK, just coming.’

I turned back to the old man and he leant forward suddenly, an earnest look on his face.

‘You will come and see me again, won’t you?’

‘Yes, course I will,’ I answered automatically, my mind on all the questions I still wanted to ask him.

He looked back at me with watery eyes.  ‘Thank you, Cassie,’ he whispered, ‘I’d like that.’

I suddenly felt a deep connection to him.  ‘I would too,’ I said, and I meant it. 

As I stood up, he held out his right hand shakily towards me.  I clasped it, startled by its boniness, and then, on impulse, bent over and kissed him briefly on the cheek.  His face broke into a broad grin.

‘Long time since anyone’s done that.’

I patted his hand.  ‘I will come back soon.’

Feeling a lump rising in my throat, I turned and walked briskly towards the doorway.  The owl had gone.  I turned back to look at Mr Mitchell.  He had his head down, busying himself again with his pipe, but I had the distinct feeling that he might have been crying. 

There was no-one on reception when I got downstairs so I signed out and left, closing the front door behind me.  As the taxi wasn’t due back until 3.00pm, I sat on the steps, between the two stone lions, and thought about Gerald Mitchell.  He was certainly quite a character.  I would have liked him to have been my Grandfather, but that could only be possible if he were definitely Charles’ father, and if Charles turned out to be mine.  I decided to take another look at Christine’s diaries that evening.  As I mused in the sun, thinking about Mr Mitchell’s words and the accidents of birth, I could hear, from an open upstairs window, the faint cry of a woman shouting ‘Fire!’