Hinges, sprouts and death

The room at the Community centre was used for many things but this evening it was the turn of the support group.

In the room six chairs had been set out, five in a semi-circle and one centre, facing the others.

First to arrive on the scene through the door with hinges that screeched like the wheels of a railway carriage was Sonia, a tall, gaunt, stick-thin woman in her late forties. Sonia wore clothes at least ten years old but covered them with a flower-patterned tabard. The tabard was three years old. Sonia winced at the sound of the hinges, walked to an end chair, sat her bony frame down, tucked her feet under the chair then proceeded to bounced one knee as though through impatience.

The hinges squealed again, Sonia did not turn around.

“Hello Sonia, okay?”

“Somebody should oil them flamin’ hinges!” was her reply.

“Yeah, you’re right love, they should.” This from Monica, a plump, apple faced woman clearly struggling to come to grips with applying the right amount of make-up. Monica sat next to Sonia. “How you been darlin’, okay?”
“Alright, s’pose.” Sonia replied, slightly leaning away from Monica.

“Yeah, never mind.” Monica said in what she thought was a low, comforting tone. She reached out a hand but Sonia quickly pulled away. “Oh, sorry darlin’ I should’ve remembered, you don’t like to be touched do you?” Sonia didn’t reply.

The door did a double-take, announcing the arrival of two more of the group. This time it was Godfrey, closely followed by Geraldine. Both sat apart.

Geraldine noisily fussed about with the contents of her handbag, looking for something but not finding it. An Irish accented lady of Afro-Caribean descent she said out loud. “Sure, he’s no gentleman is that one, I say he’s no…”
“Yeah, we heard ya.” Monica told Geraldine.

“He walked straight past me so he did, barged the door open then left it to close in me face! Jesus, Joseph and Mary, have youse never heard of holding a door open for a lady!”

“You ain’t no bleedin’ lady!” Godfrey told her as he sat with his legs out-stretched, ankles crossed, staring up at the ceiling.

Godfrey was a bitter fifty-eight, divorced and unemployed, he also told anyone that cared to listen that he was a novelist. He felt life owed him a lot more pleasure than he was getting. “I don’t know what I’m doing here with all you losers.” He said to nobody in particular. “I should leave, I got things to do I have, important things.”

“Well, clear off then!” Monica told him.

Before he could reply two more people entered the room, Stirling, followed by Tiffany. Everyone turned to see them come in, all except Sonia who continued to sit and bounce her knee.

Godfrey stood up, “Oi, oi, here is look, Jack the lad!”

Stirling walked straight up to Godfrey and stood in front of him. Godfrey lowered his head and averted his eyes. “You want to be careful, pal.” Stirling told him.

“Okay boys,” interrupted Tiffany, “let’s sit down shall we, I’m sure Godfrey meant nothing by his remark, did you Godfrey?”
“Nah, nah, nothing mate.”

“I ain’t your mate neither!” Stirling told him in a menacing whisper as he sat down.

Stirling was twenty-four, lived alone and, like Godfrey was unemployed.

Tiffany clapped her hands as she sat on the chair facing all the others. Tiffany was in charge. “Right, can we all settle down and concentrate on why we are here please, let’s try and achieve some harmony, yes?” She watched as some of them wriggled on their seats. When she thought they were settled she would begin.

Tiffany, still clinging to her hippy upbringing had long, wiry hair, bangles, beads and a scrubbed pink, make-up free, innocent face. She had been running the group for two years. Unqualified, she had started the group after her best friend had committed suicide. She made no claims to be anything other than a social group figurehead. Thinking she could communicate, she just wanted to help. Tiffany was thirty, divorced, worked in a solicitor’s office and lived alone with her three cats. Her heart was in the right place.

“Right then everyone,” she said shrugging off her retro, furry-hooded parka. “We’ll start off with six deep, slow breaths. In and hold, and out slowly. Ready?” They all did this exaggerated breathing exercise before she spoke again. “Now then, I want each of you to tell me in just one word, what sort of a week you’ve had. Can you do that please? Let’s start with you Stirling.”

“Nah, don’t start with me, start with him!” He pointed at Godfrey, “he’s supposed to be a writer. Go on God’, gives us a word.”

“Right Godfrey,” said Tiffany, “stand up and gives us your word please.”

He didn’t stand. “Crap!” Godfrey said loudly then added, “and don’t call me God!”

“Oh, and why was it crap?” asked a smiling Tiffany.

“Been trying to talk to the Council all week about my flat, keep getting an automatic reply, press this for so and so, press that for something else! Nobody knows how to communicate any more…and I’ll tell you this…”
“Let’s just get on shall we?” Tiffany said because she knew once you got Godfrey started he was difficult to stop.

Without prompting Geraldine stood and said, ”Church.”

“Church?” Tiffany queried.

“Met the new vicar on his pastoral duties and to be sure, isn’t he just a lovely man? I’m cleaning the church for him twice a week so I am.” Geraldine sat down.

Monica stood at the same time as Stirling, she waited for him to sit down but it didn’t look as though he would. She stayed on her feet glaring at him through heavily made-up eyes. He sat down.
“Sprouts.” She said.

“Sprouts?” Godfrey said with a sarcastic tone. “What sort of a week can you have with sprouts? I’ve got to hear about this!”

“I got accused of shoplifting, stealing sprouts, I asks ya,” she started, “’course it was all a mistake, I’d just forgot to pay for them, all a silly mistake really.” Everyone knew Monica had a shoplifting history. She quickly sat down.

Stirling got to his feet. “Death.” Was the single word he used before resuming his seat. The atmosphere suddenly changed.

“Do you want to say any more?” Tiffany asked.

Without standing Stirling began. “My friend died on Wednesday, when we had all that snow. He died by the fountain in the kid’s playground, in the snow. We were best mates an’ alI, we did everything together. I don’t know what I’m going to do without him…”

“Oh my God, sure, it was on the news, and wasn’t he the one stabbed?” Geraldine said.

“Yeah, only they bastards didn’t just stab him, they carved his face too. But do you know the worst bit? They got the wrong twin…” Stirling began to sob as he sat. “They got Mike and it should have been Peter. Peter was the one doing the drugs, not Mike.” He continued to sob into his hands. This death clearly had a huge impact on Stirling. Nobody moved except for Sonia who left her seat, walked to Stirling, bent down and placed an arm around him. Tiffany was not the only one to realise that, apart from the tragedy in Stirling’s life the event had caused Sonia to take a huge step forward.

It was Monica who spoke next, breaking the awkward silence. “I don’t know about anyone else but I think we should all go to the pub for a drink. Why don’t we all go eh? Come on Stirling, just you and me and a few pals, we’ll take a drink for Mike, yeah? Come on I could do with a stiff one.”

“Would that be before or after your drink?” Godfrey said out loud, but nobody laughed.

Godfrey held the door open as they left the room. Tiffany turned off the lights and left the door to close on its tortured hinges.
“Someone should oil them flamin’ hinges!” Sonia told them all.