Casting Off

by P. I. Paris

  ‘Confirms what?’ asked Mrs Weaver.

  ‘That she is not Walter’s niece but a prostitute.’

  ‘She could be both,’ said Angus, ‘in which case she has a perfect right to see a relative.’

  ‘Prostitutes have rights as well as puffins,’ said Dorothy.

  ‘We cannot have the morals of our home being corrupted by such a person,’ shouted Deirdre.

  ‘I’m probably past corrupting, but I don’t mind if someone wants to try,’ chuckled Mr Adams, who was actually past most things. ‘What do you reckon, Angus?’

  The other man didn’t want to get involved in the discussion but he was happy to scupper this particular scheming if possible.

  ‘I don’t mind, although someone might have to remind me what it is I have to do. What about you, Mrs Weaver, fancy a bit of corrupting?’

  This set several people laughing, including the target of the joke, who knew it was meant in fun and willingly played along.

  ‘Oh, I’m all for it!’ she said.

  ‘Are you?’ cried Mr Adams. ‘Quick, help me up to my Zimmer. I have to strike while the iron’s hot! Goodness, I can’t even remember when it was last warm!’

  Now everyone was laughing and Deirdre was desperate to regain control.

  ‘This is not getting us anywhere! There are important decisions to be made, decisions that affect everyone. Angus, you know what I’m saying is true.’

  The laughter died away. He was angry at being dragged into this and remained silent. It was Dorothy who saved him from answering.

  ‘Isn’t there something in the Bible about he who is without sin throwing the first stone?’

  ‘This is hardly the occasion to be quoting the Bible,’ said Deirdre.

  ‘I didn’t know it was only relevant on certain occasions. Whatever Julie may or may not have done, I know that I don’t have the right to condemn her and I doubt that anyone else in this room has either.’

  Several people looked with surprise at Dorothy, who wasn’t known for giving speeches and because she spoke with such simple conviction it seemed that her words were all the more powerful. Even Mrs MacDonald was nodding her head in agreement. Deirdre was on the verge of losing the debate. However, she had listened to enough church sermons over the years to know that a good ‘fire and brimstone’ speech could yet win the day.

  ‘Look at yourselves!’ she shouted. ‘Don’t you have any standards left at all? Where has decency gone, our belief in right and wrong? Our home, it’s a . . . a microcosm of society. Evil men walk our streets because the hands of the government and police are bound by insane bureaucracy, just as Matron’s hands are tied in this instance. Evil has walked straight through our front door and sat down beside us, joined us at meals and gone into our bedrooms. And what do we do? Nothing!’

  Whatever else he thought of her, Angus had to admit that Deirdre had the ability to perform in front of an audience. He could see that the group, apart from perhaps himself, Dorothy and Joyce (whose earlier outburst still puzzled him), were being won around. They were like branches blowing in the wind, first leaning one way and then another.

  ‘What about live and let live?’ he said.

  ‘No one ever says that to us,’ countered Deirdre, now in full flight and unwilling to let anyone alter the course she was steering. ‘When did we last get the chance to live as we want? Have we fought so many battles in our long lives just to . . . to eat éclairs and knit while the enemy strolls unchallenged amongst us?’

  There was a lot of nodding of heads and a couple of people said, ‘No’. Joyce looked as though she was considering walking over and punching Deirdre on the nose.

  ‘Are we so in our dotage that we don’t care enough to do anything?’

  This had several people shouting out. Now most of them were egging each other on to agree.

  ‘It’s up to us to act, to show these modern liver-faced bureaucrats that we won’t have our hands tied. We will once again make a difference in a world that has forgotten us. Others will no longer do what they want to us against our will, stuffing us with food and pills we don’t need. We will be heard and count for something.’ Deirdre raised both hands to the ceiling, as if beseeching God. ‘We will once again be YOUNG!’

  The group exploded into cries of agreement, clapping and banging tables for all they were worth.

  Twenty Seven

  Walter was sitting in his room analysing his life, something he had found himself doing a lot recently. Was Smiler right? Was he only marking time until there was none left? His melancholy thoughts were interrupted by frantic banging on the door. Startled, he got up quickly and opened it. Angus was bent over, gasping.

  ‘Christ, mate! Are you all right?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Angus, although he didn’t sound it.

  ‘Come in and sit down, man.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You look awful.’

  ‘I’ve run up the stairs.’

  ‘What possessed you to do such a daft thing? Get your breath back. I’m just waiting for Julie.’

  ‘She’s at the entrance. You’d better get down there.’

  ‘Why? What’s going on?’

  ‘Deirdre’s wound up a bunch of them into a frenzy and they’re preventing her from coming into the building. It was starting to get ugly.’

  * * *

  ‘Please let me in,’ cried Julie.

  Deirdre was unmoved by her tears or pleading, however the others were stunned at how unpleasant this encounter had so quickly become.

  ‘I need to be with Walter.’

  ‘Hah! I see the pretence of him being “uncle” Walter has finally gone. More lies. More corruption, just as I’ve been warning people.’

  ‘I’ve never done you any harm, any of you.’

  ‘Your very presence harms us. It’s an affront to everything that we’ve stood up for over a great many decades: honesty and hard work.’

  ‘You don’t understand.’

  ‘No, it’s time for you to understand. You’re not welcome here. We don’t want your sort in our home.’

  ‘Hey, I didn’t come here to terrorise the girl and make her cry,’ said Mr Adams.

  ‘Pah! A typical man’s reaction. At the first sign of a few tears from a pretty girl your resolve turns to water. Didn’t we all agree on actually doing something, on taking action, instead of watching what’s left of our lives disappear into a meaningless . . . nothing! Well, didn’t we?’

  ‘This is not making me feel young, just sad,’ said Mrs Weaver.

  Deirdre was deaf to everything except her own determination to make a difference, almost to the point that it didn’t matter what it was. She needed to be noticed, needed proof that she still had the power to make change, that she was actually still alive.

  ‘Is it true that you are a prostitute?’

  The young woman physically flinched at the shouted accusation, made in front of so many dear friends.

  ‘Come on, girl! Are you or are you not a prostitute?’

  The reply was almost inaudible, yet Julie felt it could be heard throughout the whole world, by the pleasant man in the corner shop, by all her relatives, by her old teachers at school, by her parents.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Hah! Condemned out of her own mouth. And she expects us to let her wander amongst the frail and vulnerable, those too confused to understand the danger they’re in. Well, there comes a point when you have to make a stand and I’m going to protect them even if no one else will.’

  ‘Please don’t send me away. This is the only place where people are kind. It’s the only time when I’m safe. Is it so much to ask?’

  Julie would have begged on her knees if she thought it would have done any good, but Deirdre’s hard expression had changed to one of triumph. She was still able to make a difference.

  ‘You should have thought of these things before entering your chosen profession. No woman these days has to sell her body to survive. We’re not in the Dark Ages. If you
choose this life, then it’s because you want to.’

  What Deirdre didn’t notice was that the more adamant and animated she became, the less support she had around her. Even Mrs MacDonald wanted to distance herself from what had turned into simple cruelty.

  ‘This is disgraceful,’ said Mr Adams, banging his Zimmer on the floor to emphasise the point. ‘Let the girl in.’

  ‘She can come to my room,’ chipped in Mrs Weaver.

  ‘Deirdre!’ said Mrs MacDonald, with a force that took everyone by surprise. ‘You’ve gone too far.’

  Deirdre stared in shock at her friend, but didn’t have time to react to the betrayal because Walter was shouting and thrusting his way into the group.

  ‘What the hell do you lot think you’re doing?’

  ‘Walter!’

  He took Julie in his arms with great tenderness, but his face was blazing with anger.

  ‘Here comes the knight in shining armour,’ said Deirdre, trying to maintain some sort of control and moral high ground. ‘Well, it’s a bit rusted now and you’re too late.’

  ‘They won’t let me in. They’re going to send me away. What will I do?’

  ‘No one is sending you anywhere, you’ll be all right now,’ said Walter kindly, before turning on Deirdre with such ferocity that the entire group stepped back. ‘And you can stick your caustic comments back down your throat before I do it for you.’

  ‘Really! I’m not being spoken to like that. Matron shall hear.’

  ‘She certainly will,’ shouted Walter. ‘Look at you all. Proud, are you, ganging up to frighten a girl who is young enough to be your granddaughter?’

  ‘You should have thought of her age . . .’ Deirdre was desperate to hang on to something, anything.

  ‘Shut up! This girl survives the only way she’s able to. There’s not one of you here that’s faced a fraction of her problems. She’s been let down by everyone who should have cared . . . seen more heartache in her short life than you lot have in four times that length. You complain about your aches and pains. You’ve no bloody idea of the desperation and despair there is amongst young people out on the street. Well, shame on you. Shame on you all.’

  And everyone did feel terribly ashamed. This wasn’t anything to do with the grand ideals that Deirdre had told them about in the meeting the other day.

  ‘Give me space!’

  The new voice belonged to Joyce, who was forcing her way none too politely into the rear of the group. She still had a couple of curlers in her hair and it was obvious that she had rushed there part way through a hairdressing appointment. Deirdre, rather unwisely, made a move to stand in her way.

  ‘If anyone tries to stop me, I’ll flatten them, whoever they are, man or woman!’

  As if to demonstrate her seriousness, Joyce balled her hands into fists, which looked as though they were indeed quite capable of knocking any one of them to the floor. Deirdre decided that preservation was more important than principle and stepped out of the way. Joyce stopped in front of Julie and Walter, immediately eyeing up the situation and making a snap decision.

  ‘Come with me,’ she said. ‘Let her go.’

  ‘But . . .’ said Walter miserably.

  ‘Let her go. Come here. Dry your eyes. We’ll go to my room.’

  Julie looked for guidance to Walter, but even he appeared to hesitate and after a few moments of indecision he removed his arms. She let herself be guided through the crowd and along the corridor, looking like a child next to the much larger woman.

  The group dispersed in silence, a feeling of sadness weighing down heavily on them. Within moments only Walter was left in reception. He was still standing there when Angus came down the stairs towards him.

  ‘Sorry, I had to sit on your bed for a while to get my breath back.’ When he reached his friend, he realised he was crying, a stream of huge tears flowing freely down his face. ‘Whatever has happened?’

  ‘I’ve done a terrible thing, a stupid, terrible thing. I didn’t mean for people to be hurt. Everything’s gone so horribly wrong and it’s all my fault. I’m no better than I was fifty years ago, when I caused so much pain to the people I loved.’

  ‘Hey, this is not like you. Tell me what happened?’

  But Walter couldn’t speak, so Angus made the decision for him.

  ‘Come on. Let’s go for a beer.’

  Twenty Eight

  Joyce closed the door firmly behind her and physically placed the sobbing Julie in an armchair. Then she waddled over to a chest of drawers.

  ‘I’ve only got sherry.’ She poured a generous measure into two glasses, then handed one over before sitting on the bed. ‘Now, drink that. We’ve got some talking to do.’

  ‘You don’t understand . . .’

  ‘Oh, don’t I? Let me tell you something. I’ve been watching you closely over the last few months and in my job I became a very good judge of character. So I’m going to trust you with something I value more than my life.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Joyce, still with two curlers in her hair, drank some of her sherry and went back over to the chest of drawers. Not without a little difficulty, she retrieved an envelope that was hidden under clothing in the bottom drawer. Once sitting back down, she opened the envelope and withdrew two photographs.

  She stared at the image of one, which showed a striking young woman, scantily clad and standing in an alluring pose. With a little sigh, she passed it to Julie, who studied the shot without understanding at first why she had been given it.

  ‘It’s you! But you were stunning.’

  ‘Hard to believe now,’ said Joyce, patting her ample tummy. ‘Did you never consider that women who work the streets are just as likely as the rest of the population to become old, get ill and end up in a care home? There aren’t special places for ex-prostitutes.’

  ‘You were . . .’

  ‘I worked the streets for eight years before going a bit more upmarket with my own flat. Age is a great leveller. Someone who has been a prostitute can end up in a care home along the corridor from the judge who used to condemn her in court decades earlier. Come to think of it, I had quite a few judges to my flat,’ said Joyce with a smile that almost magically transformed her into the familiar character everyone was so fond of. ‘Word must have got around the chambers!’

  ‘I’ve never considered what happens to women afterwards.’

  ‘No one ever does. There’s not exactly a recognised career path. And people like me are hardly likely to advertise what they did for a living when they were younger. I told the others here I was a secretary and I’ve kept everything else fairly vague. But you need to make up some sort of story about your past for residents like Deirdre, otherwise they become too suspicious.’

  ‘Where were you?’

  ‘I went to Manchester. I wasn’t going to work around the area where I grew up. I was always careful, including what I did with the money I made. When I got out of it, I was ok, then when I reached the stage when I couldn’t cope on my own, I stuck a pin in a map of Scotland and here I am.’

  ‘Why Scotland?’

  ‘Ah, I reckoned that there was almost no chance of me meeting an ex-client up here. Now, they wouldn’t recognise me if they did, so I don’t worry any more.’

  ‘I don’t know what to say,’ said Julie. ‘Did you never want to marry?’

  Joyce became reflective and didn’t answer straight away.

  ‘Oh, there was a man. There were always men, of course, but I loved Jimmy. He wasn’t a client. We met one morning at the local corner shop. I’d been up all night and was desperate for something to eat and he was in there buying sausages for his breakfast. Strange how some trivial facts stay in your mind, while important ones are often easily forgotten.’

  They were quiet for a while. Julie had been so stunned by the news that she had stopped crying.

  ‘We can only play the cards we’re dealt in life,’ said Joyce. ‘Some people seem to get a royal flush and other
s, they get the joker. Though that hand rarely makes you laugh.’

  ‘What’s the other one?’ said Julie, indicating the photograph that was still face down on the older woman’s thigh.

  ‘I guess this was my royal flush and joker in one,’ she said, handing it over. Julie studied the image and couldn’t stop tears forming again. ‘He was called George. You never saw such beautiful eyes. He could look right inside you and tell if you loved him or not.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Jimmy knew what I had been, but I left that life behind when we got together and he accepted me for what I was. I fell pregnant amazingly quickly, all things considered. We were so happy together. Then when George was only three months old Jimmy was crushed to death in an accident at work.’

  ‘I’m so sorry.’

  ‘George would be forty-five now. I think about him every day and I always do something special on his birthday, even if it’s just a little trip out. No one here knows or would notice that I always mark the date in some way.’

  ‘You didn’t keep him?’

  ‘No choice, really. He was adopted, all proper and above board. I gave the woman at the agency a photograph of Jimmy and me holding George, along with a letter that explained pretty much everything,’ said Joyce, sighing. ‘Adoption was the best thing for him. What life would he have had with me? Jimmy and I hadn’t even married. We were going to. It broke my heart. I lost the man I loved, my beautiful baby boy and then went back on the game. Jimmy was from Scotland, which was another reason why I stuck my pin in that map . . . perhaps it was the real reason. Here, drink that sherry.’

  Joyce put the photographs back in the drawer and refilled both of their glasses.

  ‘Firstly, there’s one thing you can do for me.’

  ‘Of course. What is it?’

  ‘Sit on the bed so that I can have the chair. It’s moulded to my shape.’ Joyce handed over a glass and settled herself in the armchair. ‘Now, if I’m going to help I need to know your story. Whatever you say will go no further. Not even to Walter.’

  ‘He already knows. He’s been very kind.’

  ‘You’re very fond of each other, aren’t you? You could easily pass as his niece. Take your time,’ she said, when Julie hesitated. ‘Take as long as you want. I’m not going anywhere.’