Max & Olivia Box Set

by Mark A Biggs

  ‘We are on our honeymoon and have just finished a Contiki tour of Europe and are now having a few weeks in Britain before heading home.’

  ‘A honeymoon! Congratulations. Aren’t they a lovely couple Olivia?’ Before Olivia had a chance to answer, I continued, ‘Are you going to Scotland sightseeing?’

  ‘Yes and no. David’s grandparents came from Scotland—Glasgow. His grandfather, Jim, worked at the John Brown shipyards, after the war. By all accounts life was hard. They emigrated to Australia from Britain as ten pound poms in the late 50s when the shipyard was struggling to compete with Korea and Japan. In the stories Jim tells, he could see no future for their family in Scotland. Despite needing to leave, he still lamented the sheer beauty of Scotland; not only the countryside but the beauty within the bleakness of working class slums. For us, it’s hard to understand how, despite loving a place, you can pack up everything and leave for a foreign land—forever. We want to visit where Jim came from, to help us understand his story, which is part of David’s story.’

  ‘What a wonderful thing to do,’ put in Olivia. ‘I’m sure, when you return, Jim will love hearing of your adventure. I bet he will be touched that you took time to learn of his journey.’ The hum of the road filled the car before Olivia added. ‘A lovely young couple don’t you think Maxine?’

  ‘Oh yes Olivia; a lovely young couple.’

  Over the next while we became quite fond of our backpacker chauffeurs and conversation flowed easily as the miles sailed by, before I said, ‘I am afraid, Loves, I need to powder my nose. Can you pull into one of the motorway places?’

  David answered with a simple, ‘Yep.’

  We were, by now, past Birmingham as the M20 glided to a halt in a motorway service centre. Reaching over into the front of the car, I handed David a £100 note with instructions to fill the car with fuel and then meet us for coffee.

  Once inside the service centre I looked about for the conveniences. It felt strange walking into the ladies’ toilet with Olivia, but nice to have a privacy not found in the men’s. The separate cubicles were far better than standing shoulder to shoulder at a urinal, where despite busting to go, often nothing happens. The more you try, the more nature refuses. You find yourself glancing side to side thinking the world is laughing at your stage fright. Worse, for us private Englishmen, is when travelling on the continent. In Italy, stern-faced Italian women manage the men’s toilets and seem quite content to clean the urinal, right next to you, as you stand with your pecker hanging out. Once, I even experienced the embarrassment of one of these big Italian mammas looking directly at me, as I stood astride the urinal, and saying in her heavy Italian accent, ‘Are you having problems going, dear?’

  When it comes to lavatories, it is the Parisians who openly display a centuries-old contempt for the reserved English gentleman—with public WCs that provide privacy from the knees to the navel only. When the call of nature beckons, one must stand erect, looking out over the passing crowd. An essential travel companion for any older gentleman, but particularly an English gentleman, is a location map of the local McDonalds—the world’s WC, with a powder room on every corner.

  Olivia was seated at a table in the café area by the time I returned from the ladies’.

  ‘You were a while,’ she said with a grin.

  ‘It’s these stockings; they are just impossible!’ My reply overlooked the fact that I was wearing a long skirt and socks.

  Seated at a table in the corner of the café and a good distance from us, was a face I was sure that I recognised. Joking over, I sat down with Olivia at the table, all the while trying not to look in the direction of the man, or give an inkling that I suspected we were being watched. My mind searched its memories, trying to recall the face. Where had I seen him before?

  I became abruptly aware that Olivia was speaking to me, I looked up. ‘Sorry, I didn’t hear what you said; my thoughts were elsewhere.’

  ‘I said, we are making good time.’

  Ignoring Olivia’s statement, I said. ‘Don’t look up, but there’s a man sitting behind you who looks familiar. I’m racking my brain trying to remember where I have seen him before.’ Then it came to me. ‘The Hotel Renaissance, he was the man I told you about, the one watching us from the bar.’

  ‘Are you sure? It must have been nearly impossible for anyone to follow us here.’

  ‘It’s him, I’m sure of it.’

  ‘What now?’

  Before I could answer, David and Jess joined us at the table. Dropping any inkling of eccentricity from my voice, no dears or loves, I asked David and Jess to buy the coffees. A look of mild confusion came over their respective faces; an indication that they sensed something was different, although they were not quite sure what it was. By the time David and Jess returned, Olivia and I had settled on a strategy.

  ‘David,’ I said, ‘try not to look surprised or startled, but just listen. If you’re ready, nod once.’ Immediately he looked towards Jess, who just shrugged her shoulders, before returning his gaze to me. ‘Olivia and I are being followed and we need help—from both of you—to slip our tail. Don’t look around but we are being watched. You’re in no danger, it’s just a game between some harmless old wealthy but bored friends of ours. Olivia used to be an author writing mystery spy novels. We played these games back then with our friends to help write the plot. A couple of years ago Olivia started writing again and this—you—us, is all part of one of those games, right now.’

  ‘So,’ said Jess. ‘Are you telling us this is part of the book?’

  ‘I hope so,’ replied Olivia. ‘But not if our escape plan has failed so miserably and so early in the plot. I want my stories to be—well—at least a little believable. So we test them out.’

  ‘I told you the car would be a dead giveaway; you used an old car last year in a book,’ I put in. Looking to David and then to Jess I could tell we had them; they were falling for the tale hook line and sinker. Go on, I said to myself, ask some more questions; we almost have you.

  David was thinking, you could tell by the look of concentration on his face and finally he said, ‘Did you sell many books?’

  Before Olivia could answer I spoke, intent on playing the sympathy card and completing our entrapment. ‘Thirty years ago, yes she was a very successful writer but, as you get older, it gets harder. Her heroes aged along with us and, it turned out, that no one was interested in stories about old people. For a long time she stopped writing and, when she did start again… what is it the critics wrote?’

  Olivia let her head drop slightly and introduced a subtle change in her tone, one with a hint of melancholy.

  ‘I can still remember the review. The New York Times—an enthralling read—for those suffering from insomnia. Imagine suggesting my book would put you to sleep. The cheek of them! Anyway, I’m going to show those critics; I don’t care what they say, this one will be a best seller. Oh and there’s £500 in it if you help us.’

  ‘What happens in this story?’ asked David with a look of bewilderment.

  ‘Well that depends,’ I said. ‘It depends on whether you help us, or we stay here ourselves. That’s the exciting part; the plot will just unfold. Are you willing to play along, to be part of the book, so to speak?’

  David gazed to Jess before saying, ‘Go on, but it will depend on what it is you want us to do.’

  ‘Oh it’s nothing,’ said Olivia. ‘Just leave us behind, drive the car to Windermere and wait for us to arrive. If we are not there by six o’clock tonight, you can take the car and the £500. Drop the car sometime tomorrow in Edinburgh at the Waverley railway station. Leave the keys in the glove compartment because we have a spare set. You get to keep the £500. Our plan, however, is for our friends to follow you. What you have to do is stop at another service centre, say for at least half an hour somewhere before heading into the Lake District. Our tail will see we have given them the slip and come racing back here, by which time we will have gone. All you then do is drive o
n to our meeting place in Windermere.’

  ‘Whereabouts in Windermere?’

  ‘The Ferry Pier; you can’t miss it. Just park the car and Max…Maxine and I will find you.’

  ‘I need to talk it over with Jess.’

  ‘I’m afraid that’s not possible—only because our friends will see something up—they will know we are onto them.’

  David and Jess again looked at each other.

  ‘It’s either a yes or no,’ encouraged Olivia.

  ‘What do you think Jess?’ asked David.

  ‘Sounds like some harmless fun and we may even find ourselves in a book. Why not? Let’s do it.’ Then turning her attention to me, she said, ‘You are a man aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes; how can you tell?’

  ‘Well besides the bit where Olivia called you Max, it’s a pretty good disguise… really good, you had me fooled. You guys must take this game really seriously! What now, do you stay dressed as a woman?’

  ‘I was meant to be a woman for quite a while yet; Olivia thought it was one of her more brilliant plans and would make for an entertaining read. I think the game’s well and truly up. So, no.’

  ‘Go on with you,’ said Olivia in a light-hearted manner. ‘Who was it that refused the good old fashioned bloomers, and demanded knickers instead?’

  ‘Now you’re scaring them,’ I retorted.

  To maintain a calm and unhurried appearance, we slowly drank our coffees and then had Jess purchase some nibbles for what would appear to be the next part of the road trip. We made our way back to the car and David opened the boot to remove a small plastic bag containing my men’s clothing, including a warm jacket—packed in case of an emergency. The bag accompanied Olivia and me into the back seat. The M20 rumbled back to life and moved effortlessly through the car park toward the exit, stopping for the briefest of moments between two parked trucks. We slipped out of the car, leaving our hats and, in my case, a wig, behind, and concealed ourselves beside one of the trucks. From our hiding place we watched as the M20 disappeared off into the distance. If it was followed, it was difficult to tell, as a constant stream of traffic was coming and going from the service centre.

  From our hiding place next to the truck we moved stealthily between the parked cars, trying to keep our bodies low, hidden and concealed by the vehicles. Being crouched over was no mean feat for eighty-somethings and God only knew if we were going to be able to straighten up again.

  Split up, believing one person alone was more easily concealed, we agreed to stay hidden for another few minutes, after which we would simply stand up and separately walk back into the service centre café. If our tail was still there and had not fallen for the bait, another plan would be devised from our table inside.

  I was the first one of us to make it inside and was relieved to see our shadow was no longer there. Olivia came in a short time later and, again, we found ourselves seated at a table sipping coffee.

  ‘What now Olivia?’

  ‘As cute as you are in that dress, I’m not sure the bald head is that becoming and may actually clash with your lipstick. Perhaps a change is in order?’

  ‘Sometimes you can be so demanding,’ I said, giving my eyelashes a flutter.

  I made my way, this time, to the men’s toilets and joined a constant stream of other men using the wash room. In one of the small toilet cubicles, I tried to slip out of my dress and put on trousers. In the cramped surroundings, changing my clothes proved more than a little challenging. In the end, I found sitting on the toilet the best way to pull on my trousers. Having transformed, I went to the basins and washed the makeup from my face. No one paid me any attention until I was preparing to leave, when a burly man, probably a truckie, said, ‘Ha, excuse me buddy, you’ve left the earrings on.’

  ‘Ah, thanks,’ I replied reaching up and pulling the clip-ons free of my ears before depositing then into the plastic bag containing the discarded clothes, which I then put in the bin on the way out of the toilet.

  ‘That’s a better look,’ greeted Olivia upon my return.

  ‘We won’t have long,’ I said. ‘Once Jess and David stop, they will see we have given them the slip and come racing back. If we are going to leave, we need to make it soon. Any ideas?’

  ‘Yes, I think I do. Just play along with me—And Max, look old.’

  That won’t be hard, I thought.

  Olivia smiled, before changing her expression to one of anxiety. Then she stood and in a loud distressed voice cried out, ‘Oh no Mac, the bus has gone without us. What are we going to do?’ Starting to cry she added, ‘how are we going to get to Windermere, oh Mac the tour has gone and left us behind!’

  Her sobbing intensified and, with it, the café fell into a hush. I stood, feigning to almost fall, and comforted Olivia. ‘It will be all right dear, I’m sure it will be all right. Sit down now, don’t distress yourself so.’ Gingerly and with great care I helped Olivia to retake her seat. As if on cue, a man and women in their fifties, perhaps early sixties, came over to the table.

  ‘Hi, my name is Gwen and this is my husband Ari. We are on our way to the Lake District and staying in Windermere. You would be more than welcome to join us—until you find your tour.’

  ‘That would be awfully kind of you,’ I said. ‘Please excuse our little show of distress, it was bit of a shock when we realised we had been left behind.’

  ‘I understand,’ said Gwen. ‘Would you like me to ring someone, to let them know you are okay? Do you have the number of your tour leader?’

  ‘Oh, yes dear, that’s such a good idea.’

  I looked to Olivia as she spoke, wondering how she would lie her way out of this one. ‘Mac go over there,’ she said, pointing to a pay phone in the corner, ‘and give them a call. Do you know, Ari and Gwen, I totally forgot. They will be so worried when they realise they have left us behind.’

  ‘Would you like to use my mobile, or I could call for you,’ said Gwen.

  ‘Oh no dear, you have already offered too much, Mac is quite capable of making a phone call. Go on Mac, off you go.’

  Taking my name as the cue, I left and headed towards the pay phone. As I moved away, but was still in earshot, I heard Olivia introducing us to Gwen and Ari. ‘I’m Lilly and that over there is my husband Mac.’ Remembering our new names, I was determined to call Olivia Lilly upon my return, thus cementing our deception.

  The drive to the Lake District was uneventful and we made good time. Because we didn’t stop en route, we assumed we would arrive before the M20.

  Gwen and Ari proved to be delightful company and chatted away freely. When we said we were residents in a retirement home, Gwen began sharing her mother’s situation, as a resident in a home in London.

  ‘We’ve stopped trying to take her out; she virtually refuses to leave the building. We really thought she would enjoy having lunch, or sitting on the beach watching the waves but, the last time we persuaded her to leave, we had to hop from one toilet stop to another. Sometimes she would stay in there for an hour and half—an hour and half at a time. She was distressed and we were distressed. It was no fun for any of us. When we visit now, we don’t even suggest going out. The problem is, she’s desperately lonely but, when we do go, there’s nothing to talk about. We just go over the same old stuff while secretly wishing we could leave. We don’t like going and sometimes don’t but then we feel racked with guilt for not spending more time with her. I wish she was more like you two! And now I feel really bad for saying that.’

  It was difficult, if not impossible, to respond to Gwen in any way that could ease her guilt or make the dwindling time she had left with her mother more rewarding or meaningful for either of them.

  ‘The best I can do,’ I said, ‘is to tell you how we sometimes feel, but this may not be the same as your mother—you understand that?’

  She nodded in agreement and Ari shifted his head slightly, focussing his hearing towards our conversation, in expectation, perhaps, of some pearl of wisdom. But
, no insight was forthcoming and, for a moment we all sat in total silence, until “Lilly” interjected, ‘As we get older we find we have less and less control over our lives. It’s not that people want to take away our control, it’s often just driven by necessity. That’s particularly so when you live in institutions, which, no matter how hard the nursing homes try, in Australia at least, they are. As the control increases and our ability to make decision falls away, our confidence goes with it. Sometimes our confidence and our dignity are inextricably linked. With little else under our command, the loss of control over the water works and bowel movements is the final indignity. To be out and feel the shame and humiliation of soiling oneself becomes an insurmountable fear. What little self-reliance we have left comes only from being within the surroundings where we feel safe from shame. If you want to expand your mother’s boundaries of security, start close to the home and in places that have the facilities she needs to avoid her shame. Or take her out for very short periods. Let her confidence build.’ “Lilly” paused as if expecting Gwen to respond, but there was nothing forthcoming.

  ‘Mac and I are in a home together but we know that they can be lonely places, even when surrounded by caring staff. Loneliness is self-perpetuating. When Mac is having a down day or two, he often behaves in ways that cause other people, particularly staff, to avoid him. I could tell you some stories and you would get a real giggle out of them. Some of the things he has done and said are outrageous—in hindsight, hilarious, but not at the time for those around.’

  I found myself unable to control the urge for a jovial interlude and, despite the genuineness of the discussion, interrupted Olivia’s flow with, ‘Lilly, I’ve told you a million times, a million times not to exaggerate.’ But she ignored me, and after taking a slight breath, continued honestly, ‘If I was not there, I fear he would fall into depression and, as you have noticed, we are better than most. So try not to feel bad; what you see and experience is the reality of our lives—it’s not your fault. Despite the best intentions, we live in institutions, which is both fortuitous and unfortunate. Somehow, in the future, aged care needs, in part, to include the wider world, the sights, sounds and experiences of the outside world and even real people; things that will bring in new experiences and invigorated fresh conversations. There’s nothing we oldies like better than complaining about the youth of today but, how can we whinge about their drinking games or how they wear their trousers around their knees and underpants around their necks, if we don’t get to see them? For your mum, be relaxed about filling the space with conversation. Try instead to fill it with an activity that she likes or used to like. Perhaps that was reading, cards or board games. Do the activity and the conversation will come and the time will pass. That is the end of my TED talk.’