Winners and Losers

'Now, who's for tea and who's for coffee?'

A few stooped heads are raised - tortoise heads protruding out of
fragile shells. Slack hands tremble gently, like plants in the wind, at
the sound of the tea tray. There are one or two bright eyes, and many
dull ones, some masked by thick spectacles, all set deep and dark and
tired in cavernous faces. The mouths are dark too, and wild. Ums and
ahs escape through false teeth as if by accident, as well as sudden
gasps, and teeth-clenched whistles. A cracked old voice rasps out
'Tea!' and there are several soft female coos - like doves, Mary thinks
to herself, and her eyes sparkle compassionately.

Mary's rather fond of her "young wards", as she likes to call them. She
wouldn't have stayed in the job otherwise. She's been in this job for
fifteen years now. She doesn't need the money. She's on her third
husband, the latest one an architect, and a good earner. But they've
seen her through bad times, these oldies. And she's good at the job.
She's always had a knack with people. Her mother used to say so. And,
though the oldies can be awkward, overall they're more grateful than
difficult. No, they're not much trouble really. Her own mother was more
trouble than they are. She brushes the guilty thought of the home her
mother died in from her mind. She's a firm believer in homes for the
elderly, as she's constantly telling her friends. Indeed, she has
already signed herself up for one. 'I don't want to be a burden on your
happiness,' she has said to her own daughter on more than one occasion.
But then what else could she have done, what with the divorce and
everything?

'Now, Stan, don't give me any trouble.' She works her way towards him
cautiously, by now well-used to his bottom-seeking hand.

'You're a saucy bitch!' shouts Stan from his wheelchair. He has
over-reached himself with today's attempted slap, and is contorted all
over the place, arms undexterously outspread, ready to be snapped like
an old, dry twig. She wiggles her big arse past him, quietly pleased by
his abrasive courtship.

'And what are you smiling at, Stephen?' Accomplished at reading their
moods and spotting their unspoken needs, she's tuning in, almost
unconsciously, on his discreetly amused lips. Her hand moves briefly to
her short, tightly curled, black hair. But he just shakes his head and
returns to reading his newspaper.

'You won't get nothing out of him.'

'I know that, Stan. Now look, here's your tea.'

'Don't patronise me, you bitch!' He's trying to slap her bottom
again.

'Now behave, Stan, you'll only do yourself an injury.' As she looks up
from the large, metal teapot with its steaming snout, she can see
Stephen, in a smart v-neck sweater today (he's always well turned out),
smiling slyly again. What does he think of them all? Always reading,
always writing in that book of his that he won't let anyone near - some
far-fetched romance, she'll be bound. Family never comes to see him. Or
maybe they came once - a timid woman and a plump, shy boy. Never any
trouble - as content as a daisy. Not like some of them - clamouring
spirits all but done with life, but still hanging on grimly,
like&;#8230;but look! Diana's gone to sleep again. Now who else is
there?

Against one wall, on a wooden-backed couch whose uncomfortable rigidity
they don't seem to notice, two old girls sit in petrified silence -
Doris and Mable. No point in asking them if they want tea. They
wouldn't know what to do with it. Backs hitched up to the level of
their necks, in Victorian dresses, they measure the hours in pregnant
blinks. Poor old girls. What do they think about? She's never been able
to get much out of them. "The terrible twins" she calls them. Perhaps
they're lost in their memories. They're lost somewhere. And yet so
still, so acquiescent, and noble, in their way, waiting patiently
somewhere for the lights to come on.

But now there she goes again - what a soppy old soul she is. Husband
number two had taken advantage of that. Not that she hadn't been
warned. 'You're too good for this world,' her mother had often told
her. 'And people, they take advantage.'

Above the heads of the terrible twins, a gold-framed clock is ticking -
it's ten to five. Another ten minutes and I can go home. Now, let me
see, there's the shopping to do - I'll stop off at Waitrose, and I'll
need to get some money from the bank, and pick up Katie from...

'But mind, how you're holding that, Doreen!' Doreen stares up at her,
hair on end, bewildered and apologetic.

'It's hot, Mary.'

'It's tea, Doreen. That's how it's meant to be.'

'Oh,' says Doreen, a long coo of surprise.

'Stephen, tea or coffee?' Stephen's pink head bobs up - but he's a shy
one.

'Coffee, please.' Nice voice. Musical. Shame he doesn't use it more.
'You'll be off home soon, won't you, Mary?' he adds knowingly,
smooth-headed and smelling of Brut, his intelligent eyes suddenly on
her.

'Yes, I will, Stephen. Another ten minutes and I'll be off. Now, are
you going to be joining in the bingo this evening?'

'Em, no, no, I'll be giving the bingo a miss tonight, I think.'

'Well you're a one. Isn't he a one, Stan?' She anticipates the two
second delay.

'He's a one, alright,' says Stan, suddenly lurching forward in his
wheelchair as he crackles back into life. 'You won't get nothing out of
that one.'

'No, I can see that, young Stanley.' He bellows with laughter at this.
How they love to be called young. How delighted they are to be noticed
at all, poor things.

'And where are "The Girls" today? They'll be back for bingo this
evening, I hope.'

The Girls - Rachel, Fey and Maureen - are three of the Home's more
active residents. Their candy-floss hair and gleaming handbags attest
to the fact that they haven't given up on life, or come to a
standstill. They're always out on a trip somewhere, usually a shopping
trip. Once, they even made it as far as Calais, and returned with some
strange-smelling cheeses, and self-satisfied smiles. The more active
members of the Home have been quick to form themselves into cliques of
able-bodiedness. Here, able-bodiedness is flaunted vigorously. Each
step down the drive is a display of one-up-man-ship to those confined
within.

And it's not just the trips. Great upset had been caused one morning
when the girls had turned up to the breakfast table in tracksuits.
Tracksuits! Stan had had to be taken upstairs for a premature lie down.
The girls are more jolly than spiteful though, and, when they're
around, they bring a welcome liveliness to afternoon tea. Yes, thinks
Mary, there's not much spite in them, just as long as they get their
way, which, most of the time, they do.

'Oh, I dunno,' says Stan. 'On a trip, I expect. They're always out on
their damned trips, those three bitches, ain't they, Mary?'

'Here, now you mind your language, Stanley. You'll be playing the bingo
tonight, I take it?'

'Never missed a game yet.'

'No, you're game for anything, aren't you?'

'Come here and say that, you saucy bitch!' More creaking arms. Sly eye
on the clock; it's five to five.

'Now, Jessy. Tea?'

***

It's a small room with white walls. There's a wardrobe, and a bed, and
a chest of drawers with a television on it, and a washbasin. A crucifix
hangs on the wall above the bed, an armchair sits by the window, and a
writing desk stands not far from the chair. Opposite the door, there's
a framed picture of a young man with some verse lines beneath it. The
room is warm, as it always is, one thick radiator now barking and
gurgling, now silent and just doing its job. And this is where Stephen
lives.

Right now, he's sitting by the window, wearing a brown cardigan and
smoking a cigarette, something he's not supposed to be doing as the
Home enforces a strict no-smoking policy. He's looking out at the sky,
running a finger up and down the back of his neck, feeling the hairs
there, finding no words for how he feels. He's thinking about his
mother. The memories come in no particular order, one image drifting
away to reveal another. He might be holding different pictures up to
the light. He remembers her young and he remembers her old. Here she is
coming up the stone passageway to see him sitting on the stairs waiting
for her. Here she is in the nursing home, her panicked scream 'Don't
leave me, Stephen!' reverberating down the corridor. Here she is,
stooped down and looking at him under the table - 'And how are Ra and
Lob and Woke today?'

He turns to look at the picture of the young man on the wall. Straight
nose, lobeless ears, short hair - full of curls, full mouth with
perhaps the suggestion of a smile, or some private amusement, long neck
running down into a white, wing-collared shirt and some kind of
scholarly gown. It's a face in profile. It's a sensitive face. And the
lines below it. George Gordon, Lord Byron, 1788 - 1824. "Here's a sigh
to those who love me, And a smile to those who hate; And, whatever
sky's above me, Here's a heart for every fate." To Thomas Moore -
1817.

There are no other faces in the room, no family pictures, just this
face. To begin with, he had dutifully lined up his personal photos by
the bedside - his wife, his daughter, his grandson - but their faces,
determined or tremulous before the camera's eye, made him sad. He put
them away in a drawer, and now gets them out to look at only
occasionally. Occasionally, he also reads the "Thank You" letters sent
him by his grandson at Christmas, feeling his way over the folded
sheets of paper and looping, childish, blue biro script. These are
precious connections to youth and family. But he hardly ever sees his
family these days.

He sighs and switches on his reading light, settles the tartan blanket,
which usually lies on the bed, round his knees, and picks up a
leather-bound book - his book. He opens the book to a blank page, picks
up his pen and stares at the page. He looks out the window at the sky,
noting the faint chill on his neck coming off the sill. He turns to
look at the picture of Byron, then turns back to the page. The words
won't come tonight. It happens more and more often. His mind slides
away from them. Instead, he will sit for hours, remembering, his spirit
encased in this thick soup of feelings and thoughts. An effort of will
brings him back to the surface, back to the blank page, then he's under
again, sinking through memories.

The moon brings him up short. Its brightness weighs on him. It's
watching me, he thinks. They're watching me. Out there, wandering in
the dark, hundreds of them. In here, in my room, they're in here with
me now; I can feel them. The room is thick with their presence. He
turns to look at Lord Byron and Lord Byron swings round, chin on his
hand and looks back. 'Well?' he seems to be saying with those sardonic,
not-quite-smiling lips. 'Well?'

Then, a sudden, brisk knock at the door gives Stephen a jolt. He looks
guiltily at Lord Byron, who is no longer looking at him, but is instead
contemplating something that only he can see.

'Who is it?' he calls.