A Riotous Retirement

By David Fernsby

Moving to a retirement village and finding your next door neighbour is a 94 year old, sword stick wielding nymphomaniac might unsettle some people. Not Derek.

The last thing he wanted was a quiet life. Upsetting the world order was much more his style, so he was soon embarking on a series of exploits not usually listed in the '101 Ways to Wile Away your Sunset Years' guides. He hoped they might make his obituary interesting reading, certainly compared to his generation and a half as an accountant.

Continual confrontations with the dictatorial manageress of the complex provided further distractions, and became a continuing source of pleasure for him, if not so much for Mrs Catchpole, who rued the day he moved in. As did the Rice Krispie Bunch, an obnoxious group of residents, who found their tyrannical reign curtailed by the newcomer.

And then there were the local yobs. A group of hooligans who loved nothing more than harassing residents walking in the park. The police seemed powerless to stop them.

Derek wasn't.

• Language: English
• Publisher: David Fernsby
• Release date: Dec 22, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201079918

Book preview

1

Incarceration

W hat do you think, Dad?

Dad, or more precisely, Derek Russell, was quiet for a minute. What could–or should–he say?

He had lost his wife nine months earlier; not that he understood why people adopted that term. He hadn’t ‘lost’ anyone. He knew exactly where she was: six feet underground, in a graveyard in Basingstowe, in deepest, darkest Somerset.

Following his ‘loss,’ his immediate family decided that, after forty-nine years of loving care by his wife, Sandra, he couldn’t possibly cope for himself and needed looking after.

That was rubbish. What, he wondered, was wrong with surviving on baked beans on toast, or cheese on toast, or egg on toast, or sardines on toast? He was proficient at all of those-a win in a master chef competition specialising in such gourmet dishes a foregone conclusion. The Toast of Britain or some such title was his for the taking. Failing that, there was the pub. If Basingstowe had nothing else to commend it, at least it had a great choice of drinking establishments.

Anyway, back to the question. What was it? Oh yes, what do you think, Dad? What he honestly thought was unutterable even with his love of freedom of speech. Especially in front of his daughter-in-law, Chloe, the main mover in the idea that he should be incarcerated in a retirement village where there would be someone to keep an eye on him. The Sunny View Retirement Home, which he was currently touring with his son and said daughter in law, was exactly such a place.

Mind you: if you had to guess what the small group were doing and relied on assessing the answer by considering Chloe's wardrobe for the day, you would perhaps be more inclined to assume they were touring Buckingham Palace for presentation to the Queen. Her immaculate two-piece suit and an immaculate single string of pearls matched her immaculate Jimmy Choo shoes and her immaculate make up, which in turn matched her immaculate demeanour, the demeanour she gave an airing to when she felt the need to impress third parties, such as the Village's manageress. The manageress, Mrs Catchpole, had given them a gushing welcome before hastening them around her domain and then leaving them to contemplate Derek's future by themselves in the deserted dining room.

Chloe and Derek's younger son, Brian, the interrogator, had been married for thirteen years. Some said Chloe was easy on the eye, but Derek’s main preoccupation with her was that she was decidedly not easy on the ear. Without doubt, she was the one who wanted him somewhere secure; somewhere to prevent him from causing trouble. Trouble to Chloe meant not conforming, not desiring a meteoric climb up the social ladder, not worrying about drawing attention to oneself for the wrong reasons.

Without the restraining influence of his wife, Derek saw no reason not to be honest and tell people the truth. It was hardly his fault if mankind objected to facing a few truthful opinions. And what was the problem with the odd joke? That woman who complained to the police suggesting he had exposed himself to her had to retract the complaint after he explained all he had done was stick his finger out through his flies and waggle it at her. Silly stuck-up old bat.

Back to this question. What did he think? He could be his usual argumentative self. He could tell his son what he thought about President Trump, Arsenal’s chances of winning the league, the rising cost of petrol, or the state of his toenails, none of which would have answered the question, as he well knew. No, what Brian wanted answered was what he thought of the Sunny View Retirement Village.

Well, first off, it wasn’t sunny. That was indisputable. It was pouring. Being in a magnanimous frame of mind–a somewhat unusual, if not unique state for Derek's mind–he accepted that the weather could not be blamed on the owner. The other half of the name was a different story. View. What view? Possibly, if one closed one’s eyes and applied an imagination fuelled by magic mushrooms or whatever concoction was used these days, a vista of rolling green meadows, of sheep safely grazing, of cotton wool clouds skimming over the distant hills would appear in one’s mind’s eye. The view Derek saw from the bungalow they viewed consisted largely of the brick wall of the next door identical structure.

Then, the word village. To Derek, a village included more than a collection of buildings accommodating humans. It needed facilities to make it thrive: a shop, a church (not that he had an iota of religion) and, most definitely, a pub. It needed a mixture of age groups, from babies to geriatrics. This so-called village had none of those. It comprised a central building functioning as the administration centre, communal dining room, and lounge, and forty-six identical semi-detached bungalows built to house those of the third age. That is–old.

Perhaps Brian and Chloe would be more interested in his opinion on the facilities offered.

Derek was not the type to become ecstatic about a communal dining room or a communal lounge or a communal garden. But as long as the said dining room, lounge, and garden were not inhabited by people with whom he would be compelled to converse, they would be fine. Since there were forty-six modern, two bedroomed, semi-detached bungalows in the complex occupied, as the name would suggest, by retirees, that was perhaps a little unlikely.

Nor was he the sort to become ecstatic about a modern two bedroomed semi-detached bungalow with walk-in bath and studio kitchen.

But as long as the aforementioned bungalow had locks on the doors to stop any nosey neighbours walking in, that would be fine.

Since part of the ethos of the complex was that rescue was at hand for the elderly residents and therefore no doors were fitted with locks, that also was a little unlikely. Perhaps if he answered the question what do you think, Dad about the staff he’d met?

Competing thoughts circled his brain, conceived between imagination and reality. Yes, the staff. There was the manageress or head warden or whatever term one employed to describe a battle axe honed over the years of denying her charges the right to free thought. Mrs Catchpole was a woman in her fifties, described politely as well rounded, by Derek as overweight. Peroxide blonde hair, overdone eye makeup, blood-red nail varnish, and a raspy voice revealing she was or had been a heavy smoker.

If you considered wardrobes as being the arbiter of location and applied this logic to Mrs Catchpole, you would be more inclined to assume you were touring a bordello. A blouse too tight stretched across her voluminous bosom, a skirt too tight and too short covered her expanding hips and waist, and on her feet was a pair of knee high faux leather boots.

No, his mind wasn’t drawn to her, but to the couple of East European care assistants that flitted into his vision briefly on his whirlwind tour–a tour so fast he was glad he still possessed the ability to jog, a tour so fast that a long blink, and one would have missed a whole room of the main building. Ah, those East Europeans! They were a breath of air so fresh, the staleness and antiseptic smell of the lounge was drowned by their happy demeanour and radiant smiles.

His tiredness overcame him, and the weeks of constant nagging from his son and daughter-in-law brought him to a reluctant decision. He hated the thought of giving up his independence to live in this community, to be watched and supposedly cared for, but he didn’t have the energy to resist anymore. He relented. He would certainly regret capitulating, but maybe it would prove to be a wise decision in the long run.

It’s perfect, Brian, he answered. When can I move in?

You sure Dad? You didn’t seem too enthusiastic while we were going round.

Didn’t I?

No, you described the lounge as looking like the waiting room for crossing the River Styx. And then you called Mrs Catchpole Mrs Weatherwax, and then you complained you had nowhere in the garden to roller skate. Where did that come from? You’ve never roller skated in your life.

Have to. Used to do loads when I was ten or eleven. Fancy giving it a go again.

Oh, for goodness sake, Derek, intervened Chloe, you are seventy-four. It’s much too dangerous and energetic for you to even contemplate.

Right, thought Derek, if Chloe thinks it’s a stupid idea, it’s now top of my to-do list.

Quite why he had complained of the lack of space to roller skate, he hadn’t a clue. Talk about coming out of left field, whatever that meant. When had he last considered roller skating? Probably at the age of ten, the day after his Mother banned him. He’d just broken his arm trying to leap ten steps in the park. But if Chloe railed against it, he determined to do it.

If you say so.

The tone in Derek’s voice alerted Brian to another eruption between his Father and his wife. He suffered enough hassle at work without needing this aggravation on the domestic front.

Dad!

Ok, look. I’ve said I’m prepared to come here. It’s your choice of location. I accept being here in Warwickshire is more convenient for you, and I’ve agreed to what you want. You better have a word with Granny Weatherwax and see when she can admit me to the asylum.

Dad, I’m not sure you are approaching this in the right frame of mind.

Well, at least you acknowledge I have a mind which, looking at the living dead in the lounge might make me unique here.

Dad. Brian's sharp tone confirmed he was less than enamoured with his father’s attitude.

You know we would feel easier if we had someone keeping an eye on you, Brian said.

Spying, you mean?

No, Dad, just someone to stop you doing silly things, like that attempt of yours to grow cannabis in the conservatory.

Still don't understand why you blew your top over that. Perfectly harmless recreation. I suspect I could have saved a load of your friends a fortune by letting them have some.

That was a comment too far for Chloe. Derek! We don’t have friends who are drug addicts. How could you even think it possible?

Well, given the fact that even Cabinet Ministers seem happy to use such substances, I thought perhaps it was a requirement of the social class you continue to aspire to.

The pair's silence spoke volumes.

How had he come by a son like Brian? The young man was intelligent, no doubt on that score, and Derek liked to think that was a trait he’d passed on. He’d been so proud when Brian had sailed through university getting a double first, and then when he had watched him rise in the world of commerce. Whether it was the money–Derek knew his son’s earnings were well into six figures–or the influence of his wife that had changed Brian, he didn’t know. What was certain was his loss of humility and sense of humour.

Derek’s career as an accountant had not been insignificant; he’d had an eclectic collection of clients, everything from peers of the realm to sporting champions via clergymen and ‘adult workers’. But he’d always kept his feet firmly on the ground. The need to conform was, to Derek, the least desirable attribute of being in a profession. To his son and daughter-in-law, it appeared to be the overriding requirement of life.

Since Sandra’s death, Derek’s escape mechanism had been to let the attitudes he’d had to keep under control during his working career have free rein.

Brian, Chloe, and Brian’s brother Bill had talked and concluded that what would be best for Derek was for him to be in an environment where someone would keep an eye on him.

So be it.

All right, all right. Look, I’ve said I’ll come here. Sign me up, Scotty, before I change my mind.

Brian and Chloe exchanged glances, raised eyebrows, and quickly ushered Derek towards the office.

Mrs Catchpole, thanks so much for your time. Dad loves it and wishes to move in as soon as possible. Do you have any vacancies at the moment?

"Steady on, Brian. First, you always were one for hyperbole. I’m sure I didn’t use the word love in connection with this place, and second, I’m not dumb. I can speak for myself. I’m not one of the living dead. Yet."

Dad!

It’s alright, Mr Russell, interjected Mrs Catchpole. I’m sure Mr Russell Senior would like to have some input.

A vision of inputting anything into this dragon had Derek’s mind adopt emergency image shutdown procedures, so he kept to the subject. Thank you Mrs. Crutchpost, I’m obliged.

It’s Mrs. Catchpole, Mr Russell, but regarding your question, yes, we will have a unit free at the end of the week. It’s of the same design as the one you saw, but not yet empty.

You arrange for people to die to order then, do you?

Dad! Brian and Chloe shouted in unison. That’s enough.

No, Mr Russell, the previous tenant required a move to a nursing home, but her family have not been able to clear her personal effects. They are due to complete that tomorrow.

Oh, right, yes, I suppose I don’t want to be tripping over her bits and bobs.

If you’re happy with that, we can prepare the documents and post them to you to sign. You can then bring them back with you when you move in. How’s that?

Fine, but you better address them to Brian. He’s in charge. Apparently, Derek said. his voice loaded with cynicism.

Mrs Catchpole missed or ignored the tone. Certainly. In the meantime, would you care to stay for lunch? It would give you a chance to meet the other residents.

I’m not sure. Would I, Brian?

Dad, stop playing the downtrodden old sod. You know full well you can do what you wish. Except...

Right, so it’s my choice except...?

I really should return to work.

"Quite, so this downtrodden old sod was right, he did need to ask permission."

No. Well, yes, but not the way you put it.

And how did I put it?

Grrr. Stop it, you two! Chloe's shrieked interjection was somewhat at odds with her sophisticated persona. Derek knew that his continual barbs usually washed over her but this morning she was apparently not in the mood. She had forsaken a coffee morning with the local MP to be here and it must gall her to have missed the opportunity to make his acquaintance. God, this is why we need to get rid of... why we need to have you settled somewhere, so you can be independent, Derek.

Derek wasn’t surprised by her slip of the tongue.

The upshot was that they completed the drive back home in silence. Brian dropped him off at his house and agreed to speak to him over the coming week to see what help he needed in packing.

Packing. Derek had realised he would have to succumb to the unrelenting pressure to move, so he had already sorted much of the rubbish accumulated over twenty years in one house. This consisted mostly of inconsequential items which had been retained because they might be useful sometime.

Now he’d seen his next and likely final abode, and had a better idea of what he could and could not fit in, he went around methodically marking those items he was keeping.

The shed proved his biggest problem. It was his man-cave, crammed with his most prized possessions. There was his catapult for, example, last used circa 1959 for reasons he couldn’t remember. On second thought, yes, he could. That pillock from down the road, what was his name? It escaped his memory, but the incident didn’t. Derek had just started getting interested in girls (being a late developer) and that nameless idiot began chatting up a girl Derek had finally plucked up the courage to ask out. His aim had invariably been good. He still recalled the satisfaction of the sight and sound of the egg smashing on the back of the interloper’s head coupled with his girlfriend's laughter. It had almost been worth the thumping he’d been given. So, that needed to come with him. Great memories.

Then there was his workbench and tools. He would have virtually no garden and definitely no shed, but his tools were not negotiable. What else would he do with his life? The retirement bungalows sported two bedrooms. Presumably, the second room was intended for guests. Derek didn’t expect droves of those, so the smaller space would make an ideal workroom.

He expected opposition from the battle-axe, but why shouldn’t it be used rather than left to collect dust? It would be his house, after all.

So, here he was, at a last sit-down in his sanctuary of many years, getting maudlin. His family, or at least one branch of it, was putting him into the Styx waiting room. Soon, perhaps, he’d join his beloved Sandra. He had moaned about her and how she had run his life, but deep down he knew that he owed her a great deal.

Part of that debt was that he shouldn’t waste what time he had left on this earth in morbid reflection, he decided. He should get off his backside and enjoy it–in any way possible.

Yes! Why not? What was stopping him, after all? He would be free of interfering relatives, free of a wife looking over his shoulder, and so what if he ended up roller skating under a bus? There’d be no one to blame but himself, no one to care that he was gone. Well, perhaps Bill, his eldest son, and his wife would actually care. They were a lovely couple, very much on Derek’s wavelength, but unfortunately now living in New Zealand. Good luck to them.

Right. So no more moping, he decided. First thing on Derek’s list was to buy those roller skates.

A walk into the town centre was called for. Who would sell roller skates? A toy shop, or sports shop? Crazy though it seemed, he had no idea. Oh, bugger that, he thought, let's go twenty-first century and order them on-line.

2

Meeting the Dead

The first day of what Derek regarded as a prison sentence began with Brian driving him to Sunny View with the removal van following. His son stayed and helped him get some semblance of organisation with the boxes coming in, but Derek could see Brian was desperate to make his escape, so he bade him adieu.

The pensioner surveyed his new home. The bungalows had been designed for easy living and were well appointed. The kitchen, in particular, had equipment far beyond his requirements. Once he’d found the toaster, how to switch the hot plate on to cook his beans or other delicacies, and how to switch on the microwave to heat his porridge, he would be content.

The bedrooms were small, but then he wasn’t expecting to have orgies in them. The bathroom had a walk-in bath, which was a novelty for him. He was a shower man, but there was one over the bath so all his requirements were well catered for.

Mrs Catchpole had met Brian and his father on arrival and suggested he go to her office at lunchtime so she could introduce him to the other residents in the dining room. He needed to steel himself for this. Those he’d seen on his earlier visit did not look capable of providing either the stimulating conversation or the companionship he hoped might make the move bearable.

At 12:30, Derek presented himself at Mrs Catchpole’s door. He knocked, received a come in, and entered. His initial impression was reinforced. Tarty glamour was the most apt phrase to describe her, he decided. The peroxide hair deflected the eye from her pudgy face; the red nails, talon-like, and her dress, too short to be becoming a woman of her age and size, completed the picture.

Welcome, Mr Russell, to Sunny View. I know you will be very happy here.

He was in no mood to be talked down to like a five-year-old starting school. His heart remained at his old home pining for Sandra.

Really, Mrs Dropstick? How on earth do you know that?

It’s Mrs Catchpole, as I’m sure you are aware, Mr Russell. How do I know? Because every resident here is content and happy.

Do you mean just the living dead or everybody?

Mr Russell, I’m sure you intend that as a joke, but it’s not the type of comment I encourage. We are a happy group who all get on well together.

Well, congratulations. A collection of forty-odd people and they all get on. Unique, I would have said. Have you considered telling the Guinness Book of Records? Don’t you try to tell me there are no cliques that won’t talk to each other.

"Oh, dear me, Mr Russell, you do seem to have a negative attitude. Let me take you through to the dining room for lunch and introduce you to our residents. I’m sure you will soon make friends."

"Well, I brought my tool kit and lathe with me so I’m more than capable of making friends, but let’s see. Hopefully, there’ll be some on my wavelength."

A lathe?

As soon as he’d made the joke, he suspected he’d committed a tactical error. Having piqued her interest, his only option was to be open about it. At least he’d know where he stood.

I do a lot of woodwork, a hobby of mine. Nothing huge, just an electric drill set up so I can use it as a lathe.

Where do you propose using that? You can’t have a shed, said Mrs Catchpole, her words brusque and not accepting dispute. That was, however, not a good attitude to take with Derek, who was trying his hardest to keep a lid on his directness.

Yes, I am aware of that, I’ll set it up in the spare bedroom.

Mm, I'm not sure I can allow that, but let’s get you settled and we’ll talk about it later. The residents are looking forward to meeting you.

We can talk about it as much as you like, he thought. I’m not forsaking my lathe for anyone.

Derek was surprised she didn't press the matter, she obviously wanted to get him settled and introduced first. He realised it would be unlikely she would forget about the subject and he could see in her face she was not the type to accept dissent, and would not relish him stirring things up. Too bad.

When he had viewed the facilities a week or so back he had not bothered to hide his forthright manner; perhaps a mistake. It had put her on her guard

She had been happy enough when he'd agreed to take the bungalow, but judging by her attitude, Derek surmised that was probably more to do with maintaining profits than welcoming him to add to the vibrancy of the Village.

Mrs Catchpole led Derek into the dining room. He had to admit to himself, it wasn’t an unpleasant area. Spacious, with room between the numerous tables, each seating four. Large patio doors looked over the garden which, while mainly lawn, had attractive flower beds and a small shed in the corner. Derek had enquired but was told firmly that it was for the gardener’s use only. Not to worry: he’d spent a few hours drafting out the layout for his benches and lathe in the spare bedroom, and it looked as though it would be more than adequate. Mrs Catchpole might have alternative ideas, but that’s tough.