CHAPTER 1
"Reflection must be reserved for the solitary hours; whenever she was alone, she gave way to it as the greatest relief; and not a day went by without a solitary walk, in which she might indulge in all the delight of unpleasant recollections."
— Jane Austen
We all have our secrets; events that we have endured in our pasts, which have contributed to the who it is we are today.
Of late, I have taken to wondering about the stories behind the faces I have been forced to spend much of my days with.
Since being admitted to St Edmunds Home for the Old and Frail, a few months previously, I have begun to construct the pasts of the people here. There isn't much else to do to pass the long repetitive days - and the state that these poor dears are in, they aren't very forthcoming with sharing their pasts, let alone acknowledging their present. Not that I know they would share their histories if they were bodily and mentally able to do so. Personally, I know that if asked, I would find it challenging to bring myself to share the events in my past that are increasingly haunting me these long and lonesome days.
Perhaps that is why I have adopted this hobby of mine, to divert my own mind from dwelling on the events in my past, those that are all too painful to recall. As my time is nearing an end, I am increasingly struggling to keep these demons from my past at bay; visions of the terror, violence and near death I experienced have become unwelcome bedfellows over these past months. Memories I had so long fought to suppress, had convinced myself that they were over, dealt with, and thus could no longer cause myself or my family any further pain. If only this was true.
My inward meditations are distracted by a loud, desperate, almost fearful, call;
"Cooooeeeee"
That's Jean, like clockwork every day at 8am, she begins 'calling' for home. Jean doesn't say anything else, to anyone else, all day, just a repetitive 'Cooooeeeee', pacing the halls of St Edmunds Home for the Old and Frail until sunset. I assume at this time, Jean realises that they, whoever they may be, cannot find her in the dark, and thus she slips into restful slumber for the evening.
Jean would be in her late seventies, at a guess. She is still quite mobile, though her skin is very weathered, that of someone who has spent their time toiling on the land.
That's one thing, amongst many, that can be said for our 'lucky country', Australia. Living in the bush certainly takes its toll on one's complexion!
And poor dear that Jean is, with her weathered face and wiry body ... I wonder what her secrets are...what in her past drives her to call all day to her homeland? Perhaps she is recalling a time in her past when she was lost, or even had lost someone dear to her, to the harsh and unforgiving terrains that inland New South Wales is so adept in imposing on anyone who attempts to inhabit its vast land. Years of living with, and adjusting to, the harsh Australian climates have certainly taken its toll on us all.
Contemplating this, I catch a glimpse of myself in the window pane, and am jolted to my present reality. Every one of my eighty years is certainly showing on my frail face this early spring morning.
Silver hair swept up into a French roll, the trademark tanned and lined Australian complexion sit atop a skeletal body, encased in a white damask nightgown (I still attempt to impart some style on my worn body!), an image that reminds me of a deflated balloon, lingering too long after the celebrations of life have passed.
Looking around our 'common' room, I am reminded that we are all here on our last innings of our Australian over.
This reminds me of Ronald, who was once a household name for his accomplishments in and for Australian International Cricket.
I remember encountering Ronald at a garden party in Forbes, a town close to Marigold Farm, the property I have lived on for the better part of the last fifty four years of my life. This is one memory of my past that is innocent, and encapsulates the follies of youth. It brings a smile to my face as I remember the way the ladies and I gushed at the party as Ronald arrived, flashing his infamous smile around and imparting his jovial spirit to all. Charming, eloquent and with good looks to boot, Ronald was the quintessential Australian male.
Funny how time can change even the best of us.
I glance over to Ronald, now fervently searching the room, a hollow shell of the grand man he once was. The stock standard head of grey, paired with the tanned, lined face that acts like a stamp of 'Australianness', entwine with an air of discontent and bitterness.
Again, I am brought to question what events in his past have led Ronald to spend his remaining days in such violent discontent.
Indeed, I recall that since my arrival here, not one day has passed in which Ronald has not spent his days looking for his 'lost shoes'. I find it so sad that a true gentleman, who has achieved so much throughout his life, should be so very troubled by an event, or events, which obviously occurred in his youngest days.
It makes me question what kind of childhood this iconic Australian had, to be bitterly afraid that if he doesn't have his childhood shoes by night fall his mother will flog him when he gets home. Thus, he spends his days searching, we all know in vain, for his treasured shoes.
I recall one such day, when a new nurse was on her first shift with us motley lot. She tried giving Ronald a substitute pair of shoes. Try as the nurse may, she could not convince Ronald that the shoes she was offering were his, the encounter ending with Ronald striking out at the poor nurse, knocking her clean off her feet.
I could see the palpable dread dawn on Ronald's face as he realised what he had done, catching a glimpse of the gentleman I once knew, as he bent to help the nurse to her feet again.
Alas, it was not long though before Ronald was back to his old self, in fervent search of his 'lost shoes'. On and on every day the poor man searches, until come nightfall, he is trembling with fear at the thought of returning home to his punishment. It is no wonder the nurses have taken to restraining him to his bed after evening meal.
The nights are always the worst for all of us here; night wanderings, screaming nightmares, wet beds, longing sobbing; these are all the sounds that emanate from the walls of St Edmunds Home for the Old and Frail, come sundown.
Indeed, every evening, my heart pours out to dear Madge, as she packs her bags and positions herself on the sofa, ready for her beloved Charles to collect her.
"I mustn't leave from this chair" she demands, as the nurses attempt for the umpteenth time to coerce her back into her room, "I promised Charles that I'd meet him here on his return".
So that is what she does, sits on that sofa until 'Charles' comes to collect her. 'Charles' in this case happens to be one of the young male nurses, who Madge has taken a shine to, and one of the few who has the patience to 'play along' with our follies of old age.
Observing this nightly ritual, I wonder whatever happened to Charles; Was Madge waiting for him and he never returned? Was he one of the many taken too early by the War? Or did they indeed meet up, as arranged, and live a happy life together, with children and grandchildren to fill their hearts?
Whatever the...
