(We are pleased to debut Paul Kimm on the site today. It won’t be his last! Leila and DWB)

In the 1980s, I had a job working for Age Concern providing decorating services for the elderly. As long as they bought the materials, Age Concern sent me to paint or wallpaper however many rooms they wanted redecorating. Whilst a few of the people whose houses I went to barely spoke to me, the majority welcomed my company. Here are some of the stories they told me during my breaks. All of the below is true, and some of it is factual.

Mrs Goodson’s house

Mrs Goodson, 76, lived on the Easthill Estate. I was there to paint her kitchen and living room; white ceilings, magnolia walls, and all woodwork in white gloss. I did the living room first. After the first day, she insisted I didn’t bring a packed lunch as she’d feed me, and if I came earlier, would cook me a small breakfast too. So, from the second day I arrived at eight-thirty each morning, and for rest of the week, enjoyed a breakfast of two slices of white bread toast, buttered heavily, with two eggs. To show off her culinary prowess the eggs went from fried, to poached, to scrambled. They remain the tastiest I’ve ever had. For each breakfast she also insisted that I had a small 330ml bottle of Guinness with my breakfast.

It’s good for you. It’s the iron in it. Good for bones, blood, the lot. A little bottle like that, and some eggs, sets you up for the day. It’s what I’ve had for decades and I’m fit as a fiddle. It was my John who started us on it. He was seven years older than me, and only gone just last year. So, did him no harm, did him good. I get crates delivered, twenty-four in a pack lasts me for a month, at weekends I don’t bother, but during the week it’s just right. Keeps you fit. Here, let me show you.

She took me to her under stairs cupboard and opened it to show me the crate, half empty, with rows of bottles in it. Then we went back to the kitchen, and I sat down at the round table, with three chairs tucked under it. She cracked two eggs into a frying pan, and they sizzled and popped immediately, before sliding two slices of bread into the grill above the hobs.

I get them delivered. I can’t carry a box like that, but my John could, still driving he was, and could carry them up from the car. Like he never really got old, that Guinness kept him going. I never learned to drive mind you, so our Rob sold the car after, only for a few hundred pounds, as we’d had it years. John was good at looking after the car as well, had all the tools and that, he’d learned mechanics in the forces. He did that in the war too, fixing vehicles, always strong. He always said it was the Guinness, the iron in it, giving you strong bones, keeping you fit. He never was sick until the end. Never saw him once have a day off, and right until his last week he was carrying in those cases, bending over, and slotting them under the stairs. I can still bend down to get a bottle or two out myself, but it’s years since I could carry twenty-four of them like that. Tell the truth, don’t know if I ever could. Anyway, like my John, a bottle a morning keeps me fit. It’s good for you, and our Rob sometimes brings me another crate when he visits too. If you’re still here on Friday, you’ll probably meet him.

I thanked her for the breakfast, telling her how tasty the eggs were, and for the Guinness. I remember feeling very satisfied and full each morning so did some of the lighter decorating work first whilst the breakfast and drink settled. From the Tuesday to the Friday it took to finish the job she told me more about her John, his strength, and numerous skills, never becoming emotional in anyway other than a bright happiness reminiscing about him. On the last day I met her son, Rob, who was more than twice the age I was then.

You’ve done a smashing job here. Much appreciated mate. Kitchen and living room both look way smarter. It’s a good scheme they’ve got going with Age Concern. Might have to get you back to do more, if we can get me mam some more paint in. That’d be alright, wouldn’t it? The upstairs hasn’t been done for over a decade I reckon. Not since my dad got sick and couldn’t come down for years.

I assume he saw the confusion on my face, as he then told me more.

Ah, I bet me mam said nothing. She’s never spoken about it. Likes to remember him before he got ill, when he could still help around the house. I’ll say no more on it. She doesn’t want those years being the memory of him, and that’s fair enough. It’s best for her she lies to herself, and we go along with it. I’ll say nowt more on it. Thanks again mate, cracking job and may see you again.

When I left Mrs Goodson said thank you and gave me two bottles of Guinness to take with me. I don’t know if she ever got more paint. Possibly one of the other decorators got put on the job next time, but none of them ever mentioned it to me in the yard.

Mr Mason’s house

Mr Mason also lived on Easthill Estate, it being the biggest in town, and was having his living room, hallway and landing painted, a longer job because of the banister and higher ceiling in the stairwell. He would keep drinks and biscuits coming and watch me work, occasionally telling me stories of his younger life, whilst I was painting.

I’ll tell you the best story I’ve got lad. It was 1963, remember it clear as day, even though it was at night. Got arrested, didn’t I? Out of the blue it was. I was still in the army, had been for years, cos I stayed in after the war. I was in London, was driving a Land Rover. That was mostly what I did, drove about on errands for officers and that. A bunch of coppers pulled me over, and took me in. Arrested me for the bloody Great Train Robbery! Can you believe it? Remember it? Ronnie Biggs and them? They thought I was one of them because they’d escaped in Land Rovers, and there’s me in mine trawling round London, odd jobs for my gaffers, and they reckoned I was one of the robbers. Asked me questions for ages they did. Hours.

I finished a section of banister, put my brush and paint pot down, sat on a stair, and asked him what questions they had.

All sorts. It was like they’d decided. You know, like I was definitely one of the robbers. Was in my uniform and they said that was to throw them off the scent. I said to them to check the Land Rover, there was nowt in it, and they said it was probably a decoy. Bear in mind, I didn’t actually know anything about the Great Train Robbery. It wasn’t called that yet, and they weren’t telling me what had gone on, just asking me where the others were, where the money was, where I’d got the military uniform from. I didn’t know until they finally let me go, and saw the papers the next day. Eventually, they called my barracks to check. Someone came in, explained who I was, and they let me go. No apologies or nowt, like I’d wasted their time.

I bent down to get my paint and carry on with my work, but he asked me to wait a minute, so I sat down again.

Thing was, I remember it like it was last night. Never said this to my wife, but that was the most exciting night of my life. Got married, lived through the war, spent two decades in the army, but being arrested as a Great Train Robber is my greatest memory. I remember it more than anything. Every now and then it’s all I constantly think about. That’s the thing with being old, maybe the only good thing, lots of memories, so many of them, even if some of them visit you more than others.

I recall Mr Mason being quieter for the rest of the week. He was excited to tell me his story about being arrested as one of the Great Train Robbers but it was like it had exhausted him. He didn’t mention it again for the rest of the job, or share any other major memories, and by the last day he’d stopped watching me work.

Mrs Smith’s flat

Mrs Smith had a one-bedroom flat near the beach. You couldn’t see the sea from her window, but you could from the small, shared garden at the front. Mrs Smith had saved part of her pension for nine months to afford the paint for every room to be done. She was a soft voiced, but chatty lady who made me tea with milk, a drink I’ve never liked, several times a day, insisting I take a break with her, and I hadn’t the heart to tell her I didn’t like it. The twenty or so cups of tea I had in the week I was there being the most I ever drank.

I moved here after my Albert passed. I didn’t want to stay in a big house, like we had, bigger than we ever needed, so I sold it off, paid the rest of the mortgage and got this place. More than twenty years ago now. Maybe even close to thirty now. I wanted to be near the beach, and have a view of the sea if possible, but when everything was paid off there wasn’t enough for that. This place suits me though. I like it enough. Enough for me. Do I keep saying ‘enough’? Ooh, it’s a miserable word, isn’t it? Enough. Make do. Get by. That’s life though, isn’t it? Life is enough. Anyway, I’m getting all maudlin, and I’m not maudlin at all. I’m a happy person. Quite happy. Happy enough. That’s me, Paul.

Mrs Smith laughed at herself, telling me not mind her rambling, and I went back to continue the decorating. The next milky tea came just over an hour later.

Sorry about before. I don’t mean it like that. All that daft talk about ‘enough’. We had it good, me and my Albert. No kids. That wasn’t for us it turned out, so we had a nice house. No kids, and a big house. Too big for us really, but we had the money for it with no kids. We used to go on holidays abroad before others did, before it became all that popular. Cities and seasides. Seville and Marbella in Spain. Very nice. Rome and Almalfi in Italy. Very nice too. Then my favourites, Athens and the islands in Greece. Definitely the nicest. Anyway, listen to me twittering on. Am I saying ‘nice’ too much now? Deary me, I’m all ‘enoughs’ and ‘nices’ today. Those holidays were very nice though. We’d always send ourselves a postcard, addressed to our own house, with a little note about our trip, like we were writing to another Mr and Mrs Smith, so we had a memory and Albert quite liked collecting the stamps. Often they were waiting for us when we got back or arrived a little later on. I’ve still got them in an old biscuit tin somewhere. I’ll have to dig them out. I can’t remember what we wrote on them. It was a long time ago now.

The next day Mrs Smith searched the cabinets and cupboards in the room I was working in. She apologised for being in my way, even though she wasn’t. Shortly after returning to the kitchen she called me through for another tea.

I’ve found the tin of postcards. I haven’t looked at these in years. Could be ten or more, twenty even, since I’ve had a look. I thought we could look together if you like, while you have your tea.

She opened up the old square tin, the picture on its lid showing a photo of the biscuits it once contained. Inside, there was a stack of brightly coloured postcards, the paper on them looking soft to the touch. Mrs Smith took the top one, a photo of an old church with an orange tree in the foreground, and the word ‘Sevilla’ in the bottom right corner.

There you go. I mentioned we went to Seville didn’t I? Lovely orange trees everywhere. All over the city. Let’s have a look what silly message we wrote to ourselves.

She turned over the postcard, and on the back the right side had the address below the names ‘Mr and Mrs Smith’, but the left side was blank.

Oh, let me look at some more. We must have forgotten to write on this one. Ooh, one from Turin. We went to Italy more than once. Oh, no message on this one either.

Mrs Smith took out a pile in one go, turned them over, and started dealing them out on the table, each one with their address and a stamp on the right, but all the left-hand sides blank.

Well, I never! I told you yesterday we used to send ourselves a postcard, with a message. I was sure we did. Looks like I’ve gone and imagined it. So silly. It must have been to his brother Geoff, and his wife Gladys. They were Mr and Mrs Smith as well. That must be it. Silly me. I would have liked to read those messages, but Geoff and Gladys are long gone now too. I’ve no idea if they kept them. I’ve still got Albert’s writing though, on those addresses. Just not the messages. So silly of me. I was so sure about it when I told you about our little, silly postcard tradition. Now I can’t stop saying silly, can I? Oh well, it was a long time ago now, but so is yesterday nowadays for me. Everyday feels like a long time ago. Just so silly.

After that day I wasn’t invited into the kitchen as much. Mrs Smith mostly brought the mugs of tea to me. When I was painting the kitchen and the bathroom, if she wasn’t looking, I’d tip some of the tea down the sink. When the job finished, she said goodbye and asked if I might pop round sometimes for a tea and a chat. I said I would, but I never did.

Paul Kimm

(Image by CJA)