The Happy Home for Ladies: A heartwarming,uplifting novel about friendship and love. Michele Gorman
jobs, so there’s a high turnover amongst the staff. It’s June, Nick and I who really try to make it feel stable and homely here.
At first glance we probably look like an ordinary care home. We’ve got handrails, call buttons and shower seats, but the residents don’t all need care in the traditional, council-approved sense of the word. The women range in age between a sprightly sixty-eight (Laney) to around ninety. I’m pretty sure that’s how old Maggie is, though she wouldn’t let June put her age in her file. Some, like Dot and Sophie, moved in because they wanted the company. That’s a big reason that Mrs Greene, the founder, set up the home. She understood that some women, having raised their children and buried or divorced their spouses, or not having had children or spouses (buried or otherwise), might get lonely as they got older.
It’s much more fun being here as part of a community. Plus, they don’t have to cook or clean.
Nick’s carrying a couple of yoga mats under one arm when he comes into the kitchen to get me for lunch. His other hand is behind his back. ‘These are just in case the grass is wet,’ he says, hoisting the mats.
‘Why, sir, you are so gallant,’ I say in an atrocious southern belle accent, ‘to think of my comfort.’
He laughs. ‘But of course, madam, that’s what gentlemen are for. I’d even strip off and throw my shirt over a puddle to keep your delicate feet dry, should the need arise.’
‘… or you could just use the yoga mats and save your shirt,’ I say, distracted by the idea of Nick stripping off.
‘Oh, right.’
Way to kill a flirty mood, Phoebe.
Then he hands me the three huge white pompom hydrangeas he’s been hiding behind his back. ‘Thanks for doing this. I know I’ve made more work for you. Though I did cut these off the bush out back, so technically I’m thanking you with stolen property.’
‘It’s very pretty stolen property, though, I’ll take it!’ I squeak. I know he’s not trying to be romantic and I’d love to sound calm, like I get flowers from gorgeous blokes every day. I’m not so sad that I’ll save them forever. I am thinking ahead to how I can dry them so they don’t turn brown when they die, though. I’ll probably keep them for a little while – a year or two, definitely not longer than a decade – and then toss them when they’ve all but turned to dust.
‘Get a tall vase from the cabinet, will you please?’ I say. There’s a full cupboard to choose from. Our residents usually get celebration flowers for their birthdays and Mother’s Day, and sometimes guilty ones when their children skip a visit. ‘No worries about the lunch. It is what I do.’
Grabbing the bag that’s already packed with the food and plates – I’ve been ready for an hour –we start for the back garden. It was thoughtful of Nick to bring the yoga mats for the grass, but I’ve got my eye on the wooden bench right at the far edge of the lawn. Not only will it save my legs going numb from sitting cross-legged, it’s not too close to Terence’s cottage, and it’s tucked away from the house down a gentle hill.
Not that we need seclusion to have lunch. I know this isn’t a date. I’d just like to pretend, so I’ll have a double helping of delusion with my quiche, thank you very much.
‘This was a great idea,’ he says, following me towards the bench.
I laugh. ‘You’re not supposed to compliment your own idea!’
‘Then let’s say it was your great idea. I do appreciate it. I know you don’t usually cook extra for your lunchtime. If there’s anything I can do in return…’
I catch his eye, but I can’t tell if he means anything by that. He’s not so much as cracking a smile or raising an eyebrow to give me a clue.
I can’t take the chance. It would be too mortifying to proposition him when he’s only being nice. Instead, I say, ‘If I ever want to brush up on my professional yoga certification, then I know who to ask. That’s right, kill yourself laughing.’ Just because Nick could run a marathon before breakfast and not even break a sweat.
‘Sorry. Sorry. You could exercise if you wanted to,’ he says.
That’s a big if.
He notices my look. ‘I only mean for health reasons.’ He knows how annoying it is to come off as fit and preachy. ‘You look great.’
The sun peeks out from behind a fluffy cloud just as we get to the bench. ‘I very much appreciate your compliment.’
‘No, Phoebe, I’m completely serious. You shouldn’t put yourself down. You do look great.’
My face goes warm. He’s mistaking my comment. I think I look just fine. Do I not? ‘I wasn’t putting myself down. I’m saying thank you. Some people might be built for speed. Some are built for endurance. I’m built for comfort.’
‘And beauty,’ he adds.
How am I supposed to get over him when he keeps saying nice things like that?
Nick can’t help being nice. He’s the kind of person that you naturally want to like. Maybe that’s why, within days of him starting work here, we had the smooth banter of old friends. He made it simple. He definitely gets me, a lot like June does, so going from nought to sixty was so easy. Maybe too easy, because I was mad about him by the time he got his first pay cheque. It took him a little while to catch up but, looking back, I think he did. I only wish I’d realised it at the time. Then things would have turned out so differently.
We’re standing together with June on the back lawn, but he’s got his eye on Terrible Terence, who’s pacing along the border between his property and ours. Terence is watching our waitresses, Mary and Amber, set up the tables in the garden. He knows perfectly well that the visitors come today. And he knows we serve lunch outside on sunny days.
It’s my Saturday to work. Just a half-day, though, and it’s only every two weeks. There’s a weekend cook who does the shifts when I’m off.
Today is when most of our residents’ friends and families come to visit. Not that they couldn’t come any day they like. We run a home for women here, not a prison. But we put on a special programme at the end of each week, so that’s when we’re busiest with visitors. The free lunch probably has a lot to do with their timing.
That’s where I come in, and it might sound simple to feed a bunch of mostly older people, but I promise you, it’s a challenge every single time. I never know how many visitors will turn up, even though we do ask for numbers. And Max, the tight arse that he is, loses the plot if I cook so much as an extra potato. So, getting the amounts right is hard enough.
Throw in everyone’s preferences, allergies and pseudo-intolerances (My psychic says purple food blocks my spiritual healing), plus having to cook for grandchildren right through to octogenarians, and even Prue Leith might struggle.
At least I know by now what our residents like, and what they don’t. Laney won’t eat anything that’s too potatoey. That’s a texture, not an actual food group, which so far includes potatoes – mashed, fried, chipped, baked, roasted, fondanted or skinned – nearly all beans and pulses, polenta and under-ripe bananas. And Sophie has more food-combining rules than she probably has legwarmers.
Where was I going with this? Oh, yes. Visiting Day lunches. Volume isn’t a problem. I was trained to cook three courses for a hundred at a time during catering college. I can make a shepherd’s pie the size of a bathtub and still get the spices perfect, with just the right amount of gravy. That’s why Mum and Dad always had me cater their parties. Not that they wanted shepherd’s pie. Their friends are more tiny food people, mini burgers and one-bite chocolate eclairs and the like. Which I can also do, although not here.
The