M | T | W | T | F | S | S |
---|---|---|---|---|---|---|
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 |
8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 |
15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 |
22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28 |
29 | 30 |
“Here it is. Just on the left there.”
The car slows down and a large sign comes into view – Sunshine Acres. At one corner, a laughing cartoon cow doffs a straw hat in welcome. It occurs to me – and not for the first time either – that elderly people are often lumped into the same category as little children. These dreadful names! The last place we visited was called Happy Haven. Must they use nomenclature that would be better suited to a Victorian lunatic asylum? As we pull into the driveway, my daughter-in-law, Nancy, makes enthusiastic chatter at top speed, rather like a monkey. I’ve heard her prattle like this before when she’s uncomfortable and it only serves to make me feel the same way.
We’re out of the car now, feet crunching on gravel and as The Director opens the door to us, a warm blast of the sweet smell peculiar to the old, hits me like a wave. Familiar feelings of dread begin to creep upwards from my bowels.
“Welcome! Lovely day, not too hot.”
With startling insight, I can now see who the model was for the cartoon cow on the sign. The Director is immaculate in a crisp tailored suit with piping and her platinum blonde hair is styled like a policeman’s. She is smiling alright, but there is a certain oiliness. Even her breasts, restrained within the confines of her jacket, have a formidable, don’t-mess-with-me attitude about them. She pumps my hand firmly and ushers us further down the hall, where the sun is shining brightly in a room called The Lounge and people huddle in groups reading the paper or staring into space.
“Now isn’t this pleasant!” says Nancy chirpily to Bill who has not spoken a word all the way here. The Director begins extolling the virtues of having a life that is still very much your own, where independence is retained right up to the end. The end? Nancy nods intently, hanging on every word. I wonder if she and Bill ever have a proper conversation. I wonder if they still make love.
A tall woman shuffles down the hall past us, using a walker. Her slippers are red plaid with the ruff of fur going round the top. There are yellow threads of egg showing bright at the corners of her mouth and her eyes are palest blue beneath a milky skin that has grown over the iris. She smiles shyly at me, uncertainly, but when I look to speak she drops her glance. Clearly, she is on the inside looking out whilst I have my feet planted very firmly on the outside. For now, at least.
“Let’s slip into the office.” The Director has another facial expression for me. “You feel free to look around while we look at some paperwork.”
The door clicks shut. I see Nancy poring over brochures and papers and Bill – my son – is furtively checking his watch.
Through the potted ferns, a man comes into view. A sort of a Gregory Peck type. He waves to me. I nod back, then look quickly away in case an awkward conversation I don’t care to have presents itself; but in fact, he is waving me over. As I approach, I can see the rough moss green of his tweed jacket, the soft suede of its elbow patches.
“Are you new? I’m Gardner McLeod.”
My hand is cold in the dry warmth of his grasp.
“No, just here to look.” My voice shakes a little. “I may not actually be coming at all.”
“Oh. Of course.” He smiles showing straight teeth, most definitely his own. “If you’d like to see what the rooms are like, mine is the best in the place. Come on, I’ll show you.”
He beckons me to follow. Well really. But why not? My mind is still debating whether or not to go, when I feel the gentle pressure of his hand on my elbow propelling me forward. Within seconds, he opens the door to reveal a stunning room. Sitting squatly in the corner is a battered armchair covered in faded gold chintz and I can detect the faintest scent of lily-of-the-valley coming from a nodding little arrangement nearby. There’s a scattering of photographs stretching across his tiny desk, spectacles abandoned on top and in the other corner stands a massive Grandfather clock lending the room the flavour of an Oxonian common room. I notice that the clock has stopped at ten past seven.
“This is beautiful,” I remark honestly. “Are all the rooms like this?”
“This is one of the bigger rooms,” he admits. “But when you get to our time of life, you should be able to keep your things around you. I simply refused to leave certain things behind. Why should I?”
I nod, understanding.
“You know, when I look back I really fought coming out here too,” he remarks. “But it isn’t as bad as you might imagine. Just another one of life’s curves”.
He gestures to the chair. “Won’t you sit for a moment?”
My heart flutters like a sparrow, disturbed at the personal tone that the conversation has taken. There are jungle drums in my chest, heralding more anxiety. I wonder if he knows, if he can hear them too.
“For me,” he goes on earnestly. “I hated the notion of being organized. Being told when I could have breakfast, all that. You know what these places can be like.”
I straighten my skirt, tears perilously close to spilling as he goes on reading my innermost thoughts.
“But like I said, it’s not like that. It’s whatever you make it.”
I smile weakly, ready to bolt. The silence between us is not uncomfortable though.
“One of the very best things around here is the food,” Gardner continues. “It really is damned good. You want consommé? It’s excellent. They’ll even send it up to your room. Like a hotel!”
Gardner is obviously a very charming man – handsome, to be sure – but he must be easily impressed. Perhaps consommé is the one thing that doesn’t have to be puréed.
“Listen, I think I’ve still got some. Let me fix you a bull shot. The Queen Mum’s favourite you know.”
My mouth opens to refuse, but his hand is fishing nimbly inside the body of the Grandfather clock and reappears clutching a bottle of vodka.
As I watch, he twirls off the cap, pours some into heavy crystal glasses and tops them up with consommé. Ice tumbles from a tiny bucket. He hands it to me with a clinking flourish and in spite of myself I have to laugh, impressed by his style.
Quite suddenly, inexplicably, a sense of peace, acceptance floods through me, a feeling that I can cope. And it’s not the drink. I hardly recognize the sensation at first, it’s been such a long time.
Turning towards Gardner to speak, I catch what is unmistakably an appraising glance and I feel my crinkled cheek colouring for the first time in decades.
As I uncoil a bit in my chair, I think I understand what he means about the consommé too.
It really is damned good, after all …
©Speranza
Leave a Reply