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 75th 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..