Casting Off

by P. I. Paris

  ‘I can tell you that as a young man Angus was an extremely accomplished walking stick maker.’

  ‘You’re having me on.’

  ‘I’m not. He made this as a wedding present for me and my Moira. I’ve treasured it ever since, as a sample of craftsmanship and a gift of friendship. I never asked if you continued in later life?’

  ‘Yes, I kept it up until about five years ago. I couldn’t easily get into the woods any more and had lost the strength to do some of the more demanding tasks.’

  ‘I’m impressed,’ said Smiler, which both men took to be quite a compliment.

  ‘I was thinking . . .’

  ‘Always a dangerous sign,’ said Angus, smiling.

  ‘I don’t reckon Hamish really needs the whole of that large shed, not if we showed him how to put away his garden equipment more effectively. At the moment it’s left all over the place.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Well, Smiler was just explaining that his grandfather was a keen maker and left all his tools, but the lad needs someone to show him how to use them.’

  A light came on in Angus’s eyes and suddenly the rings and studs didn’t matter any more. As the three explored the potential of their new venture, a variety of other crafts were being discussed around them. Joan was teaching two girls and a boy how to knit, while in another corner Meg and Peg were showing some of the jewellery they had created.

  However, the passing on of knowledge was not all in the same direction and one youngster, who had brought his laptop, was showing a small group how to access the Internet. People sat around shaking their heads at the vast amount of information so readily available.

  ‘When I was a girl, it used to take me more than half an hour to walk to the nearest library, which was quite small,’ said Mrs Weaver. ‘When I got there, I would have to show my hands to the person behind the counter to prove that they were clean. Then I could spend ages trying to find out what I wanted and quite often I didn’t succeed.’

  Mr Adams gave the name of the vessel he served on whilst in the Royal Navy and a few moments later an image appeared on the screen.

  ‘That’s my ship!’ he said, astonished. ‘I don’t believe it. I haven’t seen a photograph of that in decades. All of mine were lost.’

  The student carried on searching and found several pictures of the crew, which he enlarged so that the old man could see the faces more clearly. After a few moments of studying them he became increasingly animated.

  ‘I remember that sailor! And him. He was a good mate. It’s easy to lose touch as the years go by. That’s me!’ he said, pointing excitedly at a young man.

  ‘You were quite good-looking,’ said Mrs Weaver, leaning forward in her seat next to him.

  ‘You mean I’m not now?’

  ‘I’m sure it’s only that my glasses need a clean,’ she quipped.

  The student promised to print off as many relevant photographs as he could find and bring them back the following week.

  ‘That’s good of you, son. I really appreciate it,’ said Mr Adams, wiping away several tears. ‘Oh, now I’ve gone and got something in my eye.’

  ‘There’s more,’ said the student. ‘Some of the ex-crew have set up a Facebook site. There appears to be eight of them on it.’

  ‘What does that mean?’ asked Mrs Butterworth, who was also in the small group.

  ‘These people are spread around the UK,’ said the teenager, reading the information in front of him. ‘There are two in Scotland. They’re using Facebook to keep in contact with each other. If you want, Mr Adams, I can help you get in touch with some of your old shipmates.’

  This time the ex-sailor couldn’t pretend that he wasn’t crying.

  Fifty One

  The quarterly delivery of incontinence pads was generally an event of biblical proportions. Pads, in every conceivable size for men and women, were available in two-piece, all-in-one and belted options, as well as day and night versions. There was a large variety of pants, some discreet and others less so, offering a multitude of comfort, shape, absorbency, stretch and flexibility. Those with the greatest need could resort to a model that had been nicknamed the ‘super pooper’.

  By the time the two men had completed unloading the van almost half of the reception area was covered in cardboard boxes. Their arrival coincided with the departure of Deirdre, which rather took away any dignity or decorum that she might have wished the occasion to have.

  She had kept her move a secret until the previous week and since then had announced loudly to everyone how her marvellous, caring son, the one no one had ever met, had organised for her to move to a lovely care home much nearer to him in Edinburgh.

  Few believed this was the whole truth, yet they all played along, saying how pleasant it would be to see her family more often. The reality was that she could no longer pay the extra fees and there was a great deal of sympathy for her. People suspected that the alternative would compare poorly against We Care For You and nobody wished such a fate on anyone.

  The stacks of boxes at least made the reception seem less empty when she appeared for her final farewell. Matron was there of course, as well as the Escape Committee. Although now disbanded, the members felt that after everything they had been through they should show solidarity to someone who had, in fairness, played her part. They lined up as if greeting the Queen and Deirdre walked along slowly, trying to maintain the facade, as much for her own benefit as anyone else’s.

  ‘I shall miss you, Meg,’ she said to the first person.

  ‘I’m Peg,’ said the woman.

  ‘Oh well, I’ll miss you both.’

  Dorothy felt the significance of the departure keenly. Her savings were reducing at an alarming rate. In secret she had identified a couple of homes that were less expensive and had decided to contact them in the New Year. She wanted to at least have one more Christmas with her dear friends.

  By the time Deirdre came level with Angus, she seemed on the verge of losing control.

  ‘You take care of yourself,’ she said with tears glistening in her eyes. ‘Don’t let yourself be led astray.’

  She bristled when facing the next person. If everyone was honest, this was the meeting no one wanted to miss.

  ‘We have never got on and it would be more than hypocritical to pretend otherwise,’ said Walter. ‘However, I certainly don’t wish you any harm and hope that you find happiness in your new home. We may not be able to part as friends, but life’s too short for us to part as enemies.’

  With that he gallantly stepped forward and hugged his adversary, patting and rubbing her back quite tenderly when he realised she was now openly crying. It was Julie who had made him think again about the real person behind the stern mask of morality. Walter reckoned if she could forgive, then so could he. When Deirdre pulled back, she briefly laid a hand on his arm. No one had ever witnessed such a gushing display of affection.

  Matron and Mrs MacDonald walked with her to the minibus, which was waiting outside. Hamish would make sure she got on the correct train at the station. A local removal firm was due later that morning to collect the few pieces of furniture and personal items that were stacked neatly in the bedroom.

  The others stood in the doorway, watching the final act of the drama but no longer able to hear what was being said.

  ‘That was unexpectedly moving,’ said Angus.

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Walter.

  ‘Well, many of us have lived together for several years,’ said Dorothy.

  ‘For better or worse,’ said Joan.

  ‘At least she isn’t leaving with Mr Dunn,’ said Walter.

  ‘You would have thought her son could have driven up and taken her back in his car,’ said Joan, a sentiment that was widely felt. ‘It’s a terrible thing to have to leave your home, but to have to travel away by yourself seems unnecessarily cruel.’

  ‘The place won’t be the same without her,’ said Miss Ross.

  ‘Nor will Mrs MacDonald,’ added
Dorothy. ‘She’ll be ever so lost.’

  By late morning the boxes had been moved to the storeroom, the removal van had been and gone and the person from the local supermarket had arrived with the latest batch of flowers, which were distributed to various rooms.

  The care home operated with a firm sense of structure and routine, but within these parameters there was no such a thing as a ‘normal’ day. As Ben and Matron were talking in the corridor, Beatrice, demonstrating an impressive turn of speed, rushed past, pursued by the district nurse, who had unsuccessfully tried to give her an injection. A few moments later a hand appeared from behind Matron and squeezed one of her breasts.

  ‘You know you’re not meant to do that, Mr Forsyth,’ she said without showing any reaction or even turning around. Ben gently removed the offending limb and took the man away to try and find something else to occupy his mind . . . and his hands.

  Most people were involved in activities of one form or another around the building. Joyce was in her bedroom fixing a stocking with a strip of white elastic that was really meant for holding catheter bags in place. She wasn’t the only female in the home to do this, which was easier than using traditional garters.

  As this was the day during which the weekly craft sessions were held, there were a variety of hobbies taking place. In the conservatory Meg and Peg were designing jewellery, Mrs Weaver was making cards and Mrs Butterworth was producing bookmarks. A great deal of what they made was available to purchase in reception and visitors regularly bought items, the money going towards the cost of trips out.

  Angus had persevered with his knitting and under the guidance of Joan and Dorothy had begun to enjoy the pastime. However, many of his creations were still open to interpretation and none had yet found their way anywhere near the ‘for sale’ area.

  Fifty Two

  Matron, rarely surprised by much these days, sat in stunned silence as she listened to the visitor. He was a strikingly handsome man and although he appeared about forty she suspected he could be older. He was certainly very well-dressed and spoken, with a confident, calm manner that would no doubt suit his job, which he had explained was a consultant anaesthetist.

  ‘And you’re staying nearby?’ she said when he had finally told his story.

  ‘I’ve taken a week’s holiday, but would like to spend a few days with my family back in London before beginning work again. Once it starts it’s rather a demanding role.’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure. Goodness. As you can imagine, I’m quite taken aback.’

  ‘I’ve thought a great deal about this. How best to proceed and, indeed, if I should take things any further. However, in the end . . . here I am. Sometimes we have to take risks. I decided to at least speak to you first. She is in good health? You don’t think my presence will be too great a shock?’

  ‘No, no I don’t think that. Well . . . would you please wait here?’

  She left the man and went to find the resident, bringing her back without giving any explanation other than that she had a visitor. After all, it wasn’t her place to say anything. Matron couldn’t even make an introduction. How could she? Instead, she let the woman into the office and quietly closed the door, leaving both to their fate.

  The man was standing and did not speak until Joyce had settled herself into one of the chairs. Only then did he sit down beside her and remove from his jacket pocket a small black and white photograph . . . showing Joyce and Jimmy and a tiny baby.

  ‘Hello. I’m George.’

  Joyce screamed and burst into tears before reaching across and pulling the stranger into her arms. But he wasn’t a stranger. She had carried this person within her, had given birth to him and had cared for him during the first few months of his life. Her heart had been broken when she had given him up so that he could have a better life.

  ‘My baby, my baby,’ she cried, crushing the man’s head against her breasts while rocking backwards and forwards. He let himself be held until she had recovered sufficiently to release him so that she could examine his face and he could breathe. ‘They kept your name. They kept your name.’

  George, now even more appealing because he was a little crumpled, nodded. Having thought so much about what he should say at this moment, he simply sat in silence and smiled, tears rolling gently down his suntanned, finely chiselled face.

  ‘I’ve hoped . . . hoped so much over the years for this to happen, but I never believed it would,’ she said, reaching forward again to hold him. He took a quick breath.

  ‘Are you well?’ asked Joyce when they had pulled apart once more. ‘You’re not ill or anything? That’s not why you’re here?’

  ‘No, nothing like that. I’m sorry I’ve given you such a fright. The adoption agency wanted to write to you first and I know that would have been the proper thing to do . . .’

  ‘No, the proper thing was for you to come and see your mother. There’s so much I want to ask that I don’t know where to start. Why now? What made you find me now? Have you known for a while and didn’t want to come? Were your adopted parents good to you? Were they kind? Did you know you were adopted?’

  ‘I’m staying nearby for the next five days, so we can meet and talk as much as you want during that time.’ He had put the photograph on the desk so that they could hold hands. ‘My parents – I’m sorry, I can’t call them anything else – were extremely good to me. They made sure I had as many opportunities as possible. I’m very close to my three sisters, although now I know we’re not related by blood.’

  ‘Do they know?’

  ‘Only my wife.’

  ‘You’re married?’

  ‘Yes, with two beautiful daughters.’

  ‘I’m a granny!’ said Joyce, starting to cry again.

  ‘I didn’t know I was adopted until my father died a few months ago. My mother . . . sorry.’

  ‘That’s all right, love.’

  ‘She died last year. When we were clearing out the house, I found an envelope addressed to me. Inside was a letter asking for my forgiveness for the fact they had never told me. It also gave as much information as they had, including the details of the agency. When I contacted them, they were able to pass on the envelope you had left. With that and the Internet, I was able to track you down here.’

  Joyce was silent. She took out her handkerchief and blew her nose. He waited for her to respond.

  ‘So, if you have my letter, then you know how I used to earn my living.’ He nodded. ‘It was only fair to explain everything – about your father dying, why I had to give you up, what I did. I felt that if you knew and still wanted to find me one day, well, that was all right. I’ve agonised every single day since if I had been foolish and whether my honesty would kill any hope of you ever wanting to meet.’

  ‘Working at the hospital and in some war zones over the years, I’ve seen the results of wickedness and evil. What you did wasn’t anything like that. You lived as best you could.’

  They fell silent, so much yet to say but so much imparted in those first few minutes that they both needed time to reflect.

  ‘No one here knows what I did,’ she said. ‘Not even Matron, and she’s privy to most secrets.’

  ‘She seems a good person. I explained to her who I was. I didn’t want to give you too much of a shock, if your heart or health wasn’t up to it.’

  ‘She probably told you I needed to lose weight,’ said Joyce, trying to lighten the mood.

  ‘Matron said nothing of the sort. Here,’ he said, taking out another photograph, this one showing his wife and daughters.

  ‘My goodness, they’re a good-looking family,’ she said, studying the image closely. ‘What are their names?’

  ‘I’ll tell you. I’ll explain as much as I can, but perhaps we should give Matron her office back,’ he said.

  ‘Let’s go to my room. That’ll set the tongues wagging!’

  So they walked to her bedroom, the overweight comedian and the handsome consultant, and began to catch up on the previous
forty-five years.

  Fifty Three

  Saturday, 8th October

  Our lives have been thrown into yet more turmoil with the extraordinary news about Joyce’s son. His sudden arrival seems to have affected the entire home, giving people a new sense of hope. Perhaps there are other residents with children they have never seen, abandoned because of circumstances beyond their control. Everyone is pleased for her.

  I feel an unexpected contentment settling upon me and I don’t know if it is somehow because of this event, as if the return of Joyce’s son is a sign that everything will be all right in the end. Although I do not believe in God or even in fate, I increasingly feel that all will be well.

  Fifty Four

  George and Joyce took every chance they had to spend time together. He hired a car and they drove around the Highlands, stopping to admire scenery and enjoy having a coffee or lunch at quiet cafés where they could talk privately.

  It was an extraordinary experience for them both. There was a large period of her life that neither of them wanted to discuss, so he kept his questions focused on the early or later years. She, on the other hand, wanted an almost monthly account since his adoption.

  They agreed that he would use her first name and she was happy with this. The woman who had brought him up seemed to have loved him as her own and Joyce felt only gratitude. Her son had certainly benefitted from far greater opportunities than she could ever have provided. Joyce wasn’t bitter. You can only play the hand you’re dealt.

  ‘You don’t get views like this down south,’ she said.

  They were sitting in the car, which was parked overlooking Loch Shin. It was his last day before returning to London.

  ‘You don’t get the peace either,’ he said.

  ‘I expect not.’

  They were in a reflective mood. During the past few days she had examined hundreds of family photographs on his iPad, had watched numerous video clips of his daughters taken at different ages and had even had a conversation via Skype with his wife, Amy, to whom she warmed immediately. Now Joyce felt saturated with information, emotion and the sheer wonder at the miracle of his arrival.