Tommy leaves the relative peace and quiet of a book-lined side room and makes his way across from the main building to what he now must call home. He unlocks the door of his apartment and splutters as he takes a gulp of chemical-laden air. The cleaning staff who come in twice a week are efficient but they do love bleach, and one of them has plugged in a strange hissing air-freshener that pumps synthetic flower scent into the atmosphere every few minutes.
He sighs, thinking back to his old home, fragrant with the scent of wood smoke mingled with garlic and spices from his most recent curry experiments. The bleach only came out when he was tie-dying T-shirts.
Why did you do this? He thinks to himself. You should have talked about it more with the people whose opinions you trust instead of taking the first offer that came in for the house and signing up for this godforsaken place. Stupid, impulsive old fool. Just because Somerset’s a beautiful county it doesn’t mean you should end your days in it.
There’s a burst of loud music as Maisie in the neighbouring flat turns on her TV for her favourite quiz show. She bangs on the wall, which is the sign for Tommy to go round and watch with her. He’s gone along with this so far, partly because he can sense her loneliness but mainly to pass the endless time until supper appears in the communal dining area. Supper is the rather lofty term they use for a milky drink and the leftover sausage rolls and pink trifle from tea time, but it’s a popular time of day for most of the residents, and usually gives Tommy something to look forward to before a long night of counting sheep and chasing sleep.
Sighing, he picks up a packet of his favourite biscuits, a contribution to the viewing fun, and heads for next door. Maisie is sitting in her wing-back reclining chair pressing the remote control furiously.
‘Pesky batteries have gone again. You got any?’ she shouts, breaking wind noisily. ‘Oops, sorry, fried onions for lunch today and they always play havoc with my internals.’
Tommy flinches. Spending so much time with people over a decade his senior is giving him an alarming glimpse of what the future might hold. He shakes his head, and takes the controls from Maisie, slotting back the batteries that have fallen on the floor.
‘Genius,’ she bellows. ‘Well, don’t just stand there, open the ginger snaps.’
Chrissie knocks in a business-like way and sticks her head round the door. ‘Both okay in here? Tea?’ she asks, wrinkling her nose as the unlovely fragrance hits her. She peers at Tommy suspiciously but he jerks his head in Maisie’s direction and Chrissie nods, withdrawing quickly.
Tommy goes over to open a window but is harangued before he can manage it. ‘Do you want me to catch my death, young Tom? It’s perishing out there.’
‘It’s a lovely evening now the storm’s passed, Maisie. Actually, I think I’m going to give the show a miss today and go for a walk,’ Tommy says, making a sharp exit before his elderly friend can complain.
He sees Chrissie approaching with yet more insipid tea and dodges out of sight down a corridor that leads to the back of the flatlets. Gaining speed, he slips out of the door and down the well-lit lane that skirts the property. When he reaches the road, Tommy pauses to look back.
The complex is as attractive as the designers could make it, built of local stone with the low-rise blocks of apartments flanking the glass and pine communal areas. It could pass for a set of holiday lets anywhere in Europe. As Tommy walks briskly down the lane, he asks himself why he’s feeling so unbearably glum. The accommodation is perfectly okay. The flat is double glazed, heated and air-conditioned, so the temperature is always exactly as he likes it. The gardens are stunning, tended by a team of diligent workers who manicure the lawns to within an inch of their lives and plant swathes of glorious if rather municipal displays of flowers. There’s no hint of boiled cabbage or other more distressing smells in the communal areas. Surrounded by lush woodland in the heart of the Somerset countryside, with a fishing lake nearby for those able enough to reach it, there’s something for everyone. Even the weather’s improving. So why, why, why can’t he just stop feeling sorry for himself?
Tommy chose his new home from pictures online. There’s nothing wrong with it, apart from the fact, he thinks bitterly, that it’s full of old people. Why didn’t he take notice of his most reliable guide? He’d been so busy with his plans for passing his precious compass on to its next owners that he’d ignored its final advice. The indicator on the barometer repeatedly swung to stormy when he was mulling over his future and the compass needle refused to point in the direction of the west country.
Turning his back on the place that feels more like a jail every day, Tommy heads for the village pub. With luck, he can find a secluded table in the garden if there’s a sheltered seat that’s missed being drenched. He badly needs a bit of time to himself. If only life had turned out differently all those years ago.
Tommy squares his shoulders and pushes the bar room door open. There’s never been room for regrets in the past and he’s not about to start now. It’s his own fault he’s bored out of his skull. At least he’s given Lucia a shot in the arm and an adventure or two to liven up her world. You can’t have everything, he tells himself. The landlord puts a foaming pint of bitter in front of him and he raises his glass in a private toast.
He takes his beer and a newspaper from the bar out to the garden and prepares to while away an hour or two as the dusk deepens. It’s time to face up to the fact that this is his home now. He had choices and he made them quickly. He’s only got himself to blame if they were the wrong ones. It’s not a bad existence. It’s just not the life he wants.