Oh, RL has been a pain: the plot bunny stopped whispering and started nibbling on my 'puter instead, which scared all the electrons; they got on their megacycles and rode away, which resulted in my laptop having some sort of nervous fit (I thought that a 'bad sector' meant a piece of citrus fruit with a bit of mould on one bit), the file for this chapter becoming corrupted (getting it back – mostly – was an exercise akin to retrieving a coin through a drain grate with a piece of gum on the end of a bent stick), and the oven fritzing out. I'm pretty sure they're all related. Oh, and I cannot, CANNOT, for the life of me, refit the rubber boot properly around the headlight globe of the Flying Teapot. It's all most vexing. If I was just allowed to slap somebody stupid...
Chapter Nine
Sam spent the next couple of hours with George, taking care of the morning's housekeeping, then she introduced him to a care assistant named Angela.
"Angie will show you to Knitting Circle", George told him as they shook hands, "And youre in safe hands She's one of our most capable chaperones."
"Its great to have you on board," smiled Angie as they headed for the kitchen to arm themselves with the required supplies. "We seem to be perpetually short-staffed; attracting and keeping new starters is difficult."
"Is that because of the weird deaths?" asked Sam. "You know, the guy with his heart missing, and the guy with all his blood gone?"
"Oh, its terrible, isnt it?" confided Angie, "Some sort of terrible attacks on two of the admin staff members, but the authorities are at a total loss! And in a place where retired people live, too! What if its some sort of wild animal? If I lived here, Id be really worried about it, but theyre all so brave, not worried at all!"
"And a couple of suicides, too," prompted Sam, stacking plates on the trolley.
"You know, I'm not sure that they really were", mused Angie, carefully arranging cookies on a plate, "Intentional, I mean. The guy who ate himself to death? He was a man who liked his food. I mean, really really liked his food. It would've taken a hell of a lot to make his stomach rupture. Which is weird in any case. It should be physiologically impossible to eat yourself to death; when your stomach gets too full, you throw up, its one of the body's self-defence mechanisms. He must've had some disorder that interfered with that, a neuropathy, maybe."
"Well, I'm not planning on death by cookie anytime soon", he reassured her, "Or by any other, er, you know, unsavoury activity..."
"If you ask me, the other one was a fitting end," Angie told him, "There was something creepy about Roger. The Knitting Circle certainly didn't like him. One or two of them accused him of self-abuse, but we couldn't ever prove anything..."
"Well, people can be the weirdest animals", Sam commented, and she nodded her agreement.
"The Knitting Circle meet in one of the lounges", Angie informed him as they left the kitchen. "Really, all you have to do is keep the tea coming, keep the plates full, and maybe read for them, they like that. Oh, and don't mess with the stereo, or get involved in any dispute about it – there's a roster, and we've found its the best way to avoid any instances of drawn knitting needles at ten paces."
"I promise not to mess with anything I shouldn't," he smiled, pushing the trolley after her to a door where lively chatter leaked out and muffled music was audible, "But I'm glad that this establishment provides for a chaperone for the ladies, especially given the possible problem with Roger of course, I intend to behave completely professionally, and give you nothing to worry about..."
Angie gave him a knowing look as she pushed open the door. "Sam," she cocked an eyebrow, "Who told you I was here to chaperone them?"
It was a large light-filled room, with a selection of comfortable chairs and sofas, although some of the ladies sat in wheelchairs. They all appeared to be preoccupied with knitting and chatting, although two were enthusiastically singing along to Zeppelin's Bron-Y-Aur Stomp.
"Ladies!" Angie called, "Refreshments are here!"
The chatter ceased.
"Oh, good," announced one of the singing ladies sunnily, "I'll have a nice big piece of him, then!"
"Which piece do you think might be big?" asked another.
That was greeted with a certain number of groans, whoops and catcalls as Angie went on.
"Ladies," she continued, "This is Sam. He's just started as a Living Assistant, so play nice. No trying to scare off the new Gopher."
The ladies of the knitting circle called their greetings, and he heard several phrases, including "Hello, dear", "Nice to meet you", and "Fresh meat".
"Good morning, everyone," he smiled, and gave them a little wave, trying not to think about how he suddenly felt like a baby deer wearing a bacon jacket that had just pushed a trolley of liver into a wolves' den. "I'll, uh, try to learn everybody's tea and coffee preferences as soon as I can."
"If he asks 'Coffee, tea, or me?', I know what I'm going to pick", cackled one lady with evident satisfaction.
Another eyed him like an experienced butcher sizing up a prime carcass. "He's very... big, isn't he?" she announced. "Are you big everywhere, young man?"
"Er," Sam felt his face flush as Angie cut in.
"Now, ladies, what have we talked about before, regarding inappropriate comments?" she asked.
"That they're too much fun not to make!" supplied one lady cheerfully. "Oh, isn't he just adorable when he blushes?"
"Let's hope he lasts longer than some of the others", sighed one.
"He will, provided he behaves himself," another commented, not looking up from her knitting, "And you bunch of depraved beldames don't scare the boy to death. Now, what were you saying about Matron Schultz?"
"What?" The apparent informant appeared surprised. "Surely you heard about this morning. Everybody's heard about this morning!"
"Matron and a new resident were discovered in flagrante delicto," another supplied, as others murmured knowingly. "Three sugars for me, Sam, dear. Oh, are you all right?" the elderly lady's tone turned concerned as the teapot rattled in his hands against the cup, spilling some.
"Er, I'm fine, thank you," he stuttered, quickly mopping up the spill.
"Are you telling me that woman actually has a flagrante, and that there exists on this Earth a man game enough to try to delicto it?" asked the doubter suspiciously.
"I have it from a reliable witness," nodded the informant. "They were at it under one of the desks."
"Well, he works fast, is all I can say," sniffed another, sounding grudgingly impressed, "Arrived last night, and delicting her flagrante the next morning..."
"This isn't the first time they've met," intoned another lady, needles clacking, "He's an old flame of hers, apparently."
"He never is!" gasped the old dear beside her.
"Definitely," the first stated. "I have it from an impeccable source. They met during the first Gulf War – she was nursing, and she tended him after he was wounded by a rocket attack on a convoy..."
That's just what I heard," another added knowingly, "They fell for each other, then lost touch when they were both redeployed."
"They met up again in the second Gulf War," contributed another in a tone of certainty, "And I have it on best authority that when they did," her eyebrows did a remarkable Deanesque waggle, "They... rekindled their relationship."
"Well, that would certainly explain the blatant favouritism," opined another dowager as she crocheted ferociously, "Thundergusset didn't make a peep when he showed up at breakfast wearing his hat."
"She was probably too exhausted to protest after their little encounter in the bathroom," another silver-haired old dear positively leered, "Sylvia said that the noises she heard from his room didn't leave much to the imagination."
"Is that so?" asked the ferocious crocheter casually. "What did she hear, then?"
"Well, she said that there was a lot of banging, and a certain amount of thumping," was the reply, "And she swears, absolutely swears, that she heard him say, 'Give me a mark out of ten', but then she dropped the glass she had against the wall, and didn't get any details after that."
"What a pity it wasn't Maria," sighed an intent listener, "The clarity she can get by jamming her hearing aid up against the wall, it's just amazing."
"Cookies?" squeaked Sam, amazed at the way that the Chinese Whispers of the rumour mill in this place managed to travel at the speed of salacious.
He continued to pour tea, distribute cookies and plate out pieces of cake as the details of the tragically disrupted relationship between the plucky Army nurse and the veteran war hero were divulged, discussed and dissected. The sheer volume of sweet foodstuffs they managed to ingest was nothing short of astonishing.
"Oh, finally," sighed one old dear in relief as the Led Zeppelin playlist finished, "I thought we'd never get to the end of it."
"Says you," griped another, "Don't think I'll ever vote for that Justine Bieber garbage you like so much. Somebody should slap her until she shuts up."
"It was Justin Bieber," corrected the disliker of Zeppelin, "At least, the stuff we played last week was recorded before she had the surgery."
"Would've been the shortest sex change ever performed," cackled the Zeppelin fan.
"I think her voice was probably actually deeper afterwards," suggested a third.
There was a certain amount of bickering about the musical tastes of the Knitting Circles members, until one of them suggested it might be nice to have some reading. "Would you be up to it, Sam, dear?" she asked. "It would be better than listening to these crazy old cows complain about each other's musical tastes."
"I'd be happy to do that," nodded Sam eagerly, thinking that anything would have to be better than listening to a group of elderly ladies talk about an ageing pop princess's gender reassignment surgery. "I see you have a wide selection of actual books here," he went on, indicating the shelves. "Is there anything in particular you'd like? Oh, Lord Of The Rings was always a favourite of mine, there's Huckleberry Finn here, The Princess Bride is really funny..."
"Actually, I have a new reader," one of the ladies announced, waving a late edition piece of hardware, "And my granddaughter helped me to transfer my favourites, and download a whole lot of new stuff!"
"That's great!" said Sam, taking the item and eyeing it appreciatively. "Oh, wow, you have some wonderful books here, To Kill A Mockingbird, The Catcher In The Rye, The Count Of Monte Cristo, Frankenstein, Brave New World, Wuthering Heights..."
"Do you have the one we were listening to? Can we pick that up again?" enquired a knitter, as several other ladies murmured their agreement. "The one set in historic England, about the young woman who wanted to be with the young man that her family adopted, but her brother didn't approve? It was terribly dramatic, and terribly romantic."
"Oh, yes," answered she of the brand new digital toy, "Just pick it up at the bookmark, Sam."
"Okay," he smiled, tapping at the screen a couple of times; Wuthering Heights and the work of the Bronte sisters hadn't been his favourite books, but in his limited experience, women often seemed to enjoy the tragic yet stalwart heroines that peopled their novels. He cleared his throat as the screen filled with text, and began to read.
"The second the door closed behind him, he was across the room, sweeping her into his arms. Their kiss was brutal, passionate, and everything she had dreamed of. His chest heaved as he deftly removed her bra with one hand, her nipples stiffening with desire as she felt the insistent stiffness of his hardening cock against her hip... WHAT?"
"That's the one," confirmed the story's requestor.
He looked up, eyes bugging in horror, to see the members of the Knitting Circle smiling and nodding encouragement.
"But... but..." Sam spluttered, checking the file, which came up as The Master's Mistress. "It's... this isn't Wuthering Heights! Oh God..."
"Of course not!" scoffed the tablet's owner, "Who has time for that whining fainting little emo who can't do anything more interesting than cry dramatically?"
"There's not even any heaving of her bosom," derided another. "And there's no nudity to speak of."
"I like the Black Sheets publisher's stories better than No-Pants Romance ones," declared her neighbour, "The sex scenes are much more interestingly described."
"Do keep going, Sam, you have a lovely reading voice," encouraged a smiling lady, as the others nodded eagerly.
His eyes darted around the room; he was trapped. Unwillingly, his gaze was drawn back to the awful text – there was definitely nudity to speak of. At length, in fact. The author was one of those writers of mass market erotica who had decided that the audience wasn't so much interested in the quality of the nudity if the quantity was sufficient.
Reminding himself that he was on a job, and that he'd heard worse in the Cage when Lucifer insisted on reading his love-letters from Hel out loud, he began to read, hoping that the blushing wouldn't set off the fire sprinklers.
...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...
Most of the clubs, societies and activities at Twilight Towers were organised and run by the residents. The Birdwatching Club was one of those. The gentleman who'd organised it and led the club's activities - nicknamed Professor Birdbrain so long ago that many of his fellow residents weren't exactly sure what his name actually was - had been a keen ornithologist all his life, having spent a lifetime in academia producing learned treatises on birdlife with an earnestness that had at times worried even his fellow professional nerds in the Zoology department. He was therefore thrilled when some of his irregular members showed up, and brought along a new person.
"Welcome, welcome!" he trilled, just like one of the objects of his fascination, "Always great to see a new face!"
"Well, this club comes highly recommended," smiled Dean, "So I couldn't resist."
"Excellent!" The Professor Birdbrain led his straggling party of would-be birdwatchers through the grounds, "It's a perfect day for seeking out some fine specimens!"
"Definitely the weather for it," agreed Mike, peering up at the blue sky.
They finally shuffled, rolled and limped to a halt on a rise in the gardens, surrounded by areas of shrubbery. "This spot is good because it is an elevated position, with a good view of the most of the surrounding grounds," intoned the Professor in the voice he had most likely used on at least three generations of undergraduates, "And now that the weather is warming up, we may expect to see certain species re-appearing. For example, if you will train your binoculars on that copse to our left..."
At Mike's nudging, Dean followed his indication to an irregular gap in the foliage.
"What happened there?" Dean asked.
"Oh, we spent a day with the Gardening Club," explained Ian cheerfully.
"Pruning Week," added Rudolph, lifting his own binoculars.
The Professor was right. The small hill gave an excellent view of most of the grounds. The gap in the foliage gave a better oversight of the lower gardens, the croquet lawn, and the pool.
Where the aquaerobics class were apparently taking advantage of the pleasant weather to do their class outside on such a nice day.
"Oh yeah," mused Dean, focusing, "A great spot for birdwatching."
"Now, at this time of the year, many species will be preparing to nest," the Professor went on, "During the colder months, while food has not been abundant, they will have done their best to maintain physical condition..."
"Some of them have definitely worked hard to maintain their physical condition," noted Mike, as the birdwatching group focused on the pool.
"Preparation to nest can manifest as colourful plumage for purposes of display..."
"Display, yeah," muttered Dean, noting a particularly plunging neckline. "That definitely counts as display."
"... And this may also involve... what have you found, Dean?" asked the Professor cheerfully.
Dean gave him a brilliant smile without dropping his binoculars. "Well, I'll need conformation from my fellow watchers here, but I'm pretty sure that I've spotted a pair of great tits."
"Ah, no, that's not possible," the Professor smiled indulgently, "Great Tits is not found in North America..."
"I beg to differ," grinned Mike.
"I think I've spotted a pair of dusky tits," announced Rudolph.
"No, Rudolph," the Professor shook his head, "You must be confusing them with..."
"I'd say those were striped tits," Ian noted, "She must've fallen asleep sunbathing too close to the railings of the balcony again..."
"No, no, no," the Professor started to sound annoyed, "The genus Melaniparus simply is not found in North America, gentlemen..."
"Oh, oh, oh, guys! Guys! Look!" Ian nudged his co-watchers. "Look! Carolina's tits!"
"Look, the terminology for Poecile carolinensis is the Carolina Chickadee," the Professor said snippily as they all muttered in appreciation at a very brief bikini.
"Call me a sad old man," sighed Rudolph, "But there's something just inexplicably beautiful about the sight of a pair of attractive boobies."
"Now you're just being silly, Rudolph," the Professor sounded positively peeved, "We are way too far from the sea to get boobies here, it must be a seagull that's been blown off course, or migrated to a garbage dump..."
"Amen," replied Dean. "You'll know I'm dead once I'm no longer able to enjoy a nice day like this, and say, wow, that's an impressive pair of hooters."
"Where?" asked the Professor, suddenly sounding anxious. "If an owl is out at this time of the day, it may be injured – we should contact a wildlife rescue group..."
They sat enjoying their birdwatching for another half an hour until the class finished.
"Well, I gotta say guys, you were right," smiled Dean, turning to shake the Professor's hand. "Thank you for a most enlightening morning."
"Oh, er, well, I'm glad you enjoyed it," the old man blinked and smiled, "Although I think you really might get more out of it if you'd learn to recognise some of the local species properly – I have some documents from the American Ornithologists' Union that I could download for you, and their website is very useful..."
"So, what now?" asked Dean. "My personal preference would be to go and introduce myself to Carolina..."
Before any of the others could answer, there was a scream from the direction of the pool.
Dean set off as quickly as he could, given the difficulty in manoeuvring a wheelchair across the grounds, but he was one of the first on the scene.
A cluster of the ladies who had been doing aquaerobics were huddled together, comforting one, who was presumably the screamer, as a couple of staff members tried to herd them back towards the main building.
"What happened?" asked Dean, "Is somebody hurt?"
"Sir, please go back inside," said an orderly politely but firmly. "The police have been notified, and we want everybody to stay away, in case this is declared a crime scene."
Dean followed the orderly's inadvertent gaze to a garden bed.
A man wearing a Twilight Towers uniform was sprawled in the shrubbery.
Well, most of him, anyway.
Ermahgerd, that was a long one - prodding the bunny must've had the desired effect. Come on, everybody, get out those metaphorical pointy sticks! You can't clam up now, you miserable rodent!
Reviews are the Relaxing Novel Readings/Educational Field Trips With The Winchester Of Your Choice (At The Age Of Your Choice) On The Sunny Morning Of Life!
