A Place in the Clouds — Michael White

For the residents of the Marion Hayrick retirement home, a unique opportunity has arisen to place their mark on the residential centre where they live. Given the choice between a nice little garden feature, a gazebo or a water feature to enhance the gardens about the home, they take a somewhat different approach....

Containing several memorable characters, twists and turns and a VERY odd gardener, "A Place in the Clouds" is another short story from the increasingly difficult to categorise collection of short stories called, "Liverpool" which is available to purchase separately.

"The removal truck arrived at the Marion Hayrick retirement home at precisely the same time as the hearse from Arthur Prendergast's funeral directors (motto: “death with dignity, interment with interest: easy pay plans available”), the two vehicles jostling in an undignified manner in the small car park outside the home, in what seemed to be a vain attempt to get as near to the front doors as each one of them possibly could. From these double sized doors (wheelchair ramp carefully placed off to one side, large canopy covering the first six feet of the outside of the building), a small reception area could just be seen. Jumping down from the removal wagon as it and the hearse continued to attempt to outmanoeuvre each other, a large, swarthy looking man entered reception, followed by one of the occupants of the hearse in close pursuit, his dark, well-pressed suit contrasting starkly with the removal man's slightly dusty and well-worn overalls.
Noting the open plan common room off to the left, the men approached the reception desk and began a loud, three way argument with the receptionist behind the counter who wore a white, vaguely medical uniform, and a rapidly growing crimson complexion. In one corner of the common room just off to one side where the doors of two wide lifts were firmly closed, two old ladies sat, quietly watching the television, which was currently playing, “Cash in the Attic” at an extremely low volume. The lack of volume could be easily confirmed by what appeared to be continual adjustments being made to hearing aids by the two women as they attempted to hear the television. One of them stood up to look out of the window, which overlooked a large garden that more or less surrounded the home.
“Windy, isn't it?” she said, adjusting her hearing aid once again. The other lady looked at her in disgust and tutted.
“It's not bloody Wednesday!” she shouted, “Its Thursday! What are you saying it's Wednesday for? Bloody touched you are!” The other old lady sniffed and made to take up the argument. Her answer however, became irrelevant as from outside the sound of an ice cream vans musical bells could be heard. It grew slightly louder and then the van turned into the car park of the home, before coming to a sudden stop at the sight of the hearse and the removal van still jockeying for a position near to the door. The music from the van rang loudly through the air. There was a vague rumbling from somewhere upstairs and both of the lifts began to move upwards almost simultaneously.

At the reception desk the woman behind the counter was becoming increasingly agitated. A large white and green trimmed badge on her overall read, “My name is Wilma.” and below that in a slightly smaller typeface, “Happy to help.” Wilma however didn't seem very happy to help at all.
“I don't care what time you were told.” she was saying to the removal man. “You weren't meant to be here for another hour yet. This man has come to collect poor Mr Jones.” The funeral director nodded solemnly, and the removal van man simply glowered back at her, before repeating something unintelligible under his voice. “Don't you mutter at me!” she said as the removal man continued to glower at her. “I'll put a spell on you if you carry on like that. See if I don't.” Both the funeral director and the removal man took a step back just as the first lift door opened..."