by P. I. Paris
‘Hello, Uncle Walter,’ said Julie.
She kissed him on the cheek, as any niece might do with a favourite uncle.
‘Hello love, come in.’
Once they were alone he hugged her tightly and she held on to him as though she was a frightened child which, in many ways, she still was. Eventually, he pulled back.
‘Let me look at you,’ he said, studying her face. ‘How are you this week?’
‘I’ve survived.’
‘No one has hurt you?’
‘They all hurt me, but, no, not in the way you mean.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be. Coming here is the highlight of my week. It’s the only good thing in my life.’
‘That makes me pleased and sad at the same time.’
‘It’s not your fault, Walter. You’ve been nothing but kind to me.’
‘Not always,’ he said, looking down at the dark green carpet, remembering with shame the first time she had visited. Julie took hold of one of his hands.
‘Now, we’re not going over that old ground again. We agreed there’s no point.’
‘I wish there was something else I could do,’ he said, putting both hands around hers.
‘You’ve helped me more these past few months than anyone else in the last four years.’
‘And you’ve done more for me since my Moira died than anybody, including family and professionals.’
‘Come on, “Uncle Walter”, this is the one laugh I get. Put the kettle on, I’m gasping.’
She dragged him from his morose thoughts with her cheeriness. How could anyone be positive doing what she did? He walked over and switched on the kettle, arranging the mugs and teapot. She took off her shoes and coat. He whispered across the room.
‘Have a listen and see if we have an audience.’
‘I did spot them near the bottom of the stairs, pretending to read tonight’s menu,’ she said.
Outside Walter’s bedroom Deirdre and Mrs MacDonald had just arrived on tiptoe. The former put her ear to the door, close to where Julie’s was pressed up to the panel on the other side.
‘Can you hear what’s going on?’ said Mrs MacDonald.
‘It’s very quiet,’ said Deirdre in a voice that was too low for her friend to catch.
‘What!’
‘I said, oh . . . shhh.’
Walter made the tea and was still waiting for a response.
‘Are they there?’ he said.
‘It’s hard to tell.’
‘Give the door a whack.’
With her hand, Julie hit the panel next to Deirdre’s head, making her cry out in alarm.
‘Yes, they’re outside,’ said Julie, moving away and starting to laugh.
In the corridor Deirdre had leapt back in surprise, almost knocking into the other woman.
‘What happened? Have they started already?’ asked Mrs MacDonald.
‘Shhh. They’ll hear you.’
Walter took two mugs over to the table where the chessboard was already set out. Julie, still fighting off a fit of giggles, took her place opposite.
‘Right,’ he said loudly, ‘I’ve got everything laid out. My king is standing to attention, ready for you to try and get your hands on it.’
‘I must admit, I’ve never seen one with such an impressive crown,’ she said, following his lead.
‘I’ve even given it a polish. But I warn you, I’ve been studying some new moves from my book and you’re going to find it particularly hard this week.’
‘Well, don’t imagine you’re going to get your hands on my pieces easily. I’m not about to go down without a fight. And . . . I think we should do it against the clock!’
Walter tried desperately to stifle his laughter. Their performance was on a par with an extremely poor school pantomime, but they suspected that the women listening outside would fall for everything. They heard what they expected to.
‘Go over and see what you can find out,’ said Walter quietly.
Julie got up, crept across the room and put her ear against a panel. Deirdre, just the other side, was fighting to maintain control of the hysteria that was threatening to overwhelm her.
‘Oh my God! I can hardly bear to listen.’
‘What’s happening?’
‘They’re timing themselves!’
‘Timing? How?’ asked the confused Mrs MacDonald.
‘With a clock!’
Julie crept back to the table and relayed what she had heard. Walter almost knocked the chessboard over. It took some time for them to control themselves. When he made his first move, Julie moaned loudly, as if in pleasure.
‘Oh, Mr McKenzie! That’s such a classic opening, but it still takes my breath away.’
The two played their game and kept up the charade for the next fifteen minutes, building up the excitement with their comments until Walter cried out, ‘Oh, Julie! I can’t help myself. I’m . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘I’m . . .’
‘What is it, Mr McKenzie?’
‘I’M CASTLING!’
In the corridor, Deirdre almost fainted against the door.
‘What is it? Aren’t you well?’ said Mrs MacDonald, who had to rely on her friend for a running commentary of what was happening.
‘Help me to my room. I feel quite ill.’
‘Oh my goodness. Take my arm. I’ll fetch Matron.’
‘I’m never going to walk along this corridor. It’s simply too awful.’
The two women staggered away, one swearing not to go near that room again and the other promising her full support in whatever she decided, while both knowing they would be back the following Thursday. In the bedroom, Walter hadn’t managed to castle before keeling over in his chair.
‘For Christ’s sake, stop it, Walter. Stop it! I’m going to wet myself.’
Ten
‘We’re a bit like The Dirty Dozen, although I don’t remember any of them using needles and knitting patterns,’ said Walter, when the last of the Escape Committee (the name had stuck) settled themselves into the conservatory for their first-ever meeting.
The original eight had been joined by Mrs Butterworth, slightly eccentric but generally game for a dare, two almost identical sisters known as Meg and Peg who often swapped names and clothes for their own amusement and the confusion of others, plus a woman called Stella. Her small stature and rather pious nature were misleading because she was fearless in the face of injustice.
‘I’m certainly not dirty!’
‘They’re characters from a film, Mrs MacDonald,’ said Walter, ‘about a group of people who get together with a common purpose, a mission, like us.’
‘It still seems an offensive description to me, saying we’re dirty.’
Angus dropped a needle on the floor, the third time in the last few minutes. He reached down with a sigh. Dorothy was attempting to show him the basics of knitting and had started the first few rows so that it was easier for him to try. The lesson wasn’t going well.
‘I know it feels deceitful, but we must keep the real reason for our group a secret,’ said Miss Ross. ‘That includes friends and family, other residents and staff . . . especially staff. I know there are many we like and trust implicitly, but it wouldn’t be fair on them.’
Everyone nodded their agreement, including Deirdre, who found keeping information to herself almost immoral.
‘Right, we need ideas, either how to fight the rise in fees or how to raise money to cover it.’
‘When I was involved in the Women’s Institute, we made all sorts of things to sell for cash,’ said Mrs MacDonald. ‘But I suppose we can’t make jams or chutneys here. I don’t think the kitchen staff would be pleased.’
‘The charity shops collect items and then resell them,’ said Angus. ‘I gather some of them make quite a bit each week.’
‘You would need a lot of space for sorting out stuff and much of what’s donated goes straight to the tip,’ said Meg, though it mig
ht have been Peg.
‘I helped out at a shop for years and you wouldn’t believe the number who leave rubbish at the door to save going to the dump themselves,’ added the other sister. ‘We had to make a car journey every few days to dispose of it.’
‘We wouldn’t have an outlet to sell anything and I don’t think we should compete with local charities,’ said Miss Ross.
For the next twenty minutes people suggested a variety of ideas, none of which seemed to meet their needs, until they all gradually fell silent and a sombre mood settled upon the group.
‘We should start by going on a protest march,’ said Joan eventually, her natural enthusiasm making the others sit up and take notice.
‘A march?’ queried Dorothy. ‘How would that help?’
‘Well, that’s what people do to raise the profile of something, isn’t it? They walk through the streets, waving placards, shouting slogans and making the public aware. It seems to work for all sorts of subjects. What was that bunch on the six o’clock news the other night?’
‘They were going on about the plight of puffins,’ said Joyce. ‘Apparently their numbers are decreasing at an alarming rate.’
‘Unlike us,’ muttered Angus.
‘I remember now,’ said Walter. ‘The protesters each wore a red beak and dressed in red trousers.’
‘We’re probably not as newsworthy as puffins,’ said Dorothy.
‘If we disguised ourselves as elderly folk, we wouldn’t have to buy any props,’ said Joyce.
‘Why don’t we go on a march to highlight the plight of residents in care homes facing increases in fees?’ said Joan.
‘Which many can’t afford,’ stressed Miss Ross.
The committee members looked at each other and the idea appealed to them all.
Eleven
Preparations for the march went on in secret over the next week and it began to feel like the Escape Committee was aptly named. Keeping membership limited to those who were able-bodied proved to have huge advantages when it came to making unsupervised trips, which allowed items to be obtained without arousing suspicion.
They were helped by the fact that everyone in the home was involved in making Easter bonnets, which meant it was necessary for all sorts of unusual objects to be purchased. Over the years this tradition of creating headgear had taken on such a fiercely competitive edge that Meg and Peg even kept details of what they were doing a secret from each other.
With such subterfuge going on in almost every room, it was relatively easy for Deirdre and Mrs MacDonald to buy large rolls of material unnoticed. These were made into placards, designed so that a walking stick could be inserted into each end as a means of holding them up.
Miss Ross created a leaflet and made several hundred copies at the local library. Walter and Joan went out on scouting trips to devise a route that would not be too taxing to walk but which was likely to bring them into contact with the largest number of people.
They chose the last Saturday in March and on the allocated morning left the home in small groups, having agreed to meet in a side street next to Marks & Spencer. None of the staff asked any awkward questions and by ten o’clock the committee had nearly all regrouped as planned.
‘Where on earth are Deirdre and Mrs MacDonald?’ said Walter.
‘We’ll give them a few more minutes,’ said Miss Ross.
‘Oh dear,’ said Dorothy, ‘I think I must pay a visit before we start any marching. It is rather chilly.’
‘The toilets in Marks are good,’ said Joyce. ‘In fact, why don’t we grab a cup of tea before we leave? We won’t get anything once we’re on the go. We can then use their facilities with a clear conscience.’
Ten minutes later the group was seated around two tables in the café, apart from Walter, who had offered to wait outside and let the latecomers know where they were.
‘They do make nice bakes,’ said Joyce, biting into a large slice of coffee cake that had somehow been included in her order.
‘I feel quite nervous,’ said Dorothy. ‘I hope we don’t get arrested.’
‘You can’t be arrested for taking part in a peaceful march,’ said Angus. ‘It’s our right. Mind, it would get our cause quite a bit of publicity.’
‘Perhaps we should have informed the police,’ said Mrs Butterworth.
‘I don’t think twelve OAPs walking down the street is going to cause such a hold-up that the authorities need to put diversions in place,’ said Joan.
Walter arrived with Deirdre and Mrs MacDonald, who explained they had been delayed while at the post office, although why they had chosen to go there on that particular day was beyond understanding. By the time the latecomers had got their drinks, people had visited the facilities, more than once in some cases, the morning was slipping by and Miss Ross was getting agitated.
‘Well, let’s get to it then,’ she said.
When they gathered outside, with shoppers, families and tourists strolling past, the idea of the protest suddenly seemed even more daunting. However, Miss Ross took out the banner hidden in her bag and the others followed her example. Several of them had brought a walking stick.
Walter didn’t need one to get about but sometimes used his for the simple pleasure of the feel of the handle, which fitted his hand so perfectly. Angus had stared at the skilfully-made object, although he made no comment. After a few minutes of fumbling and muttering, the Escape Committee was ready.
Brightly-coloured wool had been used to create eye-catching wording. ‘Fair Fees for the Forgotten’, ‘Equal Rights for the Elderly’, ‘We Will Be Heard Again’, ‘Pensioners Have Rights As Well As Puffins’. Others had leaflets to hand out. Miss Ross checked everyone was ready. A tense excitement hung about the little group, but they smiled back encouragingly and she felt a gush of enormous pride, even towards Deirdre.
‘Let’s go!’
And off they went, Dorothy and Mrs MacDonald leading, as they were likely to be the slowest and Miss Ross didn’t want to risk people being split up. They came out of the side street and were soon in the thick of shoppers, many of whom looked on curiously.
Dorothy immediately handed out a leaflet. In reality, it was more of an exchange, as the man pressed one on to her, offering a ‘Buy one get one free’ meal at the local pizza restaurant. Still, it was a start and it wasn’t long before people were taking more notice, particularly when Walter started shouting out ‘Fair Fees for the Forgotten!’ as loudly as he could.
However, when they turned into the High Street they were almost swept away by hundreds of people walking in the same direction, holding up scores of placards. A handful of police kept pace along the outside.
‘What’s going on?’ said Joan to Miss Ross.
‘Heaven knows. It looks as though we’ve ended up in another march. Maybe we can use it to our advantage?’
‘Look at all these people who’ve joined us,’ said Mrs MacDonald to Dorothy. ‘Who would have thought we would have had such an instant impact? It’s marvellous.’
Dorothy, who had just handed out the ‘Buy one get one free’ leaflet to a rather perplexed passer-by, smiled, then dropped back to speak to Joan.
‘I’m confused. Why do these people want equal rights for a sandwich?’
‘A sandwich! What do you mean?’
‘Well, look what’s written on that.’
Joan followed Dorothy’s gaze and made a sound that could have either been despair or a stifled laugh.
‘You’re thinking of a BLT. That says Equal Rights for LGBT.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘Oh, love, I’ll explain it to you later.’
Miss Ross, holding the other end of Joan’s banner, glanced around nervously. They were already being strung out. Joyce had dropped some distance behind, talking to a stallholder selling handmade chocolates, while there was no sign of Mrs Butterworth or the sisters.
‘We’re getting split up, Joan!’
‘I know. What can we do?’
A sudden gust of wind caught a lot of people by surprise. Deirdre almost fell over but was saved from potential injury by a strong hand taking her elbow. She turned to thank the person and stared into the face of an extraordinarily handsome young man.
‘Oh, goodness me!’ she said, though it wasn’t clear whether this was in response to nearly falling over or to the appearance of the man. ‘Thank you so much. How very kind.’
He had such clear skin, a beautiful smile and his eyes . . .
‘It’s nearly always windy at this part of the High Street,’ he said, picking up the end of the banner that she had dropped. ‘Shall I take this for you?’
‘Well, I don’t know . . . I suppose . . .’
‘Come on, boys, let’s help these elderly folk,’ said the man in a loud voice.
The message passed along the marchers in an instant and the next moment all of the Escape Committee were surrounded by young people wanting to help. Even the men had their walking sticks taken from them, and although it dented their pride they were grateful not to have to carry them any further.
‘Thanks, son,’ said Walter to the youth now holding up his walking stick. ‘I must admit my arms were aching.’ He continued walking alongside in silence for a few minutes but couldn’t take his eyes off the various piercings through the teenager’s nose and ears. ‘Did those hurt?’ he asked eventually.
‘Naw.’
‘If you don’t mind me asking, why did you have it done?’
‘People should have the right to express themselves without being punished. Everyone should have equal rights, whether it’s about jobs, relationships, how they want to dress. No one should be telling you what to do or think. It doesn’t matter what your beliefs are, you should have the right to have those beliefs.’
Walter didn’t understand what the march was about, but he couldn’t argue with the lad’s conviction and was impressed by the passion behind what he said.
