The Seat By The Bay Window

At nine o’clock on the dot Junior Care Assistant Chantelle Wilson, a seventeen year old redhead with green nails and too much mascara who, despite her somewhat lowly position at The Evergreen Nursing Home, still harboured ambitions of a career as a glamour model and a front cover in Nuts magazine, along with marriage to a Premiership Footballer and one of those Tesco Express size mansions somewhere up in Cheshire, wheeled The Old Man from his room and into the spacious lounge which served as a dumping ground for the inmates of this somewhat drab and faded establishment. Although the term ‘dumping ground’ may appear to be both unduly harsh and somewhat insensitive given the chronic levels of both physical and mental disability of the ‘guests’ (as the proprietors, a faceless investment bank based in Jersey, liked to describe the thirty or so senile old codgers who were checked into the rooms at any given time), it was a pretty accurate indication as to the low level of care and attention administered by the world weary staff during daylight hours. Chantelle only worked days, Monday through Friday, but she’d heard that The Old Man requested that every morning his wheelchair be placed in such a position that allowed him to gaze out of the large bay window, up the driveway, and out towards the entrance. Why he insisted on this arrangement seven days a week was, Chantelle thought as she texted her mate Carly, the one with the fake boobs and fit boyfriend called Tyler, beyond her. Still, he might be a silly old duffer but he kept his trap shut and never gave her any grief. Which was just the way she liked it.

The Old Man had been looking forward to his retirement a long time for, after twenty five years of labouring away at the chalk face teaching English to successive generations of terminally bored teenagers who thought that Alliteration was a rapper from Tottenham and Assonance was something out of a porn flick, he’d decided to call it a day. Granted, his wife Julie was long gone after falling into the arms of a bloke called Vince who spent his days spray painting dodgy motors, taking their two kids along for the ride. God knows where they were now, although the last he’d heard they were living in some crap town somewhere in the East Midlands called Burton on something or other, having opted to sever all ties, both physical and otherwise. Good luck and good riddance he’d thought on the day his wife had dropped the bombshell. Now I’ll be able to sell the house and buy that houseboat I’ve always dreamt of.
But he never did.
Despite the encouragement from The Girl.
Aahh, The Girl. The one who had changed everything. Well, until the hand of fate decided to stick its nose into his affairs, without so much as a bye your leave. Indeed, you could say she was the reason he was sitting here now, gazing out of the bay window on to an empty oil stained driveway.
What exactly was he waiting for?
Was it a half forgotten promise?
Some days he struggled to remember.

They were a bad bunch and he was the only experienced teacher available. At least that’s what he’d been told by the powers that be, and who was he to argue with those who sat in judgement? So he’d taken on 11C (which most people in the school reckoned stood for ‘crap’) and became their Form Tutor. To be honest he’d heard so many nightmare tales about their lack of discipline, bad manners, slovenly demeanour and general all round couldn’t give a damn attitude that he was expecting the worst from day one. And the worst was what he’d got. So much so that after a couple of months he gave up caring, slung the PSHE manual in the bin, consigned the sex-ed toys to the top shelf, and simply let them get on with it. After all, he’d thought somewhat philosophically, if they want to wreck the place then who was he to stop them? He’d simply go to the powers that be, tell them he couldn’t cope, and finish six months early. Okay, so he’d drop a few quid on his pension, but surely that was better than burning out over a bunch of feral yobs who didn’t give a toss?
But funnily enough they did.
Give a toss, that is.

After a couple of months Chantelle had decided it was time to break the ice. If she was honest, nine o’clock on a Monday morning probably wasn’t the best time to strike up a conversation with a stroke victim who could barely function, let alone string a sentence together, especially when her head hurt from a banging Vodka & Lime hangover and she was sporting a stinger of a black eye, the result of a right hook administered by Carly after she’d caught Chantelle giving Tyler some deep tongue action round the back of the chippy. The best of it was he was a crap kisser, displaying about as much passion as dead fish, although he did have a habit of letting his fingers do the walking to some very interesting places. Which is where Carly had come in.
Literally.
Just at the precise moment Tyler had been manfully grappling with Chantelle’s bra strap.
God, that had took some explaining, although not as much as The Old Man mumbling on about someone called Jodie who was coming to see him today because she’d promised she would and he just knew that any minute now her car would pull into the driveway and she’d be there with a hug and a kiss and some kind words to make him feel better.
Chantelle had mentioned this to Tracey, her Line Manager, who’d laughed and said the silly old bugger had been droning on about this mystery woman ever since he’d arrived last August, the victim of a massive stoke which had cut him down barely two weeks after he’d retired from his job at the local sink school. Apparently she was a former pupil of his who was going to ride in on a white charger and rescue him from his living hell, as he liked to call his shoebox of a room complete with lumpy single bed, cigarette stained night table, black & white telly permanently tuned to Channel Five and threadbare carpet covered in coffee stains. Thing is, reckoned Tracey, this mystery woman was just a figment of his frazzled imagination. After all, when your body packs its suitcase and goes on a permanent vacation, your mind’s sure to follow. Chantelle chuckled at the thought of this, particularly the bit about how The Old Man, fingers shaking and hands wobbling, texted this mystery girl every Sunday evening at seven. Even weirder was the fact that he got a reply, although he always erased it before any of the night crew could take a peek.
Chantelle shuddered as she looked at the human relics who populated the room, all ill fitting cardigans and elasticated pants, and vowed that she would never end up in a dump like this. After all, she was young and she’d stay young forever. No afternoons for her sat slumped in front of the telly watching endless repeats of ‘Countdown’ No siree! She’d be a cool granny doing loads of crazy party stuff, going out on the razzle with her grandkids and bagging blokes half her age, like a Cougar on the prowl. She was young and immortal and, despite the throbbing head and sore eye, was going to live forever.
Just like that song from ‘Fame’.

11C, in the vernacular loved by the guardians of the education establishment, turned it around.
The Old Man was amazed, especially as he had done absolutely nothing to instigate this.
It had all been down to The Girl.
It was her who had convinced them that he was worth a shot; that he wasn’t like all the others; that he actually cared about them.
Apparently she’d won them over. Not with harsh words and threats but with intelligence and reasoning. She’d told them that her elder sister, long departed to a dead end checkout job and loveless marriage, had once had The Old Man for English, and that he’d seen something in her that others had missed. Her love of poetry, appreciation of art, and ability to hold a conversation with others far in excess of her peer group. How he had nurtured, encouraged and extolled her to use her intellect and ambition to get out of the crappy dead end life that was waiting for her on the end of a smooth talking boys promise. And how she’d really, really wanted to do it, but had bottled out at the last minute, falling for Wayne’s sweet talking lies and empty words about how he was going to change her world, as if she were a contestant on The X Factor. How she wished she’d listened to The Old Mans advice, particularly after Wayne’s soft kisses gave way to hard punches, turning love bites into bruises. But then she was sixteen and knew it all.
Now she was twenty one and knew nothing.
Only that every night after her husband had threatened to kill her she wished she was dead.

Chantelle had taken to watching The Old Man, although there really wasn’t that much to see. The stroke had taken care of his muscles, and he lay slumped in his wheelchair like a Guy Fawkes in search of a bonfire. But beneath the death mask there was urgency in his look and a light in his eyes that somehow transcended the stooped shoulders and ash grey pallor. Chantelle felt sorry for him, although not in any overly emotional way. She just thought that no hopers like him should be given an injection and put out of their misery.
Just like the vet had done when her cat was hit by a bus.

He’d broken protocol and took The Girl out to the local McDonald’s. Nothing fancy. Just a coffee for him and a banana milkshake for her. Not exactly how the textbook would describe a pupil / teacher relationship, but then textbooks deal in nothing but cold, sterile facts. The Old Man was sick and tired of facts. What he wanted was opinions. Like the houseboat. The Great Escape. The way out. The dream that never failed to raise a cynical smile amongst his colleagues.
The Girl had encouraged him.
Said he should get out there and do it.
Even offered to help.
Had finally made him believe in himself.

Chantelle was off over Christmas but returned on New Years Day. Tracey said that the old man, who never had any visitors, had been deeply subdued over the holiday period, despite the decorations, fake snow and karaoke session with Barmy Barry, a regular highlight of the festive season, as if he was missing someone who was never there in the first place. Despite sending the regular Sunday text, his mobile had remained silent and his mood had darkened. Chantelle couldn’t help thinking that wherever he was in his head, it wasn’t a happy place.

They left him that summer in a flood of tears, thanking him for all he’d done. Stuff he couldn’t even remember but promised he’d never forget. She’d hung back after the rabble had departed, and presented him with a card and a hug, and the promise that she’d always cherish what he’d done for her and her sister. He’d laughed and made some smart crack about her remembering him for about a week but had been knocked back by the intensity of her stare as she’d told him that she would never forget him and that, should he ever need her help, she would be there at the end of the mobile number scrawled in green biro on the crumpled piece of paper she had thrust into his hand. He had returned the compliment with one scribbled in blue.
And with that she was gone.
The Old Man had stood in the empty room, gazed forlornly at the card, and cried.

Chantelle had discovered The Old Mans body just after eight when she’d gone into his room with a cup of weak tea and a tube of ointment for the treatment of chronic bedsores. The doctor was called and, behind closed doors for fear of upsetting the other guests who, at this stage in their existence, needed no reminder of their own fragile grasp on mortality, performed a thorough examination. Finding no evidence of major organ malfunction, he had, ahead of a coroner’s inspection, concluded that The Old Man had died of nothing less than a broken heart, brought on by who knows who over who knows what. They covered him with a worn bed sheet and called the undertaker.

It was just after four and Chantelle was getting ready to go home when The Girl arrived. Chantelle noticed her immediately as they appeared to be the same age, although The Girl was a foot shorter and wore less make up than the Junior Care Assistant. She looked flustered, as if she had left wherever she’d come from in a hurry, and had asked to see The Old Man. Chantelle was just about to inform her of his sudden demise when Tracey had appeared and ushered her into a side room, the one they used for team briefings and the dispensation of bad news. Chantelle took the opportunity to pull on her coat and head for the exit. After all, he was The Old Man, and Old Men always die.
The Girl would get over it.

The funeral was three days later, attended by the local priest, some bloke from The Retired Teachers Association and Chantelle, deputising for Tracey, who was off sick with fallen arches. It rained and Chantelle felt miserable. Not for The Old Man but because Tyler had made up with Carly and was no longer giving her the eye. For a second or two she wondered why The Girl hadn’t shown up, but then her mate Roxy texted about some bloke called Ziggy who had some free tickets for an N-Dubz gig.

The Girl arrived on the second Sunday in February and checked into The Old Mans room. Chantelle was mystified as to why a woman still a couple of years short of twenty should be admitted to a home for geriatrics, but Tracey said forget it as the monthly fees were being covered by a trust fund left as part of The Old Mans last will and testament. As far as the owners were concerned, she was to be treated like any other guest. She kept herself to herself, and aside from a small suitcase and a photograph of her dead sister, carried no baggage in her life. She was seventeen going on seventy. The other inmates barely noticed her.

Chantelle had anticipated striking up a relationship with The Girl, but it was not to be. In fact, she barely uttered a word. Just the daily request to be positioned by the bay window where she could gaze out on to the oil stained driveway and up towards the entrance, as if she were waiting the arrival of a person unknown yet somehow strangely familiar. But, just like The Old Man before her, no one ever came.
Every Sunday at seven she took out her mobile and texted a number scribbled in green on a crumpled piece of paper.
There was never any reply.