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.
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About the author
Hannah Retallick is a
twenty-seven-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, the Bedford International Writing
Competition 2019, the Crossing the Tees book festival competition 2020, and the
Fish Publishing Short Story Prize 2021.
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