Shade, sustenance, beauty

Today is Palm Sunday. Many thanks to Sylvia Daly for this poem, which compares a Catholic child's experience with the reality of date palms. Love it.  

 Palm Sunday

How can I trust them again?

They gave me a dry,

dead spike of a leaf,

tortured into the shape

of a cross.

My childish fingers

unfolded the sharp, tough frond.

I struggled to see

the triumph of the day,

waving my acrid spear

in jubilation.

Older and wiser, I saw a real palm tree.

Graceful fronds arched with sensuous curve,

fruit hung in pregnant bunches,

all giving shade, sustenance, beauty.

My religion had killed this vision.

Twisted the beauty to fit the wish of

foolish, clever men, who choked

the spirit with their efforts.

How can I trust them again?

Sylvia Daly

Tut, Watson, I'm surprised at you

 In this extract from the first part of Rohase Piercy's 'My Dearest Holmes', we eavesdrop on Holmes and Watson discussing the case brought to them by a Miss Anne D'Arcy, whose companion, Maria Kirkpatrick, has gone missing.  A search of Miss Kirkpatrck's desk has unearthed the photograph of an effete-looking young man, believed to be her illegitimate son … and a rather embarrassed Watson has had to admit that Mr Maurice Kirkpatrick is actually an acquaintance of his.

‘Well, Watson,’ said Holmes, leaping to his feet the minute she had left and beginning to pace the room whilst rubbing his hands together gleefully, ‘this is all very exciting, is it not? This case certainly exhibits some singular features. I am glad, by the way, that Miss D’Arcy found you so supportive. I can always trust you to take care of that department. And now for the next stage …’

‘Now look, Holmes,’ I interrupted sharply, feeling that such innuendos were in very poor taste, especially under the circumstances, ‘I really must set you straight on all this. The way in which Miss D’Arcy found me supportive was not at all what you imply. Heaven knows why you insist on propounding this fantasy about my susceptibility to women; but if you cannot see that Miss D’Arcy is - well, a confirmed spinster, I suppose is an apt description - then your powers of perception are considerably less than I’ve given you credit for.’ 

Holmes stood in front of me with his hands in his pockets, a maddening expression of pure delight upon his face. ‘My poor dear boy,’ said he, ‘you do underestimate me, don’t you? I do assure you that I have a full and accurate grasp of the situation. There is really no need to expound upon it. As for your affinity with the fair sex - well, Watson, you surely cannot deny that women in general, confirmed spinsters or no, do seem to find you extremely sympathetic. It’s your doctorly manner, I expect. Now, where is the inaccuracy in my stating the obvious? H’mm?’

I clenched my teeth in frustration. It was at times like this that I most regretted the exaggerated boasts with which I had for some reason felt it necessary to regale my friends at around the time of my first meeting with Holmes. What could I say? That I suspected his full and accurate grasp of the situation to be the result of his morning’s research, since I had seen no evidence of it earlier? I knew he would have no hesitation in calling my bluff, and in turning the situation to his own advantage.

'Anyway, Watson,’ he continued, strolling jauntily around the room with an annoying spring in his step, ‘since you’re so anxious to set me straight on matters of which I am ignorant, perhaps you’d care to give me a little resumé of your acquaintance with Mr Maurice Kirkpatrick. I must say, it really is a lucky chance your knowing him. Now, what do you think? Would he be pleased to receive a visit from your good self accompanied by an aficionado of the turf, eager to discuss form and courses? Or would he perhaps prefer to make the acquaintance of an older gentleman of private means and aesthetic temperament? Which shall I be, Watson? In either case, I think a certain air of decadence would fit the bill, don’t you?’ 

This kind of teasing made me even more uncomfortable, being nearer the mark of accuracy. I crossed hurriedly to the window to hide my discomposure. 

‘Tell me first,’ I said as coolly as I could, ‘just why you think he is being blackmailed?’ 

‘Oh, I don’t think he is being blackmailed at all,’ said Holmes impatiently. ‘But his father undoubtedly is, and has, rather foolishly in my opinion, called on him for help.’ 

‘His father?’ I spun round, astonished, all discomposure forgotten. ‘But he has no father!’ 

‘Tut, Watson, I’m surprised at you. And you a medical man! Everybody has a father somewhere; we may take that as a working hypothesis in at least ninety-nine percent of cases.’ 

‘Well good heavens, Holmes, I mean of course he has a father, but surely - do you mean you are assuming he knows who his father is?’ 

‘Well, I am assuming he does now! Whether he did before this present trouble, I am not yet in a position to say. But now, do you see -?’ he continued, deliberately adopting the patient manner of one explaining the obvious to a child or an idiot, ‘now, let’s assume for the sake of argument that he receives a message from a gentleman claiming to be his father, and he wishes to check the gentleman’s credentials, so to speak. To whom does he apply for corroboration on the subject? Come on now, my boy, your mental powers should be able to tackle this one …’ 

‘Oh stop it, Holmes,’ I said feebly, for I could see he was embarking upon a fit of hilarity and I had no desire to join him. ‘So he contacts his mother. But I still fail to see why it has to be blackmail.’ 

‘Why, it could be nothing else!’ said Holmes, controlling himself with difficulty. ‘If the man has contacted neither his son, nor the mother of his son, for some twenty-odd years, nothing less than the threat of discovery would lead him to do so now. You see why I did not wish to go into the matter in front of Miss D’Arcy,’ he continued in a serious voice, taking me by the elbow and leading me towards the door. ‘The subject would naturally be distressing for her. We had better wait until we have cleared the whole thing up before involving her further. Now, Watson, up you go and change into a waistcoat that boasts its full regimen of buttons! I would fit a new shoelace too, if I were you; we may have a little walk ahead of us. And what a careless fellow you were this morning, to nick your cheek like that … I, meanwhile, will go and don my accoutrements, and then we will make our way over to Kensington, with a little detour for lunch en route.’ 

‘Might I suggest, Holmes, that the older gentleman would be a more suitable disguise?’ I said sweetly. ‘I flatter myself that Kirkpatrick has always looked upon me as something of a paternal figure, and since I am your senior by a mere couple of years we can hardly expect him to do less for you.’ 

From the mischievous glint that stole into his eye, I realised that somewhere in my little speech I had laid myself open to his repartee. Having no wish to hear it, I closed the door hurriedly and made my way up to my room.

The turn-about room

It's Mothers' Day or Mothering Sunday, as we sometimes call it here in the UK. We wish we could thank our own mothers, all long gone now; if you can thank yours today, please, on our behalf, make a massive fuss of her! 

We have an extract from Charlie Raven's The Compact to intrigue us this week. Harriet lost her only child years before, and has kept the boy's bedroom unchanged since he died. Unfortunately, she's begun to be inconvenienced by inexplicable noises and activity in the long-empty room. As a rational woman, she blames the cat. She doesn't believe in ghosts. George Arden does, though.

The next day, Harriet found herself with a sore throat and a headache but otherwise more than equal to undertaking her teaching duties. She was glad though that she had only two pupils that day. Young Isabelle Daniels came and went, followed in the early afternoon by the other; and Harriet completely forgot about Mr Arden’s curious foreknowledge. She had in any event dismissed his talk of people waving at the window almost as soon as she heard it; and now it seemed dream-like, just a still image of herself looking up at the moon reflected in the glass.

About four-thirty, as the early evening was creeping closer to the house, there was a ring at her door and Mr Arden was shown into the room holding his hat in one hand and Harriet’s umbrella in the other. ‘Good afternoon, Mrs Day. I thought I recognised the way the last house has a kind of turret on the top, and I thought I might see if this was your street. And when I saw the steps and the upstairs window, I was sure.’

‘Well, you are welcome, Mr Arden,’ said Harriet. It was a strange way to explain his visit.

‘And I’ve forgotten to mention why I’m here,’ he continued with a little laugh. ‘I apologise. Your umbrella! And also I want to make sure that you are well. Are you well?’

‘Yes, thank you. Very well. And thank you for bringing the umbrella. It’s very kind of you to call and I am glad you recognised the street. It’s Cairncross Street.’

‘I remember it began with a C from when you told the cab driver last night. But there are several C.s between Mrs Roberts’s house and here.’

‘Have you been walking about in the cold, looking for my house, Mr Arden?’

Arden looked a little embarrassed.

Harriet, thinking it was endearing but also rather pathetic, said, ‘Perhaps you could have checked with Mrs Roberts about the address before you left the house. Or Mrs Jenkins, she knows.’

‘Oh, I wouldn’t disturb them,’ said Arden as if that might be a little dangerous.

‘Well, now that you’ve been so kind as to return my umbrella, please do come and sit down by the fire. Though it’s not quite as cold as yesterday, I think. The frost on the windows had gone by mid-morning.’

‘Yes, it’s warmer but very damp,’ agreed Arden. 

Harriet cast about for something to say. ‘So. How is Mr Cabot’s venture coming along, Mr Arden?’  She picked up some crochet work, expecting a cosy flood of confidential information.

‘I didn’t come to talk about that, Mrs Day,’ said Arden politely. ‘It was the ghost business, that was why I came. He is malignant and I can discern a real intention.’

Harriet left the crochet in her lap. ‘Could you explain a little more, Mr Arden?’

‘It’s very straightforward. Oh, listen!’

There was a clang from the room above.

‘That’s the bootjack,’ said Harriet, frowning at George as if he were responsible.

‘He chooses that room because it already works like a door. It changes, it’s a turn-about room, sometimes good and sunny, sometimes sad and dark. You need to stabilise it. Because when he’s here, he’ll keep annoying you by throwing things about.’

Harriet waited for further explanation. When none came, she said again, ‘Could you explain a little more, Mr Arden?’

‘Oh,’ said Arden, as if surprised. ‘I’ll try if you like. You have a person, a personality really, who obviously isn’t in a body but thinks perhaps that he is, and he comes into the room above this one. He’s glaring down at me. I can tell you that he has thick whiskers.’

‘Good lord,’ said Harriet.

‘I can tell him to go, if you want,’ said Arden. ‘Or you can let him stay. But he moves things and wants your attention and enjoys scaring you. His name is … Ostrich? He’s showing me a big bird. Oh, it’s Ozzie.’

‘Good lord,’ said Harriet again.

‘If you let me go into the room, I can sort it all out for you,’ said Arden, as if he were talking about the plumbing.

‘Well, then, I suppose you’d better,’ said Harriet. She really did not know what to think. ‘Mrs Skipton has the key. I’ll ring for Daisy.’

While they waited for the key to be brought, Harriet sat mutely and George chatted merrily about the Revue Parnassus where he was due to appear this evening. He told Harriet that Valentine was very particular about punctuality so he would unfortunately have to leave shortly or he risked making him angry. 

The key arrived and Harriet showed him up to the room. The stairs and landing were dim and she carried an oil lamp, apologising about the shadows and for some reason gabbling about the electricity which was being laid on in the next street. They stopped outside the door of the empty room. Behind them at the top of the stairs, the carved Swiss clock on the landing wall ticked heavily.

‘Would you like me to light the gas in the room? Or would you prefer to take the lamp with you, Mr Arden?’ she asked, wondering if she was expected to watch or assist. Her skin prickled uncomfortably at the thought of entering the room and seeing the little soldiers inexplicably moving about on the mantelpiece. 

‘I don’t mind really,’ said Arden cheerfully. ‘It’s not a physical eye-thing, if you see what I mean. I don’t know how to describe it, quite honestly, and it’s not worth trying. People often get quite cross about it if I do. It’s just that I remembered how you helped me at the pond yesterday and I wanted to do something to help you. That’s fair, isn’t it?’

There was a creaking noise from just beyond the door, as if someone were standing there. She imagined a person with an ear pressed to the wood, listening to their conversation.

‘Can I just ask you, Mr Arden, are we talking about a ghost? Because I don’t believe in ghosts or any such nonsense,’ Harriet said, her voice coming out rather shriller than usual. ‘I can’t imagine what it is, and I know it can move things so it has a physical force at its disposal, and I also understand it isn’t the cat; but it isn’t a ghost either. Because there is no such thing.’

Arden nodded admiringly. ‘I am not in the least offended if you don’t call it a ghost. You can call it anything you like. It can be something to do with magnets or the underground railways they’ve been digging, or interference from all that electricity pouring into your neighbours in the next street. Would that do?’

Harriet looked at him doubtfully, not sure if he were mocking her. She decided that he was not. ‘Very well,’ she said. ‘I think it’s best if you do what you want to do, with the proviso that I don’t have to believe what you believe about what you want to do.’

‘There, perfect! Anyway, it’ll probably be quicker if I do it alone. Don’t worry. You just make yourself comfortable and I’ll come down when it’s finished.’ Before she could say another word, he opened the door and slipped through into the dark room beyond.

Harriet sat motionless by the parlour fire, wondering if Mr Arden were bonkers. There were undoubted sounds from above. A scraping across the floor. The sound of something immensely heavy shuffling forward, one creak at a time. She decided it was the wardrobe. Then there was a scatter of little heavy objects dropping – the soldiers, she supposed. George Arden was upstairs wrecking her spare bedroom and she was sitting downstairs allowing it to happen. 

A thought struck her and she went to the desk drawer. She pulled it open – it stuck a little on the right-hand side because she rarely looked within – and brought out a red cloth folder with a cord binding it shut. It was crammed with papers: handwritten letters, legal documents and in an envelope on top, a fat gold locket and chain. She poured the chain out and the locket plopped after it into her palm like a tiny egg. She opened its front. On one side it was inscribed with her Christian name and a date, 1868. On the other was a miniature portrait on ivory, in rather garish colours, of a gentleman with generous mutton-chop whiskers. She looked at it briefly and put it away in the folder, along with all the other papers, and pushed the drawer shut. At that moment, George reappeared, tapping on the door. She motioned to him to enter and he immediately came to pick up his hat from where he had left it on the piano stool. She faced him with a question on her lips.

‘Yes. All finished,’ he said in a rush, before she could speak. ‘But you need to keep the room open and moving. I suggest putting a goldfish in there or a little bird. I know it’s a sad room for you but you could put some growing things on the windowsill, not dead things. Some plants.’

‘What’s happened?’ asked Harriet. ‘Is the room a terrible mess?’

‘No, no, just the wardrobe needs pushing back a little bit and some toys need to be rearranged. I would do it for you but I have to dash. I’m sure I can remember the way back, if I just go to the end of the street and cross, take a left and then a right, or no, a left. But I’ll remember when I see it. Please excuse me, Mrs Day. Valentine will absolutely murder me if I’m late. We’re still only half-done on the The Grenadier’s Farewell and its first performance is tonight. But it was fun and I’m so glad you’re better.’

And with that, Mr Arden departed. Harriet saw him to the door and then stood wondering in the hall. She had to admit to herself that her expectations about him had been wrong. And his manner was far more relaxed, less ‘frozen’, than on their previous meeting. Perhaps the absence of Valentine was the explanation.

She decided she really ought to go up and look at the room, although she had a strong inclination to leave it till daylight. But then she pictured herself, lying in bed wondering about the dark objects standing in its emptiness and waiting to hear odd noises across the landing. No, the best thing to do was go in with a stout heart and have a thorough look and poke about in all the corners. She went warily upstairs, once again carrying the lamp. Opening the door, she walked straight across and lit the gas lights. There were the soldiers, scattered as she predicted all over the mat. She picked them up and placed them on the mantel in a little heap. As for the rest of the room, all looked as before, except for the wardrobe, which was pushed away from the wall by four or five inches. A good opportunity to dust behind it, she thought. 

She was about to re-order the soldiers in their usual ranks when a thought struck her. She went to the bookcase and took down a painted wooden box jammed above the volumes on the shelf. It contained a few dried, age-darkened conkers, dropped from a tree and gathered up one autumn day twenty years before. She put the toys away. The little soldiers fitted snugly among them, like troops hiding between boulders. Before she closed the lid, she thought, ‘These are seeds. There have been trees inside this box all these years.’ Then she replaced it on the shelf. Remembering to leave the door open as she left, she thought that the room felt warmer. But then, the weather was warmer and all the frost had thawed. 

She walked downstairs thinking that she could not account for what Mr Arden had done – it was irrational. But neither could she account for his familiarity with her husband’s appearance; and his inexplicable knowledge of the pet-name she had called him on their honeymoon, thirty years before.

‘Now, I've really come to be myself. I always wished to get to this point, where I could talk about everything.’

This week we're honoured to share Jane Traies' account of how she became involved in collecting stories from the Lesbian Immigration Support Group. Published to celebrate International Women's Day, they sharply illustrate the horrors faced by lesbian and bisexual women escaping persecution - and the difficulties of proving their cases when claiming asylum here. Please buy the book - Free To Be Me - proceeds go towards supporting the work of the LISG.

 ‘FREE TO BE ME’

In the spring of 2017, I received an email from a volunteer with the Lesbian Immigration Support Group in Greater Manchester called Sorrel. She told me they were supporting a Ugandan woman whose claim for asylum on the grounds of her sexual orientation had been rejected by the Home Office, because they did not believe her to be a lesbian. Among the reasons given for not believing her were: that she had been married, that she had been apparently heterosexual until quite late in her life, and that she and her lesbian partner had not lived together. Of course, many older lesbians have such a life story, so I was surprised at what I then took to be simply old-fashioned ignorance on the part of the Home Office (I know now that it was typical of their hostile approach to LGBTQ+ asylum-seekers). 

Clearly, this African grandmother did not fit the Government’s stereotype of what a lesbian ought to look like. Grace, the woman seeking asylum, was working with her solicitor to put together a fresh claim to the Home Office; Sorrel had heard of my life history work with British lesbians born before 1950, and wondered if there were case studies in my previous research that could be used to support Grace’s new claim? Would I be prepared to contribute an ‘expert statement’ about the trauma and difficulty of coming out as an older lesbian? From the brief details of Grace’s story that Sorrel had given me, I could already see that many aspects of her experience were mirrored in the life-stories I had collected in the UK. Of course I would write for her!

Sorrel also told me that Grace was now 71 years old. So Grace and I are the same age. I sat at my computer, thinking about the differences between Grace’s life and mine, and understanding my own privilege in new ways. Whatever difficulties I had faced in the past because of my sexual orientation, they paled into significance beside Grace’s struggles. I am an educated white woman with a good pension, living in a country which now has laws to protect LGBTQ+ people. I’m also fortunate to be able to engage in research work that gives me immense personal satisfaction. The opportunity to use some of that privilege to help someone else was an unlooked-for gift. 

And that was how I came to meet not only Grace, but also some of the other members and volunteers from LISG. We had plenty of time to get to know each other in the months that followed, because Grace’s fresh claim for asylum was also refused in its turn. It was more than another two years before she was finally granted ‘leave to remain’ in the UK. During that period, I learned a good deal about the asylum system in the UK and also about the admirable work of LGBTQ+ asylum support groups up and down the country. Of these, the Lesbian Immigration Support Group in Greater Manchester is one of only two dedicated solely to helping lesbians and bisexual women. 

It seemed to me, as I got to know them, that the work of the group and the lives of its members were exactly the kind of subject that oral history exists to preserve. I tentatively proposed the idea of an oral history of LISG. By this time, I knew several of the group members personally and had met others at Grace’s appeal hearing and at the 2019 lesbian summer festival, LFest. I hoped that these shared experiences had begun to create a context of familiarity and trust between us, that would enable us to work together. 

LISG currently has about 30 members, supported by half a dozen volunteers. Under normal circumstances, there is a LISG meeting once a month. This is a sociable occasion as well as a business meeting and always includes sharing food. Most of the members are in social housing in various outer suburbs of Manchester and many were fairly isolated even before the pandemic, so the monthly meeting is a much-valued gathering. In the first week of January 2020, I attended this meeting for the first time, to talk about the idea of making a book based on the oral histories of some of the women in LISG. I shared my hopes that such a book would do three things: raise awareness of the particular issues faced by lesbian women claiming asylum on the grounds of their sexual orientation; publicise the work of LISG; and, potentially, raise funds to support the group’s work. At the end of the meeting, the group voted in favour of going ahead with the project and ten women said they would be interested in taking part.

I then needed to find a suitable place to carry out the interviews: somewhere sufficiently private, and as cheap as possible since the project was unfunded. A few days’ queer networking on social media led to the offer of free accommodation at the LGBT Foundation in Manchester’s gay village. This very generous gesture was particularly welcome since most of the women were already familiar with the building: it is home to several asylum support and LGBTQ social groups which they had engaged with previously. It also meant that our only immediate expenses would be paying the women’s bus fares into central Manchester. (The subsistence benefit paid to people seeking asylum – the Asylum Support Rate – was slightly raised in 2020 to £39.60 a week, which means that the asylum seeker is surviving on £5.66 a day. At the time of our project, the return fare from the outer suburbs into central Manchester was £6.00.)

In the last week of January, I returned to Manchester and carried out seven interviews. They were emotionally challenging, both for the researcher and for the narrators. Many of the stories were distressing: women told of physical and sexual abuse, rape, forced marriage, mob violence and murder. Many tears were shed during the interviews; sometimes there were gaps in which we had to stop the recorder, make coffee and talk about something completely different. In spite of this, I was struck by the absolute determination of the women to speak out in this setting. Mary, for instance, whose experience had been particularly horrific, wept quietly and continuously throughout her interview. I reminded her at several points that she was free to stop, but she pressed on in spite of the tears running down her cheeks. She explained that not being able to talk about what had happened to her was part of the past she felt she had escaped: ‘Now, I've really come to be myself. I always wished to get to this point, where I could talk about everything.’

By the time of my second trip to Manchester in early March, concern about the spread of the new coronavirus Covid-19 was already widespread. I had planned a third visit two weeks later but by then the whole country was in lockdown and, reluctantly, I had to abandon it. But by then thirteen women had told me their stories and there was enough material for our book.

The pandemic lockdown was stressful for all the group members, many of whom were already struggling with poor mental health and found enforced social isolation very difficult. In June, the much-missed monthly meeting was resurrected via Zoom, and was joyously welcomed. I also realised how important the LISG WhatsApp group became during this time – not only to inform members about practical developments, but also for the flurry of greetings and loving wishes which appeared each day.

On 25 May, George Floyd, an unarmed black man, was killed by a white police officer in Minneapolis. The chilling video footage of his last minutes spread rapidly via social media; ‘Black Lives Matter’ protests erupted across the world. Almost all the current members of LISG (and a few of the volunteers) are women of colour; the majority are black. At this terrible time, the members of LISG responded with an outpouring of love and affirmation for each other, sending many messages, including video clips illustrating the beauty and power of black women. The role of our project in making marginalised black voices heard suddenly had a new context. Against this background, I started transcribing and editing the interviews.

Making the book ‘Free To Be Me’ became my ‘lockdown project’. With the help of the wonderful Helen Sandler at Tollington Press, the book was completed in just under a year. It is to be published on International Women’s Day 2021. All profits from this book will go to support the work of LISG. Please buy it, and tell your friends about it. 

(Buying direct from the publisher or the author https://www.tollingtonpress.co.uk/free.html  means that more of the money goes to LISG.)

Waiting for judgement

This week we have a powerful and thought-provoking extract from Free To Be Me: Refugee Stories from the Lesbian Immigration Support Group, edited by Jane Traies. 

The door to the tribunal office in Mosley Street is so quietly anonymous that you wouldn’t notice it unless you had a reason to be there. Before it slides open to admit you, the mirrored glass gives no hint of what’s inside: a small, equally anonymous hallway, where a friendly man politely searches your bag. Thoroughly. Then you need to step through an electronic gate, like the ones you see at airport security. On the other side, a second kindly Mancunian pats you down with equal thoroughness and passes a drug-searching wand over your body, just to be sure. Only then may you take the lift to Reception. 

Reception is a long desk at one end of a large, low waiting-room. All the rest of the space is taken up with seating of that modern kind made for offices: light oak veneer and soft blue fabric, functional, pleasant, neutral. The staff, like their colleagues downstairs, are friendly and courteous: public servants doing their sometimes-difficult jobs in the kindest way they can. At a few minutes after nine, there are already people waiting, even though nothing will happen until at least ten o’clock, and for some of them it will be a much longer wait. They sit in ones and twos, with serious, worried faces. Their tension is infectious. The staff on Reception are white; with one or two exceptions, the anxious people on the chairs are not.

I have arrived early, so I have time to observe all this before the women from the Lesbian Immigration Support Group start to arrive in ones and twos. They bring life and movement into the room. Lesbians and asylum seekers themselves, they have come to support a sister. They hug each other in turn, like the family they have become, and talk animatedly, catching up on each other’s news: who is well or ill, who has a new girlfriend, who has been sent a date for her appeal hearing, who has been granted leave to remain in the UK – or not. We are all here this morning to support Grace, whose final, last-chance hearing is today. She has been fighting for asylum in the UK for thirteen years, and none of us can bear to think about what will happen if she is rejected this final time. Three of us are here to be witnesses in her case; all the rest have come as observers, to offer love and friendship. I do not see such a crowd of sisters anywhere else in the room.

A black man in a very good suit approaches us and introduces himself as Grace’s barrister. I examine the small shock of surprise this gives me: there is clearly a stereotyped ‘pale male’ barrister in my head; and there are still so very few black barristers in England. So, in spite of his expensive suit and his privileged education, this man knows what it’s like to have the odds stacked against you. That feels like a good omen. He beckons the witnesses into a small office where he briskly outlines the case he plans to make and the questions he will ask us. We are all very tense, because we are fighting for our friend’s life. He explains that the Home Office’s Presenting Officer can cross examine us, and might be aggressive. He tells us that the judge who is presiding over our case is not known for his liberal views. I feel sick.

Back in the waiting room, Grace has arrived at last. The women surround the short, stocky figure, trying to reassure her. With her smooth skin and jet-black hair, Grace looks much younger than her years, but she will be 74 in a few months and she has not slept well. It’s no surprise that her asthma is bad today. She sinks down on one of the seats, coughing, groping in her bag for her inhaler. She did not have asthma – or rheumatism in her knees – when she arrived from Uganda; years of struggle in the UK’s hostile climate have taken their toll. 

The room has filled up now. So many people waiting for judgment, watching anxiously as men in suits with files under their arms thread the crowd looking for the people they have been assigned to help. Suddenly our barrister is here again, looking for Grace. He introduces himself to her, putting out his hand. I watch her quick frown of non-comprehension; then her face clears and she smiles up at him. For a second it seems to me that they are holding, as well as shaking, hands.

Then everything happens at once. Grace’s case is called; an usher comes to take her off to the courtroom. The chattering crowd of women follow her out. They will be too many for the public chairs in the courtroom – the system does not expect this level of support. It is quiet when they have gone. The three of us are left, sitting in a row. As witnesses, we cannot join the observers in the public seats, but must wait to be called into court one by one. The tension ratchets up a notch. Our conversation falters into silence.

That was the day that the idea for the book Free To Be Me: refugee tales from the Lesbian Immigration Support Group was born. You can read all of Grace’s story – and a dozen diverse others – in this book, due to be published on 8 March 2021.

Proceeds from the sale of Free To Be Me will go to support the work of the Lesbian Immigration Support Group. 

https://www.tollingtonpress.co.uk/free.html 

You've got a bloody nerve

Welcome to Part Three of Maggie Redding's wry take on lockdown in a residential retirement park. Tempers fray in the queue for the Co-op - but romance is in the air. 

You can read more about the residents of Faradise Park and their foibles in Maggie's book series, Almost Paradise, Nothing Like Paradise and Planning for Paradise 

 THE TROUBLE WITH LOCKDOWN

Greg Norton was at a loose end and facing far more of them, with the prospect of the pub, the ‘Able Oaks Arms’, being closed.  He had come to consult Lena about Lockdown.

‘What’s us ordinary people s’posed to do all this time?’

‘I would say, be kind to people, help with their shopping and such things.  But we have to be very circumspect about that sort of thing, don’t we?’

‘Circum what.  What’s that?’

‘Thoughtful, tactful.  For instance, this social distancing, keeping two metres from people like now.  I want you to step back two metres.’

Greg Norton was a local man, born and bred in Milton Stanwick.  Before it was discovered that he qualified for a retirement flat at Faradise Park, he had been a leading figure in the protests in the village about Londoners coming and taking the lovely flats.  It was only when his granddaughter, Caroline, had married local farmer, Dave Miller, that his own daughter, with whom he lived, had gone to Spain to do to the Spanish what Londoners were doing to the villagers of Milton Stanwick.  That was how he had become homeless.

‘How much is a litre?’ 

Lena refrained from laughing.  She realised that the majority of the residents had long left school when decimalisation was introduced.

‘I’ll give you a piece of string that is two metres – not litres – long, Greg – and you can help people understand how far from you is two metres.  A litre is different, that’s about amounts of water, or milk or even beer when you go abroad.’

‘Abroad?  I ain’t going there, that’s where you get diseases.’

‘Well, to help stop you spreading Coronavirus, I shall be distributing facemasks to everyone, when my order for them finally arrives.’

‘What like them women, them Muzzelings, you mean?’

‘Not as big as that, but what a good idea.  Go into purdah.’

* * *

‘Deaths are going up’ Hester said.

‘Especially for older people,’ Tom said.

‘You mean people who are not young?’ Mimi said.

‘Comes to the same thing,’ Tom said.

‘Anyway, I’m doing everything I can not to get it,’ Hester said.

‘It really makes you focus on death.  We are all going to die at some time.’ That was Mel.

A heavy silence ensued.  All four friends were leaning out of their windows, this being the only way to meet and converse together.

‘You’re a cheerful little – sod!’ Hester said.

‘No, a realistic little sod, Hess.  We should all prepare.  After all, we’re all hovering on one side or the other of seventy.  Look at it like this, in forty years time, we’ll all be dead.  Nothing left.  Even thirty years time, or perhaps twenty years.’

‘Oh, Mel, do stop,’ Hester pleaded.

  ‘And death shall have no dominion, that’s from a poem by Dylan Thomas.  I would like that read at my funeral.  And, Do not go gentle into that good night.’

‘I suppose you’ll want music, too?’  Hester’s question held a note of sarcasm.

‘Oh yes.  There are plenty of Welsh songs I would choose.  In Welsh, of course.  What about anyone else?  You, Hess?’

‘Me?  OK.  As the coffin comes in what about the Ride of the Valkyries?’

Everyone burst out into loud laughter.

‘What’s all the noise about?’  A voice from ground level stilled the laughter.  Lena was standing there, her face upturned.

‘Sorry,’ Hester said.  ‘We were talking about our funerals.’

‘Oh, don’t apologise.  It’s wonderful to see and hear so much happiness.  There’s not a lot lately is there?  I can’t imagine why funerals are so hilarious.  But it’s good, healthy stuff anyway.  Tell me, though, why out of the windows?’

‘Because we’re not allowed to meet in each other’s homes, are we?  And the Hall is closed,’ Tom said.

‘If you met on your corridor, so long as there’s two metres between members of the two households, I don’t see that would be a problem.  Unless, of course, someone wants to pass by.’

‘This isn’t wrong, though, is it?’  Tom said. ‘We see our neighbours.  And it’s more than two metres to down there, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, Tom.  But don’t fall out.’

* * *

Marjorie paced her sitting room.  She and Rob had been separated by Covid.  In her pocket was her phone.  Rob’s phone number was in her mind.  Should she phone him?  He had last phoned her four days ago.  Surely he was expecting a call from her?  She was not sure what she should do.  There was something she desperately wanted to speak to him about, but she was not sure whether she should broach the subject.  This wretched Lockdown had disrupted everything.

She lifted her phone to look at the keypad.  She was not very good at this new technology stuff.  Her other hand hovered over it.  She tapped out Rob’s number.  She was shaking so much she had to sit down.  But she resisted tapping the send key.  

This was ridiculous.  How old was she?  What had happened to the strong, determined woman who had emerged as a result of her settling at Faradise Park?  Had she regressed?

She pressed the send key.  

She could hear the ringing tone as she put the phone to her ear.  

‘Hello?’  

She hesitated, ‘Is that you, Rob?’  So tentative.

‘Marjorie!  His voice suddenly exploded down the line.  ‘Oh, it’s so lovely to hear from you!’  He was pleased to hear from her!  Joy flooded through her, then she was flooded by tears.

‘I didn’t know if you wanted to hear from me.’

‘Marjorie, if I could only tell you face to face how much I’ve missed you.’

‘I’ve missed you too,’ she sobbed happily.  ‘If only we could meet.’

‘I know, I know,’

‘There are too many interested people around who would love to cause a bit of trouble here.’  She thought of Greg’s mischievousness and of others who were prudish, Nick and Pam Matthews.  And of Lena, whose trust she did not want to violate.

‘Everyone hates these restrictions,’ Rob said.

‘It seems we are unlikely to meet until June.’

‘But Marjorie, I am not at all happy about the situation between us.’

‘Neither am I.’

‘I’m glad, I thought you’d given up on me, I know I can be thoughtless –’

‘No, no, Rob.  I was just overwhelmed....’  She dabbed her eyes and her nose.  He must not realise she was crying.  What a wimp he would think her.  ‘Can you think of any way round this?’

‘Only if you would be willing to move in with me,’

This was stunning news, but, a two-edged sword.  He was willing to live with her, or rather for her to live with him.  She wanted to laugh, almost hysterically, yet there was no way she could give up her flat here at Faradise Park.  Her independence, now and in the future, was too big a gift to throw away on mere sex, she thought to herself.  She should ask him, shouldn’t she, if he would move in with her – if it was allowed, if he qualified.  But she feared a rejection.  Flat number 17, like most of the flats, was small compared to his present home.  He had frequently mentioned this fact to her.

‘I can’t do that.  Move out I mean.  Lena would explain.  Why don’t you go and have a chat with her?’

‘Would she mind?’

‘Of course not.’

‘I must do that.’

She sank back in her chair.  ‘I’ll have to say goodbye now, Rob.  I have to do something.’  She’d been planning to ask Mimi to come up and talk until she saw her and Tom hanging out of their windows, because visitors of any sort or origin were not allowed in the flats now.

* * *

How could rumour spread if everybody stayed obediently behind their front door, Tom wondered.  It must be that they used the once-a-day venture out – alone – to see others, also alone, and two metres apart, however much that was.

He made quite good progress, on his own, up the drive before he encountered anyone else, then, near the entrance, Greg came steaming ahead of him, doing an exaggerated version of what he claimed was a distance of two metres.

‘Where you going, Tom?’ he called out.

‘Up to the Co-op,’ Tom said.

‘What, for more toilet rolls?  You ain’t used up all them you got, not already?  It was you who started the panic-buying, you know that?’

‘Don’t be stupid,’ Tom panted, furious that Greg was already so far ahead of him.  Greg merely grinned over his shoulder and sped on.

When Tom reached the Co-op, he found he had to queue, two metres spaced either side of him, and Greg was only twice two metres in front of him.  Ridiculous though it was, Tom felt a twinge of satisfaction.  Was it because he was getting old, or what it this bloody Lockdown making him mean-minded?

‘Hello, Tom.’  He turned to see Lucy Dean two metres possibly, behind him.  At first he thought she was in some sort of disguise.  He stared at her.  At her eyes.  That was all he could see of her.  She was wearing a mask.  

She laughed.  ‘Lena wants me to distribute these to everyone when they arrive, sometime today.  Tom, stay two metres away from me, won’t you?’ 

Lucy used to be a cheeky adolescent but now she saw herself as an adult, and could be very bossy. The queue shifted forward and Tom found himself in the Co-op.  There were markings on the floor and posts holding tape at waist level, and notices – This Way Please – and Keep a Social Distance.  Tom was unsure what social distance meant, something else to worry about?  It is preferred that you wear a face-mask.

‘I ain’t wearing one of those,’ Greg was heard to say.  Tom felt some guilty sympathy.

‘It should cover your nose,’ Tom heard Lucy’s adult voice saying.  ‘Excuse me you’re not wearing that mask correctly.  It’s got to be over your nose.’  She was speaking to someone whom Tom was unable to see.

‘Mind your own business,’ that someone told her.

‘It is my business,’ Lucy said from among the toiletries and empty toilet roll shelves.  ‘You don’t know what I’ve got, or you would wear it properly.’

‘What have you got?’  Greg, her grandfather felt he had a right to know.

‘I’ll tell you what you’ve got,’ said the unseen rebel.  ‘You’ve got a bloody nerve.’

Tom heard the sound of a fist colliding with something, then Lucy’s yell and a clatter as she fell amongst the display of canned baked beans.

‘Did you hit my granddaughter?’  Greg was on the muscle now.

‘Yeah, and I’ll hit you as well.’  

Tom, not wanting to be excluded from the masculinity stakes, said, ‘Who the hell do you think you are?’

‘The only one in this place who won’t be pushed around,’ the offender said.  Then Tom gasped, as did everyone in the Co-op, in or out of their two metre spaces gasped, when another contender in this war appeared from amongst the display of unsold Easter Eggs, to deliver a blow to the brute that matched, or even surpassed, Lucy’s black eye.  There was uproar in the Co-op.  Chaos erupted around everyone, voices shouting aggressively, nothing making sense any more.  Was this alien scene really in the Milton Stanwick Co-op?  Things were being lifted from the shelves, people were making for the door.  Janey, the Manager of the shop, was phoning the police and attempting to restore order. ‘Police, please.  Milton Stanwick Co-op.  People are fighting and stealing stuff from the shelves.’  ‘Get two metres apart.  Remember social distancing.  Quieten down, please.  Two metres!  Two metres!’

Shaken, Tom retrieved three tins of baked beans to purchase, because he had forgotten what he came in for in the first place.  

Lucy allowed herself to be helped to her feet and be ministered unto by the gallant young man.  One of the assistants in the Co-op provided a damp towel to hold to her eye.

‘It hurts,’ she moaned, as she was led to a chair.  ‘I only came in for a spot of lunch.’

‘So did I,’ said her rescuer.

She looked up at him for the first time.  He was tall, dark and handsome.  He was smooth bodied, athletic looking, possibly a rugby-player.  His eyes gleamed above his mask.

‘I’ve got to get back to work,’ Lucy said.

‘Where’s that?’

‘Faradise Park.’

‘Oh, I know.  I’m on my way there myself.  I’ve a delivery to make.  I can take you, in my van.’ 

She thanked him.  He helped her to her feet.  Her legs were wobbly.  ‘Did you hit him?  Was it you?’

‘Yes, he deserved it.’  He linked his arm into hers.  ‘Why, do you know him?’

‘Yes.  I know him.  Max Parkinson.  I was at school with him.  He caused a lot of trouble here a couple of years back.’  They had reached the door of the Co-op.  People were jostling.  She grabbed his other arm as he guided her over the threshold.

‘With the Travellers,’ she finished once outside in the fresh air.

‘Travellers?’  

‘Yes.  Gypsies.  In the village.  I work with them.  Or I did, before Covid.’

‘This is my van.’  He paused before a large, white van with the name ‘Simon Stanley’ emblazoned on the side.

‘Is that your name?’

He chortled.  ‘No, I’m afraid it’s not.  I only work for him.  I am Bartholomew Smith.’

‘Smith?’

‘Yes, is it so funny?’  He opened the van door and helped her into the front passenger seat.’  I’m Bart for short, by the way.’

Lucy introduced herself.  ‘I am Lucy Dean, might be Miller if my mum marries Dave Miller.’

It was great, sitting up high in the front of the van.  Bart pulled up at the main entrance of the all-glass and steel extension to Faradise Park that was Milton Faradise.  Izzie took delivery of several boxes from the van.

‘Lovely place,’ Bart said.  ‘So green.  What’s the big house?’ 

‘That’s Faradise Park.’ Lucy said.

‘Oh, my goodness,’ Izzie said, seeing Lucy with the towel to her eye.  ‘What have you done?’

‘Told someone that his mask should cover his nose.  I got a black eye for my trouble.  Look.’

She took the towel from her eye.  Izzie took the towel from her.

‘Lucy, that looks painful.’

‘It is a bit.  I only went out for a bite of lunch.  So did Bart.  This is Bart.  He gave the guy a black eye too.’

‘Who was it?’

‘Max Parkinson.  Remember him and the Travellers?’

‘I most certainly do.  I thought he’d been put away.’

‘For not long enough,’ Lucy said with passion.’

Izzie addressed Bart.  ‘Is that all of our delivery?  Because you need rewarding for your action.  Why don’t I rustle up coffee and cheese rolls?  Would that be OK?  I’ll get something for that eye Lucy.’

‘Great,’ said Lucy.

‘Thank you very much Mrs.....?’

‘Smith,’ said Izzie.  Bart and Lucy laughed.

Izzie came back to administer a soothing balm for Lucy’s eye and a colleague of Lucy’s, Marian, appeared with cheese rolls and coffee. Lucy and Bart sat in the van.

‘I suppose we’ll have to take off our masks to eat?’

‘Essential.’  Bart said.  They gazed shyly at each other when their whole faces were revealed.  

‘So,’ Bart said, ‘What is this Faradise place?’

‘There are two main parts.  The main part, the first part, is a Scheme of Flats for over sixties.  It’s managed by Lena Kirwan now.  When it first opened, my mother was Manager.  Everyone loved her, because, they say she was so kind.’  She made a face.  ‘That’s difficult to understand now she is married to Dave Miller.  He was a farmer who used to own a large part of the land all this new building is on.  She’s got twins now.  They’re two years old, and quite a handful.  And she’s pregnant again.’

‘In Lockdown?  Isn’t that going to be difficult?’

Lucy shrugged.  ‘During December. Christmas.’

‘It’ll all be over by then,’ Bart said, ‘the Lockdown and stuff

He told her he was twenty years old.  He lived with his parents in South London and didn’t know what to do with his life.  ‘You work here?’  he asked her.

‘Yes.  I’m a Carer.’

‘I’ll be coming here regularly.  Delivering PPE.  There’s a shortage and everyone is desperate.’

‘When do you get to come here again?’

‘Dunno.  Suppose we exchange phone numbers?  There’s no pub open to go to, but we can sit in the van and share whatever I get in the store in the village.  Would that be OK?’ 

* * *

Tom rushed into Flat Four with hurricane energy.  Mimi was in the kitchen.

‘There’s been an incident,’ he told her excitedly.  ‘In the shop.  Here, I got these.’  He thrust the three tins of baked beans at Mimi.  ‘I forgot what I went in there for.’

Mimi looked at him in puzzlement.  ‘What do you mean, an incident?  In the Co-op?’

‘Yes.  Some guy was wearing his mask wrong.  Not covering his nose.  Lucy told him.  He told her to mind her own business.  She - .’

‘Don’t tell me,’ Mimi  said, ‘Lucy said it was her business.‘

Then she said, ‘You don’t know what I’ve got.’  

‘She would.  What has she got?’

‘That’s exactly what Greg said, and this guy said ‘I’ll tell you what you’ve got.  You’ve got a bloody cheek,’ and he gave Lucy a black eye.’

‘Is she OK?’

‘Oh, yes.  Some guy, came to her rescue and gave the other guy a black eye.’

‘Oh, I say,’ 

‘Janey phoned for the police.’

‘Oh, they won’t bother with a little skirmish in Milton Stanwick.  There’s been a big demonstration in Sittendon about Lockdown and lots of fisticuffs, not just one.  It was on local radio.’

Tom shrugged. ‘The natives are restless.'  This morning’s happening in the village was as much excitement he'd had since March 23rd, when Lockdown began.

‘I’ve got a bit of news.’  Mimi said, checking the bubbling contents of a saucepan on the cooker.  ‘You know all the notices that appeared all over the place here, ‘Keep Calm and Wash Your Hands’?  Someone’s gone round and, on most of them, crossed out ‘Hands’ and written over it ‘BUM’.  Because of the shortage of toilet rolls, you see.’

‘I do get it, but who do you think did that?  Somebody very witty.’

‘Can’t imagine.  Wasn’t you, was it?’

‘Oh, gosh, no.  Why, was it you?’

‘No, but I would love to know, wouldn’t you?’

-----------------------------------------------------------

Maggie comments: 'Faradise Park does not exist, except in my imagination. It was my personal and inner response to a bad experience in a sheltered flats scheme where we were bullied out by homophobes.
The characters also do not exist and are not people who are real. There are three books about Faradise Park and the characters who live there. Almost Paradise, Nothing Like Paradise , Planning for Paradise.' [see above for links]

"And you have to keep two litres away from people..."

Here's the second in Maggie Redding's trio of stories about the residents of fictional Faradise Park coping with the very real Covid pandemic. Love life gets more complicated in lockdown.

 

ROOM FOR ROB?

The shelf was empty.

He came to a halt.

‘Janey!’ he called to the assistant.

‘If you’re after loo rolls, Tom they’re all gone.  We’ve had a rush on them.  I blame the Government.’

And he thought he had such a brilliant idea.  ‘And you have to keep two litres away from people.’ Janey added.

‘Two litres?’  Tom said, about to find humour in the situation.  More people were coming into the Co-op, so he left in a hurry.

Once outside, he was inspired by the sight of an approaching bus.  He ran to the bus stop, his arm sticking out to hail the driver.  Breathless, he sprang aboard, then had to search every pocket on him to find his bus pass, the fear growing, matching the driver’s impatience, that he had left it in the flat.  

‘Aah!  There it is!’  He slapped the bus pass before the driver then stumbled to sink onto a seat.  The bus rumbled its way to Sittenden, while Tom mentally rehearsed his route to all the supermarkets and cut-price stores he could recall.

Altogether he spent nearly two hours traipsing to and from these three supermarkets and two cut-price stores.  One supermarket had sold out of toilet rolls two others had a diminished stock.  Of the two cut-price stores, one had a good display, the other had few and by the time Tom left, none at all.  He had systematically filled a black plastic bag to capacity.  Fighting the breeze he staggered to the bus station for the return journey with this burden.  It was not easy.  The bag split slightly as he passed a folded pushchair on the bus, while he wrestled with his bus pass to stow it away safely.  By the time he alighted, outside Faradise Park, he was quite tired.  The stiff breeze had whipped up, it was vicious now, making his burden even more difficult to manage as he made his way up the drive.  He was close to the main door when he heard someone calling him from some distance behind him.  He turned.  That was his undoing.  His grip on the black plastic bag loosened.  The breeze wrestled it from him.  Toilet rolls spilled all over the front of the Park.  The voices behind him became laughter.  Trying to retrieve some of these toilet rolls he fell and stayed there on the grass.  He was totally exhausted.

Hester and Mel had been behind him, each with a large full carrier bag loaded with toilet rolls.  They helped recapture his shopping and his dignity.  From everywhere people appeared to help him.  Suspicion of their motives made his thanks sound less gallant.  They’d all want a share.  He supposed he would have to let people in need benefit from his enterprise.  Would he charge for them?  Honestly why couldn’t people be more self-responsible?

Mimi appeared, which pleased him.  She always understood his feelings, even the most stupid feelings.

As soon as Tom left on his errand to the Co-op, Mimi darted out and up to the second floor to Marjorie’s flat.  Marjorie was pleased to see her, but had consumed

most of what was left in the bottle of wine she had opened that morning.  Her cheeks were bright red.  They sat down, as they had earlier.

‘I wondered if you had any further thoughts?’

‘Not really,’ Marjorie said ‘sorry.’

‘You see,’ Mimi continue, ‘being embarrassed is not really a choice.  You either go and ask Lena, or you don’t want that.  I mean, after all, Lena has Izzie living with her and has for a while now.’

‘Are they, you know – together?’  Marjorie, looking for distraction spied Tom crossing the park.

‘He’s going to buy toilet rolls in case there’s a long lockdown,’ Mimi said.  ‘Let’s concentrate on Rob.  Yes, Lena and Izzie are an item.’

‘Really?  I never guessed.’

‘I think it’s not a subject for speculation.  Would you like to be able to do that?’

‘Rob move in?  Yes, I wouldn’t want to move into his flat.  I know that.  This flat is such a wonderful gift, it really is.  I don’t want to do anything to lose it.’

‘Go down and ask Lena, straight away.’

‘But I haven’t asked Rob yet.’

‘There won’t be any point in asking Rob if she says no, will there?’

‘No, I suppose not.’  Marjorie sat staring out of the window.  She noticed two figures plodding along the driveway.  ‘Look,’ she said, ‘there’s Hester and Mel.’

‘Going shopping I expect. I expect. Possibly for toilet rolls.  Tom seemed obsessed by the possible shortage of toilet rolls.  I don’t know why.  I would have focussed on something else, wouldn’t you?’

‘Yes, long-life milk.’

* * *

Tom, struggling against the stiff breeze tried to make his way up the drive. People came to help him, but red-faced and defensive he did not want help.  Hester and Mel, also somewhere on the field, participating in this new sport, were laughing.  Hester, with her huge carrier bag, the enormous posh sort doled out by supermarkets as a bribe to gain custom and even loyalty, and the contents spilled.  

Mimi went to her aid.  Everyone else was helping Tom.  He, after all, had the most plunder.  Hester’s bag, Mimi noted, had not contained only toilet rolls.  Among those were a couple of packets of incontinence pads.  Mimi felt a pang of sorrow for Hester.  Everything happened to Hester.  Mimi grabbed the packets, shoved them into the carrier bag and disguised their presence with some packets of toilet rolls, then looked up at Hester to see if she realised Mimi had perceived her secret.  

Once up in Flat 4, Mimi made tea for the four friends.  They counted their harvest, as they insisted on calling it.

‘Mostly packets of four,’ Mel said.  ‘Some nines and a lot of odd ones, mostly yours, Tom, escapees from the black bag.  Altogether I reckon it is about one hundred toilet rolls.’

‘Is that all?’ Tom said, disappointed. ‘They won’t last long, will they?’

* * *

By late afternoon, Lena had observed that the chaos on the Park had cleared.  She was dealing with paperwork when Lucy Dean (her surname still not changed) appeared, breathless in the doorway of the office.

‘Lucy, hello.  How are things?’  Lena greeted her.

‘Not bad.’  Lucy edged her way into the office, she was now a full-time Care Assistant in Milton Faradise, the Extra Care extension.  She also, like Rob Hargreaves, was a regular volunteer to the Traveller’s Site.  They had been instrumental in helping to set up the permanent site, and had good relationships with the residents.  Daisy, Lucy’s particular protégée, at nearly fifteen, now attended Lucy’s once hated school.  

‘They are closing all the schools,’ Lucy said.  ‘Wouldn’t I have loved that?  What I need to know, Lena, is how will it affect my work, this lockdown?’

‘Not in the way it will affect schools,’ Lena replied.  ‘You should speak to Izzie about that.’  Izzie was the Senior Carer.  ‘She has all the information.  Don’t be afraid to confide in her if you have problems with the job.  And you might well have a few now.  Consult Rob about the Travellers and the Site.’  The phone rang.

‘I’ll leave you, Lena.  Just wanted to say hello.  And to tell you Daisy is going to do ‘O’ Levels next year.’

‘That’s wonderful.’  Lena turned her attention to the phone.

* * *

At two weeks into lockdown the residents of Faradise Park were beginning to be restless.  So were some of the staff.  

‘If I have any ore updates on Coronavirus’, Lena said, ‘from the Trust, I shall tear them up into little pieces’.  She shuffled irritably at papers on her desk.  A tall imposing red-head, Lena was middle-aged and under no circumstances now did she maintain a reassuring calm.  ‘It’s becoming ridiculous.  How can anyone expect older people to remember such details and changes?’

Izzie strolled across the office to her.  ‘You mean there’s more?’  She was a small, dark-haired, quiet woman.

‘Of course there are.  I expect it now.’

A tap on the door interrupted any thoughts either woman might have on Lockdown, Coronavirus or restless residents.

‘Come in,’ Lena called cheerfully.

Marjorie Lovelock entered as Izzie left.

‘Oh, thank goodness it’s you, Marjorie.  I feared it might be someone truly awful.’

Marjorie, who was feeling tense, relaxed and smiled as she was meant to do.  Lena gestured towards a chair adjacent to the desk.  ‘How can I help?’

‘I need to ask you something.’

‘About Coronavirus?  Go ahead.’

‘Well, it’s not really about Coronavirus.  But it’s about this wretched Lockdown.’  Marjorie’s breath was coming in nervous gasps.

‘Yes?’  Lena smiled and looked her in the eye.  She had a good idea of what was coming.  She had known Marjorie for over two years now, since she had arrived at Faradise Park.  Lena’s interest in the residents went beyond duty.

‘Go ahead,’ she said again to encourage the woman.  

Going ahead for Marjorie was far from easy.  ‘Lena, it’s like this.  I’ve – I’ve been seeing Rob Hargreaves for over two years now.  He lives in the village where he’s well-known and respected.  He had a lot to do with setting up the Traveller’s Site.’

Lena knew of Rob Hargreaves, his voluntary work at the Milton Stanwick Traveller’s Site and of the long-running relationship between him and Marjorie Lovelock.  She allowed Marjorie to finish her well-rehearsed speech.  

‘I’m asking you before I put the idea to him, just in case he doesn’t like it.’

‘Asking what precisely, Marjorie?’

‘If he could come to share my flat with me.’

‘I see,’ Lena said, observing Marjorie’s flaming face, ‘and where does this leave you if he doesn’t like it?’

‘I – I dread to think.’  Marjorie fiddled with the silk scarf looped around her neck.  ‘Certainly we would not be able to see each other for the duration of the Lockdown.’

‘You hadn’t thought of moving out of Faradise Park, and moving in with him?’

‘No.  Definitely not.  I value my little flat far too much.  It was like a gift from heaven.  I’d have to give it up, wouldn’t I?’

‘I’m glad.  I think Faradise Park has done a lot for you.  You most certainly would not be allowed to come back, the Trust does not look kindly on having two homes.  But let’s look at your favoured option, Rob coming here.  As you know residents coming here have to fulfil certain conditions.  We would have to work out if he qualified.’

‘And if he doesn’t qualify?’

‘That would be the end of the question.  Except for one circumstance.’

Marjorie suddenly sat up alert.  ‘What is that?’

‘If you were to marry.’

Marjorie stared, then burst into tears.  She stood up and made to leave.

‘Marjorie,’ Lena said, ‘send him to me if he is interested in moving in here.’

‘Don’t tell him that!’

‘I won’t.’  But Lena knew who would.

Author's note: 'Faradise Park does not exist, except in my imagination. It was my personal and inner response to a bad experience in a sheltered flats scheme where we were bullied out by homophobes.
The characters also do not exist and are not people who are real. There are three books about Faradise Park and the characters who live there:  Almost Paradise, Nothing Like Paradise and Planning for Paradise.'