So Much in Common

At first, Angela didn’t think anything about it at all, or only the most superficial, surface-skim thoughts. It had been a pleasant surprise to have someone interesting to talk to in the queue at the bank, and an equally pleasant coincidence when she ran into the same woman again on the train. Not that their conversations went particularly deep or even lasted particularly long, but they still managed to rind out that they liked many of the same books, that they both thought hot weather was over-rated, and that they both looked to macaroni cheese or lemon drizzle cake if they were inclined to comfort eat. 

     Angela was (though she firmly told herself it was both condescending and jumping to conclusions) inclined to be a little sorry for the woman. Not because there was anything pitiful or pathetic about her, and she seemed happy in her own skin (which was more than Angela was, sometimes) but she formulated a notion that she lived her life through the things she enjoyed or didn’t, through the things she was interested in or wasn’t, rather than on any deeper level. She never “imposed” on her, as her mother would say, and didn’t indulge in the kind of laboured self-deprecation that was really a cry for an ego boost. Yet she still had these thoughts. Then again, given the recent debacles in her love life, perhaps there were plenty worse things than not having the deepest of emotional lives. 

     She was absolutely certain that the woman never made any conscious or even unconscious effort to dress like her. It was a simple fact that they both did like calf-length skirts and chunky knit sweaters, and that their favourite colour was blue, and that they disliked high heels and loved pockets. 

     When they met again in the café on the market square, they discovered that they were both cat people, although they had fond memories of pet dogs, that they both liked to play chess and do crosswords, but had no patience for Su-Dokus, and were useless at jigsaw puzzles. Neither of them was scared of flying, but neither of them found it agreeable. They both liked watching quiz shows, but had little time for soaps. Talking of soap, they ascertained that though they knew showers were both more hygienic and better for the environment, they preferred to take a bath if they had the time, though always with lotion, never with crumbly bath cubes or salts. They both had a weakness for making lists, but it generally didn’t extend to shopping lists, which led to them tending to forget things! They both preferred red wine to white, yet preferred fish to meat, and both found it hard to sleep without a radio softly playing in the background; though whether with a music or a speech channel depended on their mood. They concurred that the advice about having different passwords for absolutely everything was wise but unrealistic, and that it irked them when people said “I don’t mean to be rude” and promptly preceded to be just that. They were inclined to be grammar pedants, but it got on their nerves when others were, and broadly speaking (they discovered this when they accidentally ran into each other at an art exhibition in the town hall) enjoyed good health but were plagued by hay fever that didn’t seem aware it should only come in summer. They got round to that one looking at a picture of a rather nebulous flowery meadow. Oh, and they both had no patience with people who dismissed modern art as rubbish on principle, but had to admit that some of it made you see their point.

     Even their names had a distinct similarity. Angela couldn’t quite remember when and how she found out (which was a bit odd, really) but the other woman’s name was Elvira. So both with six letters and three syllables, and both starting and ending with a vowel. True, there were millions (well, both of them were inclined to exaggerate, so probably thousands or maybe hundreds) of names to which that applies, but it still made you wonder. 

     In the course of time, when accidentally meeting in the dentist’s waiting room (and both couldn’t visit Mr Hamilton, who was the kindest of men, especially with nervous patients, which they both were, without thinking about Marathon Man) or at the Polling Station in the local elections (they didn’t talk politics, but somehow didn’t need to, thought Angela, sensing they would agree on what mattered) they established that they both had a seriously bad habit of dog-earing books (though never library books or other people’s) and, strangely, loved tomatoes but hated tomato sauce. 

     Both had eclectic tastes in music, but they tended to be the same eclectic tastes, and they agreed that if the smooth-voiced presenters on Classic FM told them to relax just one more time then they might well be tempted to throw the radio through the window, whilst knowing, of course, that they never would. 

     They didn’t go in for beach holidays (though they loved the sea, but they lived near it anyway!) and when they did go on holiday, for more than a couple of days, preferred to self-cater than to stay in a hotel.

     It would be quite nice to go on holiday together, thought Angela. She might get round to mentioning it, though she didn’t like to be the first.

     After all, they hadn’t even visited each others’ homes.

     Which was weird, but could soon be remedied. 

     Still, Angela had another visit to make first. And because she was honest, at least with herself, she couldn’t say she looked forward to it. It was almost her grandmother’s birthday, and as her Mum and her step-Dad had now opened the bar in Cyprus, she lived nearest and it was only the decent thing to do to visit her in the care home. It was an old-fashioned word, but it was her duty. Her father had been in the forces, and though he had been an easy-going man and never laid the law down in Captain von Trapp fashion, he still set great store on doing your duty. 

     She and her grandmother (she was sure she must have called her Nanna or Granny or the like once, but somehow couldn’t recall it) had not always had the easiest of relationships. Oh, it wasn’t one of those horrible ones beloved of the misery memoirs, and she supposed, to be fair, that had she known her in danger or in need of care, her grandmother would have done her duty. 

     Angela rather liked The Elms care home.  As much, at least, as it was possible to like any care home and to convince yourself it was anything other than a sad necessity. To start with, the name was honest. There really were elm trees up the drive and a couple on the front lawns. They hadn’t been immune from the blight that had affected elm trees a few years ago, but most had survived, and they now seemed to be thriving. The home itself was an impressive building, built in the early 20^th century, harking back to earlier times, but not gratingly so, and it had now weathered and matured of its own volition. It had originally been privately owned, though by a self-made businessman, rather than any local aristocrat, and had an honourable history of war service in the First World War, where it was a military hospital. After that it had a long spell as an hotel, a brief spell back in private ownership, and an even briefer spell as a spa resort. Even those who had had high hopes of the spa business admitted it hadn’t been a wonderful idea. It had simply been the wrong time. Too late to be a “Beauty Farm” but too soon to be a “Wellness Resort”. It was on the point of falling into sudden or gradual dereliction when it was (and it was probably something of a leap of faith) bought be the Calderdale Care Company. She supposed it would have been easy enough to find out if the group were called after the place, or a person, or just because the name sounded good, comfortable but without being twee, and appealing to both men and women. But she had never got around to it.

     As Angela saw it (and she was sure Elvira would have agreed with her) it struck just the right note. There was a certain honesty about the place. It frankly presented itself as what it was, a Care Home, and not an Elder Resort or Your Lagoon in Later Life or the like. But the residents were respected, and treated like adults, and though main meals, just for practical reasons, were generally communal (with latitude and tolerance for those who weren’t feeling well, or just felt, on occasion like their own company) nobody herded the residents into the lounge to watch TV shows they had never watched before, and in the winter months, they might leave the heating in their own rooms on as they pleased. A shuttle bus called twice a week to take the residents on a shopping trip if they so desired, and the current manager, a very pleasant lady called Fiona Lewis, had impressed on her staff that though it was fine to use their residents’ first names if they were also happy about it, they must absolutely never say “We” when the correct pronoun was “You”.

     As the literature made tactfully but honestly clear, they were quite happy to cope with “certain memory issues” but asked their residents’ family and friends to respect the fact that “A time may come when it is appropriate to relocate some of our residents to other accommodation, of course with your co-operation and help and in the kindest and most respectful of manners”.

     Yes, she liked Fiona and the other staff at The Elms. But Angela was still rather disappointed to hear them discussing her Grandmother in a fashion that – whilst certainly not disrespectful – seemed a tad too intrusive and, well, chatty.  Still, she paused by the door and listened.

     “I’ve been worried about Sylvia Cromarty in Room 8. I wonder if she might be showing – signs that mean we have to wonder about a conversation with her family.”

     “Oh? Why’s that? She seems totally compos mentis to me – more than I am, half the time, to be frank!”

     “I know. That’s why I hesitated to raise the matter. But – well, you know her granddaughter that comes to visit her – she’s started to talk about her having had a twin …. a bit weird!”

     Fiona firmly believed in letting her staff discuss things and get them out of her system without interfering too much. But now she did intervene. “I know why you’re saying that, but don’t jump to conclusions. I’ve spoken to other members of the family, and it’s no word of a lie. She did have a twin. It was – terribly sad. Both girls were born as healthy as you like, and identical, too. But then – meningitis when they were only two.” She sighed. “It struck them both. And you’ve no need to tell me it’s not infectious – I know that.” Well, she would, thought Angela. After all, she’s a properly trained nurse, all of the managers at care homes in the Calderdale Company are. “But there are things you just can’t explain.”

     Almost without realising it, Angela had walked into the staff room, though nobody seemed to be paying her much attention. She couldn’t quite decide if her mind was in a total whirl with things she would never be able to explain (and she already resented her mother for not telling her!) or if things were falling totally and logically into place.

     “Anyway,” Fiona went on. “This sounds awful, and there’s nothing worse than losing a child, but at least they were spared one of their girls. Elvira made it. Without even any after-effects. But Angela didn’t, poor mite.”