The Not So Perfect Plan to Save Friendship House: An uplifting romantic comedy

by Lilly Bartlett

  I glare at her. ‘Don’t tax yourself, Tamsyn.’ She disappeared for nearly an hour this morning. She must hide in one of the empty upstairs rooms.

  ‘I won’t,’ she says as I follow Dot from the kitchen.

  The few dozen guests watch Dot with concern as she carries the large platter towards them. I don’t blame them. She’s positively emphysemic in that make-up.

  The men have come with their children, mostly their daughters or daughters-in-law, but a few sons have made an effort too. None of the older guests look happy to be here. The younger women and men, on the other hand, have the forced cheer of relatives searching for something to talk about with a difficult auntie.

  ‘Here’s a treat to whet your appetites,’ I tell them as Dot puts the tray down on the closest table. ‘I hope you’ll enjoy them.’

  Looks dart around the table as everyone gets a good look at the buns. I’m quite proud of them. They’re perfectly round and smooth and the icing is the palest, shiniest pink. And the cherry on the cake is, literally, a cherry.

  Everyone has leaned forward for a look, but nobody is going near them.

  ‘Those look like…’ says one woman. She frowns at the tray.

  A few of the others are nodding. That is definitely what they look like.

  ‘They’re tits!’ Terence shouts, grabbing for one.

  Terence, language please!’ I say. ‘I’m sorry, everyone.’ Then I pretend to notice the buns, as if for the first time. ‘I guess there could be some resemblance, if you’re inclined that way.’ I make this sound like only total pervs would think so.

  They’re still not touching the buns.

  ‘I like mine bigger,’ says Terence. ‘More than a mouthful.’

  ‘Terence, really.’

  He freezes me with a look. ‘The buns,’ he says. ‘Though I guess you’d misunderstand, if you’re that way inclined.’ He nips off his cherry with enthusiasm.

  Suddenly an air horn blasts through the home. A few guests gasp or grab their chests. I hadn’t thought of that. If we can’t scare them off, maybe we can kill them off.

  ‘Some of our residents are hard of hearing,’ I cheerfully explain. ‘We blow the horn so they don’t miss meals.’

  The women stream into the dining room, looking like extras in the zombie apocalypse.

  Most have gone for the neglected pensioner look: layers of clothes and bird’s-nest hair. And not mismatchy clashing patterns that combine into a delightfully quirky ensemble, either. More like they’ve forgotten they’ve already dressed. A few times. Their well-applied make-up is gone too. It’s jarring to see them this way, because usually they’re all so nicely turned out. I can see the hilarious side, of course, and wish I could snap a few photos. But there’s also a fragility to them that’s making me a little sad. It reminds me of when Dot fell out the window. They are elderly, at the end of the day. I don’t usually see that because they’re my friends, and so full of life. This is a sobering reminder. I’ll be glad when the men go and we can get back to normal.

  I didn’t tell the women about the buns beforehand, but they all seem to know exactly what to do. Even Laney catches on quickly. ‘Mmm, my favourite!’ she says, biting into one.

  Sophie licks off a nipple with a perfectly straight face.

  All the women are making appreciative noises over the sugary knockers, as if only a cretin would see them as anything other than an iced bun.

  A few of the men start eating them, but they look like they’re in pain. So far so good.

  When Rosemary, mother of nine, heaves a photo album onto the table from the canvas cart she’s wheeled in, I could kiss her. ‘Would you like to see my children?’ she asks the nearest prospective resident.

  ‘Uh, sure,’ he says politely, as she flips open the tome to the first page.

  ‘This is Mark, he’s my eldest, aged two weeks.’ She points to one of the small photos on the page. ‘And here he is at three weeks. Oh, and look, he’s smiling there. And holding my hand in this one. He came out with that full head of hair, can you imagine? All my others were bald as a billiard ball.’ She notices his head. ‘No offence.’

  ‘How many did you have?’

  ‘Nine!’ When the man glances at his watch, Rosemary pats his arm. ‘Don’t worry, we’ve got time before lunch. And after.’ She pulls out four more giant albums. ‘We won’t run out of pictures.’ She addresses the whole table. ‘I like to go through them every day.’

  ‘We love seeing your photos!’ Dot gushes at Rosemary. ‘Won’t it be nice that now more people can enjoy them with you?’

  A few of the guests nod politely. They’re mostly the men’s children, who won’t have to sit through Rosemary’s family photos for the rest of their lives.

  While she reminisces over every holiday, sporting match and school play from age nought to thirty, Judy, our reigning Scrabble champion, nabs another visitor. ‘Do you like Scrabble?’ she asks him. ‘We play every night.’

  This was a risky strategy since a lot of people do love the game, but we decided to take the chance.

  ‘No, sorry, I’m not a fan of board games,’ he says, as barely concealed looks of dread bounce between the other men. B-O-R-I-N-G. That looks like a double-word score for Judy. Well done.

  The men are losing the will to live by the time we serve lunch. A few are staring into space while others play with their phones. And the poor soul flipping through Rosemary’s photo albums – probably only on about child number three – has his head cradled into one hand. Meanwhile, the women and men who’ve come with them seem to be having nice chats with the residents.

  Amber staggers through the kitchen door under the weight of the enormous soup tureen. She’s carrying it awkwardly, though, trying to keep her nostrils out of range. She sets it on the buffet table with a loud clatter. ‘Cabbage soup.’

  ‘Like the diet,’ I hear one of the daughters say. ‘Pardon me? Is it dietary? I mean for weight loss purposes?’

  ‘Is it??’ Sophie says, as if cabbage soup could be anything other than a decadent treat. ‘We just love it. We have it at least three times a week. This or borscht. Beetroot is a superfood, you know.’

  ‘Well, it sounds like everyone eats healthily,’ the woman says as her father shoots her a dirty look. She’s probably dying to find someplace for him to live. But I can tell he wouldn’t eat beetroot without a fight.

  I do feel for our guests. Nobody wants to put a parent in a home, and it mostly happens only after things get desperate. Which means they haven’t got a lot of time to make decisions or wait for the perfect place. We’re not making it easier for them, but we’ve got our own residents to think about.

  ‘Trippa alla Romana!’ I announce when Tamsyn carries in the main course. It’s the least she can do after shirking all morning. To give her credit, she hardly pulls a face. ‘Enjoy. There’s also a vegetarian option, in case you don’t eat meat.’

  Rosemary’s family photo captive is the first to spring from his chair. He probably thinks he’s saved, but she’s got her orders. Those albums will be waiting for him after lunch.

  ‘That’s an unusual pasta,’ one of the men’s sons says.

  ‘Oh, that’s not pasta, though with the holes it does look like it. It’s tripe. Cow’s stomach.’ That stops him, mid-scoop. He nearly drops the spoon.

  ‘You could have the seitan instead,’ I tell him, smooth as you like.

  ‘Satan?’

  ‘It’s a kind of wheat gluten. I barbequed it.’ Tamsyn’s just brought it in. This is probably the only work I’ll get out of her today. ‘It’s quite tasty.’ It was either tofu or boiled veggie hot dogs, but I didn’t want to overplay the sexual innuendos.

  The way the residents rush to scoop up the tripe, you’d think it was their all-time favourite meal. They’re tucking in with gusto, oohing and aahing praise all over it.

  ‘You’ve done it again, Phoebe,’ Dot says. ‘Delicious!’ At that, all the women clap.

  ‘Phoebe is so good a
bout making sure our meals are nutritionally balanced,’ says Sophie. ‘Tripe’s got lots of vitamins and minerals.’

  ‘Not to mention it gives you a nice shiny coat,’ I hear Dot murmur. ‘Hair, I mean.’

  Unfortunately, though, and to the disappointment of the residents, a few of the men like it too. ‘This is very nice,’ says one. Another recalls it as one of his favourite dishes from childhood during the war years. Sometimes I forget that our generation didn’t invent nose-to-tail dining.

  Even though we wanted everyone to be repulsed by lunch, a little part of me craves this praise. It’s nice to hear that I can make even stomach lining appetising.

  That was one thing that did always impress my mum. Not that she’d touch tripe, but I could make just about anything normal – her words – taste good. Even random bits that wouldn’t usually go into a dish. I got such a buzz out of opening their fridge and putting together a meal that’d have Mum salivating. Those were the times when I felt closest to her. Maybe because she was the one who taught me to cook in the first place. Not even Dad’s claim that she hated doing it can take away the fact that Mum was the person who made me want to be a chef. I can complain all I like about her criticism (and, as you know, I do) but she gave me that.

  Her praise was so addictive that I didn’t usually go out to restaurants with them when I visited. That and because Mum never got through her starter before telling me how I should be the one who owned the bistro, instead of just being a cook.

  As I’m wrestling with this thorny memory – they sabotage me at the oddest times – I hear one of the visitors ask Laney something. She’s so earnest and concerned that my heart goes out to her. It’s absolutely what I’d want to know if I ever have to put Dad in a home. ‘Tell me, are you treated well here?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ says Laney. Then she catches my eye. ‘That is… as long as we don’t get out of line.’ She makes an eek face.

  Uh-oh. As much as I admire Laney’s initiative, we don’t want to be closed down over rumours of resident abuse. But I can’t exactly correct her, can I? It’d just make me look heavy-handed and prove her point to the visitor. She’ll be on the phone to social services before her cabbage soup digests.

  Luckily, though, Sophie has heard Laney too. ‘I can’t imagine a place I’d rather live,’ she says, ‘and the staff are like family. I can honestly say that I love them.’

  I’m touched, but best of all, Laney takes the hint. ‘They are!’ she says. ‘And I was only joking before. You should have seen your face!’ Her laugh is so infectious that soon everyone at the table is smiling. ‘Speaking of family, it’s Nick. Hi, Nick.’

  A chorus of ‘Hi, Nick’s floats across the dining room.

  Self-consciously, he raises his hand. ‘Hi, everyone. Enjoying lunch?’ He strides to the buffet table. What is it?’

  ‘Tripe. There’s plenty left,’ I tell him sweetly. ‘Want some?’

  He stops short. ‘That looks… delicious, but no, thank you. I’ve just eaten. What a shame.’

  ‘Nick is our occupational therapist,’ I tell the visitors. ‘He also runs the Zumba and other sporty things for us. Are you sure you don’t want some food? Weren’t you just saying you were dying to try this recipe?’

  ‘Mmm, yeah, but I’m too full right now. Thanks, though.’

  Cheeky, he mouths at me when he turns his back on the room.

  That makes me smile. Until I remember that he’s falling for Tamsyn.

  Chapter 13

  I thought for sure the tripe would put them off. Or at least that Rosemary’s photo albums would make them think twice. But Max’s adverts and ridiculous cut-rate discount pulled in the punters for every open house we’ve had. The women should be nominated for Oscars in the Battiest Actress category and, frankly, I’m sick to death of tripe and cabbage. But June’s been swamped by new resident applications, and she can’t turn them all away. Even if Max wasn’t popping up in the office nearly every day asking how many have applied, those families are pretty desperate. They’d have to be, wouldn’t they, to sign their loved ones up for meals of offal and holiday-snap marathons.

  Men are coming to live in the Happy Home for Ladies, whether we like it or not. Though we’ll have to drop the ‘happy’, because the ladies definitely aren’t. I guess we’ll have to drop the ‘ladies’ too. Now we’re just The Home, like everywhere else.

  ‘Are you ready?’ Nick asks Laney. They’re doing her memory exercises at one of the dining tables. Tamsyn got an urgent call before she’d cleared half the plates, so I’ve been cleaning up after her, as usual. You can imagine how happy that makes me. I’m so tired of being the childminder for Max’s bring-your-daughter-to-work experiment.

  ‘Telephone, tulip, tuppence, tarantula, erm, taramasalata,’ says Nick.

  ‘That’s cruel.’ Laney tries looking cross, but she hasn’t got the face for it. Her wide brown eyes are sparkling too much. ‘What if I didn’t know what taramasalata was? Tar-a-ma-sa-lata,’ she spells out as she writes.

  That raises a laugh from Nick, who’s timing her on his phone. ‘But I know you’re a woman of the world, Laney. You probably speak half a dozen languages too, you dark horse.’

  ‘Done.’ Laney slides the list over. ‘I’m doing well today.’

  He grasps her hand across the dining table and I can’t help but chuckle at his enthusiasm. There’s no doubt that he loves what he does. ‘You’re doing really well. One more or should we stop?’

  Laney stretches her arms above her head. ‘Let’s stop, if you don’t mind. I’m getting stiff from sitting here.’ Then she reaches for the toes of her blue Converse.

  Nick stands up to do some kind of complicated swami yoga leg stretch. Show-off. He’s always contorting like this and then I have to try not to imagine him limbering up in only his boxers.

  ‘We won’t have many more nights like this,’ Laney sighs. ‘Peaceful, I mean. Without the men underfoot. I don’t mean you, Nick. You’re lovely.’

  She and the others were so disappointed that their performances didn’t work, and I completely sympathise with them. Imagine being comfortable and secure in your home – where you’ve been for years – only to have strangers suddenly imposed on you.

  ‘Most did seem nice enough,’ Nick says. ‘They’ve got to be better than Terence, at least.’

  Laney laughs at his tortured expression, but it only earns a dirty look from me. ‘Oh, you poor baby,’ I say. He can complain all he likes, but he’s bringing Terence’s abuse on himself. He’s the one who fawns all over the man. No wonder Terence is grumpy. I would be too, if I had someone wedged so far up there.

  It’s hard to tell if Nick notices how tetchy I’ve been around him lately. If he does then he’s not letting on. Though he spends every spare second pandering to Tamsyn, so he doesn’t have time to notice much else. No wonder I’m tetchy.

  He’s sucking up to Terence too, delivering meals to his room now, like we’re running flippin’ room service around here. Though with Maggie still refusing to eat with the others, I can’t quash it outright, so Nick trots upstairs with food three times a day. I’m surprised he doesn’t trip, what with all the bowing and scraping he does.

  I can see why he’d bend over backwards for Max. He is his boss. But he’s wasting his energy on Terence. Max’s father gets no say in Nick’s career. He only owns this building and the land, not the business. Yet Nick is kowtowing all over the place just to get a leg up the ladder.

  Oh, that gives me a shudder. A leg up the ladder. One of Mum’s favourite motivational sticks. She was a big fan of climbing ladders. I hated how she wanted my whole life to be about getting ahead. But getting ahead of what, exactly? I never figured that out.

  No surprise that I’m sensitive about Nick doing the same thing.

  Just as Tamsyn comes in from wherever she’s taken her latest phone calls, Laney bolts upright. ‘It’s eight. Are you ready?’ she says to me. ‘You asked me to let you know.’ She double checks the tiny gold watc
h she wears. ‘Phew, I nearly forgot to look. Yes, eight exactly.’

  ‘Ready for what?’ Tamsyn asks.

  ‘Oh. Yes, what was it,’ says Laney. ‘Something Phoebe is doing…’ Her lost expression makes Nick grasp her hand again. ‘What was it now?’

  ‘Thanks a million, Laney,’ I say quickly. I can’t bear that uncertain look on her face. ‘You’re a star. I’d have forgotten all about the book club!’

  My bonhomie brightens her up again.

  ‘That’s right!’ Laney digs around in her bag to find her book. ‘I read this in school but I’ve forgotten a lot. Well, obviously, being me! Not about Mr Darcy, though. I remember him.’

  ‘I know that one,’ Tamsyn says, peering at the paperback. ‘It was good.’

  I wish she’d keep her nose out of our business.

  ‘Then come with us!’ Nick says. ‘It’s always a good laugh.’

  It’s not bad enough that I have to deal with her on work time. Now she’s crashing my social life too.

  But I smile my fake smile because I can’t very well ban her just for canoodling with Nick (or, at least, trying to).

  We all go into the living room for book club.

  Dot’s already in her usual wingback chair, presiding over the group. These meetings bring out the teacher in her. She almost makes me wish I’d gone on with school. But that would have been a disaster. I was awful at testing. No matter how hard I tried to study, the questions made no sense when I had to take the exams. There always seemed to be more than one way to answer. I usually picked the wrong one. No wonder I was sure I was thick. Then I got to catering school and found the practical exams so much easier.

  I resisted joining the book club when June first started pestering me about it. I didn’t want to be the dimwit that everyone had to be nice to. But if the women think that about me, they never let on. Sometimes I even feel clever. We don’t always do Jane Austen books. That’s probably how Mrs Greene would have wanted it, but we’d get tired of talking about the same ones all the time.