The Unlikely Life of Maisie Meadows. Jenni Keer
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pale and drawn.
‘Good,’ but Maisie didn’t return the question. It was obvious her mum had not had a good day. ‘Lost another one?’ she asked, flicking on the kettle.
‘Oh, sweetheart, sometimes I can’t bear it.’ Any pretence things were okay was now gone. A salty tear dribbled down her soft cheek and dangled from her jaw. ‘Such a darling. Thought she was still eighteen and didn’t understand why her mother never came to collect her. Every day she waited in reception, black leather quilted handbag at her feet, wringing her tiny hands together. She was the sweetest, meekest soul you’d ever find. And one of the few residents who wasn’t unduly alarmed by our in-house streaker. Honestly, he’s going to give someone a heart attack one of these days. Waving everything about and shouting, “Suck on this, ladies – dentures optional.”’
She tried to summon some joy from her heavy heart but it had clearly sunk too low for her to reach. Maisie embraced her mother and kissed the top of her head, noticing a few more wiry grey hairs. They gave a marbled appearance to her mum’s thick, wavy bob, but she was in pretty good shape for a woman of nearly sixty.
‘I don’t know why I put myself through it. Every time we welcome a new resident, I can’t help but size up their potential life expectancy. It’s so heart-breaking – knowing we lose them all in the end.’ She began to sob softly as she considered her words.
‘I prescribe a good, strong, hot cup of tea,’ Maisie said firmly. ‘Which reminds me, do you remember that quirky black and white teapot Meredith Mayhew used to wheel out? It’s come up at the auction from a house clearance, so I guess she isn’t with us any more.’
Maisie’s mum looked up and shrugged her shoulders, mopping the cascade of tears with the hem of her regulation navy blue cardigan.
‘I heard she’d passed away a couple of months ago from the lady behind the deli counter in the Co-op. I felt bad because we were close at one time.’ She shook her head, moving on quickly from a time of heartache she wanted to forget. ‘I’d have attended the funeral if I’d known. But then Meredith wasn’t there to miss me. Well, technically she was present – but you know what I mean.’
There was a moment where Maisie’s heart skipped a beat. Meredith was dead. That was it then. She’d never be able to tell the old lady what a profound impact she’d had on her life – even inadvertently influencing her career path. Swirling hot water around the pot to warm it, Maisie tipped it away before counting three spoons of loose tea and adding the boiling water. She reached for her red and white spotty mugs and stood back to let the tea brew. Both women liked a strong cuppa.
‘Meredith was a kind woman,’ her mum added. ‘Lived a lonely life though. Must have adored children, because you certainly don’t choose the teaching profession for the glamour and untold riches. Always kind to me and I don’t know that I ever said a proper thank you.’ This melancholy thought caused a further surge of tears. ‘I’m not sure I can cope with memories of Meredith on top of losing one at work today. Oh, why does it get me like this every time?’
‘It means you’re good at your job, Mum. Some of those old people don’t have anyone to miss them apart from care home staff. If you’re sad, it means you cared,’ Maisie said, pouring and passing the tea. Her mother appeared to mull this over as she brought the mug to her lips. Fresh tears hung from her chin, like a row of pear-cut diamonds from a necklace, and one plopped onto her lap. She blew ineffectually at the hot liquid before taking a sip. As it made its journey downward, she sat up straighter and, as Maisie hastily slid a coaster in front of her, placed the mug back on the table. Maisie pulled out a chair to join her mother at the table, giving her an encouraging smile.
‘You’re right,’ her mum said, finding some inner strength. ‘I do care. About nearly all of them.’
‘Lot 243 – an immaculate condition Moulinex mixer, boxed, with all the attachments. Embrace your inner Raymond Blanc and reject this heinous culture of pre-packaged microwaveable mush. Do I hear twenty? Thank you, gentleman at the back. Twenty-five, anywhere? I can do two, if it helps? No? Twenty with you, sir …’ Johnny’s arm swept the room. ‘Going once. Sold.’ The gavel was smacked down on the wooden rostrum with gusto. He gestured towards the back corner and did the peery thing over his glasses. ‘Number, please?’
A disembodied country accent announced, ‘Forrrr. Three. Ni-yern.’ Johnny noted the number on his sheet and turned the page.
Johnny had suggested Maisie watch some of the auction – especially as she’d put a written bid on the miscellaneous box of kitchenware. ‘All part of your continuing education, dah-ling,’ he said. ‘And there really is nothing like it. The atmosphere can be deliciously electric, especially if you have two tenacious bidders after the same item. Never mind a pin, you’d hear the downy feather of a recently plucked fowl drift to the floor.’
Arthur had popped into her office to say they were getting close to her lot, so she’d reluctantly dragged herself away from the old-fashioned oil heater roasting her toes, if not the rest of her shivering torso, and walked over. She watched as groups of people drifted in and out, some in expensive dark green quilted jackets and Hunter wellies, some in purple North Face anoraks, jeans and trainers. Maisie initially sat rigid, not daring to move her arms in case she accidentally bid for something expensive and found herself hundreds of pounds in debt. The stuff of sitcoms, perhaps, but Arthur assured her it still happened occasionally.
Settled on a high bar stool recently vacated by a serious-looking man in casual clothes and a brown wool trilby, Maisie was now able to distinguish dealers from the general public. The serious gentleman had been the former, not making eye contact and studiously ticking off items from his catalogue as he walked towards the door, an empty travel mug swinging from his fingers. He was there to do business, not socialise.
‘Lot 244. Miscellaneous china and kitchenware. Do I hear ten to start?’ Johnny’s deep, melodious tones boomed across the cavernous space. This was the box containing the tingle-inducing teapot, so Maisie turned to the front and focused on Johnny as the follicly challenged porter tugged the box out and pointed at it. He was the ‘show-er’ for the auction – the member of staff who highlighted the item currently being sold.
The barn was uninterested and silent. Maisie didn’t need to do anything as her bid would be on Johnny’s sheet.
‘I have some interest on the books, so I’ll start at five. Six, anyone?’
Again silence.
Maisie felt a bubbling in her tummy. Was it going to be this easy to buy the teapot?
‘No advance on five? Going once. Sold.’
He peered over his glasses to Maisie and shrugged an I told you so, before updating the paperwork and moving on.
‘Lot 245 – an anomalous collection of garden ornaments.’ There were a few giggles and murmurs as the porter held a couple of the less embarrassing gnomes aloft. ‘I’ll start the bidding at ten? Thank you, sir,’ and he nodded to his right. Someone in the front row obviously had a burning desire to turn his garden into a saucy sideshow. ‘Twelve. Fifteen. Eighteen. Twenty. Do I hear twenty-five? Thank you, madam. With you, sir, at thirty? And thirty-five …’
When the bidding reached forty, Johnny cast her an astonished look and shrugged, as he waited for one of the eager bidders to decide whether life would be complete without an assortment of sexually uninhibited dwarf-like figures. Good grief! his eyes seemed to say – there are people out there who find such unpalatable objects of interest. She gave an emphatic nod and grinned, despite herself. After all her teasing, they were going to fetch a pretty penny.
‘And a new bidder, so it’s forty-five with you, madam.’
Maisie’s heart started to race. He’d explained how some buyers waited for the initial flurry of bids before stepping in. Three