Lydia
Lydia
When Lydia had applied to the local council for the job of running a new senior citizens’ social club three afternoons a week, she’d imagined herself surrounded by a group of genial, grateful, and enthusiastic geriatrics. They’d tap their feet to old Beatles tracks and teach her how to do the Twist. They’d play gently competitive games of bingo and spend happy hours collaborating over giant jigsaw puzzles.
However, as Lydia looked around her group of assorted seniors, she just couldn’t fit them into the jolly scenes she’d imagined.
“I’m really sorry, but I’m pretty sure dogs aren’t allowed in the hall,” she said to a woman who’d introduced herself as Pauline-Retired-Headmistress.
“You’re pretty sure ,” said Pauline, glaring at her as if she were a schoolgirl found smoking behind the bike sheds. “That’s not quite good enough, is it? Show me where, specifically, in the building regulations it says No Dogs Allowed , and until then, she stays.”
Pauline turned her back on a stuttering Lydia, walked over to the tea table, and sat down on a chair, tying her dog’s lead to the chair leg.
Lydia had spent the weekend reading The 7 Habits of Highly Effective People , in preparation for her new job, but she still felt completely out of her depth, and not in the slightest effective. Thank goodness she was British and could resort to the tradition of tea-making when the going got a little tough. That was an effective habit she had properly mastered. Lydia poured tea for each of her six inaugural club members, adding milk and sugar as requested, and referring to her list of names as she did so.
In addition to Pauline, there was Art—an actor, apparently, although she didn’t recognize him—and his friend William, a retired paparazzo. Then Ruby, who’d arrived with a giant bag of wool and knitting needles which she waved around in a somewhat threatening manner. Next to Ruby was Anna, who had hair colored in the most extraordinary shade, and used a walking frame on wheels to plow her way forward, regardless of who or what was in her way. And, finally, Daphne, who said little and gave the impression of finding everyone beneath her. She was wearing giant fake emeralds around her neck, which seemed completely over the top for afternoon tea. Unless you were at the Ritz, which this most definitely was not.
Lydia finished handing round the tea, along with generous slices of the chocolate fudge cake she’d baked for the occasion, and sat down. Everyone stared at her, in silence, and it became obvious that she was expected to say something.
“Err, so what kind of activities would you like me to arrange for you?” she said. “I do have a small budget, but some of the best activities are completely free, aren’t they?” She looked around the table at six blank faces. “I was thinking maybe bingo? Bridge? A knitting circle, perhaps? Painting? Or we could do some singing?”
They all stared at her, silently.
Please, someone say something , she thought.
“To be frank, you’re guilty of some heinous clichés here,” said William. “Why does everyone assume that once you get past the age of seventy, all you want to do is play bingo and knit?”
There was a murmur of agreement from the assembled circle, except for a mumbled “What’s wrong with knitting?” from Ruby.
Lydia sighed. “Well, what activities would you like to include, then?” she asked.
“Skydiving,” said Art, through a large mouthful of cake.
“Target practice,” said Daphne.
“That figures,” muttered Art, and Daphne shot him a glance that was surprisingly malevolent from one so petite.
“Speed dating,” said Ruby. “And knitting.”
“Karate,” said William.
“Synchronized swimming. Or go-karting,” said Anna, banging her walking frame against the floor for emphasis.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” said Pauline.
Where did she even start? With the limitations of their budget, or the Health and Safety implications of taking six pensioners skydiving?
“More tea?” she said.
“Thanks, Lydia,” said Art, proffering his empty cup. “But do you think next time we might have something a little stronger? Cocktails, maybe?”
“Good idea!” said William, slapping Art on the back, causing some of his refilled tea to slop into the saucer. “I could wheel my cocktail trolley along, if your budget won’t stretch that far. I live just around the corner.”
“Cocktails!” shrieked Pauline, before Lydia could even try to work out how to suggest that a bunch of geriatrics getting plastered on spirits might not have been what the council had in mind when they’d proposed a social club.
“Alcohol? In the afternoon? On a weekday? That really is completely inappropriate,” continued Pauline.
Lydia spotted Daphne rolling her eyes, then watched as she reached into her handbag and pulled out a packet of cigarettes. With mounting alarm, Lydia saw Daphne flip open the packet, tap out a cigarette, and insert it into a cigarette holder—did people still use those? She put it in the corner of her mouth. She wasn’t going to light it, was she? Oh God. She actually was.
“PUT THAT OUT!” shrieked Pauline. “Disgusting habit, not to mention illegal in a public space. I honestly wish I’d never come.”
Art said something to William in a whisper, making William giggle.
“If you have something to say, please share it with the whole class!” said Pauline, her eyes narrowed into tiny slits.
“Thank you, Pauline,” said Lydia, trying to sound more forceful and in control than she felt. “But this isn’t one of your classes.”
“Well, that’s obvious,” said Pauline. “I’d hardly have been rated Outstanding by Ofsted if my classes had been run like this. Do you have any formal qualifications or training? You have absolutely no natural authority. What on earth were the council thinking, putting you in charge?”
Pauline prodded her finger accusingly in Lydia’s direction, and Lydia, who always tried to think only the best of people, was sideswiped by a sudden and nasty emotion.
Go to hell, you ungrateful old bat , she thought and, at that very second, there was a huge crash as a section of the Mandel Community Center ceiling, right above Pauline’s head, collapsed.
As soon as the dust had cleared, settling in great mounds on the tea table, which now resembled a scene from Scarface , it was clear that Pauline had indeed gone to hell, or thereabouts.
Lydia was almost certain that it was impossible to kill someone with the power of thought, but it did seem like an uncanny coincidence of timing.
They sat, frozen in time and covered in dust, still holding their teacups, like the petrified remains of the inhabitants of Pompeii. No one was able to break the oppressive, stunned silence. Pauline, face a mottled purple and mouth agape, lay rigid in her upended chair, sensibly shod feet in the air. There was a flurry of movement next to her as the small dog, which Lydia had entirely forgotten about, shook itself free of the debris and began to whine.
Before Lydia was able to adjust to the situation and decide what to do, Daphne took control—calling an ambulance, moving everyone away from the jagged, gaping hole in the ceiling and checking Pauline, in vain, for any signs of life.
It was fair to say that Lydia’s first day back in paid employment in twenty years had not been an unmitigated success. Was it too much to hope that things could only get better?