We Care For You by Paul Kitcatt

Author:Paul Kitcatt [Kitcatt, Paul]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Unbound
Published: 2017-11-15T16:00:00+00:00

Margaret

We’re all outside again, sitting in the sun, drinking tea.

‘I hear poor old Fred Johnson died last night,’ says Sylvia.

‘Yes,’ I reply. ‘Pneumonia, they say. At least it’s quick.’

‘He was well earlier in the week, though.’

‘Yes,’ says Pamela. ‘He was. And he was behaving quite badly.’

‘Was he?’ says Jane. ‘What was he up to?’

‘Well, you know, he was a bit frisky.’

‘Frisky? Goodness, with you?’

‘Yes, Jane, with me. Don’t sound surprised,’ Pamela replies, and pats her hair. ‘I’ve always had admirers.’

‘Of course, my dear,’ says Jane. ‘Of course. I didn’t mean it like that. The old boys have always been past that sort of thing, is all I meant.’

‘Hmm,’ says Pamela. ‘Yes, but everyone’s much better now.’

‘Still though,’ I say. ‘Getting frisky.’

‘What on earth’s in this biscuit?’ says Cecilia. ‘Oh, horrible, coconut. Yuk!’’

‘Really, Cecilia!’ says Jane. ‘That was disgusting! Spitting out your biscuit. How old are you?’

‘One hundred and four, as you well know. Old enough to do what I like. And not to have to eat anything if I don’t want to.’

‘This won’t do,’ I say. ‘I can’t sit around here all day. I feel so – so – energetic. I’m going to find out if there’s any gardening to do. Anyone else coming?’

There was a chorus of replies.

‘I’m doing an art class today. Painting.’

‘Aerobics. Believe it or not.’

‘Piano lesson for me.’

‘Dressmaking. I’m teaching it!’

Everyone disperses to their various activities. I walk across the lawn towards the shed. As I do, I notice a blackbird fly down and peck at the crumbs of spat-out biscuit. Nothing goes to waste in nature.

We’re all busy now. It wasn’t like this before. Was it? I wish I could remember. It’s as if a big hole opened up inside my head. On either side of it, everything’s clear to see. Even things in the far distance, remote but full of meaning. My house, the day we moved in and started to make it our home. Bill dying, years later. So sudden. Nice for him. Not nice, perhaps, but easy, compared to some. Rubbish for the rest of the family. Poor Laura. Her father gone. The boys cried too, then resumed their manly routines. Work. Money. Then my memory gets cloudy. Patchy. I was crying, until my eyes dried up. And I tried to sort out the muddle he’d left behind. I got rid of all his stuff. Very efficient. It was like ripping off a plaster. But it got worse, not better. I do remember that. Then… then… into the black hole… and I woke up here. It’s like the television programme years ago. The Prisoner. He woke up in the village. ‘You are number six.’ What number am I?

I must talk to Winifred. Or any one of them. They’re all alike. Like my children are, now they’re grown up. Much more interesting when they’re little. Bill didn’t understand. He wanted them to grow up and stop bothering him. He couldn’t see.

Tom and Emily spotted something odd about Winifred right away. Children see clearly. No preconceptions.

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