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    Rhode Island Blues
    Rhode Island Blues
    Rhode Island Blues
    Ebook406 pages6 hours

    Rhode Island Blues

    By Fay Weldon

    3/5

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    About this ebook

    A move into an old folks’ home marks a new stage of life for both grandmother and granddaughter in this “wry and witty” novel (Entertainment Weekly).

    On one side of the Atlantic, Sophia Moore, an emotionally guarded film editor—troubled by her mother's long-ago suicide and her father's abandonment—overworks, incessantly contemplates her past, and continues an unfulfilling affair with the famous director of her latest movie.

    But when she travels to the other side of the Atlantic to help her octogenarian grandmother Felicity settle into a Rhode Island retirement community, she begins to unravel mysteries about her family history—including the fact that Felicity is not, as she’d thought, her only living relative. Meanwhile, Felicity learns to gamble, falls in love, and uncovers the truth about the residence’s evil nurse Dawn. A hilarious tale of secrets, schemes, and late-life love, Rhode Island Blues is Booker Prize nominee Fay Weldon at her witty best.

    “Smart and funny, Weldon's boldly plotted and finely crafted tale deftly satirizes our infinite capacity for self-delusion.”—Booklist

    “Loaded with lively, appealing characters and satisfying, unpredictable plot turns.”—Elle
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherOpen Road Integrated Media
    Release dateDec 1, 2007
    ISBN9781555848026
    Rhode Island Blues
    Author

    Fay Weldon

    Novelist, playwright, and screenwriter Fay Weldon was born in England, brought up in New Zealand, and returned to the United Kingdom when she was fifteen. She studied economics and psychology at the University of St Andrews in Scotland. She worked briefly for the Foreign Office in London, then as a journalist, and then as an advertising copywriter. She later gave up her career in advertising, and began to write fulltime. Her first novel, The Fat Woman’s Joke, was published in 1967. She was chair of the judges for the Booker Prize for fiction in 1983, and received an honorary doctorate from the University of St Andrews in 1990. In 2001, she was named a Commander of the British Empire. Weldon’s work includes more than twenty novels, five collections of short stories, several children’s books, nonfiction books, magazine articles, and a number of plays written for television, radio, and the stage, including the pilot episode for the television series Upstairs Downstairs. She-Devil, the film adaption of her 1983 novel The Life and Loves of a She Devil, starred Meryl Streep in a Golden Globe–winning role.  

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      Rhode Island Blues - Fay Weldon

      1

      ‘I’m old enough to speak the truth,’ said my grandmother, her voice bouncing over the Atlantic waves, ridiculously girlish. ‘Nothing stops me now, Sophia, not prudence, or kindness, or fear of the consequences. I am eighty-five. What I think I say. It is my privilege. If people don’t like what they hear they can always dismiss it as dementia.’

      My grandmother Felicity had seldom refrained from speaking the truth out of compassion for others, but I was too tired and guilty to argue, let alone murmur that actually she was only eighty-three, not eighty-five. Felicity spoke from her white clapboard house on a hillside outside Norwich, Connecticut, with its under-floor music system and giant well-stocked fridge, full of uneatable doughy products in bright ugly bags, Lite this and Lite that, and I listened to her reproaches in a cramped brick apartment in London’s Soho. Her voice echoed through an expensive, languid, graceful, lonely, spacious, carpetless house: she kept the doors unlocked and the windows undraped, squares of dark looking out into even blacker night, where for all anyone knew axe murderers lurked. My voice in reply lacked echo: here in central London the rooms were small and cluttered and the windows were barred, and thick drapes kept out the worst of the late-night surge of noise as the gay pubs below emptied out and the gay clubs began to fill. I felt safer here than I ever did when visiting Felicity on her grassy hillside. A prostitute worked on the storey below mine, sopping up any sexual fury which might feel inclined to stray up the stairs, and a graphic designer worked above me, all fastidious control and expertise, which I liked to think seeped downwards to me.

      Mine was a fashionable, expensive and desirable address for London. I could walk to work, which I valued, though it meant pushing my way through crowds both celebratory and perverse: the tight butts of the sexually motivated and the spreading butts of gawking tourists an equal nonsense. Was there no way of averaging them out, turning them all into everyday non-loitering citizens? But then you might as well be living in a suburb, and for my kind of person that meant the end.

      I was tired because I had just got back from work, and it was late at night. I was guilty because it was two weeks since my grandmother’s noisy friend and neighbour Joy – neighbour in the sense that their two great lonely houses were just about within hailing distance – had called me to shout down the line that Felicity, who lived alone, had had a stroke and was in hospital in Hartford. I had a deadline to meet. I am a film editor. There comes a certain point in a film production when the editor ceases to be dispensable: when you just can’t afford to be ill, go insane, have a sick grandmother. Joy’s call came at just such a moment. You have to be there in the editing suite and that’s that. There are things in your head which are in nobody else’s. Tomorrow was a feature film, a US/UK co-production with pretensions, a big budget, a big-time director (Harry Krassner), and a host of marketing people now hovering and arranging PR and previews, while I still struggled under pressure of time to make something erotic out of not-enough footage of teenage copulation which neither party had seemed to go to with much pleasure. I did not fly to my grandmother’s side. I simply forgot her until I could afford to remember her. Now here she was again, her suppertime my bedtime, not that she ever acknowledged a difference in time zones if she could help it.

      I gritted my teeth. Sometimes the ghost of my mad mother stands between myself and Felicity, damming up the flow of family feeling; a sepulchral figure, like one of those school-crossing ladies who step out unexpectedly into the road to let the children through, making the traffic squeal to an unwilling halt.

      I had a recurring dream when I was small in which my mother did exactly that, only the sign in her hand read not ‘Children crossing’ but ‘Your fault, Felicity’. Except I knew that if she ever turned the sign, the other side would have my name on it. It would read, ‘You’re to blame, Sophia’. I always managed to wake myself up before I had to face the terror of the other side. I could do that as a child – control my dreams. I think that’s why I’m reckoned to be a good film editor: what is this job of mine but the controlling of other people’s fantasies? I take sleeping pills, most nights: they stop my own dreams. I have enough of them by day to keep anyone sane.

      As it happened Felicity had been let out of hospital within the day, having suffered nothing more than a slight speech impediment, which had by now cleared. But I wasn’t to know that at the time.

      ‘Sophia,’ she was saying, ‘I want to sell this house. The truth is I’m bored to hell. I keep waiting for something to happen but happenings seem to have run out. Is it my age?’ Well, come the eighth decade I daresay ‘happenings’, by which most women mean love striking out of a clear sky, would indeed run out. Everything must come to an end. She said she was thinking of moving into assisted housing: some kind of old-persons’ community. I said I was not sure this was a recipe for a lively life. She said just because people were old didn’t mean they weren’t still alive. She was going to hold her nose and jump: the house was already on the market, she was already selling bits and pieces in the local flea markets, there were some family things I might want to have, and if so I had better come over and claim them.

      I felt the tug of duty and the goad of guilt and the weight of my ambivalence: all the emotions, in fact, commonly associated with dealing with family. She being my only relative, I felt the burden more acutely. I loved her. I just wanted her far away and somewhere else. And if I were to read my own behaviour finely, it was worse than this.

      *     *     *

      As I’d callously worked on after Joy’s first phone call, resisting the notion that in the face of death all things to do with life should pause, I knew that if Felicity would only just die the issue of fault would be set to rest, forever unresolved. I could just be me, sprung out of nowhere, product of my generation, with the past irrelevant, family history forgotten, left to freely enjoy the numerous satisfactions of here and now, part of the New London Ciabatta Culture, as the great Harry Krassner was accustomed to describing it.

      Myself, Sophia King, film editor, living day-by-day in some windowless room with bad air conditioning and the soothing hum of computerized technology, but free of the past. Easier by far to make sense of Harry Krassner’s uneven footage than of real life, to let images on film provide beginnings, middles, ends and morals. Real life is all subtext, never with a decent explanation, no day of judgement to make things clear, God nothing more than a long-departed editor, too idle to make sense of the reels. Off to his grandmother’s funeral mid-plot, no doubt.

      Go into therapy, peel off the onion layers, turn the dreams into narrative, still the irritating haphazardness of everyday real life remains. Film seems more honest to me: actuality filtered through a camera. Felicity must not be allowed to interfere with my life, in death any more than she had in life. Bored she might be, but she had her comforts, money from dead husbands, a Utrillo on her wall, a neighbour called Joy, who shouted energetically down the telephone. I remembered how, when I was ten years old and Felicity was my only source of good cheer, she had cut herself off from me, left her daughter Angel, my mother, to die without her, fled back home to the States and not even come back for the funeral. I had forgotten how angry I was with her: how little I was prepared to forgive her. What had been her own emergency, her own internal editing, so desperately required that she abandoned us? Once, when I was small, ordinary simple family love had flowed from me to Felicity only to be fed back by her, through this act, as unspoken condemnation.

      My mother had done even worse by the pair of us, of course, and returned love with hate, as insane people will to their nearest and dearest, be they parent or child, and there can be nothing worse in the world. But at least my mother Angel had the excuse of being mad. Felicity was reckoned sane.

      ‘You didn’t come over and visit me in hospital when for all you knew I might have been dying,’ said Felicity now, at my sleeping time, suppertime for her. What did she care about my convenience?

      What was the point of reminding her of the past?

      ‘You were only in hospital for a night,’ I protested.

      ‘It might have been my last night,’ she said. ‘I was fairly frightened, I can tell you.’

      Oh, brutal! And I was so tired. I had only just returned from the cutting room when the phone call came. Harry Krassner would be in at ten the next morning, with the producer, for what I hoped against hope would be an acceptance of the fine cut. I was not sure which seemed the more fictional – Felicity’s phone call or the hours I’d just lived through. My eyes were tired and itching. All I wanted to do was sleep. This voice out of the past: still with the actressy lilt, just a little croakier than last time she’d phoned, a few months back, might have been coming out of some late-night film on TV for all it was impinging upon my consciousness. Yet she and I were each other’s only relative. My mother’s death was decades back. We both had new skins. I had to pay attention. ‘You’d have been back home even before I’d got to the hospital,’ I pointed out. ‘You weren’t to know that,’ she remarked, acutely. ‘But then you never thought family was very important.’

      ‘That isn’t true,’ I snivelled. ‘It’s you who chose to live somewhere else. This is home.’

      This was ridiculous: it was like the first time you go to visit a therapist: all they have to do is say something sympathetic and look at you kindly: whereupon self-pity overwhelms you and you weep and weep and weep, believe you must really be in a mess and sign up for two years. I put my weakness down to exhaustion: some feeling that I wasn’t me at all, just one of the cast of some bad late-night TV film, providing the formulaic reaction.

      ‘It was that or go under myself,’ she said, snivelling a little herself. ‘All I ever got from family was reproaches.’ (A splendid case of projection, but Felicity, like so many of her generation, was a pre-Freudian. Hopeless to start wrangling, let alone say she’d started it.) She pulled herself together magnificently. ‘It was a moment of weakness in me to want you to be present while I died. If someone is not there while you live why should you want them there when you die? Just because they share a quarter of your genetic make-up. It isn’t rational. Do you have any views as to what death actually is?’

      ‘No,’ I said. If I had I wasn’t going to tell Felicity and certainly not while I was so tearful and tired.

      ‘You wouldn’t,’ said my grandmother Felicity. ‘You have been permanently depressed since Angel died. You won’t allow yourself a minute’s free time in case you catch yourself contemplating the nature of the universe. I don’t blame you, it’s fairly rotten.’ The stroke must have had some effect on Felicity for since my mother Angel’s death she had scarcely mentioned her name in my presence. My deranged mother died when she was thirty-five: my father hung around to do a desultory job of bringing me up, before dying himself when I was eighteen, of lung cancer. He didn’t smoke, either, or only marihuana.

      ‘The fact is,’ said Felicity, who had deserted my mother and me at the time of our worst tribulations, and I could not forget it, ‘I’m not fit to live on my own any more. I spilt a pint of boiling milk over my arm yesterday and it’s hurting like hell.’

      ‘What did you want boiling milk for?’ I asked. This is the trouble with being a film editor. It’s the little motivations, the little events, you have to make sense of before you can approach the bigger issues.

      There was a silence from the other end. I thought longingly of bed. I had not made it that morning; that is to say I had not even shaken out the duvet and replaced it with some thought for the future. It’s like that towards the end of a film gig. Afterwards, you can clean and tidy and housewife to your heart’s content, put in marble bathrooms with the vast wages you’ve had no time or inclination to spend: in the meantime home’s just somewhere you lay your head on a sweaty pillow until it’s time to get up and go to work again.

      *      *     *

      ‘I hope you’re not taking after your mother,’ said Felicity. ‘Off at a tangent, all the time.’ That was, I supposed, one way of describing the effects of paranoid schizophrenia, or manic depression or whatever she was said to have.

      ‘Look,’ I said, ‘don’t try to frighten me.’ The great thing about being brought up around the deranged is that you know you’re sane. ‘And you haven’t answered my question.’

      ‘I was heating the milk to put in my coffee,’ said Felicity. ‘Eighty-six I may be, standards I still have.’

      She was growing older by the minute, as if she was wishing away her life. I couldn’t bear it. I kept forgetting how angry I was with her, how badly she had behaved, how reasonable my resentment of her. I loved her. Before my mother died, after my father had disappeared, I’d come home one day to find her darning my school socks. No-one else had ever done that for me, and I was hopeless at it, and there was no money to buy new. I’d been going round with holes in my heels, visible above my shoes. I still have a problem bothering about ladders in tights. I just can’t care.

      ‘Oh, Grandma,’ I found myself wailing, ‘I’m so glad you’re okay.

      I’m so sorry I didn’t come over.’

      ‘I’m not okay,’ she said. ‘I told you. I have a nasty burn on my forearm. The skin is bright red, wrinkled and puckered. I know it is normally wrinkled and puckered, and you have no idea how little I like my body these days, but it’s not normally bright red and oozing. You just wait ‘til you’re my age. And you will be. We just take turns at being young.’

      ‘Can’t you call Joy?’ I asked.

      ‘She’s too deaf to hear the phone,’ said Felicity. ‘She’s hopeless. It has to be faced. I’m too old to live alone. I may even be too old for community living. Don’t worry’ – for my heart had turned cold with fear and self-interest and my tears were already drying on my cheeks, and she seemed to know it – ‘I’m not suggesting we two live together. Just because we’re both on our own doesn’t mean that we’re not both better off like that. It’s just that I need help with some decisions here.’

      I refrained from saying that I did not live on my own, but surrounded by tides of human noise which rose and fell at predictable times likes the surges of the sea; that I had good friends and an enviable career, and a social life between gigs; and it was the life I chose, much peopled by the visible and the invisible, the real and the fantastic, and extraordinarily busy. Felicity was sufficiently of her generation to see on your own as being without husband and children, which indeed, at thirty-two, I was. We know how to defend ourselves, we the survivors of the likes of Felicity and Angel, against the shocks and tribulations that accompany commitment to a man, or a child, or a cause.

      ‘Can we talk about this tomorrow, please?’ I said. ‘Can’t you call out a doctor to look at your arm?’

      ‘He’d only think I was making a fuss,’ she said, as if this went without saying, and I remembered that for all her years in America she was still English at heart. ‘You really aren’t being very helpful, Sophia.’ She put the phone down. I called her back. There was no reply. She was sulking. I gave up, lay fully clothed on the bed and went to sleep, and in the morning thought that perhaps I had imagined the whole conversation. There was to be little time to think about it.

      2

      It was a hideous morning in the cutting room: Harry Krassner was there, of course – a large, hairy, noisy, charismatic man. Powerful men in film tend to fall into two types – the passionate endomorphs, who control you by rushing at you, physically or psychically, and charming and overwhelming you, and the bloodless ectomorphs, who do it by a mild sneer in your presence and a stab in the back as soon as you turn. Krassner was very much the former type. Clive the Producer, small and gay and treacherous, the latter.

      As we tried to concentrate on the screen, and resolve our differences, the room filled up with people in one state of crisis or another. The tabloids had discovered Leo Fox, our handsome young lead, was gay: Olivia, his fictional girlfriend, had declared mid-interview in one of the broadsheets that she was a lesbian. Harry was good enough to remark that in the circumstances I had done a good job with the sex scenes. I refrained from retorting that had he supplied me with twenty per cent more footage I could have made a better job of it still: Clive failed to refrain from remarking that perhaps the casting director and the PR people should be sacked: the dotty woman from wardrobe insisted on being present though obviously there was absolutely nothing she could do about anything at this stage. Harry’s stubbly chin brushed against my bare shoulder rather frequently. The shoulder was not meant to be enticing: the air conditioning had broken down, naturally, and the temperature was way above normal. I was down to my camisole, and wore no bra. I don’t have breasts of any great weight or size.

      ‘You’ve got beautiful skin,’ he said, at one juncture, while we were rewinding. I could feel the idiot lady from wardrobe bristle. Sexual harassment! But it wasn’t like that. He had just noticed I had beautiful skin – I do: very pale, like Angel’s – and remarked upon it: it was a statement of fact, not a come-on. I simply do not rate in the love lives of these people: they are married to women to die for, in the 99.9 percentile when it comes to brains, beauty and style, and for their lovers they have the most beautiful creatures in the world to choose from. That the girl- or boyfriends are very often pains in the butt, shaped by cosmetic surgery, drug-addicted or compulsive kleptomaniacs, or solipsistic to a degree, or could hardly string two words together or work the microwave – forget an editing deck – is neither here nor there. Hollywood lovers have legs long enough to wrap around the likes of Harry’s neck: brains are the opposite of what is required, which is rough trade of any gender, though with the edges smoothed over, to serve as a trophy to success. The brave deserve the fair. I might have a good skin and Harry might notice it but I was still just part of the production team talent.

      The trouble is that if you mix with people like this, share space with them and common purpose, the men you meet in the club or the pub or in the lending library just don’t seem up to much. Even Clive, coming into a room, slight and gay and bad-tempered-looking as he is, and the boring end of the business, seems to suck all the vitality out of the space and take it for himself, leaving everyone else feeling and looking vapid.

      If I went home alone from parties it was from lack of interest in any man present – there was a whole new race about of slender, shaven-headed, just-about-non-gay men in dark clothing, all laying tentative hands upon one’s arm, with liquid, suggestive, cocaine-driven eyes – but who cared? They were as likely to be as interested in a free breakfast as in free sex: a dildo would be as provocative, and less given to complaint.

      *      *     *

      The day proceeded: there was no lunch break: at one stage Harry threw coffee across the room, complaining about its quality. Clive was in danger of rubbing Danish pastry into the sound deck, and I pointed it out to him, and from his expression got the feeling I would never be employed again by him – not that I cared, I hated the film by this stage, a load of pretentious rubbish, and anything he ever made would have the same loathsome quality, so why should I ever want any job he had to offer? Harry laughed when I said as much: I tossed my head and my hair (red and crinkly) fell out of its tough restraining ponytail and Harry said ‘Wow!’; the scriptwriter banged upon the door and was refused entry, the wardrobe woman pointed out that she had spent $100,000 dollars unnecessarily, since I had abandoned the entire Versace sequence, and I asked her to leave, since obviously she had only been hanging around using up our valuable oxygen in order to make this stupid point – in a $30,000,000 film what was $100,000 dollars – and she slammed out.

      The credits and titles people became hysterical and complained we had left them no time, which we hadn’t: while we were mid-provisional-dub the composer – they always take things literally – who was rumoured to have OD’d turned up and wept at what he heard, so we wished openly he had been left to die.

      The PR debacle was at least turned around: young Leo announced to the media mid-morning that he was bisexual – people are always reassured by classifications – and Olivia mid-afternoon that her lesbianism wasn’t a permanent state: she’d just once been seduced by her English teacher at school, and everyone who watched the sex scenes would see for themselves just how much she truly, erotically, madly fancied Leo. A crisis about a double booking in the preview theatre was narrowly averted, and by midnight Clive admitted the fine cut was ninety-five per cent right and no-one would notice the missing five per cent except he himself, the only one with any taste, and declared the picture locked.

      I emerged gasping into the fetid Soho air with Harry, who asked if I had a bed he could sleep upon. He did not want to face the glitter of his hotel. I thought this was a feeble reason but said okay. He trailed after me to my peculiar residence, climbed my many flights of stairs with a kind of dazed, dogged persistence, looked around my place, said, ‘Very central,’ demanded whisky which I refused him, put his head upon my unshaken pillow, pulled my matted duvet over him and fell sound asleep. The phone rang. It was Felicity. She said she had tripped and sprained her ankle and it would be her hip next. I said I would come over on the next available flight. I lay on the sofa and slept. I did not attempt to join Harry in the bed. There would be no end of trouble if I did. Women should not venture out of their league or their hearts get broken. And I was just production team talent who happened to have a bed which the director didn’t need a taxi to get to. And Clive was too mean to provide a limo.

      3

      Not far from Mystic, not far from Wakefield, well protected from any traffic noise by woods and hills, just out of Connecticut and into Rhode Island, stood the Golden Bowl Complex for Creative Retirement. Rhode Island is a small dotted oblong on a map, one of the six states that compose New England, the smallest, prettiest, most crowded and (they say) most corrupt state of them all, though who’s to judge a thing like that? It is the indigenous home of a breed of russet feathered hens, the Rhode Island Red, now much appreciated by fanciers the world over. It is crowded in upon, squashed, by Connecticut, Massachusetts and the Atlantic Ocean; it is lush with foliage: birches, poplars and ginkos that turn gold in autumn, and mountain maples and ash, and hickories that turn orange, and red oak and red maple, sassafras and dogwood that turn scarlet. It is sprinkled with wild flowers in spring: ornithological rarities and their watchers spend their summers here. It has sheltered beaches and rocky coves, faded grandeurs, and a brooding, violent history of which an agreeable present makes light. It is the home of the brave, the better dead than red state. In November, of course, it is much like anywhere else, dripping and damp and anonymous. Better to turn the attention inward, not out. So thought Nurse Dawn, executive nursing officer of the Golden Bowl Complex.

      The Golden Bowl is constructed much in the fashion of the former Getty Museum outside Los Angeles; that is to say it is an inspired version of a Roman villa, pillared and pooled, lilied and creepered, long and low, and faced with a brilliant white stone which in California looks just fine but under soft Rhode Island skies can startle. The young and unkind might say it glared rather than glowed: the elderly however valued its brightness, and marvelled at the splendour in which they could finish their days, and for this reason the local heritage groups had bitten back protest and allowed its existence.

      Even as Sophia travelled to Boston on her sadly delayed visit to her grandmother, Nurse Dawn, together with Dr Joseph Grepalli, specialist in the medical arts and Director of the Golden Bowl, contemplated a bed rendered empty by the sudden death of its previous occupant, Dr Geoffrey Rosebloom. The windows were open, for the decorators were already at work; new white paint was being applied throughout the suite – Dr Rosebloom had been a secret smoker, and the ceilings were uncomfortably yellowed – and an agreeable classic pink-striped wallpaper pasted up over the former mauve and cream flowers. So long as wallpapers are pale they can be put up fresh layer upon old layer, without ever having to strip off the original. The difficulty with strong colours is that if there’s any damp around they tend to seep through to discolour the new. Only after about six layers will the surface begin to bubble and the wall have to be stripped down to its plaster, but that will happen on average only every five years or so. The pink and white was only the second layer since the Golden Bowl had been opened twenty-two years back. The occupant before Dr Rosebloom had been one hundred and two years old, in good health and spirits to the end, and had also died suddenly in the same bed. The mattress had been in good condition and management had not considered it necessary to replace it at the time.

      ‘Two sudden deaths in the same bed,’ said Dr Grepalli, ‘is too much.’ He was a genial and generous man. ‘This time round the mattress at least must be replaced.’

      ‘You can hardly blame the bed for the deaths,’ said Nurse Dawn, who pretended to be genial and generous but was not. ‘Dr Rosebloom smoked – look at the state of the ceiling: if he’d had more self-control we wouldn’t be having to repaint – I daresay some respiratory trouble or other triggered the infarction.’

      ‘Ah, Nurse Dawn,’ said Dr Grepalli, affectionately, ‘you would like everyone to live for ever in perfect health, behaving properly.’ ‘So I would,’ she said. ‘Why would God let some of us live longer than others, if he didn’t want us to learn more in the extra time?’ In her book self-improvement must be continuous, and no respite offered even to the elderly.

      The Golden Bowl housed some sixty guests, known to themselves and others as Golden Bowlers. All had had to be over seventy-five at the time they joined the community, and still capable of congregate living. If you were, this augured well for your longevity. The weak had been carried off by now; only the vital and strong remained. The average age of death among Golden Bowlers was a ripe ninety-six, thanks to the particular nature and character of the guests as selected by Nurse Dawn. She had no actuarial training: she worked by instinct. One look was enough. This one would last. Welcome. That one wouldn’t. We are so sorry, we have no spaces.

      Death was far from an everyday occurrence at the Golden Bowl, albeit one that was inevitable. Guests moved, within the same building complex, from Congregate Living (when you just didn’t want to be alone) to Assisted Living (when you needed help with your stockings) to Continuing Care (when you needed help with your eating) to Nursing Care (when you took to your bed) to, if you were unlucky, Intensive Care (when you wanted to die but they didn’t let you). Families were encouraged to hand over complete responsibility. Over-loving relatives could be more damaging to an old person’s morale, more detrimental to the Longevity Index, than those who were neglectful. One of Dr Grepalli’s most successful lectures was on this particular subject. Just as a teacher tends to dislike parents, and hold them responsible for the plight of the children, so did Dr Grepalli mistrust relatives and their motives. The doctor was a leading light in the field of senior care administration, appeared on TV from time to time, and wrote articles in The Senior Citizen Monthly which would be syndicated worldwide. Golden Bowlers admired him greatly, and were proud of him. Or so Nurse Dawn assured him.

      *      *     *

      The longest stay of any Golden Bowler had been twenty-two years: the shortest five days, but that latter was a statistical anomaly, and therefore not used in any averaging out. In its twenty-two years of existence only eight patients had ever moved out before, as it were, moving on. The degree of life satisfaction at the Golden Bowl was high, just inevitably short, though a great deal less short than in similar institutions charging similar prices. Not that there were many around like the Golden Bowl, where you could stay in one place through the increasing stages of your decrepitude. It was customary for the elderly to be wrenched out of familiar places and be moved on to more ‘suitable’ establishments, as the degree of their physical or mental incompetence lurched from one stage to the next, and in the move lost friends, and often possessions, as space itself closed in around them. At the Golden Bowl, whatever your condition, you watched the seasons change in familiar trees and skies, and made your peace with your maker in your own time.

      Joseph Grepalli and Nurse Dawn shivered a little in the chilly morning air that dispersed the smell of paint, but were satisfied in their souls. Dr Rosebloom had died suddenly in his sleep at the age of ninety-seven, not a centenarian, but every year over ninety-seven helped ease the average up. He had not done badly, even though he smoked.

      The mattress and armchair of the deceased – being perfectly clean – were to be taken to be sold at the used furniture depository: it was remarkable, as Joseph Grepalli remarked, how though a bed could escape the personality of the one who slept in it, an armchair seemed to soak up personality and when its user died, became limp and dismal.

      ‘Such a romantic,’ said Nurse Dawn. ‘I do so love that about you, Joseph.’ The armchair looked perfectly good to her: it was in her interests to keep spending to a minimum but Joseph had to be kept happy, strong in the knowledge of his own sensitivity and goodness. New furniture, she agreed, would be bought at a discount store that very day.

      *      *     *

      The Golden Bowl had at its practised fingertips the art of providing Instant Renewal of mind and artifacts to maximize peace of mind and profits too. To this end policy was that no single room, suite, or full apartment should be allowed to stay empty for longer than three days at most. But no sooner, either: it took three days, and even Nurse Dawn agreed on this point, for the spirit of the departed to stop hanging around, keeping the air shivery, bringing bad judgement and bad luck. The waiting list was long; it might take guests a month or so to wind up their affairs and move in, but they would pay from the moment their accommodation fell available, ready and waiting. That way the aura of death, the sense of absence caused

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