Casting Off

by P. I. Paris

  ‘How about selling the items we knit, instead of giving them to charity?’

  ‘But we’ve always given them to charity,’ said Dorothy.

  ‘No, Joan’s right,’ replied Miss Ross. ‘You’re the priority now. But we simply couldn’t knit fast enough and people today aren’t willing to pay for the time involved in ordinary craft work.’

  They fell silent and gradually resumed knitting. The cat, unaware of the tension and despair surrounding him, slumbered on contentedly in his favourite spot.

  ‘I could sell my possessions!’

  The others stopped and tried to appear optimistic while glancing around the room, as if seeing it for the first time. But they knew what was there: old furniture, a few knick-knacks, a couple of photographs . . . Joan picked up a small glass vase that stood on the table next to her chair. Sticking out of the top were three pink plastic flowers, which were embedded at the bottom into a solid, yellowish material that was meant to represent water.

  Joan thought it looked like wee and was often beset by a strong urge to have a quick sniff to check that indeed it wasn’t. She tipped the vase on its side but nothing moved, apart from a little dust, so she replaced it. The truth was, the possessions were worthless, but neither of them would dream of implying such a thing.

  ‘What we need,’ said Miss Ross tactfully, ‘is a regular income, something that brings in money every month.’

  They fell silent, apart from the clickety-click of needles. Dorothy had made thousands of items over the decades, clothes for the family, gifts for friends, eye-catching objects for the church bazaars. Now Willie was gone and Andrew, well, where was he? Grown up and living his life with his own family. His wife Susan wasn’t really into handmade craft clothes, so these days Dorothy usually gave away what she made to the local charity that raised money for the homeless.

  ‘I suppose I could move into one of the small bedrooms downstairs, at the back of the building. They must be cheaper.’

  ‘Oh no,’ cried Joan. ‘They don’t have any views and never get the sun.’

  ‘And they wouldn’t be big enough for us to meet in,’ pointed out Miss Ross. Since Joan had joined them it was quite cramped enough and any less space would make it impossible. ‘And even they have a waiting list.’

  ‘If I have to wait long, my money will run out before there’s anything available. Even a cheaper room here doesn’t seem to be an option.’

  ‘This rise in fees affects all of the residents,’ said Miss Ross. ‘We can be much more effective with a larger number, rather than just the three of us. Let me chat quietly to a few people and see if we can get together and come up with some ideas.’

  In response, Dorothy burst into tears.

  * * *

  The atmosphere in the lounge that evening was subdued. Even the television was turned off. People gathered in little groups, discussing the unpleasant news. Mrs Campbell was particularly upset and Matron did her best to comfort her and some of the others. A few residents complained to Matron, but she had no more information than what was in the letters. All the fees would go up in three weeks’ time, on 1st April, as though the whole thing was a cruel April Fool’s joke.

  Walter was subdued for other reasons: memories of terrible guilt and shame. He had set up the communal chessboard at a table that allowed him to sit by himself and reduce the risk of being drawn into any conversations he didn’t want to have, such as why had the new resident hurled bread rolls at him.

  Angus had stayed in his bedroom since arriving the previous day and the lounge fell silent when he appeared in the doorway later on. Everyone was curious about the home’s new male resident and they stared at him as he stood, unsure what to do, the over-large jumper hanging on his slender frame and making him appear somehow . . . abandoned.

  He saw Walter watching him, indicating with his head the chair opposite. The invitation to play chess was unspoken, though obvious. Angus glared back for a few moments, then walked over to sit as far away from him as possible.

  Seven

  Age is a relative thing. People often referred to ‘old’ Mrs Campbell, who shuffled around with difficulty and determination in equal measure, yet she in turn would refer to ‘old’ Mrs O’Reilly who, at ninety-nine, was certainly the person in the home who had lived the longest. However, the almost centenarian called many folk ‘old’ even when they were significantly younger. The definition was perhaps as much to do with attitude as physical or mental ability.

  Joyce went to chat with their one Irish resident, who had arrived almost a year earlier, having survived independently for a commendable length of time.

  They had become quite close, their natural wit and desire to entertain those around them proving in the early days to be both an attraction and a hindrance to friendship.

  However, they enjoyed each other’s company so much that, as well as having a wee dram, companionship became inevitable. They sat by the window in Mrs O’Reilly’s bedroom, the first-floor position providing a good view over the extensive garden. Outside, Hamish was building a new chicken coop. The hens were extremely popular with residents, although they were not allowed to eat the eggs, no matter how well cooked.

  ‘It’s always a pleasure to see a strong, handsome young man working physically hard,’ said Joyce. ‘There’s something very appealing about it.’

  ‘Whenever he helps me into the minibus, my hand always seems to land on his thigh . . . just for extra support, you understand. I do like a shapely leg. I had a fine pair myself when I was younger.’

  ‘Oh, I could well imagine.’

  ‘Christ, you must have a good imagination!’

  ‘Was a pair of attractive legs important in the job you did, Mrs O’Reilly?’

  ‘Well, you could say that. It’s not something I usually talk about. I used to be a Windmill Girl.’

  Joyce had never been to the well-known London theatre, but she knew of its reputation for beautiful nude dancers.

  ‘I think you need to tell me more,’ she said with delight.

  ‘We had such fun,’ said Mrs O’Reilly, reminiscing. ‘When I was involved during the thirties, we performed to a packed hall every night and there were often famous people in the audience, including nobility. We also played alongside some top acts and I got to know many performers who became household names years later. It was all new and exciting.’

  ‘From what I understand, it was all nude and exciting!’

  ‘We were pioneering. The first live nudity on stage. But we weren’t allowed to move.’

  ‘Not move? What did you do, stand like statues?’

  ‘Legally, that’s exactly what we were meant to do. As long as we didn’t move, no one was breaking the law. That was very important. Of course, we started to find ways around it, such as standing or sitting on props that revolved or went up and down. Technically our bodies were perfectly still, so the authorities couldn’t complain. The audiences loved the extra thrill of bits of flesh bobbing and bouncing about. Now you see it, now you don’t.’

  ‘Mrs O’Reilly! What would Father Connelly say?’ said Joyce, which set them both off laughing.

  ‘I like him immensely, but I’ve never felt the need to confess anything about those days. None of us considered we were doing anything wrong, not really. It was a completely different era.’

  ‘Well, your secret is safe with me . . . Speaking of posing, I hope everyone keeps their clothes on this evening. I gather Mr Dunn is going to be one of the models and the sight of the undertaker displaying his wares might result in a sudden rush of unexpected business!’

  Once a year the nearby dress shop organised a fashion show, during which staff and a few invited guests walked up and down the lounge wearing a selection of generally outrageous outfits. The event always caused a great deal of anticipation and good humour, and with non-residents allowed to join the audience it also raised money for several charities.

  Being the second Wednesday in the month, lunch was smoked haddock
florentine with dauphinoise potatoes. However, the cook, having learnt more about the ‘service users’ she was providing for, described this on the menu as Fish Pie with Potatoes and as such it was very popular. All the talk around the tables concerned that evening and there was a great deal of speculation about what might be worn.

  In the afternoon someone from the nearby supermarket arrived with bunches of flowers that had reached their sell-by-date and which would otherwise have been thrown out. Although it didn’t cost the retailer anything, the gesture was much appreciated and it helped to ensure that those who wouldn’t otherwise receive flowers at least had them regularly in their rooms.

  A couple belonging to the Friends of We Care For You also turned up. A small group connected to the local church visited on a rota basis. They would talk to residents, read to them if their eyesight wasn’t so good, help with little jobs and sometimes take them out for short trips. As with the flowers, the recipients were grateful.

  There was almost a tension in the dining room during supper, as residents tried to finish their meal and make their way as quickly as possible to the lounge. Securing the best chairs was a constant source of disagreement, particularly as there was more than one person who thought the most comfortable chairs ‘belonged’ to them.

  Ownership was based upon a conflicting set of criteria – who had sat in it first that morning, who had been in it the longest that day or who had been in the home for the greatest period (a factor considered by long timers to outweigh any other claims).

  The commonest arguments arose when someone left their seat for a few minutes and returned to find it occupied. Such occasions had been known to build into feuds that were almost on a par with those of famous rival Scottish clans of the past. The situation was made even more complex because there were certain residents who refused to sit next to each other.

  Of course, there were also friendships to take into account, where people simply had to sit beside a particular person, otherwise the world would implode and all life as we know it cease. The fashion show always brought this problem to boiling point and there were no concessions during the race after supper. Those with a Zimmer were simply manoeuvred around and left behind in the corridor.

  A few rows of seats had been reserved for invited guests, which included the local MP and newspaper editor, plus several visitors from the business world. When everyone had finally settled themselves, Matron gave a short speech of welcome and thanks before leaving to get dressed. One of the staff dimmed some of the lights to emphasise the central area and a few moments later music could be heard over the speakers.

  The first performer to enter and strut around the floor was received by a stunned silence before the audience overcame their initial shock and burst into enthusiastic clapping. Hamish, wearing swimming trunks that bordered on indecent, started posing and flexing his impressive muscles as if he was a contestant at a bodybuilding competition.

  ‘Blimey, do you reckon that’s real or has he stuck a garden trowel down there?’ said Joan.

  ‘I don’t know,’ replied Joyce, sitting next to her, ‘but he could turn me over any time.’

  ‘Get them off!’ shouted Mrs O’Reilly in glee.

  ‘Really,’ hissed Deirdre to Mrs MacDonald. ‘That woman is so vulgar. I knew she’d end up nearby.’ Her friend was too busy cleaning her glasses to take any notice.

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Dorothy to no one in particular, although she couldn’t stop herself from smiling at the sight.

  ‘Off! Off!’ called Mrs O’Reilly.

  The cry was taken up by several of the more extrovert women and this continued until the handyman gave his final pose and left the room to huge applause. It seemed impossible for anything else to be as entertaining and that the evening must surely decline from that point onwards, but when the next person entered there was another gasp of surprise. With the top half of his body dressed in garishly-coloured clothing, and without any trousers, the man looked as though Quentin Crisp had become involved in a Brian Rix farce.

  It was Mr Dunn.

  A great cheer went up as people realised who it was. The undertaker, wearing a pair of red garters, walked into the centre of the room and dramatically swished back across his shoulder the bright orange chiffon scarf hanging around his neck. He turned his face disdainfully one way and then another, the large feather sticking out of his hat swaying above his head.

  ‘Keep them on!’ cried Mrs O’Reilly, which made even Mr Dunn lose his composure and start laughing. During all the years he had been involved with the home, it was the first time anyone had seen him smile and the transformation was unbelievable. It transpired that even undertakers had a sense of humour.

  He was followed by an extremely elegant and quite beautiful young woman dressed in a stunning evening gown that drew gasps of admiration. No one initially recognised this apparent stranger, however, who moved gracefully around the floor like an experienced model.

  ‘Goodness me!’ said Joyce. ‘It’s our Anna.’

  And indeed it was. The applause for the carer was on an even bigger scale than that received by the men. The next performer was known instantly, as Matron had dressed exactly as Hattie Jacques used to in the Carry On films.

  Throughout the evening it seemed that the next act couldn’t possibly be better than the previous, yet each time it had been. Not only was the fashion show declared the best ever but the evening itself was one of the most enjoyable anyone at We Care For You had known.

  Eight

  One afternoon a few days later a handful of residents gathered, seemingly by chance, in the conservatory. In addition to Miss Ross, Dorothy and Joan, there was Joyce, Walter and Angus. Deirdre, who hadn’t been invited, had somehow heard about the meeting and wherever she went Mrs MacDonald always followed.

  ‘We’ve all received a letter from the new owners,’ said Miss Ross. ‘Many of us can afford the increase. For others, it will be a struggle. But for some it’s simply too much money. These people face the very real prospect of having to move to a cheaper care home.

  ‘I’ve spoken to Dorothy and she doesn’t mind me telling you that she is someone who faces having to go, leaving behind all the friends she’s made over the years and the staff and surroundings that she’s so familiar with. I don’t need to tell you of the . . . horror that such a daunting outlook would hold for any of us. The question is, what can we do about it?’

  There was a great deal of agreement that something should be done, but for the moment no one had any inspiration about what this could be.

  ‘Whatever we do, it will be more effective with a larger number of people involved,’ said Walter.

  ‘I think we had already worked that out,’ snapped Angus.

  The two men sat as far apart as possible and the animosity that flowed between them made the atmosphere in the conservatory slightly uncomfortable. Without making it obvious, Miss Ross had been studying them and it seemed to her that the hostility came only from the new resident. It was clear that they were linked strongly by some past event, but even Deirdre had no idea what the connection was.

  ‘We should form a committee,’ suggested Joan.

  ‘What sort of committee?’ asked Dorothy.

  ‘An Escape Committee,’ said Deirdre.

  ‘I didn’t know we wanted to actually escape,’ said Mrs MacDonald.

  ‘Not physically, but at least from the situation we find ourselves in,’ said Deirdre, appearing rather irritated that her sidekick should query anything she said.

  The idea of being in league with Deirdre was not appealing. The woman was difficult to like and impossible to trust. However, she couldn’t afford the rise and there was no denying that this would ensure her co-operation. They were, for better or worse, all in this together.

  ‘I think,’ said Miss Ross, ‘that we should form a committee of the most able-bodied of the residents and then agree how we can fight back against these fees.’

  Several names were suggested, some of
them discarded for perfectly sound reasons while others were challenged because of petty personal grievances, previous disagreements or insults, real and imagined. Eventually, however, they agreed on four people.

  ‘If we’re going to meet without anyone else being involved, we need an activity, something that gives the group a valid reason to get together regularly and that doesn’t look suspicious,’ said Joan.

  ‘What could we do?’ asked Deirdre. ‘We can’t suddenly develop an interest in art or architecture. That would look odd itself.’

  They sat in silence, looking at each other, the floor and the walls, trying to think of a craft, hobby or subject that would provide a plausible cover. It was Dorothy who came up with the solution.

  ‘We should form a knitting bee.’

  ‘Knitting?!’ queried Angus.

  ‘Well, some of us are already enthusiastic about it and I know that Joyce, Deirdre and Mrs MacDonald can knit. We can give the others lessons. These could be part of the reason for the group and we can easily provide samples for those who need to give the appearance of producing items.’

  ‘There’s more to you than meets the eye,’ said Joan.

  It was agreed that Miss Ross would approach the four potential members and between them they would decide on a date for the first meeting of the care home’s official knitting bee.

  Nine

  Walter was sitting in the chair by his bed. It was a small room and, although not unpleasant, there was little of ‘him’ in it. There was certainly not enough space for many mementos of his deceased wife, Moira, apart from a couple of photographs and a few items she had bought him. It was not much to represent so many years together.

  Near to the door was a wedding present from their best man, a beautifully carved blackthorn walking stick with the head of a Labrador that bore a striking resemblance to the dog Walter had owned at the time. It had been extremely skilfully made and was something he didn’t want to part with.

  He felt the room was sterile, like a bright new dressing over a wound that hadn’t healed. From the outside, it looked good. He wondered how many of the residents gave a false impression on the surface, compared to what they felt inside, underneath that dressing. But then he had met Julie. How that young woman had changed his life! His thoughts were interrupted by a knock at the door and when he opened it there she was.