Simon’s purported helplessness was disappointing, for it now looked as if no one would rescue them from the outside. But then, amongst Cyril’s favourite films wasn’t only the tragically messianic Cool Hand Luke, but The Shawshank Redemption.
Triumphing over distaste, Kay steadily ingratiated herself with Dr Mimi. Breaking the director down was tricky, because the woman was ensconced in multiple layers of phony sweetness, like a sugar-free jawbreaker. So Kay started with the obvious, admiring the garish designer suits and gaudy jewellery. She remarked in concern, “Are you eating all right? You look like you’ve lost weight.” At Halloween, she feigned enthusiasm for the pumpkin carving contest, and never complained about having to sculpt her own entry with a plastic spoon. She commiserated over how wearing it must have been to lavish so much compassion on a population that rarely even said thank you. She bemoaned the fact that Dr Mimi was still so young and vibrant, and here she was exhausting her youth amongst the aged and infirm. She made collusive comments about a rebellious new admission who refused to participate in group activities but who would soon learn who was boss. After suggesting a print (something slashing and pretentious from Abstract Expressionism) and choice of rug (something shaggy with bits hanging off that feigned to be fabric art), Kay became her advisor on the redecoration of Dr Mimi’s office.
The lubrication of obsequiousness soon loosened the administrator’s tongue.
“It seems we’re to be invaded Sunday week by a band of Smurfs, of all things!” Dr Mimi said, as Kay measured her window for blinds on the cusp of spring. “Some silly Belgian comic book has triggered a rage for fancy dress, and some of these groups have taken pledges for charity. I’m told all they’ll do is leap about the corridors flinging sweets. I’d refuse permission, except they’ll also make a substantial financial contribution to Close of Day Cottages. I don’t mind telling you: I’ve often to reach into my own pocket to make ends meet, and a refund is more than overdue.”
“That’s frightfully generous of you to put up with such antics for our sake,” Kay said. “In your place, heavens, my patience and good will would run clean out.”
* * *
With the aid of The Smurf’s Apprentice in the day room, Kay had her template. During Arts and Crafts, she pocketed pots of red and blue poster paint, as well as a packet of black pipe cleaners for the outsize glasses. She nicked cotton wool from a medical trolley; from housekeeping, she filched a yellow mop head. The foreign laundry circulating through their chambers netted two blue shirts, one pair of red men’s trousers, and a pair of white leggings. For the hats with distinctive bloops at the tips, she swiped a couple of watch caps from the staff coat cupboard and bound a ball of socks in each crown. She drilled Cyril in advance that if they were caught, they were only participating in group activities, like good senior citizens.
The day the Smurfs descended, residents were allowed from their private suites to gawp along the corridors. As the costumed troupe exuberated down the hall singing, the youngsters tossed boiled sweets on either side, for which fitter residents happily scrambled. Face and hands painted blue, mouth smeared red, head draped with the yellow mop head and topped with the watch cap and its dangling sock bloop, Kay slipped into the visitors’ manic parade wearing the white leggings and blue top. The hardest part at eighty with toe arthritis was to spring along the corridor in a convincing imitation of still being twenty-two. But the “la-la-la!” lyrics were easy enough to master, and she’d been practising her intonation in sing-alongs.
Once Kay threaded out with the rest of the troupe into the sunshine, the challenge was not to cry. But there wasn’t time for exhilaration. When she spotted Cyril in his sagging white beard and ill-fitting red pants, it was obvious that their ad hoc getups wouldn’t stand up to scrutiny in broad daylight. Besides, the young people piling garrulously into a coach all knew one another. And throwing themselves on the mercy of the revellers would be too risky. These innocents knew nothing of Close of Day Cottages; assuming the old dears had lost their wits, the Good Samaritans would turn them in. Shooting a bitter glance at the institution whose exterior she hadn’t laid eyes on since they arrived, Kay grabbed her husband and pulled him behind a skip. The coach drove off.
They had no idea where they were. But by five p.m. they’d be missed at dinner, so time was short. Battling to the other side of a hedge, they struck across a patch of scrubland towards the drone of traffic. They scuttled up a hillock, to discover the very epitome of Western liberty: the motorway. But Kay’s heart sank. With no services in sight, it was a smart motorway, whose hard shoulder, once a refuge, was an active lane. That made pulling over for hitchhikers the kiss of death, and that was assuming anyone would stop for an elderly couple painted blue.
“We have to get out of this vicinity double quick!” Cyril said, trying to catch his breath. Seated hokey cokey hadn’t improved his stamina. “Or they’ll send out the goons and haul us right back! After all, we hardly look inconspicuous.”
“And how would you feel about being trapped there again?” Kay shouted over the rush of traffic, looking into his eyes.
“I think you know.”
She kissed him deeply, the way they used to kiss for hours when they were courting, and
