Never on a Sunday

We all know how tragic it is that so many elderly folks are pushed into these so called old age homes by their children, and left there to virtually ‘fade away’.

Feeling sorry for these old people prompted my wife into instant action.

“We must find out what we can do to ease their pain and suffering,” Said the Missus

Now I wasn’t sure what a couple of old fogeys like us could do, so I kept quiet, and waited for things to develop…
And develop they did!

First thing on Monday morning, my wife was on the ‘phone to our local Institution volunteering our services.

“We are having a Mrs. Chislett for a day,” she said, as she replaced the receiver.

“When?” I ask, not liking the idea at all.

“Wednesday, you can go round and show her where we live, she’s got her own transport.”

Well, at least that’s something, I thought gleefully, I can park my car and use hers for the journey.

Wednesday came, and I duly report at the reception desk and ask for Mrs. Chislett.

“She’s over there, but I think she’s nodded off again,” says the Sister in Charge.

“Where?” I ask, because there’s only one old lady in a wheelchair, and she’d been stuck away in a corner.

“That’s her, in the stripey blue dress, carrying a large leather handbag.”

My face drops a mile, “In the wheelchair, but she’s supposed to have her own transport!” I gasp.

Sister smiles knowingly., “Well she has, hasn’t she?”

I approach Mrs. Chislett with caution, her eyes are closed and what appears to be her dentures lay in her lap.

Being the good Samaritan that I am, I whisper “Morning Mrs. Chislett, I’m Geoffrey, and I’ve come to take you out for the day.”

There’s no response, and for one ghastly moment, I wonder whether shes passed on.

“She’s as deaf as a post,” shouts the Sister, “Switch her deaf aid on.”

Already, I’m getting second thoughts. As a perfect stranger, I don’t like to interfere with the old lady’s clothing, but I start checking the upper part of her body, looking for a pair of thin wires and an ear plug.

The Sister watches me curiously. “Not there stupid, it’s in her ear!”

“Oh Lord,” I pray, wishing for Mrs. Chislett to wake up.

Then I see there’s an ivory contraption stuck behind her right ear with a little red dot on the side. Could this be the switch?

Now no-one could have possibly touched her ear lighter.

Mrs.Chislett came awake instantly, “You’ve been drinking doctor!” she say’s vehemently, “And I’m going to report you to the Medical Association of South Africa.”

“No, no Mrs. Chislett, I’m Geoffrey, and I’m here to take you home with me for the day.

She looks me up and down and replaces her upper set, “Do you play Gin Rummy young man?” she asks.

I think back to those bleak war years, when we all sat huddled in an air-raid shelter listening to the bombs falling around us and playing that very game.

“Yes,” I nod.

“Good, then let’s get started!”

Getting her wheelchair into my car was out of the question and I’m certain she had the brake on as I pushed the contraption home.

“Tea?” asked my wife, as soon as we arrived.

Mrs. Chislett turned around in her wheelchair and gripped my hand. “Ain’t you got nothing stronger dear?”

I look at the clock, and then at my wife. It’s a quarter to nine in the morning, at least ten hours before the sun dips below the yard-arm.

“Sherry?” I suggest.

She fiddles with her hearing aid, “Brandy?…that’ll do me fine!”

I should have known that the old leather handbag she carried around everywhere was stuffed with her winnings, plus a twenty pack of ciggies!

She lights up, and begins to shuffle the deck. There wasn’t any doubt in my mind that our Mrs. Chislett was a professional!

Yep, she took us all the way to the `cleaners’ all right, and pocketed our hard earned savings as she sat guzzling our
emergency supplies by the glassful.

“Now, do you two play Whist?” she asked, lighting up her tenth cigarette.

“Whist?” I look at my wife, willing her to say no!

“Never heard of it!”

“How would you like to look around our garden?” I lower her gently down the step and onto the paving, and as nimble as a cricket, she’s up off the wheelchair, and smelling my Queen Elizabeth roses!

“You can walk?” I say in amazement.

The wrinkles around her eyes deepen, and she cups her right hand around her ear.
“Pardon?” she says.

“I see that you can walk!” I shout.

Mrs. Chislett waves her hands around, “Batteries,” she says, pointing towards her right ear, “Can’t hear a thing.”

I had shown her most of the garden, our pergola and Dinah’s dog-kennel before she’d hopped back onto her wheelchair
again.

“Don’t you think it’s time for you to get back?” asked my wife graciously.

Ironically, those damn batteries of hers didn’t last out the day! Mrs. Chislett remained switched off until well after our supper time.

Sister was closing the front door when we arrived back at the home, “Hope she’s been good?” she quipped.

I pushed Mrs. Chislett back into her corner, and bade her a fond farewell.

“Sister.” I asked, just as I was leaving. “Does she go out often?”

She smiled, “Never on a Sunday!”

Only now has it occurred to me that those wily old birds tucked away in old age homes are not quite so innocent as they look, and besides, we are still looking for three silver tea-spoons!