by
Hannah Retallick
Orange
Juice
Six children in
high-viz jackets visited the care home. A young woman and two men held their
hands, and a carer ushered them into the conservatory. It was a hot Saturday
afternoon. Sun shone through the glass roof and landed on two old men who were
seated there. Other residents tottered in, assisted by sticks, walkers, or
supportive arms.
An old lady was wheeled in by a
nurse, in a big armchair. She was a small hunched body, a burgundy cardigan, and
a fluff of short grey hair which curled over the twisted collar of her white
blouse.
The three girls and three boys
clustered around a linen bag, picking out of it brightly coloured percussion
instruments. There was an attempt to manoeuvre the children into a straight
line. The young woman quickly counted to four and they began to sing, ‘Old
MacDonald Had a Farm’, accompanied by maracas, rattled in a chaos of
rhythm.
The old lady’s
face stirred, as though she recognised something and strained to remember what
it was. The young woman handed her a blue plastic tambourine. The old lady laid
it on her grey-skirted lap, running her fingers around the small metal discs.
She began to tap along – at the right speed but a little behind the pulse of the
music.
Most of the
children had gentle, lyrical voices, but one of the boy’s was loud. He became
fidgety after the fifth song, seeming to have no wonder in twinkling little
stars and what they are, and no patience to pretend. A fidget chain began. The
adults exchanged looks, released the boys and girls from the untidy line, and
asked if they could please put their instruments back in the bag more gently,
please. The fidget-instigator rubbed his mess of hair and looked at the old lady
in the big armchair.
‘And what is your
name, my lovely?’ she asked, taking him by the hand.
‘Tim.’
‘You have a lovely
voice, Tim.’
He rocked back and
forth, heel to toe, balanced by her grip.
‘Such lovely
hair,’ she said. ‘It’s golden, isn’t it.’
‘Ginger,’ said
Tim.
‘Lovely golden
hair.’
‘Mummy says
red.’
‘The light,’ she
said. ‘Such a lovely voice. I had a lovely voice. Well, that’s been a
while.’
Leaning forward,
she touched the boy’s hair, finger curling loosely around a lock. Tim stared, as
though trying to work out what she was.
‘Such a lovely
voice.’
‘Right, I think
it’s time we made a move,’ said one of the men.
Tim adjusted his high-viz jacket and allowed
his hand to be taken by the one who had led him in.
‘My name is
Amelia,’ said the woman. ‘Such a lovely voice, Tom.’
Tim’s eyes didn’t
leave her until he had stepped over the conservatory threshold and into the dark
living room. The old woman’s hand remained suspended for a moment before coming
to rest on the peeling faux-leather arm of her big armchair. The tambourine
slipped from her lap.
About
the author
Hannah
Retallick is a twenty-six-year-old from Anglesey, North Wales. She was home
educated and then studied with the Open University, graduating with a
First-class honours degree, BA in Humanities with Creative Writing and Music,
before passing her Creative Writing MA with a Distinction. She was shortlisted
in the Writing Awards at the Scottish Mental Health Arts Festival 2019, the
Cambridge Short Story Prize,
the Henshaw Short Story Competition June 2019, and the Bedford International
Writing Competition 2019. https://ihaveanideablog.wordpress.com/
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