How to kidnap an elderly lady from a care home and not get caught |
After a long discussion at the toaster in our kitchen, it was clear that Genghis did indeed want me to help him kidnap Mrs Davison from her care home and Fionnuala, my wife, was so trusting of her mad uncle that she thought it was a good idea.
“It is a nice thing that he wants to do, Fabien,” she said.
“Fionnuala, this woman has nothing to do with us. She’s Genghis’s neighbour, not ours.”
“She needs help.”
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“Help? She’s perfectly happy in the care home. What the actual hell is going on?”
Actually, that thought had crossed my mind the last time I had popped in to see Mrs Davison.
Normally so vibrant and well turned out – any time I had run into her, she smelled beautiful, perfumed to perfection – the care home version of Mrs Davison was pale and wan, her dowdy pyjamas and sad slippers adding to the grey aura.
She was in a wheelchair and looked as if the energy had been stolen from her.
One time I was in her house dropping off groceries, she had danced around the kitchen; not like the 80-year-old she was, but like a cool, middle-aged woman with funky grooves. She sipped a glass of red wine and popped flowers in a vase like the star of a noir film, and I was mesmerised by her joie de vivre.
She reminisced about her late husband Herbie, an English teacher (like myself), and how they cultivated a bohemian life here in Tyrone, seemingly at odds with all the farmers surrounding them.
She told me about lying on the bearskin rug in front of the fire and I pictured her younger self giggling with her handsome man.
I had seen the great books on the shelves, the modern paintings on the walls and the music coming from a proper vintage Hi-Fi system with floor-standing, expensive speakers.
Her house in that fleeting moment was like a haven for me and gave me hope that I was not alone here in my love of culture.
Yet she fell unexpectedly, broke her hip, and was now in a care home awaiting news of an operation, for she has no-one to look after her.
As far as I could tell, that wasn’t my problem. If anything, it magnified the guilt I felt for not spending more time with my mother in Belfast.
Why? Well, because she got trapped in time when my father died and she makes me feel terrible when I’m with her. There, I said it. She very quickly sinks me down to her state of moroseness and it takes me days to recover.
Mrs Davison makes me feel good – even in the care home. I have visited her three times (under duress, admittedly) but I left each visit with a spring in my step.
Her sense of humour and kindness were like a mini-therapy session but I admit, I did feel a tad guilty sailing off into the sunset with a “See you soon”. Leaving her alone and vulnerable and maybe a little frightened. Her with nothing in common with the other residents as far as I could tell, like a film star that nobody recognised, fading into black and white before my eyes.
This was why Genghis was attempting to rope me into a scheme that was not only far-fetched but possibly illegal, as I pointed out.
“Don’t talk dung. She’s entitled to go home if she wants.”
“She hasn’t said she wants that.”
“That’s because she has too much manners. Obviously, she wants that.”
“She hasn’t a care package in place.”
“We can sort that all out.”
“Who?” I knew I was losing.
“Her friends and neighbours. It’s a small thing.”
I sighed and said I would help – after all, she has no-one else but us.
Genghis downed the last of his tea and looked at me crookedly.
“Oh, she has someone else all right. A son, an optician in England.”
“And why the hell isn’t he here helping?”
Genghis smiled. “That’s why we’re kidnapping Mrs Davison. We’re gonna smoke him out.”
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