“It’s Saturday! You know what that means? It’s full English breakfast today,” the carer said all chirpy, to change the subject. She refluffed one of the pillows by whacking it unnecessarily hard, as if it had in someway offended her.
Sounds drifted in from the hallway, as other carers prepared the old people for another day.
Betty did, in fact, like Saturdays, but not because of the food, but because her grandson would be here around 11 AM so she could spend the day with him.
Betty rolled her eyes.
“Full English! More like cold food sliding around a plate of congealing grease.”
“Oh, behave,” she said while chuckling. “You know you love Eddy’s gastronomic delights!”
Betty was surprised the young woman knew such a long word.
Eddy was the nursing homes full time cook. In other words, he’s the guy who has been let loose in the kitchen. If he had been given training, he was hiding it well. Eddy was a bold, short, obese man in his forties. His complexion was greasy and ill-looking, and he was always short of breath and looked like he was about to have a heart attack and keel over. Even the carers joked that most of the food he touched ended up on his wide apron. He cooked vast amounts of tasteless food for the sixty-two residents each day. The carers brought their own; they knew better than to try to digest Eddy’s muck.
“You know you love Eddy’s black pudding.”
“Tsk. Black pudding?”
Betty was twelve years old when the second world war started. She survived six years of eating rations and what her father could get his hands on, and for many years after while the country recovered, and in all those years of scraping by she had never experienced anything like Eddy’s black pudding – they could use his thick slices for clay pigeon shooting.
“I’ve seen road-kill that looks more appetizing than Eddy’s fry-ups,” Betty said as she repositioned her skinny body in the seat.
“That’s a lovely dress suit you have on. Is it new?” the carer asked, deciding to change the topic as she readjusted the curtains.
“No! You have seen me wear this a hundred times; you daft young bugger!” Betty smoothed down her pale green dress.
“Now you know you’ve been told not to call us names Mrs. Temple.” The carer drew herself up to her full five-foot one-inch height. She placed her plump hands on her waist.
“Well, stop being such a douchebag for five minutes.”
“Oh my god you did not just call me that!” Her eyes were wide with disbelief. “You wait until Mrs. Fredrick hears about this! I’m surprised she hasn’t spoken to you yet after you asked me if I’ve had a sex change.”
“You did get your knickers in a twist about that one. It’s just; you have such large masculine hands, is all.”
The moment was interrupted by the carers phone chiming, to announce she had a message.
The woman ignored Betty as she pulled her iPhone from a pocket and started tapping away as if she was speed dialing.
Jesus, look at her go. That’s today’s youth, attached to their phones as if by an umbilical cord.
The carer giggled like a school girl.
Her phone chimed again.
Her hands swiftly moved over the touch screen to reply, even if they were large and hairy.
Betty stared at the carer with a deadpan expression.
Within a heartbeat the phone was secreted into a pocket, and the carer came back to the moment at hand.
“Right, let’s get you some breakfast, shall we, hmm?”
“Only if you’re not too busy.”
“Hmm, what was that Mrs. Temple?”
“Nothing. Lead the way, oh great care giver.” Betty stood, ready for the woman to open the door.
“What?” Confusion clouded the carers face.
Betty didn’t bother answering; she just stood placid while waiting for the carer to open the door, so she could move past her.
The carer opened the door, and was about to walk out when Betty sped through.
“You are meant to follow me down to the dining room.” The chubby woman stood stock still, with her arms crossed.
“I know my way around; I’ve been in this prison for nine years. I don’t need you leading me like a dog on a lead.”
Before the carer could reply, Betty was already down the hall.
“Hmm. Okay, I will go and feed Mrs. Simons then.”
“Whatever Mrs. Doubtfire.”
2
Betty sat around a table with three others. They all had their assigned seating, like school children.
To her right was the impeccably dressed ninety-three-year-old Mr. Perkins, who had an outstanding collection of antique style suits. He is a jolly little portly man who had a perpetual smile on his round face, that had the largest mustache she had ever seen on anything apart from a walrus. Mr. Perkins used to own a saw mill, and he walked through the nursing home tapping on wooden doorframes and tables, tut-tut ting at the inferior wood. Because of his Alzheimer’s, he still believes he owns the company, and he walks around handing out business cards. This week he has been telling people he can get them a good deal on bulk mahogany. The staff collects all the cards back up and places them on his sideboard in his room, so he can do it all over again the next day.
To her left is Mrs. Todd, a skeletal, sickly thin eighty-nine year old, who has alopecia areata, which makes her head as shiny as a cue ball. However, it also made her eyebrows fall out, which gives her a menacing appearance. Mrs. Todd never talks. She sits forking food into her mouth, whereupon she would slowly chew it as it dribbled back out down her front, collecting in a plastic bib around her neck.
Directly opposite sits Mrs. Comb, a completely normal looking seventy-one year old, who has a severe nervous twitch that makes it look like she is forever being surged through with electricity. She also dresses like the queen and wears a hat even while indoors. Today she was sporting a bright blue dress and matching tall hat with a large blue colored rose to one side, with delicate blue netting that hung down over her eyes. She looks like she was about to head off to Ascot.
Betty looked down at her plate of congealing animal body parts, and puddle of baked beans. She didn’t bother picking up her cutlery; she simply removed a cereal bar from her pocket and ate it instead – dipping it into her cup of tea to soften it a little.
She picked out a fleck of tinsel that had floated down from the long strands of it that draped the light fittings above.
In the centre of the table was a collection of tinsel, baubles and a branch from a pine tree, which was made into a decorative pile. She had to concede it looked pretty and festive. The only problem was; it took up the room where the condiments normally rested, so everyone had a little less space.
Mr. Perkins had already commented on what kind of tree the twig was taken from, also where it grows, the height it reaches before being felled, and how many planks could be made from one standard tree.
She looked around at the other collection of tables, where the occupants chatted softy among themselves. She knew she had been placed at the loony table because of the way she talked to the carers, but she didn’t mind. At least she didn’t have to pretend to like anyone or converse in awkward conversation.
A ruckus broke out on the next table.
Mrs. Moreau and Mrs. Ederstark were at it again.
Mrs. Moreau is a ninety-four-year-old French woman who moved to England after marrying a British army captain after the second world war. Mrs. Ederstark is a ninety-year-old German, who ended up marrying one of the nine British soldiers whom she hid away at her farm.
One believes the other is a Nazi sympathizer, who passed secrets back to their country. The other believes they have found a French underground resistance fighter that was responsible for an act of sabotage, which killed her daughter when the power station next to the school was destroyed, which also burnt the school to the ground.
At present, the wheelchair-bound Mrs. Moreau was trying to toss a slice of
black pudding at Mrs. Ederstark, who was attempting to return fire by flicking a spoonful of hot baked beans.
“Va te faire foutre! Enfoiré!” Another slice landed about two feet away from the throwers weak toss.
Mr. Keller, who was sat next to Mrs. Moreau, covered his ears with his hands and shut his eyes, while making a loud hissing sound; he sounded like a kettle was boiling.
“Küss mein arsch! Schlampe!” The spray of baked beans splattered across two feet of the tablecloth and dribbled down the side of Mr. Keller’s glass of orange juice, and wilted the tinsel on the centre display.
I’m living in a madhouse.
Five carers rushed in to break the tectonically slow fight up. You would think with the amount of people and fuss that it was a gang fight at a maximum-security prison.
Betty left her food and wandered back to her room. She had just over three hours to kill before her grandson turned up.
3
Abel (Junior) Lawrence Temple
Redwood House (Home for Adults with Special-Needs and Developmental Disabilities)
181 Vansittart Road
Torquay
South Devon
England
Abel sits on the edge of his bed dressed in his blue denim dungarees, with his checkered yellow and orange flannel shirt, topped off with a yellow baseball cap – it was his favorite set of clothes. He fiddled with the edge of his Bob the Builder bed sheets.
Today was Saturday, the day he went by train to see his grandmother.
Abel liked trains. He enjoyed sitting with his head against the large window, feeling the vibrations through his forehead.
He loved his gran; she was all the family he had left. He couldn’t remember his mother. But he knew he must have had one, because he was told everyone does.
Abel looked up at the posters that plastered his small room’s walls. As well as Bob the Builder there was Fireman Sam, Pingu, Thomas the Tank Engine, and Barney. However, Bob was his favorite. He wanted to be a builder and drive around on Scrambler the blue quad bike.
There was a knock at his door.
“Have you had breakfast yet, Abel?” John, the adult social care worker asked as he walked in.
Abel nodded and pointed at a splotch of yellow on his dungarees. He had just returned from breakfast.
“Soldiers? I do love eggs in the morning,” John said. John was twenty-three and looked like he was from the band Munford & Sons due to his farmyard style clothes and scruffy hair with the bitty start of a beard.
“That’s an awesome Christmas tree you have there.”
In the window was a small plastic foot high tree, which had flashing lights built into the branches. Across the ceiling hung paper coloured loops that Abel had cut and glued together in the art room. On the wall, next to the poster of Pingu, was a large painting of a snowman in watercolours that Abel painted yesterday. He also had one rolled up ready to give to his gran.
“Let’s get your coat on, and we shall head over to visit your grandmother.”
John was almost six feet tall, and even he had difficulty getting the scarf wrapped around Abel’s broad neck. He then helped him put his thick yellow down coat on. The puffy coat made Abel look even bigger. At seven feet, two inches tall, with thick broad shoulders, he was a giant thirty-four-year-old man who needed to have his clothes ordered from a specialist store in America.
Abel stood still as his garments were put on and adjusted.
“Take a seat.” John said. He then proceeded to push Abel’s large size twenty-two boots on, that were also made to order by an American company.
“All ready.” John looked around the room, and on the bed. “Where’s Bob?”
Abel pulled a stuffed toy out of his coat pocket.
“We don’t wanna forget him now do we.”
Abel smiled.
“Come on then, grab your bucket and spade, and let’s go see your gran.”
4
Betty sat in her room, on her tall wingback chair and stared out the window. On her lap lay a paperback book: Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein.
She wasn’t enjoying it, there were too many oldie words and expressions, which made it feel disjointed because she had to keep stopping and try to work out what was being said.
Last week she’d tried to read Moby Dick, but she gave up after page twenty-six.
Her favorite authors were John Grisham, Mo Hayder, Michael Connelly, and James Patterson – books you could get into. However, she felt she should give the older classics a chance – see what all the fuss was about. They were called classics for a reason; she mused. She wanted to try to read something meaningful, something supposedly worthwhile, not just cheap paperbacks before she Kicked the Bucket.
In Newton Abbot, there were a few places she could get inexpensive books. There was an Oxfam book shop, and a secondhand store in the indoor market. She would buy a couple of books a week, and take them back when she went down for more, getting half her money back. It worked out at two pounds for two books a week.
The classics though were not the sort of book’s people so readily tossed away. They were the kinds of books people put on shelves to let other’s know how intelligent they are for owning such a marvelous intellectual collection.
For books by ancient writers like Thucydides, Plutarch, and Plato, and classics like Dante’s The Inferno and Anthony Burgess’ A Clockwork Orange; she had to go to the public library.
Newton Abbot’s large multilevel library, was named The Passmore Edwards Public Library – after the benefactor who paid for it to be built in 1904 in memory of his mother. It had just had an expensive two-year makeover. In her opinion, it was a beautiful building, with its yellow terracotta mouldings over the doors and windows. And now, after the refurbishment, it was so light and airy.
It made her sad to walk around the tens of thousands of books on multiple levels and find it so deserted. She knew people these days didn’t have time to sit down and read a book, what with spending so much time vegetating in front of the TV watching things like X-Factor or reality shows. And all these new fangled electronic e-book devices that were much thinner and lighter than a real book, but could hold thousands – a complete library in the palm of your hand.
Children nowadays wouldn’t be able to make memories such as hers. She would take a book and wander into a field and lay on the grass for hours, just getting absorbed into the story and enter a fantasy world from the mind’s creation. There were no distractions – no mobile telephones and the Internet. She survived without them. However, kids these days couldn’t go five minutes without checking Facebook, or Twitter, or checking to see if they had a text.
It reminded her of what Albert Einstein said, “I fear the day that technology will surpass our human interaction. The world will have a generation of idiots!”
She knew that all she had to do is watch a group of people, and most wouldn’t be talking to each other; they will be on their phones, checking the digital world.
The other day she sat in a cafe in town sipping tea, while waiting for the rain to stop, and watched a family on the table opposite. The father spent the whole time talking to someone via a Bluetooth headset, as the mother sat texting on her phone, and the daughter who looked about six was glued, unblinking at a handheld computer game, while ignoring her food, and the teenage son sat listening to his iPod while swiping a finger over a computer tablet. They didn’t talk to one another; they were all in their own electronic worlds.
Welcome to the future, she remembered thinking at the time.
It also made her sad that kids hardly played outside anymore; they all sat in front of flat-screen TV’s playing on computer games.
A brave new world, some say. A world of technological marvels. A world where mankind ruled from a chair, tapping a small screen.
Betty closed Frankenstein and placed it on the windowsill. She would skip that one. She picked up John Steinbeck’s Of Mice and Men. She would give it a try. She absentmindedly placed it
on her lap.
It will become a world enslaved by technology; she continued to ponder. A world where everything is done for us. We will become like those tubby people on the animated movie WALL.E; all sat staring at screens and not interacting with real flesh and blood humans. We would rather chat with them on a touch screen keyboard in an electronic chat room.
Betty sighed and stretched her back.
Not that it matters for me. I’m old; my time is almost numbered. But something needs to happen for people to sit up and take notice. The world needs a wake-up call.
There was a knock at the door.
“It’s open! It hasn’t got a lock!”
It was the young Mrs. Doubtfire. She ignored Betty’s sarcasm.
“Mrs. Temple, your grandson is downstairs waiting for you.”
“Would you like to carry me, or am I allowed to walk?”
5
Betty stood and walked over next to the door. She slipped off her slippers and slid her feet into a pair of green comfy, flat-bottomed shoes. She removed her dark-green jacket off the hook on the back of the door.
“Let me help you with that Mrs. Temple,” Mrs. Doubtfire said, as she stepped forward.
“I’m fine, leave me be.” She shrugged the coat on. She then dropped Of Mice and Men into her black-and-white leather, long handled handbag, and picked up her cream with green stripped umbrella.
“Are they waiting in the drawing room, or the second parlor?” Betty asked in a posh voice.
“Huh, you what?”
“Lead on sweet child.”
The carer squinted at Betty, while trying to figure her out. Then without a word she turned and headed downstairs.
Abel was sat watching the telly along with a splattering of old people in a collection of different style seating – some wide and comfy, others tall and narrow. It looked like a blind person had walked into a furniture store and bought whatever they had bumped into.
The Sixth Extinction & The First Three Weeks & The Squads First Three Weeks Omnibus [Books 1-10] Page 36