Max & Olivia Box Set

by Mark A Biggs

  ‘Looking for Ruminations of a Rambling Idiot was more challenging than I expected. A large title on a relatively small book spine meant the text didn’t stand out easily from the other books but there, as you described, I found it. I reached for the book above and the secret compartment swung open.

  ‘I knelt and looked inside and found the black cash box against the back wall. I tugged at the handle but it was locked.’

  Penny later confessed to thinking that there must have been a key for the box hidden somewhere in the house. Even though we had not asked her to look for it, with all day to spare, she thought; why not search for the key.

  She said, ‘Going through the drawers and papers proved quite an adventure and I found a lifetime of stories and memories. It was interesting to see photos of you on your wedding day, with children and then as old people. It really got to me. I couldn’t help thinking that soon you will be gone and I must spend as much time with you as I can. It also made me consider my own mortality and purpose in the world. I didn’t find the key. But then I thought, where is the last place you would consider looking for the key? Near the cash box itself! I went back to the secret compartment and felt inside. Nothing. I used the torch I had to tap the rear wall of the compartment and heard a hollow sound. After I gave it another tap, the false back fell away and there was the key.’

  ‘Max!’ From a distance I heard my name being called; at first it was a soft ‘Max,’ like a word drifting in the breeze but, like an approaching train, it became steadily louder and louder.

  ‘Max, Max. Wake up Max. Have you been asleep the whole time I’ve been at book club?’ Without waiting for a response Olivia added, ‘Don’t you come complaining to me tonight that you can’t sleep, not when you’ve spent an idle day sleeping and dribbling in that chair. It’s not good and very bad for your brain.’ Softening her tone she added, ‘Come on, let’s do a crossword together. I can tell you all about the new book we are reading. And no, it’s not saucy.’

  Olivia, as she did most afternoons, kept me occupied until dinner, after which I would retire to her room for a night cap before making my way to my own sleeping quarters, perhaps around 11.00pm. This was a late night for those in our resort… Or “Last-Resort”, as I preferred to call it.

  ‘Max, what would you like for dinner?’ asked one of the kitchen staff, who had arrived at our table and was ready to take our order.

  ‘For an entrée, perhaps your Mousserons de la Saint-Georges and then…’ I paused as if to consider the choices. ‘The Bœuf de Patagonie and to finish, Chocolat noir Guanaja.

  ‘Perhaps,’ I continued, ‘the chef would match the wines to the meal. That would be truly appreciated.’

  ‘He’s in one of his funny moods again, is he?’ said the patient kitchen hand to Olivia, ignoring my humour totally.

  ‘If only it was funny, ha-ha,’ replied Olivia. ‘The burgundy pie for him, with the mashed potatoes, but no dessert.’

  It was an uneventful dinner like the evening that followed and at about 10.30pm I made my way from Olivia’s room back to my penthouse suite for another sleep disturbed night. It was gone midnight by the time I had struggled out of my clothes and found the sheets, my companions for the next seven hours.

  The minutes ticked unhurriedly by while I lay on my back and stared inertly up into the stillness of the ceiling.

  I remembered the Monday, the day we left to come into care.

  With some sense of urgency, I saw Gordon and Jane bundle us into the car for the 110 kilometre drive to the facility, Bellbird Village. Arriving at the “village”, Jane and Gordon took our arms, talking in loud voices as if they were deaf, and escorted us into the front foyer of the building where we were greeted by the Director of Nursing. To my surprise it was a new, modern and quite impressive facility. The astonishment was not so much about Bellbird Village, but that the family had chosen a nice place with our money.

  ‘Good morning, I’m Jane, this is my husband Gordon and this is Max and Olivia who are moving into this beautiful facility.’

  ‘Welcome,’ said the Director of Nursing. ‘I hope you had an easy drive and thank you for complimenting us on our home. Max and Olivia’s new home!’ The word home was said with emphasis.

  I smiled gleefully back at the nurse, knowing that she had been giving Jane a polite rebuke for calling our new home a facility. Disappointment was, however, not far away. Despite the home having adjoining rooms for couples, none were currently available.

  It was the next Saturday before Penny came with the locked cash box. Together in Olivia’s room, we shared a wee tot of Scotch whisky, a pleasure that had not diminished. I asked Penny if she found the key to the cash box (having forgotten to tell her where to look) and to my surprise she said, ‘yes.’

  ‘Did you open it?’ asked Olivia.

  ‘Surprisingly, no. I wanted to, but I didn’t,’ said Penny.

  What to do… The options raced through my mind. Should we show her the contents and by doing so open a tide of questions?

  Penny gave me the key and I opened the cash box which revealed two passports, one credit card and a sealed envelope. Penny looked upon the contents with a face that could not hide her disappointed. It was obviously an anti-climax after a week of waiting.

  ‘Nothing very exciting,’ I said, handing Penny one of the passports. Disappointment became surprise as she saw Olivia’s photograph and then read the name, Olivia Breeze. Taking the second passport she read, Max Breeze.

  ‘That’s not your surname; Breeze! Is it? Who are you?’ But before I could answer she added. ‘I’ve always known that you two were up to something. Always.’

  Thinking of Penny always makes me smile.

  Now I looked over to the clock on the side table next to my bed. It was 3.30am.

  Who are you? I said to myself. Who are you? A tear formed and trickled gently down my face and the memory of Penny faded to be replaced by the reality of another day. What have you become? – was now the question of my silent voice. With those words another tear formed and leisurely traced the contours of an empty face.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Duval

  Today was Monday 21, the third week of March and our anniversary, two years since moving to our Château d’If.

  The day started like any other. I wheeled down to the dining room for breakfast and to read the paper. The dining room was relatively empty at 7.30 am and wouldn’t spring to life until closer to 8.30. The aged, venerable, old, whatever name you choose to call us, tend to sleep in, not for rest, but so there’s a little less of the day to get through. You can’t say Bellbird Village is without activities but, even with an hour here or an hour there, mostly the days are long and the same. So, so long. The sense of purpose, meaning and urgency which drove you to rise early and face the world regardless of its adversities has long since gone.

  Sometimes I still woke feeling as if I could conquer the world. I’d swing my legs from the bed and raise my body to its full height, only to find my balance faltering. As I swayed upon my feet, my confidence was drained and dimmed further with every rock. My head filled with giddiness; was it my health or anxiety that befell me? In the end it mattered not, for each day became another day of waiting for God and wishing time would end swiftly instead of loitering into a slow decline of mind and dignity. In what now seemed such a long time ago, I remembered being at home, a young man looking out upon the world, pondering its beauty and feeling, really feeling, the wonders of God’s creation. Now, a lifetime later, my only ponderous insurmountable feeling was of fear, fear that Olivia would die before me and that I would be left alone.

  How very selfish this was, as was my daily prayer for God to take me soon and take me swiftly. Whether there is an afterlife, I am ashamed to say, I no longer know with certainty. Even if this life is it and there is nothing else, it is not death I now fear, but the process of dying.

  I have always been an early riser, enjoying a quiet hour sipping a cup of coffee while reading the
newspaper. In keeping with my ritual, today I turned first to the notices section and scanned the death columns expecting the daily feeling of disappointment.

  DUVAL Claude of Covent Gardens

  Passed away peacefully

  A private memorial service to celebrate

  his life will be held at Cliff on

  Monday 11th April 2011.

  I couldn’t believe my eyes!

  While reading and re-reading, my heart began to race and, for a second, I thought it was a heart attack. Taking deep breaths to regain focus, I noted the sensation turned to that of excitement and then anticipation before giving way to uncertainty and trepidation.

  A message from a life long ago stared back from the paper and with the top-secret code activated; Olivia and I must to get to the UK and a small Cornish village called Cliff. It was from here that our secret missions, both during and after the war, were controlled. Headquarters was a white house, one of only six dwellings in the village. It became a B&B after the war to hide the comings and goings of operatives. It was to Cliff we sent the key when last recalled to duty. This message meant only one thing: Janus was to be retrieved by us and reunited with its key. It had been decided during the dying days of the war that the Janus Machine must be separated from its key, for the safety of humanity. Although Janus could be used for great good, its original design and purpose was for pure evil.

  Along with one other, we were the only people still alive who would know the final hiding place, albeit with the need of one other piece of information.

  ‘The eleventh of April is only three weeks away. It’s impossible,’ I said to Olivia. ‘How can we get to the UK, find the clue, retrieve Janus and then deliver it, in person, to Cliff all by the eleventh of April? It takes me a month just to get dressed and wheel down to the dining room, let alone to travel twelve thousand kilometres.’

  In her calm, unflappable way, Olivia had just smiled and said, ‘We can work it out tonight, when you come to my room.’

  She has always been the cool headed one; I ran on pure adrenaline, doing everything at a hundred miles an hour, six tasks at a time. It was either fight or flight. Not with Olivia though; she was calm, controlled and methodical. But always late!

  It being Monday, the next planned visit by family would be on Sunday, the twenty-seventh, and then not for another week. Thinking occupied the remainder of my breakfast. To escape unnoticed we needed the home to believe we were staying with family and for family to believe we were still at the home. No trace of our planning or intended movements could be left—this meant not using our own computers, iPads, or phones. All bookings and communications would have to be carried out using someone else’s equipment and without their knowledge. Once our absence was noticed, because of our age, an extensive search would be launched by police and, with our colourful history, it might garner some local media interest. Worryingly, the story might also attract international coverage alerting our previous adversaries that we were on the move.

  With the false passports and credit card that Penny had salvaged, we had the means to travel overseas but, without outside assistance in our current circumstances and conditions, it would be impossible. Penny’s help might be needed and, at worst, it could be essential.

  Before meeting Olivia tonight I needed to talk with Penny. Although it was probably safe to call her mobile from the nursing home, I couldn’t risk the phone records being checked once we were reported missing. If Jane even suspected an escape, she might be suspicious of Penny’s involvement and we wouldn’t want her connected to our disappearance. Overly cautious? Definitely. Paranoid? Probably, but nonetheless necessary. The obvious solution that sprang to mind was to ring Penny at work using a pay phone from down the street. The problem; getting down the street. The answer; steal a motorised scooter from one of the residents—or guests, as Bellbird Village liked to call us.

  Why I hadn’t bought an electric scooter, I don’t know, for the people who owned them absolutely loved them. For the mobility-challenged, the scooter gave a freedom no long available to those without wheels. I longed to go down the street at a time of my choosing. To read the paper and enjoy a real coffee from a café or any place other than here. Even as recently as the week before, I had refused a scooter. Was it pride, embarrassment at the loss of independence, fear, denial, or plain stubborn stupidity? On reflection; a combination of all the above. Sometimes I was miserable and, by making my stay at Bellbird more wretched than it should be, my gloom was justified. As a young man I had told the children that I was going to be a grumpy old man, and I was.

  One of the fortunate truths of age is that we become creatures of habit. Vera, or Aunty Vera as she likes to be called, goes for an hour’s ride most mornings and is always back by 11:00 am. She, unlike some guests, leaves the keys in her machine. By coincidence, 11:00 am on Mondays is also when Bellbird Village administrative staff have their office meeting. For about thirty minutes, you can almost guarantee that the front desk will be left unattended. Leaving Bellbird unseen was important; being caught coming back on the stolen scooter was not. If challenged upon return I knew better than to claim stupidity—the last thing I wanted was to be transferred to the Dementia Unit. A good lie, for which I had a lifetime of practice, could be constructed while terrorising the streets on the stolen four-wheeled chariot.

  At 10.45 am, I watched Aunty Vera from a safe distance as she parked her scooter. Patiently, I waited and then waited some more as she dismounted. After taking her stick from the basket she moved, at an astonishingly slow speed, towards the power socket to plug in and recharge her wheels. She picked up the lead and stretched it towards the scooter. She fiddled with the plug… waiting… fiddled with the plug… At last, contact. No, something was not right. She went back to the wall. Ah, she’d forgotten to switch the power on. Agonisingly, she went back to the scooter again, this time checking that the charge light was on. All must have been well as she moved away from the scooter but then stopped and turned back.

  Wait, I said to myself; she’s forgotten something else. No, she’s forgotten what she forgot. Unhurriedly she turned and made her way out of the parking room. I checked my watch and the time was 11.05.

  This would be a quick and easy theft; a lifetime of skill and training told me that speed and confidence are the essential elements for success. After disconnecting the scooter from the power socket, I mounted my charge and turned the key on. Bugger, where’s the accelerator? No pedals, how ridiculous, it’s only got two hand brakes. I mumbled crossly to myself. Looking below the handlebars I discovered a green lever on the right and a yellow lever on the left. Obviously, yellow is for reverse and green for forward, I informed myself. Squeezing the yellow lever had no effect. Squeezing further brought no more result. Without warning the scooter leapt to life and bolted backwards. Too fast! Brake, brake, I told to myself. Pulling hard on the lever, in an effort to stop the scooter, made it instead accelerate rearward at ever increasing speed until… Bang! It slammed into two other scooters. The crashing, crunching and destruction of fibreglass was deafening. Run away! My instincts yelled. This time, after gently squeezing the green lever and patiently waiting for the motor to respond, I launched out of the automatic door and down the footpath. Relaxing a little, I put distance between myself and the village. I ventured towards my first ever road crossing. The secret, I had determined, was to maintain momentum: Not too fast and definitely not too slow. Leaving the footpath, the scooter behaved as if it had been thrown, with incredible force, onto the road. The relatively small curb sent the scooter rocking violently from side to side and, for an instant, I was almost thrown from the seat. Rather than riding and absorbing the gutter, the wheels smashed through the terrain sending shockwaves back through my hands. I was sure it would tip over.

  Who designed these things? They have virtually no suspension. A death trap, likely to roll over on the slightest of provocation, I thought. On recovering from my initial shock, it was pedal to the metal, racing to a
nd through the various obstacles in search of a public telephone and post office.

  Penny, it is fair to say, was surprised by the call but did agree to visit tonight and break in through Olivia’s French windows, which opened onto a small garden. In keeping with my paranoia, I asked her not to use her credit card or to buy petrol on the trip. Her mobile phone was to be left at home and, under no circumstances, was she to use the City Link toll road.

  My final request was for her to download and then copy a program called iSunshare. She was to bring it with her tonight, which raised her curiosity even more.

  With the phone call over, it was time to shuffle the scooter around, drive up the ramp into the post office and purchase a book of stamps. The twenty-minute return trip started well, with memories of motorbike riding rekindled by wind and sun touching the skin. Forgotten spirits of pleasure and joy were rediscovered as the world raced past; it was only at 15 kph but, on narrow footpaths, it felt like 115 kph. Without warning, the scooter stopped, coming to a halt halfway across a busy road. Traffic chaos followed the blocking of one lane. Trucks are an imposing sight when seen from the vantage point of what is really a motorised wheelchair on steroids.

  Nurse Ratched was speechless, Aunty Vera distressed and the residents were evenly split between disgust and envy at my apparent rebellious behaviour. With little other excitement, the theft, scooter carnage and traffic jam would remain the topic of conversation for days.

  At school, the headmaster calls your parents; here, at a nursing home, they call your children—both work with equal effectiveness. Over the phone a promise was made to pay for the damages caused by my excursion, a pledge made for improved behaviour and I was to be given a stern talking to on the next Sunday visit.