Nice And Easy Does It

Coome was a quaint, idyllic, English village which had become incorporated in 1849, 2 years before the Great Exhibition in London. Agnes at 81 years old had lived and worked there all her life. After her husband's death, her son, John, had decided to leave home to pastures new.

Agnes watched her son, John, tentatively. He had always seemed too busy to visit before. Now he was especially attentive since her collapse with a suspected heart attack.

The residents of Coome elected B.S Fields (John's friend), as their first Village President. Property prices were rising rapidly, producing a revitalized and preserved village district.

They had selected a man who they felt would not shrink from taking-on the task of securing what the residents wanted most. What the residents of Coome wanted then, and what they continue to want in the 21st century, was a way to preserve the Village’s sense of community and its sense of history.

“Here, Mother. I’ve collected your prescription.”

Agnes put on her glasses to look at it.

“I wish I’d never started taking these pills…”

“But, Mother, you took a dizzy turn and the doctor found your blood pressure a touch high.”

“And so,” he went on, without looking at her, “have you ever considered moving, Mother?”

“Where to, John?”

“A nursing home would be nice, with round the clock care.”

The colour drained from Agnes’ face.

“What about the church and my friends here in Coome?”

“Don’t worry, Mother, you’ll make new friends.”

“I can’t make such a huge decision right now…”

The residents of Coome had adopted a Historic Preservation Ordinance. The objective of that Ordinance was a preservation of Coome’s pre-1900 and early 1900 homes, buildings and structures. Agnes's home was valuable - there was consideration of redevelopment opportunities.The people and government of Coome initiated a Coome Strategic Plan. It reached out to both the residents of Coome and to any Coome employees who resided outside the Village, but who had a drive time of only five minutes.

“Do tell me what’s wrong with the idea, Mother? Isn’t this what you’ve been longing to do? You said yourself that this house is too big, so what’s the problem?”

Agnes looked up into John’s face, her eyes wide.

"It’s so frightening. You know that I’ve lived here for 51 years. I don’t know whether this is such a good idea… What if I don’t feel happy in a nursing home?”

“I don’t think that’s likely, Mother” he assured her. “Anyway, I’ve asked the estate agent and my friend Mr Fields, the first Village President to come around today to view the house. Don’t look so shocked, Mother. The last thing I want is for you to be upset any longer – take your pills. The sooner things get sorted, for your sake, the better.”

Everything was now in slow motion. Agnes' arms gave out. They felt numb and heavy, and she felt crushing pressure against her chest. She felt like water was pulling her under, where everything seemed suddenly slow and quiet. John tugged his Mom's cardigan, as if that could release the weight Agnes felt against her chest.

A simple clear image floated through her mind. It was of her diving into a river going under and never surfacing. She tried to pull herself to the surface.

“Aw, John,” she spluttered. “ I almost didn't make it.”

Agnes felt she understood him now.Maybe John thought keeping that secret from her to leave Coome village would be protection for him, in case something happened.

Agnes gripped her armchair. Her heart was too full to overflowing.

“So,” said Agnes, “this fellow, Mr Fields, and the estate agent are going to be nosing around my home?”

John feared to answer. It was hard for him to keep his mind on the conversation now as his mother was chattering away about her home in Coome Village. Why wasn't he coming up with the next plan? John wanted to shout, “shut up about Coome village!” He slapped his hand on the oak table.

“You nearly died just now, Mother. You nearly died.”

“Died?”

“Yep.”

Agnes pressed her hand against her stomach and closed her eyes. “Nearly died,” she said. “Sounds right to me.”

Again, Agnes felt like water pushed at her whirling and swirling around her whole being, her chest, her waist, her knees. She felt knocked and dragged by what she knew now and heard, but she held on tight to hope, her eyes fixed on flashes of remaining, settling back down again. She pulled herself upright in the armchair, and then she saw her son's face. She wanted to burst out crying.

“Oh dear, John, you are not looking so good. It is you who should be paying more attention to your health.”

John stood there awkwardly shuffling his feet, his hands hanging helplessly by his sides.

Just then the door bell rang.

“Open the door, John, open the door – they are here.”

“They don't know much yet,” he said and hurried from the room.

Agnes felt as if she would break apart into a zillion pieces, and all those pieces would scatter into the air and disappear into the clouds.

There was no time for napping, no time to sleep on it. Agnes swung her feet over the side of the chair.Where are my clothes? Where's the doctor when you need one? My son and those conniving people, she thought. They have purposely come here, trying to mislead me. She probed at the opening in her cardigan with her fingers, loosening it. My secret weapon for comfort. She rubbed furiously at her cheek. “I must have picked up something out there in the village. It's driving me crazy. I must get them out of here.”

Agnes made her way to the kitchen and emptied a jar of chocolate syrup into a bowl with flour. She reached in the cupboard for a bag of broken biscuits and emptied those into the bowl too.

“Mother,” John called. “They're here. Don't you ever let anyone treat you bad ever again, you hear?”

Sure, Agnes thought. Easy fo you to say when you're about to get rid of me. She pounded the dough harder with a wooden spoon.