Casting Off

by P. I. Paris

  ‘Are you on something?’

  ‘Medication, you mean? Crikey, no, I’m already a walking advertisement for the pharmaceutical industry.’

  ‘Aren’t we all? So you’re not using anything to enhance your . . . performance?’

  ‘No. I guess I’ve been lucky.’

  ‘You might not feel so lucky if your Becky found out. I can’t see her being chuffed at discovering her ageing father is having sex once a week with a prostitute.’

  ‘Ah, Becky and I haven’t spoken for a while.’

  ‘Sorry to hear that.’

  ‘Oh, we’ve not had an argument or anything. Becky and John and the girls just seem constantly busy these days. Before coming into the home I used to be close to Heather and Penny.’

  ‘Your grandchildren?’

  ‘They’re lovely girls.’

  The two men fell silent, watching the others in the room. Dorothy, Joan and Miss Ross sat in one corner, their needles a blur as they carved out patterns in the air. Joyce was eating her after-supper snack and a few others had gathered around the television to watch a documentary. Walter’s attention eventually landed on his adversary.

  ‘What are Deirdre and Mrs MacDonald up to? They’re looking even more suspicious and devious than usual. Interfering old . . .’

  ‘They’re planning your downfall, that’s what they’re doing.’

  ‘Oh, are they?’

  ‘There’s a petition going around to put an end to Julie’s visits.’

  * * *

  ‘Now, Beatrice, you’re a sensitive, intelligent woman, just like myself and . . . and . . .’ Deirdre was going to say Mrs MacDonald, who was nodding her head vigorously, but somehow the words just wouldn’t come out. ‘I know you feel strongly against what Mr McKenzie gets up to every Thursday. I mean, I’m broad-minded, of course. We don’t reach our age without seeing a bit of the world, do we? But really, this has got to stop.’

  ‘What has?’ asked Beatrice.

  ‘Mr McKenzie’s goings-on.’

  ‘What’s he going on about?’

  Deirdre’s expression, which she hoped conveyed that of a sensitive, intelligent woman, didn’t change, but inside she was screaming with frustration. So much of her life was dominated by frustration.

  ‘Dear me, this is a very delicate matter. I’m referring to the visits that he gets from that young woman.’

  ‘Oh, his niece. She’s very nice. She helped me only last week.’

  ‘What did she do?’ asked Mrs MacDonald.

  ‘I can’t rightly remember, but I do know that she helped me with something and I was very grateful at the time.’

  ‘Well, that was kind of her.’

  ‘Perhaps it was a couple of weeks ago.’

  Deirdre’s expression faltered.

  ‘Please! Could we stick to the matter in hand? Look, I tell you what, Beatrice, why don’t you just sign your name here, on this bit of paper, and then Mrs MacDonald will fetch you a nice cup of tea.’

  ‘Will I?’

  ‘Yes, you will.’

  ‘Is it time for tea, then?’

  ‘I think I can hear the kettle boiling. You just have to sign here first . . . on the dotted line.’

  But Beatrice had lost interest in the conversation because she really liked tea . . . at least, she was fairly certain she did.

  ‘No, don’t go!’ cried Deirdre, but the other woman was already walking away.

  ‘You do have to catch her at the right moment,’ offered Mrs MacDonald. ‘But I fear they’re increasingly rare.’

  Deirdre looked around the room.

  ‘This is going to be a lot more difficult than I had expected. How many signatures do we have now?’

  Her friend counted up the names on the petition that they had gathered during the day.

  ‘Seven. That includes us and Mrs Pierce, who thought she was signing for the delivery of a new washing machine/tumble dryer. She was quite looking forward to using it. There’s the three that we gave up on altogether and we’ve had six flat refusals.’

  ‘Yes, all of the men we’ve asked!’

  ‘Even Mr Forsyth seemed to understand the point straight away. He was amazingly lucid and vocal in his reply.’

  ‘Incredible, isn’t it? Most of the time he’s trying to find a herd of Friesians or telling us that the sow needs servicing, but when we explain about the petition, oh suddenly there’s this miraculous connection with reality, with some animal instinct to reproduce. He’s immediately one of the men again. They’re like rampant bulls, all sticking up for each other.’

  Mrs MacDonald’s head, in its attempt to convey solidarity, was almost a blur. The other woman carried on without noticing.

  ‘Well, Mr McKenzie might be giving out beatings, but we’re not beaten yet. Come on, there’s Mrs Weaver by the bookcase and I don’t think she’s landed on planet cuckoo yet . . . although I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s in orbit.’

  * * *

  ‘I don’t honestly know if I can get it up,’ said Angus. ‘It’s been so long since I tried. I might just need the right circumstances . . . in order to be able to perform again. Christ, even Forsyth does better than me. Maybe I should pretend to have dementia, then I can go around squeezing breasts or patting backsides whenever the fancy takes me. It’s staggering what he gets away with.’

  It was a bizarre conversation to be having, sitting in the corner of the lounge with other people nearby, doing their usual evening activities . . . a bizarre conversation to be having anywhere.

  ‘Well, I can’t help you there,’ replied Walter.

  ‘That’s the point. I wondered if you could.’

  ‘How the hell am I meant to help get your willy up?’

  ‘Shh! Not so loud. They’re not all deaf.’

  ‘Sorry, but I don’t understand why you think I can help with your . . . problem.’

  ‘I wanted to speak to you about Julie.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘How did you find her?’

  Julie was someone Walter didn’t want to talk about and this time it was his turn to become quiet. She was so much a part of his life, closer to him than his family in many ways.

  This strange, beautiful young woman off the street was the only person in his life whom he could be totally honest with. He said things to her that he had never even spoken about to Moira. God, how he missed his wife. If that evil illness hadn’t taken her away, they would still be living happily in their little cottage.

  ‘Walter . . . look, I can see this is a private matter to you . . . but it means so much to me. I have to know if I’ve lost that ability. Whether I’m still a man or not.’

  Walter had first looked into the face next to him when they were six years old. Friends forever. That’s what the two of them used to say. And they could have been, if Walter hadn’t slept with the other man’s wife. He didn’t regret anything more than that. All four of them had been destroyed by his actions. Now there were just the two of them again but this time their lives were behind them, not stretching ahead into an unknown and exciting future.

  ‘I asked the taxi driver.’

  ‘The taxi driver?’

  ‘Not the regular guy, that other one we sometimes get. He seemed a sort of sleazy bloke who might handle such a request. I had to agree that he got the fare to bring her to the home every week and then do the return journey.’

  ‘That’s why he’s always the driver on a Thursday. I thought it was a bit odd.’

  ‘I resent it, but he did stick to his side of the bargain.’

  ‘So . . . do you have to pay her much?’

  ‘Oh, Angus.’

  ‘It’s just that with the fees going up I hardly have any spare money.’ They both fell silent. ‘Perhaps she has a friend . . . someone she could speak to, who might visit me?’

  ‘Whether your willy works or not isn’t what makes you a man.’

  ‘I know that.’

  Walter still didn’t want to continue the conversati
on.

  ‘I have to know. Please help me out.’

  ‘You could speak to the taxi driver.’

  Angus looked aghast at the suggestion.

  ‘I couldn’t do it. I just couldn’t.’

  ‘No, seeing his smug expression wasn’t a pleasant experience. It made me feel dirty and then you’re always concerned he has a hold over you and whether he might try to use it someday.’

  ‘I wouldn’t want to give him the satisfaction,’ said Angus. ‘I only know Julie well enough to say “Hello” to in the corridor. I couldn’t approach her direct. Will you help?’

  Twenty Three

  The financial situation was steadily getting worse for several of the residents and worry was making Dorothy unusually pessimistic. As the plans to reduce the fees hadn’t worked, the only option remaining, if she was to stay, would be to raise money. Dorothy was in her bedroom with Joan and Miss Ross. Every now and again one of them would wipe away a tear or make some comment about the injustice of the situation.

  ‘Is this what I’ve worked, scrimped and saved for all these years . . . to be forced to leave my friends behind and end up in a dingy room surrounded by strangers where you can’t even hear the birds singing?’

  The brochures for several other care homes had been circulating over the past few weeks and a couple of copies lay on the bed.

  ‘For the first time in my life, I can understand why a woman might despair so much that she sells her body.’

  ‘Dorothy!’ cried Miss Ross. ‘What a dreadful thing to say.’

  ‘I think we would make more selling egg cosies,’ muttered Joan.

  They fell silent, and one by one resumed their knitting. There was no sign of Tiddles, who had sensed the huge change in the atmosphere and had taken to hiding in unusual places, as though he too feared being forced to move somewhere. Joan looked particularly thoughtful, as if a memory had given her an idea.

  ‘Though mentioning prostitution,’ she said, causing Dorothy to drop her ball of wool, ‘I once worked in a newsagent’s. If the shop was empty, I sometimes looked through the men’s magazines. You wouldn’t believe the things I saw.’

  ‘I hope you’re not going to suggest that we get photographed in the nude,’ said Miss Ross. ‘I was once shown a calendar of naked WI members in various poses behind vases of flowers and bowls of fruit. There was more than one who could have done with a few extra apples.’

  ‘I couldn’t pose nude,’ said Dorothy, looking fondly at the photograph next to her chair. ‘My Willie would never have stood for it.’

  ‘No, not pose,’ said Joan. ‘In the pages at the back there were always lots of adverts. Some of them were from women offering to talk to men over the telephone.’

  ‘Talk?’ said Dorothy.

  ‘Well, you know, in a particular way.’

  ‘I can assure you,’ said Miss Ross, ‘I have never talked to any man in a particular way and I’m not about to start at my age.’

  Their knitting was completely forgotten by the unexpected topic.

  ‘I don’t understand. How do the women make money?’

  ‘They put a telephone number in the advert, one that people pay a lot to use. The women keep most of the cost of the call. All they have to do is keep the men on the line for as long as possible.’

  ‘Talking dirty!’ stressed Miss Ross.

  ‘Talking dirty?’ repeated Dorothy, trying to work out what this signified.

  She had never discussed subjects like this with Willie and would certainly not have asked for an explanation about such matters. It was all so different these days. Couples seemed desperate to disclose the most intimate details about their lives in as public a way as possible.

  ‘Is that what’s meant by oral sex?’

  Miss Ross decided that she didn’t want to be involved in any discussion about ‘oral sex’ and busied herself with her knitting. By an enormous effort of will, Joan managed not to burst out laughing, as she didn’t want to hurt her friend, whom she knew was feeling vulnerable. However, it was a close thing and it took several moments before she could reply.

  ‘It’s that sort of idea, love.’

  ‘My Willie never wanted to talk dirty. He was a clean-living man.’

  ‘Yes, but there are lots of men who do and many of them want to do it with a mature woman.’

  This was too much for Miss Ross.

  ‘Do you mean to say there are men who actually want to ring up some deaf old wrinkly, sitting in her cardigan and slippers, and shout down the telephone to them about sex?’

  ‘Probably a lot more than you might think. All of the men’s magazines carried similar adverts. I reckon there’s an opening for us.’

  ‘I don’t like this reference to us.’

  ‘The same adverts appeared for years. It must have been worthwhile for those women to keep paying to have them in.’

  Miss Ross was increasingly uncomfortable with the direction of the conversation. She put her knitting on the chair and walked over to look out of the window.

  ‘You can count me out of this venture,’ she said without turning around.

  The weather was heavy and overcast. It felt as though every day had been grey and damp since they had abandoned their blockade of the lounge. In the end, what had they achieved? A free fish supper? A flurry of media interest that died away just as quickly as it had arisen. Nothing had altered with regards to the fees. They were running out of options, time and hope. Joan’s voice brought her back to the present.

  ‘But think what’s at stake. We’ll need your help if we’re going to do something.’

  ‘I still don’t understand what the idea is, but would it mean that I could stay where I am?’

  Dorothy’s simple innocence . . .

  Miss Ross turned around and sighed.

  ‘Of course I’ll help, only don’t expect me to speak to men on the telephone. When I was headmistress, I would skelp a lad if he was caught in the school with one of those publications.’

  ‘So, what do we do now?’ asked Dorothy.

  ‘We’ll have to install a telephone, with a number set up at a premium rate,’ said Miss Ross, once more taking charge. ‘I’ll look into it.’

  ‘There’ll have to be some sort of advertising,’ pointed out Joan.

  ‘It won’t be cheap,’ said Miss Ross. ‘There’s a risk that we might not even get back what we pay out.’

  ‘We could save money by just writing out cards and putting them around town,’ said Joan.

  ‘If we’re going to do this, it has to be done properly. We’ll have to put together a business plan so that we know how many minutes of telephone calls are required to cover the rise in Dorothy’s fees. Then we can calculate budgets and targets.’

  Dorothy, still trying to follow everything that was being suggested, looked at her friend with great admiration.

  ‘I don’t know what I would do without you.’

  Miss Ross was moved by the comment. She took hold of one of Dorothy’s hands.

  ‘You are my dearest friend in the world. What else am I meant to do?’

  Twenty Four

  If Deirdre wasn’t so keen to hear her own voice, she would have been speechless with outrage. Unfortunately, this had never been known to happen. She had been in the office for the last ten minutes, Mrs MacDonald nodding vigorously by her side.

  ‘I understand your concerns,’ said Matron, ‘but there’s really nothing I can do. All residents are entitled to have visitors to their rooms.’

  ‘But surely not prostitutes!’

  ‘No, not one of those women,’ added Mrs MacDonald.

  ‘I cannot make any comment about this particular visitor. In fact, Julie is extremely popular. Several people have mentioned how helpful she is and how they look forward to chatting to her once she’s visited her uncle.’

  ‘Her uncle!’ Deirdre spat out the words. ‘Goodness me, you surely don’t believe that story.’

  ‘I can only stress again that what som
eone does in their bedroom is up to them. I’ve had no complaints other than yours.’

  ‘What about the petition?’

  ‘I think we all know that many of those who signed your paper would not have understood what they were doing.’

  ‘It’s not them who have to listen to the terrible goings-on,’ said Deirdre.

  ‘Do you listen?’ asked Matron, knowing well that this was one of her main pastimes. ‘Your room is nowhere near Walter’s.’

  ‘Well, one sometimes can’t help it, if you happen to be passing along the corridor at the time.’

  ‘Deirdre has been very upset by all this,’ added Mrs MacDonald.

  ‘Maybe it would put your mind at rest if you were more involved in some of the activities or interest groups. You could even form your own and meet on a Thursday, so that you had a distraction when Julie visits.’

  With this suggestion, Matron achieved a world first when Deirdre opened her mouth but no words came out.

  * * *

  For several weeks, there had been an atmosphere of great excitement. Some of the crew from HMS Ross-shire, which was due to be anchored for three days at the nearby Invergordon harbour, had proposed a visit. An hour or so after Deirdre’s meeting, a large taxi pulled into the car park.

  When the two naval officers and three crew members walked into the reception area, they were rather surprised to be greeted by staff dressed as pirates. Having signed the visitors’ book and sanitised their hands using the wall-mounted dispensers inside the front door, they were escorted to the lounge, where the residents were waiting.

  Matron made a short speech of welcome and this was followed by one from the senior officer, a lieutenant. However, he had only just finished when two kitchen staff accompanied by a cleaner came rushing in and surrounded the junior officer.

  ‘This man’s pretending to be Captain Cook . . . but I’m Captain Cook around here,’ said the cook, with a great theatrical wave of her plastic cutlass. Everyone thought this was a tremendous joke and while the young man looked about him in surprise they all started cheering. ‘What shall we do with him, shipmates?’