Mutiny at Mountrock

I took another slice of toast from the rack and said, ‘pass the butter, please.’

O’Shea looked at me over his spectacles and crossed his arms in disapproval.

‘Now, Mr Pertwee. I thought we talked about cholesterol last time. You know too much butter is bad for you. Why can’t you be like Mrs Dignon and take it with marmalade instead?’

I looked at Mrs Dignon. She was sucking her toast toothlessly, a smile on her wrinkled lips.
Goddam teacher’s pet, I thought. It was no wonder the bastards were getting on top of us if people like Maureen Dignon did nothing to stand up to them.

‘But I like butter,’ I said. ‘I’ve always taken butter on my toast. Don’t you think sixty-nine is a bit old to be watching cholesterol anyway?’

O’Shea took a seat beside me and leaned in close. He was ingratiating, a smiling assassin. I wished, not for the first time, I was forty years younger and had the strength to punch him on the nose.

‘Now, you know my motto, Mr Pertwee.’ It’s never too late to pick up good habits and never too soon to get rid of bad ones.’

O’Shea was smiling his wide, smug smile, obviously well pleased with this little bon mot. His little “pearl of wisdom”.

‘Where did you get that?’ I asked. ‘From a fortune cookie?’

His face slackened as the smile slowly ebbed away. ‘There’s no need for disrespect, Mr Pertwee. Everything we do here at Mountrock is for the good of our residents. We try our best to look out for you.’

That irked me. Sure, some of us were past it. You only had to look at old Mrs Winestock, dribbling her cereal down her chin to see that. But I still had all my marbles, and I’d be damned if anyone was going to tell me what to do.

We had talked about it in the sitting room the night before and agreed that next time the management put on the thumbscrews we would make a stand. But when I looked around the room now, all I could see was the thinning tops of resident’s heads as they looked down at their breakfasts, trying their best to ignore what was going on.

O’Shea removed the slice of toast from my plate. ‘You won’t be needing that,’ he said. ‘Breakfast is over. It’s time for callisthenics now.’

He took my arm, pinching the slack skin with his fingers. ‘Come on, Mr Pertwee, let’s get you to the activity room.’

‘Goddam it, leave me alone will you?!’ I tried to shake him off, but he had a good grip and the attempt was pathetic. An old-man’s half-hearted effort. I had no choice but to go along, tottering beside him like a stiff legged infant.

O’Shea whispered to me as we left the sitting room. ‘I’ve had just about enough of you,’ he said without moving his lips. ‘The director, Mr Singh, will be here tomorrow to show the Care Committee around. I know you’re the main troublemaker here. This place better be ticking like clockwork or you’ll regret it! Understand?’

I didn’t say anything. Just scowled and tried to prise his fingers from my arm.

‘Understand?!’

He twisted the skin, making me yelp. ‘Yes! Goddam-it. Yes, I understand. Now let go, will you!’

He released me. ‘Get changed. Callisthenics starts in fifteen minutes.’

I went back to my room and looked at my arm. An ugly yellow bruise was forming on the sallow skin. I could feel my bottom lip trembling as I sat down on my bed.

Goddam O’Shea, I thought. I wish I was younger, then he’d be sorry.

I thought about that for a moment. I might not be a young man anymore, but there were still things I could manage. I could still touch my toes. I could still walk the two miles into town for the newspaper. I could still – ’

I stopped. A sudden idea forming in my head.
Yes. There was something I could do to teach O’Shea a lesson. Make him regret that he had ever messed with me.

I reached for the phone and punched the number for Frances’ room.

‘Frances. It’s me, Bill. Listen, do you still want to get even with O’Shea for confiscating your liquor?…’

*


I looked at my watch. It was eleven-thirty and O’Shea would be down the hall showing the Care Committee the laundry room.

Frances was leaning back on the bed, pouring a miniature whisky into her mouth. On the table in front of her there were seven similar bottles, all of them empty.

She burped and covered her lipsticked mouth with her hand. ‘Pardon me,’ she slurred. ‘How terribly, terribly unladylike.’

I laughed. ‘Don’t worry about it. I’m half-roasted myself.’

I had to admit she looked good. She was the same age as me and shouldn’t have been able to pull off the sequinned gown that she wore. But Frances Benson, known as Bazookas Benson in her burlesque days, had lost none of the statuesque curves that had drove the men crazy. If anything the years had added to her shapely charms, rather than diminished them.

‘I’m not sure about this, Bill. It’s one thing doing a private performance once in a while – you know I enjoy it – but I don’t know if I can please the crowd like I used to.’

‘Nonsense, Frances,’ I said. ‘You’re a pro. You were the best back in the day, and you’re still the best. Trust me, it’ll be worth it.’

‘Well, okay. If you’re sure,’ she said.

From the open door of my room I could hear voices in the hallway.

I rose from the bed and sat in the chair opposite the door. I reached down and picked up the tape recorder from the floor, balancing it on my lap. ‘They’re coming, Francis, you ready?’

She nodded and arose, undoing the straps of her gown.

I hit play just as they came into sight. The tinny raunch of the music made them turn their heads and look into the room.

There, in the centre, Bazooka Benson performed, tassels swinging rhythmically, first clockwise, now anti-clockwise.

‘Hey, O’Shea,’ I shouted. ‘Remember my motto: Many a fine tune’s played on an old fiddle!’

THE END