Springtime at Hope Hall

by Pam Rhodes

  “There’s part of me that really wants to. I’d like to talk some sense into him. I want to remind him he’s my dad and Bobbie’s grandpa. I’d actually like to box his ears for the way he’s hurt you!”

  Maggie picked at a piece of cake mix that was stuck to her apron. “Darren’s reaction surprised me, but of course he’s always idolized his dad.”

  “That brother of mine is a traitor!” snapped Steph. “Going round for drinks on Christmas Eve, playing happy families! How could he?”

  “He said it was very civilized. That’s the word he used.”

  “He’s a rugby player and a computer game addict. He’s got no idea what civilized is!”

  Maggie couldn’t help but grin as she replied, “Well, I suppose in his own way he was trying to sort things out – move on to the next stage, whatever that is.”

  “That didn’t work then, did it? Darren’s the same age as her. Will she be fancying him next – or is she only interested in a sugar daddy? And talking of money, how are you doing, without Dad paying the bills?”

  Maggie sighed. “I’ve been transferring money from our savings account to make sure the direct debits and standing orders are all paid. That won’t last long though.”

  “Right, that settles it!” decided Steph. “I’m going to ring him this evening and arrange to meet up with him somewhere completely neutral. It’s time that father of mine was told a few home truths.”

  Chapter 2

  The advert looking for a cleaner was pinned up on the Call-in Café noticeboard before the doors opened on the first day of the new Hope Hall year. By the time Maggie shut up shop on coffees and snacks three hours later, she’d already had two enquiries. One was from a pensioner who was in the habit of nodding off whenever she was left alone in a seat for more than ten minutes, and the other came from a young mum with three children under the age of five. She looked constantly harassed and probably didn’t have a spare minute to call her own. It didn’t take much to see that a few extra pounds a week to spend on her children would come in handy, but Maggie didn’t feel that a woman who already had such a lot on her plate would be quite right to help out Ray when his own peace of mind and ability to cope were so fragile.

  It was the following day, when more than thirty members of the Grown-ups’ Lunch Club came in for their Tuesday treat that the subject of the job vacancy came up again.

  As usual, Kath had organized volunteer drivers for all the members who needed transport to bring them to Hope Hall, and then take them back home again later. The Good Neighbours scheme was an arrangement through which volunteers were able to offer help to those who needed it in a variety of ways. Mostly, that help was essential and practical, but the scheme also catered for more frivolous activities, like outings or entertainment – the kind of small luxuries that added the occasional sparkle to an elderly or housebound person’s life. A small fee would be given directly to the volunteer driver by whoever had booked them, and the rate decreased if the car was shared. That meant that often a small group would decide to book transport to the out-of-town supermarket, or the nearest big town with a good shopping centre. For those who lived alone, often without family members on hand to break the long hours of solitude behind their own front doors, the opportunity to travel, laugh and share time together was a real treat.

  Other jobs could be ordered through Good Neighbours too. Kath had the contact details of plumbers, handymen, carers, chiropodists, cooks and childminders – all of them local, and good-hearted enough to want to share their skills with those in the community who needed help with things that they simply couldn’t do or afford themselves. Charges were always kept low, and if someone genuinely couldn’t afford the service they required, Kath could tactfully waive the fee. It had soon become clear, though, that for most of these pensioners, however tight their budget, there was dignity to be found in “paying your way”. It was a scheme that worked for everyone.

  Maggie heard Shirley Wells before she saw her.

  “Blanche!” Her voice was like a foghorn as it pierced the air from the serving hatch where she was standing, right across to the other side of the foyer, where a tiny lady in a grey coat and headscarf was about to disappear into the Ladies.

  “Sorry. She’s stone deaf!” apologized the caller, before yelling again. “Blanche, do you want a sandwich and a chocolate cake, or just the cake?”

  A helpful lady also in the queue for the Ladies stopped the unsuspecting Blanche and turned her round to look towards Shirley while repeating the message loudly and clearly into her hearing aid.

  “She says do you want sandwich and a cake, or just a cake?”

  “What sort of sandwich?” asked Blanche.

  “What sort of sandwich?” the helpful friend shouted over to Shirley.

  Shrugging her shoulders with a huff, Shirley turned back towards the counter to ask Maggie what was available.

  “Cheese, ham on the bone, egg mayonnaise, roast beef, prawn salad, sausage and brown sauce, tuna and cucumber…”

  Shirley held up her hand to stop Maggie in full flow. Turning towards Blanche, she bellowed across the hall, “Strawberry jam. Your favourite!”

  Once again, that message was relayed by the helpful friend.

  Blanche’s face lit up at the news. “Two sandwiches and a piece of chocolate cake, please!”

  “You know her well then, do you?” observed Maggie.

  “I’m her carer. Well, not officially, but she’s my neighbour and she’s always been good to me, and she hasn’t got any family worth having now, so I keep an eye on her.”

  “Does she live alone?”

  “Her husband died years ago, and that good-for-nothing son of hers hasn’t been near her since the funeral, when he realized there wouldn’t be any money coming his way. I just make sure she has a good meal every day, and that her house is neat and tidy. It was always that way when I went to visit her as a kid, and she can’t do housework herself now. I’m a bit OCD about tidiness, if the truth be known. Horrible habit to have. I drive everybody crackers making sure everything is clean and put away. I just know, though, that it would upset her if her house was left in a pickle, so I do it for her.”

  “What do your own family think of that?”

  “Aww, they’re all big and ugly enough to look after themselves now. After all these years, I’ve got my husband, Mick, well trained in chores around the house, and he’s at work all hours anyway. We’ve got two boys and a girl. My eldest son lives in Bristol, so he’s a couple of hours’ drive away. His younger brother is living with his girlfriend on the other side of town, and my daughter got married last year to a police sergeant. They moved up to Yorkshire four months ago.”

  “You’re not working then?”

  “No. I’d like to, now I’ve got a bit more time on my hands, but who’d have me? I haven’t got any qualifications worth having, and I can’t stand idiots. Who wants a woman with an OCD tidiness fetish and a very big mouth?”

  “Funny you should say that,” replied Maggie, pointing towards the noticeboard.

  The interview was organized for two days later. Kath and Ray were waiting in one of the school meeting rooms when Maggie shepherded Shirley in to meet them. Kath was immediately struck by Shirley’s choice of interview outfit. She was wearing very high stiletto heels, tight black trousers and a low-necked blouse in exactly the same shade as her bright red lipstick.

  Her answers were confident and disarmingly honest, even though they weren’t relaying information likely to persuade her interviewers that she was right for the job. No, she’d never worked as a cleaner before. No, she couldn’t provide work references, because she hadn’t been employed outside the home at all while bringing up her family. Yes, she was always good at getting on with people, as long as they weren’t idiots who obviously should know better. Yes, she could work whenever required – providing it didn’t get in the way of her routine of looking after her elderly neighbour – and she’d prefer if it wasn’t on Monday n
ights, when she played darts in the local pub team, or Tuesdays, when her son and his partner always came for tea. However, her eyes lit up with enthusiasm as she answered Ray’s questions about cleaning techniques, product choices and her knowledge of hygienic practices, especially in kitchen areas.

  Finally, Shirley was asked to wait outside for a few minutes while the committee considered her application. It didn’t take years of management experience for Kath to decide immediately that Shirley plainly wasn’t right for the job, and Maggie was inclined to agree – until Ray came up with another suggestion.

  “You can’t do that!” was Kath’s instant reaction. “That’s unprofessional – and unethical too.”

  Without a word, Ray went to call Shirley back in, as Kath and Maggie looked on in alarm.

  “I’d like to have a cup of tea in your home right now, Mrs Wells. Would that be agreeable to you?”

  If the question surprised her, Shirley recovered quickly. “Fine. English Breakfast okay?”

  A hint of a smile touched Ray’s lips. “And just one more question, Mrs Wells. What would you wear if you got the role of cleaner here?”

  There was a definite twinkle in her eye as Shirley replied, “Well, not this – obviously! This is my interview outfit, because this is an interview. My cleaning kit has rubber gloves at the top of the list. I wouldn’t dream of scrubbing without my Marigolds…”

  Maggie coughed to hide a chuckle.

  “Right, are you all coming – or just him?”

  “I can’t, I’m afraid,” said Kath. “I have a potential client who wants to start a dancing class here coming in at ten.”

  “I wouldn’t miss this for the world,” grinned Maggie over her shoulder as she scuttled down the corridor after Ray and Shirley.

  Ten minutes later, the two of them followed Shirley through a small front garden with its lawn surrounded by neat rows of shrubs. She strode on ahead to put the key in the door, standing back to usher them in. A fresh aroma of lemons hung in the air as they walked through the hallway with its light moss-green walls covered in family photos that seemed to date back for several generations. In the lounge, a floral sofa and two comfy matching armchairs, on which there were various shapes and sizes of fat cushions, had been strategically positioned around a glass-topped coffee table. On its surface several coasters had been placed in an exact semi-circle around a large pottery bowl that looked as if it might be a memento from a holiday in Spain. Everything sparkled and shone: the glass table, the windows, the huge bevelled mirror above the spotless coal fireplace. The lounge led directly into a dining room with French doors that opened out on to a beautifully kept back garden, with its wooden shed painted in a jaunty turquoise that looked like the colour of the sea on a postcard from a Mediterranean island.

  Ray didn’t stop to admire the back garden, as Maggie did. It was plainly the kitchen that he wanted to see.

  “May I?” he asked Shirley, as she appeared in the doorway.

  “Be my guest.”

  He bent down to open several cupboards underneath the marble-topped work surface. Rows of saucepans, serving dishes and jugs appeared, all stacked in size order. The cupboards at eye level revealed tumblers and wine glasses arranged with military precision, and rows of tins, jars and packages lined up, Maggie suspected, in strict alphabetical order.

  Ray inspected the sink and draining board, wiping his finger over the shining surface. Then he leaned down to peer closely at the ceramic hob. Finally, he turned to Shirley.

  “You’ll do,” he said. “You’ll do very nicely. When can you start?”

  Shirley eyed him thoughtfully. “I know you’re the boss, but I have my own way of doing things and if I think my way’s better than yours, I’ll tell you.”

  “And I’ll agree if you’re right – but I’m no pushover. I believe in high standards.”

  “Then you’ll do nicely for me too!”

  Ray nodded agreement, his smile broader now. “So, what do you have to do to get a cup of tea around here?”

  “Well, there I was, sailing around the Caribbean on a grand cruise ship, and it suddenly struck me. I missed home. I missed Steve. So, when he sent me that text saying he’d been thinking about us getting married, I just knew what I needed to do. I mean, I love dancing professionally – of course I do, it’s all very glamorous – but I feel as if I’m through with that now. I’m ready to settle back here with Steve. He’s my future. This is where we’ll bring up our little family. But I can’t give up dancing completely. I went to dance college in London for three years, you know. I got all my teaching qualifications then, and I’ve never used them. Well, it’s time I did. I’ve made up my mind. I’m going to start my own dance classes.” Della Lucas’s knees were practically touching Kath’s in her enthusiasm to explain her feelings and her plans.

  “You may know my mum Barbara. She ran the big dancing school in the town for years, although she’s retired now.”

  Kath smiled. “Of course. She held classes at the Congregational church hall for a long time, didn’t she? Her pupils put on their Christmas show here a couple of years ago. The children were excellent.”

  “Yes, Mum’s always been great with putting together productions of any sort, and I’m hoping some of her skills have rubbed off on me.”

  “So, how can we help you?”

  “I’d like to run my classes here.”

  “What sort of space and facilities would you need?”

  “The main hall would be good. I used to do ballet displays in this hall myself when I was little. I was only three when I started, and they all spoilt me because I was the youngest in the class. Everyone said I was so cute. I’ve not stopped dancing since.”

  “So, is that what you have in mind? A ballet class?”

  “No. I don’t think the kids want that nowadays. Street dancing, body popping, break dancing – that’s what they’re into now.”

  Kath laughed. “Just those names sound terrifying. Can you do all that?”

  “Well, to be honest, it’s not really my thing, but my body is my work instrument, highly tuned and fully flexible, so I can do anything I like with it. Whatever the dance is, I can definitely teach it, because I’ll adapt the moves to suit the kids I’m working with. No worries.”

  “What age group would you be aiming at, and how many would you envisage attending the class?”

  Della shrugged. “Oh, the kids will flock to learn this stuff. Teenagers mostly – up to about fourteen or fifteen years old, I suppose – but I’d like to start them younger, perhaps from about ten onwards? So, for that street dance class, if I get the age group right, I reckon I’d get at least twenty coming regularly, but it could easily end up being twice that number.”

  Kath nodded. “And the other classes?”

  “Well, I’ve always loved tap dancing, and that’s really coming back into fashion now. So I plan to start a tap class – great for fitness, great for rhythm, great for kids, because it’s so easy to learn the basics —”

  “I worry that it wouldn’t be quite so great for our wooden floor that cost a fortune just five years ago,” interjected Kath.

  “No problem at all,” replied Della, her lips pursing like Betty Boop’s. “Your floor will do perfectly for tap dancing.”

  “But will tap dancing be perfect for our floor – especially if the hall is full of children who are absolute beginners wearing heeled shoes fitted with metal plates on the sole?”

  Della stiffened. “I teach my pupils to tap properly. If they do as they’re told, there will be no scuffing at all.”

  “And if they don’t do as they’re told? If there’s even the slightest chance of damage to our hall surface, I’m afraid that particular class is out of the question.”

  “My dancers will not scuff that floor.”

  “Then you must understand that there needs to be a clause in any contract we enter into with you, making it clear that you will have to take full personal responsibility for damage caused that
way, or any other, as a result of your classes. Are you prepared for that?”

  “Fine!” retorted Della, glaring directly into Kath’s eyes. “I’m a professional and I will run these classes to professional standards, whatever the age of my pupils. I’m only interested in teaching people who really want to be there, whatever kind of dance is involved. If they muck around, don’t listen or think it’s okay to do their own thing, they’ll soon realize I won’t be doing with that. They’ll be out on their ear!”

  Kath found herself smiling at the young woman’s confidence, which was very reassuring. Sensing victory, Della sat back in her chair as the atmosphere relaxed.

  “So just the two classes then?”

  “Well, maybe not. I’m worried about my nan.”

  “Oh?” Kath was taken aback by the sudden change of subject and wondered where the conversation was going.

  “She used to be a bundle of energy, running her own shop, always cleaning, cooking, walking everywhere. I could never keep up with her when I was little.”

  “Really?” replied Kath, wondering where this was leading.

  “But she’s stiff as a board now. She groans every time she stands up and is always complaining that her neck hurts, or her back or feet.”

  “I see,” said Kath, who didn’t really see at all.

  “The thing is, our bodies are like cars. They need the right maintenance. Nan’s not maintained her body, and her mind’s not in good shape either. Since Pops died last year, she doesn’t go out much. She watches telly all the time, and she’s started talking about having a chairlift put on her stairs, would you believe! She’s obviously going about things completely the wrong way – anyone can see that. So, I’ve made a decision. I’m going to save her from herself.”

  “She could well be suffering from depression after the loss of her husband – and is possibly very tired after the busy life she’s had. How old is she?”

  “Really old. She was sixty last year.”

  Given that her fiftieth birthday wasn’t far off, Kath bristled. “Oh, I think there may be hope for her yet—”