Bedtime Anecdotes: Tales of Wonder

By Cavin Wright

Stories to keep you enthralled into the wee hours of the morning… From horror to romance. From heroism to tragedy. From shipwreck to murder. From abduction to seduction. Covering the entire spectrum of human emotions, these tales will stun you.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AUK Authors
• Release date: Jun 5, 2014
• ISBN: 9781782343844

Book preview

soul...

There But For Fortune

The taxi dropped me off in the car park of a most impressive-looking retirement complex; my new place of work. How, though, could I possibly have known that it would be a full two and a half years before I would leave again - this time in a stretch limousine?

Now, through the double glass doors of a sun-filled lounge, elderly interest was immediately perked by my arrival, and it seemed to me that dozens of bespectacled countenances were beaming in on me, like so many lasers. I was nervous to the point of panic. Not because of the multiple scrutiny - that was only to be expected.

No, my terror was the result of my introductory phone call, two days previously, to the client I was coming to look after:

Oh, good afternoon. Mrs. Avis?

Yes? That is me.

I introduced myself. I’m with Millennium Care, and I will be coming to look after you on Wednesday.

Oh, right! in a very snooty tone. What sort of time can I expect you? Because we have luncheon at one o’clock, precisely.

I was already having second thoughts. This lady sounded so very much above my station, that I could see trouble sticking out a mile. She would expect only the highest standards of cleanliness, punctuality, and dedication. I would be run ragged within a week, trying to fulfil her demands.

Just switch the phone off, dingbat! I thought. Ask the agency for another posting. Now!

That’s fine, Mrs. Avis. I should be there around a quarter to eleven. Would that be okay?

I suppose it’ll have to be, yes.

Good grief! Don’t sound too enthusiastic, will you?

Okay, thanks, Mrs. Avis. See you Wednesday, then.

My hands were damp, my breathing slightly laboured. But I knew I had done the right thing in calling to introduce myself. If I hadn’t, she would probably have turned me back at the front door.

What if I get there late? Another spasm of doubt and fear gripped me. What if the train’s delayed?

Thankfully, though, I was right on schedule, give or take a minute, which I hoped the old dear would forgive me for, given time. I pulled my red trolley case behind me as I tried to determine how to gain access to the complex. Another double glass door stopped me in my tracks, just as I was expecting it to open automatically.

Oh, no! Access control! I had a real aversion to these things. I read the instructions on the engraved panel. It seemed very complicated, but eventually I got the idea and pressed all the right buttons.

A horrific buzzing sound erupted from the box, and I moved back a few inches in dismay.

Nobody answered.

My laptop, clasped in my left hand, seemed insupportably heavy, for some reason.

I was about to try the call sequence again when a pretty young lady appeared in the foyer beyond the doors. And she was smiling at me; no, perhaps she was laughing - at my wasted efforts.

I saw there was yet another double glass door beyond the one which blocked my way. It magically slid open, and as the girl stepped into the intervening space, my set sprang inwards. The two sets of doors were evidently to keep drafts from entering the well-appointed foyer area.

Thomas? smiled the girl. I’m Laura. Come in, and we’ll drop your stuff in at the flat. Kate’s in the lounge, having coffee.

Of course, I knew Mrs. Avis had a first name; Catherine. But Kate? Why was the present carer calling her Kate? Surely beings from rarefied stratum should be addressed by their surnames?

Kate. Hmmmh...

Kate, this is Thomas Smith.

The moment I’d been dreading.

The dowager raised her right hand from the arm of the wheelchair and gave me a gracious smile. Hello Thomas. Pleased to meet you. I hope you’ll enjoy being here.

Just as graciously, she introduced two of her friends who were sitting at the same table. This is Phyl, and this is Martha. I greeted them and shook hands. Do help yourself to some coffee and cake, Thomas.

As I eyed the sumptuous spread, I reflected on my first impressions of my new home.

Perhaps this wasn’t going to be as bad as I had thought. The residential complex was first class, the carer’s room was large and well furnished, I had been warmly welcomed, and my first task was to have coffee and chocolate cake!

The three ladies were chatty and polite as Laura and I joined them. Kate was smartly turned out in slacks, a golf shirt, and cardigan, nicely colour coordinated, but not nearly as flashy as I had imagined. She was tubby and cheerful, with a wonderfully full head of grey hair, smartly brushed. She had a four-diamond engagement ring next to her wedding band which must have cost a fortune, yet was unobtrusive.

Phyl, whom I later learned was in her mid-eighties, was so slim, immaculately dressed and coifed that she appeared twenty years younger than she was - evidently quite a looker in her earlier years.

Martha was the quintessential granny; a paisley dress with a handmade brooch on her ample bosom, a tightly rolled bun of straw-like hair gracing the crown of her head.

All three elderly ladies flashed their spectacles at each other as they chatted amicably away about never having had a male carer at their table, and how lucky was Kate to be looked after by a man?

I glanced at Laura once or twice, to catch an amused expression on her lovely features.

Does she know something I don’t? I asked myself.

Evidently, she did.

After coffee, when I had been introduced to a lot more of the elderly residents, none of whom I could hope to remember the names of, immediately, Laura wheeled Kate back to the flat, where my new employer settled down in the lounge to read the paper.

Now, it was time for my crash course in Kate’s daily routine. I was shown around the flat, a ground floor corner unit which had two bedrooms of equal size, the large lounge-dining room, a well-fitted kitchen, a modern bathroom with a nice big bath and wet-room shower, a spacious boiler-cum-storage room, and equipped with emergency pull-cords in each room.

The complex was an L-shaped, three-storey building with fifty separate flats, mostly one bedroomed units, and about ten with two bedrooms. The place was only about a year old, and everything was pristine. Apart from the coffee lounge, there was a dining hall with an adjoining ‘function room’, complete with a residents’ desktop computer, with Internet and printer.

Surprised at the dining room, I asked Laura about it.

She laughed. "This is where you have your lunch. It’s all done for you - the main meal of the day. Three courses, served by waitresses, and the dishwashing all done by the kitchen staff. She indicated the heavy wooden swing doors leading into the kitchen. They each had a reinforced glass window, giving a view of the immaculate stainless steel work areas and the huge cooking range mid-floor.

I was so impressed with this! Not having to cook the main meal of the day would take a huge load off my back. Simple cooking I could just about manage, but my culinary skills were not the greatest. This was just wonderful!

Beyond the kitchen was the waste area, with huge black wheelie bins on the left for everyday rubbish, and equally large green ones on the right for recyclable waste. Another pleasure in store for me was the laundry. Six or seven washing machines and four tumble dryers, as well as irons, ironing boards, and a sluice sink. So no need to hang out washing, as some of my previous positions had called for. Even better!

On the top floor, Laura showed me the guest suite; equal to any hotel suite, with it’s own little TV lounge, two beds, and all mod cons. Yet another surprise was a good-sized reading room, its shelves stacked with novels, reference books, and even video cassettes. There were two tables with padded chairs for card or board games, and as throughout the public areas here, expensive ornaments and replica paintings to add a touch of comfort.

All the passageways and public rooms were carpeted in luxury deep pile, nicely colour coordinated to give a really cosy atmosphere to the place. Rolling lawns stretched down to an outdoor gazebo area, where tended flower beds framed the antics of the squirrels gambolling under the huge shade trees.

Overall, it was the type of place I could quite well see myself retiring to, in my old age.

Now, Thomas, said Kate kindly, when Laura had left to catch her train. I am having a marrow lunch with some friends, today. Afterwards, we will be playing Bridge. So I’d like you to set up the Bridge table, which is in your room, and lay it for lunch with the china dinner service, in that sideboard there. She indicated what looked like a very valuable antique dresser with glass fronted shelves stacked with a plethora of delicate cut-glass bric-a-brac.

You will be having your lunch in the dining room with Ken, who usually sits at our table.

When I had unfolded the table and found a suitable table cloth, Kate looked horrified at my selection.

Oh, dear me, no! she gasped. That will never do! Look in the bottom drawer of the tallboy in my room, and you’ll see a green damask cloth for the Bridge, and a leafy-patterned table set, with matching napkins. And we’ll have the crystal tumblers, and...

The instructions went on and on, until I felt utterly confused. These must be very high class guests she was receiving this afternoon. And it was getting very close to the time of their expected arrival. I was getting panicky. Did this sort of thing happen every day? Was she a big entertainer? And what about the food, for goodness’ sake? Did I still have to serve that out? Should I go and change? Into what? Jeans were my standard uniform. I didn’t have anything smart!

Eventually, I had all the things positioned on the table as she wanted them. Salad bowls all facing a specific way, napkins folded just so, the cutlery gleaming, the cut glass tumblers shining.

I was exhausted by nervous tension.

And here were the guests!

I was introduced to a gaggle of three old ladies, who did some more ooh-ing and aah-ing over the fact that Kate now had a male carer.

It became apparent that the tall, thin lady would be doing the honours of serving the ‘marrow lunch’, which I learned Laura had had in the oven since before I arrived. I wondered how a marrow would be enough for the four of them, but later learned it was filled with a mince and onion mix, with herbs and condiments, and that this was a traditional annual event.

I escaped thankfully to the dining room.

Laura had pointed out Kate’s table near the entrance, specially reserved for her, as was the adjacent table for another wheelchair user, giving easy access to both.

Already seated at our table was a venerable old gentleman who immediately reminded me of my deceased father - the same slight build, the same twinkle in his eye, the same gracious manners, and an air of authority about him, as though he was used to respect and compliance from others.

Good afternoon, I greeted him, extending my right hand. I’m Thomas Smith, and I’m Kate’s new carer. You must be Ken?

He came to his feet and shook my hand warmly. Ah! How do you do? Welcome to our little home! he said, a generous smile cracking his features. Yes, I’m Ken Tanner. Sit down. Sit down. Is this chair alright?

Immediately warming to the man, we began an easy conversation, and when he discovered that I was born and raised in Rhodesia, he smiled with nostalgia.

Ah, Rhodesia! Such a beautiful country!

You’ve been there? I queried, astounded. Not many people even knew of the former Zimbabwe, or had any inkling of the little country’s position, immediately north of the South African border. Laura was from Zimbabwe and Ken would have chatted to her about it in the two weeks she had been looking after Kate. But Ken sounded as if he knew the country. Extraordinary.

Oh, yes, replied the old man. I was in Southern Rhodesia during the war. We were fitting out the aircraft for the RAF in Bulawayo. When we had done the work on the aircraft, we had to go up for the test flights. That ensured we had done the job properly, of course. Once, we actually crash landed! he laughed

Wow! I spluttered, most impressed.

Your accent sounds more South African, to me! he pointed out.

That’s because I lived in Durban for twenty five years, I informed him.

His features creased in pleasure. Ha! I ran a paper mill in Stanger, just north of Durban; on the coast. Do you know it?

Yes, I know Stanger! Gosh, you’ve led an interesting life, haven’t you, Ken?

We chatted amiably through the prawn salad starter, main course of roast lamb - my favourite - and a fruit salad and ice cream dessert.

On Sundays, they serve sherry with the meal, Ken informed me.

Good grief! I rubbed my full stomach. You live well here, that’s for sure.

I had made my first friend in this place, and I didn’t feel quite so alone anymore. We had coffee in the lounge together, and as he made his slow but steady way down to his flat at the far end of the passage, I went back into number 4 to unpack my belongings. The four ladies were deep in animated conversation over their Bridge game, and I decided I wouldn’t go and announce my return. Kate would have heard the door opening.

Kate was a diabetic, and had been since the age of eight. As a result of her malady, she had recently had to have her right leg amputated above the knee, due to gangrene infection which sometimes results from diabetes. One simple jolt against a table leg can bring on an injury which can lead to complications like gangrene, and thus extreme care was needed in transferring and transporting her. She also had need of a catheter, which leads to its own problems, such as discomfort and even urinary tract infections at times.

Her husband had died recently too; soon after he and she had moved into the retirement complex, only a few months prior to my arrival.

All in all, Kate should have had every reason to complain about her lot, especially when, soon after my starting work there, it was discovered she had the beginnings of Parkinson’s disease, as well as a tumour growing under her right kidney.

Yet I could not have wished for a more cheerful, entertaining and intelligent client to take care of. As I told her directly after a few weeks there, she was definitely the best care client I had ever had the pleasure to work with.

As I discovered, soon after starting the job, the busiest part of my workday was the early part of the morning, from about 7.45 am until 10:20am, when we went for morning coffee in the lounge. If there was shopping to be done, the busy period would extend to about midday. Two hours of the day - generally taken between 3 and 5pm - was the carer’s time off, and usually I would take a siesta for an hour of this time. The evening meal was light; soup and cheese and biscuits and fruit, perhaps, supplemented with cold meats or sardines for me.

I would set my alarm for quarter past six in the morning and check my e-mails, before making a mug of tea and drinking it with two cigarettes, out on the tiny garden patio.

Then a shave, shower and shampoo, before dressing casually and setting the table for Kate’s breakfast. Usually, it was a bit of a struggle to wake her, but then she would slide along a banana board, onto her wheelchair, and I’d take her through to the lounge. A soft boiled egg and toast and marmalade, after her morning medications and insulin, which she self administered.

Whilst she was eating, I would make up her adjustable hospital bed, and then do the dishes, before taking her to the bathroom for her morning wash. Every second day, she would shower, seated in a shower chair. She was quite able to manage these ablutions on her own, needing assistance only to towel dry after showering.

Getting her dressed was the awkward part, as it would necessitate her standing up to get her slacks on. But once that was achieved, she would go back to the lounge to do her makeup. I would go to the nearby Co-op for her newspaper, and the bakery to get my own breakfast - usually a sausage or bacon roll - and a loaf of bread if needed.

After my breakfast, which was usually punctuated by comments on the newspaper articles, the weather, or the lunch menu, I would dispose of the trash and take the washing down to the laundry. And we would be set up for the day; ready to make the 10.20am coffee deadline.

This timing was almost mandatory, for Ken, who was past balancing cups of coffee, needed someone to help him, as did two or three others who had come to rely on me. By the time, then, that I had poured and delivered four or five coffees, all of differing strengths and sweetness, as well as passing out cakes and biscuits, I was ready to relax for a short while. Some of the old dears would require a second cup, too.

This was the social hour, when the old timers - the average age of the fifty plus residents here was a startling eighty six - would gather at their usual tables, and shoot the breeze about the weather, the lunchtime fare, what so-and-so had said about so-and-so, and what the chances were of rain today; or snow; or sleet; or the hundred and one nuances of the weather which make up the dreadful English climate.

And if the sun happened to peek from behind the dreary backdrop of threatening clouds, one would be bound to hear the refrain, Isn’t it a lovely day, today!

And I would mournfully recall the bright and cheerfully warming African sunshine, and mutter, Yes, isn’t it!

What’s it like outside?

Because, after a time, all the residents (or ‘inmates’ as they sometimes facetiously termed themselves) came to know that I was an early riser, and that invariably I had been up and about before them, I became the in-house weather expert.

What’s it like outside?

When I had been there long enough to know them all well, I would tease them. It’s mid-winter in England, Sarah! I would inform my questioner. It’s freezing cold!

What’s it like outside?

Well, as you can see, it’s coming down in buckets! Rather wet out there!

Isn’t it a lovely day!

No, Doris, it’s overcast and damp and sludgy and depressing!

And they would all laugh, and see the incongruity of there statement.

In some ways, the predictability of the day ahead could be slightly depressing, if you allowed it.

Hello, my dear. Lovely day, isn’t it? Have you been outside this morning? What’s it like outside?

Morning, Freda. Fine thanks. And you? Trying to bypass the inevitable weather query.

Oh, you know. One mustn’t grumble. No good complaining, is it? Nobody ever listens, anyway, do they?

That’s very true, Freda. Would you like a piece of cake?

No thanks, my dear. I’m putting on so much weight here, you know.

You’re eighty seven, and you’re worrying about your profile?

No, you’re not, Freda! You’re slim and trim!

Laughs self consciously, and would blush if she was still able to. Oh! You are very gallant, my dear!

I would sit down at the coffee table at last, and invariably Phyllis - young Phyl, as she was called, because there was an older Phyl too - would arrive late.

Hello, Phyl. How are you?

Not so good!

And we would all have to listen to the problem of the day - which was just as quickly forgotten as she cheered up in the presence of company other than her own. She was regular churchgoer, and the church was the epicentre of her social life, often holding functions, lunches and fundraising events.

Every Sunday, young Phyl was off to church, and suspecting that her intense interest in it was founded more in what she gained socially, than a fervent hope of redemption, I would make a point, over the Sunday roast and sherry, of asking her what that day’s sermon had been about. Or I would ask her a question about the Bible.

The sermon? Um...well, um...do you know, I can’t quite remember?

Or: Revelation? Is that in the Old Testament?

As the months rolled by, it became apparent that young Phyl actually had the start of dementia, and Kate suggested that I not press her too much on the content of the Sunday sermons any longer. But I often wondered how anyone having attended church their entire life, could know virtually nothing about the contents of the scriptures.

The replication of names in the complex became confounding. As I got to know everyone, in the first couple of months, I was astounded to find there were four Johns, at least three Marys, two by the name of Phyllis, three Joans, a couple of Kens, and even a trio of friends named May, Fay and Kay. Even more confusing was the fact that the staff called the residents by their surnames, whilst the residents were all on first name terms. When I was at school, there were eight hundred pupils and around forty staff members, and we got to know everyone’s names, whether they were boarders or day scholars, and details such as which sports they played, who their siblings were, and which form they were in.

But these mental feats were way beyond me by the time I started working in this retirement home. In fact, apart from Kate herself, who exhibited amazing powers of remembering the residents’ names, and even their children’s and grandchildren’s, such recall was clearly lacking in the other inmates. It was always amusing to eavesdrop on the conversations around me and realise that the listeners had no idea who the narrator of a story was talking about.

Who is Doris? one old dear would enquire.

She sits with you every day at lunch, Stella! The lady with the grey hair?

Thinks deeply: They all have grey hair, May!

I’m Kay, not May. And anyway, there are lots of us with white hair!

And from another, I used to have red hair, you know. You wouldn’t think so, looking at me now, would you?

You’ve told us this before, my dear. We all know you had red hair, and that everyone called you ‘Carrot Top’ - yes, we know!

Oh, dear! - the standard exclamation in the place. Well, there you go!

At the same time, these old folk were very good at laughing at themselves:

Where are you off to, Vera?

A worried look on the tiny lady’s face. Well, I thought I was heading towards the lounge, but I’m not, am I?

You’re on the wrong floor, Vera. This is the first floor, and the lounge is on the ground floor. Can I show you to the lift?

Oh, dear! giving a benign smile. I don’t know how you put up with us lot, I really don’t. We should all be locked up somewhere, out of harm’s way.

Nonsense, Vera. The place wouldn’t be the same without you!

And with a chuckle, Well, there you go!

Of course, it was impossible to work ‘24/7’ for more than perhaps eight to ten weeks at a time. After such a stretch, having a well-earned break was an absolute necessity, if only to maintain one’s sanity. Thus, in a year, I found myself taking four to five holidays a year. These leaves of absence always engendered great interest amongst the residents and staff, and in the days leading up to one, I was constantly asked where I was taking off to this time.

I’m going to Turkey, John. If ever I momentarily forgot one of the men’s names, it was a pretty safe bet to call him John, sotto voce.

Turkey! How long are you going for?

Three weeks.

Three weeks! It’s only about three weeks since you went to Kenya, isn’t it?

I would give a smile. It’s been nine weeks, John. It will be ten by the time I go.

Good heavens! Doesn’t time just fly by?

All depends if you’ve been working 16 hours a day for ten weeks or not, I guess. Seems like ten years to me, John, I can assure you!

Well, enjoy the break. I can remember when I was in Turkey...oh, it must have been in 1954, or so... And I would hear about an obscure hotel in some obscure resort on the Mediterranean coast, within spitting distance of Anzac Cove, it was...

These seniors had an amazing way of cornering you at a critical moment, regaling you with half-forgotten reminiscences of times long gone.

Not to say some of their stories weren’t interesting. These people had lived through World War II. A lot of them were war heroes. One had worked on the Ark Royal. Another had spent a number of years in a Japanese prisoner of war camp. Someone else had fought in the Battle of Britain. The women, too, had amazing stories about working on the lands, being bombed in the Blitz, and other amazing experiences.

But they all had the ability to start chatting when I had something urgent to do, bless them.

Every Saturday, Kate would have me buy both the Daily Mail, which she read each weekday, plus the Daily Telegraph which featured an enormous general knowledge crossword.

Why do you get both of them? I asked her.

Well, the Mail has the best TV guide for the week.

So! A £1.80 paper for the crossword and an 80P paper for a television guide. Good economics. Together, these tomes must have been three inches thick, and packed with junk leaflets which would surely keep the recycling industry going for ever.

At some point over the weekend then, Kate and I would spend an hour attempting the crossword. It was more like a puzzle for masterminds than a straightforward general knowledge quiz. However, my input complemented hers, and the combined effort occasionally paid off with a completed grid. But not often, I might add.

Kate had an amazing ability to carry the unsolved clues, together with the unfilled squares with her to bed. Many was the Monday morning, she would awake, having solved two or three more words, which inevitably fitted in, arousing new interest in the incomplete crossword.

Kate’s lack of knowledge of Geography, Physics, computers, pop music and various other fields was abysmal. The music especially intrigued me - she had lived through the flower power era, for goodness’ sakes!

But her grasp of history, Greek mythology, historical figures, art, classical composers, and her English in general was profound, together with the ability to spell almost any English word or personality’s name.

So, together, we would piece this monster together, up to a point. But inevitably, we could not get a few words.

Can’t we look this up in my book of poetry, now?

Kate had a reference book for every occasion - she must have had at least eight different dictionaries, for a start. There was a rack of encyclopaedias in my room, and other thick volumes in various cupboards.

No, Kate! That’s cheating! I would remonstrate. If you’re going to do this, it must be your general knowledge, not looked up in a book.

Well, could you check on your computer, then?

Certainly not! That’s even worse.

At other times, Kate would want to look something up in one of her books.

When are you going to come into the twenty first century? I would tease. If you got a laptop, you could look up anything you liked in seconds, and get rid of all these outdated books. There’s a computer in the function room - let me teach you it, and you’ll be able to e-mail all your friends and family, plus look up anything you fancied?

And she would reply, Because I’m scared I’ll become addicted to it!

Once, I convinced her it would be a change from her usual routine if I taught her chess. It took months to convince her, but finally, we settled in the lounge and I showed her the moves that I had written down for each piece. She was an exceptionally adept student, and soon had all the moves taped.

But then we began to play. It started well enough, until her men came near mine. Then the interludes between moves became longer...and longer...and longer. After yet another interminable wait after my own move, I glanced up to see what the problem was. She was staring out of the lounge window, completely oblivious to my anguished frustration.

What’s the problem, Kate?

I’m scared I’m going to lose one of my men.

But that’s how you learn the game - by making mistakes and learning from them - like real life, when you think about it.

And she was staring out of the window again.

We played a couple of games in the days following and, of course, I beat her.