by P. I. Paris
‘I hope we haven’t done all this for nothing,’ said Joan.
‘It’s all in the Lord’s hands now,’ said Dorothy.
One by one, they resumed their knitting. Joan had progressed to tea cosies, while Miss Ross was working on a baby’s cardigan, not out of any maternal instinct or because she had relatives with new arrivals but rather to enjoy the challenge.
‘I’m going to make this a really large scarf,’ said Dorothy, who constantly swapped between projects, depending upon her mood. ‘My Willie would have liked it. He didn’t have a scrap of fat on him and where we lived was a wild place in the winter. Poor Willie was often frozen stiff.’
The room was suddenly filled with ringing. All three of them cried out in surprise, their needles frozen as though they were delicate ice sculptures, wool part on and part off, a tiny sleeve stopped at the cuff, the row on a tea cosy half completed. The sound seemed to echo until Miss Ross broke the spell they had fallen under.
‘Go on, someone pick it up!’
‘Joan, this was your idea.’
‘It’s your telephone. You’ve got to do it. Just remember the phrases we agreed.’
‘For goodness sake! I’ve not put up cards in every sleazy public house in town for no one to answer when it rings.’
Miss Ross picked up the stopwatch that was on the floor by her chair and held it ready to start when the conversation began. Dorothy looked at the photograph of Willie for guidance, but the image simply smiled back. She put down her knitting, laid the picture frame on its face – the first time she had ever done such a thing – then lifted the receiver. The room was immediately still and tense, like the atmosphere in a wildlife documentary where the stalking lion is on the verge of rushing out to kill its prey.
‘Hello?’
Joan and Miss Ross mouthed the words ‘big boy’ and eventually Dorothy took the hint.
‘Hello . . . big boy.’
The others seemed pleased. Dorothy listened intently, looking with increasing confusion at Tiddles asleep on a cushion by her feet.
‘Just a moment, dear,’ she said, before covering the mouthpiece with her hand. ‘This is rather odd.’
‘Why? What did he say?’ asked Miss Ross.
‘He wants to know if Tiddles is well behaved.’
‘The cat!’
‘Yes.’
‘What exactly did he say?’ asked Joan.
‘He said, did I have a naughty old pussy.’
‘No, he doesn’t mean . . .’
Even though she really did try, Joan couldn’t finish the sentence. Waves of laughter welled up inside her and hovered just below the surface, like an over-full dam where a single extra raindrop will result in disaster. It took every ounce of willpower to stop herself losing control, which would not have helped the situation at all.
‘Speak to him,’ said Miss Ross almost frantically. ‘Say anything. Keep him on the telephone.’
‘Hello, dear, sorry to keep you. Well . . . it does have a tendency to wander. Yesterday Mr Adams found it waiting for him in his bedroom . . . it gave him quite a turn. On the whole it’s well behaved, although there are times when it can be rather naughty. Oh, it’s been known to settle itself in the flowerbed and leave an impression amongst the petunias. You know for ages afterwards where it’s been . . .’
Joan was losing the fight and had stuffed part of a tea cosy into her mouth. Dorothy listened some more, then covered the mouthpiece again.
‘This is not what I expected. He’s ever so interested in the cat. Now he wants to know if it’s friendly. Is Joan all right?’
‘Ignore her. Keep talking to him.’
‘Hello? Yes, I would say that by the end of each day dozens of people will have given it a stroke. Mmm. Yes, we always seem to be busy. There are thirty rooms and it’s very popular with all the staff.’
Dorothy listened some more to the caller, but the raindrop had fallen and the strange wailing noises coming from across the room were a bit distracting.
‘Yes, we have staff. And it’s popular with visitors as well. Sometimes there’s almost a tussle over who gets their hands on it.’ Dorothy looked surprised. ‘Oh, he’s gone. But he thought I was extraordinary. That was nice of him, wasn’t it?’ she said, replacing the receiver.
No one answered. Miss Ross was busy working out figures on a calculator. ‘Well done. We’ve made two pounds and thirty pence.’
‘Really! From that one call? How marvellous. I never thought it would be so easy. Shall I make us all a cup of tea to celebrate? Perhaps it will help Joan. She doesn’t seem to be herself at all.’
Thirty Five
There had been no calls for several days. The three friends began to wonder if all of their efforts were going to be for nothing and their sleepless nights unnecessary. The scheme wasn’t looking positive. It had cost more than a hundred pounds just to get the line installed.
When Miss Ross entered Dorothy’s bedroom to retrieve her knitting, she wasn’t thinking at all about the telephone and so when it unexpectedly rang she couldn’t prevent the cry of alarm that escaped from her lips. This was a scenario she hadn’t considered. Apart from Tiddles on a chair, there was no one else around.
She had been against this entire venture from the start and it was only to help that she had agreed to be involved – but not like this. The other two women were in the lounge, too far to fetch. The ringing continued. Perhaps she should ignore it, collect what she needed and leave. Nobody would know. Maybe it would stop soon and then she wouldn’t have to make a decision.
But it didn’t. Whoever was on the other end was not giving up easily. Miss Ross walked over to the little table and stared. She reached down with her hand, then pulled it back. To lift the receiver would expose her to a sleazy world of perverted desire and lust of which she had no knowledge.
But there was only two pounds thirty pence . . .
‘Hello?’
Her voice sounded unnaturally high and squeaky, almost cracking with tension. She took a big breath. This time it came out surprisingly low.
‘Hello.’
She mouthed the words ‘big boy’ as she had done herself to Dorothy only a few days earlier. But it was no good. She couldn’t utter them.
‘Can I help you?’
‘I expect better than “Can I help you?” How about something a bit more exciting.’
‘Yes . . . well, I suppose . . . big boy.’
‘Is that it? I’m not paying good money just to be called big boy!’
This was too much for Miss Ross.
‘What more do you expect me to say? I have better things to do than stand here and think up rude conversation for your titillation.’
‘Go on, then. Tell me about your tits.’
‘You leave my bust alone, young man. I’ve never heard such a suggestion. If you had been in my class at school, I would have given your backside a skelping you wouldn’t forget in a very long time!’
‘Oh, yes, now you’re starting to earn your money. I could wear my school uniform.’
‘Your school uniform!’
‘I’ll book us a room at the Station Hotel for Friday afternoon, under the name of Fraser.’
‘You can book what you like at the Station Hotel, Mr Fraser, if that’s your name. I can assure you that you’ll be having a very lonely time.’
‘Look, I don’t want sex or anything like that . . . just a spanking. I promise, you can keep all your clothes on, even your coat, if you want. I’ll give you a hundred and fifty pounds.’
The conversation was becoming so surreal that Miss Ross felt quite dizzy. How could she possibly be talking about such a subject to a complete stranger? She had never had any sort of conversation like this with anyone. And he sounded well spoken rather than sleazy, which somehow seemed to make it all the more bizarre. Without realising, she started to pull the string of pearls through her fingers.
‘A hundred and fifty pounds . . . for a spanking?’
‘Do you
have a credit-card machine?’
‘No, I don’t have a credit-card machine.’
‘How about a reduction if I book a session of them?’
‘No, there isn’t a reduction if you book a session of them. There isn’t going to be a session of them, not even a single one of them.’
‘All right, then. I can tell you’re a hard negotiator – two hundred, in cash. You can have the money when you arrive. I can’t say fairer than that.’
‘Two hundred pounds! That’s an absurd amount.’
‘It’ll all be yours, to do whatever you want with. Just for half an hour. I’ll buy you a cream tea afterwards.’
‘A cream tea!’
Miss Ross was so taken aback by what the caller was suggesting that she didn’t know how to react. She wanted to swear at the man, something she had very rarely been known to do (and never really bad words), but she was completely lost for words.
As if taking her silence as agreement, the man continued.
‘Right then, three o’clock on Friday. Don’t be late.’
The line went dead. Miss Ross was so shaken that even though she knew he had gone she started shouting.
‘How dare you! Don’t . . . don’t you ever speak to me like that again, you obnoxious, horrible little man!’
She slammed down the receiver and collapsed in her chair. The hand that was pulling at the pearls was trembling. Tiddles watched intently. Although the cat had little to do with this particular resident, he was always a good listener and, at the time, he was the only one there to confide in.
‘Oh Tiddles, what a dreadful experience. But two hundred pounds . . .’
Thirty Six
Friday, 1st July
Can I do such an unspeakable thing? Will I betray so much of what I hold dear? Never in my life have I faced such a dilemma. The possibility of considering such an act is unthinkable. Yet as I sit here writing this I’m trying to convince myself that the good intention outweighs the hideous act, and the deed can be forgiven because of the reason behind it. Despite all my education and learning, am I simply a fool? I can’t think logically and there is no one to turn to.
Thirty Seven
Father Connelly had proclaimed on more than one occasion that Mrs O’Reilly was the most stubborn person who had ever been a member of his congregation. Almost as if to demonstrate his point, she defied the predictions of her impending demise and made a gradual recovery. As the hot days of summer passed into July, she was back to her usual self, perhaps a little frailer but with a mind and tongue as finely honed as ever.
Her ill health had at least allowed her to avoid having any contact with Mrs Winchester-Fowler, who had managed to irritate everyone several times over. Even Tiddles avoided her, despite the regular announcements that she adored cats and used to own two very expensive Siamese.
People had been astounded at the quantity of elegant clothing squashed into her bedroom and she spent much of each day changing outfits, generally appearing for lunch or in reception for a trip wearing something completely unsuitable. However, the obsession helped to keep her occupied so no one felt inclined to point out that this wasn’t necessary.
She wore a gown more appropriate for an evening dance to attend that morning’s service. The Church of Scotland minister held one at the home on the first Saturday of each month. These were attended by the majority of residents, regardless of individual beliefs, although they also had access to representatives of other denominations who visited from the Free Church of Scotland, the Scottish Episcopal Church and the Baptist Church.
Walter didn’t go to the service. He had distanced himself from religion since Moira died and, anyway, his daughter and granddaughters were coming after lunch so that was the main priority for him that day.
Heather and Penny, at thirteen and fourteen, were turning into very attractive young women, but they still had frequent displays of utter childishness that he found both delightful and worrying. Walter had secretly arranged for Dorothy to take them outside and so after everyone had had their hugs and kisses his accomplice happened to pass by and innocently ask if they might like to see the garden.
‘You’re looking well, Dad,’ said Becky, once the two of them had found a quiet spot in the conservatory.
‘I feel well,’ he said. ‘The girls are growing up. I can see a difference even from the last time they were here.’
‘All too fast. I can hardly keep up with them. John sends his regards and apologies for not being able to come.’
His son-in-law was a decent man, although the extremely long hours he worked running a small accountancy business meant that he wasn’t as involved with his family as he should be.
‘I’m glad we’ve got this opportunity to speak alone,’ said Walter. ‘I wanted to talk to you about a decision I’ve made.’
‘What’s that, Dad?’
‘I’m going to leave We Care For You.’
* * *
Later on, when Dorothy was bringing the girls back inside, they encountered Mrs Winchester-Fowler stroking something that Ben was holding and initially assumed it was one of the pets.
‘This is such a lovely cat,’ she said, upon seeing them approaching. ‘He’s so friendly, aren’t you, my beauty? Yes, just like my Siamese.’
The carer appeared as though he didn’t know whether to be slightly sheepish or amused.
‘Tiddles has been rather reluctant to meet, so I thought I would bring him along,’ he said with a wink, before looking down at the wig that was folded over his arm. It was one of Beatrice’s spares.
‘He is very friendly,’ said Dorothy, reaching over and patting the brown hair.
It was too much for Heather and Penny. The mature, sophisticated impression they had tried so hard to convey for the last half an hour was gone in an instant as they held onto each other, utterly helpless. They were still unable to talk sensibly when they finally caught up with their mother and grandfather and sat on the settee like two miniature versions of the laughing policeman at the fair.
Dorothy explained the circumstances. Walter smiled fondly, yet he couldn’t help thinking how vulnerable they both looked in their make-up and adult clothes. It made him all the more determined to put his plan into action.
* * *
The next week was set to be even busier than usual and as Matron sat in her office that Monday she accepted this was largely her own fault. A few months earlier she had suggested that each resident create a bucket list and from this highlight the two or three things they would most like to do. There was no need to add ‘before you die’ and it was also obvious that any suggestions had to be realistic. No one was about to start climbing Munros.
Some of the activities had been so fairly ordinary that Matron couldn’t help wondering why people simply hadn’t done these things years ago, when they were fitter. Perhaps age and impending death gave a freedom and a permission to be honest in a way that wasn’t possible before.
Sociologists refer to people born between 1925 and 1945 as the Silent Generation, categorised usually by their respect for law and order, alongside a willingness to work hard, conform, accept sacrifice and be patient. Maybe the latter became a bit harder when there was so little time left.
Making scented candles, going to watch a ballet, getting a tattoo and driving a fire engine (in reality, Stella only sat in the driver’s seat and sounded the horn) had been relatively straightforward to organise.
Meg and Peg had both wanted to be bridesmaids, something they had never done, and an editorial piece in the local newspaper had resulted in a couple about to be married offering for the elderly women to be theirs. A minibus full of residents had gone to the church and the two women had played their part tremendously, the event attracting quite a lot of media attention.
That coming Wednesday Mrs O’Reilly was going to be taken to the public swimming pool, where they had a hot tub, an experience she wished to try, while Joyce had said she would like to learn to swim. Today a group of them w
ere going to a nearby farm. Two residents had included this on their list and someone else had said they wanted to ride a horse, so fifteen were scheduled to go as a special trip.
The health-and-safety issues had been a nightmare. Matron, sitting in her usual short-sleeved top, was checking through an email relating to this when Mrs Winchester-Fowler stormed in.
‘You hussy!’ she shouted, pointing at the bare arms. ‘All you do is sit watching television. It’s not fair.’ Before being able to prevent her, she quickly stooped down and unplugged the computer. ‘There. Now you can get off your backside and do some work!’
* * *
Miss Ross sat in her bedroom that evening, having told the others that she had some correspondence to reply to. This was true, although the real reason was that she needed to be alone. The conversation with the caller who’d asked for a spanking hadn’t been far from her mind over the past few days and she had been in a state of terrible apprehension ever since. She sat at her writing desk, nervously fingering the string of pearls.
The excited chatter at every table over supper had been about the entertaining visit to the farm, but she had listened without any enthusiasm, forcing a smile or nod now and again merely to appear as if interested. Being unable to decide about something was a feeling Miss Ross hated and she went to bed knowing that she would have another poor night’s sleep and wake up in the same troubled frame of mind.
There were no outings on the Tuesday, but the place was soon bustling nonetheless. At nine o’clock the hairdresser set herself up in the tiny salon, which had been designed to convey a different atmosphere to the rest of the building. There was even a pile of magazines for ‘customers’ to read while waiting.
She came two mornings a week and in this small room would cut, wash, shampoo and set, blow dry and perm. Two women had their hair dyed, including Joan, who remained a bright blonde. All of the men got their hair cut in the salon except Walter, who preferred to walk to the men’s barbers in town.
By coffee time, the chiropodist and optician were working their way through that day’s list, while the library van and district nurse had been and gone. The local GP was seeing to Mr Adams, who had tripped coming out of the dining room and hurt his leg. Falling was the biggest cause of injury amongst the residents; despite the best efforts of the staff, sometimes these things just happened.
