|MUTINY AT MOUNTROCK (standard:humor, 1052 words)|
|Author: Gavin J. Carr||Added: Feb 16 2005||Views/Reads: 2110/1197||Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)|
|The residents of a care home get back at the abusive staff in a most unusual way.|
I took another slice of toast from the rack and said, ‘pass the butter, please.' O'Shea looked at me over his spectacles and crossed his arms in disapproval. ‘Now, Mr Pertwee. I thought we talked about cholesterol last time. You know too much butter is bad for you. Why can't you be like Mrs Dignon and take it with marmalade instead?' I looked at Mrs Dignon. She was sucking her toast toothlessly, a smile on her wrinkled lips. Goddam teacher's pet, I thought. It was no wonder the bastards were getting on top of us if people like Maureen Dignon did nothing to stand up to them. ‘But I like butter,' I said. ‘I've always taken butter on my toast. Don't you think sixty-nine is a bit old to be watching cholesterol anyway?' O'Shea took a seat beside me and leaned in close. He was ingratiating, a smiling assassin. I wished, not for the first time, I was forty years younger and had the strength to punch him on the nose. ‘Now, you know my motto, Mr Pertwee.' It's never too late to pick up good habits and never too soon to get rid of bad ones.' O'Shea was smiling his wide, smug smile, obviously well pleased with this little bon mot. His little “pearl of wisdom”. ‘Where did you get that?' I asked. ‘From a fortune cookie?' His face slackened as the smile slowly ebbed away. ‘There's no need for disrespect, Mr Pertwee. Everything we do here at Mountrock is for the good of our residents. We try our best to look out for you.' That irked me. Sure, some of us were past it. You only had to look at old Mrs Winestock, dribbling her cereal down her chin to see that. But I still had all my marbles, and I'd be damned if anyone was going to tell me what to do. We had talked about it in the sitting room the night before and agreed that next time the management put on the thumbscrews we would make a stand. But when I looked around the room now, all I could see was the thinning tops of resident's heads as they looked down at their breakfasts, trying their best to ignore what was going on. O'Shea removed the slice of toast from my plate. ‘You won't be needing that,' he said. ‘Breakfast is over. It's time for callisthenics now.' He took my arm, pinching the slack skin with his fingers. ‘Come on, Mr Pertwee, let's get you to the activity room.' ‘Goddam it, leave me alone will you?!' I tried to shake him off, but he had a good grip and the attempt was pathetic. An old-man's half-hearted effort. I had no choice but to go along, tottering beside him like a stiff legged infant. O'Shea whispered to me as we left the sitting room. ‘I've had just about enough of you,' he said without moving his lips. ‘The director, Mr Singh, will be here tomorrow to show the Care Committee around. I know you're the main troublemaker here. This place better be ticking like clockwork or you'll regret it! Understand?' I didn't say anything. Just scowled and tried to prise his fingers from my arm. ‘Understand?!' He twisted the skin, making me yelp. ‘Yes! Goddam-it. Yes, I understand. Now let go, will you!' He released me. ‘Get changed. Callisthenics starts in fifteen Click here to read the rest of this story (72 more lines)
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