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What will
today's gig turn out to be? I turn off the engine, tuck the road map
into its pocket. So this is the Rest Home! It is small and tucked away
in an inner suburb of smog city of sprawled and heartless urbanity flocked
to by thousands. They ignore the hours spent idling on motorways, the
violence, the racism, the poor, the oppressed, and ..... God, what isn't
wrong with the place?
People who come here need their heads read!
But I came
here. It was my choice. Or was it choice?
This is where the work was. The work has gone but I remain.
Nowadays you can be Yuppie here. You can live in an inner city apartment
which has just had its sea view built out by a new high rise. You can
touch it from your kitchen window! and you can breakfast in breakfast
bars, eat at Macdonald's, wine and dine through joy to oblivion, flounce
your sex, be in fashion. Oh to be in fashion!
The world
is yours. Never a trace of reality, the good earth, the source of what
you eat. It is of not the least concern. Only dollars, dollars and vivacity
all the way.
How the
head aches. Must be the greatest time we ever had! But these folk have
passed that. These "up and comers"' of their day are hobbled.
Their
hair is light against the orange brick facade. Inside is warm as tropics.
They need it but it is too hot for the younger. And there is a smell
of "slightly off".
A huge TV screen looks blankly at you from a wall. There is a picture
of the Last Supper beside it of benign Jesus at a long table, with the
disciples. It is a different age.
We in our small troupe of six are diffident! We are in strange surroundings.
Three women in white dresses with plaids and three men in kilts. Kilts
of varying tartans. There should be eight of us but only six could come
today. We sidle up the corridor timid for the unknown. Rhona who leads
knocks at a door.
She is
nervy. A South African woman welcomes us. (I have to add white or you
will think otherwise.) Evidently she drew the short straw for this Sunday.
She ushers us into the locker room with a toilet across one end. We
change into our ghillies, shed our overwear, walk through the complexities
of the six dances we will perform. There is some pre-stage toiletting.
It is the most suitable room they have. Rhona and a couple of the others
tremble, visibly nervous. Yet they need not for not much rides upon
this, it is just another gig to provide variety for some of our Senior
Cits. We do this every now and then.
The South
African lady knocks and asks if we mind if the accordionist plays first.
There will be an accordionist and a pianist. He was to have gone first,
she second. Now they are swapping places. Immaterial to us, we go out
and listen. She looks ancient but stands solidly upright on her own
and pumps out some of the good oldies like Isa Lei, Waiata Poi. The
sound and the spirit of the music is good if occasionally a little over-emphasised.
The South African lady cues the applause at appropriate times and desultory
clapping follows.
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It is time
for our first bracket of 3 dances. We are introduced and Rhona gives
a few words before starting the tape player. The audience seems to like
what we do. Some are asleep, some look out the window; but that is what
you expect. A few smile or tap to the beat and that is good. It is success
to add something, anything, to these lives. We march out to one side.
The dining room is a continuation of the lounge.
There is
a man there on his own well separated from the rest. A high walking
frame is by him. It has arm rests that he could rest on even while standing.
I speak to him. He asks me if I ever have trouble with my underpants?
He says
"Don't they fall down?" No, I have never had any trouble.
Actually the place where I have that trouble is on my boat, the last
resting place for underwear with its elastic boiled limp in successive
launderings. Perhaps that is what they do to this poor fellow, perhaps
they lie crumpled around his crotch all day. Visions of dancing with
underpants looped around the ankles float before my eyes and I silently
thank God for new Jockeys!! He cannot tell me what is wrong with him
and thinks God took a pot shot. His conversation is not straightforward.
The pianist
is playing now and is very listenable. I enjoy it. No doubt he was very
good in his hey day. Again tunes suit the era of the audience and end
with "Don't Cry for me Argentina" which he particularly likes
and plays his best. Applause is cued and then we are introduced for
our second bracket. Rhona still nervy gives a few details of the dance
and tries the music to set volume and tempo. Alas a calamity.
Only a few bars of her recording are left on the tape! Embarrassment!.
We omit
that dance and carry on with the rest of the bracket. We are supposed
to whoop in the last circle of the day but only Rhona does so. We are
all retiring personalities. The lone female whoop sounds strange. Similar
applause but we can see the old Scots among the audience have appreciated
both the dancing and the music.
The lady
presents our group and the other performers with small cards with art
work by one of the elderly who is acknowledged. She did well, a good
artist and craftsperson. An Indian lady from the kitchen brings in tea
and some chocolate cake which is dispensed with tongs by the SA lady.
She is very tired and later wilts visibly when I offer to help her carry
some chairs. No doubt it is a very demanding job looking after this
lot all day.
From time
to time a beeping sounds like a mobile telephone but there is no sign
of what it is for. It is ignored. All of us share a cuppa and some cake
with the audience. Some, probably many, are in their 90s. The Indian
puts out bread on to the dinner tables. The tired lady brings walkers
and puts them before quite a few. We collect our things ready to leave.
As we move out a loud voice says "Do you have trouble with your
underpants?"
Gordon Reynolds (c)
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