The Piano Man Project (13 page)

‘Unless you want the whole town to hear what you’re gonnae say, I’d turn that thing off, Sonny Jim,’ Patrick said, clearly enjoying the chance to add to Christopher’s discomfort.

Christopher shot him daggers, yanked the plug out of the wall and dragged the microphone stand into the centre again.

‘Right then, to business,’ he said, both hands on the stand as if he were about to break out into karaoke.

Patrick raised his hand. ‘You probably don’t need to speak into the microphone, seeing as it’s unplugged.’

Christopher stepped in front of the mike stand, muttering, ‘I knew that,’ under his breath then cleared his throat, looking slowly around at each of them.

‘If we’re
quite
ready, I’ll make a start,’ he said, as if the delays had been everyone else’s fault rather than his own.

‘As you’re all aware, the home is scheduled to close in a few months’ time,’ he looked pointedly at Honey, ‘the shop too. Well, the powers that be at head office have updated me personally this morning,’ his chest puffed out, ‘that they’re looking at bringing that date forward by five weeks owing to the fact that I’ve already secured places for more than fifty per cent of the younger residents, and, taking natural wastage into account, they feel that they can reasonably expect to rehome the remaining residents within the shorter timeframe. Are you all still with me so far?’

Honey stared at him. Five less weeks to work with.

‘Are you saying that we’re going to lose five weeks’ pay?’ one of the cleaners piped up.

Honey shared their worries, but something else in Christopher’s speech had outraged her even more. She found herself raising her hand, and all eyes turned towards her.

‘“Natural wastage”?’ she repeated his phrase, getting to her feet. ‘Natural wastage? Are you saying that you’re counting on some of our older residents dying before the time comes for them to be “rehomed”, as you put it?’

Christopher had the good sense to look contrite. ‘Well, I wouldn’t put it exactly like that, Ms Jones, but owing to the advancing years of many of our residents, it’s not unreasonable to think …’ his voice trailed off as a commotion kicked off outside the open window. He cocked his head like a police dog and narrowed his eyes.

‘What is that racket?’ he muttered, backing into the microphone stand and sending it flying, then climbing over it to get to the window.

‘Oooh no,’ he said, wagging his finger. ‘No, no, no. Not happening. No. Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen.’ He said all of this through an almost-maniacally unpleasant smile as he took off towards the door at a Basil Fawlty half run, and everyone else in the room bolted to the windows to see what was going on out front.

Honey clapped her hand over her mouth, holding in her quiet ‘Oh my God!’ as her gaze moved along the line of residents who’d fastened themselves to the home’s railings using anything they could find. Mimi stood at one end, handcuffed to the bars with Nell’s pink fluffy cuffs, with Billy Bobbysocks on the other end of the line, lashed to the railings by various bras Honey recognised as stock from the lingerie bin in the charity shop. At least eight other residents were strung out along the footpath in-between Mimi and Bill, including Lucille, who’d chosen women’s support tights for her restraints, and Old Don, who’d fastened his wheelchair to the railings with his prized collection of men’s neckties and sat eating a cheese and onion sandwich out of tinfoil with a blanket over his knees.

There was nothing for it. She needed to go outside, this was likely to get nasty. Turning quickly, Honey made for the door, followed hotly by Patrick and the rest of the staff from the meeting.

Christopher emerged onto the pavement as Old Don’s son from the newspaper pulled up with his photographer buddy in tow.

‘No press!’ he shouted, waving his arms frantically at the car.

‘There’s nothing to see here, gentlemen. Kindly move along.’ Christopher adopted the tone of a community police support officer and tried to push the photographer’s door closed even though the guy already had one leg out of the car.

‘Out of my way, lanky,’ the photographer grinned, pushing the door wide and sending Christopher barrelling backwards onto his backside, much to the amusement of the quickly assembling crowd. He snapped off a quick shot before holding out a hand to help the other man up.

‘No hard feelings,’ he said jovially as Christopher ignored the proffered hand, brushed himself down and glared at him.

Honey stood beside Mimi, who was nearest to her, and leaned close.

‘You okay?’ she said, because after all, Mimi was in her eighties and currently handcuffed to the railings.

‘Never better!’ Mimi hooted, clearly in her element. She, along with all of the other protesters, wore long white t-shirts on which they’d written bright red slogans: ‘Save Our Home!’ or ‘Help! Homeless and Ninety!’ Old Don, still serenely eating his lunch, had his medals pinned proudly to his t-shirt.

‘When did you make all these?’ Honey gestured at their shirts, and the painted placards placed between the residents along the railings.

‘Oh, we’ve known this day was coming for a while, Honey. My generation lived through the war. We know a thing or two about preparing for the worst.’

At the far end of the line, Billy Bobbysocks had teamed his t-shirt with electric blue drainpipes and a bum-bag, and he’d rolled the sleeves of his shirt up until it resembled a vest, veteran rock star-style. His silver grey quiff stood prouder than ever as he led the group in a rousing rendition of ‘We Shall Not Be Moved’.

Christopher pranced along the pavement, every now and then trying his luck by attempting to unleash one of the residents from the railings, only to be met with a swift kick from a wooden leg or a feigned cry of ‘you’re hurting me!’ from one of the ladies before he’d so much as laid a finger on them.

Glowering, he puffed his chest out and tried a different approach. Beside the railings stood a large, low stone block bearing a plaque engraved with the name of the home, and he stepped up onto it to give himself an air of authority. For a few seconds it had the desired effect, and a hush fell over the now not-insubstantial gathering.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ Christopher called, his back turned rudely towards the chained residents, holding his comb-over in place in the breeze. ‘I’m sorry for the disruption to all of your days, I realise how inconvenient this is for everyone,’ he said, gesturing towards the queue of traffic that had developed on the road. ‘The combined age of this group of people is over eight hundred. It’s a terrible shame, but I’m afraid they don’t know what they’re doing.’

A cacophony of boos and hisses followed his words, and Honey felt her blood start to boil at his dismissive tone.

‘Ms Jones,’ Christopher’s eyes picked her out in the crowd. ‘Kindly help me to unfasten these poor people at once. They’re confused, and lunch is on the table inside for them.’

‘Not while I’m oot here, laddy!’ shouted Patrick, his tomato-stained chef’s apron belted around his girth. The photographer snapped shots of the scene as Christopher carried on.

‘We’re not confused,’ Billy shouted. ‘We’re angry! This place is our home, and no one seems to care that we’re being thrown out!’

Christopher’s grin turned into a rictus as the crowd brayed in agreement, and he waved his arms as if he were directing a plane in to land.

‘Every care is being taken to approach this matter sensitively, Mr Hebden, as you well know,’ he said, addressing Billy loudly. ‘But these things happen every day, I’m afraid it’s how the modern world works. Now, if I’m not mistaken, it’s time for your medication, so if you’d kindly come inside we can put all of this nonsense behind us.’

‘No fear!’ Mimi called, rattling her fluffy handcuffs. ‘I’m not going anywhere!’

Christopher laughed rudely and shrugged. ‘Hand over the keys to those cuffs, Miriam.’

‘She would, but she’s a little tied up at the moment, old chap,’ Billy shouted, making the crowd laugh and Christopher even more furious. ‘And anyway, she doesn’t have the key.’ He grinned cheekily, thoroughly enjoying himself until Christopher walked down the line towards him.

‘I take it you have the key, Mr Hebden?’ Christopher’s eyes swept down the older man’s outfit and came to rest on the bum-bag slung around Billy’s waist. Honey had followed her boss along the pavement, and when he reached out to unzip the bum-bag she stepped between the two men and found Patrick at her side, obviously equally incensed by the way his boss was treating the residents.

‘Dinnae even think about it, dunderheid,’ Patrick muttered, his thick Scottish accent coming out much more strongly than usual. ‘Touch any of these folk and I’ll smash yer lights oot!’

In the hot exchange of words that followed, Billy leaned forward and whispered in Honey’s ear.

‘Take the key.’

Fumbling behind her back, she unzipped the bum-bag and felt around until her fingers closed around the small key, and then zipped the bag back up as someone started to sing.

Quietly at first, a sweet, clear voice with only the slightest of nervous shakes, the instantly recognisable opening lines of ‘Amazing Grace’ rang out. A hush fell, and a lump rose in Honey’s throat as she turned and saw who the singer was.

Lucille. Laying her hand over her fast-beating heart, Honey listened as Lucille’s voice gathered strength, a beautiful, fragile songbird to still the shouting. Pin drop silence had fallen by the time Lucille began the second verse, and then a baritone voice joined her in the hymn. Old Don. Tears rolled down Honey’s cheeks as she listened to the note-perfect duo, and a quick glance at the crowd through watery lashes confirmed that she was far from the only one moved by the impromptu performance.

Mimi’s eyes shone with pure pride, and the crowd broke into huge, appreciative applause as Lucille and Don reached the end of the song.

Christopher, thoroughly rattled and aware that he’d all but lost the battle, cupped his hands around his mouth like a loudhailer.

‘Enough! Everyone inside. Now!’ He looked around, wild eyed, until he found Honey. ‘Ms Jones. Help me unfasten these people this instant. They’re cold, delirious and they all need a nap.’

Honey stared at him. How could this man be in charge of a home for the elderly, when he had no respect for them? Backing away, she shook her head slowly.

‘No,’ she said, walking back along the line. ‘I won’t help you, Christopher.’ She reached Lucille and gave her shoulder an encouraging little squeeze as she passed, whispering, ‘Well done.’

Honey carried on along the line until she was close enough to Mimi to kiss her papery cheek and whisper to her that she had the key to the handcuffs in her jeans pocket. Then, shaking inside, she stepped up onto the stone that Christopher had recently vacated.

‘I won’t help you dismiss the concerns of the residents of this home, or reduce the efforts of those brave, wonderful people to nothing. Do you think they’re out here just to wind you up? What do you see when you look at them, Christopher? A bunch of old people who you can dismiss and boss around like school kids?’ Honey glared at him.

‘Billy doesn’t have the keys to Mimi’s handcuffs. I do.’ She dug in her pocket and produced the tiny key, holding it up so it glinted in the sunshine.

Christopher saw red and swiped for it, and without thinking, Honey shoved it in the only place she could think of where Christopher couldn’t get it – her mouth. His eyes bulged as she swallowed it with a painful gulp. The crowd broke into cheers, and solidarity with the residents burned hot in Honey’s chest.

‘What do you know about all of these people, really? Take Don, here.’ She smiled encouragingly towards Don in his wheelchair, and he raised a slow, shaky hand at the crowd. ‘I’m sure Don won’t mind me telling you that he’s the home’s oldest resident. He’s lived in this place for almost twenty years. Twenty years. And what do you know of him, besides the fact that his wheelchair sometimes takes the paint off the walls in the hallway?’ Honey had heard Christopher complain on more than one occasion about the cost of redecoration because of Don’s chair.

‘Look at the medals pinned to Don’s shirt. He was a pilot in the war, a flight lieutenant, a courageous soldier who fought for his king and country.’ Don bowed his head at the gentle ripple of applause, his hand over his medals. ‘Every single one of these people has a story. Look at Mimi and Lucille,’ Honey said. ‘You dismiss them as two crazy old ladies, but you couldn’t be more wrong. They’re brilliant, vivacious women who deserve your respect and your kindness. They were both Land Girls, keeping their family farm going to provide food for their neighbours during the war, and even now they give up their time every day to help me run the charity shop.’ Honey looked from Lucille’s tearful smile to Mimi’s fierce nod, and was reminded of Mimi’s earlier words about her generation.

‘You were quite right when you said that these people have amassed over eight hundred years on this earth between them. But that’s something to be celebrated, not mocked, Christopher. Eight hundred years of experience, and of sacrifice, and of hard work. Eight hundred years of love, and of sadness, and of loss. Eight hundred beautiful years of brilliance, and I won’t let you belittle what they’re doing here today.’ Honey looked along the line of residents tied to the railings haphazardly, knowing she sounded like a soapbox politician at an election rally, but forged on regardless.

‘Yes, they might look odd. Yes, their picture will make an amusing front page for the local newspaper. But their reason for being out here tied to the railings isn’t funny at all. They’re out here because they’re scared. This place isn’t just a business, it’s their home, their safe haven, and they don’t want to leave it. And why should they have to? Why is it right that they should have to be scared at their ages? It’s not fair and it’s not right, and our town needs to stand with them and do something about it.’

Breathless, Honey finally stopped speaking, and the street erupted into cheers and clapping, and Nell stepped forward and held her hand out to help Honey down from the stone, her makeshift soapbox. She pulled her into a tight hug.