ONE

Hugh walked heavily up the five steps into his house, filled a bucket with water from a standpipe under his most valuable painting, went into the drawing room, swung his shoulders back as far as they would go and, as forcefully as he could, threw cold water across the ancient carpet.

Sheep droppings bobbed along on the flood and slewshed with a rush against the pile of damp straw he’d raked into the hearth earlier that morning.

Across the room, beyond the sofas and chairs, a small flock of sheep clustered beneath a standard lamp. Hugh eased himself straight and nodded a greeting but they trotted over to the windows and watched him anxiously from the corners of their eyes.

Calmly, trying to look reassuring, he went for more water; more and more water - until the last of the debris was flushed into the hearth. Then he forked the whole dripping mess into a wheelbarrow, bumped it out down the steps, across the yard and into the kitchen garden - ran it up a plank and tipped it onto a heap of mouldering straw and manure. After that, he leant the barrow against a wall and stretched.

It was a cold November day - but he was happy. His back hurt, his arms ached and he was weary; desperately weary. But he was used to that - and happy.

Everything, in fact was as usual. The fields were waterlogged and most of the tracks impassable. The few animals he hadn’t brought indoors were muddy and listless and nearly as tired as he was and even the air inside the house was damp and cold. But it was winter - and the kitchen was warm.

Coffee.

The kettle was simmering and Camellia’s scones were warm on the Aga. There was bread on the table, newly baked, and his favourite cat was sitting contentedly next to it.

A scene from thirty winters.

Homely.

Normal.

Familiar.

But when he reached to take a mug from the dresser, his fingers gave way. The mug dropped, a plate shattered and the cat scrambled over the bread and went to settle more comfortably in an armchair on the other side of the room.

Camellia, startled by the noise, came in from the scullery.

“Just a mug and a plate,” said Hugh, flexing his fingers. “I expect it’s the cold.” He held them for her to see; red and swollen. “They gave way.”

Camellia wiped her hands on her apron and kissed him. Then she shoved the pieces of plate to the back of the dresser.

“We’re getting old,” she said, pouring the coffee. “We need a day off.”

“A week!” said Hugh rubbing the dirt from his hands. “A month. A year!"

Then he sat at the table.

Camellia smiled.

“More than a day and you’d pine!”

She brought scones but his spine jerked and pains flickered down his arm when he reached for one.

A holiday?

Too many animals.

Too much work.

“Maybe one day,” he said, judging his moment and grabbing at a scone between spasms.

But he hardly meant it.

________

For Two

FORTY-SIX

continued from

"You've done what? What if Rosemary comes for us?" Camellia was not pleased. Duke Ellington was right about that! Hugh's excitement faltered.

"I forgot," he said.

Camellia went to the window and looked down. Rain was flowing over the roofs of railway carriages as they passed by. There seemed an awful lot of them. "It's raining," she said.

"But it will have stopped by then."

Camellia was furious "Don't be silly, Hugh," she said, turning back to glare. "You can't possibly know that."

"Camellia, I just feel it. It must. The sun will come out and everything will be fine. You should have heard them! Perfectly intelligent people complaining because someone who shouldn't have any power at all has organised a game of Bingo - and rather than say it isn't what they want to do, they troop along like automatons and put little counters on little cards. Week after week they keep doing it, until they are ground down. Once might make sense. Out of politeness. But this is ridiculous. Except for Professor Blake - who discusses vests instead."

"I know. And it's silly of him. Why doesn't he tell them to go away?"

"I don't know! But he doesn't!"

Camellia went over to the bed and sat on it. "They aren't our responsibility, you know."

"Yes, they are. I phoned Stephen."

It worked. Camellia stopped being angry.

"What did he say?"

"Nothing much, just that everything's alright. He says it's raining there too."

"It always does."

"I found the dining room."

"What?"

"It's down the corridor beside the staircase. The kitchen's along there too. We shouldn't have gone to the basement this morning. But I've found it now - and there are fifty chairs."

What?"

"I've counted the chairs so I know what size coaches to order."

"Coaches? Plural?"

"Well, some people like Bingo, don't they? Ghandi and Scotty seem quite keen. We've got to assume everyone wants to go to Bingo and that everyone wants to go to the Gallery so I've ordered two forty-seater coaches."

"Hugh, that doesn't make sense!"

"Near enough it does. Taking into account some won't want to go anywhere. There's a corridor between the office and the lift and there are five bedrooms at the end with two names on each door. Professor Blake's on one of them so we must allow for ten wheelchairs."

"Wheelchairs don't go on coaches."

"Blake says he'll manage. The others will have to try. If it doesn't work, they'll have to understand."

"I expect they will," said Camellia kindly. It was years since Hugh had been excited like this. Maybe the possibility of buying South Devons had raised his interest briefly. Or was it Herefords? She couldn't remember. Not that it mattered until they went home. She simply knew she mustn't spoil his pleasure now.

"We'll find out," said Hugh. "Meanwhile, there's a lot to do."

"How did you phone?"

"What? Oh, there's a little room down the corridor where the dining room is. It's got a chair and everything. Quite comfortable."

"So Mrs Bendicks doesn't know?"

"Not yet. Now, listen Camellia, I want you to go round the women. I'll go round the men. And I'll do the downstairs bedrooms if you do the television room and the lounge. Make a list so we can check we don't count anyone twice. And I've got to find sixty wheel-chairs."

"What on earth . . . ?"

"Never mind. It has to be ready by lunch. We can tell people not to talk - but they will. By the end of the first course, Mrs Bendicks will know everything. But every minute counts so if we can delay it till then, that's good."

"Hugh?"

"Yes."

But she had nothing to say after all. She just wanted to smile at him because she could feel her energy surging along with his. It was like sleeping on top of the Blackpool tower again. There was the year they'd moved to Thorncombe. They'd bought chickens then didn't know what to do with them. Rosemary's laughter at her first pantomime. Their wedding. Curry when curry was new. All sorts of things. Things great and small and remembered in the wrong order.

"I've just thought," she said. "I don't think they do photographs at the Portrait Gallery, do they?"

"Well they should," said Hugh, rushing out of the door. "Remember - ask them not to talk. We mustn't be stopped. Got it?"

Oh yes, she did! And the rain was petering out, just as he'd said it would. And the sun was emerging from clouds. And her heart gave a little leap. Safehaven seemed to be turning out alright after all.

_____

For The Post Before This One - Forty-Five

FORTY-FIVE

continued from Forty-Four

.

The man who had warned Robert about the traffic warden came to the door, hesitated long enough to assess company available and bounced his zimmer frame towards the chair Camellia had vacated.

"Glen Millar," he said, sitting down heavily. "Who are you?"

"Hugh," said Hugh. "You will have passed my wife in the hall."

"You're the people who arrived when Alice was leaving."

"Alice was . . . ."

"Dead," Glen Millar finished for him. "Mrs Bendicks takes it personally, as if the food's to blame."

"How long till lunch?" asked Queen Victoria.

"A long time yet," said Gladstone, pulling a watch from his pocket. "Yes." And he put it back.

"How long till Bingo?" asked Hugh.

Gladstone almost answered but Professor Blake got in first. "It's at three. Surely you're not looking forward to it?"

"No," agreed Hugh. "I'm going to the National Portrait Gallery with Camellia. She wants to see photos."

"Wrong place," said Duke Ellington. "But it's worth a visit, none the less."

"Prince Charles in front of a fence," Ghandi shouted. Then she re-closed her eyes.

"I'm not sure . . . ,"

"Oh, go there anyway," said Professor Blake. "It's a good place and better than Bingo."

"Mrs Bendicks won't like it," said Glen Millar, placing his hands flat on the wooden arms of his chair, as if making ready for a quick gettaway. "She likes everyone here."

Hugh ignored him. "Would anyone like to come with us?"

"If my legs were better," said Gladstone. "I'd like to. But two short walks a day does for me."

"I think you see my difficulty," said Professor Blake. "Otherwise . . . ,"

"She won't like it," Glen Millar insisted, anxious and cross.

"I would," said Queen Victoria. "I wouldn't like the Gallery but I'd like to annoy Mrs Bendicks."

"What for?"

"Because I pay to be here," said Queen Victoria irritably. "If she paid me to play Bingo, it might be different, but she's not offered yet."

Appreciation rippled through the group.

"I like Bingo," said Ghandi firmly, her eyes still shut.

"Professor Blake, how bad are your legs?" Hugh asked.

"I can walk, just a bit. A couple of steps. Maybe three. Out of my chair, into bed, that kind of thing."

"Would you be able to get up onto a coach?"

"I'd need a lot of help."

"If someone pushed and someone else pulled?"

Professor Blake laughed. "Not quite like that, but I could do it if I had to."

"Meet me in the hall here at ten-to-three then," said Hugh. "You too, Ghandi. My treat. Proper Bingo for those who want. Art for those who don't. My wife won't mind."

"And me?" asked Scotty, suddenly serious and hopeful.

"Bingo in a proper Bingo Hall?"

"Why not?"

"Why not indeed? There'll be room for everyone. Two coaches."

"No-one's believing you," said Queen Victoria. She was cabling and didn't look up - and her voice was little, as if some great hopefulness had turned down the volume.

"Believe it," Hugh said, standing. "Believe it and be ready."

"It's like a campaign," Gladstone suggested.

"It is."

"I'd prefer the National Gallery," said Glen Millar.

"Well," said Hugh. "It's only next door. We're leaving at three. I'd better tell Camellia."

Everyone grinned.

"Good luck," said Duke Ellington.

"Oh, she won't mind," said Hugh. "In fact, she'll be glad. We haven't had company for years and sometimes I think she's lonely. Is there anyone prepared to discuss . . . Bill Brandt is it?"

"No photos."

"Never mind. She'll manage. Ten-to-three.!"

He began to walk to the door, then turned. "I wasn't looking forward to being here. I have cattle and . . . but I'm beginning to enjoy it. So pleased to meet you all!"

Then he went to tell Camellia.

_____

For the next post - Forty-Six

For the post before this one - Forty-Four

FORTY-FOUR

continued from

.

Next to arrive was Gladstone with newspapers under his arm.

"Hello," he said cheerfully, spotting Hugh and Camellia as he came in. "If I knew you'd be here I'd have asked what you wanted. Lord and Lady Thorncombe isn't it?"

"Hamilton, " I think, said Camellia, miserably.

"Well, Lady Hamilton," he said, looking over a pair of half-moon spectacles, "next time I go out, I'll ask what you want. Probably after lunch to fetch the Evening Standard."

"We were talking about the washing," said Queen Victoria.

"Are you?" said Gladstone, manoeuvring a chair round to face into the circle. "They don't like us doing this, he said. "We're supposed to sit in rows so we don't trip over each other's feet."

"Ghandi does it on purpose," said Duke Ellington.

"Except to me," said Professor Blake. "I ran over her toes once. Now she keeps them clear."

“Washing," said Gladstone. "Most of the maids think ‘If the suit fits - wear it'."

“All clothes are equal” said Queen Victoria. Every time she spoke she turned her needles backwards so they hovered just in front of her ample chest. "But some are more equal than others." Camellia was mesmerised. Couldn't listen properly for wondering if Queen Victoria had ever speared herself on her knitting. "Especially knickers. They seem to be little Socialists. They go around in clusters and can't be separated. You’ve either got none, or you’ve got a drawer-full.”

“And another thing” said Ivy heavily. “Going back to what we were talking about . . . . . Not everyone's chosen their name. See Ghandi?" She pointed at a crinkly old lady sitting in a half doze on the other side of the room. She’s just plain mad. She really does think she's Ghandi. See her sandals?”

They all peered round.

“At least she's not religious," said Professor Blake.

“I'm C. of E.,” said Hugh defensively, surprising himself.

Everyone laughed, including the Professor.

“He doesn't mean that!” said Ivy, "Most of us are. Sort of. Except me. Just watch out if anyone say's they're Jesus. Those, you must avoid. It's the wrong kind of mad. But Ghandi's harmless. I'm going back to bed, it's been a long morning." She stood and flexed her shoulders. "I mean, no-one in the C. of E. would say they're Jesus however old they get, would they? You won't claim you're God, will you?"

“Of course not!” said Hugh, mildly affronted.

"There you are! No-one claims to be Jesus just because they're old. Funny that." And she marched off through the door to go back upstairs."

Gandhi opened her eyes. "Mrs Bendicks thinks she's mad." (She was meaning Ivy.) Her voice was thin and crackly and they had to strain their ears to hear her. "And you, Mr Gladstone. She thinks everyone's mad."

“Quite, quite,” Gladstone agreed indulgently. “But some choose madness, others have it thrust . . . . .”

"I'm not sure I want . . . ," said Camellia, feeling faint and leaning back so she could rest her head.

"Do it!" said Gladstone in a commanding but kindly voice. "Do you have family?"

"Yes," said Camellia, "a daughter and two grand-daughters, that's why . . . ,"

"Then keep your real self for them. You don't have to be Lady Thorncombe if you don't want to. Chose something else. Priscilla, you look like a Priscilla, how about that?"

"I don't!" said Camellia, sitting up straight again.

"Leave her be," said Lewis.

"He's right though," Queen Victoria said, leaning forward and nearly spearing herself again. "Come on Lewis, you know he is."

"Louis!" said Lewis.

"Louis, Louis," parroted Ghandi. "He's Louis, Louis. Got your trumpet Louis?" Then she closed her eyes.

"It's confusing," said Lewis. "Because I was Lewis as in 'Alice' when I came - but when the Duke arrived, I thought it would be more fun to be Louis. So I changed. He's more classical, of course but . . . ."

"Really?" asked Camellia. "I didn't get up properly this morning. I'll just go and . . . ."

Then she stopped. Why had she been about to tell this group of strangers that she needed to wash?

"I'm Camellia," she said. "I'm no-body but Camellia."

"Quite right," said Hugh. "I'll follow you up in a minute."

"Louis Armstrong," called Lewis as she moved away.

"Oh!" Camellia looked back and smiled. But she wasn't listening. She was wondering what Hugh might do.

_____

For the Next Post - Forty-Five

For the Post Before This - Forty-Three

FORTY-THREE

continued from

CHAPTER EIGHT

The Residents' Lounge was comfortable, grand and south-facing, with walls the colour of pale butter; and big windows bright with yellow curtains, cheerful in the mid-morning sun.

"Coffee," shouted Ivy.

"Isabelle!" An elderly man rested his book on the arm of his chair and stood to greet her. "Come and sit down! Where have you been? It's gone eleven! And bring your friends over!" He walked towards them a few paces, opened his arms expansively and ushered them to comfortable chairs near his own.

"Coffee, Lewis, we're to have real coffee. It's been decided. We went to a meeting and they said from now on we can have real coffee."

The man frowned. "I'm not sure I'll like that. It's bad for my digestion." He rubbed his stomach defensively. "But I expect they'll give us a choice. Who are your friends?"

"This," said Ivy, pointing at Camellia, is Lady Hamilton, Duchess of Marlborough. And this (you don't mind me pointing, do you?) is, oh, I don't know," she said, fanning her face with her hand. "Napoleon did you say?"

"It'll do," said Hugh, smiling. "Did you say 'Isabelle'?"

"Sshhhhhh!" Ivy was startled and looked cross. "Lewis! You should know better, much better. You shout!" Camellia frowned. "Don't worry dear," Ivy said. "You've come to the bottom of it now, arrived at the end of it. No more names." She smiled. "I've run out." And she dropped her voice to a whisper. "I'm Isabelle. That's my real name. Though I'd rather you didn't know."

"But why?" Camellia was feeling miserable again; tired and disoriented. "Isabelle is such a pretty name."

"Sshhhhhhh! No-one here is to know."

"Is that your boyfriend?" shouted a red faced man in a cardigan who was sitting at the other side of the room, next to a large fireplace with a vase of flowers in it.

"Shut up, Scotty! Ignore him, Camellia." " 'Isabelle'," she whispered, "is too pretty a name to use here. But 'Ivy''s an old person's name, don't you think? And Mrs Bendicks thinks I really am an 'Ivy'. It's in the records - and it's important you don't tell her it's wrong." She had gone pale. Clearly it mattered to her more than Camellia properly understood. Camellia decided from now on she'd not call anyone anything.

"Ivy, I really don't like real coffee. No-one does," said the man called Lewis. "And you're just making work for Maria, you know you are."

"He's worrying about his custard creams," said Ivy.

Maria came to the door with a large man in a wheel chair. He propelled himself over and parked beside Hugh. Maria went back to the kitchen . . . or somewhere.

"Professor Blake," he said, offering his hand. Hugh hesitated as he took it. "I'm sorry," he said. "I've forgotten who I'm meant to be. I was Napoleon just now but I don't think . . . ."

Professor Blake laughed. "Don't worry," he said. "You'll settle on something in time. Or you might decide to be like me and stay as you were before you arrived."

"Then are you a real professor?" asked Camellia hoping he would say 'yes' but not expecting to believe him, whatever he said.

"I was. Of mathematics. But, in Mrs Bendicks' view, no-one over seventy has a brain - and her ideas are curiously retro-active. All old people are idiots and in her view that proves they always were - so none of us could ever had careers, or done anything useful or thought an interesting thought. It's quite good as a cover. I can be myself because she doesn't believe I was ever me. How could an old person have taught mathematics?"

"Aliens!" shouted the man by the fireplace.

"Ignore him," said Ivy. "You always get one. I wanted to keep the 'I', you see?" Camellia didn't. "So they wouldn't send back my post." She was urgent to make Camellia understand. But Camellia didn't. She was lost. (She wondered if her eyes had crossed with the effort.) " 'I' - it has the same initial! 'I'. And Ivy's like me, still clinging on." She patted Camellia's knee tearfully and Camellia tried not to mind.

.

A large lady with a large knitting bag eased herself into a large armchair opposite. "Hello," said Hugh, "I'm Hugh and this is my wife, Camellia."

"I'm Victoria," said the lady with a sniff. "I used to be Queen you know."

"She knows I can count. (This was Professor Blake.) "Just about. Have you got your Bingo Card yet? No? You will. I have an idea she expects us to practice in our rooms. We all get one. Astronauts, scientists, actors, doctors, Nobel laureates - we all get Bingo cards. But don't worry if you have trouble with numbers. She'll organise a community volunteer to help you. The Church sends them round. The first time I met mine I told her I didn't like Bingo but, if she was at a loose end and wanted someone to talk to, I wouldn't mind if she stayed on a bit for a chat."

"He thinks Star Trek is still on the Telly," said Ivy. "You can hear him fighting Klingons in the bathroom."

"She told me where to buy thermal vests," continued the Professor. "She's very keen on thermal vests. Apparently they come in an infinite variety of shapes, styles, colours, lengths, widths, tensions, plies and prices. You can buy one in a packet or . . . "

"I use double knitting or chunky nowadays," said Queen Victoria. "When I was young and knitting for my children, it was all three ply. No-body bothers now. I'm not sure you can get it even."

"Here's Duke Ellephant," said Ivy, of a tall, thin man who had entered the room. "Come and meet our new friends - Lord Thorncombe and Lady Hamilton."

"Not Napoleon, then," said Professor Blake. (Lewis was saying he preferred Dr Who.)

"Bingo, this afternoon," said the Duke (who turned out to be 'Ellington', not 'Ellephant') as he joined the circle. "I don't know why the Queen doesn't send the cards out like telegrams when we retire."

"You like Bingo?" Hugh was surprised.

"Heavens no! But you know what they say - 'Birth, death and Bingo'."

"Mr Ellephant is a conductor," said Ivy.

"Philharmonic," said the Duke quietly. "But don't let Mrs Bendicks know you know. I sometimes go out to Berlin to guest, even nowadays, and she's jealous because she thinks I get more holidays than she does." Camellia studied him. He looked too frail to be working. "Just sometimes," he said, smiling across at her. "It makes a change from here."

“Of course,” said Queen Victoria, leaning over her needles, voice throbbing with drama. “If you’re really bright, they let you play Scrabble.”

Professor Blake snorted.

.

"If you had been holding a cup of coffee, you'd have spilled it on your legs," Ivy said gleefully.

"I'd not mind," said Professor Blake. "They're not mine. (The trousers, I mean, not the legs," he added quickly because he'd noticed Camellia was trying hard to look not-startled.) “Which reminds me. You’d better keep tabs on your clothes, Newcomers. Guard them closely - if you want to go home with the ones you arrived in.”

“Best thing,” said Lewis, confidentially, "is never let them go to the wash. Once they're there, you might get them back - you might not. They're common property all of a sudden and who knows who might be wearing them next?"

"Klingons!" shouted the man by the fire - and everyone laughed. Except Camellia - who couldn't stop wondering when Rosemary would arrive to collect them . . . and when Hugh would say they could go home. She was missing the mists of Thorncombe, the smell of the cattle - and rain.

_____

For the Next Post - Forty-Four

For the Post Before This - Forty-Two

FORTY-TWO

continued from

.

But Mrs Bendicks hadn't finished.

“But you and your wife will be gone in four days! I don’t see the point of this at all.”

“Mrs Bendicks,” said the Chairperson patiently but firmly. "Let us now continue with the meeting. Let's see how it goes. If you still have concerns at the end, perhaps you would have a quiet word with me then, or, if necessary, bring it up in 'any other business'?"

“It ain’t what you do, it’s the way that you do it,” Hugh sang under his breath. The Chairperson turned back, startled. Hugh smiled as at a conspirator. Ah! The Chairperson replied with a smirk - shuffled his papers and pulled out an official looking document.

"We need now to deal with this question of Public Liability Insurance," he said. Then, looking at Hugh, "Is it alright if we pick up from where we left off? You don't need to listen to our debates about items one to three? Or should I give you a summary?" Hugh indicated that it would be fine for the meeting to continue from where it had left off. "I'll catch you up later," promised the Chairperson warmly. "Now, this is about the demarcation between staff-only areas and the areas relatives are allowed to visit. I know from previous discussions that some members of the committee think relatives should be allowed to inspect anything at any time and without notice but Mrs Bendicks has also indicated she doesn't like the idea of strangers wandering around unannounced and getting in the way." Secretly and definitely, Hugh sympathised with Mrs Bendicks and wondered what he would do if he found himself agreeing with everything she said. But Ivy had grown bored.

“Coffee,” she said, loudly. “Real coffee. Coffee that smells like coffee and tastes like coffee; not the muck that comes out of that machine in the Residents’ Lounge.”

“What?” said the Chairperson.

“Don’t you usually have coffee about now? I think so. I’ve seen it being wheeled in to other meetings. And smelled it.” She sighed longingly.

The Chairperson leant forward encouragingly. Over the three years he had been coming to Safehaven, he had found it very difficult to meet residents without Mrs Bendicks hovering nearby. Maybe something would come of this 'consumer involvement'? Truth be told, he was finding the arrival of these three new members more entertaining than Public Liability Insurance.

“Don’t you usually get fresh coffee?” he asked. Ivy cackled eloquently. “I see,” he said. “Well, we’ve come nearly to the end of our agenda and this insurance issue can be discussed next time. It wouldn't harm if it were studied further before we make a decision anyway. So, unless there’s no 'Other Business', I think we should close the meeting and ask Mrs Bendicks to have coffee brought in. Real coffee,” he added in a stage whisper to Ivy. "And I think we should take this opportunity to get to know our new committee members." He raised his eyebrows and looked round for agreement. All seemed to be going very smoothly. Except - Mrs Bendicks had something more to say. The Chairperson sighed. "Can this be dealt with quickly?"

“Oh yes, “ said Mrs Bendicks, combining enthusiasm with a simper. “It's just that I'd like to inform the committee of the new staff uniform I'm introducing. I thought you'd like to see a sample.” She bent down and pulled a long cardboard box from under her chair and placed it on the table.

“One moment, Mrs Bendicks," said an elderly clergyman with the air of someone whose sleep has been disturbed by a burglar. “Didn’t we agree, some time ago, that one of the good things about Safehaven is its informality and that uniforms would be out of place?” Mrs Bendicks flushed.

.

“Oh, but just wait till you see it!” she said, lifting the lid. The Chairperson sighed theatrically and leaned back in his chair. “I don’t suppose it can harm to take a look in your box, Mrs Bendicks, as long as you can be quick and bear in mind that we have already discussed this matter at length. We don’t want to drag out the meeting unnecessarily. Do we? We want our coffee!”

Mrs Bendicks glared and lifted out a bright nylon overall, decorated with large, yellow clematis flowers on a lime green background. Reverently, she stood, and draped it against her. "What d'you think?"

The Committee collectively opened its eyes and gasped.

Ivy leapt to her feet. “Yellow!” she shrieked.

Camellia folded her arms on the table and lowered her head. “Oh no!” she said miserably.

But Hugh shouted. “Bravo! I misjudged you again, Mrs Bendicks, I do apologise. I hadn’t realised you possessed such a wonderful sense of humour! What an excellent joke.” He gave an appreciative laugh and began to clap, looking round at the bemused committee members as if expecting them to join in. After a few moments - they did.

Mrs Bendicks dropped the overall back into the box, said she would 'see about the coffee’ and left the room abruptly. Tears of cheerfulness were running down Ivy's face. “Wonderful,” she said. "Mr Thorncombe, you really are wonderful." And she took Hugh's elbow with one hand while she fumbled in her pocket for a handkerchief with the other. "A truly welcome addition to Safehaven. Wonderful, you are, Mr Thorncombe. Truly wonderful.”

Mrs Bendicks vanished for the rest of the day.

The coffee Maria wheeled in for them was good.

Very good.

_____

For the Next Post - Forty-Three

For the Post Before This - Forty-One

FORTY-ONE

continued from

.

And he strode in - Mrs Thatcher enthusiastically at his heels; Camellia behind, less so.

***

The night before, Hugh had taken three baths. He'd had to do something to pass the time while Camellia slept. And the water was perfect; unlike at home where it had to travel so far between a boiler and the bathroom it was almost cold by the time it got there. And he'd brought a suit with him too; a smart one because he'd wanted to impress Robert and the girls; and imagining he and Camellia would be spending most of the day with Rosemary, he'd put it on.

He'd been in meetings of one kind or another for most of his life. He'd been on boards of companies. His election to the P.C.C. had been automatic. He'd even thought he might stand as a Conservative M.P. once he retired from The City. And he might have done just that if he hadn't decided to farm at Thorncombe instead. Even now, from time to time, he'd go to London with his briefcase, where he'd blend in instantly with his peers. And so it was now. The men round the table recognised him straight away as one of their own and nodded a greeting - then they went back to studying their papers. Even the Chairperson remained unruffled, thinking Hugh was a new committee member arriving late. So he half stood, looked round for an empty chair and motioned Hugh to take a place. Then he saw two women coming in behind and this puzzled him because they didn't look quite ‘committee types’. Indeed one was clearly so over excited she couldn't walk straight or stand without wriggling. The other, though more formally dressed, was slightly dishevelled and seemed reluctant to enter. "Mrs Bendicks?"

Mrs Bendicks, sitting with her back to the door and engrossed in her papers was hardly aware anyone had come in. The Vicar hadn't arrived yet. If she'd thought about it at all, she'd have thought it was him.

“Mr Thorncombe!” she exclaimed, twisting round in her seat. I’m afraid this meeting isn’t open to residents. It’s The Management Committee for Safehaven."

“Fine, fine,” said Hugh, pulling over some extra chairs and showing Ivy where to sit. Then, “Come on. Come on,” he said encouragingly to Camellia. “You sit here, opposite me.” Reluctantly, Camellia took her place. “We’re so sorry to be late,” said Hugh, addressing the Chair. “The invitations arrived in this morning’s post - but we came as quickly as we could.”

The Chairperson was gripped so thoroughly by Hugh's air of authority that he paid no further attention to the women but Mrs Bendicks looked between the three of them, bewildered.

“Excuse me,” she said. “But what invitations?”

“From the Charity Commissioners,” said Hugh. (He was good at this.) “Apparently, they are keen to hear the voice of consumers in policy making. They want them to have strong representation on all decision making bodies. This will be the first committee at Safehaven to be given the advantage of such input but I understand invitations will be sent to other residents in due course. They will be taking their places on subcommittees and delegated groups over the next few months. It’s a mammoth undertaking, making such changes throughout the whole Voluntary Pirate Sector. Over time, the means for choosing representatives will change and develop. But this was all put through in a bit of a rush." He paused. The committee members grimaced and smiled at each other tolerantly. They were used to this kind of thing - not very well thought out policies sprung on them without notice. "But it’s an important development," Hugh went on. "And we,” he made formal nods towards Ivy and Camellia, “are very honoured to be the first residents chosen to represent Safehaven.”

“But you and Mrs Thorncombe only arrived yesterday,” said Mrs Bendicks, trying not to sound indignant, hoping no-one else had noticed Hugh calling her a 'pirate'.

“Precisely.” Hugh turned earnestly to face her. “We have been selected precisely because we are new and will have the clear and unjaded eyes of the inexperienced. Mrs Thatcher here,” he moved a hand to indicate her presence “will be speaking for the older residents.” He gave her a little, patronising smile. “If she will let me express it that way.” Ivy nodded enthusiastically.

The committee members responded with a polite rustle of laughter at this little joke but Mrs Bendicks grew more agitated.

“Could we have a word outside, Mr Thorncombe?” she said, half rising.

“Later, later, Mrs Bendicks,” said Hugh airily. “I look forward to hearing your views on this project but think we should see how it goes first - and,” he looked apologetically at the Chairperson, as if sharing the thought that Mrs Bendicks was to be humoured but not listened to. "We don’t want to disrupt proceedings any more than we have done already." He turned to the rest of the meeting. Mrs Thorncombe, Mrs Thatcher and I had a short discussion before we arrived, to decide policy, as it were. We decided it would be best simply to be observers at this first meeting - while we feel for our feet. Please let the meeting continue just as if we were not here. I do apologise that we are late.” He looked round at everyone present, craving their indulgence which, with smiles and nods, willingly they did.

The Chairperson thanked Hugh and turned back to his papers.

_____

For the Next Post - Forty-Two

For the post before this - Forty

FORTY

continued from

Except, the stairs didn't lead down to the kitchen but into a maze. They went down and up and along and round and through a door which led into what had once been a completely different building.

"Big, isn't it!" said Camellia. "I hadn't realised." And she screwed up her nose. "I think this is the 'ill' bit." Indeed, the smell of disinfectant had become horribly unpleasant and strong. "Let's go back."

So they went back and down and looked in the utility rooms and walk-in linen cupboards and dry food stores and a meter cupboard where the fuses were, and all sorts of places which weren't the kitchen - until, eventually, they came across an elderly lady with a huge handbag in the crook of her arm jumping up and down and trying to see through a square of wired glass in a door a distance ahead of them down a long corridor.

Hugh coughed politely as they came near.

“Hello,” she said, standing still for a moment and turning to greet them. “I’m trying to see in here. You’re new, aren’t you?”

“It's a meeting," said Hugh, bending to look through the glass. "There are eight people round a big table. We're here for a week."

“What kind of a meeting?” asked the lady. “Who’s there? I used to be a bit taller. It's a nuisance being short. Is Mrs Bendicks in there?”

"Yes," said Hugh. "I can see the back of her head."

"Who else, who else?"

"I don't know said Hugh. "Mostly men in suits."

“Brilliant!” exclaimed the old lady - and she pushed in front of him and held onto the narrow wooden frame round the glass and tried to lever herself up onto tip-toes so she could see through too.

Camellia was embarrassed. What if someone came along?

“My name is Camellia Thorncombe,” she said politely. "This is my husband, Hugh.”

The woman stopped bouncing up at the door for a second time and her manner changed. Very formally, stiffly, ostentatiously (but not offensively so) she offered her hand for Camellia to shake.

“Good morning. I’m Mrs Thatcher,” she said. Then, loosing interest in the meeting all of a sudden, she walked down the corridor a short distance and waited for them to follow.

“Mrs Thatcher?” asked Hugh.

“Yes!”

"No," said Hugh, pacing after her. "You aren't. The handbag proves it."

"I am." She paused. "Sometimes." Then she smiled.

"Who else are you?" asked Camellia, catching up. "When it isn't 'sometimes' and you aren't Mrs Thatcher?" For a moment, it looked as if the elderly lady had decided not to say any more and Camellia worried she might have misunderstood.

"Ivy."

This came out reluctantly, maybe things were moving too fast.

“Is that all?” Hugh asked. "Or do you have other names for other days?"

“It depends.”

Camellia decided to be as friendly as she possibly could. “What does it depend on?” she asked with interest.

“It depends on 'it depends'. How many names do you have? Will you say?" The woman looked challengingly between Hugh and Camellia and they looked back at her. "Go on," she said. "I’d be interested to know how many names you have.”

"Ah!" suddenly, Hugh understood.

“Well, generally, I’m Hugh Thorncombe," he said. "But just lately, by which I mean, since yesterday evening, I’ve become Lord Thorncombe as well.”

“There you are!” she said triumphantly. "And you are Lady Thorncombe?"

“Hamilton, actually. Lady Hamilton.” Camellia looked at her feet and back at Mrs Thatcher rather shyly. “That’s what you’re asking, isn’t it?”

“Yes, yes,” replied Mrs Thatcher excitedly. “That’s exactly what I mean. I thought you’d be the ones. I heard Mrs Bendicks talking to Maria last night. She was saying you couldn’t really be Lady Hamilton because Napoleon is French and you don't seem the type to marry a foreigner.”

“She said that?” asked Hugh incredulously.

“Oh, she’s no sense of history,” said Mrs Thatcher dismissively. “It may have been because Maria took you tea. If you had been French, you would have asked for coffee wouldn't you? What would you prefer me to call you? Lady Hamilton or Lady Thorncombe? Which do you like best?”

“Neither, really,” said Camellia. "I'm Camellia. Just Camellia. I used to be 'Mrs Thorncombe' but everyone uses my first name now except for the milkman and he doesn't come any more. I'd like you to call me Camellia. Do you think that will be alright?”

“Absolutely fine," agreed Mrs Thatcher-Ivy. "Except in public. Then you had better be Lady Hamilton. Otherwise it might get confusing."

“And we are to call you 'Mrs Thatcher' in public but 'Ivy' in private?”

“If you don’t mind,” she said.

“Are you really a 'Mrs Thatcher'?" asked Hugh. "Ivy Thatcher perhaps? I ask despite the handbag."

"Nope," said Mrs Thatcher cheerfully. "I'm Mrs-Thatcher-the-Prime-Minister."

A burst of laughter in the room nearby drew their attention back to the meeting. “But why are you so interested in what’s happening in that room?” asked Hugh.

“Oh,” she said. “I’m not really interested. It’s just that I like to bug Mrs Bendicks. I wish she'd been facing the door. Then she'd have seen me. Pathetic, isn’t it? Really childish. But that woman is so annoying and there's so little to do here, it's a kind of mild entertainment. Not that Mrs Bendicks thinks it's entertaining. But she thinks I'm dotty so she can't throw me out. I fulfil all her expectations of dottiness; I'm short, white haired and mad. Shall we get some coffee? Or tea? It’s pretty awful - and comes out of a machine - but it's better than nothing. They won’t trust us with kettles. Come on.”

And she began to walk on down the corridor.

“Hang on,” said Hugh. “I'm with you completely. I've not given a false name since I was at school but telling Mrs Bendicks I'm a 'Lord' turns out to be a half decent joke. She 'half-believed' me! She certainly humoured me. We’ll help with this meeting if you like. Except - we’re here only for a few days. It doesn't matter what we do and we won't mind if we get sent home - as long as we see our grandchildren first. It could be quite fun. Like being expelled. But we wouldn't like to make things worse for you, would we Camellia?"

Camellia shook her head and wondered what Hugh was letting them into.

“You can't make it worse," said Mrs Thatcher. "And I can't be expelled. She has to be kind to me because I'm dotty. And we've got to have fun, us oldies, haven't we? What's the point of being old if you can't have fun because of it?"

“As long as you never wear a yellow hat!” said Camellia.

“No chance!” said Mrs Thatcher. “You have only to walk in through the front door here to get sick of yellow. She'd got through all the loos and showers and the entrance hall and the curtains in the Lounge and in some of the bedrooms before she was stopped."

“That's enough!" said Hugh. “I’ve always wanted to be ‘bad’. Now we'll seek 'vengeance for yellow'. Why peep in at a window when we could sit at the table? Come on!" And he strode back down the corridor and flung open the door to the meeting room. "Come on, I said! Come on you two. Hurry up now! We mustn't be late for the meeting!"

_____

For the Next Post - Forty-One

For the Post Before This - Thirty-Nine

THIRTY-NINE

continued from

.

“Oh, Grandma,” Hugh said. “What great big eyes you’ve got! And what a great big yawn and what a ridiculous book! What a pretty shawl and snowy white hair. Shall I eat you or take you to breakfast?”

Camellia put down her cup and her book and levered herself reluctantly out of bed.

"Hey ho," she said. "The wind and the rain. I'd better get dressed."

"Everyone else was up hours ago," said Hugh. "This tea is supposed to be a signal that breakfast's ready, not an invitation to stay in bed. You really are a sluggard today." Camellia's face fell. Immediately he regretted joking. She'd looked so pink and happy when he came into the room, he'd forgotten how fragile she was. He hugged her and gathered up the slippery quilt which had fallen to the floor. "Don't worry," he said, dumping it in a pile on the bed. "They're all old people here, wake terribly early; can't sleep for remembering their youth. Shall I find your knickers for you?"

"Go away Hugh," she said crossly. "We're all old people now. That's why we're here!"

He kissed her again and went to sit in the comfortable chair. "I'll wait," he said. "Sorry I've pushed you out of bed the wrong side but I've been up for what seems like hours now myself. I'd expected you to be the same. I didn't know you had so much sleep left."

"Years!" she said. "Years and years of it. I’ll wash later if we're in a hurry.”

"Have you met Maria?"

"I have," said Camellia, from inside her jumper. "She seems to be the only one doing any work."

"Oh," said Hugh, crestfallen. "I was wondering if we might ask her if she'd bring breakfast to us here. There's a cook remember. We could ask for toast? She'll manage. Remember what you were like when we were young?"

"We had servants and farm labourers and gardeners. I couldn't have done it all on my own."

"Don't be silly, Camellia, it's not a farm or an estate. All I'm suggesting is a pot of tea and some toast."

Camellia contemplated the backs of her hands - the raised veins and sinews, the little brown patches; her rough skin, her broken nails, the ingrained dirt, the raw scratches and white scars. "I can't keep doing what I do," she said. "Look."

Hugh looked at his own hands too and sighed. “We can’t give up.”

“No. But rest shouldn't be a luxury; not at our age."

His heart lurched.

“You're not suggesting we stay here?” He looked so shocked, she laughed and a huge and beautiful smile rippled through the lines on her face.

“Heaven forbid! Oh help! No! What a thought! How could you think that!" She bent over and pulled on her shoes. "It's this talk of servants and farm hands - and having Maria to bring me tea. It's made me think of Stephen. Do you think he might stay?"

"Of course not! He's some kind of banker! I'm amazed he's stayed this long, Camellia. He's not going to be a farm worker!"

"But it's going to feel so empty, when we go home."

"Camellia, Stephen's not going to be bringing you cups of tea in bed!" He leaped out of his chair, scooped the quilt into his arms for a second time and put it back on the bed again. "Bothersome thing! Be realistic!"

"I am. We can't go on as we have been."

"I can't go on without breakfast."

"I can't sit with new people while I'm feeling like this," said Camellia bleakly. "I might cry."

"Oh, come on," said Hugh, hugging her tight. "We'll find the kitchen and fetch a tray of tea and toast and have an argument up here about what Stephen should do with his life - turn computers into cashiers or come and toss hay."

"I know what I'd chose," said Camellia.

"Yes, but you're not him, are you?"

"Dead ends," said Camellia as Hugh opened the door and hurried her through it.

"What are?"

"Computers. They've been tried and found wanting. I'd rather have a cow any day."

"Yes, well that's you," he said, nudging her towards the nearest stairs - which weren't the main ones but ones with narrow steps which probably led down to the kitchens. "Come on. Before the cook goes home."

_____

To continue - Forty

For the post before this - Thirty-Eight

THIRTY-EIGHT

.

CHAPTER SEVEN

(continued from)

The next morning, Camellia was surprised how refreshed she felt. Along with the tea, Maria had given her sandwiches and cake and fruit and had helped her find her night-dress and had supplied her with a warm towel and a tooth mug. Then she'd come back with a hot water bottle. She'd even turned off the bedside light. When Hugh peeped in, half an hour later, Camellia was already asleep. Without Maria, she wouldn't have slept at all.

“Don’t you ever go home?” Camellia asked brightly, looking at her now over her reading spectacles. It was eight o'clock, the sun was shining through a crack in the curtains and she was sitting up in bed with a 'Who Dunnit' and feeling happier and more rested than she remembered feeling in years. Maria put a cup of tea on the little table beside her.

“I’ve been at home most of the night,” she said, smiling.

"I'm usually up too by now," said Camellia, feeling guilty because Maria was working and she wasn't.

"Yes?"

"We've got animals." She knew the maid was busy and didn't want to stop but she was keen to let her know she wasn't lazy. It was awkward, sitting up in bed like this while someone else brought things. "Cows and sheep - and we used to have hens. Then there's wood to be chopped and scones to be baked."

"Breakfast is at nine," said Maria, beginning to move towards her trolley.

"Oh," said Camellia. "Have you seen my husband?"

"He was here last night. He sat with you for a bit, then I suggested he got an early night himself. You were both tired after your journey."

"We were," said Camellia, feeling she'd missed out on something. "Will I be seeing more of you, through the day?"

Maria laughed.

"Oh yes! Lots. I start with tea and end with cocoa."

"Cocoa?"

"Twelve hours," said Maria, grimacing. "Cocoa's at seven, then I go."

"Seven!"

“I’m sorry.” When she apologised, she wrinkled her nose. “But I need to get round everyone before the night staff come in. They wash up the mugs for me, then they doze in front of the telly most of the night. They've nearly all got day-jobs . . . they’re only here for emergencies - or a fire. So . . . ”

Maria moved further towards the door.

“Well!” said Camellia, in a huff, not sure whether she was more cross that she'd have to drink her cocoa at seven or that the night-staff spent their time watching television.

Maria looked at her thoughtfully.

"They don’t get paid enough you know."

"I'll get a kettle," said Camellia. "That way, they can watch television without worrying about us and Hugh and I will make tea for ourselves when we want it. I'm not going to bed at seven."

Maria leant on the trolley and shook her head.

“No kettles?"

“You might scald yourself.”

“Well!” Camellia exclaimed crossly. But she knew it wasn't Maria's fault and she didn't want to say anything too angry or hurtful. "I told Mrs Bendicks I was Lady Hamilton.”

"Did you?" Maria nodded. "I expect that'll do. See you later." She shut the door and set off down the corridor with the trolley, tea cups clinking against saucers. Camellia heard cheerful 'Good Morning!'s and fragments of indistinct conversation as the bedroom doors opened and Maria went in to visit each resident in turn.

__________

To continue - Thirty-Nine

For the Post Before This - Thirty-Seven

THIRTY-SEVEN

continued from

Camellia went to the window and watched grey comuter trains cross in the cutting below. She admired the horse-chestnut trees on the slope opposite and wandered round the room looking at prints of roses and of children peering down wells. She wondered what Robert had done with their other suitcases - and what Rosemary was doing now.

Then she sat in the chair. And on the bed. Then she looked in the speckled glass of the wardrobe mirror and pretended to be Mrs Bendicks for a minute. Then she went back to the bed, swung her legs up onto it, wondered how long Hugh would be - and fell asleep.

When she woke, the light was almost gone and someone was tapping at the door. Not Hugh. He would have marched straight in. She leaned up on an elbow and brushed the back of her hand across her eyes. She'd been crying. Another tap. Definitely a tap - but a gentle one. She could have pretended not to hear.

"Come in."

It was the maid; the one she'd seen with the tea-trolley.

"Hello," said the maid, stepping half into the room. "I'm Maria. May I come in?" Camellia smiled. "I work on the day shift," said Maria, stepping further into the room and closing the door. "May I sit down?"

Camellia wondered how long she had been asleep. Her brain had gone all fuzzy. She nodded.

"I'll bring you some tea in a minute, if you would like?"

Camellia thought that would be very nice. She thought Maria looked nice too; soft round the edges; not like Mrs Bendicks. And her hair was soft, instead of rigid. Black and wavy. Even in the half-light, Camellia could see her un-made-up cheeks were round and cheerful and healthy. Tired though.

"I'm meant to be cleaning saucepans but I wanted to say 'hello' so I came up. I hope that's alright?"

"Thank you," said Camellia, gratefully. A tear ran out of her eye. Where was Hugh? "Mrs Bendicks . . . ."

"Don't be frightened of her," Maria said, kindly. "There's no need."

Camellia pushed herself upright. “But she keeps changing. One minute she's friendly - then she's . . . !” Her eyes were heavy and closed themselves. She couldn't stop them. It had been a long day and a mistake to lie on the bed. But it was quite comforting, being here in the half-light, with Maria.

“Just think of her like the central heating,” said Maria cheerfully. "Then she won't be so frightening." Camellia pulled her eyes open. "She just turns herself on and off so things stay under control. She likes things to be well organised. She likes to be the organiser! Once you know that, and think of her like a sort of thermostat, you'll see she's really quite predictable."

"But it's bewildering," said Camellia, hoping she didn't sound too childish. And it was bewildering. She wished she weren't here. She was very, very tired. That was about all she was properly aware of by now. That, and that she didn't want to be barked at or simpered at. And that she wished she could go home.

"You're not frightened of the central heating, are you?"

Camellia turned on the lamp beside the bed.

"Do you say this to everyone?"

Maria looked down at her hands, which she'd folded neatly in her lap.

"I find it helps."

"I'm sure it does," said Camellia - and she reached out her own hand for Maria to take. Maria did. For a few moments, they sat together quietly, just like that, holding hands in the lamplight. Then Maria offered to light the gas fire and Camellia reminded her that she'd like a cup of tea - milk, no sugar.

_____

to continue - Thirty-Eight

For the Post Before This - Thirty-Six

THIRTY-SIX

continued from

The room Mrs Bendicks showed them to was at the back of the building, overlooking some very pleasant gardens and a railway.

“We’re proud of our gardens,” said Mrs Bendicks.  “They’re surprisingly large because we have access to several.  Some of our gentlemen like to stand on the bridge and watch trains going through the cutting.  And it’s our very own bridge  -  a private one  -  with Safehaven gardens continuing on the other side!”

"Well, well," said Camellia.  “Noisy, though.”

“You’ll not notice,” said Mrs Bendicks.  "It's a commuter line.  There are no trains after eight o'clock.  Here’s the wardrobe.”  Camellia looked into the wardrobe.  “And a fire for the evenings.”  Camellia looked at the fire.  It was the kind where gas hums and pops over white pottery shapes.  “Maria will light it for you if you need it.  And here’s a chest of drawers.”

“And a table,” said Camellia.

“Yes,” said Mrs Bendicks.  “A table and an easy chair.”

“And a lampshade,” said Hugh.

“What?”

“A lampshade, Mrs Bendicks!  Don’t forget to introduce us to the lampshade!”  Mrs Bendicks, looked up.  “And a very pleasant view,” Hugh went on.  “Nice sturdy garden tables.  Solid looking benches.  Wrong room.”

Mrs Bendicks' eyes darted from the window to Hugh.

“It’s only a single bed,” he said, pointing at it irritably.  “We’ll need something bigger than that.”

Mrs Bendicks frowned.

“I’ll show you to your room now, shall I Mr Thorncombe?" she said, quietly.  "I’m sure your wife will be perfectly comfortable.”  Then she went to the door and stood by it, clearly waiting for Hugh to walk ahead of her.  He didn’t.  “We’ll leave you to unpack, shall we, Mrs Thorncombe?”

Camellia felt 'pointedness' creeping into her heart.  It was like a wasp searching for a place to lay its eggs or for something delicate to sting.

“No, Mrs Bendicks,” said Hugh.  “Not this room.  A double room.”

Mrs Bendicks drew herself up proudly.  “There are no double rooms here,” she said.  “Residents are not expected to sleep together!”

“And you?  Mrs Bendicks.  Do you not sleep with your husband?”

“I am not a resident, Mr Thorncombe!”

“But when you go home you  . . .  ?”

“Ah!  I'm glad you mentioned that.  We have a flat at the top of the building, Mr Thorncombe.  This is important, if you need anything, either of you, in the night, or in the day  . . .  "

“Then  -  you are a resident!  And you sleep in separate rooms.”  Mrs Bendicks drew her shoulders back regimentally  -  which made the clematis flowers slide up her chest.  Camellia wondered what would happen if she asked Mrs Bendicks to do it a few times on purpose.  Up.  Down.  No.  “Or separate beds?" suggested Hugh.  Silence.  "Then we’ll have a double room please, Mrs Bendicks.”

“There are no double rooms, Mr Thorncombe.”

“Lord.”

"What?"

"Lord Thorncombe."

Camellia felt her heart shake free of the wasp.

"And my wife is  . . .  "

"Lady Hamilton," said Camellia, surprised at herself.  She had no idea where the idea came from.  It just jolted out.  But Hugh smiled encouragingly so she ploughed on.  "I used to be married to Nelson," she said.  (Was this right?  She hadn't read any history recently.  Perhaps she should cover herself better?  Introduce a little flexibility.)  "Then I married Napoleon.  Afterwards  . . .  "  (What next?  If she wasn't careful, she'd panic.)  "Then I married Hugh," she ended, triumphantly.

Mrs Bendicks suddenly relaxed.  It was as if she had reached somewhere she knew; a safe place, something she had come across before and understood perfectly.

"Lady Hamilton!  Ah yes.  Well, I very much hope you enjoy your stay.  Shall I show you to your room, Lord Thorncombe?" and she stepped briskly onto the landing where she waited for Hugh to follow.  After a moment, he did.  But first, he kissed Camellia.

"Well done," he whispered.  "I'll be back."

_____

For the Next Post  -  Thirty-Seven

For the Post Before This  -  Thirty-Five

THIRTY-FIVE

continued from

.

The door to the common sitting-room (on the right) and to the attendant’s office (on the left) were painted highly and whitely in gloss; and the double doors to the lift (next to the office) were stainless steel.   The ceiling was white.  The wall of the television room (next to the sitting room) was solid plate-glass but all the other walls (and the thick, sound-quenching carpet) were unrelenting buttercup.

“Yellow,” said Camellia.  And she sighed.

"Yes,” said Mrs Bendicks, arriving beside them proudly.  “I haven’t been here long but my first action as Manager was to cheer up the decor.

"Really?" asked Camellia, wondering if she sounded interested.

"Yes!" said Mrs Bendicks again, enthusiasm softening her features and her cheeks pinkening until they clashed with her housecoat.  "I wanted to put up yellow shutters but the council wouldn’t allow it.  There are all sorts of planning restrictions on buildings this side of The Common.  Such a shame."  (Hugh grunted.)  "I’ve made a special study of how colour makes people feel  -  and yellow "mellows".  Residents and staff alike have been much happier since I had this done."

"Really?" said Camellia.

"Indeed!" said Hugh.  "I expect you would have wanted the window boxes to be planted with red geraniums in the summer?  A cheerful contrast.  An Alpine effect?”

“Why yes!”, said Mrs Bendicks, looking at him with interest.  “How did you know?”  She reached out and touched his sleeve lightly  -  which startled Hugh so much he had to force himself not to jump backwards.  She didn't seem to notice.  “But the Management Committee was against that.  Such fuddy duddies.”  She ran her hands over her housecoat and smoothed the nylon clematis flowers against her hips.  "I'll show you to your rooms, shall I?"

Hugh and Camellia stepped towards the lift.

“Stairs!” barked Mrs Bendicks.  They turned back, startled.  “We always use the stairs,” she said. “It keeps our hearts and minds in order.”

"Really?" said Camellia, resolving she'd try not to say it again.

"Our hearts and minds are fine, thank you Mrs Bendicks," said Hugh, pressing the 'CALL LIFT ' button.

The doors opened, more or less immediately, revealing two startled ambulance men; and a very pale old lady lying on a wheeled stretcher.  Hugh and Camellia moved aside to let them through but instead of coming forwards, one of the ambulance men leaned over the lady and pressed a button on the control panel so the doors slid shut, and the lift went up two levels.

"There!" said Mrs Bendicks, "we'll walk shall we?"

"We'll wait!" said Hugh.

Camellia distracted herself by watching a maid trundle a tea-trolley into the television room, where an elderly man slept in front of a black and white race track.  Through the glass, Camellia saw her raise his arm a little.  Gently, she returned it to its position, clinked a cup against a saucer and spoke again.  The man stirred.  The maid smiled and put a plate with a biscuit on a table in front of him.  Then, she seemed to be asking about the television.  Did he want to stay on the same channel?  -  something like that, Camellia guessed.  But her attention was pulled away by the arrival of the lift which had returned to Ground Floor and the doors had opened.  The ambulance men and the old lady were still inside.  The doors closed again.  The lift went back up.

"Still here?" asked Robert, coming in with the first suitcases and putting them on the floor next to Hugh.

"We'll take them straight up," said Mrs Bendicks.

"Ah!" said Robert. "That's fortunate.  Look, the lift is on its way down."

"There's a body in it," said Hugh.

"The stairs," said Mrs Bendicks.

Robert said "Right;" picked up the suitcases and began to walk towards the first step.

The lift doors half opened  -  and closed.

Mrs Bendicks immediately saw she would have no problems watching over Hugh's heart for him.  In a flash, he was right past her, up the stairs and on the first floor landing so he could press the 'CALL' button in time to intercept the lift on its latest journey upwards.  The doors opened and his foot went straight over the threshold.

"Hello," he said, cheerfully to the ambulance men.  "May I introduce myself?  Hugh Thorncombe."  And he held out a hand to each in turn.  Reluctantly, they shook it politely  -  though the lady on the stretcher carried on lying still.  Hugh observed her carefully for a moment, then he smiled.  "My wife, Camellia  -  she's on her way up  -  she and I are here for a holiday."  He lowered his voice  -  but not so low that Mrs Bendicks wouldn't be able to hear if she wanted to listen.  "We're farmers," he said.  The ambulance men looked uncomfortable.  He took this as a good sign.   "Which means," he said, sternly, "we're unshockable."  Then he winked.  "You can take her out now."  One of the ambulance men winked in reply.  Couldn't help himself.  It just happened.  "Right," said Hugh  -  and he stepped back, pressed the button for 'Ground Floor'  -  and got out of the lift.

Camellia was half way up the stairs with Robert; Mrs Bendicks plodding indignantly behind.  "They don't want to cover her face," Camellia was saying. "That would prove she's dead.  Do you see?  Quite funny really, in an Old People's Home.  That's right, isn't it, dear?" she asked Mrs Bendicks.

She didn't usually say 'dear'  -  it was something to do with being two steps up from someone she didn't like.

At that moment, an elderly man emerged from the sitting room.  "Is that your car outside?" he shouted.  Then he stepped deferentially aside because the lift doors had opened and the ambulance men were wheeling the stretcher and the old lady towards the front door.  One gave Hugh a half wave and smiled bleakly as they tipped it backwards and began to carry it down the steps.

Robert didn't turn.  He didn't want to see.  "Yes!" he shouted.

"There's a traffic warden," called the man.  "In the street.  Just thought you'd want to know!

_____

For the Next Post  -  Thirty-Six

For the Post Before This  -  Thirty-Four

THIRTY-FOUR

continued from

.

Camellia moved away and stood watching The Common. Cars were threading themselves smoothly between the avenues of trees, sunshine glancing off their windscreens. An old man and a little boy were throwing bread to geese gathered near a pond. Every so often, the boy ran off, opening his arms to rush at pigeons. Further away, a fair was being set up, with a gang of men pulling a ferris wheel upright, while others were lifting painted horses out of a truck. Next to Safehaven, rush-hour traffic was slowing into the Wandsworth bottle neck. Camellia wrinkled her nose at the smell and watched as the heads and shoulders of drivers bobbed up and down when they searched for tapes or switched channels on their radios. They doubted they'd move much in the next hour.

Robert followed a little way. He wanted to reassure her, tell her everything would be alright once they'd seen their rooms and met other residents. But he thought too that he should rescue Mrs Bendicks who clearly wasn't inclined to be friendly with Hugh even though he was enthusiastically making bold attempts to grab her hand and shake it.

“Mrs Bendicks!" he was exclaiming. "How kind of you to have us to stay! And in such a wonderful location! A hint of the country side,” (he swept his arm theatrically across the view of the Common) "combined so enticingly with the promise of City life!” And he swept his arm back towards the east until a grimy index finger was pointing in the direction of central London.

“I hope you realise, Mr Thorncombe," replied Mrs Bendicks, coldly. "That this is a Rest Home, not a Hotel.”

He shuffled his feet and dropped his shoulders into a posture reminiscent of respect.

“I’m so sorry,” he said, in a low voice. “I’ll try to be quiet. That’s the trouble with young people, one little illness, one broken leg and the whole world has to be hushed on their behalf. You should work with older people Mrs Bendicks! Far less trouble. Especially deaf ones. Then you can sing as much as you like and be happy!" His voice had risen once more. Camellia walked back. Hugh had become so animated she wondered if he might break into a dance. Whatever was he doing? "There's not much to mind, is there, once you get old? Glad to hear anything I should think. How long is it before you retire?”

Camellia smiled. No. Not smiled. It was a smirk. A suppressed delight. Almost a giggle.

Hugh smiled back. “Camellia! Come on my dear," he shouted. "Don’t keep Mrs Bendicks waiting! Our holiday (Oh!)" he turned apologetically to Mrs Bendicks who had taken a couple of paces sideways. "Ah! There you are. I mean our 'REST' . . . Is about to begin.”

Camellia grasped the iron hand rail, lowered her head and walked slowly up the steps, as if taking care on each one.

Mrs Bendicks tried to look sympathetic. After all, a ‘relative’ was looking on and 'relatives' were, in her experience, generally the ones who paid. At the very least, they were the ones with influence; the ones in charge of money, even if it wasn't actually theirs.

Not only that, Mrs Bendicks had decided there were only three kinds of people in the world. There were old people who needed to be looked after. There were children - who also needed looking after. And there were the people in the middle who did the looking after - either by themselves or with the paid help of people like her. She certainly knew who was important and who wasn't!

"Mr Symmonds!" she said, extending her hand warmly towards Robert as he arrived at the top step with Camellia. "How nice to meet you again! And in the company of your charming parents."

Robert said "My," and Mrs Bendicks leapt in to finish for him.

"Ah, yes, your wife's! Come in, come in! It's won't be long until tea. You must be tired after your journey.”

“Indeed we are,” said Hugh.

“I was thinking of the driver,” said Mrs Bendicks coldly - with a smile that was directed sweetly, complicitly and exclusively at Robert.

“Thank you," he said. But he wasn't looking at her. He was trying to catch Hugh's eye; to communicate his alarm . . . to apologise - but Hugh turned his back and walked in through the front door. Camellia took one last look at the life of The Common - the children, the fair, the pigeons, the geese and the traffic - and followed him into the deadly quiet of Safehaven.

Robert began to go in too.

"No!," said Mrs Bendicks, "You must move the car first. You're on yellow lines."

“Right,” said Robert, seeing this might be a chance to escape. “I’ll just bring the suitcases up, then I'll . . . ." He could go home! "I'll tell Rosemary you're here,” he called. His voice shook. He was suddenly struck by the idea that there might well be a different world beyond that door, a world he should be glad he wasn't entering, however expensive it was, however 'comfortable' it might be. But Hugh and Camellia didn't hear him for they were being assaulted, once again, by brightness - except this time it was worse because it was in a confined space, horribly clean and smelled of polish.

_____

For The Next Post  -  Thirty-Five

For the post before this - Thirty-Three

THIRTY-THREE

continued from

CHAPTER SIX

.

Camellia shoved the car door open and swung her legs round onto the pavement. 'Safehaven' seemed to be leaning over her, ready to collapse out of a startlingly blue sky where puffs of high white cloud were streaming over its grey tiled roof five stories up.

She blinked, and felt dizzy, and raised her hand to shield out the glare. It had been a long drive. Her head hurt and her eyes did too. Robert hurried round to her side of the car and held the door steady.

“When you’re ready,” he said.

“I’m not.”

Now she was here, she didn't want to get out - just sit - and look. Just let her get her breath, she thought, then, when she'd looked enough, she'd ask Hugh if they could go home.

It was a flat-fronted, medium-grand house in the middle of a terrace which faced The Common. Black railings bordered an old fashioned 'area' and there was a fan shaped flight of steps leading up to a bright yellow front door.

"They like yellow," she observed as Hugh came round to stand next to Robert.

Indeed, they did. There were yellow painted window boxes with yellow daffodils. And the curtains which stood to attention on each side of every sash window were yellow too.

Hugh leant down encouragingly.

"Better than orange," he said.

She sighed and pulled herself up on the frame of the car. She'd have to get out after all.

"I hope they've gone!" she said, quietly, so Robert wouldn't hear.

Hugh understood. Neither of them would have liked to meet a designer who chose nothing but yellow. Despite the sheep and the cats and the dirt, Camellia considered they were people of 'good taste'. By this, she meant the same as the people they'd grown up amongst. People like the parents of the girls she'd been to school with. She shuddered. This was what arriving here reminded her of - being delivered at the beginning of term and left there until it ended.

Hugh read her mind.

"It's only a week," he whispered encouragingly, bringing his lips close to her ear so he could kiss it too.

Robert was levering suitcases out of the boot and lining them neatly along the railings at the foot of the steps. He saw Hugh lean towards Camellia. He saw Camellia clutch Hugh's arm. And he felt guilty.

"For their own good," he told himself - though he was no longer sure. "For the children," he said. And of that, he was certain.

"Look!" said Camellia. She couldn't stop whispering. Beside the front door was a painted notice. Very professional looking. Very smart. Black letters on a yellow background. Camellia winced.

SAFEHAVEN
CONVALESCENCE, REST, RESPITE CARE
SHORT AND LONG TERM RESIDENTS
MANAGER - MRS R. BENDICKS

“We must be ‘Short Term’,” she said.

"I hope not!"

"Oh!"

Her heart jolted at the thought of being carried out, feet first.

“Mainly young people is it?" Hugh called out jauntily to Robert who was now stretching his back and wondering why the suitcases were so heavy. "Recovering from skiing accidents and that kind of thing? I think we may feel a little out of place here, old chap."

A strong looking woman, of medium height, walked onto the top of the steps. Her hair was a rigid perm and her house coat iridescent with nylon. Her smile was less bright.

“Ah,” said Robert with relief. “Here’s Mrs Bendicks.”

Camellia took one look at Mrs Bendicks and turned anxiously back to Hugh, expecting to see her own consternation mirrored in him. But something odd was happening. Squinting through the bright light, she could see admiring gleams of adoration flitting into his eyes and the twitch of a smile flickering about his lips. He looked younger. He appeared to be entranced and suddenly - surely not? - glad to be here?

“We are going to have the most wonderful time!” he said, speaking through his teeth and out of the corner of his mouth. Mrs Bendicks looked down at his distorted face with concern. At the same time, she seemed quietly pleased.

“Hugh?” said Camellia, still in an undertone. “Are you alright?”

“Just look at that overall!” he breathed rapturously. Violet and purple! Clematis flowers! How charming! And her shoes. She chose them specially to match the front door!

Then he turned to Robert, who was staring at Hugh with almost as much concern as Camellia.

"Robert!" he shouted joyfully! "We are going to have a wonderful time! Thank you so much!" And in an outburst of energy, he grabbed one of the bags from the pavement and bounded up the steps towards the stiff figure of Mrs Bendicks at the top. "Tell Rosemary," he called back. "She has chosen well. We're going to be very happy here!"

_____

To continue - Thirty-Four

For the post before this - Thirty-Two