“On the first of May every year, we gather for the tart social,” Maeve replies primly, and I desperately try to ignore Dusty who’s practically wheezing behind me she’s laughing so hard. “Everyone enters their own tart.”
I covertly cast my eyes to the side and widen them, hopefully conveying the message that Dusty needs to shut up right now and keep an eye on Delores, who’s randomly wandered off. Ordinarily, I wouldn’t have worried, but given that she seems to move things quite easily, I can only imagine the chaos she could cause in a place like this.
Giving one last unladylike snort, Dusty wipes a tear from beneath her eye and saunters off in search of the wayward old lady. “I swear we need to put a bell on her…” Dusty mutters as she disappears.
“So it’s like a bake off, then?” Danny tries to look interested while edging further away from Ivy.
“I win every year,” Maeve says smugly.
“Except last year,” Birdie cackles, her wiry chin hair vibrating.
Maeve sniffs. “You’re just jealous because no one is interested in your crusty old tart.”
“And you’re just sour because Delores won last year and she didn’t even have all her marbles fully intact,” Birdie smirks back.
Maeve sucks in such a loud and dramatic breath as she clutches the small golden cross at her neck, I'm surprised there’s any oxygen left in the vicinity.
“Ladies,” Trudy warns them both.
“Delores baked a pie and entered it in last year’s competition?” Danny asks.
Maeve huffs. “Cheating.”
“Hush now, it was not cheating,” Trudy tuts. “Delores baked one every year and yes, it’s true, her carers had to help a lot, but the recipe was hers. It was the one she used to make with her mum when she was a girl. It was one of the only things she retained with her Alzheimer’s. She couldn’t remember the day of the week or what she’d had for lunch, but she could remember that recipe right down to a teaspoon of sugar and I tell you what.” Trudy smiles softly in remembrance. “It tasted just like her mum’s did.”
“You knew her for a long time then?” Danny asks.
Trudy nods, blowing out a slow breath laced with grief. “Since we were about five years old. Our families lived on the same street, three doors apart.”
“Who are they and what are they doing here?” The one called Vera pipes up.
“Vera.” Trudy rolls her eyes. “This is Danny and Tristan.”
“Franny and Crispin?” She squints, leaning closer.
“Danny and… oh for god’s sake, turn your hearing aids up, you daft old bat,” Ivy yells at her friend as she points to her own ear.
“Ladies.” A young man in his twenties swings by the table. He’s wearing plain jeans and a hoodie, and his scraggly hair is tied back in a messy ponytail at the nape of his neck. He leans over the table and collects some of the empty teacups. His smile is friendly enough, but there is no mistaking the scent that hangs around him like a shroud, a fact that’s not lost on Danny. I glance over at him as he lifts a brow, his mouth curving into an amused grin.
“Hello, Kevin.” Ivy fluffs her hair and bats her thickly caked lashes at him.
“Hello, Ivy.” He chuckles as he stacks the empties on a tray and moves onto the next table.
Ivy beams. “Such a lovely young man, and he always smells so lovely, like a fresh herb garden.”
“Herb garden? Its bloody weed, you stupid woman, he’s one of them hippies.” Birdie shakes her head.
“I don’t think they’re called hippies anymore,” Phyllis interrupts.
“I saw a hippo once at the London Zoo,” Vera yells loudly.
“Not hippos,” Phyllis explains slowly. “Hippies… and besides I think they’re called stoners now.” She says it so loudly Kevin turns around at the next table, flushing pink and shaking his head with a laugh.
I can barely keep up with the chaotic conversation of these old ladies as I share an amused look with Danny. I don’t think I’m going to be able to ask Trudy about the photo that’s burning a hole in my pocket, or the man Delores calls Beau. I’m pretty sure I’m going to have to come back when it’s quieter.
“I heard Delores used to come down to the community centre regularly,” Danny remarks casually.
“She did,” Violet pipes up. Up until now, the sweet little lilac-haired old lady seemed content to concentrate on the brightly coloured woollen blob she was creating, the click clack of her knitting needles lost amidst the noise of the room. “Delores used to come twice a week, regular as clockwork, never missed a Bingo Bonanza, enjoyed a Macmillan’s coffee morning too.”
