He smoothed at the creases on the page. ‘It’s too difficult to think of weaknesses.’
‘It’s easy when you put your mind to it.’ Miss Ambrose lifted her coat from the back of a chair. ‘I needed an extra side of A4.’
After she’d left, Simon flicked through the rest of the form. Miss Bissell said Personal Development Planning was all the rage. ‘It helps us to be more aware,’ she said. ‘More in tune with our minds.’
Simon wasn’t sure his mind played a tune he especially wanted to listen to. He looked at the other sections. There was a whole page devoted to goals. Short-term, medium-term and long-term.
Replace roof tiles on day room, he wrote in the short-term section, then he crossed it out and moved it to medium. It was better to be realistic.
Being realistic, he wrote in the strengths section. He smiled. Perhaps it wasn’t as difficult as he’d thought it was going to be. He had a look at the last page.
How do you make a difference to those around you?
Simon scratched his head with the end of the pen.
How do you measure your success?
How did anyone measure their success? It was all right for his dad. His dad had a medal to show how successful he was, how many lives he’d pulled out of that building, although he never got his medal out of the drawer, because in his own eyes, he was a failure. Other people had certificates and letters after their name. Even his Auntie Jean’s dog had a rosette. He had an O-level in woodwork and a Blue Peter badge, and he’d bought the Blue Peter badge from a car-boot sale. For all his love of measuring things, Simon realised he didn’t really have any way of measuring himself.
He was still thinking about it when the door went. It was Gloria, and Cheryl from the salon. Simon smoothed down the back of his head, because he was always worried his hair was being judged.
‘Have you filled one of these things out?’ he said.
Gloria looked over his shoulder. ‘My dad did mine. Spent a whole weekend on it. Quite enjoyed himself.’
Simon thought his own dad could have filled one out in a matter of minutes.
Cheryl didn’t answer. Cheryl very often didn’t answer and everyone was used to it. She would sit in corners and stare into coffee cups, or rub the inside of her wrist. Like some people twisted their wedding rings, or played with their hair.
‘Are you stuck?’ Gloria said.
Simon tapped on the page with his pen. ‘How do you make a difference to those around you?’
‘Well?’
‘I’m not sure that I do,’ he said.
Gloria sat on the arm of the sofa. ‘Of course you do. Everybody does.’
Simon waited for her to elaborate, but she went to the window instead, and perched herself on the ledge. Then again, Simon very often thought there was more to a sentence than anyone else seemed to.
‘She’s off again,’ said Gloria. ‘Florence.’
Simon tried to look, but he couldn’t see over the top of a filing system someone started and never got around to finishing. ‘What’s she up to?’
‘Wandering around the courtyard. Staring up at windows. Having a bit of a shout. She’ll be Greenbanked soon, at this rate. I heard them talking about her when I was restocking the fridges.’
‘She’s worse since the new bloke arrived,’ said Simon. ‘Whatshisname.’
‘Gabriel.’ Gloria flicked ash out of the gap. ‘I like Gabriel. He gave me a brilliant curry recipe.’
‘He helped me with the ladders.’
‘I might try it on the residents,’ Gloria said. ‘Although I’d have to call it something else.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘If I say it’s curry, no one will eat it. If I call it “Spicy Somerset Stew”, they’ll come back for seconds.’ She tapped the side of her head.
Simon looked back at the form.
‘You’ve got all weekend to fill that out,’ Gloria said. ‘Unless you’ve got other plans?’
Simon thought this was the worst thing about Fridays. People’s sudden interest in what you did with your free time. He knew what his plans were, because they were exactly the same plans he had every weekend. He would watch football on the television, and perhaps a film, if he could find one he hadn’t seen before. He would go to McDonald’s Drive-Thru on Sunday and eat his meal watching all the cars on the bypass through his windscreen, and he’d lick his fingers, and gather up the empty sachets of barbecue sauce and the salty cardboard, and push everything into the litter bin before it got on his upholstery. Then he might sit in the park for a bit. Think about getting a dog (although he knew he never would). Perhaps have a wander round Morrisons. Complain about the Christmas stuff being out so early, and then buy himself a box of mince pies.
‘Usual,’ he said. ‘Bit of sport; out for Sunday lunch. Go for a hike somewhere and see something of the countryside.’
Simon was quite shocked he’d managed to make himself sound slightly interesting, so he decided to ride the wave.
‘I was thinking of going to the pictures,’ he said. ‘If either of you are interested. As friends. People going to the pictures together. Work colleagues.’
Gloria shook her head. ‘I can’t, Simon. I’m on a yoga retreat, quietening my chakras.’
Simon looked at Cheryl. Cheryl said a very faint, ‘No, thanks,’ without even offering up any kind of excuse. She just carried on staring at her wrist.
Gloria threw her cigarette end towards the gravel and pulled down the window.
‘She’s still out there. I wonder if we should tell somebody.’
‘Leave her be,’ said Cheryl. ‘I like Florence.’
Simon and Gloria stared.
‘There’s a kindness about her,’ Cheryl said. ‘It pops out when she thinks no one’s looking.’
Simon looked back at the questions. The blank spaces hadn’t got any smaller.
‘Stop fretting over it.’ Gloria fished a lanyard from her cleavage. ‘It’s only a bloody form.’
He thought of saying something, but he chewed his words into a pen top instead. When they left, he turned back to the first page, but he found the questions hadn’t got any smaller either, and so he went over to the ledge where Gloria had sat, and he watched Florence instead. And all the time he did, the only thing he could hear was the ticking of a clock.
FLORENCE
I couldn’t decide which bench to sit on. The one on the far end was near the flat, but it was the furthest away from any of the main buildings, and the one near the day room had bird nonsense all over it. I changed my mind quite a few times. I saw Gloria staring at me from the staff-room window, but it’s a free country, and I could change my mind as many times as I wanted to.
I wish I’d never offered her a piece of cake. I was only being civil. It was the girl with pink hair. Green tabard. Tiny feet. Chews her fingernails right down to the skin. You look tired, I said to her. She was changing the bed-sheets. Spending far too long on the corners. Why don’t I make you a cup of tea? Take the edge off things.
‘We’re not allowed to, Miss Claybourne,’ she said. ‘Miss Bissell doesn’t let us take anything from the residents. Not even cups of tea.’
‘Well, what she doesn’t know won’t hurt her,’ I said.
I put the kettle on and I decided she could have my best cup. The one with Princess Diana on it. I bought it after she died. To remember her by. I don’t even let Elsie have that cup, because she’s too clumsy.
‘I’ll put two sugars in,’ I shouted. ‘Give you a bit of a boost.’
I was stirring when she came in. Yawning. No effort to put her hand over her mouth. No one seems to bother these days.
‘Why don’t we have a bit of cake?’ I said. ‘Push the boat out?’
‘I couldn’t, Florence. Really.’
‘Oh go on, I’m not going to tell anyone. I’ve got a lovely Battenberg. Just in that cupboard above your head.’
She looked up and reached for the handle. It all seemed to happen in slow motion. I couldn’t work out what was going on at first, where it was all coming from. They fell all over the worktop and a few of them spilled on to the floor.
The girl stood in silence.
‘I didn’t buy all those,’ I said. ‘I only bought one. Who put all those in there? Was it you?’