13 Dates, page 16
‘Just don’t.’
‘But . . . that’s silly.’
‘Is it? All my life, people have been telling me I can’t do stuff because of this.’ She places both hands over her left breast, as if proclaiming her love for something. ‘And all my life, I’ve hated it. So whenever someone says “you can’t” to me, I just have to prove them wrong.’
‘Okay.’
‘And finally, seven – and this is the most important one – no making plans, no talking about the future, no regrets that we might not be able to do something, or go somewhere . . .’ Angel reaches across the table and takes my hand. ‘You’re a planner. I’m not. For you, belt and braces is a way of life, for me it’s a fashion statement. And trying to plan for the future with me is like trying to keep your eyes open when you sneeze: impossible, and potentially dangerous. Let’s just live for the day, Noah. After all, no one knows how much time they’ve got left. So it’s silly to try to look forward to a future you might not have.’
‘Fine,’ I say, after a moment, though I already suspect that’ll be the hardest one to stick to (well, that and the ‘checking she’s breathing’ one, though I can, of course, just say I’m staring at her chest for, ahem, other reasons). And while I’ve never dated anyone with ‘conditions’ before – or anyone with Angel’s condition – I’ve never dated anyone like Angel before either, so I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. Besides, as I’m continually being reminded, these thirteen dates are as much for me to be sure about Angel as they are for Angel to fall in love with me. ‘Did you want to write these things down, so I can sign them?’
‘Would you mind?’
I pat my trouser pockets, then the front of my shirt (just as I remember my shirt doesn’t have pockets), as if I’m looking for a piece of paper and a pen. ‘Sorry. Nothing to write with. Unless you want me to ask the waiter if we can borrow his iPad . . .’
‘Probably best not. Well, you know what they say about verbal contracts, and all that.’
‘That they’re not worth the paper they’re written on?’
Angel frowns as she tries to digest that, then she gives a little shake of the head. ‘So . . . do we have a deal?’
There’s a smile playing on her lips, and she’s holding her hand out, so I look at it for just long enough, as if I’m weighing up buying a second-hand car, then I shake it.
‘Deal,’ I say.
Angel gets up from her chair, and for a moment, I fear that she’s leaving, but instead, she marches round the table, throws her arms around my neck and kisses me for a long, long time – so long, in fact, that when we eventually break breathlessly away from each other, our burgers have materialised on the table.
And just like that, and in what feels like the most formal of arrangements, Angel and I are back on.
15.
Angel and I aren’t the only ones making arrangements. It’s the following day, and as promised, I’m taking Mary to look at some homes, and even though that means I might have to look at some myself – just like with Angel, my needs aren’t the most important ones.
I’ve already phoned a couple of stairlift companies, spoken to the council about whether there’s any home help available and even called some private-care organisations, but I’ve decided to keep all that from Mary until today’s over. Hopefully she’ll see the homes, then see sense, but like I’ve learned from my dealings with Angel, sometimes people need a bit of persuading.
We’ve arranged to leave at ten, but like most old people, Mary’s waiting with her coat on by the door a good half an hour before then, and though she says not to rush, I can tell she’s eager to get today over with.
‘Ready?’
‘As I’ll ever be.’ Mary stands in the hallway and stares into space for a moment, then: ‘Keys,’ she says, collecting her bunch from the table by the front door.
‘Are you doing that a lot?’
‘Doing what?’
‘Forgetting things.’
Mary frowns at me, before hurrying back into the kitchen to retrieve her handbag. ‘I forget,’ she says, then she raises both eyebrows and digs a bony elbow into my ribs. ‘Come on.’
‘So, where’s first?’
‘I thought we’d start with this place.’ Mary reaches into her bag and passes me a leaflet.
‘Parkview Rest Home?’
‘It seems like the best.’
I flick through the leaflet, wondering whether Mary should have added ‘. . . of a bad bunch’ to the end of that sentence. ‘You like the look of it, do you?’
‘On paper, yes,’ says Mary, as I lock the front door behind us and help her to the car. ‘It’s hard to tell until you’re actually there, I suppose. But “Parkview” sounds nice. I’ve always loved the park.’
‘Well, let’s just hope it lives up to expectations.’
‘Yes,’ says Mary, patting the back of my hand. ‘Let’s.’
Though given the way her voice seems to be wavering, I suspect her expectations really aren’t that high at all.
We’re on the back foot the moment we arrive at Parkview, because it’s not actually anywhere near the park, and even peering out of one of the poky-looking rooms at the top of the slightly rundown two-storey building with a pair of powerful binoculars, I doubt you’d have a view of anywhere that has so much as a distant view of the park. The only park it does overlook is the next-door car park, a huge concrete monstrosity that blocks out the light, and while it occurs to me to mention that perhaps that’s where the home got its name from, given the look of disappointment on Mary’s face, that wouldn’t be such a great idea.
She gives the doorbell a firm push, and after a moment, a stern-looking middle-aged woman dressed in a blue nurse’s uniform cracks it open.
‘Can I help you?’ she says suspiciously.
‘Mary Davidson. I phoned yesterday.’
The woman – Candice, according to the badge pinned to her chest – stares blankly back at her in an ‘a lot of people phoned yesterday’ kind of way.
‘And?’
‘I understand you have a vacancy?’
‘To live here?’
‘I think I’m a little old to apply for a job, dear.’
Candice narrows her eyes, as if trying to decide whether Mary might be trouble. ‘Right. Well, you’d better come in, then.’
As she opens the door fully, Mary gives me a look, then I follow her inside, squeezing past Candice in the narrow hallway. She bolts the door carefully behind us, and Mary nudges me.
‘Do you think that’s to keep people out, or in?’
‘I think we’re about to find out.’
We’re ushered into the reception area, a tiny space with a water cooler bubbling away like someone with a bad case of dysentery in the corner, and a small table at the far end, where Candice motions us towards what looks like a visitor’s book.
‘Did you want us to sign in?’ I ask. ‘Or is this for leaving a review?’
‘Sign in,’ says Candice flatly. ‘We take security very seriously.’
I scan down the list of names. Given that the last few entries include a ‘Pearl E. Gates’ and a ‘Jerry Atrics’, it appears that’s not a sentiment shared by the home’s visitors.
‘Okay. Do you have a pen?’
Candice pats her pockets, then sighs, as if the absence of a biro is the latest in a long line of things that have plagued her day. ‘Don’t worry,’ she says, as if doing us the biggest favour possible. ‘So, Mary, was it?’
‘It still is, dear. I’m not dead yet.’
‘When did you want to move in?’
Mary makes a face. ‘I don’t know if I do, yet. I thought I’d come for a tour first.’
‘A tour?’
‘Of the facilities. And perhaps meet some of the – what do you call them . . . ?’
‘Residents,’ says Candice, in the same way a prison governor might say ‘inmates’.
‘If that’s all right?’ says Mary sweetly.
‘Fine,’ says Candice, in a tone that suggests it isn’t really, and as if we’re already proving to be difficult customers.
Without another word, she marches us down the musty-carpeted corridor, Mary and I struggling to match her pace, then leads us into a large, overly central-heated lounge, where several residents are sitting, either watching the ridiculously loud TV in one corner, or sleeping, or staring listlessly at plates of unidentifiable foodstuffs that look like they’ve been sitting there for a day or so, and which make the other weekend’s jellied eels seem almost appetising.
‘This is the TV room,’ Candice says, or rather shouts, trying to make herself heard above the volume of today’s episode of Bargain Hunt and causing a couple of elderly women in the corner to start awake. ‘The garden’s out there,’ she adds, pointing to a set of French doors at the far end of the room that lead to a tiny paved courtyard that’d surely challenge the definition of ‘garden’, where a couple of old men are hunched by the fence, smoking like chimneys and looking like they’re plotting an escape.
Our arrival seems to have created a flutter of interest. In one corner, a lady halfway through completing a jigsaw puzzle waves me over, and though I think it’s simply to see how well she’s doing on her picture of what are either kittens or puppies – without the heads, it’s difficult to tell – her whispered ‘Take me with you’, and the iron grip with which she latches on to my wrist make me step quickly away from the table.
‘So,’ says Mary, her voice not quite as strong as when we first arrived. ‘Can we see the room?’
‘It’s still . . . occupied,’ Candice says awkwardly.
‘But I thought you said there wasn’t anyone living in it?’
‘There isn’t,’ says Candice flatly. ‘Not living, at least.’
‘Ah.’
Candice peers along the corridor, where an elderly man on a wheeled walking frame is inching his way towards us. ‘But you can see a similar room,’ she says. ‘If you’re quick.’
With another glance at the man, she leads us briskly to the other end of the corridor, and through a door with ‘GEORGE’ written in large letters on the small whiteboard fixed at eye height – and at once, the temporary nature of the sign makes me want to head for the exit.
Candice shows us inside, then stands guard in the doorway as we look around, which given the size of the room, doesn’t take long at all. It’s the size of what I imagine a prison cell to be – an impression not helped by the bars on the window, which she assures us are ‘to stop anyone breaking in’, rather than the other way round.
Mary casts an eye over the room, taking in the mismatched furniture, the small, uncomfortable-looking bed, the window with its train-track view, then jumps as the express to Waterloo rattles past. Though while that might make some people turn straight round and leave, she doesn’t appear that concerned.
‘Well, it’s hardly The Ritz, but . . .’
‘The trains don’t bother you?’
‘Pardon?’
‘I asked if the trains bothered you,’ I say, a little louder, and Mary shakes her head. ‘One of the advantages of getting older. Hearing loss. Saves you from a lot. Besides, it’ll be handy being near the station. Especially if I ever need to get out,’ she adds, in a whisper.
‘For the day, you mean?’
Mary chuckles. ‘That too.’
‘So? What do you think?’ asks Candice.
‘It’s . . .’ Mary pauses as another train hurtles past, causing the few ornaments on top of the tiny television set in the corner to violently shake. ‘And how much is this room?’
‘It’s not this room exactly,’ says Candice, though by the lack of progress George has made down the corridor, she seems to be implying that it might soon be. ‘Yours would have a better view.’
‘Of?’
‘The station.’
‘But this has a view of the station.’
‘Yes, but your view would be better.’
‘Well, how much would that room be?’
‘Six hundred and fifty pounds.’
Mary looks at me with a ‘that’s not so bad’ expression on her face. ‘And how much is that per week?’
‘That is per week.’
As Mary reaches for the back of the nearest chair for support, I have to ask again. ‘Six hundred and fifty pounds a week?’
Candice nods. ‘That includes three meals a day.’
‘Really,’ says Mary, wrinkling her nose at the smells coming from the kitchen.
‘Well?’ says Candice, though it’s not clear if it’s a ‘shall we go?’ well or a ‘do you want it?’ well, because by the looks of Mary, the answer is very different for both of those things.
‘Can I think about it?’ she says, and Candice sighs.
‘Fine. But don’t take too long.’
‘I don’t have too long, dear.’
Suddenly, there’s a commotion in the corridor, and as we make our way back out of the room, we almost get caught in a slow-motion stampede of elderly residents.
‘Did the fire alarm go off?’ asks Mary.
Candice shakes her head. ‘It’s music time. For an hour every morning, the TV goes off and we provide some live entertainment. Today, it’s Dan the Music Man.’
‘I thought the TV room was that way?’ Mary points back towards the source of the commotion, where a couple of elderly men have tried to exit at the same time and have got their walking frames in a tangle, trapping the rest of the desperate residents behind them.
‘It is,’ says an old man, the wheel of the oxygen tank he’s pulling behind him almost running over my toes. ‘Run for your life.’
Candice hurries over and frees the Zimmer-jam in the doorway, and we walk back through the TV room, where an over-smiley man dressed in a wide-brimmed hat, head-to-toe matching denim and cowboy boots is randomly strumming a guitar as if he’s just realised it makes a sound. There are two residents still in there, though they look like that’s only because they can’t get up under their own steam, and as Dan starts to sing, one of them reaches up and tugs out her hearing aid.
‘Did you want to stay for the music?’ asks Candice.
Mary cups a hand to her ear. ‘What was that?’
‘Did you want to stay?’
‘Thank you, no. We should go,’ says Mary. ‘Noah? Shall we?’
I nod, take Mary’s arm and lead her back along the corridor. Unlike her, I don’t need to be asked twice.
My suggestion to ‘make a day of it’ turns out to be a very short day indeed, as the other two places we see are no better, and we’re in and out of them both within an hour.
It’s a miserable drive back home: I’ve got the roof down so Mary can feel the wind in her hair – ‘While I’ve still got hair’ – but even a detour through the (real, as opposed to car) park, where I regale her with my horse-riding date story, can’t seem to get a smile out of her. As we sit in the traffic inching its way through Richmond town centre, she’s unusually quiet. Until . . .
‘I suppose that’s that, then,’ she says.
‘Maybe they’re not so awful. Or perhaps we just caught them at a bad time. You know, like sometimes you go to a hotel, and it’s changeover day, so you don’t quite see it working properly . . .’
‘Maybe that was it working properly. Did you think of that?’
‘I was just trying to cheer you up.’
Mary sighs. ‘What’s the name of that place that old people go to?’
‘Eastbourne?’
‘I was thinking of Dignitas.’
‘Don’t talk like that!’
‘I’m sorry, Noah. It’s just . . .’ She looks back over her shoulder, then lowers her voice, as if worried someone from one of the care homes might be following us. ‘That’s hardly how I saw myself seeing out my days. When Stan died . . . well, it was all very sudden. He didn’t go through any of this old-age malarkey. And he’d have hated to end up somewhere like that . . .’ Her voice trails off, and she lets out a theatrical shudder. ‘But if that’s what they’re like . . .’
‘It’s a shame there isn’t some kind of TripAdvisor for rest homes.’
‘RIPAdvisor, they’d have to call it.’
I laugh. ‘I’ll do some research when we get home.’
‘Please, don’t mention the word “home”.’
‘Sorry.’
‘Thank you for coming with me, though. When you don’t have children, at my age . . . Well, it’s nice to have someone else who looks out for you.’
‘Why didn’t you have kids?’
‘Stan and I . . . Well, because we had each other, and all the time he was alive, that was enough. But now I can see we kind of painted ourselves into a corner . . .’ She turns and smiles at me. ‘If this Angel really is the one for you, even if you’ve just got the slightest feeling she might be . . . don’t waste any time. Because you never know how much you’ve got left. And it’s all about quality, rather than quantity.’
I do a funny little salute, then wonder why I have. ‘Duly noted.’
We move the ten or so yards forward that the traffic lights allow, then Mary lets out an incredulous laugh. ‘And they wanted six hundred and fifty pounds a week!’
‘I know!’
We’re stopped outside a travel agent’s, and Mary points at a poster in the window. ‘Look at that! I could go on a round-the-world cruise for the same amount of money.’
‘Well, that’s what you should do,’ I tell her. And I’m only half joking.
16.
Angel and I switch back into dating mode as if what went down in Margate is a distant memory – and I decide it’s probably best to keep it that way, mainly by making sure I don’t bring it up again – and although I’m careful not to do anything that might overexert her, I’m even more careful to make sure she doesn’t think that’s what I’m doing.
So for date nine, the following Sunday, we hire a boat on the Thames, and I insist on having the first ‘go’ at rowing, and then when Angel insists it’s her turn, I tell her we need to go back in because I’m feeling seasick, even though (and she doesn’t think to point this out until afterwards) if you don’t include the slight ripple caused by a particularly speedy duck swimming past, there aren’t any waves on the Thames.
‘But . . . that’s silly.’
‘Is it? All my life, people have been telling me I can’t do stuff because of this.’ She places both hands over her left breast, as if proclaiming her love for something. ‘And all my life, I’ve hated it. So whenever someone says “you can’t” to me, I just have to prove them wrong.’
‘Okay.’
‘And finally, seven – and this is the most important one – no making plans, no talking about the future, no regrets that we might not be able to do something, or go somewhere . . .’ Angel reaches across the table and takes my hand. ‘You’re a planner. I’m not. For you, belt and braces is a way of life, for me it’s a fashion statement. And trying to plan for the future with me is like trying to keep your eyes open when you sneeze: impossible, and potentially dangerous. Let’s just live for the day, Noah. After all, no one knows how much time they’ve got left. So it’s silly to try to look forward to a future you might not have.’
‘Fine,’ I say, after a moment, though I already suspect that’ll be the hardest one to stick to (well, that and the ‘checking she’s breathing’ one, though I can, of course, just say I’m staring at her chest for, ahem, other reasons). And while I’ve never dated anyone with ‘conditions’ before – or anyone with Angel’s condition – I’ve never dated anyone like Angel before either, so I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. Besides, as I’m continually being reminded, these thirteen dates are as much for me to be sure about Angel as they are for Angel to fall in love with me. ‘Did you want to write these things down, so I can sign them?’
‘Would you mind?’
I pat my trouser pockets, then the front of my shirt (just as I remember my shirt doesn’t have pockets), as if I’m looking for a piece of paper and a pen. ‘Sorry. Nothing to write with. Unless you want me to ask the waiter if we can borrow his iPad . . .’
‘Probably best not. Well, you know what they say about verbal contracts, and all that.’
‘That they’re not worth the paper they’re written on?’
Angel frowns as she tries to digest that, then she gives a little shake of the head. ‘So . . . do we have a deal?’
There’s a smile playing on her lips, and she’s holding her hand out, so I look at it for just long enough, as if I’m weighing up buying a second-hand car, then I shake it.
‘Deal,’ I say.
Angel gets up from her chair, and for a moment, I fear that she’s leaving, but instead, she marches round the table, throws her arms around my neck and kisses me for a long, long time – so long, in fact, that when we eventually break breathlessly away from each other, our burgers have materialised on the table.
And just like that, and in what feels like the most formal of arrangements, Angel and I are back on.
15.
Angel and I aren’t the only ones making arrangements. It’s the following day, and as promised, I’m taking Mary to look at some homes, and even though that means I might have to look at some myself – just like with Angel, my needs aren’t the most important ones.
I’ve already phoned a couple of stairlift companies, spoken to the council about whether there’s any home help available and even called some private-care organisations, but I’ve decided to keep all that from Mary until today’s over. Hopefully she’ll see the homes, then see sense, but like I’ve learned from my dealings with Angel, sometimes people need a bit of persuading.
We’ve arranged to leave at ten, but like most old people, Mary’s waiting with her coat on by the door a good half an hour before then, and though she says not to rush, I can tell she’s eager to get today over with.
‘Ready?’
‘As I’ll ever be.’ Mary stands in the hallway and stares into space for a moment, then: ‘Keys,’ she says, collecting her bunch from the table by the front door.
‘Are you doing that a lot?’
‘Doing what?’
‘Forgetting things.’
Mary frowns at me, before hurrying back into the kitchen to retrieve her handbag. ‘I forget,’ she says, then she raises both eyebrows and digs a bony elbow into my ribs. ‘Come on.’
‘So, where’s first?’
‘I thought we’d start with this place.’ Mary reaches into her bag and passes me a leaflet.
‘Parkview Rest Home?’
‘It seems like the best.’
I flick through the leaflet, wondering whether Mary should have added ‘. . . of a bad bunch’ to the end of that sentence. ‘You like the look of it, do you?’
‘On paper, yes,’ says Mary, as I lock the front door behind us and help her to the car. ‘It’s hard to tell until you’re actually there, I suppose. But “Parkview” sounds nice. I’ve always loved the park.’
‘Well, let’s just hope it lives up to expectations.’
‘Yes,’ says Mary, patting the back of my hand. ‘Let’s.’
Though given the way her voice seems to be wavering, I suspect her expectations really aren’t that high at all.
We’re on the back foot the moment we arrive at Parkview, because it’s not actually anywhere near the park, and even peering out of one of the poky-looking rooms at the top of the slightly rundown two-storey building with a pair of powerful binoculars, I doubt you’d have a view of anywhere that has so much as a distant view of the park. The only park it does overlook is the next-door car park, a huge concrete monstrosity that blocks out the light, and while it occurs to me to mention that perhaps that’s where the home got its name from, given the look of disappointment on Mary’s face, that wouldn’t be such a great idea.
She gives the doorbell a firm push, and after a moment, a stern-looking middle-aged woman dressed in a blue nurse’s uniform cracks it open.
‘Can I help you?’ she says suspiciously.
‘Mary Davidson. I phoned yesterday.’
The woman – Candice, according to the badge pinned to her chest – stares blankly back at her in an ‘a lot of people phoned yesterday’ kind of way.
‘And?’
‘I understand you have a vacancy?’
‘To live here?’
‘I think I’m a little old to apply for a job, dear.’
Candice narrows her eyes, as if trying to decide whether Mary might be trouble. ‘Right. Well, you’d better come in, then.’
As she opens the door fully, Mary gives me a look, then I follow her inside, squeezing past Candice in the narrow hallway. She bolts the door carefully behind us, and Mary nudges me.
‘Do you think that’s to keep people out, or in?’
‘I think we’re about to find out.’
We’re ushered into the reception area, a tiny space with a water cooler bubbling away like someone with a bad case of dysentery in the corner, and a small table at the far end, where Candice motions us towards what looks like a visitor’s book.
‘Did you want us to sign in?’ I ask. ‘Or is this for leaving a review?’
‘Sign in,’ says Candice flatly. ‘We take security very seriously.’
I scan down the list of names. Given that the last few entries include a ‘Pearl E. Gates’ and a ‘Jerry Atrics’, it appears that’s not a sentiment shared by the home’s visitors.
‘Okay. Do you have a pen?’
Candice pats her pockets, then sighs, as if the absence of a biro is the latest in a long line of things that have plagued her day. ‘Don’t worry,’ she says, as if doing us the biggest favour possible. ‘So, Mary, was it?’
‘It still is, dear. I’m not dead yet.’
‘When did you want to move in?’
Mary makes a face. ‘I don’t know if I do, yet. I thought I’d come for a tour first.’
‘A tour?’
‘Of the facilities. And perhaps meet some of the – what do you call them . . . ?’
‘Residents,’ says Candice, in the same way a prison governor might say ‘inmates’.
‘If that’s all right?’ says Mary sweetly.
‘Fine,’ says Candice, in a tone that suggests it isn’t really, and as if we’re already proving to be difficult customers.
Without another word, she marches us down the musty-carpeted corridor, Mary and I struggling to match her pace, then leads us into a large, overly central-heated lounge, where several residents are sitting, either watching the ridiculously loud TV in one corner, or sleeping, or staring listlessly at plates of unidentifiable foodstuffs that look like they’ve been sitting there for a day or so, and which make the other weekend’s jellied eels seem almost appetising.
‘This is the TV room,’ Candice says, or rather shouts, trying to make herself heard above the volume of today’s episode of Bargain Hunt and causing a couple of elderly women in the corner to start awake. ‘The garden’s out there,’ she adds, pointing to a set of French doors at the far end of the room that lead to a tiny paved courtyard that’d surely challenge the definition of ‘garden’, where a couple of old men are hunched by the fence, smoking like chimneys and looking like they’re plotting an escape.
Our arrival seems to have created a flutter of interest. In one corner, a lady halfway through completing a jigsaw puzzle waves me over, and though I think it’s simply to see how well she’s doing on her picture of what are either kittens or puppies – without the heads, it’s difficult to tell – her whispered ‘Take me with you’, and the iron grip with which she latches on to my wrist make me step quickly away from the table.
‘So,’ says Mary, her voice not quite as strong as when we first arrived. ‘Can we see the room?’
‘It’s still . . . occupied,’ Candice says awkwardly.
‘But I thought you said there wasn’t anyone living in it?’
‘There isn’t,’ says Candice flatly. ‘Not living, at least.’
‘Ah.’
Candice peers along the corridor, where an elderly man on a wheeled walking frame is inching his way towards us. ‘But you can see a similar room,’ she says. ‘If you’re quick.’
With another glance at the man, she leads us briskly to the other end of the corridor, and through a door with ‘GEORGE’ written in large letters on the small whiteboard fixed at eye height – and at once, the temporary nature of the sign makes me want to head for the exit.
Candice shows us inside, then stands guard in the doorway as we look around, which given the size of the room, doesn’t take long at all. It’s the size of what I imagine a prison cell to be – an impression not helped by the bars on the window, which she assures us are ‘to stop anyone breaking in’, rather than the other way round.
Mary casts an eye over the room, taking in the mismatched furniture, the small, uncomfortable-looking bed, the window with its train-track view, then jumps as the express to Waterloo rattles past. Though while that might make some people turn straight round and leave, she doesn’t appear that concerned.
‘Well, it’s hardly The Ritz, but . . .’
‘The trains don’t bother you?’
‘Pardon?’
‘I asked if the trains bothered you,’ I say, a little louder, and Mary shakes her head. ‘One of the advantages of getting older. Hearing loss. Saves you from a lot. Besides, it’ll be handy being near the station. Especially if I ever need to get out,’ she adds, in a whisper.
‘For the day, you mean?’
Mary chuckles. ‘That too.’
‘So? What do you think?’ asks Candice.
‘It’s . . .’ Mary pauses as another train hurtles past, causing the few ornaments on top of the tiny television set in the corner to violently shake. ‘And how much is this room?’
‘It’s not this room exactly,’ says Candice, though by the lack of progress George has made down the corridor, she seems to be implying that it might soon be. ‘Yours would have a better view.’
‘Of?’
‘The station.’
‘But this has a view of the station.’
‘Yes, but your view would be better.’
‘Well, how much would that room be?’
‘Six hundred and fifty pounds.’
Mary looks at me with a ‘that’s not so bad’ expression on her face. ‘And how much is that per week?’
‘That is per week.’
As Mary reaches for the back of the nearest chair for support, I have to ask again. ‘Six hundred and fifty pounds a week?’
Candice nods. ‘That includes three meals a day.’
‘Really,’ says Mary, wrinkling her nose at the smells coming from the kitchen.
‘Well?’ says Candice, though it’s not clear if it’s a ‘shall we go?’ well or a ‘do you want it?’ well, because by the looks of Mary, the answer is very different for both of those things.
‘Can I think about it?’ she says, and Candice sighs.
‘Fine. But don’t take too long.’
‘I don’t have too long, dear.’
Suddenly, there’s a commotion in the corridor, and as we make our way back out of the room, we almost get caught in a slow-motion stampede of elderly residents.
‘Did the fire alarm go off?’ asks Mary.
Candice shakes her head. ‘It’s music time. For an hour every morning, the TV goes off and we provide some live entertainment. Today, it’s Dan the Music Man.’
‘I thought the TV room was that way?’ Mary points back towards the source of the commotion, where a couple of elderly men have tried to exit at the same time and have got their walking frames in a tangle, trapping the rest of the desperate residents behind them.
‘It is,’ says an old man, the wheel of the oxygen tank he’s pulling behind him almost running over my toes. ‘Run for your life.’
Candice hurries over and frees the Zimmer-jam in the doorway, and we walk back through the TV room, where an over-smiley man dressed in a wide-brimmed hat, head-to-toe matching denim and cowboy boots is randomly strumming a guitar as if he’s just realised it makes a sound. There are two residents still in there, though they look like that’s only because they can’t get up under their own steam, and as Dan starts to sing, one of them reaches up and tugs out her hearing aid.
‘Did you want to stay for the music?’ asks Candice.
Mary cups a hand to her ear. ‘What was that?’
‘Did you want to stay?’
‘Thank you, no. We should go,’ says Mary. ‘Noah? Shall we?’
I nod, take Mary’s arm and lead her back along the corridor. Unlike her, I don’t need to be asked twice.
My suggestion to ‘make a day of it’ turns out to be a very short day indeed, as the other two places we see are no better, and we’re in and out of them both within an hour.
It’s a miserable drive back home: I’ve got the roof down so Mary can feel the wind in her hair – ‘While I’ve still got hair’ – but even a detour through the (real, as opposed to car) park, where I regale her with my horse-riding date story, can’t seem to get a smile out of her. As we sit in the traffic inching its way through Richmond town centre, she’s unusually quiet. Until . . .
‘I suppose that’s that, then,’ she says.
‘Maybe they’re not so awful. Or perhaps we just caught them at a bad time. You know, like sometimes you go to a hotel, and it’s changeover day, so you don’t quite see it working properly . . .’
‘Maybe that was it working properly. Did you think of that?’
‘I was just trying to cheer you up.’
Mary sighs. ‘What’s the name of that place that old people go to?’
‘Eastbourne?’
‘I was thinking of Dignitas.’
‘Don’t talk like that!’
‘I’m sorry, Noah. It’s just . . .’ She looks back over her shoulder, then lowers her voice, as if worried someone from one of the care homes might be following us. ‘That’s hardly how I saw myself seeing out my days. When Stan died . . . well, it was all very sudden. He didn’t go through any of this old-age malarkey. And he’d have hated to end up somewhere like that . . .’ Her voice trails off, and she lets out a theatrical shudder. ‘But if that’s what they’re like . . .’
‘It’s a shame there isn’t some kind of TripAdvisor for rest homes.’
‘RIPAdvisor, they’d have to call it.’
I laugh. ‘I’ll do some research when we get home.’
‘Please, don’t mention the word “home”.’
‘Sorry.’
‘Thank you for coming with me, though. When you don’t have children, at my age . . . Well, it’s nice to have someone else who looks out for you.’
‘Why didn’t you have kids?’
‘Stan and I . . . Well, because we had each other, and all the time he was alive, that was enough. But now I can see we kind of painted ourselves into a corner . . .’ She turns and smiles at me. ‘If this Angel really is the one for you, even if you’ve just got the slightest feeling she might be . . . don’t waste any time. Because you never know how much you’ve got left. And it’s all about quality, rather than quantity.’
I do a funny little salute, then wonder why I have. ‘Duly noted.’
We move the ten or so yards forward that the traffic lights allow, then Mary lets out an incredulous laugh. ‘And they wanted six hundred and fifty pounds a week!’
‘I know!’
We’re stopped outside a travel agent’s, and Mary points at a poster in the window. ‘Look at that! I could go on a round-the-world cruise for the same amount of money.’
‘Well, that’s what you should do,’ I tell her. And I’m only half joking.
16.
Angel and I switch back into dating mode as if what went down in Margate is a distant memory – and I decide it’s probably best to keep it that way, mainly by making sure I don’t bring it up again – and although I’m careful not to do anything that might overexert her, I’m even more careful to make sure she doesn’t think that’s what I’m doing.
So for date nine, the following Sunday, we hire a boat on the Thames, and I insist on having the first ‘go’ at rowing, and then when Angel insists it’s her turn, I tell her we need to go back in because I’m feeling seasick, even though (and she doesn’t think to point this out until afterwards) if you don’t include the slight ripple caused by a particularly speedy duck swimming past, there aren’t any waves on the Thames.
