‘Mr Bywater will be sleeping for prolonged lengths of time. Usually the carer does some tidying up then.’
‘Do you have a copy of his daily schedule?’
‘Excuse me?’ The lines between Beckett’s eyebrows grew even deeper than his growl.
‘A detailed itinerary, describing what he does and when. I prefer it to be broken down into fifteen-minute slots, but we can work with thirty to start with.’
‘He likes to watch quiz shows in the afternoon. Apart from that, your guess is as good as mine.’
‘No, Dr Bywater. A guess is not good. We don’t care for vulnerable people using guesswork. My team members will follow the schedule to the minute, unless an incident arises requiring them to implement emergency procedures. This way, we can ensure consistency of care.’
‘To start with, you could try asking my grandfather what he wants. He’s quite capable of expressing his needs. Once the carer’s got to know him, they can settle into their own routine, surely?’
‘No.’
‘What do you mean, no?’ Beckett pushed his chair back. This meeting was about to be over.
‘No. I operate with a broad team of carers. That way, no unhelpful attachments develop. In my experience, a personal relationship, friendship, affection, whatever you call it, risks decision-making that may not be in the objective best interest of the service user. The schedule removes the need for such decisions.’
‘You do realise that this is a human being we’re talking about?’ I bristled, unable to keep quiet. ‘The number-one thing Marvin needs is friendship, and some control over what decisions he’s still able to make. Like any of us.’ I couldn’t help glancing at Beckett. ‘Someone who knows and cares about him, not a stupid schedule.’
‘I apologise, I’ve been remiss.’ Kenton Cumberworth gave me a hard stare. ‘I forgot to record your relation to Mr Bywater.’
‘I’m his friend.’ I gave myself a mental kick for allowing my voice to tremble.
‘So, Mary Whittington has no agency when it comes to planning care,’ Kenton said slowly, typing it up as he spoke.
‘We’re done here.’ Beckett stood up.
‘I haven’t finished asking questions.’
‘Yes, you have.’ Beckett opened the kitchen door.
‘Or logged photographs of the house.’
‘That won’t be happening.’
The force of Beckett’s presence was enough to propel the care manager up and into the hallway, which now smelled of disinfectant along with a faint whiff of dirty nappy, and right out of the door.
‘Have you really not registered Bob’s birth yet?’ Beckett asked once we’d finished going over our mutual abhorrence of Kenton Cumberworth.
‘Yeah, the midwife said something about that. I think I’ve still got ages.’
Beckett did a quick search on his phone. ‘It’s six weeks. So that’s what – next Sunday?’
‘Oh. Whoops.’ While on the one hand life before Bob felt lost to the mists of time, I couldn’t believe it had been that long. I used to co-run a business employing a whole load of people. I thrived on deadlines and appointments, targets and Getting It Done. I couldn’t even blame this on the sleep deprivation, or the utter disruption a baby had brought. My capacity to manage myself had been left behind in Sheffield. I was a mother now, though. I had to get it together for my son’s sake.
I found a list of local register offices on the Nottinghamshire County Council website.
‘This one isn’t far from a fabric place I wanted to look at. Would you be up for combining the two, if I came and sat with Gramps for you afterwards? You could get in some taxiing, or take a break.’
Beckett checked the address. ‘If you can book an appointment for Thursday lunchtime, we could go when Gramps is at the lunch club. It’s only a ten-minute drive away.’
I scanned the slots. ‘Twelve-fifteen?’
‘Perfect.’
I waited until I got home before looking up how to register a birth when the father was no longer around. It turned out that in Bob’s situation, it wasn’t an issue, so I dug out the relevant paperwork and then allowed myself a long cry on the sofa, followed by a shorter cry in the bath, then another one in bed. Once Bob woke up, I decided that was enough for one day. My new rule – only one of us were allowed to cry at any one time. I didn’t know if all these sadness chemicals would end up in my breastmilk, but Bob would surely be disturbed by some of the noises I’d been making.
