by P. I. Paris
There followed a few seconds of silence as everyone looked at the woman in the wheelchair, wearing by far the simplest bonnet amongst them, then the entire room erupted into cheering, clapping and banging anything that came to hand. It was the first time that any of them could remember seeing the Irish woman cry.
Thirteen
Monday, 28th March
Meeting Tiffany and her partner Grace has left me feeling both confused and reassured. They seemed so happy and content in each other’s company, proud to proclaim their relationship to the world. It’s a freedom I will never experience. I console myself in the knowledge that I have found love and with it a sense of fulfilment that has been absent throughout my life, even though I may not have realised it. So often we do not appreciate something until we no longer have it, yet it is also true that we may not appreciate what has been missing in our lives until we find it.
Fourteen
Beatrice lay in bed, studying the ceiling in the hope that it might provide a clue as to her whereabouts. She knew that this was sometimes illusive, but her location generally revealed itself after a while and it was nothing to worry about. Matron had told her not to be frightened because there was nothing that could hurt her and she had at least remembered that advice.
When the door opened a little while later, she recognised the man who entered, which was a good sign that she was definitely in the place she was meant to be.
‘Do you know what day it is?’ he asked.
‘Tuesday?’ she guessed.
‘It’s our forty-fifth wedding anniversary. Don’t tell me you didn’t remember.’
‘Of course I did,’ she said, and suddenly the name of her long-dead husband popped into her head. ‘Harold!’
‘Well, at least you’ve not forgotten my name. And I think we should celebrate.’
‘How?’ said Beatrice, sitting up in bed, totally enthralled that Harold and she were going to do something special. ‘What shall we do?’
‘I’ll give you a hint.’
And with that Mr Forsyth let his dressing gown slip to the floor to reveal his skinny naked body with its manhood standing to attention.
‘Oh, Harold!’ she said, hardly believing her eyes. ‘Do you think we should?’
‘What’s to stop us?’
Beatrice giggled and slowly lifted the duvet.
Deirdre’s nosiness had been her downfall on many occasions and it was rather unfortunate for her that she passed by shortly after. The unusual noises coming from behind the door aroused her curiosity immediately. She listened for a moment to double check, then knocked and went in. With the duvet lying in the corner the two naked occupants on the bed were visible in their entirety. Beatrice didn’t even notice the new arrival, while Mr Forsyth looked over without any indication of surprise or embarrassment.
‘The sow,’ he said panting, ‘needs servicing.’
Deirdre’s scream could be heard throughout the building and within moments it seemed that everyone was either in the bedroom, stuck in the doorway or crowded in the corridor. Mrs MacDonald had to help her distraught friend outside, manoeuvring past Albert who, as if to mark the occasion, had taken out his mouth organ and was playing ‘Knees Up Mother Brown’. Matron ushered the spectators out of the bedroom and shut the door, leaving the still cavorting couple with Anna and Ben.
‘Blimey, he’s not forgotten everything then!’ whispered Joan to Miss Ross as they made their way to breakfast. Joan, being one of the first to arrive, had been granted a ringside view of the performance. ‘I wouldn’t have thought he had it in him to keep going like that, randy old sod.’
Miss Ross was pleased to have avoided any visual aspects of the event and would have been happy to be spared the verbal description, although she knew this was unlikely.
‘It’s a very sad affair,’ she said.
‘Do you think it’s been going on for a while?’
‘I don’t mean an affair in that sense. If this had been going on for a while, I’m sure someone would have noticed before today.’
‘I suppose so. What do you think they’ll do?’
‘Heaven knows. I’m just glad I don’t have Matron’s job.’
Deirdre, not wanting to miss anything, made a miraculous recovery and arrived in the dining room not that much later than anyone else. Having been the one to make the discovery, she was able to provide an unrivalled eyewitness account.
‘Oh, but I couldn’t possibly tell you what I saw,’ she exclaimed several times, before going on to relate in detail the terrible scene she had been forced to see, not without a few embellishments along the way. Deirdre couldn’t remember the last time she had enjoyed breakfast so much.
When the carers had finally managed to prise Mr Forsyth and Beatrice apart, they got the old farmer into his dressing gown and back to his room. Later on, Ben put down mats fitted with pressure pads that set off alarms, alerting staff to movements in and out of the bedrooms. Unfortunately, even those with severe dementia always seemed to learn quickly that they should always jump over these objects and never, under any circumstances, stand on them.
* * *
Visiting times were extremely flexible, with family and friends welcome to call any point between morning and evening. They could even appear during meals, as they were often able to help feed those with dementia or other problems.
However, most people came during morning coffee or afternoon tea, meeting residents in the lounge, the conservatory or in their bedrooms. There was a small courtyard, while the garden was very pleasant to walk around or sit in when the weather was favourable.
Joan always seemed to have a stream of guests. She had four children, six grandchildren and an undetermined number of stepchildren. Many of them were regulars and she was often whisked off somewhere for a trip out or a meal at a local restaurant. There was a huge difference amongst residents in how often they had visitors. Some had none because they didn’t have a single connection with anyone outside the home.
Matron always felt particularly sorry for them, although she thought it was worse for those who had families who just didn’t bother to make contact. A person could end up alone in life through no fault of their own, but if no one wanted to see you, did that mean you weren’t actually worth the effort?
It wasn’t clear just how much Beatrice remembered or understood about the events earlier that morning, but she seemed in an excitable frame of mind. After Ben had fitted the new mat and left her alone once more in her bedroom, she went over to the telephone and dialled 999.
‘Hello,’ she said when the call was answered. ‘This is the Matron at We Care For You. We have a serious fire, which is spreading rapidly. There are many trapped upstairs. Can you please send the fire brigade urgently?’
When assured that they were on their way, Beatrice thanked the nice lady and set off for the lounge. It was a busy morning and on the way she passed the hairdresser, who was about to start working her way through that day’s list, using the small room that had been set aside for that purpose.
The Church of Scotland minister was visiting the residents he normally called on during his fortnightly trips and one of the district nurses was also somewhere in the building. They called daily, as there were always dressings and catheters to replace, ears to syringe, blood pressures to check and a host of other medical matters to be carried out. Beatrice tried to avoid the nurses, as she had a phobia of needles and reckoned it was best to be on the safe side.
In the lounge a dozen children from the nearby primary school were singing to a packed room. This was always a popular event. When the fire engine arrived in the car park, blue lights flashing and siren blaring, the singing faded away as children and adults alike moved to the windows.
‘What’s that?’ asked Beatrice, who had remained in her chair.
‘It’s a fire engine, but I’m sure it’s just a false alarm and nothing to be worried about,’ said Dorothy, sitting nearby.
‘I wonder what’s brought them h
ere.’
The children thought their visit had suddenly become extremely interesting and they watched eagerly as two firemen jumped down from the cab and rushed into the building. Moments later they appeared in the doorway to the lounge with Matron. They glanced around before leaving to check out the rest of the home. Ben went outside and returned with the remainder of the crew, who joined everyone for coffee.
‘This is like Piccadilly Circus,’ said Joan to Miss Ross, both sitting in the corner, trying to stay out of the way. Joan was waiting for family to arrive and was positioned so that she could see out of the window.
To make matters worse, the three dogs that belonged to residents, along with Tiddles, whose ownership was a mystery to everyone, decided to add to the mayhem. Then the minister appeared, having gone through his list quicker than the hairdresser.
‘Shoo,’ said Miss Ross to a terrier by her leg. She always thought this particular animal was unpleasantly smelly. Joan gave its bottom a tap with the toe of her foot and the dog went off in search of a more friendly reception.
Joyce was in her bedroom having her weight checked by Anna. Each resident was weighed monthly in order to spot any changes that might indicate a health problem. When she stepped on to the scales, the pointer danced dangerously around the right hand side of the display.
‘You seem to have put on another two pounds.’
‘I can’t understand it. I’ve been ever so careful what I eat. Are you sure these scales are right?’
‘I think we have to take it that they are.’
‘Well, it’s a blinking mystery.’
The conversation was one that the two women played out almost every month and it had a sense of pantomime about it. Both of them knew that Joyce ate far too much and that she wasn’t going to alter her lifestyle, but they still went through the motions.
‘We really do have to get your weight in hand,’ said Anna.
‘Absolutely. I couldn’t agree more.’
‘Here’s something that might help,’ said the carer, putting down a copy of the leaflet she had left the previous month. ‘I’ll speak to Matron about how we might best be able to move forward.’
‘Thank you, I’ll read that straight away. I don’t know what happened to the others. They must go to the same place as pens. They always seem to disappear as well.’
A short while later the fire crew, schoolchildren and several families left around the same time, just as other visitors were arriving. The large numbers of people moving into and out of the building gave Mr Forsyth the opportunity to slip out of the front door unnoticed. He had tried unsuccessfully on many occasions but had always been thwarted by the ever-watchful staff. With his shoes and coat on, nobody suspected anything.
Joan was now deep in conversation with some of her family, so Miss Ross went for a walk in the garden with Dorothy. With the schoolchildren gone, several other residents left the lounge. Matron took Beatrice to her office for a little chat.
Mr Adams, a half bottle of whisky hidden down his trousers, set off with his Zimmer, hoping that no one would notice the unusual bulge. Angus and Walter, who had never yet been seen to speak to each other in public, went for a game of chess in the latter’s bedroom, while the various animals disappeared to find new entertainment.
It was just before lunch that Mr Forsyth’s absence was noted and a thorough search instigated. However, the old man was just about to be found out. Having walked into a café and ordered tea and a scone, Mr Forsyth had gone into the gentlemen’s toilet only to emerge several minutes later totally naked. He had sat at his table and begun his food quite happily, acknowledging the stares of the other customers with a nod and smile.
The owner, a mature woman of commendable common sense, calmly walked over and laid a clean tea towel over the man’s credentials, as if putting a napkin on someone’s lap in a posh restaurant. The ex-farmer thanked her appropriately. She then put a spare tablecloth over his shoulders, tucking in the material around his body as much as possible. Before ringing the police, she decided to make one call.
‘It’s Margaret at the café. Have you lost one?’
Ben was despatched to collect the escapee.
Fifteen
‘The piano!’ cried Walter.
‘I do like a good sing-song,’ said Mrs Butterworth.
‘We’ve no time for singing,’ said Joan, exasperated at how easily they could become sidetracked.
‘For the barricade,’ explained Walter.
Building a barricade had been the topic of conversation for the last hour, at least while there had been no staff around or any resident who was a risk of giving away their secret by innocently repeating something they had overheard. The idea this time was that the Escape Committee should lock themselves in the lounge.
There had been a long-winded debate about renaming the group if they were going to blockade themselves into a building, but the argument had fizzled out when Miss Ross had lost her temper with them all. Walter’s suggestion dragged them from their sullen silence of hurt feelings at being treated like badly behaved children.
‘But it’s so heavy,’ said Deirdre.
‘That’s generally the requirement!’
‘Then how will we move it?’
‘We simply take off the clips on the wheels, push it into position, then put the clips back on.’
‘Enemy ahead!’ shouted Angus, who was on watch duty by the door.
The effect of his warning was dramatic, obviously making allowances for speed, as people dispersed. Angus joined Walter at the chessboard, while Joan and Miss Ross retrieved the needles and wool on their seats and quickly resumed activity. Dorothy hadn’t stopped knitting, so simply continued. Everyone else gave the realistic impression of being asleep, apart from Deirdre, who picked up a newspaper, and Joyce, who had spotted a couple of Rich Tea biscuits on a nearby table.
Moments later Anna poked her head into the room. Miss Ross nodded, Walter gave a little wave of acknowledgement and Dorothy smiled with such innocence that Saint Peter himself wouldn’t have suspected the devious plotting that had been going on only minutes earlier. The carer smiled back and, seeing nothing for her to do, left.
‘Goodness, this is painfully slow work,’ complained Joan, putting down her needles.
Angus stood up and crept to the door, as if he was on stage in a pantomime. Walter resisted the urge to shout out, ‘He’s behind you!’
‘All clear,’ whispered Angus.
Everyone gathered around again, apart from one.
‘It’s all right, Mrs Butterworth,’ said Joyce, looking over at the figure in the nearby armchair. ‘You don’t have to pretend any more.’
‘For goodness sake!’ said Miss Ross. ‘Someone wake her up. The piano is perfect for blocking the internal door.’
Dorothy held up her hand, exactly the way she had been taught at school more than seventy years earlier.
‘Yes?’
‘If we do that, we won’t have any access whatsoever to the facilities.’
There was a gasp of horror from the group that could hardly have been worse had World War Three just been announced.
‘I’ve thought of that. We’ll block the door further along the corridor, so we’ll be able to use the toilet just outside the lounge.’
‘There’s only the one, though.’
‘We won’t get through this without some hardship,’ said Joan.
‘Maybe we can set up a rota,’ offered Mrs MacDonald.
‘A rota . . . oh dear.’
‘What about the doors leading into the garden?’ pointed out Deirdre. ‘There’ll be no way of blocking those. They open outwards. The staff will simply walk in and all this planning and effort will have been for nothing.’
Was the woman ever positive about anything?
The group fell silent, apart from the clicking of Dorothy’s needles. It was Walter who came up with a possible solution.
‘Superglue.’
They all looked at him, th
en at the patio doors, as if slightly surprised to see either.
‘It will only work if we lock them first,’ said Miss Ross.
‘Yes,’ agreed Walter.
‘Which means,’ added Joan, ‘we will have to get hold of a key.’
The next five minutes were taken up writing out a list of all the people they knew who carried the relevant key and where the spares were kept. The conversation then took on a wider context.
‘We’ll need supplies,’ said Deirdre.
‘Like food,’ said Joyce.
‘We’ll have access to water so can make as much tea and coffee as people want,’ said Joan.
‘Not too much, I hope,’ muttered Dorothy.
‘They might turn off the water and electricity.’
‘Good God, Deirdre, we’re not terrorists!’ cried Walter. ‘They’re hardly going to starve us out or send in armed police for a group of care home residents with an average age of eighty.’
‘I was just saying. No need to be so shirty.’
‘The success of this whole exercise,’ said Miss Ross, trying to restore order, ‘lies in getting the media to the home before the staff have a chance to enter.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Angus, who was following the conversation from his lookout post.
‘If we barricade ourselves into the lounge but no one outside knows, then we’ll achieve nothing. Eventually the staff will gain entry one way or another. But if we can get the media here, then we’ll have the upper hand. The new owners wouldn’t dare use force to enter if there are television cameras and reporters monitoring everything they do and it will give us the chance to put forward our case against the rise in fees.’
There were murmurs of agreement and nods at the suggestion.
‘Could we get that nice Craig Anderson to come along?’ asked Dorothy. ‘I’d be ever so chuffed to be interviewed by him.’
‘Or that young girl who does the six o’clock news, the one on the Antiques Roadshow,’ said Mrs MacDonald. ‘She’s always pleasant. I could show her my grandmother’s watch. I’m sure it’s quite valuable.’
