Page 11 of Sing it, Sam

Chapter Four

Over the next couple of weeks, I make real progress at work. I finally get to meet Sally-Anne, who is supposed to work nine to three, five days a week, but between her three primary school-aged boys there always seems to be some kind of sickness. We’ve worked a total of two days together, and I swear most of that time she spent making personal calls.

Each day when I get a chance to leave reception, I make my way around and say hello to the residents. Sometimes they try to engage me in conversation, which is understandable since some of them rarely receive visitors. I try and get some ideas from them as to what they’d like on the social calendar I’m coordinating. At the end of the day, it’s about enriching their lives, so I want their input.

When I ask Mrs Mansell what activities she’d like to do, after mumbling for a minute she screams and pulls at her hair and swears at me repeatedly. Afterwards, Kathleen told me that after suffering a series of strokes, her vocabulary has been reduced to a barely audible version of ‘yes’, ‘no’ and ‘fuck’; the latter she uses when she’s frustrated. Whilst I am a little taken back with her anger towards me, I tell myself it’s not me she’s irritated with, but her situation. I nod and excuse myself, making a mental note to try and organise some calm music to be played in her room. I hope that might help take her mind off her daily struggles.

Mr Ryan, a well-known horse trainer from the region, didn’t care for the proposed activities; rather, he demanded to know when lamb chops would be on the menu, and when steak, eggs, sausages, and lamb’s fry would be served for breakfast. I get the feeling from his extended belly that he’s accustomed to hearty meals. Unfortunately, the kitchen is not my domain, but I promise to pass along his request. Then he gives me a huge, gappy smile, leaving me wondering why he doesn’t have his teeth in.Aren’t they just something you wear all the time? How on earth does he think he’s going to eat meat without them?

I’m not sure if I can swing a poker evening for Mr Thompson, but promise him I’ll try. He’s insisting on playing with real money. “None of this matchstick business,” he says, quite passionately. He also thinks strip poker would be a good idea. Within seconds of that suggestion, he is talking about fishing for trout, as if our earlier conversation had never taken place. I have to stifle my laugh until I leave the room. Imagine that. There’d be an eyeful of old wrinkled, leathery skin and low-hanging boobs. Dear God, no. No, no, no, no and no.

No one is getting naked around here.

The young resident in number ten hasn’t strayed from his room in weeks, choosing to eat all his meals in the solitude provided by his four walls. It’s a surprise, because the first day we met he seemed so full of life, so playful.Is he normally so reclusive?

Nevertheless, each day I pop my head in to say ‘hi’. Last week, I graduated from a nod, edging towards a grunt within a few days, and by Friday, he’d moved on to something between a smirk and him looking like he had something in his eye.

This week, the look in his eyes has been kind of different—his gaze is more focused on me. Curious, even. Monday this week I got a ‘hey’, Tuesday a ‘hi’, and Wednesday a ‘What’s up?’ which in my book, is real progress. Yesterday, he was sleeping. Will today bring about the makings of a grin, a smile or even a conversation?

I want to get to know him. He’s young. Surely he’d want to chat with someone his age?

At one o’clock, I grab my handbag from my drawer and take my lunch out of the small bar fridge beside my desk. I walk down the hall until I reach his door.

I lean against the doorway for a moment and watch him as he stares from his wheelchair out the window.

“I’m coming to hang with someone born in the same era for my lunch break today. That okay with you, Sam?”

His shoulders jerk up. Sam presses the control on his wheelchair, which turns his body to face me. “Sure. It’s not like visitors are tripping over themselves to come see me.”

Maybe because you’re a grump.

I pull over the vacant chair from the corner and move it beside him. I sit and place my bag at my feet and rest the container housing a chicken salad sandwich on my lap. “Have you eaten?”

He grunts. “If you call soup food, then yeah.”

Sensing some hostility here.“That’s right. Friday’s soup day. Yummy,” I say, sarcasm dripping from my tone. I pry open my clear container and take a bite of the tasty seeded bread I bought fresh from the bakery this morning.

Sam eyes the sandwich and licks his lips.

“You can have the other half if you want?” I offer. “I cut the bread pretty thick, so really it’s like a jumbo-sized sandwich. Just sliced chicken breast, lettuce, red onion and spicy mayo.”

“Nah, I’m good,” he says. His Adam’s apple bobs. He’s still staring at it like he wants to devour it whole, though.

I finish my first bite, moaning as my stomach prepares to receive the food it’s been growling over for the last hour. When I take another nibble, Sam is still gawking at me.

“Good with your soup, huh?” I mumble.

“Hmm.”

“Look, really, I’m not gonna finish it, so just help me out, okay?” I hand him the container with the large carb-loaded triangle.

He takes his time, using both hands to pick it up. Slowly, he brings it to his mouth and takes a giant bite. “Hmm. S’good,” he says around a mouthful of bread.

We eat in silence for a few minutes.

“So how old are you?” I ask and take another bite of my lunch.

“Twenty-six. I’m in my prime. Can’t you tell?” He looks at me expectantly. “You?”

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