Riotous Retirement (8 page)

Later that morning Helga learned from one of the bowlers exactly what had happened. Without evoking too much lavatorial imagery the gentleman was able to explain that Gabriel had found it rather easier to sit down than to stand up again and was caught, vice like, in the grip of the side rails. The man explaining this to Helga did not go into the detailed procedures of extrication but suffice to say it involved soap, the application of the laws of Newtonian physics (well known to one retired physics lecturer in Gabriel’s team), a great deal of organisation and much physical effort!

Even more difficult however was the writing of the Health and Safety Committee report, which took Gabriel hours of effort before conceding that it was beyond him because it made him ill to think about what was required to be written in this document.

Gabriel resigned from the health and safety committee the following morning solving problems for several people no less than those of the man himself!

A Health and Safety Audit

Helga needed the Village support
To receive a positive Audit Report
But Gabriel’s lack of agility
Liz Waverly’s mode of mobility
The result  -  who would ever have thought

Bob’s Return to the Party

Port and cheese night—men only, was Bob’s favourite village activity. He was past the fleetness of foot and fitness required for table tennis or even carpet bowls and now required a walking aid. Anyhow why would you spend effort and breath in such activity when you could use it to tell a good story! Bob loved story telling, and not just telling stories, he was also a very good listener and encouraged the less extrovert of the men in the village to also tell stories.

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!