Casting Off

by P. I. Paris

  * * *

  As the group entered the reception area they saw Matron listening to a woman with unnaturally blonde hair, a low-cut top and a rather loud voice. The two were standing beside the large display board that contained photographs of all the staff, clearly identified with their names and titles, along with details of who was working that day.

  The stranger stopped talking and eyed the arrivals with bright, inquisitive and rather mischievous eyes. People mingled nearby, waiting for the slower ones to come in. It was an unspoken little courtesy observed by everyone whenever they got back from a trip.

  As soon as she realised who this woman was, Deirdre made straight for her, determined to be the first to say ‘hello’ in the hope that this might give her some leverage in terms of future domination.

  ‘You must be Joan. I’m Deirdre,’ she said, holding out her hand. ‘If you ever need anything explained, just ask me. Everyone will confirm I’m the one to know!’

  If the new resident was surprised at being identified this way, she didn’t show it and pumped Deirdre’s hand up and down until the latter began to look quite flustered.

  ‘Pleased to meet you,’ said Joan, her voice carrying clearly.

  ‘Oh . . . yes . . . indeed . . . thank you,’ said Deirdre, looking around for her accomplice and full-time support. Spotting Mrs MacDonald close by but hesitating to join in, she beckoned her over. ‘And this is Mrs MacDonald, a very dear friend.’

  The ‘very dear friend’ was taken aback. A compliment from that direction was about as common as pork at a bar mitzvah. Joan greeted her pleasantly, without any excessive arm action.

  Miss Ross, like most of the others present, was watching the scene being played out before them and suspected that the latest arrival was going to provide some lively entertainment over the coming months. She certainly seemed to have quickly sussed out the home’s gossip. Yes, this was a woman who had seen a few things in life, someone perhaps to be wary of?

  Matron started to make introductions to the group, which was fairly uneventful until she reached Albert, who took out a mouth organ from his pocket and began to play. In reality there were only two notes, as all he did was suck and blow without moving the instrument. However, Joan paid attention as if it was a great performance, and he beamed with pleasure at her applause and praise.

  ‘And finally, this is Miss Ross and Dorothy,’ said Matron when she reached the remaining two in the group.

  Close up, Joan was older than she appeared from a distance, the heavy make-up less successfully hiding the ravages of time. She would have been a handsome woman in her prime and her features still had firmness.

  ‘I’m very pleased to meet you, Miss Ross,’ she said, then noticing the bag Dorothy was carrying added, ‘and I see you are a knitter.’

  ‘Oh, I’ve done it since I was a child.’

  ‘I’m a keen knitter myself. The current project is an Arran cardigan. We could swap patterns.’

  ‘Yes, well, that would be nice.’

  ‘All my bits and pieces have been delivered to my room, but I haven’t seen it yet. Too busy chatting to Matron! I’m sure she’s got better things to do. Perhaps you could take me there and then afterwards we could have tea?’

  Joan slipped an arm through one of Dorothy’s and the two women walked away down the corridor, chatting like old friends. Matron, seeing that she was no longer needed, went to her office. Deirdre, who had been hovering around in the background, decided there was no benefit in her staying either. Everyone else had dispersed about the building once they had been introduced.

  Miss Ross stood by herself as if she had somehow been left behind. An image forced its way into her mind. When she was a child, she had come across a doll that used to be a favourite toy but which hadn’t been played with in ages because she had forgotten about it. The doll had lost its appeal and had been thrown back into a box.

  Miss Ross suddenly felt terribly alone.

  Four

  Monday, 29th February

  Education has been the rock to which I have steered the course of my life. It has given me a purpose and sense of worth that has seen me safely and successfully through these many years. Now I feel rudderless, adrift on a hostile ocean that threatens to swallow me in loneliness, to devour me whole and not leave even memories. Why do I feel so threatened? Why am I so afraid of this new woman?

  Five

  The next morning began rather unfortunately when Albert and Mr Forsyth met in the corridor. It was purely chance that no one else was around. The night staff were busy handing over to the next shift, a process that had the potential to be more than a little fraught at times.

  For some reason, from the moment the old farmer had arrived two years earlier, the two men had taken a strong dislike to each other and ever since everyone had done their best not to leave them alone together. They glowered with growing agitation before charging as fast as their frail legs would propel them. With fists feebly lashing out and hands weakly grabbing at throats, they both lost their balance and fell to the floor, their shouts bringing several people rushing from the meeting.

  The men were helped to their feet and sat in chairs away from each other, by which time they had forgotten that anything had occurred and appeared to be in their usual state. However, Albert had a tiny cut on his lip. The ‘fight’, if it could even be called that, would have to be reported and a GP from the local surgery asked to call and check them out.

  Matron sat in her office and sighed deeply. Strictly speaking she wasn’t a ‘Matron’ but the manager of the care home. Her name was Maureen and new arrivals were always invited to call her that. However, she bore an uncanny resemblance to Hattie Jacques, famous for playing the role of Matron in the 1960s Carry On films, and many of the older residents felt comfortable with the term because it helped to make them feel safe. The title had stuck.

  Maureen didn’t mind. What she did mind was that this brief encounter would reflect badly on the staff, who all worked so hard. They had done their utmost to prevent such an event occurring . . . and now?

  Now their dedication and professionalism would be called into question. Everything else they had achieved would be overshadowed. It was so unfair and in no way reflected the real situation. Maureen sighed again, then opened the incident book in which she would have to write a detailed report before entering the facts into each resident’s case notes.

  * * *

  Joan quickly established herself as a highly popular addition. She played an audience well and seemed to have a never-ending supply of funny and often slightly naughty stories about her three husbands, all of whom she had outlived.

  On the Wednesday lunchtime of her second week she was entertaining people at her table with yet more tales. There weren’t any trips that day, which meant the dining room was busy.

  Miss Ross, sitting next to Walter at another table, was thinking about Monday evening, when she had walked into Dorothy’s bedroom to find her friend knitting in her usual armchair, with Joan in a seat just along from the one that Miss Ross always sat in. They were in a little semicircle.

  She had looked on in horror, yet made no comment. She had simply sat down, innocence on one side, and on the other an overly exposed bust that required a bra made by Balfour Beatty. However, this was Dorothy’s bedroom and it was up to her if she wanted to squeeze in another chair and invite someone else. But everything had changed.

  ‘Penny for them,’ said Walter.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said, rousing herself. ‘I was just thinking how nothing remains the same, no matter how much you want it to.’

  Although she made no reference to anything in particular, Walter was aware that the dynamics of her friendship had changed. For a moment, he wasn’t sure how to tread these potentially stormy waters.

  ‘Our new arrival does seem to be making a few waves,’ he said quietly. ‘Although I have to admit to finding her very amusing, and she’s extremely kind and patient with those residents who are confused.’<
br />
  What he said was true and, in fairness, Miss Ross couldn’t say that she actually disliked Joan. She was perhaps a bit brash and loud for her tastes, but those traits could also be levelled at Joyce, who was always good company. No, it was the intrusion.

  Her thoughts were interrupted by Walter giving a small cry of surprise. The reason for this was obvious immediately. A white bap had just hit him on the forehead, dropped into his bowl and splashed leek and potato soup onto his dark-green blazer and the surrounding tablecloth. As he was taking in this unexpected development, a piece of baguette hit him in the chest and fell into his lap.

  Walter looked for the source of the flying food and his face took on an expression that even Miss Ross’s extensive vocabulary would have been hard pushed to describe: shock, fear, longing.

  ‘Angus!’ he whispered, looking at a man who had been brought into the dining room by Anna.

  The carer looked totally flabbergasted. There had been no reference to dementia or emotional problems in the notes and briefing for this new resident, who was moving into Mr Ferguson’s old room. During the previous ten minutes he had appeared a perfect gentleman. Now here he was, standing near a bread basket and about to hurl another missile.

  ‘No, that’s not how we do things here,’ said Anna. ‘Please put that down!’

  ‘It’s him!’ cried Angus. ‘Him! Here! After all these years.’

  A crusty brown roll flew through the air, but the aim was wild and it knocked over a water glass further along the table. He picked up a white sesame seed bun, but Ben stepped up to him and gently took it from his hand. In his youth Angus had been a strong man but his tall frame was a shadow of what it had once been. Totally defeated, he bowed his head, making his stoop appear worse, and muttered ‘Sorry’ over and over again. With great tenderness, Anna took his arm.

  ‘Come on, love, let’s go to your room. You can have lunch in there, if you want. I’ll bring something once you’ve settled in.’

  With that, she led him away. Everyone had fallen silent at the extraordinary scene and when the man left no one knew what to say. They all stared at Walter, who looked ashen.

  ‘Here, I’ll take that and bring you another,’ said Ben, removing the bowl with its unwanted addition bobbing on the surface.

  Walter gave no sign of having heard and after a few moments he stood up slowly.

  ‘I’m going upstairs,’ he said quietly to no one in particular, then left, not even bothering to wipe the soup from his sleeve.

  Six

  Tiddles, like everyone else, was particularly fond of Dorothy. The cat, however, unlike the others, loved to sit on her lap, buried underneath the current part-finished woollen garment whilst the needles clicked comfortingly above. He was already sitting on the armchair in Dorothy’s bedroom when she came into the room, carrying that morning’s post.

  ‘Ah, there you are. Isn’t it lovely when the sun streams in through the windows and the birds are singing their little hearts out?’

  Dorothy put down the items next to the framed photograph of her late husband, which was always on the little table nearby. She picked up the cat, sat down, laid him on her lap and sighed contentedly.

  ‘Aren’t we lucky, Tiddles? Yes, we are. I wonder what we have today,’ she said, picking up the small pile again. ‘Look! A postcard from Andrew. Dear Mum. Hope all is well. Having a great time. Love Andrew, Susan and Olivia. Oh . . . Malta. Well, I’m sure it’s nice. It sounds very far away. Still, they must have a postal service . . .

  ‘Mmm, this looks very colourful,’ she continued, examining a circular. ‘See the world in a fortnight. Luxury cruises from only four thousand pounds. What do you make of that, Tiddles?’

  If the cat made anything of the optimistic offer, he gave no indication.

  ‘Yes, me too. I remember when our holiday budget was forty pounds and I bet we had a lot more fun.’

  Dorothy dropped the circular into the wastepaper basket and stared at the remaining official-looking envelope without making a move to open it. She remembered as a child her parents had always regarded such items with dread. They never heralded anything good. Dorothy recalled that nightmare morning when the telegram arrived with news about her older brother, Edward. The war was so near the end it somehow made the tragedy even more difficult to reconcile.

  But that was a very long time ago and this was probably no more than a reminder about an appointment. It couldn’t be anything much more than that. She took a big breath, told herself not to be so silly and opened it. As she read the letter inside, her expression changed from one of curiosity to confusion and then horror.

  Always bad news.

  ‘No! This can’t be right.’

  Turning to the black-and-white photograph next to her, which she did many times each day, she held up the letter to the image of the man.

  ‘Willie! What am I going to do?’ she said, putting a hand to her mouth and fighting back tears. Before the spirit of her husband could offer a response, the door opened and Joan entered, likewise clutching a similar letter.

  ‘Oh, love,’ said her friend, sitting down in ‘her’ chair. ‘The new owners want to increase my fees by a hundred and fifty pounds a week and I’ve only just arrived. I can hardly believe it.’

  ‘They want even more from me.’

  ‘That’s because of your lovely bedroom. We’ve all been revalued.’

  ‘What am I going to do? I can’t afford such a rise. I’ll be turned out onto the streets! Who would have thought it would come to this?’

  ‘It hasn’t reached that stage yet. I’m sure Miss Ross will have some advice. You mustn’t despair.’

  Miss Ross, as if hearing her name, walked into the room, appearing equally as shaken as the other two women.

  ‘I had to check on Mrs Campbell. Poor soul. Ninety-three next week. She was in an awful state. I couldn’t leave her until someone had brought Matron, although Matron was on the verge of tears herself. I had to stress that we all understand none of this has anything to do with her.’

  ‘Fancy sending a letter like that out of the blue,’ said Joan angrily. ‘What a way to treat elderly folk.’

  ‘It’s a sign of the times,’ said Miss Ross, sitting in the remaining chair and fearing for a moment that she was beginning to sound like Joyce. ‘We’re not considered people any longer, only square footage. Numbers on a stranger’s balance sheet.’

  ‘Will you be able to manage, Miss Ross?’ asked Dorothy, always more concerned about others than herself.

  ‘I was a teacher for almost thirty years and a headmistress for ten, so, yes, I can manage, but what about both of you?’

  ‘I’ll be all right,’ said Joan. ‘But not Dorothy.’

  ‘Do you think it would help if I said I would eat less and cut down the heating in my room?’

  Miss Ross felt such a chill in her heart that she couldn’t reply and sat running the string of pearls through her fingers, a habit that always betrayed any inner turmoil.

  ‘I thought I would see out my last years quietly with my dear friends for company. I didn’t think I would have to face such a terrible situation.’

  ‘You’re not alone in this,’ said Joan. ‘Although I’ve no idea what to suggest.’

  The three women sat in silence, each holding a simple, innocent-looking A4 sheet of paper that threatened to destroy so many lives.

  ‘We’re not taking this lying down,’ announced Miss Ross, leaving her pearls for a moment to tap the sheet forcefully with her hand, as if she was poking the sender in the chest.

  ‘But what can we do against a big organisation?’ said Dorothy, appearing more crestfallen and shrunken by the minute. ‘Three forgotten elderly women in a care home . . . not much use to anyone any more.’

  ‘We’re not forgotten,’ said Joan.

  ‘Maybe you’re not.’

  ‘And we’re still useful . . . we just have to find out what for,’ said Joan, glancing around the room as if searching for a clue as to the
ir worth to society. Her gaze came to rest on a couple of items nearby. She picked one of them up. ‘Apart from knitting egg cosies.’

  ‘What am I going to do?’

  The room fell silent, as Dorothy’s question went unanswered. They became aware of sounds around the building, someone crying softly nearby, a man’s voice downstairs shouting angrily, hurried footsteps in the corridor outside. All the residents faced the same dilemma and despair hung in the atmosphere as if Ben had gone around spraying it into every nook and cranny, as he did on occasions with the spray for fleas.

  ‘What am I going to do?’

  ‘We need a plan,’ said Miss Ross.

  ‘What sort of plan?’ asked Joan.

  ‘A way to make money so that Dorothy can stay. What do the new owners want?’

  ‘An extra two hundred pounds a week.’

  ‘So you have to raise eight hundred pounds a month.’

  ‘It’s a tremendous amount. When I was a girl, it would have taken my father more than a year to earn that much.’

  ‘Can you survive for a while?’ asked Miss Ross.

  ‘A short time, then I’ll have nothing.’

  ‘Dry your eyes. We haven’t got this far in our lives to be cast aside by some money-grabbing bureaucrat who has never even met us. Come on. There’s nothing like knitting to aid the mental process. Let’s get our thinking hats on.’

  Miss Ross, not generally one for dramatic actions, crumpled her letter and threw it into the bin, where it landed on top of the image of a cruise ship. She picked up a part-finished sock and set to work with a furious concentration. Her example inspired the others and after a few moments the room was filled with the clicking of needles.

  Joan was the first to suggest something.