(20/20)A Peaceful Retirement (3 page)

'Near enough. You're taking on responsibilities, and they'll be watching you to see if you can cope or not. Just be cautious, dear, that's all I'm advising.'

She spotted a butterfly on the lavender, and sauntered over to inspect it. I followed her.

'Stick to just one or two projects,' she continued. 'You are a bit like this creature, flitting here and there rather aimlessly.'

'Thank you, Amy! That's quite enough of your advice for one day! Still, it's nice to be compared to a butterfly. The last animal was a hedgehog.'

'And I bet that was dear John Jenkins' description,' said Amy shrewdly.

When Amy had gone I pondered on her words. I was feeling rather bad about the Annetts. They were both old friends, and Isobel had been my assistant teacher at Fairacre school before she married George, the headmaster of Beech Green school.

My retirement, which brought me geographically so much closer to them, had made me more vulnerable to the demands on my time, as I had told Amy, from all those clubs, and so on, at Beech Green.

To my dismay, George Annett was among the most pressing in his demands, chiefly on behalf of his church.

He had been organist there for years, and at Fairacre's St Patrick's too. He was a zealous supporter of the church at Beech Green, and I was not surprised when he first made attempts to secure my services in one or more activities. But I did not want to commit myself. I might live now in the parish of Beech Green, I told him, but my inclinations and loyalties were towards the vicar and church at Fairacre.

'But you could do both,' he protested vehemently. 'There's no reason why you shouldn't attend Fairacre
and
Beech Green. The church is universal, after all.'

He was growing quite pink in his excitement, and Isobel intervened.

'She knows her own affairs best, George,' she said quietly. 'Don't
pester
her.'

He laughed, but I could see that he would return to the fray before long.

I spoke to Isobel privately, saying that I was sorry to be so adamant, but that I was conscious of having only a certain amount of time and energy, and I was determined to ration these precious commodities so that I could continue to enjoy an independent and healthy retirement.

She was understanding, but George, when Isobel was absent, I noticed, continued to solicit my help in various church affairs, so that, as I had told Amy, I had agreed to do some hospital-driving.

A sop to Cerberus, I told myself.

The day after Amy's visit I had to go to the doctor's surgery to check that all was well.

Since the alarming couple of strokes which had made me decide to retire a year or so earlier than I had intended, I had been given some tablets, which I did my best to remember to take, and otherwise pursued my ordinary way of life, except for a three-monthly check which my zealous doctor insisted on.

It was a perfect September morning, far too lovely to spend in a doctor's waiting-room. I had collected three pearly mushrooms from my lawn at breakfast time, and had great plans for an egg, bacon and mushroom supper.

The ancient plum tree was heavy with fruit which would soon have to be picked if the birds were not to rob me. A late crop of spinach, Bob Willet's pride and joy, was doing splendidly in the vegetable patch, and some fine bronze onions, their tops bent over neatly, were maturing in the sunshine.

As I drove to the surgery I passed a covey of young partridges running along the edge of the road. They rose with a whirring of wings above the hedge to take cover in Hundred Acre Field beyond.

Once, I thought, that great field would probably have been golden with stubble from the newly cut corn, and the partridges would have found all the food they wanted there. Nowadays, the field was ploughed and sown within days of the crop being harvested, and the partridges had to look desperately for their erstwhile natural fodder.

There were seven or eight people waiting when I arrived, but no one I knew, which was a pity. I went to the small pile of magazines and wondered if an ancient
Horse and Hound
would be more to my taste than
Just Seventeen.
The only other periodical available was
Autocar.
Obviously, someone had been having a good sort-out of the usual women's magazines. I opted for
Autocar
; but it was heavy going for one ignorant of the combustion engine, and I welcomed the approach of a chubby toddler who left her mother and an older woman to greet me.

'Hello. How old are you?'

'Older than you are,' I said diplomatically, as all attention was now focused on us. 'And how old are
you?'
I asked, turning the tables neatly.

'Three. I shall be four next. Then five. Have you got a mummy?'

'Not now. I once had one.'

She returned to her mother and patted her knee.

'This is my mummy, and this is my granny.'

She banged the older woman's knee and beamed at me.

I smiled, and they smiled back.

Not content with this civility, the child proceeded to introduce everyone in turn, despite the mother's protests, and it was amusing to note the reaction of the embarrassed company.

The two men present simply ignored the introduction, studying their magazines with undue concentration. The women were more obliging.

A handsome, middle-aged woman, in the sort of knitted suit I am always seeking in vain, inclined her head towards the child's relatives and said: 'How do you do!' very clearly and politely. The others smiled nervously and looked apprehensive. Perhaps they thought that the child would drag them across the room for greater intimacies. Certainly, she looked determined enough to do so, but a head appeared round the door, and the grandmother, mother and child were summoned into the presence. Relief flooded the waiting room.

My routine took only a few minutes, and I found that I was getting quite blasé about that contraption that doctors wrap round your upper arm and blow up. At one time I was sure that I should be suffocated, although reason told me that my air passages were some distance from the point of operation. But as I had now survived several of these unpleasant ministrations, I was positively carefree when the band tightened. An old campaigner, I boasted silently to myself.

'Are you keeping busy?' he enquired, when the tests were over. 'You don't feel lonely or unwanted?'

'Fat chance of that,' I assured him, remembering all those requests for my time and attention.

'Oh, good,' he said, rather doubtfully, I thought. 'So many people find retirement a bit sad, you know.'

'Not me,' I replied firmly.

That evening John Jenkins rang. Could I help him?

'In what way?' I asked guardedly. With such a persistent suitor one needed to stay alert. One slip of the tongue and I might find myself committed to matrimony.

'Well, it's like this. I have an aged uncle, ninety-something, who is now in a nursing home near Winchester, and he wants to see me. I've said I'll take him out to lunch. Would you come too and give me moral support?'

'Of course. I'd love to.'

'It won't be easy. He's stone deaf, and always was pretty crabby, but he was good to my family when we had hard times. He paid my school fees for a couple of years, my mother told me, and I'd like to see the old boy again.'

'When are you thinking of going?'

'Next Tuesday, if you're free.'

A hasty study of the diary showed only the entry 'AMY?' and I knew that she would be delighted to postpone whatever we had provisionally planned if it meant any furtherance of romance for me, so I said I should look forward to the trip to the nursing home.

'Marvellous! What an angel you are! I warn you that you will be as hoarse as a crow and utterly exhausted after a couple of hours with Uncle Sam.'

'I'll cope,' I said.

'I'll bring you back to my house for a refreshing cup of Earl Grey and a slice of your favourite Battenburg cake.'

'Balmoral, isn't it? It got its name changed during the war.'

'Really? How erudite you are. Anyway, we always called it "window cake" in our youth, so you can take your pick. You do still like it?' he added anxiously.

'I do indeed,' I told him, and rang off. Now, what to wear when one visited a very old gentleman in a nursing home?

By Tuesday the weather had changed. The sky was dark with racing clouds rushing from the Bristol Channel to East Anglia.

I had put on a light-weight jersey dress with long sleeves, but brought a good thick cardigan with me. The fashion magazines are constantly telling their readers that: 'Cardigans are
out
', but not in Beech Green, I should like to tell them.

The windscreen wipers were active all the way, but it was warm in the car, and John and I enjoyed a lively conversation about the merits of nursing homes we had known, and which we should choose when the time came. Although the topic was a solemn one, we became mildly hilarious over our choice, and the journey passed happily.

Uncle Sam's nursing home lay half a mile from the road, and was an imposing building of Palladian design, set among well-tended gardens ablaze with dahlias and Michaelmas daisies. There were several white garden seats at strategic points, but these were dripping with raindrops as we emerged from the car, and naturally were unoccupied.

John's uncle was waiting for us in the hall. He was an imposing figure, tall and upright despite his ninety-odd years, and with a loud booming voice. He shook my hand with enormous vigour when we were introduced and offered us drinks which we declined.

'Let's get straight off to your local,' suggested John. I think he felt ill at ease in this very hot building with one or two occupants passing by on their walking frames or sticks.

We helped the old gentleman into an enormous raincoat, found his stick, cap and scarf and ushered him down the three steps to the car. Luckily the rain was ceasing.

As Uncle Sam and John were in the front, I could relax at the back and let their conversation take over. I began to understand why John had warned me about the old man's deafness. If John spoke, his uncle boomed: 'What? What?' and John was obliged to shout back. Uncle Sam himself spoke with a voice which would have carried across the Albert Hall. I began to wish I had brought some cotton-wool with me to stuff in my ears.

The bar of Uncle Sam's choice was warm and welcoming. He plumped for whisky and soda, and John and I sipped sherry. After studying menus so large that they really needed a lectern to support them, we all decided to have 'Today's Special', which was roast turkey with all the trimmings, and sat back with our duty done to enjoy each other's company.

I said that I was most impressed with the nursing home, and was he well looked after?

'Too dam' well,' he bawled. 'Blasted nurses always watching you. Go through the drawers to see if you've got a bottle there.'

'And have you?' said John.

"What? What? Don't mumble, boy.'

'Do they find a bottle?' yelled John.

'No need to shout, I'm not deaf. It's just that you young people mumble so these days. Yes, sometimes nursie finds a bottle. Friends bring me one from time to time. I'm allowed a drop sometimes.'

He fingered his empty glass, but John did not respond. A waiter appeared to summon us to the dining room, and we went in.

It was only half full and I remembered Amy telling me that: 'Lunch these days is really a non-event, except at business conferences.' Perhaps she was right, I thought, looking about me.

A middle-aged couple were at the next table and I recognized them as people I had met at a fund-raising party in Caxley. He was a minister at one of the town's churches. Baptist, if I remembered rightly. They looked briefly at us, but obviously did not recognize me. I was rather relieved, and hoped that Uncle Sam's remarks, delivered fortissimo, would not disconcert them.

'You thinking of marrying young John here?' he boomed.

'No indeed,' I said.

'Not yet, but later,' John said, at the same time. We exchanged amused glances.

'You don't want to get entangled with our family,' he continued, attacking his asparagus soup with relish. 'Hard drinkers, and womanizers too.'

I was conscious of the attention of the minister and his wife.

'That's not true,' said John.

'What? What? Speak up, boy. Why, my brother Ernest got through two bottles of rum a day, and three wives. No, I tell a lie.
Four
wives, counting that flibbertigibbet that called herself a masseuse, and out-lived him.'

I noticed that the minister had cleared his plate rather quickly, and was asking the waiter for the sweet list. His face was somewhat flushed, although his glass had only been filled from the Perrier bottle on the table.

'Are there many other residents at the nursing home?' I enquired loudly.

'Forty, I believe. Don't see a lot of them. Mostly old women. Want to play cards for pennies, and I like high stakes myself. Always was a betting man, specially on the horses.'

Our turkey arrived and about half a dozen dishes with various vegetables, gravy and cranberry sauce. At the next table a waiter was setting plates of trifle before our neighbours.