Delighted to have received my copies of the anthology 'You're not alone' here in sunny France. I'm so proud to be sharing the pages with a group of talented writers who have contributed some excellent stories. You can buy the book on Amazon or click the link:
You're not alone
If it's not enough that all proceeds go to Macmillan nurses, well let me entice you with the story I contributed. It is very loosy based on my mother's story, but let me stress that she isn't one of the silver surfers from the book.
Never
Too Old
By
Angela Lockwood
Patricia Turner’s children had wanted her to do this years
ago. They said they were worried for her, all alone in that big house. They
didn’t realise that you can’t just sell a house that holds forty five years of
memories and move to an apartment.
Forty five years
of seeing the children grow up, thirty five years of blissful marriage with
Frank, and in the last few years seeing the grandchildren enjoying the garden
all over again. But Patricia had to admit that the garden Frank had always kept
so pristine now looked a little over grown.
Then one morning, Patricia slipped on her bedside rug; fell
and broke her hip. She lay there in agony for four hours. A concerned neighbour
with a spare key let herself in, having noticed that at 11am, the curtains were
still drawn.
Once Patricia had
recuperated from the hip replacement surgery, she told her children that she
wanted to sell the house and move to the sheltered apartments on the other side
of the village. They told her they were relieved she had taken the decision.
They pledged their help in tidying up and packing. Carloads of superfluous
goods were dispatched to children and grandchildren until all that remained was
what she needed in the new apartment.
Patricia had moved
into the apartment yesterday. Once all the furniture was put in place by the
removal men, a small army of relatives started opening boxes and putting her
things in the empty cupboards. She quickly exhausted herself by running after
everyone, trying to direct her things to the right places. She gave up. Out of
breath, she sank into a chair.
Let them be, Patricia, she told
herself. They mean well and you’ve got
the rest of your life to put it right.
“This is a
lovely view,” said Patricia to her new neighbour, Sheila Smyth.
The two were
standing in the bright hallway outside their apartments, looking through the
large glass windows at the village below. When Patricia stretched onto her toes,
she could see the roof of her old house. She hadn’t moved far and even the new
neighbour was someone she had known for years; their children had gone to
school together.
“I’ll take you down for coffee hour.
Management puts some tea, coffee and biscuits on every weekday. Residents can
go down if they want,” informed Sheila.
Patricia nodded
her approval and the women set off down the long hallway.
“It’s great you’ve moved here. I heard
Mavis Barnstable might be coming too,” said Sheila.
“That would be nice; she’s an excellent bridge player,” and then after
some thought she added “Mind you, her husband Colin, likes his whiskey. Frank
and I used to play the Barnstables, but by 10pm we would make our excuses, as
his play didn’t make much sense anymore.”
“What, you haven’t heard?
Colin died a month ago from a heart attack,” said Sheila surprised.
Patricia found it hard to say something nice about Colin
Barnstable; instead she just left a respectful silence. Then when it seemed
appropriate she asked cheerfully, “Do they have a bridge club here?”
“I think they meet every Friday in the
recreation room,”
The two women
stopped in front of the lift and Sheila pressed the call button. When the door
opened there was already a man in a wheelchair inside.
“Morning
Mr Walker,” said Sheila cheerfully, “This is Patricia Turner, she just moved
in.”
“What a delight to have another lovely
young lady in our residence!” he said, beaming.
“Gosh, no one has called me a young lady
for a very long time,” laughed Patricia.
“Mr Walker is going to be ninety nine next
week, at seventy five we’re just mere spring chickens to him,” explained
Sheila.
Just then Patricia
felt her bottom being pinched. She looked at Mr Walker in his wheelchair. He
sported a grin stretching from ear to ear. To her relief the lift stopped and
the door opened. The man in his chair left through reception and the two women
headed to the recreation room.
“I think that man just pinched my bottom,”
whispered a shocked Patricia to her friend.
She roared with
laughter, “Ninety nine years old, in a wheelchair, but he is still a randy
bugger.”
They
entered the recreation room and found about a dozen residents already there.
Most of the people living at Lower Hallerington sheltered housing were female,
and Patricia only spotted two men in the room. Sheila first introduced her to
the men.
“This is George Willoughby,” she said to a bald-headed heavy
set man,“ did you not work at British Gas, George?”
“I did indeed,”
he answered, shaking Patricia’s hand.
“So did my
husband. You might have known him - Frank Turner?”
“Not very well
as he was in a different department, but yes I’ve heard of him. Delighted to
have you with us Mrs. Turner.”
Then Sheila
introduced a thin grey-haired man as Victor Lambert. Patricia and Victor shook
hands and they moved on to the women in the room. Most of them, she already
knew from church or via her children’s old school. After the introductions were
done, she noticed that the men were having an argument and she leaned in to
listen.
“I’ll tell you it was a fellow called
Corleone,” George argued.
“I’m
not sure that was the fellow that played Fredo in The Godfather,” replied Victor doubtfully.
“It was! Donald Corleone. I think he even
got an Oscar,” said the bald one with certainty.
Victor shook his head sadly. “Maybe it was. It frightens me
how forgetful I am these days. I used to know all the Hollywood actors.”
“Well, my mind is as sharp as an
eighteen-year-old’s,” stated George proudly and without a shred of sympathy for
the other man.
Patricia did
sympathise with Victor. Altzheimers was the disease that she was most afraid
of. Every time she caught herself forgetting something, she would smile wryly;
I’ll be
able to hide my own Easter eggs soon!
Patricia turned
her attention to the women. One particular lady had caught her eye because she
was wearing bright red nail varnish and her cheeks glowed with pink blush.
Sheila noticed her staring.
“Betty here is
all dolled up for her fancy man,” she explained.
Grey-haired
pensioner Betty, giggled like a little schoolgirl.
“Paul is taking me dancing later at the
town hall,” she said bashfully.
“Well done you, going dancing! I couldn’t
imagine doing that with my replacement hip,” said Patricia, full of admiration.
“That shouldn’t stop you, dear. I just had
my second one done last December,” retorted Betty cheerfully.
“How about your fella, Harriet?” said
Betty turning to the woman on her left.
“We’re meeting up this Thursday,” replied
Harriet, smirking like a Cheshire cat.
“Harriet met Nigel on the internet,”
explained Sheila, with a wink.
“Aren’t you afraid to meet a complete
stranger you met online?” asked Patricia.
Harriet smiled, “I
hardly think that the man who told me all about the heartbreak of losing his
wife to cancer, is going to rape and kill me.”
This isn’t what I expected.
Patricia began to think in the lift, on her way back upstairs to her flat. She
had expected talk about grandchildren and knitting patterns, not Skype, online
dating, which Scholl shoes are best for dancing, and which of the men in their
sheltered housing complex were single and not going senile. She hadn’t realised
how far from the modern world she had become removed, rattling about alone in
her big house. She felt happier than she had done in a long time.
When she got in,
she phoned her son. She asked him if he had a spare computer; an old one the
grandchildren no longer needed.
“I
thought you didn’t want any of those ‘contraptions’?” He said in surprise.
“Absolutely
everyone is on the internet now, I’m not just some grandmother that knits socks
all day,” said Patricia expertly.
She was still puzzled However, as to how you could send
letters through a computer.
“I hope you know what
you’re doing,” said her son concerned, “promise me you won’t do any online
shopping and give people your bank details.”
“I won’t and my
friend Sheila has offered to help me with Skype. Apparently you can then phone
the entire world for free,” explained Patricia innocently, her mind buzzing
with the possibilities of the Internet.
Her son
promised he would set her up with a computer and an Internet provider.
She sat back in her chair after she ended the call and
looked out of her living room window. From the fourth floor, she could just see
the river and some fields with horses behind the trees. The garden in front of
the flats was well tended and Patricia thought with relief that she no longer
had to do the gardening herself. So far, she had not regretted moving in there.
She would get a computer set up next and try and become, one of those…oh what
did they call it downstairs? Oh yes a
silver surfer.
She decided it was
time to take the next step and to move on from all the wonderful memories her
husband Frank had given her; time to make some new ones.
Today
I’m welcoming Author D. Avraham whom I’ve met through our work for
“You’re Not Alone”, an anthology in aid of MacMillan Cancer Care.
