Lyrics for the Loved Ones: Matilda Windsor

By Anne Goodwin

After half a century confined in a psychiatric hospital, Matty has moved to a care home on the Cumbrian coast. Next year, she'll be a hundred, and she intends to celebrate in style. Yet, before she can make the arrangements, her 'maid' goes missing.

 

Irene, a care assistant, aims to surprise Matty with a birthday visit from the child she gave up for adoption as a young woman. But, when lockdown shuts the care-home doors, all plans are put on hold.

 

But Matty won't be beaten. At least not until the Black Lives Matter protests burst her bubble and buried secrets come to light.

 

Will she survive to a hundred? Will she see her 'maid' again? Will she meet her long-lost child?

 

Rooted in injustice, balanced with humour, this is a bittersweet story of reckoning with hidden histories in cloistered times.

 

'a smartly constructed, engaging and compassionate story about family, humanity and 'lost loss' ALISON MOORE, Booker prize shortlisted author of The Lighthouse

 

'one of the best books I've ever read … a very funny and a hugely emotional read' ALEX CRAIGIE, author of Someone Close to Home

 

'vividly illuminates recent inequalities, with humour and humanity' CAROLINE LODGE, Bookword

 

'I'm reeling from the sheer brilliance of this book' VERONIKA JORDAN, Bookchatter@Cookiebiscuit

 

'the author writes with intelligence, understanding and sensitivity' ANNIE ELLIOTT, Left on the Shelf Book Blog

 

'runs the whole gamut of emotions … one of the most memorable and heart-wrenching protagonists I've met' OLGA NÚŇEZ MIRET, psychiatrist, author and translator

 

'a well written, chatty book, with great characters' EMMABBOOKS

• Language: English
• Publisher: Annecdotal Press
• Release date: May 15, 2023
• ISBN: 9781739145033

Book preview

Lyrics for the Loved Ones

Anne Goodwin

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Annecdotal Press

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2023 Anne Goodwin

Content warnings: racism, mental health difficulties, cancer, forced adoption, insecure attachment, covid pandemic

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of quotations in a book review.

Editor: Kelly Davis

Cover design: 100Covers

ISBN (paperback) 978-1-7391450-2-6

ISBN (ebook) 978-1-7391450-3-3

Annecdotal Press

annegoodwin.weebly.com

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Contents

1: West Cumbria

2: West Cumbria

3: Bristol and Somerset

4: West Cumbria

5: West Cumbria

6: Bristol and Somerset

7: West Cumbria

8: Bristol and Somerset

9: West Cumbria

10: Bristol and Somerset

11: West Cumbria

12: West Cumbria

13: Bristol and Somerset

14: West Cumbria

15: West Cumbria

16: West Cumbria

17: Bristol and Somerset

18: West Cumbria

19: West Cumbria

20: Bristol and Somerset

21: West Cumbria

22: West Cumbria

23: Bristol and Somerset

24: West Cumbria

25: West Cumbria

26: Bristol and Somerset

27: West Cumbria

28: West Cumbria

29: West Cumbria

30: West Cumbria

31: Bristol and Somerset

32: West Cumbria

33: Bristol and Somerset

34: West Cumbria

35: West Cumbria

36: Bristol and Somerset

37: West Cumbria

38: Bristol and Somerset

39: West Cumbria

40: West Cumbria

Glossary of Cumbrian dialect

Thanks for reading

Author’s Note

Acknowledgements

More about Matty

Free fiction and keeping in touch

About the Author

Also by Anne Goodwin

1: West Cumbria

Matty would have stayed snug in her room with her precious belongings around her, but she hates to disappoint Oh My Darling. Whereas some maids are brassy, Oh My Darling was born to serve. Matty panders to her whims, no matter how outlandish, rewarding her docility as the Lord bestows His blessings on the meek.

As the maid hooks her arm to lift her from the chair, Matty hears coughing in the corridor. Is there a fire drill? That would account for Oh My Darling’s haste.

Oh My Darling cocks her head in that charming manner of hers. Can’t smell no smoke. Can’t hear no alarm. Can you?

Matty cannot. Even the splutterer is silenced. She braces herself to exchange her tasselled footstool and her barley-twist wallpaper and her bedside bell-pull for the wilds of Scarrowdale’s ground-floor lounge.

Oh My Darling eases her to her feet and conveys her to the door. Goodnight Irene would have had her shuffling inch by inch with the Zimmer, but Oh My Darling bolsters her with her body – her arm a prop, her haunch a pillow. They might waltz from the room were Matty’s own body in top-notch condition.

There’s a logjam at the lifts: assorted Loved Ones shooting grudging glances, whether or not they have maids in tow. Naturally they would prefer to tarry, pressed against a portly cousin of Ella Fitzgerald – or is it Carmen Miranda? – even if remarking on the family resemblance contravenes a Scarrowdale law.

In the lounge, Matty is deposited where she can savour the lilac blooming in the garden without being blinded by sun-spill or chilled by the draught from the open French windows. Pleasant as this may be, it doesn’t seem to warrant vacating her room. Buck up, whispers her mother. All will become clear in due course. Heeding her advice, Matty rests her eyes, while registering that communing with her mother is another of Scarrowdale’s taboos.

Matty is inured to waiting. Waiting is her chief occupation since retiring from the stage. The Loved Ones divert themselves with parlour games, television and armchair aerobics, as if yet to grasp Scarrowdale’s function. A holding pen for the passage to eternity, designed to keep the Loved Ones breathing peaceably until their allotted puff is spent.

She dozes, and surfaces to a croaky chorus mid-song. Matty recognises the tune but cannot winkle the words from her tangled mental archive of nursery rhymes and Christmas carols. Fortunately, her mouth proves sufficiently astute to make a stab at it. Although not a joiner, she sees no purpose in being judged a prig.

She does not catch whom the ditty is honouring but, as Goodnight Irene breezes in bearing a cake crowned with candles, Matty slumps in her seat. She has abandoned her boudoir for a birthday tea? Such events erupt among the Loved Ones as frequently as bunions or the common cold. She could swear some have birthdays twice or thrice a year.

As cake and candles glide towards her, Matty cringes. She scans the smiling faces for Oh My Darling, but all are as pale as the cake’s sugar-icing. Is she hiding, racked with guilt for failing to warn Matty what was in the wind?

Make a wish! says Goodnight Irene. Blow!

Matty wishes for naught but a celestial reunion with her mother, and she petitions for that in her evening prayers. Switching off her thoughts, she inhales to the base of her lungs, and huffs. After several attempts, she defeats the flames and the Loved Ones hurrah.

Nine charred wicks. Nine? Has Goodnight Irene stinted on the candles or were the intervening years a nasty dream?

Unprompted, Goodnight Irene clarifies. How does it feel to be ninety-nine, Matty? This time next year you’ll have a card from the Queen!

That’ll call for a mammoth celebration, Mrs Jefferson pipes up from the back of the room.

Matty feels fatigued already. Will Darling Clementine be there?

Her maid peels herself from the shadows. Has she been watching over her all along? Of course, my lovely. A plague of locusts couldn’t stop me.

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Matty is napping in the lounge among the Loved Ones when a baritone bark from inside the television shudders her awake. She could have dropped straight off to sleep again had Oh My Darling not crouched by her chair to hand her a nylon Union Jack on a candy-floss skewer. She blinks at the screen.

Two sky-grey stallions clip-clop a Cinderella coach past ranks of men in pillar-box red jackets and furry hats. Behind them, lines of conker-coloured horses, their riders sporting pointy helmets streaming silver hair. Pay attention, says her mother. You might learn something of consequence.

As the men stomp in formation, Matty sees that some carry bugles and some carry drums. Then, as if by dint of her paying attention, they pay attention to their instruments, and thrash out such a merry melody that Matty would dance a jig if she could rise from her chair unaided. Oh My Darling would help her, were she not so consumed by the spectacle, beaming so widely her gold tooth gleams as she conducts the performers with her flag. Matty follows suit until her arm founders.

Presently, militiamen supplant the musicians. Matty’s flag falls at her feet. They drill like clockwork soldiers, clacking their weapons in unison from shoulder to shoulder and down to the ground. She would not be surprised if, as they about-turned, she spotted a wind-up key protruding from each red-coated rear.

The Loved Ones have been observing quietly, apart from the standard coughs and throat clearings; now one of them harrumphs. How long does this flimflam go on for?

Aren’t you enjoying it, Olive? says Oh My Darling.

I’d rather sit through a reception-class nativity, says the Loved One. It’s less effort keeping my face straight.

Matty notices her face is indeed askew: not only her mouth but one eye droops. Yet her pearl earrings and ebony chignon confirm her as Popeye’s Sweetheart, Olive Oyl.

I’m a sucker for pomp and ceremony, says Oh My Darling.

The Maharaja concurs: jolly decent of an aristocrat accustomed to cavalcades of elephants and tigers. It’s our heritage.

It’s obscene. A waste of public funds when folk are feeding bairns from food banks. Olive’s chair whirrs as she wheels away. I’ll be upstairs.

Oh My Darling’s gaze pursues her to the door before sweeping the room. Everyone else happy to watch it? We could have a game of Trivial Pursuit if you prefer.

Matty racks her brain for something to restore her maid’s bonhomie. As the screen flips to cheering crowds attired for a blustery English summer, she recalls the solitary passenger in the gilded carriage. That lady is held in high esteem.

The Maharaja guffaws. I should bloody well hope so.

You might have missed the introduction, my lovely, says Oh My Darling. It’s the Queen’s official birthday.

Queen Elizabeth? says Matty. Where is King George? she wonders.

Who did you expect? says the Maharaja. "Queen Camilla? Queen Kate?"

Matty bristles. He might be Oriental royalty but a subject of the British Empire has no right to mock. She directs her words to Oh My Darling. Is she a hundred? Nothing less could merit such display.

In another seven years, says the Maharaja. Don’t tell me you’ve never seen Trooping the Colour.

Matty does not deign to reply. She does not even comment on the ridiculous notion of trooping a colour – like a rainbow parade of paint pots. Nor does she quip that an Asiatic has no business patronising her on questions of English idiom. Her brain buzzes with loftier concerns.

The universe beyond her chamber can be draining. The Loved Ones’ babble. Mrs Jefferson’s rules. The meddling of Goodnight Irene. Matty often returns to her quarters with her mind in tatters; only when she’s cloistered with her knick-knacks and chattels can she effect the necessary repairs. Today the blasted television has created the muddle: battlefields mixed up with orchestras; flags and fancy dress and fairy tales; a queen without her king. Yet now, amid the maelstrom, she gathers the ingredients of a brilliant plan.

It is most irregular. Matty brushes her skirt and flexes her toes. Pats the top of her head for good measure. She certainly seems real. Did her mother not advise watching closely? Matty has caught every clue. Olive Oyl’s passion for drama. Her Royal Highness’s birthday pageant. Even the Maharaja was impressed.

Next year, Matty will be a hundred. She will mark it with more than a card from the Queen.

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I don’t think so, my lovely, says Oh My Darling. It’s a nice idea, but who would come?

Matty yanks back her hand. The nail clippers tumble to the floor.

Oh My Darling sinks to her knees and reaches between Matty’s armchair and footstool to retrieve them. No damage done! Clambering onto her seat, she clickety-clicks them beside her ear. Still in tune too! Shall I carry on?

Matty repositions her arm on the armrest so that Oh My Darling can finish snapping her nails into shape.

"I’d come, obviously. You’d have to pay me to stay away. The rest of the staff who weren’t on duty, and any residents who were up to it too. Maybe some of their relatives who’ve taken a shine to you. But we wouldn’t add up to more than a couple of dozen, my lovely. It’d be like a freezing church on carnival day. Oh My Darling swaps the clippers for an emery board and begins filing Matty’s nails. You could put on a show for us here, though. Wouldn’t that be fun?"

How could her maid be so obtuse? Matty might as well have unveiled the project to Goodnight Irene. She has as much imagination as her bedside lamp, with far less lustre. I cannot disappoint my public. Naturally she would not compete with Her Majesty but, recalling the ocean of ecstatic faces on the television, she cannot bear to short-change her devotees. A grande dame turning a hundred is no trifling affair.

Oh My Darling’s lips twitch as she manicures Matty’s thumbnail. Let’s see how you feel nearer the time, shall we? All sorts could happen between now and next June.

Matty cranes her neck to admire the snow globe on her bedside cabinet, a tribute from Kitty, a previous maid. The detail blurs at this distance, but the enchanted world within is etched on her mind. A rickety house, which Kitty perceived as a theatre: testament to her confidence in Matty’s ability to draw crowds.

In her prime, an army of minions used to spare her the tedious administration – selecting the pieces and committing them to memory was taxing enough – but she knew of their endeavours behind the scenes. She also knew that the best venues – The Royal Albert Hall and the London Palladium – were booked months in advance. Then there were tickets and programmes and rosettes to produce.

We cannot leave it to chance. Too much is at stake.

Discarding the emery board, Oh My Darling removes the lid from a plastic box and invites Matty to choose from the bottles of nail varnish therein. Tell you what, she says, as Matty studies the glossy colours. Let’s see what Mrs Jefferson advises.

Matty settles on a glittery purple, pulling out the vial by its giraffe-neck lid. So easy to forget Mrs Jefferson was once Denise, junior member of a theatre group pepping up Ghyllside on Wednesday afternoons. Matty took the shy teenager under her wing. Now, as Scarrowdale’s owner, superintendent and policymaker, her protégé soars above everyone. Matty does not boast about their bond lest it discomfit the Loved Ones. But she feels it, and takes heart.

Oh My Darling twists the lid off the sparkly lacquer, releasing a chemical odour and revealing the dainty brush secreted inside. However far Mrs Jefferson has travelled from the girl she used to be, she will concur with Matty’s plan. Did she not say her hundredth birthday deserved a mammoth celebration?

2: West Cumbria

Note: A glossary of Irene's Cumbrian dialect can be found at the back of the book.

Hod me bag, would you, while I jemmy off these shoes. I knew in the shop they was pinching, though they didn’t have owt decent at that price in a six and a half. I thought they’d stretch, but. There was some nice summer sandals, though I hadn’t the readies in me purse for both, and you know our Denise can’t abide bare toes on duty. Health and safety! I’ll give her health and safety! If her mam knows nowt about keeping folk safe, how’s she survived to the ripe old age of forty-nine?

Ah, that’s better, fresh air will fettle me blisters in no time. Now, let me open the wine.

Them rezzies have had me run ragged. I’d be out like a shot if it weren’t for Her Ladyship. Though what would I do with meself? I can’t sit yattering with you from dawn to dusk. I like to be active. I’m the type what keeps working till the crack of doom.

I know I’ve said I’m gonna pack it in and move back to Spain. Give our Angela a hand in the bar. She can’t gad about like she used to, not with that hip. Though flitting’s got harder since Brexit, and I’m feckless at form filling. Do you think I should try Citizens Advice?

Denise? I can’t ask Denise. She’d have a dicky fit if she thought I’d scarper. Can’t get no staff except agency and they’re twice the price. Folk from these parts are bone idle. Sooner stop in their pits and sponge off the rest of us mugs. Too busy watching Homes under the Hammer or blethering in Lidl, lardy arses blocking the middle aisle. Think themselves too good for domino marathons and Vera Lynn singalongs. Too particular to scrub lavs or wipe the dinner off some wrinkly’s chin. Them Polish lasses was worth their weight, though you can’t blame them for bailing out after the aggro they got upstreet.

What? I know staff’s not my problem. She’s me daughter, but. She might be Mrs High-and-Mighty Jefferson – underneath she’s my Denise. Course I take on her worries, even when she aggravates the pants off me. You’d understand if you’d had bairns yerself.

True, I come here to relax. And to get your take on stuff, if only to go and do the opposite. Though I’d love this spot regardless. No nagging, no squawking rezzies, no sound save twittering birds. Perfect place to untangle yer thoughts.

Beats me why more folk don’t come here. It’s classier than the park. No dog dirt. No football. No squealing bairns. They keep the grass trim and there’s flowers all year round. Poinsettias in pots for Christmas, pom-pom chrysanths right now in them salt-cellar vases, and legions of daffodils prior. They could do with more benches, though it’s comfy if you rest yer back on polished stone. You’d expect secretaries and what-have-you to bring their bait here at break-time. It’s only a hop away from town.

Well, there’s that. Not likely to see a ghost in daylight, but. Chance would be a fine thing.

Give over! Me throat’s parched with them crisps and you’ve got to drink Prosecco while it’s cool. You pay extra for a bottle from the chiller and I’m gonna get the benefit, whatever you say.

I brung you some biscuits what Clem made, except I scoffed them in the car. I’d rationed meself to one, then just my share, till I dipped me hand in the bag driving past St Joe’s and yours had disappeared. Shortbread they was, with a disc of coloured rice paper stuck on top. Union Jack for the Queen’s birthday bash on the telly, except Denise vetoed giving them to the rezzies after Clem’s tongue turned blue. Clem said they’d laugh, them what had the brainpower. Denise said rellies texting Care Quality was the last thing she needed.

Yeah, I wondered when you’d notice my tongue. I’d forgot about it in the offie. That explains the geezer at the checkout eyeing me strange.

Anyroad, Clem says it’d be a shame to waste the biscuits she’s slaved over, let the young ’uns take them for their bairns. So Denise says summat about budgets and auditors and if food’s going to staff, she’ll have to charge. And Clem thinks she’s clowning, it’s only a brick of butter and a bag of flour. And the coloured wafers, says Denise. Which I’ll pay for, if you’re that bothered, says Clem.

I can see they’re both radged and trying not to show it. Clem’s her best worker, now the Polish lasses have upped sticks. Denise can’t back down, but. She always were a stubborn so-and-so, from toddler to teens. Remember how she took against you.

To keep the peace, I remind her about Tilly’s account. Denise gurns back at me like I’m planning to spraff a widow’s jewels. Like Her Ladyship hasn’t got more than she knows what to do with. Like we haven’t drawn on her reserves prior.

Don’t ask me how she fixed it with her conscience. All I know is Clem gathered the rezzies to cheer at the telly, and Denise gave take-home party bags to each of us on shift.

You don’t mind, do you, Henry? If we’d got married, I’d be Tilly’s next of kin. She’d be paying off my credit card and treating me to a fortnight in Cancun. I’d be raking it in when she passed.

Not like I’m bitter. Cos it’s not about the money. Never was. It’s about family. Connection. Not dying on her tod.

Let’s face it, Henry, she’s on her last legs, though you’d be forgiven for thinking she was immortal, she’s hung on so long. Ninety-nine and counting. She’ll outlive the Duke of Edinburgh. Outlive the Queen.

What’s the magic formula? Can’t be inherited, else you’d of had it too.

You’d think Ghyllside would of done for her. Psychedelic drugs and electric shocks. There was perks, but. No responsibilities. Three meals a day she didn’t have to cook herself. Lady of leisure: you don’t get varicose veins sitting on yer arse. Nowt to do all day, but, Henry. Would send me round the twist.

Mebbe it’s her chirpy personality. Not that she shows me much of that. Though if thinking positive cures cancer … Look at our Angela, flirting with the porters what wheeled her into theatre and just had her ten-year all-clear. Whereas me mam, never cracked a smile else it was for another body’s misery and she was gone before she got fitted for a wig.

Looking on the bright side, you reckon? Or never catching the baccy habit? They smoked like an iffy barbecue in Ghyllside, I seen them. Tilly saved her lungs and her lowie by not joining in. Course she wasn’t paid a wage – patients got pocket money, like bairns – though when you’ve no nights out nor holidays, them pennies pile up.

You think it’s fair that the government claws it back when she goes? To pass it on to scroungers, fraudsters and hypochondriacs on universal credit? Folk what’ll drink it, inject it or guzzle it away. After all she’s gone through. After I’ve worked like a Trojan since I were thirteen. Her dosh vanishing like yours did, cos I didn’t have no papers to prove I had a claim.

Ooh, I’m getting goose pimples. And I left me cardie in the car. Anyroad, it’s nearly chucking-out time. I want to tell you summat before I leave.

I’ve made up me mind to bring her here again. I owe it to her. I owe it to you. I owe it to meself. No, I haven’t forgot the carry-on prior. Though I’ve learnt me lesson. This time, I’ll be proper prepared.

Clem? It’s true, Clem could keep Her Ladyship steady. Stop her racing from plot to plot like a two-year-old lost in Lidl, crying for her mam. Stop her scopping ornamental gravel at me and stamping on other folk’s flowers.

I can’t bring Clem, I can’t bring any of the Scarrowdale carers, cos I can’t risk it getting back to Denise. You’re Gary Glitter, the Yorkshire Ripper and Harvey Weinstein rolled into one where she’s concerned. She loves Tilly. She’d evict her, but, if she found out you were kin.

Let’s forget Denise till we’ve took my idea for a test drive. If Tilly won’t bite, we can park it and console ourselves we’ve tried. She deserves to know you remembered her, for all them years she festered in Ghyllside. That you never give up on her, that you dreamt of her return. I shan’t let on you couldn’t stomach the notion your precious sister might be in the asylum. Poked fun at me for entertaining the idea.

At least you tried. Wouldn’t she find comfort in that? I tried too, though I wish I’d tried harder. So I’m gonna try once more before they put her in one of these plots.

Scarrowdale’ll have a do for her hundredth, and I’ll be there regardless. Though if I was official, if she knew I was family, I could rope in the grandbairns to sing Happy Birthday and blow out the candles on her cake. Isn’t that better than a bunch of paid carers what would rather be at yam and a posse of OAPs with no yams to go to? Denise’ll come round once it’s done and dusted. Once she deeks Tilly’s smile.

3: Bristol and Somerset

The minute she shuts the door on her boys, she wants to yank it open and summon them back. Only they can prevent the feeling of falling as she switches from Mother Hen, without even a name to distinguish her from other cluckers, to Gloria, a widow bolstered by eight decades’ practice in landing, like a cat, on her feet.

Now she pads barefoot between patio and kitchen: five paces from wrought-iron bistro table to wood-effect worktop. Ferrying the debris of dessert from garden to house, her soles register the transition from sun-soaked stone to chill tile. Dumping the bowls by the sink, Gloria winces at her shortcomings manifest in the strawberry stalk secreted under Timothy’s spoon. Shrugging it off, she returns for the glasses, tanned feet striped white from the sandals she shed in the hallway after closing the door on her boys.

Today, the sensation was not of falling but plunging, an eye-popping jolt bringing the tingle of meringue to her teeth. A sharp drop, like a parachute jump, leastways as she imagined it from Timothy’s escapades; she’d