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Authors: Frank Tayell
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to eat,
guaranteed him a place in a retirement home at the age of sixty five
subject to a medical exam. After a year of little food and virtually
no sleep he'd failed the physical with flying colours.
“Liars!”
George muttered as the picture changed to a segment on a former
supermarket now part of the nationalised chain of Food Distribution
Centres. “That's the same one as yesterday. Same people too.
That one there, the one with the scar, I remember her. And yesterday
you said it was Crewe and today you say it's Bournemouth. Liars”
he muttered again.
He
hated muttering. He wanted to shout. He loved to shout at the TV.
That used to be one of the few pleasures he'd allow himself. Always
make sure your desires are attainable, his old man had told him. It
was almost the last thing he'd said before he'd dropped dead from a
heart attack aged 41. George had
lived his life by that aphorism, eschewing dreams of sun-kissed
islands for less lofty, but more easily attainable homely comforts.
Whenever he'd start ranting at
the weatherman or some hapless presenter, Dora would head off into
the kitchen 'to make some tea'. She knew it was a sign of a bad day
at work needing to be vented away, but the sight of his blustering tirades always made her laugh and whenever she'd
start laughing, so would he. That had been the secret of their happy
marriage, knowing when to laugh together and when to do it alone.
Thirty happy years and two thoroughly miserable ones as he helplessly
watched her waste away.
He
checked the time. 11:30. Lunch was served at 12:10 sharp. You weren't
allowed to be early, that was frowned upon, but these past few days
if you turned up after quarter past you'd probably find the staff had
disappeared back to their lounge, leaving those residents who were
there to freely help themselves to food meant for the late comers.
“Bloody
thieves. Carrion , that's
what they are, picking over the carcass whilst it's still warm”
he muttered, but more quietly than before. He wasn't sure if they
could kick him out now there was a curfew but he wasn't going to risk
it. He knew for certain that there was enough food in the home to
last everyone for weeks. He'd seen the store room.
“We've
got to prepare, Mr Tull.” McGuffrey had said. “We don't
know how long it will have to last. This crisis could go on for
weeks. Months even, and what will we do then, eh?”
Except
that George had seen McGuffrey load a tray of tinned sweetcorn and
another of broad beans into a suitcase and wheel it down the drive
and up the path towards the grace and favour cottage he had at the
top of the cliffs. George tried to remember when that was. The 24 th ,
he thought. Time was so hard to keep track of in the home, where
weeks just merged into one another and months weren't as important as
seasons. He'd watched McGuffrey go back and forth three times that
day and twice the next. On the 27 th he'd confronted him.
“Just
keeping it safe, Mr Tull. Besides” McGuffrey had added with a
wink, “it's not like the old dears need all these calories, is
it, eh?”
Then
he'd just smiled and walked off. That evening there had been a knock
at his door. “Your medicine Mr Tull.” The nurse had said.
Thanks to a private exam, courtesy of his insurance plan, George had
ensured he was prescribed nothing stronger than vitamin tablets,
which he got from the chemists at the shopping centre in Lower
Wentley. He didn’t have medicine, certainly none in the evening
when all they doled out were sleeping pills to keep the residents
quiet. The nurse had walked in carrying a tray covered with a metal
warming dish.
“Mr
McGuffrey says you're to take this, as required, before bed.”
She'd lifted the cover, as if she was a magician doing a trick and
there on the tray was a half bottle of scotch. He didn't drink, not
since the week after he'd arrived at the home and began to work out a
plan of escape. He'd given the bottle to Mrs O'Leary instead.
George
changed
guaranteed him a place in a retirement home at the age of sixty five
subject to a medical exam. After a year of little food and virtually
no sleep he'd failed the physical with flying colours.
“Liars!”
George muttered as the picture changed to a segment on a former
supermarket now part of the nationalised chain of Food Distribution
Centres. “That's the same one as yesterday. Same people too.
That one there, the one with the scar, I remember her. And yesterday
you said it was Crewe and today you say it's Bournemouth. Liars”
he muttered again.
He
hated muttering. He wanted to shout. He loved to shout at the TV.
That used to be one of the few pleasures he'd allow himself. Always
make sure your desires are attainable, his old man had told him. It
was almost the last thing he'd said before he'd dropped dead from a
heart attack aged 41. George had
lived his life by that aphorism, eschewing dreams of sun-kissed
islands for less lofty, but more easily attainable homely comforts.
Whenever he'd start ranting at
the weatherman or some hapless presenter, Dora would head off into
the kitchen 'to make some tea'. She knew it was a sign of a bad day
at work needing to be vented away, but the sight of his blustering tirades always made her laugh and whenever she'd
start laughing, so would he. That had been the secret of their happy
marriage, knowing when to laugh together and when to do it alone.
Thirty happy years and two thoroughly miserable ones as he helplessly
watched her waste away.
He
checked the time. 11:30. Lunch was served at 12:10 sharp. You weren't
allowed to be early, that was frowned upon, but these past few days
if you turned up after quarter past you'd probably find the staff had
disappeared back to their lounge, leaving those residents who were
there to freely help themselves to food meant for the late comers.
“Bloody
thieves. Carrion , that's
what they are, picking over the carcass whilst it's still warm”
he muttered, but more quietly than before. He wasn't sure if they
could kick him out now there was a curfew but he wasn't going to risk
it. He knew for certain that there was enough food in the home to
last everyone for weeks. He'd seen the store room.
“We've
got to prepare, Mr Tull.” McGuffrey had said. “We don't
know how long it will have to last. This crisis could go on for
weeks. Months even, and what will we do then, eh?”
Except
that George had seen McGuffrey load a tray of tinned sweetcorn and
another of broad beans into a suitcase and wheel it down the drive
and up the path towards the grace and favour cottage he had at the
top of the cliffs. George tried to remember when that was. The 24 th ,
he thought. Time was so hard to keep track of in the home, where
weeks just merged into one another and months weren't as important as
seasons. He'd watched McGuffrey go back and forth three times that
day and twice the next. On the 27 th he'd confronted him.
“Just
keeping it safe, Mr Tull. Besides” McGuffrey had added with a
wink, “it's not like the old dears need all these calories, is
it, eh?”
Then
he'd just smiled and walked off. That evening there had been a knock
at his door. “Your medicine Mr Tull.” The nurse had said.
Thanks to a private exam, courtesy of his insurance plan, George had
ensured he was prescribed nothing stronger than vitamin tablets,
which he got from the chemists at the shopping centre in Lower
Wentley. He didn’t have medicine, certainly none in the evening
when all they doled out were sleeping pills to keep the residents
quiet. The nurse had walked in carrying a tray covered with a metal
warming dish.
“Mr
McGuffrey says you're to take this, as required, before bed.”
She'd lifted the cover, as if she was a magician doing a trick and
there on the tray was a half bottle of scotch. He didn't drink, not
since the week after he'd arrived at the home and began to work out a
plan of escape. He'd given the bottle to Mrs O'Leary instead.
George
changed
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