Alice

One of the nicer aspects of life at the Happy Harbour Retirement Home is that on those sadly inevitable occasions that one of us relocates to the Great Rest Home in the Sky, a new resident is introduced to us at the dear departed’s wake.

          Taking leave of a loved one, while simultaneously welcoming a new friend might be thought an endearing touch, symbolic of the Happy Harbour’s compassionate philosophy, but endearing touches, compassion, and symbolism are anathema to Miss Starkey, the Havens’ proprietor and commandant, who seizes the opportunity to share the cost of the wake with a welcome party.

          Our most recent departure, Begonia Crump, late of Room 14, was a scarcely mobile, dust-encrusted nonagenarian, whose passing had triggered bitter conflict over control of the remote in the television lounge. Despite the outward protestations of grief, Begonia was generally unloved, and Miss Starkey’s introduction of Alice MacArthur as Room 14’s new occupant, drew a twitter of approval from the residents, along with a stage -whispered “Tart” from Miss Lashley (Room10), which I took as her acknowledgement that it takes one to know one.

          Veronica Lashley is my Intimate Associate, currently estranged, but beneath her expensive smile and immaculate coiffure lurks the dark soul of the street-fighting pole dancer she once was. She speaks as she finds, and mostly she finds wanting.

          “Mrs MacArthur looks quite smart,” I murmured, “vivacious, and with an excellent taste in walking-sticks.”

          “Smart my arse, Georgie, I know her. That’s Alice Homer that was. Rat-Arsed Alice that was barmaid at the Samson, and had to marry Willie MacArthur in a hurry. She’s had a face lift, but it’s her.”

          Alice Homer and the Samson rang bells, and I experienced a sixty-odd year flashback to the dark alley behind the Samson, chips in newspaper and Alice.  And yes, if I squinted through half closed eyes, and made generous allowance for the passing years, Alice it was.

          Close up, she looked a bit lived in, but apart from the walking stick, scrubbed up nicely. She didn’t recognise me, but her eyes widened when I mentioned the Samson, the alley, and the chips in newspaper.

          “Was that really you?” she giggled, “all those years ago?”

          “Sometimes me,” I said, “but by no means exclusively, if what they said was true.”

          She blushed, prettily, tongue-tied.

          “We must have a chat about old times,” I said, “and see if we still have things in common.”

*

          Polish Petra, my named carer and confidante, was sceptical about me moving on Alice, and was firm with her advice.

          “Don t go there, Georgie, she’s trouble on a stick, that one.”

          Petra was right, I knew, but with Miss Lashley off limits, and nothing else in prospect, a dalliance with Alice seemed harmless. Although still hazy about our youthful acquaintance, she was sympathetic towards a liaison, provided it involved no financial outlay on her part.

          “It’s my 75^th birthday Thursday week,” she said, “you can take me to that Cute Crustacean fish restaurant in Pershore.”

          That suited me; fish and chips seemed an appropriately modest investment for a first date, so I phoned the restaurant to book a table and ordered cod and chips twice to save time on the night.  The restaurant guy laughed. “We’ll see you Thursday week. sir.”

*

          Taxis are unnecessary when one possesses a bus pass, and the unexpected surprise of a bumpy half-hour bus ride to Pershore rendered Alice speechless with excitement. She was still emotional on arrival, so I took her for an aperitif first, to restore her equanimity, although I hadn’t reckoned on restoration costing me a bottle of St Emilion. Cod and chips but no pudding, I’m afraid, Alice

          The Cute Crustacean turned out to be that sort of trendy, dimly lit, place that induces involuntary hyperventilation of the wallet. It certainly struck fear in to mine. An impressive sea-life aquarium was set in to one wall, and the waiter seated us at an adjacent table and gave us menus.

          “Skip the formalities, mate” I said, “I ordered cod and chips twice when I booked. Get frying.”

          The waiter lifted a contemptuous eyebrow. “Cod and chips is not an option here, sir. The Crustacean is not a chippy.”

           “No problem then, love,” said Alice, “Fruit de Mer twice, please, with seared scallops to start and a nice bottle of Chablis.”

          Alice was well down the Chablis when the scallops arrived, so she ordered another bottle. She was now totally relaxed but I was in shock because I knew that the bill already exceeded the contents of my wallet, and my credit cards are only for decoration. Then the second Chablis arrived so I poured myself a large one, and decided to go with the flow.

          While we ate, we watched the activity in the aquarium, and Alice became fascinated by a malevolent looking lobster that was lurking in the corner.

          “He’s watching us,” she said, “he’s trying to get our attention.”

          “He’s thinking of making a break,  Alice,” I joked, “he’s discovered he’s on tomorrow’s menu.”

          “Oh My God, Georgie, is he. We should call the RSPCA.” I thought she was joking until I saw tears in her eyes, but it was only when she struggled to her feet and tried to embrace the lobster through the glass that I realised that she was borderline plastered.

           “Oooo, Georgie, I need the loo,” she said, “but my legs have gone all floppy, you’ll have to take me.”

          It’s difficult to look nonchalant when supporting a legless septuagenarian, but Alices’ walking stick suggested disablement so nobody noticed. I got her down the corridor, bundled her into the ladies, heard the door lock and waited.

          And waited; then I knocked; then I called. “You OK, Alice?” No response.

          Bugger, I thought, the old dear’s flaked out.  What happens now?

          I knew I should fetch help; there was no knowing what state Alice was in. On the other hand, the shenanigans involved in extracting her from the loo would make us late for the last bus and I’m too old for rushing while lumbered with a blitzed old biddy on a walking stick. More to the point, fetching help would inevitably culminate in a distressing no-win argument about the bill, and I’m too old for stuff like that as well.

          The notice on the door by the ladies offered a solution. ‘Emergency Exit – Push Bar to Open’, so I pushed the bar and legged it for the bus stop.

*

          Alice arrived back by police car about 1.00am, and the commotion roused the Home . She’d been discovered, moribund, in the ladies, and the police had been called because she couldn’t pay the restaurant bill. Nor could she explain her presence in the toilet or the restaurant, but was adamant that she’d organised the escape of a talking lobster who had appeared under the khazi door and asked her to flush him to freedom down the loo. The police weren’t charging Alice, but wanted to talk to the little old guy seen with her in the restaurant, who’d abandoned her without paying

          “Oooo dear, Georgie,” said Petra. “Lucky for you! I saw you reading in your room earlier when I brought your tablets in.”

          Thanks, Petra, I thought, that’s what carers are for. I owe you one. I just hope I’ll be able to afford it..