Casting Off

by P. I. Paris

  Foreword

  At the beginning of 2015, I began writing a stage play that told the story of three elderly women in a Highland care home who have to devise a way to raise money when new owners increase the residential fees. The result, Casting Off, is a comedy which also examines several serious issues such as loneliness, friendship and sacrifice as well as how reaching out to strangers can completely change our lives.

  The seventy-minute play toured during the autumn and the response took everyone by surprise, particularly me! Even on the first night, innocent Dorothy, prim Miss Ross and worldly-wise Joan performed to a sell-out audience. The following novel is based on the same storyline although there are, of course, many more characters, subplots, secrets and surprises.

  www.philipparis.co.uk

  By the same author

  The Italian Chapel

  Orkney’s Italian Chapel: The True Story of an Icon

  Men Cry Alone

  Nylon Kid of the North

  Trouble Shooting For Printers

  First published 2016

  by Black & White Publishing Ltd

  29 Ocean Drive, Edinburgh EH6 6JL

  www.blackandwhitepublishing.com

  This electronic edition published in 2016

  ISBN: 978 1 78530 095 0 in EPub format

  ISBN: 978 1 78530 057 8 in paperback format

  Copyright © P. I. Paris 2016

  The right of P. I. Paris to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Ebook compilation by Iolaire, Newtonmore

  Contents

  Title

  Foreword

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  45

  46

  47

  48

  49

  50

  51

  52

  53

  54

  55

  56

  57

  58

  59

  60

  61

  62

  63

  One

  Mr Ferguson was dead. Miss Ross could tell by the feet. They were sticking out of his bedroom door into the corridor along which she had been walking. One foot, partly covered by a thin, brown sock, was only slightly less repulsive than the other, which was bare and purple, with badly trimmed and not very clean toenails.

  She acknowledged her diagnosis was hardly scientific. Even the pathologist in Lewis would have made a brief examination of the body before announcing the victim had been dead for so many hours and minutes. However, the feet looked so lifeless that, well, one reaches an age when you simply know these things.

  With no desire to risk seeing other naked, potentially purple bits of the old man, Miss Ross turned around and set off to find a member of staff.

  This was the second resident to die in the last few weeks. Soon there would be two new faces in the dining room, staring around in surprise. (Wasn’t it only the other month that they were young?)

  The deceased was removed discreetly by Mr Dunn, the local undertaker. It was a sad reflection of their lives that he visited more often than many families, a point not lost on Dorothy, who hadn’t seen her son for ever such a long time. The thing was, she never wanted to appear interfering and increasingly waited for Andrew to make contact, while he, in turn, increasingly did not. Everyone seemed so busy these days. Everyone, that is, except those living at We Care For You.

  Dorothy felt they shouldn’t complain. You got on with the task ahead, regardless of what fate put in the way. They had had their lives. One had to make room for new generations and as people got older they needed less and less room until . . . there was Mr Dunn.

  Of course, this latest departure was the main topic of conversation over lunch. Being the third Tuesday in the month, this was boeuf bourguignon, a description that initially put off several people until they realised it meant meat stew. The cook, brought in recently by the new owners, knew a great deal more about food than she did about elderly folk.

  ‘Poor Mr Ferguson,’ said Dorothy. ‘Coming upon his body like that must have been a terrible shock, Miss Ross.’

  ‘I knew he was dead as soon as I saw his sole.’

  ‘My goodness, you saw his soul! What did it look like?’

  ‘Not very pleasant . . . purple and a bit fluffy.’

  ‘Purple?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, I never. And a bit . . . fluffy?’

  ‘Someone needs to show that new cleaner how to use a Hoover properly.’

  ‘The cleaner . . .?’

  ‘She’s from Poland.’

  ‘Oh . . . don’t they have Hoovers?’

  ‘You would hope so, but she needs to be shown how we use one in Great Britain.’

  ‘Mmm . . . I see.’

  It was obvious that Dorothy didn’t see. She could be exasperatingly slow on the uptake on occasions. There was no hint of dementia or that sort of thing, not like some in the care home who displayed significantly more than a hint. No, what lay behind those large NHS glasses with their red-tinged frames was more of an . . . innocence.

  She could have been an exhibit, plucked straight out of one of the museums of ‘bygone days’ that seem to have sprung up in even the smallest towns. Magically brought to life in her long A-line skirt, blouse and hand-knitted cardigan, Dorothy was a living reminder of an era long gone when things were so much simpler and wholesome. It was partly why there was something so very appealing about her.

  ‘It’s a sign of the times,’ said Joyce, tucking into a second helping. She was an enigma as regards eating. Without exception the others gradually ate smaller meals, becoming thinner and more frail as the years passed, but Joyce was, to put it bluntly, rather the opposite. ‘I think it’s all part of this dumbing down people keep talking about. Nothing’s the same as it used to be . . . portions in restaurants . . . standards of behaviour . . . Hoovering.’

  Miss Ross groaned inwardly, sensing the start of yet another conversation about how the good old days were so much better. She was saved by the appearance of Walter, a pleasant man, someone who would have at one time been referred to as ‘dapper’. He was a completely changed person from the sad figure who had arrived eighteen months earlier, broken by the death of his wife of more than forty years.

  His lovely niece had made such a huge difference to him over the last three months, visiting every Thursday without fail. She always had time to blether, helping out with little tasks if she could and often staying for most of the day. Yes, an altogether thoroughly nice young woman.

&n
bsp; ‘Mind if I join you?’ asked Walter.

  The women around the table smiled and nodded. In reality he didn’t need their permission at all, but it was polite of him to ask and it made them feel as though they could still make decisions.

  ‘We were discussing poor Mr Ferguson,’ said Dorothy.

  ‘I wonder who we’ll get to replace him,’ said Deirdre. ‘I hear there’s someone called Joan taking the other empty room.’

  Miss Ross didn’t bother asking how she knew, suspecting that the information had been obtained during one of her many spying sessions. Deirdre had a habit of stopping to catch her breath in strategic doorways. She was the home’s official source of gossip and its unofficial authority on morals, particularly other people’s.

  ‘I wish they would do something about that man,’ said Deirdre, her eyes resting on Mr Forsyth, naked as the day he was born eighty-four years earlier. It was not an uncommon sight and the majority of those present simply carried on with their meal. Ben, one of the young male carers, appeared only seconds later with a dressing gown, which he deftly got him into.

  ‘Here you are, Mr Forsyth. You’ll catch cold without this and that wouldn’t be any good, would it?’

  The old man seemed as happy to be with clothes as without and once suitably attired he sat at a table and Ben fetched him something to eat.

  There were activities in the home most days, as well as visits by a variety of professionals, from the local hairdresser to the optician, both of whom brought with them an array of portable equipment. That afternoon was the turn of the dentist and the gentleman with his accordion. The former was often known to sing during his sessions and although he didn’t have a great voice he certainly knew more tunes than the latter.

  Walter usually retired to his bedroom when this particular musician came. He would pursue one of his favourite hobbies of choosing a famous game of chess between grandmasters of the past and then playing out the moves on his beautiful handmade board. He had lacked an opponent when he’d first rekindled his interest six months earlier. That was before Julie started visiting. Everything in his life had changed dramatically since then. Having a chess partner was only a tiny part of it.

  Two

  Tuesday, 23rd February

  Where have the years gone? Where has the love come from? The losing of one and the gaining of the other have crept upon me with equal astonishment. It is only at this point in my life that I truly understand the point of life. What can I do, so near the end? I feel it. The light is dimming in this ageing body, even as that other light shines so brightly. I must keep both for as long as possible.

  Three

  For two residents, each day began shortly after five o’clock. Both had been farmers and were so conditioned to rising early that they couldn’t get out of the habit. Mr Forsyth, at least dressed for the time being, would go off to milk his cows or check on his sow, which always appeared to ‘need servicing’. This resulted in the regular scenario of staff trying to convince him that the animals had already been seen to and preventing him from leaving the building and setting off one of the alarmed doors.

  Many people could get themselves out of bed unaided and by the time the day staff started at eight o’clock there were usually several folk milling around. The home had thirty bedrooms and these were generally only empty during the period between the departure of the previous occupant (normally in the company of Mr Dunn) and the arrival of the next one.

  Like most similar establishments females greatly outnumbered males and, just as in the outside world, little groups and friendships were formed which invariably led to jealousies, upsets and fallings out, not entirely unlike those encountered during Primary Four break times at school.

  Dorothy and Miss Ross sat together in the dining room for breakfast, as they did for most meals. There could hardly have been a greater contrast in terms of their personality and background, or even their clothing. Whereas Dorothy conveyed a sense of being ‘soft and cuddly’, the retired headmistress was – it would be unfair to say ‘hard’ – rather ‘precise’. Indeed, she would not have been offended to be considered prim. Despite the consistently warm surroundings, a tweed skirt and stiff white blouse were almost trademarks, along with her large pearl necklace.

  These differences didn’t bother them and since the arrival of Miss Ross three years earlier the two had been firm friends. They shared several interests and could often be found in Dorothy’s bedroom, knitting and chatting as if they had known each other all their lives.

  Miss Ross studied the other residents, a habit she couldn’t stop herself from doing, although she always tried to hide it. Some of the least physically able had the sharpest minds, while those who appeared in extremely good repair were off chasing cattle every morning. In between, there was every variation and combination.

  At the next table old Mrs Campbell, frail but still independently mobile with her Zimmer and in full charge of her mental faculties, was helping old Albert with his cereal. He seemed to be puzzled by the idea that his flakes needed to have milk added before he ate them. However, there were still times when Albert was quite lucid and really good company.

  This was obviously a bad morning. On these occasions it was particularly difficult to imagine him as a sergeant in the army, a career which had taken him around the world and in which he had served with distinction. Yes . . . frailty, illness and care homes were great levellers. Whatever someone might have achieved in life, one of the three would probably get them in the end.

  ‘I do miss not being able to dip little soldiers into my egg,’ said Dorothy, forcing her friend away from her analysis of humanity and back to more mundane affairs. ‘I don’t know why they have to be so hard boiled that they resist all attempts of penetration. My soldiers bend at the waist as if they’re bowing to the queen.’

  ‘Maybe it’s the toast.’

  ‘What’s wrong with it?’

  ‘Well, perhaps these days it’s not as strong as it used to be. The problem might not be the egg, but the bread.’

  Dorothy thought carefully about this for a few moments. Miss Ross was a highly educated person and whenever she said something it was generally profound and worth listening to. On the other hand, she did have a habit of teasing her.

  ‘Oh! You’re having me on.’

  ‘They’re the regulations,’ said Miss Ross smiling. ‘The kitchen staff are not allowed to serve us eggs that are in any way runny. It’s a health and safety matter.’

  ‘Health and safety! I wish the powers-that-be would stop interfering with our treats. When I was a child I used to love cutting up my toast and dipping the pieces into my egg. It never did me any harm.’

  ‘You have to dig it out with your spoon, place it on your toast and eat it that way.’

  ‘I know. That’s what I do. But it’s not the same, is it?’

  Dorothy was such a sweet, gentle person that on the rare occasions when she did complain her comments always came out in such a way that Miss Ross could never prevent herself from laughing.

  ‘I don’t see why my predicament is so funny,’ said Dorothy, although she then burst into giggles. ‘I mean, look at that. My little soldiers have no chance. It would repel the SAS!’

  ‘If you don’t get the yoke . . . you’ll never see the runny side of it.’

  Some of the others watched on with amusement at the two women, now helpless with laughter at their table. What on earth could they find so entertaining at this time of the morning? They had only spoken to each other the night before.

  * * *

  ‘Everything’s changed around,’ said Joyce, joining some of the others at a table. They were in the café at the nearby garden centre. It often hosted a group from We Care For You and, indeed, felt so much like a second home that Joyce had brought some slippers in her bag. She slipped off her shoes, put them on and sighed contentedly.

  ‘Do you mean where things are on the shelves?’ asked Walter, a total contrast in appearance in his blue bl
azer and matching tie. He had three such outfits, in blue, a sort of mauve-red and dark green. They were all very smart, although, if one were completely honest, he did look a little overdressed in the present surroundings.

  ‘No, I mean what they sell. At one time you came to a place like this to purchase something you could stick in the ground. Now it’s bedroom furniture, books, kitchenware and scented candles. Don’t try to actually find a plant. It’ll probably turn out to be plastic!’

  ‘You couldn’t even get a cup of tea and now many of them have proper restaurants,’ said Deirdre. ‘If you can’t get a three-course meal, you almost feel disappointed.’

  ‘Yes, well, I didn’t say all of the changes were bad,’ said Joyce, beginning scone number two.

  ‘You can actually buy quite a good selection of wool here,’ said Dorothy, ‘in the craft section. The last time I went into a wool shop they didn’t have any.’

  ‘No wool?’ queried Walter in disbelief.

  ‘Their balls had only twenty per cent content at most. I was quite cross.’

  ‘Steady on, Dorothy,’ he said. ‘I hope it didn’t lead to violence.’

  ‘I went up to the desk. “You tell me, young man,” I said, “how you can look me in the eye and say that your balls have come from a sheep.’’’

  ‘You didn’t!’ said Miss Ross.

  Walter bent over in his chair and started making a strange gurgling noise. Mrs MacDonald, a small, rather non-descript woman, patted him on the back.

  ‘What did the salesman say?’ asked Miss Ross, on the verge of losing control.

  ‘Nothing. I think he must have dropped something because he disappeared down behind the counter and I didn’t see him again.’

  ‘It’s all this dumbing down,’ stressed Joyce, using one of her favourite phrases. ‘Where have all the people with expert knowledge gone?’

  ‘Most of them are probably in care homes,’ said Deirdre.

  Eight of the residents had gone on the outing, as well as Anna, one of the carers, and Hamish, the handyman/gardener/minibus driver. The others in the group were Albert and Mrs Butterworth. Although the latter was rather accident-prone, it was only Albert who was likely to wander off and get lost. During the previous visit he had locked himself in the toilet and had had to be let out by a member of staff. This visit was pleasant and uneventful . . . the interesting incidents occurring when they returned.