Riotous Retirement

Riotous Retirement

by Brian Robertson and Ron Smallwood

Cartoons by Gary Young

Verses by Shirley Clark

Copyright Brian Robertson and Ron Smallwood

Introduction

Reading through these pages
We meet folk of older ages    
People here like we have known
Chaps like Gabriel who have made us moan
The life of man has many stages

This book is a collection of 15 short stories all in some way related to life in what are termed retirement villages. In America they are called retirement communities. In this case the stories are about residents in Burnside Retirement Village—a community for the over 55s.

Although each story stands alone, readers will glean more from the book if the stories are read in the order in which they are presented. This is because some characters appear in more than one story, and for these characters at least, time has passed from the first story to the last.

The authors hope that the stories will interest everyone. The young may be more inclined to laugh at the characters and their activity while those who are a little older will also appreciate the situation and laugh with a little more understanding and perhaps even louder—we hope! The stories are all humorous, and as in life some are funnier than others.

Some of our very astute readers might judge or guess, that the way in which these stories develop might not be exactly as circumstances would unfold in reality, but as we are all aware by a certain age, the quality of a story is always in the telling and the more it is told the better it becomes.

Needless to say all characters and events in this publication constructed by the authors are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons living or dead is neither concocted or devised and is purely coincidental—honest!

If any echo of embarrassing activity in this book reminds readers of actions they would rather forget then this is entirely on their conscience and the authors in their complete ignorance thank them for their contribution but take no responsibility for the consequences whatsoever!

Brian Robertson and Ron Smallwood
.

Persuading Gabriel

For the past year Gabriel and Brenda Bovary had talked, argued and discussed with family and friends, moving to a retirement village. They lived in a large house in an outer suburb of the city. Gabriel, recently retired from the Commonwealth Public Service, had grown expansive lately—and here we are talking about the physical. In Brenda’s opinion he was also a bigger pain than ever, because he was at home so much now. 

“I’m buggered if I’m going to give this up, Brenda. I couldn’t possibly ask my mates to a poky flat or to some bloody common lounge area,” said Gabriel loudly, his huge frame lying in its normal, near horizontal plane, and filling his comfortable armchair, “it’s a ridiculous notion!” They had just had Gabriel’s Returned Services League (RSL) pals around for lunch and it was now early evening.

Gabriel did nothing around the house. He would sort of help with the cooking on the occasions when he thought he might gather some kudos from it, such as when they entertained. He had to be the one who was complimented on the marvellous dish regardless of the fact that Brenda had done ninety percent of the hard work in the kitchen. Gabriel would expound at length about the French origins of the dish, the ingredients acquired at great expense and his family’s connections with France. But this was the sum total of his contribution to the work required to live where they did.

Brenda knew that Gabriel felt secure and in charge in his four-bedroom house complete with spacious office (his of course) and with a large outdoor entertainment area. She also knew why he had the pool serviced weekly these days. Gabriel argued that this was more efficient than keeping chemicals himself, but he couldn’t fool Brenda. She knew he couldn’t bend down and reach into the skimmer box to fit the hose: although no one else did and it suited her to keep this information to herself—for the time being.

And besides Gabriel always argued, as he was doing now, that he had to consider his RSL mates. They came over on a regular basis and were always entertained on the deck next to the pool—with Brenda’s help of course.

Brenda responded in a much quieter tone as she busied herself clearing the table. “It’s okay for you, you don’t have the housework and it doesn’t fall to you when the grandchildren arrive every weekend,” then in a near whisper as she disappeared into the kitchen, “and good riddance to the RSL I say!” Then, as she returned from the kitchen, “Anyhow I want to make some new friends and as I told you I have been reading that retirement villages are great places to meet people your own age.”

But Gabriel enjoyed the fact that his friends could see how well he lived and what a grand house he lived in, in his retirement.  He would regale them with the same or very similar stories about his ancestry every time he put on a barbie. 

“Ah yes, it’s a fact,” Gabriel would explain to his mates as he reached for another beer, “I can trace my ancestry right back to Bishop Bovary of Angers Cathedral, in France. He lived in the sixteenth century you know, that’s in the fifteen hundreds.”

Brenda hated the paternalistic way in which he treated his friends—as she had told him on many occasions—but he persisted.

This was Gabriel’s greatest passion, his knowledge of the French Catholic Church in this period and his connection to it. His RSL mates never let him off scot-free of course and the same jokes, with slight variations, would be made about his ancestor being a Catholic bishop:

“Did he think chastity was just a girl’s name then?”

“Are you descended through the Bishop’s first or his thirty-first housemaid Gabriel?”

“How sure are you that the housemaid didn’t also have her eye on the Bishop’s gardener? Perhaps that’s why you’re such a great gardener Gabriel!”

Of course they all knew it was Brenda who was the gardener! But this didn’t bother Gabriel because he was still the topic of conversation.

Since Gabriel joined five years previously this branch of the RSL probably knew more than any other, or any group of men anywhere come to that, about sixteenth century Catholicism in France.

“Pay no attention to these rude bastards, Gabriel,” the RSL President had said to him, “they’re just jealous that they’re not descended from a French bishop. Pass us another of those excellent beers, mate.” None of Gabriel’s friends had the choice of not learning about French Catholicism of course, but hey, Gabriel was a generous host, so what the hell!

Some of his friends were more attentive and helpful towards Brenda than Gabriel was. Earlier in the afternoon Brenda had spoken with Bill who had volunteered to help her carry sandwiches out onto the deck. “I never see your wife here Bill. How does she fill her weekends these days?” Brenda asked.

“She’s always busy at the retirement village either organising something or catering for something or planning with her friends,” Bill replied.

Brenda stopped arranging the food for a few seconds and just stood there, seemingly digesting what Bill had said. “With her friends, eh,” she repeated in a soft voice, “at the retirement village.”

Brenda wondered if they ever did get to move to a retirement village how her new friends would take to being lectured about sixteenth century France! Perhaps in a retirement village I could see my friends on my own, she thought and was immediately buoyed and more determined to move than ever.  And then, just by chance, her eye fell on an ad in the local paper on the table…OPEN DAY ON SUNDAY—BURNSIDE RETIREMENT VILLAGE.

When Gabriel’s friends left, the only sober ones were those that were driving. A great time was had by all but, as usual, Brenda was now in the kitchen having loaded the first lot of dishes into the washer as Gabriel settled himself in his lounge chair and feverishly worked the television remote.

Brenda reflected as she worked at stacking the next lot of dishes on the bench. She knew that Gabriel was most unlikely to change his ways, and just to prove to herself that this was indeed correct she shouted over to him. “Get me the dirty plates from the barbie bench love, would you please?”

And back came Gabriel’s response exactly as expected. “Okay dear, in a second.” After about five minutes Gabriel still had not moved. So naturally Brenda went out and fetched the plates from the barbie herself.

As she rinsed and stacked these plates on the benchtop she thought, this is ridiculous, here I am cleaning up after his mates while he’s parked in front of the television. What the hell am I thinking? Well Brenda girl, she reasoned to herself, you have been the housekeeper forever and he expects you to continue. He might be retired now, but the housework will always be your lot—not that you really mind of course—but it would be great if he could help occasionally. I must get him to attend this Burnside Open Day.

And then she had a brilliant idea. It came to her suddenly but she could see every detail playing out in that very instant as if she had been thinking of it and planning it for months. Perhaps she had. Perhaps it had been working away at the back of her mind without her ever being aware. She was excited but very apprehensive.

“Good match then dear?” said Brenda as she came into the lounge to sit and wait for the first load of dishwashing to finish. There was no reply from Gabriel who was totally wrapped in the game. A few nasty surprises in store for you my darling; I wonder how you will cope, Brenda thought to herself.

She settled into her chair with the paper containing the ad for the Burnside Open Day and read it thoroughly once again. It was on Sunday just over a week away, two days after the Friday Gabriel had organised for them to entertain a couple of their friends. Really the man was a friend of Gabriel’s but Brenda got on well with his wife. Gabriel had promised to cook them his very special French dish—
cul de veau a l’angevine
(rump of veal casserole in wine). It was a typical dish of the Angers region in the Loire valley in France. Perfect, she thought, the timing is just perfect. Okay, no time like the present, step up to the mark girl!

“I need a cleaner,” said Brenda and then again louder when there was no response “I need a cleaner Gabriel for at least a few hours a week.”

“What—cleaner—to clean what, what do you mean?” said Gabriel at last, still with one eye on the television.

Brenda reached over, grabbed the remote and the television suddenly went black. She let it sink in for a second or two so that Gabriel knew something was really up this time. Brenda only very rarely turned off the television while Gabriel was watching.

“What are you talking about—a cleaner? Why do you need a cleaner?” said Gabriel realising that this was not the Brenda he was used to. Something was obviously amiss but he couldn’t figure out what. He had that completely bamboozled look on his face that men get when their wives are arguing with them and they know very well that the problem has got absolutely nothing to do with what their wives were talking about!

“I don’t need a cleaner Gabriel, we need a cleaner” and she emphasised the ‘we’. “This is our large house, yours and mine, and I do all the cleaning, all the washing up and most of the work when we do any entertaining. I need a cleaner, okay, it’s not as though we couldn’t afford one.”

“But you’ve always said that you like doing your own housework and it’s good exercise while you can still manage it. You don’t need a cleaner yet.”

“Well let me tell you that the exercise I get certainly keeps me fit—fit enough to bend down and put the hose into the skimmer box in the pool if I had to.”

“So this is about the pool then?” said Gabriel naively, and his face took on an even more perplexed look.

“No it’s not about the pool, I’m just making the point that I am well aware you are unable to do pool maintenance now and so we have Poolclean do it. If we have Poolclean do the pool for your benefit, because of your health, I’m due the same for the house cleaning.”

That barb came to Gabriel as a huge shock. So he said nothing.

“I’m off to bed now Gabriel. You can fill the dishwasher with the next load.” And Brenda got up and went to bed.

Gabriel sat in his chair for quite a while mulling over the exchange he’d just had with his wife. He felt terrible. It was not like her at all. Sure they had their differences but Brenda had always been such a reasonable person. It was ridiculous all this nonsense about a cleaner. She had never complained about housework before—well not like this! There must be more to it, but what the hell could it be?