There’s no good time to pull people away from the TV, though. Between Loose Women, Judge Rinder, Escape to the Country, Antiques Road Trip and Come Dine With Me, plus all the evening programming, someone is going to whinge. As it is, there’s a running battle over whether to watch Countdown or Judge Rinder.
But this is important, so everyone is rounded up into the huge living room. If a stranger were to look at our residents, they’d probably see a relatively homogeneous group of seventy- and eighty-somethings – mostly grey and mostly wrinkled. So far, so mundane. But they couldn’t be more wrong. These women are anything but boring.
You might mistake Dot, with her apple-green reading glasses on a delicate gold chain around her neck and her habit of wearing forties-style day dresses with sturdy shoes, for just a mild-mannered English literature teacher. They’d never think that she’d been with the protesters flour-bombing the Miss World contest in Royal Albert Hall or had chained herself to Downing Street’s railings during the Vietnam protests. Beneath that genteel veneer of old lady sweetness beats the heart of a revolutionary.
Every single woman here has a story. Some are personal triumphs and battles. Others touch history. From Christine, who’s been through about half a dozen different kinds of cancer and beat them all, to Judy, our reigning Scrabble champion, who took her driving test seventeen times. Not seven. Seventeen. She never did pass, but you’ve got to admire that kind of determination, and wonder why someone who can come up with seven-letter triple-word scores isn’t able to parallel park.
There’s Maureen, who’s been to circus school, and sisters Ruth and Shirley, who married brothers and spent most of their lives in Uganda. Sue was a hospice nurse during the worst of the AIDS crisis in the eighties, and Ann-Marie is a qualified plumber, which comes in handy because our pipes aren’t what they should be. And Rosemary had nine children. Nine! That should qualify her for some kind of medal for valour.
Most of these women aren’t a big part of this story, but make no mistake: in real life, they’re far from invisible old people. They’re the people that surround me every day, and because of them, I can’t imagine a better job.
I’ve even convinced Maggie to come downstairs. She’s sulking off to the side in one of the wing-backed reading chairs. It’s one of the grey ones, so aside from her aqua and black long silk cardigan, she blends almost perfectly into the furniture.
We keep all the chairs and love seats clustered in little groups around the antique coffee tables. That way, nobody has to sit on their own. But Maggie took one look at our thoughtful configuration and dragged her chair to the wall. She’s sitting ramrod-straight in it, coolly appraising the other women.
Naturally, they’re curious about her. Aside from these sporadic enforced meetings, sightings are as rare as those of Bigfoot. Clearly that’s the way Maggie likes it.
But I’m not afraid of her.
All right, I’m a bit afraid of her, but June needs everyone to be as amenable as possible when we break the news, so I pull a chair up close to Maggie’s. Her look of disdain nearly makes me back up. ‘Isn’t the sun lovely in here?’ She can’t object to a weather chat. It has been greasing the wheels of awkward social interaction since the dawn of time.
‘I don’t know how anyone can watch the TV with all that light,’ she says, shooting a dirty look at the French doors that run all along one wall. ‘Those curtains need to be drawn to see anything.’
‘Well, the TV’s not on now.’
‘Yes, thank you, that’s obvious.’
I will not run away. I will not. ‘Do you have any programmes you like to watch?’
‘No.’
‘I like those mystery dramas, especially the foreign ones. Did you watch The Killing? No, no, you said you don’t… I like Jamie Oliver’s shows. And Bake Off, and I used to like MasterChef, but I’ve gone off it recently. The professional one is okay, I guess, if there’s nothing else on.’
She’s just looking at me. Possibly praying to make me stop rambling.
‘I didn’t know that you’re a doctor,’ I say. Now I’m grasping at straws.
‘I’m not.’
‘Oh. But I thought June said you were.’
Maggie narrows her eyes. Anxiously, I wonder if June has broken some patient confidentiality rule. ‘I am not anymore.’
I can’t control my gasp. ‘Did you lose your license?’ This is way more interesting than talking about the weather or what’s on TV.
Now it’s her turn to look appalled. ‘Certainly not! Now, if you don’t mind.’
How I’d love to shut people down like Maggie does. What a valuable life skill. Every time she does it, I feel like putting on a coat against the cold.
‘Right, so,’ June says, causing a few of the others to shush each other. Without naming names, let’s just say a certain legwarmer-wearing resident likes to think she’s boss, and others do follow her lead. ‘We’re going to have a new resident.’
But when polite cheers go up at this news, June shoots me a look. That was the wrong way to start. Now the women are only going to be doubly disappointed when they hear who their new housemate will be.
‘It’s always nice to have someone new joining us,’ June soldiers bravely on. ‘In this case, it’s a person you already know.’
Nick nods encouragingly, but when she hesitates, he says, ‘It’s Terence. I’m sorry, but it is.’
I’m not surprised when a chorus of ‘What?!’ and ‘It can’t be’ and ‘Not him!’ goes up across the room. In other words, exactly the reaction we had ourselves, and we’re not even the ones who’ll have to live with him.
Maggie rises from her chair like she’s going to say something. This is so rare that everyone settles down. But then she turns towards the door. ‘Maggie?’ I say.
‘Is that all the news, or is there more?’ she says.
‘Well, that’s all the news. Don’t you want to talk about it?’
‘I don’t see why. It sounds like a fait accompli, and I don’t see how it will affect me anyway. I won’t have to mix with him.’
She likes to use that word against us. It’s punishment for daring to use it when we suggested that she might like to come down from her room occasionally to be social. You can imagine the reaction.
‘Well, I want to talk about this,’ Dot nearly shouts. That surprises everyone. ‘I don’t want him in this house!’
‘You talk like he’s a dog who’s out in the rain,’ Nick points out as Maggie leaves. That woman is impossible to reach.
‘I’d rather have a wet dog in here,’ she says. ‘And I’m allergic to dogs. That’s how much I don’t want him here.’
‘But why does he have to live here?’ Sophie asks, her owly eyes going even wider. ‘Why can’t he stay in his cottage? That’s bad enough. Tell them, Laney.’
Laney looks startled. ‘Oh, yes, of course. Tell them what?’
‘You’ve had more trouble with Terence than most,’ Sophie prompts. ‘Tell them you don’t want him living here.’
‘Well, he lives here already,’ she says. When she sees our confusion she says, ‘I mean he lives at the back.’
‘But he’s going to live in the house,’ Dot says.
‘Is he?’
Dot pats Laney’s arm.
June explains that Terence needs full-time watching. Well, anyone can see that he shouldn’t be left on his own to get up to no good. She deftly answers why he can’t go somewhere else, which the women must understand. They’re all on fixed incomes too. They know what a good deal this place is compared to other care homes.
But that’s not to say they’re happy to welcome Terence under their roof.
‘What about the loos?’ Dot puts her glasses on, which is just for effect because they’re reading glasses. ‘He can’t use the loos down here. He’ll have to go in his own room.’
‘He never will!’ Sophie says. ‘Terence wees in the bushes. He might not even bother to go outside now. Has anyone been in his cottage? Does i
t smell of wee in there?’
Nick waves away her question. ‘I’ve been in there and no, it doesn’t. Really, ladies, I don’t think he’ll cause much trouble. We’re on hand to make sure he doesn’t, and the carers will be here too.’
Dot makes an aha point with her finger. ‘Yes, well, what about them? They can barely keep up with everyone now. They’re supposed to take him on as well?’
But Max has already thought about that. He’s finally hiring the extra carer that June has been asking for. It’s the least he can do after sticking us with Terence.
‘Couldn’t you just give him a chance?’ Nick asks. ‘He’s got nowhere else to go, and maybe it won't be so bad. He's only one person. How much harm can he do?’
Dot whips off her glasses with tears in her eyes. ‘I’ll tell you how much harm. He can ruin a person’s life. Ruin it! I will not have anything to do with that bastard.’ With that she storms off towards her bedroom.
The others take the news pretty well compared to Dot, and there should be a few things we can do to pretend this whole thing isn’t happening. He’ll have his own table in the dining room so that nobody has to sit with him, unless they want to, and we’ll try to restrict him to his own en-suite loo. We quickly finish the meeting so the women can catch the end of Escape to the Country. That should cheer them up a bit, at least.
‘Maureen, could I have a quick word outside?’ June says as the TV goes back on.
Of course. Maureen is in Terence’s old room. I just hope she takes her move better than Dot is taking Terence’s arrival. I can understand everyone’s strong feelings about it, but this is really upsetting her. Dot is no man-hater. She’s always been very friendly with Nick, and Davey, and even Max, who doesn’t really deserve it. I wouldn’t expect her to be so rude about Terence. Though he completely deserves it.
Later, June, Nick and I are in the office. It’s the end of the day and I’ve got my clogs up on the spare desk that Nick is leaning against. June is chipping away at her email mountain with a cold cup of tea at her elbow.
This has been a long day, but next week will be even worse when Terence arrives.
‘At least Maureen was okay about moving rooms,’ June says.
‘Well, she would be,’ says Nick. ‘She’s used to juggling.’ He waits for us to get it. ‘She went to circus school? Juggling...? Sorry, I’ll get my coat.’ Then he says to June, ‘I hope you didn’t mind me jumping in, but I thought that if they were going to shoot the messenger then it might as well be me.’
June smiles her thanks. We all know he’s the women’s favourite. They’ll even let him talk about their diet and fitness, which can be a sensitive subject at any age. He does it with such smiley friendliness that it hardly seems like criticism. If the women were going to spare anyone, it would be him. ‘I think we all got hit with shrapnel, though,’ June says. ‘And what about Maggie? Talk about someone who can kill with a look. I wouldn’t mind not having to deal with her anymore.’
‘Do you know she denied being a doctor when I mentioned it?’ I say. ‘She definitely is though, right? You told me. Why would she say she wasn’t?’
‘She definitely is,’ June confirms. ‘She’s a PhD. It says she’s a doctor on all of her forms. Maybe she thought you meant a regular doctor who can write prescriptions and do exams. I can’t see her doing that. She’d never willingly touch anyone.’
I don’t mention that I accused Maggie of losing her license. ‘Maybe. It’s weird, though, don’t you think? I’d be proud to be a doctor. I’d want everyone to know. In fact, I’d make you all call me Doctor.’
‘Even me?’ June asks.
‘All the time.’
‘Hmph.’
Chapter 7
Today is D-Day. Or maybe it’s T-Day. Whatever you want to call it, it’s the day that Terence comes to live with us. The mood in the house is jumpy and watchful, as if a thunderstorm is about to start outside.
But the storm won’t be outside, and the women are preparing. They’re curious, naturally. Everyone enjoys a little titillation, and Terence is sure to give us that. I just hope he doesn’t completely alienate everyone the second he arrives.
Dot is still especially surly about her new housemate. And this is the woman who says things like ‘Turn that frown upside down’ every time one of us has a bad day. I don’t get it. She spent decades teaching at an all-boys school. If anyone should be used to their nonsense and their clumsy social interactions and more-than-occasional pong, it’s her. She’s acting like Hitler is about to goosestep in with his suitcases.
I’m starting to think she knows something the rest of us don’t. After all, she was Mrs Greene’s best friend from childhood. And Mrs Greene was married to Terence and they probably all had dinner together, and maybe holidays. But Dot’s not telling me anything. She hasn’t even come out of her room yet today.
Nick went up to try to talk her out. I would have thought that bloke could have cajoled an agoraphobic to leave the house. But he can’t budge Dot. ‘She hates him for some reason,’ he tells me as we lean against the stainless-steel worktop in the kitchen, sharing our usual morning tea. It’s a habit we got into not long after he started. There’s a kettle and teabags and instant coffee in the corner of the dining room for the residents, but Nick came into my kitchen for a cuppa that first week, and it has been his unofficial break room ever since.
Even though he does most of his work in the dining room right beside my kitchen, his schedule is pretty hectic during the day, so I don’t see him much. Max gets his money’s worth out of him, between his occupational therapy sessions for Dot and a few of the other women who either need rehab after an injury or, like Maureen, are struggling with arthritis.
He’s got an entire programme to help keep our residents nimble. There’s a kind of hand-held obstacle course on trestle tables running along one side of the dining room, with loads of jars on one end for the women to open and close, and different-coloured balloons filled with rice, flour and dried beans for squeezing. There’s a big bucket full of rice to dig around in too, which does wonders for wrists and fingers. If I didn’t already knead dozens of loaves every week, I’d use it too.
There are picture cards with designs for coloured blocks that they replicate as quickly as they can, and writing paper, pens and a few poetry books to copy out text if they want to keep their penmanship up to scratch. It all helps to keep their hands mobile.
While lots of older people can’t open a bottle of ketchup, our residents could probably rock-climb if they wanted to.
Some of the women come into the kitchen too, if they’re interested in helping. Many of them like to cook. Even if it’s just mashing the potatoes or doing some of the chopping, they enjoy it and I’m always grateful for the prep cooks.
Same thing with the garden. Anyone who fancies it can give Nick a hand with the planting and weeding, which, aside from being good fun, improves their strength and flexibility.
It’s not all about rehab and therapy around here, though. We used to have an activities person for all the crafty stuff, but Max cut her job not long after I arrived. Now the women themselves run all the activities.
The crafts cabinet is stuffed with a rainbow of yarn balls and threads, knitting needles, crochet hooks and needlepoint hoops. That’s the home turf of our resident sisters, Ruth and Shirley. Those two could knit a cover for the Houses of Parliament, and they love showing everyone else how to do it.
Plus, there are the usual paints and sketching materials that mother-of-nine Rosemary hauls out to nurture her inner Monet in the garden. And I’ve already mentioned Judy’s Scrabble title, so it’ll be no surprise that she and Nick run all the games together.
‘What are you making?’ Nick asks me between sips of tea from his favourite mug. It’s one of the case full that Max got from a baker who closed down, with a swirly motto that says ‘Grab our soft buns’.
He’s watching me pour milk into the poaching pans. ‘Fish pies. I’ve got frozen sa
lmon to use up.’ Nick loves fish. Of course he does, being half Greek. I can imagine him hauling in the day’s catch from the faded blue fishing boat bobbing on the sparkling sea, the sun beating down on his tanned torso – he never wears a shirt in my fantasies – and his glistening biceps straining against the fishing nets.
That’s because in my dream he was raised on the set of Mamma Mia, when, in actual fact, he was brought up in a Bristol suburb. He got his fish from the supermarket, same as me.
Just stop it, Phoebe.
‘When do we get fish and chips again?’ Nick asks, though I’ve half forgotten what we were talking about, what with all the hauling and glistening. ‘Hot and crispy with a little bit of vinegar. Mmm, it’s heaven on a plate.’
‘I can do it next week,’ I answer. ‘That was always one of our bestsellers at the bistro. I dabbled in a few fancy variations, but people don’t like to stray too far from a classic like that.’
I stare into my pans, but I can feel Nick watching me. Finally, he says, ‘You get a really wistful look when you talk about the bistro. You must have really loved working there.’
‘I did.’
‘Then why didn’t you reopen it yourself? It might not be too late, you know. You could renovate it, fix the fire damage and reopen.’
I can tell he’s excited by the idea. ‘It’s already reopened,’ I tell him. ‘Another restaurant moved in about a year ago.’ When it happened, all the feelings I’d buried – encased in lead and paved over just to be sure – came rushing back to knock me nearly off my feet. It felt like having an ex that you’re still in love with get married, and his bride looks, sounds and acts exactly like you. The restaurant was carrying on as normal. It probably didn’t even miss me, the bastard.
It’s not the same, I explain to Nick. ‘My feelings about it are… complicated. I loved being there, yes, but I don’t want to work there again. Sometimes I long for the feelings I had then, though. I know it’s not possible to have them again because they came from having firsts in my career. Now I’ve got lots more experience. I won’t ever feel the thrill of doing those things for the first time – my first solo menu, first newspaper mention, or award or fully booked service. I guess it’s like childhood or, I don’t know, maybe your university years. You can’t really go back to another time in your life, because so much is different. You’re different. I admit I’m nostalgic. I wish I could feel the same excitement over those things, but I can’t. Going back wouldn’t be the same.’
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