This short story was written as part of a writing project, funded by the Heritage Lottery Fund and associated with the Sutton (South London) Past on Glass project.
The story is based on one of the thousands of images of local people taken by photographer David Knights-Whittome, between 1904 and 1918. To find out more about the discovery and preservation of this amazing local archive of places, events and most of all the local residents of Sutton, visit the Past on Glass wordpress blog.
Below is the lovely Miss Daly, photographed in 1905, who inspired my story for the project. I don’t know Miss Daly’s first name, but to me she is, now and forever, my little Iris.
Pretending to Care is entirely fictional and is not based on any real people, places or events.
Pretending to Care
Chestnut Avenue Care Home, 2010
They like to pretend they care. That’s why it’s called a care home, I suppose.
Yesterday it was the one with the eyebrows serving the mess they call lunch.
I’d have been an opera singer, if it hadn’t been for the war.
That’s interesting, Iris, she said.
She couldn’t care any less if she tried. Thinks I don’t know the difference.
Chocolate pudding, Iris dear.
It’s the skinny one today.
Thank you, I say. My favourite.
This one at least has a bit more wit behind the orange war paint. It used to be the thing to be pale. A lady stayed out of the sun. All nonsense of course. Bodies, appearance; all vanity. All useless in the end.
Is it your favourite, Iris? Chocolate pudding, really?
No idea, I reply.
Body worn out, or almost; mind like a frayed ribbon.
So what’s the tastiest pudding in the whole wide world? If you could have anything you wanted. Have a think, Iris.
I can’t help giving a snort. But I never did like to disappoint people. A people pleaser they call it nowadays, as if it’s a condition, a bad thing. Perhaps they’re right.
Parties, I say. Birthday parties.
Me too, I love parties, she says. So what food did you have? Jelly? Trifle?
Blind man’s bluff, I say. And piggy-in-the-middle.
She kneels down on the floor next to my chair and pats my hand.
Shall we go back there? See what’s for tea?
As I said, I like to please. She looks so keen, I can’t just tell her to get lost, can I?
Sardines all over the house. Oranges and lemons say the bells of St Clement’s.
Presents too. Nicest one ever was a fur coat, soft as a kitten’s paw, from my dear Papa. A gorgeous fluffy hat to match. I was as cosy as an Eskimo. Papa tweaked my cheek and sent me down to the drawing room to show all the family. ‘Look at Iris!’ my brother Lionel shouted when I trotted in, so eager to please the gathering of aunts and uncles. ‘She’s a roly-poly Swiss roll, with a mighty meringue on the top!’ They all laughed of course. It’s what grown-ups do. I can still see their vile faces. Double chins wobbling, false teeth rattling. And the children laughing too. Fat cousin Francis with his tiny eyes shining, like buttons stitched into a cushion. Even my adored mother smiled, though she pretended not to when I hid my face in her lap.
I wake with a jolt. The skinny one is shaking my shoulder.
Wakey-wakey, Iris! Naughty thing, you fell asleep on me. We’ll never find that favourite pudding!
Meringue, I say. A huge, fluffy white meringue.
That’s wonderful. You remembered. Shall we see if we can make it for you sometime?
I nod. This one really does care. Gets it all wrong of course, but she tries.
I never could stand my brother Lionel. He was a bully to the core. Christmas, summer, I’d count the days until he went back to school. I found a baby rabbit once, kept it in a box in the gardener’s hut. It wouldn’t have lasted I suppose, poor little motherless thing, but I loved it nonetheless. Lionel let the dog in deliberately. Bit its neck right through. Baby rabbit head left on the floor for me to find.
The day Lionel went for good it felt as if the whole house sighed with relief. I can picture him now, suddenly apprehensive in his officer’s uniform. Would the bully be bullied, or worse? I covered my face with Papa’s handkerchief to hide the fact that I didn’t care if I never saw him again.
So you see there’s nothing new you can teach me; I know all there is to know about pretending to care.
Miranda Lewis 2017