Young At Heart

This was a finalist in a short story competition using the Millennium as a subject and I wrote about a lady with a very special birthday....

As the clock struck midnight on December 31^st, Dorrie shifted to a more comfortable position in her bed.  In the distance she could hear the faint chimes of ‘Little Ben’ the Guildhall clock ringing in the New Year.  Nearby hooters sounded on the high seas of the Solent; down the road people were laughing, talking and singing ‘Auld Lang Syne.’  Dorrie wished she could sleep, but, as always the night before her birthday, rest eluded her.

“I don’t know lass; you’d think it was the Queen’s birthday the way you carry on!”

Dorrie smiled.  She could still hear her Albie’s chuckle as he planted a kiss on her cheek, then gave her a birthday card and present.  Well it was special, to be born on the first day of the year.

'New year, new start' her dear old mum used to say.

But there would be no Albie to give her many happy returns, not for twenty odd years since.  Dorrie thought it was strange how Albie had survived both World Wars, and then was sent off by that silly flu.  Now she felt alone.  Life wasn’t much fun at the St Romaine Rest Home in Sotherton. She had one or two friends, of course.  Mrs Morris, who knitted incessantly, but played a mean game of gin rummy, Betty, an old school friend and Josie, the nice young Care Assistant with who she got on very well and shared a joke or two.  Josie always listened very patiently to her stories.  She had been there to wipe away the tears Dorrie had shed when talk had turned to Albie.

“He sounded like a real laugh, your hubby.”

“Aye, he was that, a rascal, but I did love him.”

“There, there Mrs H, here get that hot chocolate down you and you’ll soon feel better.”

 Trying to settle, Dorrie thought about the day.  It had been an eventful one.  At breakfast she received a birthday telegram from the Queen;

“A day early, but then she is a busy woman; just a note to say well done for still breathing, so my Albie would say.”

Mrs Morris spluttered on her cornflakes and Betty giggled in her high-pitched way.  Miss Jackson the Matron, however, gave Dorrie one of her ‘looks’.  Well, thought Dorrie, it’s not every day you reach 105.  She may not be quick on her feet any more but her mind was as sharp as ever.

“Humph! Trust old happy Annie putting dampers on things as usual.”

Miss Jackson had earned her nickname from the dour and cheerless way she administered her duties in the Home, and wasn’t particularly popular with the ‘inmates’ as they called themselves. The second surprise had been the appearance of a pretty blonde reporter from the local newspaper.  Apparently Dorrie was something of a minor celebrity.

“We’re going to run a story on you Mrs Hutchins, to coincide with the New Year celebrations. Now if you could tell me a bit about yourself, background, etc then I’ll piece it all together when I get back to the office.”

“Well fancy me being in the papers! Wish my dear old mum and dad were here to see this. Tickled pink they would have been.”

“Now Mrs Hutchins, if you’d like to start when you’re ready, and do please stop any time you feel you want to catch your breath or take a break.”

The reporter beamed. Yes, thought Dorrie, I’m going to enjoy this.  This lass seemed nice, not how she’d expected and clearing her throat, she began to recount about her life:

“I can see my mother now, dressed in black, in our little house in Banbury Street, weeping; and then my father putting his arm around her and gravely telling my brothers and sisters and I that Her Majesty, Queen Victoria had passed away.  I was six and only vaguely remembered the celebrations of her diamond jubilee, but the others were older and got quite upset too. The atmosphere was quiet down the street and some of the dockies even went to her funeral in London. 

Life soon brightened up, though, when the Hutchins moved in next door.  That was my first meeting with Albie…”

Dorrie broke off for a moment, the emotion welling up in her throat.

“Was he your husband, Mrs Hutchins?”

The reporter’s tone was soothing and Dorrie recovered herself.

“Yes, he was.”

“Have you got any stories about him you can tell me?”

“A few, if you’ve got the time, lass.”

“Of course, in fact people like a bit of romance, it would be a good angle for the story.  So when was your first meeting?”

Dorrie smiled as she recalled the day:

“I was out in our garden, playing.  It was a warm spring day and I was skipping. Suddenly this cheeky face popped over the wall and said ‘All right carrot-top, got any liquorice?’ I ignored him and walked off with my nose in the air; I wasn’t going to talk to that grubby boy I thought, but then I thought better of it and peeped back.  Grinning broadly, he was balancing on the wall, whistling.  When he fell off I screamed and scrambled up to see what had happened. He was lying still on the ground. ‘Oh please don’t be dead, don’t be dead’ I sobbed.  Then he opened an eye and winked.  I let out a hiccupy giggle and I was lost.  We both went to the same school, St George’s Primary then Sotherton High.  We didn’t half get up to some naughty stuff together.  Knock the door and run away, powwows with the other kids in my dad’s shed. Oh and that poor puppy that Albie decided to put on the gramophone; it had us all in stitches when it wobbled off down the garden afterwards. Then he grew into a handsome young man; loads of girls threw their caps at him but it was me he chose; used to call me his bottle of cherry fizz on account of my red hair and fiery temperament. When he asked me to marry him I said yes without any hesitation.”

“Did you have any children?”

“Yes, a boy and two girls.  My hubbie used to call us the tribe.  We moved into a little place in Ayling Street we’d saved hard for from Albie’s job as a Roustabout at the Docks.  Every Easter we all packed off to the seaside as a treat.  The kids loved it.  Saw through two World Wars we did, hubbie fighting in the First and my son Eddie in the Second. Of course my proudest moment was when our oldest daughter Ruth got her degree from Sotherton University; first in our family to do it.  Her grandparents were around to see it too.  All the kids are wed and I’ve got grandkids and great grandkids to spin yarns to now.”

Dorrie was starting to wilt a little so Josie offered to make a cup of tea for everyone.  Whilst they drank it, the reporter checked her notes.

“Your husband was quite a character wasn’t he?”

“You can say that again; I nearly had kittens the day he want and bought a motorbike; used to do acrobatics on it. He told me once that the engine got so hot you could scramble eggs on the exhaust; and I believed him!”

The reporter and Josie laughed.

“Go on, tell us some more.”

Dorrie was rallying a bit as the tea had revived her.

“During World War Two, the night Jerry bombed the Guildhall, Albie was down there watching it go up in flames, taking pictures!  Another time a neighbour gave us some rabbits they couldn’t look after; when they asked how they were some days later, my hubbie answered ‘Delicious!’ We had eaten them for supper!”

The reporter smiled warmly.

“I suppose you must have seen many changes then, Mrs Hutchins?”

“I have that.  What with motor cars, aeroplanes, wars, women getting the vote, different governments, rationing, The Beatles, mini-skirts in and out of fashion and those computer things; took it all in my stride though.”

“I bet you did, and how do you feel about today’s technology?”

“Well I don’t mind those video phones too much; it’s nice to see my grandkids faces once every so often, but I’m not so sure about that virtual stuff; I prefer reality myself.”

“What about the mono-rail and the new pleasure complex at the Harbour?”

“Nice enough, but I still prefer the old Pier and I was glad when they brought the tram system back.”

Josie had proudly told Dorrie of how her dad had been one of the first to take part in donating his used car for recycling; this was in exchange for a share in the new transport company who were already doing well on the stock market. Dorrie was pleased to see they had kept the old designs, although computers now planned the route; a small compromise to keep up with the times.

The reporter finished her tea and took up her pad again.

“Are you planning a party for tomorrow Mrs Hutchins?”

“I’m hoping to have a bit of a bash…”

Matron then stuck her oar in:

“Mrs Hutchins will be having a quiet tea party with one or two members of her family.  She is over a hundred you know.”

“A wake more like,” muttered Dorrie under her breath; the reporter and Josie stifled a giggle.

There was one of the Matron’s famous ‘looks’ but it was worth it.

“Well Mrs Hutchins, I’ve really enjoyed our chat. Watch out for it in the paper won’t you.”

Dorrie nodded.  She would get Josie to clip it out for her to keep and add to her souvenirs box; she showed them again to the young care assistant as she tucked Dorrie up in bed that night.

“Not much to show for over a century of living, but there you go.  Perhaps I should donate it to the Museum.  After all it is living history.”

“Ah but you’re living local history Mrs H.”

“Aw get away with you!”

As usual Josie had said the right thing.  But here Dorrie was, still awake.  Must have been that nip of brandy Mrs Morris had secretly popped into the cocoa.

“But it is nearly my birthday.”

“Bit quiet for you though Cherry Fizz, isn’t it.”

Dorrie often thought she could hear Albie’s voice when she felt a bit low…but wait a minute? There was Albie at the bottom of her bed, grinning at her!

Dorrie rubbed her eyes.

“Albie, is that you?”

“Hello, Fizz. How’s about coming with me? Then we can have a real party”

“Oh yes please!  I have missed you Albie.  Anyway that would teach Happy Annie!”

“Come on then, my darling.”

As Dorrie slipped out of bed and took his hand, she knew this was going to be the best birthday ever…

 

THE END