The Secret Life of Evie Hamilton - Catherine Alliott [100]
‘You're late. Seven and a half minutes.’ A snowy-haired man, almost bent double with arthritis, opened the bevelled glass door with a shaking hand.
‘Yes, I'm sorry about that.’
‘What?’ He cupped his ear.
‘Sorry about that! Shall I put your lunch in the kitchen for you?’
‘Always take it in and put it down,’ Felicity had said, adding, ‘Never let them take it from you. They drop it. I've never handed a meal over to anyone over seventy-five and not been scraping it off the carpet two minutes later.’
I slipped past him. ‘In here?’
He grumbled as I whisked through to the kitchen – mistake, tiny galley, no table so I slipped back into the sitting room whilst he was still shutting the front door. I put the box down on the ring-stained coffee table. The smell of old people, stale pyjamas and unaired bed linen pervaded. The television was on, but the sound off, as if there was only so much reality, or perhaps reality TV, he could take. I watched as he slowly shuffled in: his cardigan stained, trousers baggy, old eyes tired. I bet he'd been in the war, brave, strong and upright. Now cross and alone. Sad. A shrinking life. A shrunken life.
Next door, the same smell, but a wary, toothless old woman – puréed – and then next door to that… I hastened back to the car as Felicity kerb-crawled along… a nice old couple who chortled with delight when I told them it was lamb stew today. Well, she did. He was prostrate on the sofa, a vacant smile on his face, but she shuffled over to him to relay the good news, bent right down beside him and they clasped hands, their eyes wide with delight, as if they'd both won tickets to Acapulco.
‘It's our favourite,’ the sweet old dear confided, turning back to me, taking my hand too. Now we were all holding hands. Hers felt like a few silver teaspoons, wrapped in thin velvet. ‘Lamb stew's our favourite!’
‘Oh, good,’ I beamed trying to match her skippy enthusiasm and smiling at her husband, who smiled weakly back, raising a quivering, triumphant hand, eyes pale and watery, unable to do more, it seemed.
‘Is he all right?’ I whispered.
‘Oh, yes. Just having a lie-down.’
When would it become her favourite stew, and not theirs, I wondered with a lump in my throat as I let myself out and walked back to the car. Not long, surely. If only couples like that could go on for ever together. Die together. I'd like that for me and Ant, I decided, as I stood for a moment on the pavement in the hazy sunshine, the mist taking its time to clear. You did hear of that, didn't you? The husband going on a Monday, the wife on the Friday, the latter losing the will to live. Yes, we would be one of those couples, holding liver-spotted hands and drifting up to heaven together. Well, hopefully heaven. My heart seemed to be on fire. Was it Felicity's wise words, or was it charity work? Either way, I liked it.
‘All right?’ shouted Felicity through the car window.
I came to; ran towards her. ‘Yes, fine. I'm getting the hang of this. You don't have to get out. What's next?’
‘No fowl, number ten. No lumps, number sixteen,’ she barked.
‘Right.’ I beetled to the boot; set off with my booty.
Two minutes later I was back. ‘OK. Go again!’ I yelled, having delivered the last two at racing speed. I adopted a ‘Ta-dah!’ pose on the pavement, dusting off my hands as she consulted her list. Too quick for her, you see.
‘Two no fish – yellow dot – number twenty-two. A couple of ageing lessies. Watch your back. Quite an eye-opener. They fight like cat and dog and the butch one's convinced we're after her girlfriend, who's a toothless eighty-five. Don't forget the cakes. They adore them.’
No fish, yellow dots, cakes. Right. I could do this. I mean, more. Each week. Take another day. Maybe Sally Powell, down the road, would do it with me? She did almost as little as I did. Not quite. I'd tell her about the lovely feel-good glow. She'd love it, I thought as I raced up the path,