Kitabı oxu: «The Afternoon Tea Club»

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Acknowledgements

Keep Reading …

About the Author

About the Publisher

Chapter 1

It was a hot muggy Saturday afternoon towards the end of June, as the scrabble of elderly ladies, a couple of elderly gents and a few younger people ambled through the double doors of Borough Community Centre, looking around themselves at the bright, modern, carpeted reception. Some of them were moaning about missing their afternoon TV programmes; some were asking questions of each other; some stared wide-eyed at the unfamiliar building, probably wondering why their families had left them here, even though it was, supposedly, to have afternoon tea with like-minded people.

Families had dropped off ageing mothers and reluctant aunts. Some of the elderly women wanted their loved ones to come inside with them. However, Marjorie could see the families were keen to leave their aged relatives at the community centre entrance.

‘Just go inside, Amelia,’ said one family member, firmly, to a small wizened lady in a turquoise, hand-embroidered shawl.

‘Goodness, Mum, you’re going to have a lovely time in there. We’ll see you later,’ said another family member, slamming the car door – almost before they’d finished speaking.

Another lady was chatting to her elderly relative and then turned to leave. ‘View it as a new adventure, Auntie Mavis! What’ve you got to lose? It could be great fun. I’ll see you back here afterwards. Ta-ra!’

None of them stayed with their relatives to help them settle into their new experience, which was beckoning just beyond the entrance of the community centre doors.

Bit of time out for the families, Marjorie thought to herself, following the other people into the building. Gracie had offered to stay, after she dropped her mother off, but Marjorie had said no.

Being dropped off by her daughter reminded her of the day she’d taken Gracie to school for the first time. She’d been dreading it all night. Oliver had said he wasn’t interested in ‘all that’ and said she could take Gracie by herself, which she’d preferred to do anyway. But she’d had a sinking feeling when she’d left Gracie whimpering at the school gates, her hand in that of a kindly teacher who’d said, ‘Please don’t worry, Mrs Sykes. She’ll be safe and cared for here.’

Oh, Marjorie had known full well that Gracie would be much better off at school than in the awful atmosphere at home. But her worry, back then, had not only been due to the fact that she couldn’t bear to be parted from her beloved only child all day and every day. More worrying to Marjorie had been the knowledge that because she didn’t work and Oliver was at home all day long with back problems, she’d have to contend with his exacting rages whenever he felt like it!

‘Hello, ladies, gents! Welcome to Borough Community Centre!’ the young receptionist said cheerily and then proceeded to chat about the lovely weather they were having, as she guided the cautious groups of people down the corridor towards the main hall.

Perhaps they don’t get out much either, thought Marjorie, walking alongside them. She spotted Mrs Lambert from the ground-floor flat, in the block where she lived with Gracie. She’d never considered that so many other elderly people would feel as lonely as her. She imagined old folk with grandchildren to be amongst the luckiest people in the world. Mrs Lambert had grandchildren. Yet here she was at an afternoon tea party for the lonely; the fed-up; the neglected. At least, that’s what Marjorie read into the leaflet that had flopped through the letterbox and was snatched up by Gracie.

A gleam had come into her daughter’s eye.

‘Talking of getting you out and about more, Mum …’ she’d begun in a tone she usually reserved for meaningful chats with the schoolchildren she taught. ‘Here! Look at this!’

So Marjorie followed the receptionist, alongside a swarm of mainly bowed grey heads in drab or worn jackets or rain macs, even though it was a clammily hot day. Their questions subsided as they seemed to accept their forced afternoon out. Marjorie passed a young woman with a black and white cat brooch on her rather oversized bright yellow cardigan, with matching Alice band. She looked familiar but Marjorie couldn’t think from where. Another lady was still wearing her sun hat, as they all shuffled into the hall towards a couple of nodding women, welcoming them with beaming smiles and wide-open arms. One of these women looked to be solidly middle-aged, wearing a pale blue cotton summer dress with capped sleeves and a badge in the middle of her chest that read: Eileen. The younger woman’s badge said, Taynor.

‘Ladies and, oh hello, gentlemen! Welcome! Welcome! Please come in and help yourselves to refreshments. Yes, come on in. Yes, just help yourselves. Then just take a seat at the tables, anywhere you fancy. Oh no, you don’t have to worry about all that, it’s totally free. No, you won’t need your purses; you don’t have to pay a penny! You’re just here to enjoy yourselves!’

A long table down one side of the hall was covered with white cups upside down on saucers, dishes of sugar lumps, small porcelain jugs of cold milk, huge plates of Crawford’s Rover biscuits and homemade Victoria sponge cakes with fondant icing. Three middle-aged women stood behind the table, wearing white aprons, asking the guests whether they wanted tea or coffee and encouraging them to help themselves to whichever biscuits or cake they wished. Marjorie couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen anyone wearing an apron. Or was it on one of those cooking programmes?

Marjorie noticed how the sight of cakes and biscuits soon perked everyone up, including herself. They all chuckled and marvelled at the sight of so much free food! And this small indulgence then gave them reason enough to happily gabble to each other about what was on offer at the community centre today and how nice the weather was and, ‘Oh, I do like that necklace of yours!’ or ‘Well, isn’t this lovely!’ even though they didn’t know each other.

Looking around her and wondering where to sit, Marjorie saw oblong tables set out for eight occupants. The chairs looked comfortable enough but the disposable paper tablecloths creased and moved as she tried to position herself at the table without spilling her tea or dropping her cake. A little lacking, Marjorie thought dimly.

Pleasant, soothing background music was filtering into the hall from somewhere, which created a lovely restful ambience. Yet as the guests were finishing off their refreshments, the commotion of chatter having died down, Marjorie could see they weren’t entirely comfortable with their surroundings, even though it was a rather nice place. Marjorie hadn’t made up her mind about this new environment yet. But to avoid confrontation with her daughter, earlier, she’d relented about coming along to sample the afternoon tea outing at Gracie’s insistence. She’d do it the once, just to say she’d tried it. Plus, if it didn’t work out, that would be the benchmark by which all other suggestions her daughter made would be met with understandable resistance. Marjorie wondered if the other old dears had arrived today under the same circumstances: unhappy with their lot but equally unhappy to have to make any positive changes for themselves, unless somebody else initiated that change for them.

As Marjorie sipped her second cup of hot tea, she could see that most of the women looked quite thin or perhaps they didn’t eat well enough. It was easy to think you didn’t need to eat so much when you were elderly and sitting around most of the day. Or perhaps they couldn’t afford to eat well. A few had walking frames or walking sticks and one younger lady was in a wheelchair. Apart from the youngish girl in the yellow cardigan and the cat brooch, who Marjorie couldn’t place but who sat at her table, Marjorie felt sorry for these other women. ‘Everyone has their crosses to bear,’ her best friend, Lou, always said.

The servers were still coming around the tables, asking if anyone would like refills or more cake, when the two ladies who Marjorie believed to be the organisers stood at the front of the ensemble and coughed to clear their throats.

‘Well, we must say we’re absolutely delighted to see that so many of you have made the effort to come along to our afternoon tea party today. And we hope you’re enjoying your refreshments. Mrs Spence, in charge of the servers at the back, there, made the cakes, which I’m sure you’ll all agree are rather yummy!’

A few people looked up, realising someone was speaking.

‘Eh? What did she say?’ said someone.

‘Shh! They’re saying something!’ hissed someone else.

‘Right so, just to let you know, my name is Eileen and I work for a division of our local healthcare services. And the lady next to me, Taynor, is my amazing assistant. It was at my mother’s suggestion that we organised this event because she told me she is always loneliest in the afternoons when, she said, it can be soul-destroying with nothing useful or meaningful to do. Does anyone else, here, ever feel like this sometimes?’ Eileen asked, pausing to glance around at her audience.

Some of the people in the room were fidgeting now or still chatting; some were burrowing around in their bags, some were half listening but more anxious to finish their cake. It seemed to dawn on them – rather slowly – that something was being asked of them. Eileen waited patiently. A few people murmured inaudible responses.

‘Well, folks,’ Eileen tried again. ‘I’m just telling you about my situation at home with my mother. I must say, I never suspected that my mother was bored, or fed up and felt that she wasn’t needed any more. But she said everyone feels like this from time to time. So it’s been a bit of a revelation to me that people who are retired or elderly or people otherwise in a position where they are at home all day long, like carers, often feel like this. I think my mother initially held back from admitting this to me because she thought I’d be upset to realise that the rest of my family and I were partly to blame for her discomfort. I have to admit, I was gutted. And very apologetic too, I might add! My family and I actually live with my mum in her house and yet we never allowed her to help out around the home, even when she wanted to. “Just rest up,” I’d say to her. “You’ve worked hard all your life.” I mean for one thing she’s in a wheelchair now and I guess we thought that was reason enough to assume she’d just want peace and quiet at this time of her life. “Not so,” she told me huffily. “I still need a reason to get up in a morning, whether I’m in a wheelchair or not,” she said. So we sat down together, as a family, and realised that apart from activities for residents in local nursing homes, there’s not an awful lot of meaningful activities for our ageing or housebound citizens to do on a regular basis, to prevent them from feeling lonely or bored at home. I mean, we’re well served by the nursing and health community but there’s nothing much that’s activity-based. Would any of you agree with this statement? However, there has been talk and a bit of a national push about offering more stimulating activities to people who are not otherwise engaged in an ordinary working life and in some parts of the country localised organisations have already made a good start with this. Unfortunately, our area hasn’t really jumped on that bandwagon yet. So we’re starting to look at this now.’

The fidgeting had stopped. All faces had turned to study the two ladies in front of them. Was something actually being asked of them? One of the elderly gentlemen, seated at the back said: ‘Hear, hear, ladies. Yes, it can be very quiet and lonely in the afternoons. I think this is a grand idea of your mother’s. I, for one, would definitely come along again if you’re going to be doing this on a more regular basis? Is that what you’re saying?’

Eileen nodded.

‘It certainly is. And this idea of my mother’s is part of it. So, following on from the conversation with my mother, I suggested to my bosses at work that if we trialled something like this – an afternoon out with a cuppa or two – and if our community welcomed it, we could start to do more things like this on a regular basis. It’s Taynor’s and my long-term ideal, you see, to help our ageing or homebound community make the most of life. So the point of today’s afternoon tea is to inspire you to mix with people you may not have met before with a view to possibly forming new friendships. You see, we believe that once you start making new connections with each other – once you realise that what you feel and think is still important to us all – you’ll start to feel more valued within your own community. We’re sure you’ll agree that chatting and discussion creates camaraderie and a general feeling of wellbeing.’

‘Yes, there’s nothing like a cuppa and a good natter,’ someone said, laughing.

‘Exactly!’ Eileen agreed. ‘Being part of a social gathering generally makes people feel happier and accepted, doesn’t it? So we think a concept like this would help lift your spirits and give you a new purpose in life. Plus by engaging in some new activities and experiences you would also play your own part by contributing to the wellbeing of your community.’

Murmurs of approval and slow head-nodding began to weave around the tables.

‘So how else do we feel you could help your community?’ said Taynor, taking over from Eileen with an encouraging smile. ‘Well, following on from this initial idea, we’d then hope to get your feedback about new incentives to help enrich the lives of yourselves and those around you. This would be your chance to help us compile a document to present to our bosses about the needs of our elderly and housebound community. We’d need signatures from all your family and friends to give this project enough clout to resonate and make a real difference to all our lives. In other words, your opinion is being sought with a view to make positive changes within our community. How does that sound to you all?’

A ripple of surprise ran around the community centre. Marjorie wasn’t the only one to realise that she and Gracie hadn’t read the flyer correctly. Wasn’t this meant to be a simple afternoon out, for afternoon tea, no strings attached? Taynor sounded like a political canvasser, touting for votes. But, golly, this was better than that kind of politics. Eileen and Taynor actually wanted them to join in and contribute to the society they lived in. Well, that was a first! The amount of times she’d have liked to have got on her soapbox and crow to anyone who’d listen about everything she thought was wrong with society today! And yet here she was now. Here they all were now, being invited to set the stage for the ‘greater good’.

‘Well, that’s a marvellous idea,’ said the elderly gent who had already spoken, intruding on the whispered confusion of the others. ‘I’m all for it!’

‘But would these afternoons stop then, after you got your, um, your data or whatever?’ asked a canny younger lady, dressed in a pale grey trouser suit.

Eileen stepped forward to speak again.

‘Not at all. As long as yourselves, as a community, want afternoons out, we hope to continue providing them. We’d also like suggestions as to what other activities you’d like to participate in. You know, things like a weekly art class or a drive out for the day. Activities like that. Of course, as you get to know each other you can start arranging your own afternoons out if you wish or you could start forming your own clubs and organisations. We’re simply here to start the ball rolling, as it were, to help you help yourselves in order to improve your lives and give you your own voice within our community. We want to help you realise that, no matter what your age or circumstances, you do still count.’

Marjorie noticed the shift from complacency to murmurs of ‘Oh right,’ or ‘Well, that would be rather nice for a change.’ People were starting to put their hands up to ask further questions. How often did anyone ask the elderly what they thought about anything? As far as she was aware, there were plenty of activities for youngsters but Marjorie had never heard of any such events for anyone of her own age. Or perhaps there were things advertised in the daily newspapers? But she only read the Sunday papers and hadn’t noticed anything like that in there and, as for things online, well, she couldn’t even use a computer, despite Gracie saying she’d help her with that. Yet it actually felt marvellous to be permitted to stand up and be counted, for once! Oliver had never let her have her own opinions. She had never been allowed to voice her concerns nor her wishes in his presence. So being given consent to stand up and say something meaningful would be quite splendid.

‘Can we tell our friends about this scheme? I think my friend Elsa would love to go for a drive somewhere. She’s housebound at the moment,’ said the girl in the yellow cardigan.

‘Yes, of course,’ said Taynor. ‘We’d like to get the community involved as much as possible. We’re here to hear what you have to say and then act upon it. All suggestions very welcome. Right, so we’d like you to have a think about what activities you’d like to do and if you decide to come back next week could you write out your ideas and put them in our suggestion box? We’ll put the box at the side here, by the table, next week. Then we can discuss it all the following week, when we’ve read through what you’ve got to say. Oh yes – sorry – I forgot to tell you, we’re going to be here next week as well, so do please come back and have afternoon tea with us again – same time, same place – and bring any friends along who might be lonely or a bit fed up or whatever. We’ll also collate some name stickers next week for you to wear, which will make it a whole lot easier to remember each other’s names. So now we just need to ask if you’ve enjoyed this afternoon? Oh and I need to let you know that we might have to change the venue in the future, depending what’s in the bookings diary here, but if that’s the case we’ll let you know in advance. So now I also need to ask you, if you could and if you want to, please give us your contact details, before you leave, in case we need to cancel next week’s tea or let you know anything else.’

‘Right! So if none of you have any further questions, we’ll just say, thank you for coming along today. We hope you’ve enjoyed it and we hope to see you next week,’ said Eileen, with a slight bow.

Everybody started to clap. The tables of elderly women and the gents were quite animated by now, discussing the fact they were to be part of something – ahem – meaningful, and a social experiment, no less! Marjorie marvelled at the fact that Eileen and Taynor had managed to get an unrelated group of people, chatting freely together as if they’d known each other all their lives.

But best of all, Marjorie noticed, it had established the buzz of a sudden sense of, yes, pride in the room. Were the grey heads really starting to sit up and feel counted?

Marjorie liked that feeling, herself, too. So, yes, she might come back next week. She hadn’t intended to at the outset; she’d just been doing it to appease Gracie. But now she might ask Lou if she wanted to come. Perhaps Gracie would even pick Lou up and drive them both here. Lou would love it here as she always had plenty to say about everything. Marjorie smiled at that thought.

Oh well, it took all sorts to make a good pie!

Chapter 2

The idea of afternoon tea with a group of total strangers had not, initially, sat well with Marjorie Sykes.

‘When you reach a certain age,’ she’d told her daughter, Gracie, ‘you only really want close friends and family around you.’

But following her discussion with Gracie, when the flyer about afternoon tea at the community centre had landed on their doormat, and the subsequent afternoon tea meeting, she was now – surprisingly – warming to the idea.

She’d shared Gracie’s flat with her for the last four years, and that had been lovely, of course, but forays out with her daughter or anyone else for that matter were sporadic. Her remaining friends were thin on the ground for one reason or another – mainly due to Oliver – or now lived elsewhere and Gracie was often shattered when she came back from work at night, after her train then bus journey from the out-of-town secondary school where she taught English. So Marjorie had very little interaction with anyone on a regular basis, apart from the man in the corner shop or the postman or occasional visits to see her doctor.

Her only child, Gracie, slim with a blonde bob, was the apple of her eye. She’d recently won an award from her pupils where she taught, who were encouraged to vote for the best teacher in their school each year. ‘It’s a new in-house award, following that incident last year when that boy attacked one of the tutors,’ Gracie had explained to her mother. ‘It’s the Head’s latest idea to help improve relationships between the staff and students. The children vote on three categories: respect, approachability and clarity of instruction. It’s supposed to make the kids think about the role of a school tutor in their lives; and for us, it highlights any grey areas where we should be making improvements.’ Gracie possessed a certain calm and poise and knew how to mete out the right degree of encouragement to her students, concentrating on their positive attributes rather than the negative, in order to encourage rather than discourage. Her approach had clearly earned the children’s hearts.

Yet, her daughter’s marvellous achievements aside, Marjorie was miffed to note that Gracie was being decidedly pushy, these days, about her mother needing to do something meaningful with her life instead of ‘moping around all day’.

Admittedly, helping Gracie with the shopping, cleaning and washing took care of morning duties, but – apart from daytime TV – what was there to actually do during the long tedious hours until bedtime? She daren’t admit to her daughter that most afternoons she simply sat on the sofa ploughing her way through books she’d acquired from the library because there really wasn’t much else to occupy her time.

‘Why don’t you go do some voluntary work, Mum? Or help an elderly person with their cleaning or something?’ Gracie encouraged, when her mother had moaned about the lack of activities during the afternoon.

But she was eighty-two, for God’s sake! Not some idle teenager being encouraged that there was more to life than being ‘poked’ or snap-chatted by all her friends or whatever the latest devices-related craze was. Didn’t the years of bringing up a family entitle her to a bit of peace, now she was old, craggy and tired? In the mirror, a grey-haired lady with a plethora of facial lines, born from far too much angst, stared back at her. Even with make-up, she looked tired.

That said, no one had told Marjorie about the inevitable boring bits she’d duly experience as she got older – especially the hardly-anything-to-do-all-day bit. And she didn’t want to admit that sometimes she felt like screaming, trying to think up new things to do every single day. That was tiring enough in itself! Yet she realised having nothing meaningful to do on a daily basis had made her withdraw from life. Sometimes she paced the flat; sometimes she could only bring herself to stare out the window, arms folded, at the communal patio, watching the birds pecking at seed on the bird table she’d bought and set up, mainly to give herself something to look at when she had nothing better to do. Oh, she’d been thrilled when the other residents had congratulated her for that. But even though she was thoroughly fed up with things at the moment she certainly knew she didn’t need another ‘Life Goal’ at her age.

‘Besides, I still have a few friends, as you well know, daughter dear.’

However, it did irk Marjorie that the few friends she had left were all occupied by grandchildren or great-grandchildren and didn’t see her very often. And being as Gracie was divorced with no little ones to occupy Marjorie’s time, she couldn’t even fulfil her own longed-for role as a grandmother. Marjorie often remarked that it was ‘High time you got married again, Gracie dear, and gave me grandchildren! You’re in your late forties now, sweetheart. No time to waste!’

And then their conversations would turn into a testy argument, with Marjorie wagging an index finger and Gracie insisting that since the collapse of her marriage – not due to them being childless, but because Harry had gone off with some ‘young thing’, as Marjorie put it – she’d wanted nothing more to do with men.

‘I’m loving all this free time by myself, Mother. I can do what I want, when I want, which is great. Thought you – of all people – would understand that? I tried pandering to Harry’s every need and where did that get me, huh? Still went off with someone else! What is it with you and I, picking the wrong men all the time?’

Marjorie had sighed.

So, no grandchildren for her, then. No rocking babies gently to sleep. No fun days out with tantrums in the park about whose turn it was on the swings. Nope! A life of solitary confinement, occasionally seeing friends whose lives weren’t embossed with the embroilment of family life, was her luck of the draw.

Thus Marjorie’s life, when she wasn’t moping around the house, consisted of occasional visits to the library to borrow and return books, just to give her a reason to get out of the house; or occasional walks in the park with Gracie, providing her daughter was free on a weekend; or taking her oldest and best friend Lou to the chiropodist, to get her toenails cut; but no excursions to get a nice cup of tea somewhere afterwards. So it was far from an exciting existence and, yes, she conceded privately, Gracie was right; it was aimless at best, pointless at worst.

Living with her daughter hadn’t turned out to be full of the promise she’d expected. But, tedium aside, Marjorie knew it was infinitely better than living by herself after Oliver died.

And thank the Lord he had!

Just as well he’d had his stroke because Marjorie couldn’t think of any new ideas about how she could possibly get rid of him, without getting the blame!

Yes, that sounded bad. But Marjorie’s husband Oliver had been a bully, both emotionally and physically, for most of their married life. Marjorie couldn’t remember when it had first started. Possibly it had begun when he’d left the army ‘under a cloud’. He’d been very morose around that time. But each subsequent job hadn’t worked out for him, either. Not that Marjorie was making excuses for him, but she belonged to an era that truly believed in their ‘for better or worse’ vows.

Yet excuses aside, he’d hit her a lot. Oh, he’d been very apologetic at first, which had sucked her in, believing him to be remorseful. But it had continued. Thrice she’d been to hospital; once for concussion, once for a broken arm, once for her miscarriage due to his aggression. He’d become increasingly abusive after Gracie was born because he couldn’t stand the fact that – suddenly – all Marjorie’s attention was poured onto their new-born child.

‘There are three of us in this relationship. Not just you and ruddy Gracie! Remember that, woman. Now go get me my dinner before I really lose it with you!’

Fortuitously he’d never laid a finger on Gracie. Marjorie knew she’d have had to leave if he’d done that. But when she’d turned to her mother for moral support and advice, her mother had shaken her head. Unfortunately, she was one of those women who considered it wrong to interfere in another person’s relationship, whatever the circumstances.

‘Yer makes yer bed, yer lies in it!’ was her comment when Marjorie turned up, the first time it happened, to discuss Oliver’s behaviour.

Another time, when she’d had her mother around for Sunday lunch – hoping for once that Oliver wouldn’t let himself down in front of them – the meal had started off okay, until Oliver mentioned the fact that Marjorie had bought him the wrong shaving gel that morning. As Oliver raged, Marjorie had overheard her mother calmly tell Gracie, ‘Just leave them to it, lovey.’

Marjorie had no siblings and wasn’t sure what response she’d get if she offloaded to her friends. She knew everyone had their own problems and where could she have gone for respite with a young child in those days? So she put up with their situation and suffered in silence.

However, Marjorie had been mortified when Gracie told her mother, on her eighteenth birthday, that she intended to leave home and go travelling for a year with friends.

‘Oh but, Gracie, you can’t just leave! You’re my life!’

‘Well, I know that, Mum. But I need some time out on my own – everyone’s doing it before college or university! Besides, if I’m being really honest, I, um, I just can’t stand being here any longer. I can’t tolerate the awfulness of things any more. There’s really no reason for you to continually suffer at the hand of Daddy. Why don’t you leave him? Or ring the police? Or you could go and live somewhere else? Anyway, me and my mate, Rosa, will probably go and look for work in London, afterwards, because anywhere’s better than being here!’

‘But, Gracie, you can’t leave. What about your education?’

‘It can wait, Mum. Other students have time out and this is no different. Besides, I really think you should do something about Daddy.’

But Marjorie had always been frightened of Oliver and simply didn’t know what to do. And even if she had told someone about her troubles with him, would they have wanted to get involved in all that? She suspected they’d have told her to leave him. But she was a housewife and funds were limited at best. She had no access to surplus money in order to move away, so she’d felt trapped.

Gracie had never understood the reasoning behind her father’s venom. Weren’t you supposed to have loving, caring parents around you as you grew up? She’d tried to intervene once, standing between her beloved mother and crazed father. But she’d got a furious verbal diatribe from him. He hadn’t hit her but he’d sworn and yelled loudly enough to warn her off interfering again. And he’d also frightened their friends away over the years when they’d rung – often by brusquely telling them Marjorie or Gracie were out. So they’d stopped ringing. At school, Gracie had tried to explain to her friends what was going on at home.

‘He’s completely unreasonable, so never call me at home, okay? It’s too risky. We’ll make plans for the weekend here at school instead.’

Marjorie had been so wrapped up in avoiding Oliver’s fury or trying to placate him that she’d forgotten what kind of impact it might have been having on their young daughter. The result of which was that her darling Gracie wanted to leave home. Yet why should Gracie suffer the consequences of her father’s actions?

‘Oh, darling, I’m so sorry it’s come to this,’ Marjorie had said, sobbing, as the reality of Gracie’s words hit home. ‘I know I should’ve sorted it all out, somehow, years ago. But I’ve never really known what to do about your father. Look, please stay. We’ll work something out, Gracie. Please don’t go, sweetheart. Oh, I couldn’t bear it if you left!’

But Gracie had stood her ground.

‘It’s not your fault, Mother. He’s unresponsive to reason. It’s domestic violence, pure and simple. He’s a wife-beater and it’s a criminal offence. There’s no other way to dress it up. So I can’t stay. I can’t stand seeing what he does to you every day and feeling helpless about what to do. It’s not right. You should report him, even though I know you’re scared. Anyway, my leaving will help – I know he didn’t want me so that makes me part of the problem.’

‘Gracie, none of this is about you!’ Marjorie had pleaded. ‘Are you listening to me? None of it. It’s his doing. He’s the problem. Good God, I should never have let it get this far. But I thought I was dealing with it in my own way. Darling, please! I’m so sorry it’s come to this.’

‘I know you’re sorry, Mum, and I just wish I could make it all better for you but nothing I say makes any difference. It still goes on. Anyway, my friends have booked the trip now, so I’m sorry to disappoint you but I’m … I’m going.’

Marjorie knew she had to concede to her daughter’s wishes. But she daren’t tell Oliver. And so one morning, before Oliver was awake, she smuggled Gracie away to the bus stop. Time away from the family would probably be good for Gracie. She was young; she had prospects and her own life to lead. Marjorie knew she couldn’t hold her back indefinitely, even though she secretly wanted to hold on to her forever. And then, needing someone to tell, she’d gone round and offloaded to her best friend, Lou, sobbing remorsefully on her lap, whilst Lou had patted her friend’s head.

‘Oh, I thought summat was amiss with Oliver. I’d heard talk. And your poor girl. But you can’t be standing for all that nonsense, love. Tell him I’ll send my son Derek round if he comes for yer again!’

But Marjorie was convinced things would only get worse for her if she tried that suggestion. Instead, she found the courage to secretly buy a pay-as-you-go mobile phone, so she could ring Lou privately when things got too bad. Unfortunately, Oliver found it and smashed it to smithereens and then punished her.

‘You’ll not be going behind my back and gossiping with your friends about me!’ he’d shouted at her, as Marjorie cowered in a corner, quietly sobbing.

He’d once, laughingly, justified his treatment of Marjorie to their friends, on an impromptu night out. They hadn’t known what was going on until then. ‘A good beating is all these women understand!’ He’d smirked at their shocked faces.

Oliver’s temper had continued to simmer under the surface until Gracie got married and moved to Dorset. Gracie’s husband, Harry, was a police officer, but he’d told Gracie there was nothing anyone could really do unless her mother made a formal complaint or someone saw her bruises. So Gracie persuaded her mother to wear a light sleeveless summer top at their next summer barbecue and then, when Harry finally saw the bruises for himself that day, he stepped in to have a serious word.

‘Fuck’s going on, Oliver? What’s this all about? If I ever see anything else like this again or if I bloody well even hear about it, I’m doin’ you! So think on, mate!’

Outraged, Oliver had then been careful to hit Marjorie where the bruises weren’t so easily spotted! But the frequency, Marjorie was relieved to note, dissipated.

After Gracie divorced Harry for his infidelities and rented a flat, back where Marjorie and Oliver lived in Hampshire, Gracie hoped she’d finally be able to help her mother, providing she could persuade her to be helped.

‘You’ve got to leave him, Mum. Look, why don’t you come and live with me, now I’m on my own? I’ve got the two bedrooms so we can have one each. It’d be nice to have some company for a change and we get on well enough, you and I, don’t we? We could have days out and, well, I just think it would be lovely for us both,’ Gracie had said.

It had sounded like a heavenly idea to Marjorie.

‘Well, I’d like to leave, Gracie, but to be honest I’m frightened of him. What if he made life even more unbearable for us, in some way? Besides I don’t want to involve you in all of that again. At least it’s not as bad as it used to be. Anyway, darling, you deserve a happier life now you’re free from Harry and you’ve got some lovely friends and a good job at the school. I know you mean well, sweetie, but I’ll be okay. I’ve survived this long, haven’t I?’

To herself, when she was alone, polishing and cleaning the house the way Oliver liked it or when he was down the pub, drinking heavily and playing snooker with his old army mates, Marjorie used to think, Why are we still together if you don’t love me? Divorce might have been an option for some people but she knew Oliver would never grant her one and she wouldn’t have wanted one anyway. So, mostly, she just wished he was dead.

And then he did die.

He died one Sunday morning sitting at the table, chewing his toast, waiting for his bacon and eggs, banging on the table with the handle of his knife, making dents in the table top.

‘Where’s my bloody breakfast?’ he’d called from the dining room. ‘And if you don’t hurry up – aargh! Wha’s happenin’ to me? Marj! Marj!’

Hearing the change in his tone from anger to panic, Marjorie had rushed into the dining room and then stopped, realising exactly what was happening. Her father had died from a stroke too. They told you the signs to watch out for on the telly. She watched in disbelief as her husband slid from the table onto the floor; his right hand hooked like a claw, reaching out to her in his last gesture of anger.

‘Do something, b-bitch!’

But something snapped in Marjorie at that moment. How dare he!

How absolutely dare he speak to her like that! She’d given him her life and he’d trodden all over it. His awfulness had even sent Gracie out of their door. And this was how he was treating her, even now? She’d been totally prepared to help him, until that point, despite the relentless abuse he’d inflicted on her.

Instead, she took a deep breath and folded her arms. She would help him – she’d be his wife to the bitter end, as per her wedding vows – but she had something to say to him first.

‘It serves you right, you old bastard!’ she said, exuberantly.

She saw one of Oliver’s eyebrows flick up in surprise; she’d never dared answer him back before.

‘Do you realise what you’ve done to us, over all these years? Did you enjoy inflicting all that pain? Did it make you feel more worthy as a man?’

He didn’t answer. His eyebrow dropped; his eyes stared out in front of him.

She was aware of the tick, tick, ticking of the dining room clock, as she waited for an answer. She even thought at the very least he might say, ‘I’m sorry, love.’ How very different their lives might have been, if he hadn’t been such a beast of a man! How very different their days might have been, if he’d been kind, instead of forcing his wife and daughter to walk on eggshells, fearful of what he might do or say to them next!

Why wouldn’t he answer her? Clearly he wasn’t remorseful in the slightest about the way he’d treated her over the years!

With a sigh, she turned to ring the doctor.

‘Well, he’s gone all red like he’s choking or something. But I don’t, um, I don’t know how to dislodge anything if it’s stuck, you see. Well no. We’re old folks, love, and I wouldn’t be able to do anything like that. The – the what did you call it? The something thrust? No, I don’t know how to do it, love,’ Marjorie replied to the doctor’s receptionist. ‘Yes, I think he was eating some toast. I tried banging on his back but nothing’s come out. Oh, wait a minute. Oh, gosh! Oh, now it looks like he’s not breathing. So shall I, um, shall I ring the ambulance instead?’

Chapter 3

Stacy was soaked from the hefty downpour by the time she got back to her flat, following afternoon tea at the community centre. She stood dripping on the doormat; her yellow cardigan now soaked with cold rain. She’d forgotten her umbrella and it had rained in heavy blobs, despite the heat. She hated her hair getting wet because it expanded, uncontrollably, into a frizzy mess if she let it. That’s why she’d kept it long, a bit too long really, in the hope the weight would keep it down. It didn’t make much difference though. Her clothes needed to go straight into a washing machine, but she didn’t have one. She always did her washing at the laundrette next to the corner shop, so her clothes would have to wait in the washbag until she got around to doing that. The first thing she wanted to do, however, was have a shower, to wash away the stickiness from choosing the right colour but wrong fabric for her afternoon tea outfit. She didn’t actually have any going-out outfits because she never normally went anywhere.

She felt quite relieved to be home, but as she turned the key in her door she was greeted with a cacophony of pitiful mews and yowling. It sounded a little different to usual. As she entered her flat a black and white cat slouched from behind the kitchen door and wound itself around her ankles, staring wistfully up at her with its lovely yellow eyes. Stacy bent down to stroke it.

‘Oh, Pooch, my little pretty,’ she murmured, picking it up and kissing its face. But the cat suddenly struck out a paw and clawed the side of her face.

‘Ow! Naughty Pooch!’ she exclaimed, dropping the cat, which ran off with a howl. ‘Bad kitty!’

Stacy stomped along the corridor to the bathroom, holding her face. She glanced in the mirror. It was only a little nick but it had left a spotted trail of blood, sliding towards her chin. She dabbed at the blood with some toilet paper. Pooch probably hadn’t meant it. He’d be skulking in the lounge now, fearful of another telling-off. But she had to get her wet clothes off first and get sorted.

However, turning from the sink, she could see some of her other cats – Ebony, Chater, Melanie and Dingle – leaping around in the bath playing with the shower extension. They were having fun. She didn’t particularly want to disturb them. But then she breathed in smells she didn’t really want to smell, either. One of them had probably weed and they were all in it now. Damn. The bath would need cleaning before she got in and used the shower attachment. But Chater was currently problematic and skittish following the incident with the toilet lid falling on him yesterday. Maybe shooing them out of the bathroom wouldn’t go down too well with him at the moment, either. She certainly didn’t want him hissing and clawing her again this afternoon.

Sighing, Stacy took her cardigan off and dropped it by the sink. She needed to see if Snowball looked any better. But the yowling was louder in the lounge when she opened the door. She sidestepped their climbing frames and empty tins of cat food, overflowing litter trays and unfortunate ‘accidents’ all over the lounge carpet. It really needed cleaning in here. John, her next-door neighbour often banged on her door to complain about the noise and smell. How, she wondered, could he possibly smell anything when they lived in separate flats? He was such a Moaning Minnie!

‘Snowball, my little – oh! Snowball!’

Stacy gently picked up the tiny limp body from beside the radiator and held it like a baby in her arms. A tear slid down her cheek and plopped onto the little lifeless black kitten.

Casper tried to jump on her lap and sniff Snowball as she sat down on the sofa. She pushed him off. But he jumped back on again. So, that’s why they’re concerned, Stacy thought.

But what should she do now? She knew she had to get the kitten out of the flat. Maybe the odd-sounding mewing would stop then. She’d have to find a sealed plastic container to put him in, ready for burying somewhere. That would probably calm the others, too, she thought. Their mewing was constant. If only she could switch that noise off, sometimes! She needed her shower, yes, but her priority was to get Snowball away from the others because she could see the tiny kitten looked somewhat scraggy and when she turned him over – oh no – he’d been mauled!

She went into the kitchen, stepping over Rover the ginger tom – narrowly missing treading on Canterbury her pregnant cat. How had Canterbury got out of the bedroom? Had she left the door open, by mistake? And was Rover bothering Canterbury now?

‘For God’s sake, guys!’

She pushed Canterbury along the corridor with her foot, as gently as she could, and finally got her pregnant cat back inside the bedroom. But she’d had to put Snowball on the floor whilst she kept Canterbury just inside the bedroom door, with one hand, and then shut the bedroom door with her other. Unfortunately – quick as a whip – Rover spotted Snowball and went to paw him.

‘Stop it, Rover! Was that you before? Get into the lounge! Now stay in there, naughty boy!’

Stacy was always stressed with the effort of trying to keep them all separated or stopping fights. She often got badly scratched for her efforts. It was partly the reason she always wore long-sleeved clothes, even in the summer; to cover her unsightly sores! She realised keeping all the cats in her one-bedroom flat had probably not been her best idea. And whilst she knew that cats tended to grieve a dead companion, both Rover and Chater had become unpredictable animals of late. Probably being cooped up in her small home meant their behaviours weren’t as they should be. Yet her obsession with cats hadn’t started off like this.

Stacy loved cats. They were her kind of animal. They weren’t as needy as dogs, even though she knew dogs were loyal. As a child she’d lived on a farm with her parents and brother, so she was used to animals. However, the cats her father had kept were for ratting only. She’d never been encouraged to pet them, although she had done sometimes.

‘Never know what germs they carry, so leave them be,’ her father used to say.

So it was a complete joy to her when she was able to leave home and buy this flat with her half of her grandmother’s inheritance. Having her own place meant living by her own rules and also meant she could have as many cats as she liked! So she’d started off by buying a couple of kittens from a pet shop. Then people had wanted her to take their cats when they moved house or if someone found a stray. She knew about the Cats Protection society but they always seemed to be terribly busy with their own intakes. So Stacy had thought she was helping everybody out by taking cats in herself.

Trouble was, working every day in the library meant she could only see them lunchtimes and evenings, and so she’d often come home to find chunks out of them when they’d been fighting and once one got stuck behind the back of the kitchen units, which had meant getting someone to remove the unit and rescue the cat. So vet bills were fairly high because she was at the vets quite a lot. Yet she still hadn’t got round to sorting out a pet plan for them all yet.

Some days it felt like she was fighting a losing battle, trying to keep them all alive and happy and fed or separating them into the various rooms. And trying to find out who got on best with who was always a worry with new cats. Occasionally she found them new homes but not often. She’d had most of her current cats for nearly two years now – Snowball had been a new addition. Yet, despite their traits, despite being problematic, she loved them all dearly. It was wearing though. But she couldn’t simply give them all away! Who would look after them like she did? Who else would spoil them with those little tins of sardines or smoked salmon, when she could afford it? Cat charities were probably overworked and no one else had the time to help her out.

Stacy didn’t mingle with anyone from work and really only had the one friend, Elsa, from primary school days, although she hadn’t seen her in ages. Elsa lived in the village Stacy was from and had been such a bright, happy girl, emerging from school with hordes of qualifications, destined for university and a life of amazing possibilities. But a skiing accident had taken all that away from her. Now she still lived at home, relying on her parents. Of course, they took her out in her wheelchair and looked after all her needs to the very best of their ability. But it was so sad. Elsa was the only friend Stacy had because all her time was taken up looking after her nine, no, eight cats and kittens. At least Elsa was usually in, when Stacy found the time to Skype, even though she hadn’t managed it in quite a while. In fact, Stacy hadn’t been back to visit Elsa nor her own parents for a good few years. She hadn’t learned how to drive, so it meant getting on and off the three buses it took, in order to visit them, which meant far too many hours away from the cats.

God, the place stank!

She knew she ought to get rid of the lounge carpet and buy laminate flooring. Much easier to clean, of course. Yet when did she have time to go shopping for new flooring? How could she make changes, in any respect, when she didn’t have the time to do that? The afternoon tea experience had been a bit of an experiment for her. She’d seen the flyer in the corner shop window and because she’d known it was only for an hour or so and, fortunately, nearby, she’d risked going. She hadn’t been anywhere in a long time, so it had been really nice talking to other people instead of trying to reason with her cats, for once. And the cake had been delicious! She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had nice cake. Her weekly shopping jaunts meant only going to the corner shop or next door to the laundrette, and buying local was a much quicker option than getting the bus to the supermarket and leaving all her cats for hours on end. Yet she’d have loved to go shopping at a supermarket – any supermarket – with all the mouth-watering offerings they had on display, at far more reasonable prices.