Casting Off

by P. I. Paris

  ‘Hell, this isn’t going to keep them out!’ cried Walter, learning against an armchair to add his meagre weight.

  Angus rushed back into the lounge.

  ‘To the barricade! To the barricade!’

  For that moment – that one glorious moment, which none of them would ever forget, would never afterwards quite believe happened – they were young again. Arthritis, wobbly legs and hip repairs were all forgotten, along with discarded sticks and walking aids, as they rushed forward in a great surge that sent tea cups, saucers and a plate of bourbon biscuits flying across the carpet.

  Angus had to flatten himself against the wall, while Walter was knocked into an armchair. Before he could regain his wits someone sat on top of him. People wedged themselves into seats, while others sat on knees or perched on the arms of chairs. In an instant they created a solid wall of determined humanity. That barricade wasn’t going to move a single millimetre.

  ‘I do apologise, Walter. There wasn’t really time to ask if I could sit on your knee. You must think me very forward.’

  ‘Please don’t give it another thought, Dorothy. It’s my pleasure, though you could perhaps be careful with your needles.’

  ‘I am rather keen to finish this.’

  ‘There’s no point in letting a small matter like a siege get in the way of your knitting.’

  Dorothy smiled and continued with the large red scarf, although the feeling of his thighs against her bottom was a bit off-putting.

  Angus didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. There they all were, from seventy to infinity, piled on top of each other in what had to be one of the most ridiculous, and simply marvellous, sights he had ever seen.

  Joyce had Peg and Meg each balanced on one of her knees, as though they were children and she was Father Christmas. Mrs Butterworth now had both hands stuck to the tube of glue and looked as though she was praying – and maybe she was. Then there was Dorothy, seemingly oblivious to the situation, needles flashing so fast you couldn’t follow the patterns they made in the air, while Walter watched on nervously.

  When it was obvious that the barricade was not going to move any further and they all started cheering and clapping (Mrs Butterworth stamping her feet), Angus couldn’t prevent the tears that leapt from his eyes. He was enveloped by a feeling of such pride that in the end he had to take out his hanky and blow his nose quite loudly.

  In a corner of the lounge, Joan was speaking to someone from The Sun.

  ‘I can hear cheering,’ said the reporter.

  ‘Get used to that noise, young man. In fact, you can tell your readers to get used to it. It’s the sound of people who are no longer willing to be ignored and forgotten, who will once more stand up and be heard by a society that has become deaf to their needs!’

  When Miss Ross finished her call, she walked over to the patio doors, as she could see figures moving outside. She peered around a blind and looked straight into the worried face of Matron. A few feet away, Hamish was trying to move the handle on the door, but this had been wedged firmly with a chair before being glued and was unlikely to ever move again. Miss Ross pulled up a nearby blind and opened a small window at the top.

  ‘What on earth is going on?’ shouted Matron, whose usual calm professionalism had been badly shaken by the morning’s events.

  ‘Sorry for the inconvenience. We’re protesting against the rise in the care home fees.’

  ‘The fees? A protest! You can’t.’

  ‘But we are. We’re doing it. We’ve barricaded ourselves into the lounge and won’t come out until the fees have been reduced.’

  ‘I have no control over such things.’

  ‘I appreciate that, so I assume you will have to contact the new owners.’

  ‘Please think what you’re doing. You have old, vulnerable and frail people in there who need regular medication and professional assistance.’

  ‘We are the most able-bodied of the residents and everyone here has volunteered. They all have their full faculties, although we do have one urgent request.’

  ‘Oh my goodness, what is it?’

  ‘Could you please obtain something to release Mrs Butterworth from the tube of glue she’s got stuck to?’

  ‘Glue?’

  ‘Here,’ said Miss Ross reaching up to the open window, ‘is a spare tube so that you can get the right solution.’

  ‘I’ve never known anything like it. There will be serious repercussions.’

  ‘I certainly hope so. We haven’t done all of this not to make a change.’

  ‘We might have to force an entry. There will be damage that will have to be paid for and residents may well be upset.’

  ‘I don’t think anyone will be doing anything to cause upset, not now.’ Miss Ross had seen what Matron hadn’t yet spotted, the arrival of a BBC van. ‘I would suggest that you contact the owners and pass this responsibility on to someone else.’

  The other woman turned around and gave a little cry of alarm when she saw a TV crew disembarking in the car park. Miss Ross felt quite sorry. After all, it wasn’t her fault that the fees had gone up and now she was faced with a desperate situation that was certain to get worse. Matron rushed off and Hamish, his face beetroot with exertion and frustration, gave up trying the door.

  * * *

  By lunchtime the grounds were awash with newspaper and radio journalists, as well as TV crews, several police and an ambulance. There was even a film crew from China, which had been making a documentary about the Loch Ness monster and had hurried north when word had reached them about a group of rioting old-age pensioners. The elderly viewers back in China would be far more interested in this human-interest story than anything about a legendary dragon.

  The staff had long since given up trying to push open the doors in the corridor and so everyone had returned to the lounge, where a strange calm had descended. Chairs had been turned around to face the car park and the blinds pulled up so that people could watch the activity outside. Walter couldn’t remember when the television had last been turned off and was being so resolutely ignored.

  Joan and Joyce had cleared away the knocked-over cups and made a fresh brew, while Mrs Butterworth had been unstuck, so no longer appeared to be in a permanent state of religious fervour. People sat drinking tea and eating the cakes that Deirdre and Mrs MacDonald had smuggled out of the kitchen.

  It was the most interesting day any of them could remember. They had had far more aerobic exercise, mental stimulus and fun than all the classes and group activities of the whole of the last year put together.

  ‘Isn’t it exciting?’ said Dorothy. ‘Do you think we’ll be on television?’

  ‘Looking at that crowd, we’ll probably be the main news item,’ said Joan.

  ‘I wonder if my Andrew will see it?’

  ‘That’s Craig Anderson, isn’t it?’ cried Joyce.

  This revelation resulted in everyone moving to the windows to get a better view of someone they felt they knew, although had never met.

  ‘He seems much smaller in real life,’ said one of the sisters.

  ‘Everyone appears smaller than they do on television,’ announced Angus.

  ‘Do they?’ said the other sister. ‘How very odd.’

  ‘It’s something to do with the tubes,’ said Joyce.

  ‘I could do with a bit more to eat than cake,’ said Walter.

  Deirdre immediately took this as an attack on her efforts to provide food supplies.

  ‘What did you think I was going to bring, a selection of hot meals on a trolley?’

  ‘Don’t get your knickers in a twist.’

  ‘Tell them to leave your knickers alone,’ said Mrs MacDonald.

  Walter and Angus started giggling. Since the success of the blockade they had been like naughty schoolchildren, although the men weren’t any worse than many of the women in this respect. Looking at the others, Miss Ross hardly recognised them as the same stooping figures who’d been shuffling along the corridor only th
e previous week, complaining about their long list of ailments, poorly fitting teeth and squealing hearing aids.

  ‘Still,’ said Joyce longingly, ‘look at that catering van. You can almost smell the cooking from here.’

  There was a moment of silence as everyone’s attention focused on the extremely well-stocked van. A queue had formed not far from where a representative of the care home owners was being interviewed by someone from the local radio station.

  ‘This is all just a little misunderstanding that will soon be cleared up,’ said the man. ‘There’s really no need for all this fuss. No need at all.’

  The queue to interview him was even longer than the one for food. It was the best ‘human’ story to emerge for ages and the reporter was keen to give him a grilling.

  ‘You say this is a little misunderstanding, but surely it’s unprecedented for a group of elderly UK residents to barricade themselves into a building. This is a major incident. They must have been driven to extreme levels of anguish to have reacted in this way.’

  ‘We’re here to listen to their needs and sort out any problems . . .’

  ‘But what about the fees? Haven’t these recently been increased significantly? And wasn’t this done without any consultation? Isn’t this what the protest is all about?’

  ‘Well, of course . . . all such establishments are facing rises in their costs.’

  ‘So do you think we can expect to see people in other care homes protesting in this manner?’

  ‘Others?’

  ‘Are we at the start of a revolution amongst the elderly of this country?’

  ‘A revolution!’

  ‘Do you believe what’s happening here will be the catalyst for pensioner riots similar to the Poll Tax Riots of 1990?’

  ‘Oh God, no!’

  The man looked around, searching for an escape, for anything that would give him an excuse not to be where he stood. He was saved, at least temporarily, by the arrival of Matron, carrying a sheet of paper. Unfortunately, in his agitation her name completely escaped him.

  ‘This is the manager of the care home. I’m sure she will give us an update on the unfortunate situation that has occurred while I wasn’t here.’

  Matron glared at the man before speaking into the microphone that was being held out in front of her.

  ‘I have a list of demands from the residents,’ she said, hesitating before unfolding the sheet and adjusting her glasses. ‘They want ten bacon rolls, four brown and six white, plus two white rolls with sausages. No seeds on the rolls and plenty of brown sauce.’

  * * *

  ‘Ahhh . . .’ sighed Walter contentedly. ‘Why does this bacon taste so much better than anything we usually get?’

  No one could answer, though they all agreed that it did taste so much better.

  ‘Maybe because it’s free?’ offered Joyce.

  ‘It was nice of them to give us our lunch,’ said Dorothy.

  ‘What now?’ asked Joan.

  The question was directed at Miss Ross. She had been dreading this, but it could no longer be avoided. They had done well. The barricade had held, the media were outside and now it was down to her to present their case. She dabbed her lips with the paper napkin provided by the catering van.

  The care home representative was seething, but he could hardly prevent someone from speaking to the media, even if they were all on private land. It would have appeared as though the ‘service users’ were prisoners if he had forbidden the press. So, after Miss Ross had announced that she wanted to make a statement, a small forest of microphones had been set up on stands outside a lounge window that opened at waist height, which allowed for a more dignified delivery of her speech.

  Eighteen

  ‘This is the six o’clock news . . .’

  They had moved their chairs and were gathered around the television. The novelty of watching all the different people going about outside, and in turn being constantly on display, had worn off and the blinds were once more closed.

  ‘A group of elderly residents in a Highland care home have barricaded themselves into the building in protest at an increase in fees . . .’

  ‘Who’s she calling elderly?’ said Joyce.

  They had to listen to the highlights of several news items before coming back to a report from the BBC journalist who had been in the car park for most of the day.

  ‘There’s our home!’ cried several voices together, as a television camera panned across the front of the building before stopping at a reporter standing on the lawn.

  ‘Around a dozen elderly residents . . .’

  ‘Now he’s doing it!’

  ‘Shhh.’

  ‘ . . . have barricaded themselves into a Highland care home in protest at a recent rise in residential fees. Staff were caught completely unawares by the unprecedented action, which involved other residents setting off alarms and pretending to have collapsed in various parts of the building, while those in the lounge blocked an internal door and sealed the patio doors with superglue. Edith Ross, a spokesperson for the group, which has been in the lounge since this morning, gave a statement to reporters.’

  ‘There you are!’ said Dorothy. ‘You look quite regal, a bit like the Queen on her balcony.’

  ‘We have not undertaken such drastic action without giving considerable thought to the consequences. We are making this protest to bring to the attention of the wider world the problems facing people in care homes where fees are being increased to levels that cannot be met, where hard-working, honest people are being forced to move from what they have come to think of as home, and at a time in their lives when they are most vulnerable.

  ‘It is happening not just here but throughout the country. Grandparents and parents, those who have helped to make Great Britain what it is today, are being treated disgracefully by politicians and businesses. We are not assets to be squeezed dry and discarded when the savings have gone, to be deposited in small, dark rooms until it’s time to be taken away by Mr Dunn . . . or another undertaker . . .’

  Her speech was full of passion and anger, and the Escape Committee burst into applause when she finished. Her face on the screen blinked back at them in surprise, as she was lit up by dozens of flashes. The BBC reporter was the first to ask a question.

  ‘How long do you think you can last out?’

  ‘As long as it takes, young man!’

  With that, Miss Ross shut the window and closed the blind. The journalist completed his report before handing back to the studio and an item about a dispute surrounding the proposed colour of a Town Hall’s windows. Walter turned off the television.

  ‘I wanted to see the weather forecast,’ said Deirdre.

  ‘Does it matter?’ he said. ‘Were you planning on going somewhere?’

  She glowered but didn’t reply. They all sat in silence for a while until Mrs MacDonald, not generally an instigator of conversation, spoke.

  ‘Maybe it was because of the pig.’

  Everyone turned in her direction and even Deirdre seemed to be completely taken aback by the comment.

  ‘The pig?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes . . . why the bacon tasted so much nicer this morning. It’s because of the type of breed.’

  Nobody quite knew what to say until Walter, feeling increasingly mischievous, broke the silence.

  ‘I reckon it’s because the pig was happy.’

  ‘Happy?’ repeated Mrs MacDonald, bewildered at such information.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ chipped in Angus quickly. ‘I’ve read that can have a huge effect. If an animal has had a pleasant life, then the meat tastes completely different to one that has been miserable.’

  ‘I didn’t know that.’

  ‘It stands to reason,’ said Walter, continuing the wind-up. ‘Next time you’re in town, Mrs MacDonald, you call at the butcher’s shop and I bet he’ll tell you that he gets a certificate with every carcass, confirming that the beast was smiling right up to the end.’

  ‘Boys,
’ said Miss Ross. She spoke quietly yet her voice, finely honed during decades of teaching, carried an authority that few would oppose. She didn’t mind some leg-pulling, but she wasn’t prepared to let them confuse Mrs MacDonald to the point where she actually would call into the butcher’s. The two men sat grinning at each other, like naughty schoolboys who knew they weren’t going to get into any serious trouble for their misdeeds.

  ‘Maybe the bacon tasted so good,’ said Dorothy, clicking away in her armchair, ‘because we were happy.’

  Miss Ross shook her head at how these gems could come from someone who so often seemed not to understand at all what was going on around her. The conversation got Joyce thinking about food. In fairness, most subjects did.

  ‘I guess we should do something about an evening meal,’ she said.

  ‘What I wouldn’t give for an old-fashioned fish supper,’ said Angus.

  ‘With proper mushy peas,’ added Walter.

  ‘Wrapped in newspaper, with lots of salt and vinegar,’ said Joyce wistfully. ‘What you get today in those plastic dishes just isn’t the same. It’s another example of the dumbing down that has gone on in society.’

  ‘It’s all about health and safety,’ said Walter.

  ‘Health and safety?’ queried Dorothy. ‘When did a fish supper do anyone any harm?’

  ‘It’s the ink off the newspaper,’ said Walter. ‘They reckon it’s bad for you, although I never heard of it harming anyone.’

  ‘There’ll be a regulation somewhere preventing it,’ said Angus.

  ‘Well, I think it’s a silly regulation and if we want a traditional fish supper, then we should get it,’ said Dorothy.

  ‘Hear, hear,’ shouted several voices.

  ‘Goodness me, at our age a tiny bit of ink isn’t going to make any difference,’ continued Dorothy.

  Ten minutes later Joan was talking over the telephone to the local fish and chip shop.

  ‘We’ll have to pay you when you deliver the order. We’re at the care home.’

  ‘The care home!’ said the man, suddenly animated. ‘Are you the ones barricaded in the building?’