He and wife Jennifer also attended the occasional village dinner night, to which of course all were invited. Bob savoured the after dinner conversation in mixed company, but perhaps not quite so much as he enjoyed the port and cheese nights. He felt he had more freedom to indulge in his full repertoire if the company was male only.
As Bob would often explain during part of the warming-up process, with first glass of port in hand, “There is innuendo and references in stories that men tell to other men that most women would not understand and most certainly wouldn’t approve of.”
Bob was also aware that no matter what one’s lot in working life had been, there were always associated stories. He was expert at prising stories from the more reticent of the men.
“Okay so you were a plumber. Don’t tell me you have no story. Tell us about the time the wife didn’t have the money to pay and what you were offered instead. There must be a million good stories like that—come on man!” And Bob would tease and jostle the men who claimed no story telling skill until they had spilt the beans about some situation or other. It never bothered Bob that their stories were badly told, so long as he could get them started. He was effusive in his praise no matter what the story and the amazing fact was that these blokes (including the plumber) suddenly had many stories and at subsequent meetings their story telling skill improved immensely. So everyone relied on Bob to keep the group going and the stories rolling.
Bob was a fighter pilot in the Second World War and spent his subsequent working life as a Qantas pilot. He had an abundance of interesting and very amusing stories—places he had been, people he had worked with and strange passenger behaviour—he was never short of a story. He had flown the world over and despite the walking aid he now required, he was still driving his car. Car driving posed Bob no problem even at 92 years.
“Driving a modern car is easy, particularly if your previous mode of transport was a Boeing 747,” he would tell the assembled men. “In fact if it wasn’t for the parking around the village I’d rather have the 747!”
On another occasion, a dinner night at the village leisure centre, all the residents had enjoyed a great meal. Most had imbibed a little more than they should have, including Bob. The post dinner entertainment was excellent and organised by Alex, the caretaker, who often fulfilled this role. He would act as master of ceremonies, organise the music and dancing and generally make a fool of himself along with a few willing villagers. One such lady who loved dancing, who was never too shy to be a part of the cabaret and who was always willing to say her piece, was Bella.
This night a great time was being had by all. Bella and Alex had the microphone and were entertaining the last of the company but Bob had told one story too many and so Jennifer decided it was time to go home. They only lived across the road from the leisure centre but for some reason Bob had driven from their house to the centre for the meal and he insisted on driving back again.
Farewells were said. “Good night Bob—drive carefully—don’t go knocking on anyone else’s door—see you again soon.” Hands were shaken and hugs were given and received as friends parted temporarily, until the next social occasion.
The hubbub had slowed as Bob and his wife left. It had just returned to normal volume when there was a most almighty crash combined with the unmistakable sounds of breaking glass. Heads turned and eyes focussed as one! Bob and Jennifer were back at the party—still in the car, having come straight through the plate glass window!
“What the f**k!” Bella shouted, in the deathly hush that followed, straight into the very efficient microphone.
As the dust settled, Jennifer and Bob could be seen sitting bolt upright in the front seats, looking very surprised, but otherwise unhurt. Luckily everyone was sitting well away from the full-length window looking out onto the car park.
This never to be forgotten night was, unfortunately the end of Bob’s driving career—747 experience notwithstanding—Jennifer insisted. And of course the story was accepted into the repertoire of all the men present, to be known always as ‘Bob’s return to the party.’
The next day Alex was cleaning up broken glass both outside and inside the leisure centre when Emily appeared and as he always did, Alex stopped to greet her. Emily, was a very gentle and refined lady who tended to keep herself to herself.
“Wasn’t that just terrible last night then—I heard all about it, just shocking!” said Emily before Alex could say anything.
“Yes, true, but the good news is that the insurance will pay for the window and most important of all, no one was hurt.”
“No, no, not that,” said Emily. “The mouth on that woman!”
Bob’s Return to the Party
Everyone loves a humorous story
Some not always bathed in glory
Bad driving was not Bob’s intention
Colourful language we will not mention
Just broken glass but nothing gory
The Locum
Helga was determined to take two weeks leave. She just had to get a break very soon. In addition to the normal management of the village, the rain had been so intense lately that trees had been coming down. What with that, and managing Gabriel’s natural exuberance—that had now returned in full since the Environment, Health and Safety audit, Helga was desperate to get away. But no matter how much she hoped, she was no nearer to getting a locum who was suitable.
“I could certainly do this job for you while you’re away,” Gabriel had volunteered.
“Well yes of course you could,” Helga responded “but that is against company rules.”
There certainly ought to be such a rule, she thought, even though she had never come across it. Anyhow she was not having Gabriel creating bloody chaos while she was away, as he most certainly would.
Eventually management took the problem out of Helga’s hands and announced that they had a locum who would take over from her for the time that she was on leave. They informed her that they would send him to work with her for three or four days before she went on leave—which scuppered Helga’s plans to take an extra day off prior to her leave period without telling anyone, unless she was skilled enough to get this bloke’s friendship and co-operation.
Terrence Mulligan arrived on a Tuesday before Helga was due to go on leave on the Friday.
“I’m very pleased to meet you Ms. Marchmont,” said Terrence as he stepped into Helga’s office and held out his hand toward her.
“Just call me Helga, everyone is on first name terms around here, Terry,” she said as she shook the offered hand, observing that, despite Terry’s youth he certainly was full of confidence.
And Helga led the way outside where she introduced him to Alex. “Take the buggy and give Terry here a tour of the village would you, Alex? Let him see what he is to be managing for the next couple of weeks.”
“So, you been managing villages for the company for a while then, Terry?” Alex asked by way of introduction as they climbed into the buggy.
“Oh no, not me. This is a completely new experience for me, Alex, I just completed my RPI course with the company.”
“RPI course?”
“Rapid Promotion Induction course,” replied Terry. “I finished uni only three months ago but you’ll be able to keep me right won’t you, Alex? ” and Terry gave Alex the broadest most self-assured smile Alex had seen in a long time. Alex’s mouth moved in what could have been construed as a confirming gesture. He said nothing.
For the next two days Terry learned the routine of the office and observed Helga interact with various villagers including Gabriel—who managed to bail him up for at least 20 minutes for a lecture on the recent evolution of the Bovary clan. This was followed up immediately by another lecture from Helga about how on no account was he to take any advice from Gabriel or indeed let Gabriel influence him in any way whatsoever.
But warnings about Gabriel were really the only piece of sound advice she gave to Terry. For the most part she did her best to nurture
his self-reliant and buoyant manner as much as she possibly could and was, of course, able to get away on leave late Thursday afternoon as planned.
Now this acting position was, for Terry, part of his RPI course, no matter how dubious a plan it was to have a young virtually untrained person in charge of a retirement village. But Terry was about to find out that experiences gained during the next two weeks would live within his memory as pivotal in making decisions about his future career.
During the Friday, the first day without Helga, there was a terrible storm. Alex and the gardener had done the best they could to keep all the roads in the village free of fallen branches but other than that there was little they could do. When early evening came Alex had gone home and Terry was for the first time in his young life totally in charge without help or advice—but still confidant though!
The telephone rang. Alex picked up. “Manager Burnside retirement village.”
“There’s no response from Maggie,” said a lady’s voice.
“Sorry, this is Terry the manager. Now, who am I talking to please?”
“That’s not the point is it,” said the lady in a slightly louder tone.
“Okay, okay, who is Maggie then?” Terry said.
“Well you know, surely you have been here long enough to know that Maggie lives at number 48?”
Terry hastily scribbled down 48 on his pad. “Okay so what you are saying is that you have phoned Maggie, she did not reply and you are worried about her. Is that it?”
“Well of course that’s it young man. Isn’t that what I said when we started this conversation —have you not been listening?”
At this point Terry’s instinct was to tell her that she was a stupid old woman but the first thing they had been told at the RPI course was never argue with the clients, just move on, always move on!
“Yes, I have been listening but I didn’t catch your name,” Terry said.
“Well I know that because I haven’t given it yet,” and Terry could hear a loud sigh. “I’m Mrs. Hay, Mrs. Audrey Hay and I live at number 4.”
Terry was now fully informed and knew that all he had to do was check up on the lady at number 48 whose name he could find out from the records. He was anxious to get off the phone with Mrs. Hay!
“I’ll try to ring her or go around to see her,” Terry explained. He expected that would satisfy the old biddy but he was very much mistaken. He almost fell off his chair when she yelled down the phone at him.
“You will not do that young man. You will not ring her and you most certainly will not visit her. If you do, she will know that I have been talking to you about her. You will not do that do you hear me?” and suddenly the phone went dead in Terry’s ear.
Okay then, what the hell am I supposed to do now? Terry thought. Well no, I can’t just do nothing, can I? He got out the map of the village and located villa 4, Mrs. Hay, and villa 48. He discovered it belonged to a Mrs. Brown who also lived on her own. But there were no large trees in the area of Villa 48 so what could possibly have gone wrong? She was probably just in the shower when Mrs. Hay had telephoned or had the television up too loud or not heard the phone for any number of reasons. He would leave it to the morning.
As the evening wore on Terry could not shake the thought of Mrs. Maggie Brown from his mind. He pictured the poor woman sitting in the shower, shower still running and the lady totally unconscious or lying on the kitchen floor having pulled a heavy pan down on top of her or perhaps she’d had a heart attack—no, he had better phone her now. As his hand went to the phone he suddenly realised it was 10.30 pm and far too late to disturb the lady who, provided she was not on the bathroom floor, would by this time have very sensibly gone to bed—and that’s what he should do now.
Young and confident he might have been for the past few days but now Terry was a nervous wreck—so much so that he could not sleep. He could not get this lady’s welfare out of his mind. Bugger it, he thought. He got up, got dressed, took his large umbrella and at approximately 1.30 am went out into the night to walk to villa 48.
When he arrived there he was half expecting an ambulance with lights flashing, perhaps a police car in attendance, but no, it was not like that at all. The night was pitch dark, the wind had died down and all that could be heard was a gentle but steady rain. The house was in complete darkness and, oh God, how he wished and hoped that Mrs. Maggie Brown was in bed. But of course there was nothing he could do and he was no better off. He returned home and went back to bed.
Terry slept fitfully until about 5.00 am by which time he could stay in bed no longer and, without thinking, he put his trousers on and went straight to the phone and rang Mrs. Brown’s number. He just had to know if she was all right. He had been a fool. He had thought about the problem all night and now knew that what he should have done immediately Mrs. Hay slammed the phone down was to go to villa 48 on the pretext that he had to check the water pressure or something and no one would have been any the wiser.
The phone rang and rang and rang. He should hang up. No he shouldn’t, she would be coming to the phone now! Okay he will hang up now and just ring for an ambulance! But suddenly the phone was answered.
“Hello,” said a very feeble voice and Terry was immediately relieved and terrified at the same time. He slammed the phone down. What the hell did he think he was going to say to this lady at 5.00 o’clock in the morning: hello Mrs. Brown, you don’t know me but I was just wondering how you were? or it’s a beautiful morning, I’m the new manager and I just thought that all residents should be up and about, appreciating this beautiful new day!
Mid-morning Terry was in the office even if it was a Saturday. He was determined to get on top of this job. A lady resident came in and Terry immediately introduced himself.
“I’m Terry. I’m the manager filling in for Helga while she is on leave,” he explained.
“I am Mrs. Brown and I live at number 48.”
Terry’s heart skipped a beat but he managed to remain cool.
“And how can I help you, Mrs. Brown?”
“Well it’s the telephone. I had a call in the middle of the night and when I got out of bed to answer it there was no one there. Most annoying, and I just thought I ought to report it, just in case anyone else had reported such calls. This sort of thing can be very annoying you know.”
“No, no, nobody else has reported any calls like that, but I can assure you I will look into it. Let us hope that it was just a one-off call, someone made by mistake,” Terry suggested.
The following week the rain and wind returned to Burnside retirement village. The beautiful trees swayed and branches were under increasing strain due to the unusually violent movement and increased weight of water. Some snapped and fell. Terry, Alex and the gardener were again busy clearing village roads and keeping an eye on the trees they thought might collapse altogether. It was a worrying time for a new trainee manager on his first posting.
Terry was kept busy by villagers phoning and advising him of what had to be done to specific trees close to their particular property. They were not requests. They were generally demands or orders he suddenly realised! Bloody marvellous, he thought to himself, how a bit of wind and rain suddenly drew everyone’s attention to the trees that they paid little heed to in normal times when all they did was appreciate their shade.
The problem was, how did you respond to an impossible demand regarding one tree about to fall on one resident’s house, an emergency in their eyes, which it might very well be, but at the same time attend to similar requests coming in from every second resident?
All the time Terry was trying to hold to the RPI maxim ‘never argue with the clients, just move on, always move on’. He was making promises to come out in the wind and rain and inspect particular trees from one end of the village to the next. It was the only way he could get off the phone.
He had tried valiantly to make notes and work on an order of who he was to see first, second and so on, but the phone calls kept coming, he
couldn’t take notes on one call because Alex had come into the office to tell him something which he had already forgotten, and then there was another call!
He gave up. He stopped taking notes and just fobbed the complainants off with anything—he wasn’t arguing, he was just moving on. And then he was getting calls from people who had called him half an hour beforehand. That’s when he told his secretary to just tell all the callers that he was out. He’d had enough.
He was standing there in the main office reception area when the outer door opened and a huge gust of wind literally blew this lady complete with her wheelie walker right into the office. There was no introduction, no handshake, no greeting took place whatsoever.
“There is a huge tree branch right across my drive and I would like it removed right now.” The lady made this statement standing in a large puddle of water that had entered with her and dripped from her person as she stood there.
“Look, come through to my office, let me take your coat please and we can have a talk,” Terry said.
“I want that branch removed now,” she said, making no moves to take off her coat or even make any response whatsoever to Terry’s solicitous concern for her.
And suddenly it struck him and it all fell into place. This was the voice he’d heard on the phone last week on that terrible night he’d spent worrying about Mrs. Brown. What was the lady’s name again, at number 4—yes, yes that was it—Mrs. Hay. At that moment Terry also knew just how determined this lady must be, having braved the weather all the way from number 4 villa to the office with a wheelie walker.
“It’s Mrs. Hay is it not?” said Terry extending his hand, “I don’t think we’ve met, well not officially.”
Riotous Retirement Page 6