‘They’re eighty-nine.’
‘What?’ Mum and Dad had been working with older people for nearly three decades; they were as good as it got when it came to estimating age.
‘It’s the beauty regime, they told me. All natural. But they won’t spill their secrets, only share the products.’
‘They could be millionaires if they were prepared to bottle it,’ Mum exclaimed.
‘They aren’t interested in selling it. A few of the other women have asked them. Louis Abbot asked if he could buy some for his wife, who according to him would benefit greatly from a new face. They told him that what his wife needs is a new husband. They are, however, prepared to offer one day a fortnight to, as they put it, “provide some much-needed TLC to anyone who wants it, Louis Abbot not included”. They also said they’d only charge us enough to cover costs.’
‘Absolutely not!’ Mum barked, causing me to spill some of my coffee. ‘They’ll charge us a fair rate, which we will happily pay for. And Arabella Goose will be first in the queue. If there’s time, I’ll be in the queue, too. Those women defy all reason, looking that good at eighty-nine. Whatever they’ve got, I want some.’
‘Besides,’ Dad added. ‘It’ll save on some grey hairs and worry lines all round if we can keep those twins from getting up to any more of their antics. The day they stole the chainsaw to chop up a fallen tree for a bonfire put years on me.’
‘It was a great evening, though,’ Mum mused. ‘Campfire songs and hot chocolate. And we doused all the rogue flames in time.’
‘Right. So, speaking of songs, another must is dancing,’ I ploughed on.
‘We already have monthly tea dances,’ Dad said. ‘Although the numbers have dwindled with the warmer weather. They’ll pick up in the winter.’
‘No, they won’t.’
‘Excuse me?’ Dad looked bewildered that I’d contradicted him on something he clearly knew far more about than me.
‘No one likes the dances.’
‘Ruby O’Mara loves the dances! She’s always begging us to hold them more often.’
‘Because Ruby’s an attention seeker, and you always let her sing,’ Mum scoffed.
‘Dad,’ I pressed on, ‘the average age of the Outlaws is seventy-six. They were eighteen in 1964. They don’t yearn to waltz about to war-time tunes from before they were even born. They want to mosh to the Rolling Stones. Boogie on down to Aretha Franklin. We’re going to have an afternoon disco, using the light-up dance floor. I’ll take requests for the playlist and I can promise you it won’t include “The White Cliffs of Dover”.’
‘Are you also going to call the ambulance when one of them breaks a bone, like at the barn dance?’ Dad huffed.
‘When Isaac broke his finger playing rugby, no one suggested shutting down the club and making them play tiddlywinks instead. They’re grown adults, Dad. Who love rocking out. You’re the one who wanted to make their dreams come true.’
‘What about karaoke?’ Mum suggested. ‘They also love to sing.’
‘They do, but as previously stated, we’ve got far too many attention-seeking exhibitionists for that to work. Pit them against each other with a microphone and then therewouldbe a risk of broken bones.’
‘Fair enough,’ Mum said. ‘Anything else?’
‘I’m wondering about a murder mystery day.’
My parents both sucked in a breath. ‘Remember, several of the Outlaws have a degree of confusion or memory loss. Staging a murder could seriously traumatise them,’ Mum said.
‘And it’ll only resurrect the rumours about Millie Montgomery.’ Dad winced. ‘Marco found her in the storeroom covered in blood and imaginations ran wild. It wasn’t very helpful for Millie’s family when four of the Outlaws staged their own private investigation.’
‘Concluding in a citizen’s arrest of poor Harrison Smith,’ Mum added.
‘She’d fainted and hit her head,’ Dad said. ‘No suspicious circumstances. What none of the self-appointed private detectives knew is that she had epilepsy.’
‘Okay, I’ll scratch a murder mystery. That only leaves excursions. I was thinking that on Fridays, when the wedding prep is happening, there’s no reason why we can’t organise some trips out. It would mean paying staff to work an extra day, but we can recoup that in ticket prices.’
This produced an even more adamant response than the murder mystery. I’d never seen them express such a vigorously negative opinion.
‘Jessie, I’m really not sure you’ve taken on what we’ve told you about this bunch,’ Dad said, his voice dripping with dread. ‘Don’t be fooled by their pleasant exterior when trying to persuade you to build a bungee jump. They are wild. Uncontrollable at times!’
‘Fearless and free!’ Mum added. ‘It’s a wonderful combination – I can only hope I’ve as much spirit in my retirement – but it can be hell to supervise here, let alone setting them loose out there.’
