Chapter eight
When I pulled up outside Rosemount Court three days later – because obviously I hadn’t been able to say no to Martine’s volunteering – it was clear that changes were already afoot.
Someone had taken secateurs to the rose bushes and chopped back the dead wood, clumps of geraniums had been planted in the empty beds, and there were two men suspended from pulleys, washing the windows.
I didn’t envy them that job. There were a lot of windows, and at least two critical faces supervising the washing process from inside.
I shouldered my bag, containing notebook, pens, bottle of water – it was a while since I’d been to a workshop – and stared at the imposing front porch.
Anxiety was beginning to climb in my chest.
You can do this, I told myself, taking deep breaths.
It was ridiculous to be nervous about something that was, after all, a volunteer event.
No one would be filling in a feedback form afterwards.
And no one knew what I looked like before, just what I looked like now.
Which wasn’t exactly a positive, but at least there’d be no ‘Beth?’ double takes.
Hopefully most of them would be old and very short-sighted.
I checked my reflection in the car window, spotted a flash of blue bra, and hunched my shoulders, pulling the material forward so the button didn’t gape.
I’d been in two minds about this shirt even as I was leaving the house but it was the only one that worked with these trousers.
And these trousers were the only ones that worked with my current body.
I glanced back down the drive. Was it too late to .
. . yes, I told myself sternly, it was too late.
For a moment, I considered bailing on the whole thing: going into town and having a lemon tart and a coffee in the Wild Dog Café.
But then I remembered Martine would ask how it had gone, and Martine wasn’t the sort of person you could lie to easily. I wasn’t that good a creative writer.
As I marched up the stone steps of what had probably been an elegant country house in its heyday, I reminded myself that this was good research material. Seraphina’s story was set in a mansion just like this. I could absorb useful background detail about fireplaces, servants’ bells, and the like.
Inside, there was a noticeable difference too.
Instead of the stale smell of boiled vegetables and dust that had hit me earlier in the week, there was now an equally aggressive bouquet of cleaning products: lavender wood polish, pine tile soap and lemon window spray.
A cleaner in checked overalls was scrubbing the parquet floor and as I pushed the door open, she shouted, ‘Careful! It’s wet! ’
‘I’m here for the storytelling workshop?’
She frowned, wrung out her mop, then pointed at the easel by the reception desk.
are you ready to tell the story of your life? it yelled cheerfully, in red block capitals, surrounded by cartoon pens and notebooks. meet gayle burton, storyteller, in the library at 12 p.m. tea and biscuits!
Underneath was a photograph of Gayle, resting her elbow on an impressive stack of books and smiling at someone off-camera.
‘Thanks!’ I said, and the cleaner went back to her mopping as I set off towards the library.
I could tell from the gleaming state of the tiles (and the faint tut that I could hear from behind me) that this part of the house had already been ‘done’; the dusty flower arrangements gathering more dust on the window ledges had gone, letting light through the leaded windows, which you could now see had small stained-glass diamonds.
Pink cardboard arrows directed me at neurotically short intervals down the oak-panelled corridor towards a set of doors at the end, where a final sign read story of my life session 12 p.m. come on in!
I took another deep breath, and went on in.
I knew I’d be the first person there. I’d allowed way too much time for traffic, being out of practice at meetings, and also because I wanted to make sure I could get a seat at the back.
The back of anywhere was my preferred location – it meant you could see everything without being seen, and also guaranteed that no one could talk about you behind your back, if your back was several rows behind them.
Annoyingly, someone had anticipated this strategy by arranging the seats in a single wide horseshoe.
I tiptoed across the library and secured the seat furthest from the door, near a bay window overlooking a patio area with two rotten picnic tables, with a pair of rotten folding chairs propped against them.
It was an atmospheric library, or at least it had been once upon a time: it was a long, narrow room, carpeted in that dark tartan pattern beloved of mid-century pubs, with three more windows filled with padded window seats and mahogany bookshelves from floor to ceiling.
The top shelves were solid with sombre red and green leatherbound editions, the lower shelves were dog-eared paperbacks and cookbooks.
In the middle of the long wall was a marble fireplace that you could have roasted a pig in, but which now contained an inadequate gas fire and a lot of pinecones.
I felt sorry for the fireplace. You only had to look at its carved swags and flowers to see it had once supported a crop of fancy invitations and fresh garlands from the greenhouses and fine china ornaments and ormolu clocks, but now it just had a card with In the Event of Fire instructions on it, and an inhaler.
Shadows began to move in my imagination: this would be the perfect setting for Seraphina’s heartbreaking goodbye with her hero.
Arthur was going to break into her family house for one final kiss before being banished on a year’s enforced travel by his disapproving parents; a break which would not, he swore, diminish his love.
I took out my notebook and a pen, and scribbled some notes.
Fireplace: represents all-consuming nature of their love in formal/domestic confines. Also, S vows to keep the flame burning while Arthur is away. Plus, can show changing seasons with montage of stuff on mantelpiece, flowers, Christmas garlands, etc.
‘My heart burns as hot as this . . . No, my love for you is enough to heat . . .’ I muttered.
One of the how-to books I’d read recommended reading dialogue aloud to see if it sounded real.
I spent enough time alone for this to be useful advice.
‘Even in the coldest countries, I will think of you, Seraphina, and my heart will burn like the hot coals of—’
‘Gosh, you’re keen!’
My head bounced up, and I saw Lewis Levison standing by the door with a sheaf of photocopies under his arm. He was juggling a tray with water and glasses while trying to close the door with his foot.
Had he heard me? My skin crawled with embarrassment.
‘Um, sorry, I didn’t realise . . . followed the signs,’ I babbled.
‘Don’t worry, we’re not starting quite yet,’ he went on, ‘I’m just making sure everything’s set up properly. Lewis, Lewis Levison.’
He put down the tray and was approaching me with his hand outstretched, a broad smile on his face. It reached above his moustache and made his eyes twinkle. He had a sweet, reassuring smile, but I guessed that was Lesson One, Day One, if you worked in a residential home.
‘Lewis, it’s Beth, we met on Wednesday,’ I said stiffly. Had he forgotten me already? Bit rude.
But he was shaking my hand anyway. ‘Of course! Forgive me. So pleased you’re going to be joining us on the project!’ He was still shaking my hand. Now he added a second hand on top, trapping me. ‘How is Mrs Henderson?’
‘She’s very well, thank you. Very keen to find out how today goes!’ I politely extricated my hand, pretending to push my hair behind my ear.
‘Tremendous!’ He handed me the photocopies.
‘I don’t suppose you could pop one of these on each chair for me?
We’ve had a great response from our volunteers, and I’ve encouraged the staff to come along too – I’m hoping for twenty or so today, and with any luck we’ll pick up a few more as the project gets going.
I don’t like making things compulsory – I prefer people to see what a positive impact something like this has, then they want to be part of it. ’
The front page of the worksheet featured a smiley cloud with the words ‘communication’, ‘context’, ‘understanding’,
‘posterity’, ‘identity’ and ‘value’ radiating out; it didn’t fill me with optimism.
‘Have you done this before?’ I asked.
Lewis was setting up the table between the trainer’s chairs in the middle of the horseshoe, moving a plant, adjusting the cushions, frowning with concentration.
‘Not personally, but I’ve introduced it in other situations,’ he said.
‘It’s a wonderful way of getting to know people – the staff get to know the residents, the residents get to know the staff, the staff learn things about each other, families often see their own relatives in a completely new light.
I’m not a betting man, but I would bet you a tenner right now that there’ll be at least one person here who’ll have a story that you wouldn’t expect in a million years. ’
‘Is that a good thing?’
‘I think so!’
The door opened and a couple of older ladies peered nervously around.
‘Hello, Lewis, are we too early?’ asked the taller of the two.
‘Janice! No, not at all! Come on in and meet Beth – Beth, this is Janice, one of our volunteers, and Sheila, one of our PALS co-ordinators. Sheila, you can explain to Beth what happened with Mrs Henderson – Beth, I made a point of speaking to the hospital transport to ensure that won’t happen again, but Sheila can put your mind at rest.’
I could tell by the look on Sheila’s face that the last thing she wanted to do was talk about Mrs Henderson. ‘It was fine in the end,’ I said quickly, in case she thought I was about to lay into her. ‘We laughed about it later!’
(We didn’t.)