Time had come up with all sorts of thingamabobs and whatsits to keep Auntie Maureen occupied, right up to her mid-nineties. Eventually, as was inevitable, it ran out of ideas.
My nine-year-old twin daughters, Sarah and Faith, couldn’t remember a time when they hadn’t known Auntie Maureen with her huge collection of teddy bears, some almost as old as her; they’d been to the charity coffee mornings she helped out with; it had become traditional that she’d come with us to the Forres garden centre for a bowl of Cullen Skink. So now, going to visit her in an old people’s home was not just sad, it was incomprehensible and frightening.
We were up in Moray for our annual summer stay in Findhorn. The weather was nice, warm enough for people to sit out in the sandstone building’s well-maintained and colourful garden, so why was it deserted like the grounds of the castle in ‘Beauty and the Beast’? The sky was clear, yet a cold chill seemed to pass through us as though a large black bird had covered the sun.
The lady at reception assured us that Auntie Maureen was settling in nicely and had just finished her lunch, sponge pudding and all. She could get a little bit confused, but, ‘You’ll know about that. Yes?’ She gave the girls a sympathetic smile. ‘She can’t wait to see you, two. Such a fine old lady.’
Faith chewed her lower lip and Sarah held in check any expression tempted to slip onto her face. We entered a high-ceilinged room with rows of armchairs facing a wall-mounted TV that had the sound turned down. Easy listening music played through a single speaker high up in one of the corners of the room. My girls’ eyes scampered furtively over the old folk slouched into those armchairs, some looking at the silent screen, some fast asleep, some staring at nothing in particular. It must have seemed to little ones like a dark enchantment had been cast over the place.
Auntie Maureen was in good spirits, sitting with her back to the wall that the TV was mounted onto. She had a round table next to her on which was a plate of biscuits and a jug of juice. She looked well, much brighter than she’d been the last time we’d seen her in her home. She appeared to be completely aware of her current situation, happy enough with it, almost back to her old self. Almost.
‘How are you liking it here?’ asked Kaitlyn, my wife.
‘I’m fine.’
‘You’ve got everything you need?’ asked Kaitlyn’s sister, Janice.
‘Oh yes. I’ve got my own room, I get three meals a day, and they keep me supplied with biscuits and fruit and all the booze I can drink.’
I disguised a laugh as cough. Sarah and Faith gave me a reprimanding look of the intensity that only small girls can manage.
‘Are you sure about that, Maureen?’
‘Oh yes. They disguise it as raspberry juice.’ She indicated the jug on the table. ‘And it’s strong stuff. Whoof!’
More general chat followed, about how she was feeling, had she watched anything good on the telly – ‘I like that ‘Pointless’ programme, but I never know any of the answers’ – that sort of thing.
I left the small talk to Kaitlyn and Janice, so I was first to notice the worried expression on Faith and Sarah’s faces. I looked to where they were looking and saw a wrinkled wee woman in her old lady skirt and blouse walking toward us. I also noticed that an upbeat song, Connie Francis’ ‘Stupid Cupid’, was playing through the speaker.
Faith looked at me, worried, as the old woman stopped silently in front of her. Sarah looked relieved, suddenly alive with interest.
I shrugged my shoulders. How was I meant to know what to do?
The woman smiled and raised her arms directly in front of Faith, palms up. She nodded, indicating that she wanted Faith to put her hands in hers. We were all watching now, though nobody had any advice to offer.
There was nothing else for it. Faith put her hands into those of the old woman who smiled and began to bend her knees in time to the music, her upper body twisting from side to side as far as her ancient tendons would allow. As they were holding hands, Faith had no choice but to move as well. She looked lost at first, but then she began to bend her knees, shuffling her feet as she upped the tempo of the twisting. The woman’s eyes sparkled, and when she let go of one of Faith’s hands, my daughter knew exactly what to do. She lifted the joined hands up high and twirled round and under her partner’s arm, then twisted back the other way and stepped back, throwing her arm out to the side. The woman did the same with her free arm, though not quite with the grace and ease of movement that Faith had, but it was clear that once upon a time she’d learned how to jive. As she danced now, the shimmering glow from the TV covered her in a wash of movement and colour that seemed to have danced its way from the past into this moment, obliterating the years between her and girl who complimented her steps and patterns.
The music changed to a slow tempo song by Perry Como and the woman shrank back into the shape that Time had slowly worked her into. Sher dropped her arms to her sides, said nothing, and returned to her seat.
When we were leaving she looked and smiled, giving a little wave. Faith paused and smiled back, then followed us out. As we left I was sure I could feel something strange in the atmosphere. I tell myself it was probably just the residue that magic leaves behind.