Casting Off

by P. I. Paris

  ‘I’m Walter,’ he said, holding out a hand.

  The youth stared at him suspiciously before finally shaking it.

  ‘Smiler,’ he grunted.

  ‘That’s an unusual name,’ said Walter, amused. ‘Where did that come from?’

  The youth glared, his face a mixture of anger, confusion, metal rings and acne.

  ‘Right,’ said Walter, nodding and wishing he hadn’t asked. ‘It’s good to have a belief in something. Err, could you explain LGBT?’

  ‘Are you trying to be funny?’

  ‘No. Honestly. I haven’t a clue.’

  Smiler seemed to weigh up the question before replying. ‘Buy me a pint when we get to the square and I’ll explain it to you.’

  The march had the feel of a good-natured festival and several people chatted and joked with the police walking along the outsides. By the time the crowds started to congregate in the town’s main square, the Escape Committee was completely split up.

  Miss Ross didn’t even know what had happened to the banner she had been helping to carry. When someone tapped her on the shoulder, she turned around expecting to see one of the other residents. Instead, there were two women in their late thirties.

  ‘Hello,’ said one of the women, who looked vaguely familiar. ‘It’s Tiffany.’

  Given a name, Miss Ross suddenly placed the ex-pupil.

  ‘Of course. How are you?’ she said, shaking the outstretched hand.

  ‘I’ve never been better, thank you. This is my partner, Grace.’ The two women shook hands and there was a moment’s pause in the conversation. ‘I guess we’re all rather surprised to see each other on this march.’

  ‘The march?’ said Miss Ross, who understood what it was about. ‘Yes, well my involvement is probably not what it seems. Shall we find somewhere to have a quiet cup of tea? I could do with a sit down.’

  * * *

  In a nearby pub, Walter carried a pint and a half of beer over to the table in the corner. He sat down and pushed the pint across to his new acquaintance. The teenager took a long drink, before setting down the glass in front of him.

  ‘So, where are you from?’

  Walter took the question to mean where did he live, rather than where was he born. He didn’t think the lad was that interested in his life story.

  ‘I’m at the care home.’

  ‘We Care For You?’

  ‘You know it?’

  ‘My grandfather was there for a while before he died. That was a long time ago, when I was just a kid.’ Although Walter had discovered the teenager was nearly seventeen, he didn’t think he looked much more than a kid even now, but he decided it would be indelicate to indicate such a thing. ‘So you’ll be there until you die.’

  It wasn’t so much a question as a statement and Walter almost reeled from the harsh reality that lay behind the comment.

  ‘Well, that’s a blunt way of putting it.’

  ‘That’s what happens to people, isn’t it?’

  ‘The home isn’t a hospice. It’s not a place where the terminally ill go. It’s just somewhere for people who can’t look after themselves any more. They could live there for years.’

  ‘But it’s your life now.’

  ‘Yes . . . I suppose it is,’ agreed Walter, suddenly feeling rather depressed.

  ‘So, why were you marching?’ asked Smiler, draining the beer at an alarming rate.

  ‘The new owners have put up the fees and it’s more than some residents can afford. We thought a protest in the High Street might create some awareness of our plight, but we seem to have been swallowed up by your march. I don’t think anyone noticed us in the end.’

  Walter took his first sip. These days his bladder wouldn’t allow him near a pint.

  ‘People probably thought you were elderly gays and lesbians.’

  ‘Would they! Why, for God’s sake?’

  ‘It’s a lesbian, gay, bisexual and transsexual protest.’

  ‘Hell, I didn’t realise. Well, that should certainly upset Deirdre.’

  ‘Who’s she?’

  ‘A resident who likes to think she’s the overseer of our morals.’

  Their conversation was brought to a halt by the barmen arriving with lunch. Walter could remember how hungry he’d always felt at Smiler’s age, so he kept quiet while they ate. The food opposite seemed to disappear as quickly as the beer. When he considered it was reasonable to continue, he said, ‘So, tell me about this LGBT parade.’

  * * *

  In a little café a few streets away, Tiffany was pouring tea. Now that she was sitting opposite, Miss Ross could see traces of the girl who used to attend her school. There had been so many boys and girls during her long career, although some stayed in one’s mind.

  ‘Your father was a minister, wasn’t he?’

  ‘Goodness, that was well remembered,’ said Tiffany.

  ‘Well, I recall that several teachers used to attend his Sunday services, so he is more memorable than the majority of parents. Is he well?’

  ‘I believe so. We haven’t been in touch for quite a while. To be honest, we haven’t spoken since I came out, not once all the arguments and terrible accusations were over. I knew that telling him was a great risk and I had fought against my feelings for many years. However, in the end . . . well, my life was simply wasting away. Then Grace and I met and the secret had to be told. There was no longer an option.’

  Miss Ross nodded and drank her tea while the two women took hold of each other’s hands across the table. They looked so happy and in love. The sight unsettled her and yet was also strangely comforting.

  ‘That is a tragedy for everyone,’ said Miss Ross. ‘Some people cannot accept these situations because it threatens too directly what they believe and to condone such a relationship would undermine the foundations of their own lives. It can be so frightening that even the love for a daughter is not enough.’

  ‘There are plenty who think it’s wrong, even in this day and age,’ said Grace. ‘We encounter abuse and intimidation on a regular basis, whether we’re walking down the street, out for an evening or at work.’

  ‘What’s your opinion, Miss Ross?’ asked Tiffany.

  ‘My opinion? Well, I think . . . if you can find love, you must hang on to it with everything you have. Without love, life is so easily an unfulfilled and lonely journey.’

  Twelve

  Members of the Escape Committee returned to the home in ones and twos during the afternoon to be greeted with the news that Mrs O’Reilly was very poorly. The priest had been sent for, although he was busy with a funeral and was not expected until later in the day.

  Miss Ross arrived by herself and was the last to get back. She thought that the leaflets they had handed out to the public would have no impact whatsoever and that the march had been a complete failure in terms of highlighting the rise in fees. She found her friends in the conservatory and flopped down next to them in an uncharacteristic mood of despondency.

  ‘All that work, secrecy and worry and in the end I don’t think what we’ve done will make the slightest difference to our predicament,’ she said, easing off her shoes. ‘Excuse my feet.’

  ‘Where did you get to?’ asked Joan.

  Miss Ross hesitated for a moment, remembering the long conversation she had had with Tiffany and Grace.

  ‘I met an ex-pupil and went for tea with her. What about you two?’

  ‘We caught up again in the square and listened to the speeches before going back to Marks for another cup of tea and a well-needed sit down,’ said Joan. ‘Joyce was already there, looking almost as if she had never left and then Deidre came in.’

  ‘We never saw anything of the others, but they’ve returned safely now,’ said Dorothy. ‘Unfortunately, the same can’t be said for a lot of the walking sticks. Walter was particularly upset at losing his. Apparently there was some confusion. He went for lunch with someone and this person handed over the banner to another lad to hold, but then it got pass
ed on again and by the time Walter emerged into the square nobody knew where it was.’

  ‘Well, we’ve all got back without anyone here having the slightest idea of what we’ve been up to,’ said Joan.

  ‘That’s the problem!’ said Miss Ross. ‘No one knows what we’ve been up to! As an exercise in raising the profile of something, it could hardly have been less successful.’

  ‘We did,’ said Dorothy, ‘at least all work successfully as a team. Our knitting bee has functioned well together and survived to fight another day.’

  Miss Ross sighed wearily.

  ‘I’m sorry, I’m too tired to contribute much at the moment.’

  ‘You do look worn out, dear,’ said Dorothy. ‘You might not have heard the sad news about Mrs O’Reilly. Apparently she’s not expected to last the night. Joyce was quite upset. She’s gone up to see her.’

  * * *

  Mrs O’Reilly’s wrinkled hand looked tiny between Joyce’s chubby fingers. The two women hadn’t spoken much, one feeling a little breathless and the other a little unsure what to say.

  ‘I’ve enjoyed our chats,’ said Mrs O’Reilly.

  ‘And we’ll enjoy many more.’

  ‘Oh, I’m not so sure. It’s a shame not to make one hundred. I was looking forward to that.’

  ‘You’ll make your birthday. I can feel it in my bones and they never let me down.’

  ‘Good bones those.’

  ‘They need to be! They’ve been fortified by gin.’

  ‘I should last for ages yet, then.’

  ‘I’m sure you will,’ said Joyce, suddenly becoming aware that someone else was in the room. It was the priest, standing quietly just inside the doorway. ‘I’ll leave you together,’ she said, standing up. ‘I’ll see you in the morning. I bet you’ll be right as rain after a good night’s sleep.’

  ‘Don’t let Father Connelly hear you talk about betting. He’s quite a religious man, you know.’

  Joyce nodded to the priest and left. He sat down in the vacated chair next to the bed.

  ‘How are you, Mrs O’Reilly?’

  ‘Not too good, Father.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that. I came as soon as I could.’

  ‘I know you have. It’s good of you.’

  He had known her for a great many years and throughout them all she had been a cantankerous, sharp-tongued, heavy-drinking member of his congregation who would have tried the patience of Saint Monica. Without doubt, she was one of his favourites. He took hold of the hand that was still lying on the bedspread.

  ‘Would you like me to anoint you?’

  She nodded. The priest stood up and removed his coat and scarf, then from a small case he brought out a glass phial containing oil of chrism, which he put carefully on a nearby table. Laying a hand on her shoulder he prayed for several minutes while she lay quietly with her eyes closed.

  Using the olive oil that had been blessed by the bishop, Father Connelly anointed her head and hands. For the next hour, they talked and prayed, occasionally reminiscing and laughing as they had done on so many occasions.

  ‘Is there anything you would like, Mrs O’Reilly?’

  ‘Is this a last request, Father?’

  ‘It’s not a firing squad you’re facing, as well you know.’

  ‘I suppose, now that you ask . . .’

  ‘Just name it, my old friend.’

  ‘Let’s get pissed.’

  * * *

  The next morning Anna was trying to relay to Ben some information she had heard from one of the night staff. However, she was struggling to explain and put a hand to her face as if too upset to continue.

  ‘Mrs O’Reilly was found . . .’

  ‘Dead?’ asked Ben.

  Anna nodded, putting her other hand on the wall for support.

  ‘Well, she was a great age,’ said the male carer sadly. He had liked this particular resident, who was always lively and good fun.

  ‘Drunk!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Dead drunk . . . and Father Connelly! He was asleep in the chair.’

  It was only then that Ben realised his colleague wasn’t upset, she was laughing. Eventually Anna was able to tell the story of how the night staff had bundled the priest into a taxi and tucked up Mrs O’Reilly as best they could. This morning the old woman had been complaining that she had woken up in the semi dark and found one of the male residents asleep by her bed. She really shouldn’t have to put up with that sort of carry-on at her age!

  * * *

  As it was Easter Sunday, the local Church of Scotland minister visited the home in the afternoon to take a short service. Afterwards he stayed behind for what was one of the highlights of the year. It was the Easter bonnet parade. The culmination of weeks of secret preparations, hard work, planning and, in some cases, spying sessions, would be revealed and judged.

  There was always a high turnout of visitors for the event and as each resident made their entry into the lounge relatives and friends clapped enthusiastically and made suitable comments, much to the delight of the ageing models. The variety of headgear seemed endless, with some examples equal in imagination and skill to anything encountered during Ladies Day at Ascot.

  Several had knitted their displays. Dorothy had cleverly created a teapot with tiny Easter eggs coming out of the spout, while Joan had made an enormous tea cosy with a smiling face. On top of what was meant to represent a mortar board, Miss Ross had figures of schoolchildren in a classroom. The miniature teacher, wearing tweed skirt and jacket, looked decidedly familiar.

  When Joyce entered, she had a large paper dinner plate on her head and it was only when she sat down that those nearby could see a ‘full English’ breakfast, all made out of wool. There was soon a wide assortment of chickens, flowers, rabbits and sheep balanced, sometimes precariously, on a mixture of straw hats, top hats and unidentifiable objects.

  ‘I do object to that sort of thing,’ said Miss Ross to anyone within hearing distance. The arrival of a King Charles Spaniel wearing a fez and a pair of wings had led to her outburst. ‘I may not be an animal lover, but this doesn’t seem right to me.’

  ‘I passed poor Tiddles in the corridor looking particularly fed up,’ said Dorothy. ‘Someone had dressed him in a mixture of ribbons and foliage. He was an awful mess. I think it may have been one of our less aware friends. As no one was around I relieved him of his burden.’

  Anna left to check on Beatrice, one of the home’s residents who was physically very able but whose confusion was rapidly worsening. She found her sitting perfectly still in her bedroom. It took a few moments for the carer to be able to speak and with some effort she managed to keep her voice calm when she did.

  ‘Are you all right, love?’

  The old woman smiled, careful not to move any part of her body, the reason being that her favourite hen, Mabel, was sitting on top of her head.

  ‘Is that your Easter bonnet?’

  As if in response to the question, the chicken clucked loudly, appearing quite content on its unusual perch.

  ‘I think it’s tremendous. How about we take Mabel outside and give her something to eat?’

  Beatrice seemed to consider this for a moment and then nodded enthusiastically, which resulted in a great deal of flapping, feathers and fun.

  People continued to add to the growing crowd in the lounge. Using cardboard, Walter had made a quite realistic chessboard and pieces, which was very impressive until the whole thing fell to the floor. His mishap resulted in a huge cheer, which he took in good part, as he went around gathering up the pawns that had come unstuck.

  It was impossible to know what Angus had tried to make, as the main item had fallen off while he was coming along the corridor and he appeared wearing a flat cap and carrying something yellow under his arm that could have come straight out of a fairly unpleasant nightmare.

  The biggest round of applause by far occurred when Ben pushed in a wheelchair in which Mrs O’Reilly sat, wearing a small bonnet o
n which there was a simple green shamrock. The clapping and cheering were so great that Ben stopped the wheelchair in the middle of the floor and the beaming occupant slowly lifted her hat, which sent the entire room into raptures.

  When everyone had arrived and been served with tea and cake, the minister stood up to speak. He felt that if there was such a thing as a poisoned chalice in this world, it was judging this event and there were few things he faced with as much dread. Reputations could be made and broken in a single afternoon, which meant that rivalry was rife and memories both long and unforgiving.

  ‘I can say without any hesitation that you have this year outdone anything I’ve seen before at We Care For You,’ he said, which resulted in a round of polite applause, accompanied by many smiles and nods of approval.

  ‘Choosing the best example is an extremely difficult task because it’s obvious that you have all gone to great effort and dedicated a lot of thought and time to these extraordinary displays. I can honestly say I’ve never seen anything quite like the sight before me now.’

  The minister caught Matron’s eye and she didn’t know how he could keep a straight face at such a tongue-in-cheek comment. She had to scratch her nose to hide her grin.

  ‘However, it’s not the amount of money we’ve spent or the time we’ve lavished on something that lies at the centre of what is truly important in our lives. It’s what’s in here,’ he said, putting a hand to his chest.

  ‘I’m reminded of the elderly woman in the Bible who put into the church collection box a few copper coins, what we generally refer to today as her last penny. And Jesus, standing nearby, called his disciples to him and said, “Truly I tell you, this poor widow has put more into the treasury than all the others.”

  ‘Now, I’m not implying for one minute that the winner is a poor old widow. I’m far too fearful of incurring her wrath! But I wanted to explain that the reason she has won is because what she created means so much to her in here.’ Once again the minister laid a hand gently over his heart. He paused for a moment, as he had seen television presenters do in competitions and awards. ‘The winner is . . . Mrs O’Reilly!’