by P. I. Paris
Despite these many trials and hurdles, Matron moved around the building conveying a sense of unflappable calm and professionalism that was guaranteed to restore peace in situations of conflict and find solutions to impossible problems. However, even her heart sank a little when the new resident arrived.
It was obvious that Mrs Winchester-Fowler suffered from quite severe dementia and they had been assured this was only a mild condition which would not require any special or extra care. There was a growing trend for those going into homes to be much frailer and in need of help than years ago.
The one bright thing that day was the sun, so after lunch fourteen residents were loaded into the minibus and taken to the beach, a trip that was only possible because several friends of We Care For You came along to help. From the level of excitement, singing and general noise during the short journey, outsiders could easily have thought they were off on a week’s holiday.
A message had already been sent to the man who hired the deckchairs and these were waiting for them when they arrived. Most were used only to deposit items of clothing, as the lure of the sea was like the sound of Sirens, threatening to infect them with a spell of madness.
‘Let’s go!’ cried Mr Adams, who was in a wheelchair, a Zimmer across his lap. ‘Don’t let them win.’
This last comment, directed to Hamish behind him, was in response to the more mobile folk who were already walking away from them. The handyman’s solid muscles were put to the test across such a soft surface, but he soon began to catch the slow-moving group.
‘Hey, look at this,’ said Joan, spotting the approaching pair. ‘I’m not being beaten by some old sod in a wheelchair.’ With that she increased her pace to as brisk a walk as she could manage and was instantly followed by Meg and Peg.
‘Angus, we can’t be left behind by a bunch of women!’ said Walter.
Then the Sirens sang again and suddenly people who had difficulty getting out of an armchair were charging ahead as fast as their limbs would let them. Cries of ‘Dirty foul!’ from those who were hindered, or ‘Get off!’ from those held back by someone grabbing their clothes, were joined by an almost hysterical Mr Adams shouting, ‘Faster! Faster!’
‘The winners!’ declared Hamish, as he stopped the wheelchair at the water’s edge.
Moments later several others arrived beside them, more out of breath because of laughing than exertion.
‘What age are they?’ said Miss Ross, who had declined to join in the race and was following with Dorothy at a sedate pace.
‘Well, you do have to wonder at times.’
They stopped when they reached a large figure, lying prostrate on the sand.
‘Are you all right down there?’ asked Miss Ross.
Joyce looked up at them, tears streaming down her face, too overcome by a fit of giggles to reply.
‘We’ll ask Hamish to stop by, dear,’ said Dorothy before moving on.
Ten minutes later everyone had their shoes off and their trousers rolled up. Even Mr Adams was in the sea, hanging on to his Zimmer and calling out in delight every time the water rose up his legs. The coolness around them disguised the fact that the heat was fierce and Anna ran around with sun cream, trying to smear it on exposed areas of flesh.
When the novelty wore off, people gradually made their way to the deckchairs. Eventually they all ended up back there, eating ice creams, putting the world to right and having one of the best days out they could remember.
By the evening almost all of them had sunburn and the carers were kept busy going around rubbing moisturiser onto noses, heads, necks and arms. Their feelings of joy were tempered by the news that Mrs O’Reilly had become worse during the day and the outlook seemed bleak.
Having examined her that morning, the doctor had told Matron that the resident was very ill. However, Mrs O’Reilly had made it clear from the beginning that she didn’t want to be taken to hospital or resuscitated, if that situation ever arose.
‘It’s so much easier if we know the patient’s wishes on these matters,’ said the doctor, once he was in the privacy of the office. ‘If there are no instructions, then we have to presume a person wants us to try every option possible to keep them alive, when often . . .’ He shrugged his shoulders.
‘Often the kindest thing is to make sure they’re comfortable and let nature take its course,’ said Matron, whose experiences had left her with some strong feelings on the matter. ‘It would help us if more doctors took the bull by the horns and actually asked the patient what they want, instead of ducking the issue because it’s difficult.’
‘We’re all human. The reality is it’s a lot simpler not to enquire.’
The doctor was a regular visitor and one that Matron liked and respected. He said not to hesitate to get in touch, if necessary. She thanked him and then contacted the priest, who said he would call that evening.
* * *
‘How are you feeling, Mrs O’Reilly?’ said Father Connelly, having taken off his coat and made his way to the bed.
‘I’m not too good, Father. I don’t think a half bottle of gin will help this time.’
‘I’m still trying to forget that particular visit. I didn’t feel right for several days.’
‘I was grand by the next morning. I even won the Easter bonnet competition.’
‘Well done, you. I wouldn’t have had a chance of winning anything.’
‘Not bad for someone who was dying the night before, eh?’
‘I would never doubt your determination, although sometimes I suspect it’s just plain stubbornness.’
She laughed but immediately started coughing. He picked up the beaker on the nearby table, tenderly lifted her head and helped her to drink a little water. Her skin felt hot and she looked feverish even to his untrained eye. There was so little fat on her that the cat he had passed downstairs looked as though it weighed more.
‘Thank you, Father,’ she said, once he had laid her back down. ‘Would you anoint me again?’
‘God doesn’t require it, Mrs O’Reilly. But if you want me to I will gladly do so, if it helps to give you peace of mind.’
Thirty Three
Joan sighed. No matter how many versions she produced – hens, pigs, dogs, a clown (this came out rather sinister, so wasn’t repeated), a jester – she was heartily sick of knitting egg cosies. However, the local charity shop, to which almost all of the items were given, was adamant that they sold really well. ‘Small, low-cost gifts are very popular,’ the grateful volunteer had stressed.
Dorothy, sitting opposite in the armchair by her bed, was working on a jumper for Angus. She simply couldn’t bear to see him going around in such an ill-fitting garment and had refused to take ‘no’ for an answer when she had asked to take his measurements the previous week. Tiddles was keeping his head down, having learnt that it could be a dangerous thing to look up while the needles were clicking.
‘I’m sure you could make something else, you know, dear, if you’re really bored with them.’
Dorothy hadn’t looked up or slowed down. She had knitted for so long that the act appeared as automatic as breathing and it was only with the most complex patterns that she could visibly be seen to concentrate on the task.
Before Joan could answer, the door opened and a figure entered, dressed as though impersonating a spy from a badly made 1960s television drama. The large dark glasses, tightly pulled down hat, long raincoat and gloves looked completely out of place in the hot weather. Even Dorothy stopped what she was doing at the unusual sight, while Tiddles gave a tiny meow of fright.
‘I take it that’s you under there,’ said Joan.
‘I’ve never been so embarrassed in all my years!’ said the figure, closing the door and taking off her hat and glasses.
‘Whatever happened, dear?’
‘Nigel Ridley! That’s what happened. I used to teach English to the man behind the counter. I knew he never paid attention in class.’
Almost hesitantly, Miss Ros
s unbuttoned her coat and took out the magazine hidden underneath. It was wrapped in a grey plastic cover. There was a clear strip at the top to display the title, but otherwise everything was hidden to protect innocent shoppers from unintentionally stumbling upon bits of naked flesh while browsing the gardening or cooking titles.
Holding it away from her body as if it was a bowel screening sample for an elephant, she laid the magazine on the small table next to Joan’s chair.
‘That’s awful,’ said Dorothy, full of sympathy. ‘Did he recognise you?’
‘He gave me a very strange leer.’
‘But you got a magazine,’ said Joan.
‘I still can’t believe I’ve done such a thing.’
‘Desperate times,’ said Joan.
Having rid herself of the item, Miss Ross removed her gloves and hung up her coat by the door. She let out a small moan while sitting in her chair, as though no longer able to contain her agitation. All three of them stared at the recently purchased item.
Miss Ross eventually broke the silence.
‘It needs to be opened.’
Joan picked up the magazine and ripped off the plastic to reveal a close-up photograph of a naked young woman.
‘Oh dear,’ said Dorothy, putting a hand over the cat’s eyes, feeling instinctively that Tiddles – or her, for that matter – should not be subjected to such images. ‘If you don’t mind, I’ll let you two look through it and read out any suggestions. It’s not the sort of thing my Willie would have liked me to see.’
With that she resumed her knitting and the cat buried his head. Miss Ross sat further back in her chair, as if the extra distance would somehow make anything she was about to experience a bit less traumatic. Joan flicked through a few pages.
‘If I had known that Mr Jackson was looking at this sort of thing at school, I would have skelped his backside, janitor or not.’
‘Mmm, he might have liked that,’ said Joan, appearing not to be bothered by the intimate body parts flashing before her eyes.
‘They’re so young,’ said Miss Ross. ‘Why do they let themselves be photographed like that?’
‘I guess for the money, maybe the fame,’ suggested Joan.
‘We need the advertisements,’ said Miss Ross, waving a finger at the magazine to indicate her friend should get on with the business in hand.
Joan turned to the back and the two of them were silent, Miss Ross’s face looking increasingly disgusted. Eventually Joan read out the heading above an advert showing the image of an elderly woman lying on a settee proudly displaying her private parts.
‘Granny Fanny.’
The stillness that followed the comment felt almost physical, until a small voice piped up.
‘That’s not a name you hear these days.’
The two women slowly turned their heads to stare, not quite believing what they had heard. Even the cat risked looking. Dorothy carried on, engrossed in her knitting and quite oblivious to their gaze.
‘When I was at school, we had two Fannys.’
Joan mouthed the words ‘Please God no’, but her friend carried on unaware of the silent prayer.
‘The odd thing was that although they weren’t related, they both had bright ginger hair. If we ever talked about one, we would refer to them as little ginger Fanny . . . and big ginger Fanny.’
Tiddles rested his head again and laid a paw over the top. As if in sympathy, Joan laid the magazine on her lap and put her head in her hands.
‘If only there were more people like you in the world,’ said Miss Ross.
Dorothy, missing Joan’s desperate attempt at regaining control, smiled at what she took to be a compliment. Her friend picked up a notepad and pen and elbowed Joan, who finally retrieved the magazine again and read out some more adverts, although with difficulty.
‘Older ladies know how to handle a hard . . .’
‘Yes! Thank you, I can read it,’ said Miss Ross. ‘Fat, fifty and filthy.’
‘Almost a limerick,’ said Joan.
‘Do men really want this sort of thing?’
‘Mature X-rated lady.’
‘I can’t argue that she’s mature, but I doubt very much that she’s a lady.’
‘Big and Bouncy.’
‘Listen to Granny Moan,’ said Miss Ross, giving a groan herself at such an unwholesome situation.
For the next twenty minutes, the two women immersed themselves in the magazine, writing potential text for the advert, crossing it out, turning to new pages, pulling faces and going through the whole process again. Finally, they came to an agreement.
‘That was the most unpleasant experience I have ever known,’ said Miss Ross.
‘Have you come up with something?’ said Dorothy, putting down her knitting.
‘Mature granny, waiting for your call,’ said Miss Ross, reading from her notepad.
‘Oh?’
‘I simply couldn’t bear to write anything worse.’
‘So,’ said Dorothy, ‘if someone rings, what do we say to them?’
‘I won’t be saying anything, but you two need to decide how to start off the conversation. Joan?’
‘Why are you asking me?’
‘For some bizarre reason, I have a feeling you might have more idea,’ she replied, pulling the magazine out of the other woman’s hands and putting it forcibly on the table.
‘I don’t know. We probably have to say something about their willy.’
‘Oh dear,’ said Dorothy.
‘Well, it’s bound to come up at some point in the conversation . . . if you see what I mean.’
Though she tried to control it, Joan started to laugh again, not having completely got over Dorothy talking about Fannys. She wondered if she ever would.
‘You need to practise your opening lines,’ said Miss Ross, thinking that she was forever going to sound like a headmistress, no matter where she was.
‘We don’t even have a telephone,’ pointed out Dorothy.
‘Well, we’ll have to improvise,’ said Miss Ross, looking around the room. Her eye came to rest on a nearby bowl. She pointed, wagging her finger until Joan got the message and passed over a banana.
‘There you are – your telephone,’ said Miss Ross.
Dorothy looked suspiciously at the banana before laying it gently on her thigh near to the cat’s head. Tiddles lifted his paw to examine this new object, although quickly lost interest.
‘What do I say?’
‘How about calling them big boy? They always like that sort of thing,’ suggested Joan.
‘Right. Don’t hold back.’
Dorothy sat looking at the yellow fruit, its curve fitting neatly around her leg, but didn’t speak. Joan tried to encourage her.
‘If you don’t practise, then you’ll be terribly tongue-tied when it happens for real.’
‘I was waiting for it to ring.’
Joan felt another loss of control coming on, while Miss Ross, still recovering from the distasteful experience of having to buy the magazine, was becoming increasingly exasperated.
‘Oh, for goodness sake! Ring-ring. Ring-ring.’
Dorothy slowly lifted the banana and put it to her ear.
‘Hello, dear . . .’
‘You can’t say “hello dear” like that,’ said Miss Ross.
Dorothy put her hand over the end, as if it was a real telephone.
‘But that’s what I would say,’ she whispered.
‘You have to talk in a way that pleases the caller,’ said Joan, trying to explain the point of the exercise. ‘They might want to speak to a mature woman but they don’t actually want to feel that they’re talking to their granny.’
‘I don’t understand,’ said Dorothy, shaking her head and putting the banana back down on her leg, as if she was replacing a receiver. ‘I’m never going to be able to do this.’
‘Here, give me the phone,’ said Joan, now so enthusiastic that it had become real in her mind as well.
After a mome
nt’s hesitation Dorothy handed the banana to Miss Ross, who passed it on to Joan, the latter laying it gently on her thigh. They all sat in silence until Miss Ross, suddenly realising the reason for the delay, cried out in despair. ‘God give me strength! Ring-ring. Ring-ring.’
Joan lifted the banana to her ear before speaking in a breathy, sexy voice that stunned the other two women.
‘Hello . . . big boy. I’ve been so lonely waiting to hear your deep, masculine tones caressing me from a distance. I hope you’re going to make me feel . . . less lonely. I bet you’re really good at making women feel better.’
The demonstration over, she held the banana away from her head and with a triumphant expression waited for her friends to say something. Tiddles, who had grown used to a gentile, refined lifestyle amongst the elderly residents, jumped onto the floor and hid under the bed.
‘Are you sure you haven’t done this before?’ said Miss Ross.
‘Here, you’ve got to try.’
The ‘telephone’ was passed along, Miss Ross holding it out to the reluctant recipient.
‘It’s for you.’
Dorothy looked at the photograph of Willie as though seeking forgiveness for what she was about to do and put the banana to her ear.
‘Hello . . . big boy. It’s . . . Delilah here. So, tell me . . . tell me . . . how is the weather where you are, dear?’
Thirty Four
Joan, Miss Ross and Dorothy had been sitting in silence in the latter’s bedroom for the last ten minutes, staring at the shiny new telephone which had been placed on a small table positioned within reach of the three chairs.
‘It hasn’t rung,’ said Dorothy.
‘It only went live this morning,’ pointed out Miss Ross. ‘I suppose we’ll just have to wait for the right person, or rather the wrong sort, to see one of the adverts.’
