The Skill Set

By Allison Hay

Shutterstock © A lady thinking about different things Illustration: Shutterstock

Illustration Shutterstock

WRITTEN BY CHRISTINE SUTTON

Trying to make the newcomer at the old folks’ home feel more welcome, Hester discovers a wealth of talent!

“Morning, Ida, any plans for today?” Hester asked, sinking into the seat next to her friend.

“Oh, you know, Hes, the usual mad, gay, social whirl. Thought I’d take the Merc for a spin, hitch up with some handsome young buck, and dance the night away in that swish new place on the prom.”

“Sounds good. I’d join you but I’m going to be busy working on my blockbuster. I had a dream last night and I’ve got more of a handle on it now. It’s set in Morocco during the war. My main character is a nightclub owner called Rick and… no, hang on, that’s Casablanca, isn’t it? We watched it on TV the other day!”

Ida cackled with laughter. “You’re only about seventy years too late!”

“Story of my life, Ida,” Hester said ruefully, pulling her purple cardigan more tightly around her. “So, the new manager’s arrived. I bumped into young Julie in the corridor and she reckons he’s a real silver fox.”

“Ooh,” Ida said, rubbing her hands together. “Like George Clooney, you mean? That man really rocks the grey.”

Before Hester could answer, a tetchy voice cut in. “Anyone would think you were a couple of hot young things still. Hate to break it to you, ladies, but we’re in an old folks’ home. None of us can cut a rug these days.”

Smiling, Hester leant forward to peer at the man sitting in the bay window.

You may consider yourself old, Clive, but in our heads we’re still young.

His brow furrowed and Hester instantly regretted her snippy remark. Clive was still a fine figure of a man, with thick, wavy hair and a neatly trimmed beard. If it weren’t for that sharp tongue of his, she would happily have invited him to join the nightly board games she, Ida and their friend Graham enjoyed. She’d love to whup him at Scrabble!

Clive picked up his book and buried himself in its pages, giving Hester a quick sight of the title: A Decent Interval, written by one of her favourite authors, Simon Brett. Normally, she would’ve enjoyed chatting to him about it but since his arrival at Green Lawns a month ago, Clive Streeter had kept himself very much to himself. Hester wasn’t unsympathetic, recalling her own feelings of isolation when she’d arrived two years ago. It wasn’t easy, leaving behind all that was safe and familiar and come to somewhere new, especially at their time of life.

Looking for some common ground, she’d asked Julie Jarvis, owner of a gorgeous black Labrador whose weekly visits brought everyone such pleasure, if she had any suggestions.

“What I can say is that there was none of that gruffness when he was stroking Bess,” Julie had said. “He told me about his Alsation, Rebel, who used to go everywhere with him, sitting in the sidecar of his motorbike. So that might be a good starting point.”

Hester had looked thoughtful. “Yes, I can see him in leathers, roaring up the motorway, heading wherever the mood took him.”

“Actually, I meant that pets might be a good starter, Hester,” Julie had chuckled, “But motorbikes could work just as well. You were into biker boys, were you?”

For a moment, Hester was transported back to the summer of ‘62, the wind whipping her hair and the scent of warm leather filling her nostrils as she wrapped her arms around Jimmy’s waist and rested her cheek against the broad expanse of his back. She sighed wistfully.

“When I was a teen, if you weren’t a mod, then you were a rocker. I’ve ridden pillion a million times.”

Julie had laughed. “Honestly, it never fails to amaze me what some of the people in here got up to in their lives.”

“That, Julie,” Hester had said with mild reproach, “is because, like most young people, you think life starts with you. It’s a generational thing. Youngsters rarely expect anyone with a few miles on the clock to have done anything exciting or interesting. They can’t imagine the lady on the checkout might once have helped excavate Pompeii, or that the man nursing a pint in the pub could be a former mountaineer. Older folk have done all sorts of things that no one ever thinks to ask about.”

Even as she replayed that conversation in her head, Hester realised she was just as guilty of this. She’d chatted to every one of the people in this room but had never really gone beyond the pleasantries.

“Ida,” she said, propping her elbow on the arm of her chair, “What did you do before you came here?”

Ida lowered her crochet to her lap and stared into space, as though gazing back down the years.

“Well, my first job was a clippie on the trams. The war had not long ended and our route took us along pot-holed roads and past bombed out buildings. I can still see the children playing in the rubble.” She shook her head at the memory. “After trams were withdrawn, I worked the buses.

“That’s how I met my Larry. He came to my rescue one night when a couple of lads tried to get fresh. But what I really wanted was to be a dressmaker. So after we married I went to work in a theatre as a costumier. I remember one actress, Fenella Fielding her name was, had this wonderful, sultry voice. She became a big star. Why do you ask?”

“Well, I was just thinking about the people here and the stories they could tell, if only someone took the time to listen. Maybe we should be the ones to do that. What do you think?”

“What, record them, you mean?”

“Yes, we could do that,” Hester said, warming to her theme. “Maybe write them in a journal for others to see.”

“Why not go one better and do a weekly newsletter?”

To Hester’s surprise the suggestion had come, not from Ida, but from Clive. She sat forward. “That’s a great idea, but isn’t printing expensive?”

“There’s bound to be a printer in the manager’s office,” Clive said.

“Some accounts will need editing,” Ida cautioned. “People do tend to waffle.”

“I could do that,” Clive offered. “I was a magazine editor for eleven years. Shall we go and ask?”

He got to his feet and Hester followed suit. With Ida leaning heavily on her stick, they made their way to the office.

“Come in,” called a cheery voice, in answer to Hester’s tap on the door. The man behind the desk looked up as they entered and Hester saw that he was, indeed, very handsome, with prematurely pewter-grey hair. He smiled. “Oh, hello. I was about to come and introduce myself. I’m David Franks.”

He stood up and Hester went closer, hand outstretched. “Hello, Mr Franks. I’m Hester, and these are my friends, Ida and Clive. We have a favour to ask.”

“It’s David, please,” he said, circling the desk and leaning back against it. “Fire away.”

Hester quickly explained. “As well as recording the conversations, Clive suggested we do a weekly newsletter.”

“So everyone can have a copy,” Ida chipped in.

“And we wondered if we could use the printer,” Clive finished hopefully.

“Absolutely you can,” David enthused. “Unfortunately, it’s out of action at the moment, so I’ll need to get someone in to fix it. Meanwhile, can I help with anything, like a mic maybe?”

“Actually, I have a digital recorder,” Clive said. “I still do the odd magazine article and I make my notes on that.”

“You’re a writer?” David asked.

“Used to be, back in the day, before I became editor of Ride the Road. It was a magazine for–”

“Bikers!” Hester exclaimed. “My late husband Jim was a subscriber! It was one of your monthly Ride Guides that led us to tour the western isles. What a trip that was!”

Clive’s eyes sparkled. “Weren’t those coastal roads amazing? So close to the water’s edge.”

Hester laughed delightedly. “It almost felt like you were surfing on a bike!”

Still chatting, they walked back to the day room. The refreshments trolley had arrived and there were people milling around, serving themselves or carrying cups to those in chairs. David wended his way between them to the sunlit spot in the window.

“Hello, everyone, excuse the interruption to your coffee break, but I’m David, the new manager. It’s good to meet you all.”

There were murmured responses, even a smattering of applause.

I’ve just been chatting to your friends here, and they have a proposal for you, which I’ll help with in any way I can.

He gestured to Hester and she briefly outlined what they had in mind.

“We have a wealth of life experiences here at Green Lawns and Ida and I want to get them down before we’re all too old and fog-brained to remember. Clive here will record our chats and we’ll bring out a weekly newsletter with the stories and any photos you might have in it.”

She glanced back to David.

“Thank you, Hester. First, though, I’ll have to get that printer fixed.”

“What’s the matter with it?” someone asked. Hester saw that it was Bertie, one of their oldest residents.

“To use a technical term, it’s kaput,” David joked.

“Well, I’m an expert at kaput,” Bertie said. “Lead me to it. No need to look like that,” he added, when David hesitated. “I’ve repaired more office equipment than you’ve had hot dates, me lad. It’ll be a paper-jam, guaranteed. Come on.”

As the two men left the room, Bertie leading the way in his wheelchair, Hester helped Ida back to her seat. She straightened up to find Clive hovering at her side.

“Sorry I’ve been a bit stand-offish since I got here, Hester,” he murmured. “It was a real struggle for me, giving up my independence to come here. I’ve been alone since my wife died in ‘98 and… well, you get used to your own company, don’t you?”

“You do, Clive, and we’ve all been there. We don’t just leave our homes behind, do we? We leave our friends too. It’s hard having to start all over again. That’s why I think this is going to be so good for everyone. Each week there’ll be new talking points, maybe even new respect. I’m really looking forward to it.”

“Me, too.”

Hester turned to face the room.