The promised land

Phil Carradice

“Nobody should ever have work and nothing else.”

I was supposed to be working, writing reports. In reality I was day dreaming. I don't know how long I sat there, eyes distant and my mind skirting over many different topics; I don't know how much longer I would have continued to sit there had a hand not darted suddenly in front of my nose. I looked up. It was Jenny rattling a cardboard box. 'Money,' she demanded. 'Pay up. I looked at her from under arched eyebrows. 'What for?' 'For Penny. A leaving present “remember?' I remembered.

Penny was the longest serving member of our staff. For over twenty years she had worked at St Margaret's, our old people's unit, and was now due to retire next week. Happily, I dug into my pocket and deposited money into Jenny's box. 'What are we going to get her?' Jenny frowned. She perched herself on the corner of my desk. 'I don't know. It would help if she was looking forward to retiring. As it is, anything we get her is going to be like a slap in the face. She hates the very thought of retirement.' I hadn't realized. I thought she would have been looking forward to it – when I bothered to think at all.

Considering it now, I was able to recall her attitude when I'd told her, weeks back, that the committee felt she had gone on long enough. 'Sorry, love,' I had said. 'No extension. They say it's time to call it a day.' She had snarled, turned away. 'Typical! Scrap-heap time!' After that I'd been too busy to give it much consideration. I suppose I simply put my own values onto her. I'd have been happy to go tomorrow. Penny was different, however, one of the most dedicated workers I had ever seen. St Margaret's and the old people were her life. She lived, breathed, existed purely for them. 'She likes reading,' I suggested. 'What about a couple of books?' Jenny nodded and wandered away in search of more contributions.

I tried to force my mind back onto the reports but it was no use. Eventually I threw down the pen and went off to find Penny. I discovered her in the laundry room, folding clean sheets. Penny had obviously been beautiful in her youth. She was still a striking lady. Her hair had lost none of its colour – a deep and glossy black which framed her head like night around the moon. To look at her you would never have thought she was well over sixty. She should have retired several years ago, but somehow or other she had persuaded the Department to give her an extension. Now, however, her time had run out. 'Soon be a lady of leisure,' I quipped, standing alongside her as she worked. Penny nodded, glumly. 'Yes. Soon be all over. This time next week I'll be sitting, vegetating in a bath chair!' I was shocked by her bitterness. 'Oh, come on Penn,' I said. 'It's not that bad. You've worked hard all your life, you deserve a little peace. Just take it easy and enjoy the rest of your time. There's a promised land out there, just waiting for you.' 'There's no point in life if there's no point in life.' she said. I smiled. 'That's original. 'It's true. I don't want retirement, Paul. I can still do a useful job, I still want to work. As of next week my life's as good as over – all my useful life, anyway. I'll be no good for anything. You might as well admit me to St Margaret's!' She slammed down the bedding and went out of the door.

Poor Penny. Hardly the right frame of mind to start your retirement, I thought. All her life she'd been building up to this and now that it was nearly on her she didn't want it. I decided to give her husband a ring to see how he felt about it all. Perhaps he could give her some help in facing the inevitable. I was in the act of picking up the telephone when Jenny burst into the room. 'The laundry's been flooded – washing machine's on the blink.' I spent the next hour sorting out the flood.

Penny and her problem simply disappeared from my mind. It wasn't until two days later that I saw her again. We sat together and drank coffee and I broached the subject once more. 'It's just that I feel so useless,' she said. 'All my life I've been important. Not anything great, just a small cog in a big wheel. But important nonetheless. Without me, and others like me, this place would never run, for a start.' I agreed with her and told her so. I don't think she even heard me. All our old folk – May, Kitty, Grace, the rest of them – I'm important to them. When I retire I won't mean anything any more. We sat for half an hour and I got nowhere. Penny's dread of a senseless old age was worrying, but not as bad as the one constant thought which kept nagging away at the back of my mind. I should have seen it sooner.

Eventually, Penny left to take Grace and Kitty shopping in town. I wandered into my office, stood watching them through the window. As I watched, noting Penny's skilful care and concern, another emotion began to make itself felt. Selfish but practical, I cursed myself even as I thought of it: 'I don't know how the hell we're going to replace her,' I told Jenny. 'She's one of the best residential workers we've got.' Jenny nodded. 'They don't make them like her every day, that's for sure.'

Penny's last day was memorable for all of us. The residents had arranged a Farewell Party which took her totally by surprise. I don't think she'd ever considered how her clients might feel about her. Grace presented her with a large bouquet of flowers and made a short speech. 'We'll always remember you, Penny,' she said. 'Not as a member of staff but as a friend.' Penny dissolved into tears and we dragged her off into the staff room. 'I don't want to make a big fuss, I told her, 'but we've got something for you, too.' She stood quietly at the front of the room, her face twisted into a strange, distorted mask. She seemed suddenly very old and frail, deep lines etched into her cheeks and around her eyes. I handed her our present and made a brief speech. Something inside told me to keep it short. 'We'll never replace you, Penny,' I said. 'You know where we are if you want to come and see us. Penny was already far away. Her eyes were distant and her skin deathly white. She said only a few words in reply. 'Thank you for everything. I don't want to leave – but I won't be back.'

A few days later Penny's husband rang to say she had been rushed into hospital. 'It was a heart attack,' he said. 'She's still in intensive care.' We were shocked, hardly able to comprehend. Jenny and I drove to the local hospital. They wouldn't let us see Penny, so we watched for a few moments through the glass viewing panel in the door. She lay, motionless on the bed, her silent body rising and falling with laboured breaths. It was too painful to stay long. We said some empty, useless words of comfort to her husband and went home.

Two days later Penny died. She had never recovered consciousness and finally just slipped away. It was only one week since her retirement. 'She just didn't see any point in living,' her husband told us. 'All last week she kept on and on. What use am I now? she kept saying. I suppose it was a blessing in some ways.'

I went back to St Margaret's and tried, desperately, to reason it out. What her husband had said was true enough. Work with the old people had been her life. When that ended, so too did her existence. I don't think any of us would ever forget Penny, the marvellous, rewarding memories she conjured up. And yet, they weren't all good memories. There was guilt as well, crippling, cloying guilt. Penny's death had been our failure as well as hers. Nobody should ever have work and nothing else.

I accepted the guilt and made a quick decision. Never again! I would know it next time.