The Big Merino

Camden, London, 1999.

Patsy Lucknow and I had been best friends since preschool. As I recall, she critiqued one of my finger paintings, and I have been seeking her approval ever since.

We both grew up in Finchley North London, attended the same schools and eventually studied together at London College of Arts. Curation was an easy choice, considering we spent half our childhood in museums and libraries and were both insatiable readers. I took on European languages, including old Latin, while Patsy majored in manuscript restoration and bibliothecary.

I guess it was all the excitement of graduating when we started our first Curation and Archives studio, ByteMe, in a small studio space on Crogsland Street Chalk Farm. As glamorous as it sounded, we were only fresh graduates, and our portfolios demonstrated as such.

We found ourselves relegated to laminating and other mundane tasks for charity organisations and associations. It didn't take long to discover that our main competitors were the ones who taught us at college. Obviously, our clumsiness for business became apparent after we sent our bill for services to The Wapping Weiner Dog Fanciers Club. The treasurer replied that we were understood to be volunteers; therefore, no payment would be forthcoming.

A few months of self-employment soon taught us that curation was a tough and competitive business. No matter what our flowered-up resumes offered, nobody would trust us with their precious manuscripts.

#

We'd been turning up to our quaint little studio every day for five months, and still no sign of a project on which we could test our wares. The only constant was incoming bills, which were obviously outweighing income. Eventually, we conceded that the significant assignments would not eventuate, and all those boring small jobs would have to be our only means of paying the bills.

So, we had to start at the bottom; tedious garden clubs, walking groups, bird-watching enthusiasts, book clubs and the odd folk dancing association. After six months of photo laminating and book covering, we were beginning to think that curation and archives as an audacious profession were just another fantasy of ours. Yet, in our naïve pursuit of fortune and fame, we followed the advice that the World Wide Web was the way of the future, so we frantically bought computers, printers, photocopiers, and mobile phones. We even registered byteme.com as our domain.

#

It was Friday evening around five when I waited for Patsy at the pub across from the studio. They were slowly increasing the volume of Praise You as I listened intently to the lyrics. With a pint of lager waiting, she plonked her paperwork on the table and took a large gulp before she sat down.

"This letter was under the door, probably another reminder from the landlord. I'll let you open it."

The envelope had an unfamiliar symbol embossed on the back: "TUKKA? Never heard of such a company."

I picked it open and found a beautifully handwritten letter on fawn paper, something we have always noticed in curation. I inhaled the musky paper for ink composition. It had an odour of resin and ethyl, which was rare these days.

The sender was Mr Basil Sayers. He wrote that he was from a South London gourmet association, requiring our services. However, he did not go into any detail. We were glad it wasn't another bill.

"I bet he thinks we're a food company. I had two emails last week -one asking if 'Bite-Me' could do pink macaroons for her daughter's birthday party." It appeared our clever play on words was slightly ahead of its time.

"I’ll give him a call on Monday." I flatly volunteered.

#

Monday peak hour buses were rattling the studio window, making it difficult for me to concentrate. I intended to call Mr Sayers to clear up any confusion about the services we provide, but could find no number or address. I tried an online search of the word or acronym TUKKA. Still, I found no such organisation existed apart from a reference to a book on Indigenous Australian food. I put the letter in a manilla folder and marked it TUKKA-Mr Sayers. As the day went on, the file became lost under a pile of papers on my desk until the following day when a message came:

'Hello, this is Basil Sayers. I wrote to you regarding our organisation in South London. Would you be so kind as to call me on 595459358? I shall explain when you do contact me. Goodbye. Oh, and it's Basil, Basil Sayers. Thank you, cheerio.'

Well, at least I had a phone number and decided that I would just call and quickly explain that we are not a catering company. Wondering why we only ever seemed to attract these dotty little enthusiast groups wanting everything but prepared to pay so little- if anything at all, I found myself staring at the good-luck gift our parents gave us, a small pot plant sitting prominently on the coffee table in the reception area. Its leaves were brown and shrivelled with nothing but two stakes holding it up like an injured hospital patient. It appeared Patsy and I were both overwatering and nourishing the poor thing, eventually killing it with our kindness. Yet another glaring insight into our ineptitude. They warned us it was a bad idea to go into business so early in our careers. But we weren't in the habit of listening to their advice.

#

"You see, Mr Sayers, ByteMe is a curation and restoration service. We work for large organisations such as the National Library," I lied through my teeth.

"I am aware of the services you provide. Is it a question of money? My people are quite capable of meeting your requirements in that area."

"I understand that you are a food and wine club, Mr Sayers?"

"Well, I suppose you could describe us as such."

"But we don't do food, Mr Sayers."

"I know that!" I could sense some irritation in his well-spoken gentleman's voice.

The thought crossed my mind that it was a prank from our friends. However, Mr Sayers kept me on the phone for 40 minutes, describing how all the cookbooks, recipes, letters, and files 'needed a good going over.' As intriguing as it all sounded, we weren't about to get used by another charity- we were in business after all.

Most of these smaller clients declare the same sense of urgency once they make up their minds to do something about their mess but rarely understand the process involved. Mr Sayers did, however, show some understanding of our business, and he was keen to arrange a meeting post haste.

#

We unlocked the door the following morning to find the phone ringing. It was a very flustered and upset Basil Sayers.

"I do apologise for calling you. You see, our most esteemed member has gotten herself in some bother. Would you and your partner be kind enough to meet me at eleven thirty today outside Penge West station?"

Basil didn't give me a chance to say no or ask the nature of the problem. But we found ourselves locking up the office and hurrying off to the station, where we took the overground to Penge West in south London. We found our way to the street with 'Kiss and Ride' spaces on either side, having no idea who we were looking for.

"This is ridiculous. Tell me why we are here again?" Patsy's bewilderment matched my own.

Suddenly, a green Citroen turned in from the main road. A young woman in her early twenties sporting a brown baseball cap spun the car around to face the opposite direction.

As the back door swung open, an elderly gentleman called from the back seat

"Get in!" and slid across to make room for us.

"Hello, I am Basil Sayers. Thank you both for coming on such short notice."

"I’m Jonathan Sutro, and this is my partner, Patsy Lucknow.”

“Yes, yes, I know who you are”, he replied, preoccupied with his elaborately adorned walking cane.

“May I ask where we are going?”

“Pine Needles-Bromley.”

“Is that a restaurant or café or something?”

“No, it is not, but it does involve freeing someone from the clutches of culinary mediocrity, among other things.”

The driver’s fire-red hair was tied back like a bushy fox tail burrowing under her cap. She concentrated on the road ahead but must have caught sight of my trepidation as she reached up to focus her rearview mirror directly onto my face.

“I’m Vanessa. It happens sometimes. Madam Sayers goes for walks to the Bromley High Street and gets lost. The police always take her over to Pins and Needles Nursing Home.”

Basil, who was fidgeting with his walking stick, nodded in resolute agreement with Vanessa’s explanation. In fact, he seemed pretty irritated by the whole affair.

“Silly woman” he gruffed. “She just wanders off without her purse and then forgets where she lives. It's a little wonder they lock her up.” It began to dawn on us that we were heading to a nursing home to rescue a patient.

“Here we are.”

Basil’s demeanour seemed to indicate that his own grasp on reality was intermittent. However, I later realised this was far from the case. He warned.

“I shan’t be accompanying you, as I fear they will grab me too.”

The Citroen slowed down before gliding into the bitumen driveway of a seemingly well-kept aged care facility. The security guard at the gate raised two fingers to his forehead as if to salute us as we passed. He didn’t appear to care who was coming or going.

Vanessa lowered her cap as if to be in some special-op film.

“Here’s the brief. I will turn the car around and wait at the laundry fire door. You need to get her out without raising the alarm.”

Basil then handed Patsy a sealed envelope addressed to Persey Sayers with nothing on the back of it but that strange word again, TUKKA. However, this time, there were hand-drawn circles around the letters U and the last K.

“What does TUKKA mean anyway?”

“You will know in good time. Once my sister reads it, you will all head towards the laundry exit. We will keep the engine running.”

“Your sister?”

“Yes, my sister. Is that a problem?”

“No, Mr Sayers, I guess I just assumed she was your wife.” Patsy nudged me to stop before I embarrassed myself any further.

“She is in room eight,” Vanessa whispered.

“What do we do then?”

“Head for the laundry, then fire exit.”

“Thanks for doing this for us,” our driver seemed to think a pre-operational thank you would encourage us in our mission.

”If you are asked, it’s best to say you are her grandchildren. There’s the front door now toddle off.” Basil shooed us out of the car as they took off towards the service area at the rear of the building. We were left standing at a roundabout drop-off point at the main entrance.

“We don’t even know these people,” Patsy stated the bleeding obvious.

We had no choice but to enter the automatic doors only to be overcome by an odour of instant gravy and stale urine. Greeted by a croaky but well-enunciated gentleman holding his pyjama cord in one hand and a velvet hush puppy slipper in the other invited us in no uncertain terms that to jolly well grab a straw and drink his fart.

I have no idea why he thought we needed to hear that. Still, the moment we caught sight of a sign directing us to rooms one to twelve, we weaved down a hallway between food trolleys and abandoned Zimmer frames to room eight. As I was busy wondering what on earth was adhering my shoes to the carpet, Patsy pointed to the location of the laundry room.

Room eight had its door slightly ajar, but we did not feel as though we could just barge in unannounced. I mean, what if someone was getting dressed? It would only add to our embarrassment.

“Knock-knock. Is anyone home?” Patsy concertedly and with precision, opened the door a little by little until we slipped into her room.

“Hello, Mrs Sayers?” Pasty softened her voice to a level that I had rarely heard from her.

The blandly decorated room was a continuation of the hallway decor except for a chrome-framed watercolour of seagulls flying over a beach-side pier opposite the bed.

“I refuse to ingest this disgusting slop!” our mark protested at the tray of food in front of her.

“Who are you?”

“It’s okay, we’re friends of your brother, Basil Sayers” I instinctively used his name to diffuse her anxiety.

“What’s going on? Have you eaten your Lunch, Ms Sayers?” a nurse poked her head around the door.

“Still going, thank you, dear.”

Ms Sayers looked well into her nineties; her hands were soft, her white skin rippled in places like an oversized stocking. Her pure white hair was neatly manicured into a sensible bun at the back of her head, accentuating her protruding lips. There were remnants of glamour and fortitude that glistened in her demeanour, but the salmon-pink hospital chair devoured any power she might once have had. Her facial expressions were tempered by a struggle to remain alert. Her piercing hazel eyes stared as if something precious had been confiscated.

I was curious that she appeared fully dressed and prepared for the escape plan. Her scuffed shoes of mauve, her cream slacks unnecessarily high above her frail hips. She tucked tissues under the sleeve of her night blue cardigan. But she didn’t seem intent on knowing the content of the envelope, instead squinting her weary eyes as if searching for a sign of some sort. She clearly knew what she was looking for, as the moment the TUKKA word registered, she levered her tiny body upright. From suspicion, helplessness, even fear, she looked at Patsy and me with a nod of appreciation, followed by an unexpected burst of energy.

“I guess you will be my grandchildren today?” she groggily attempted to lighten the moment.

“You know they fill you with sedatives in these places, don’t you?”

“Now, flush that disgusting slop in the toilet before I throw up”, she pointed to the tray of untouched food.

“Walk with me to the garden, won’t you, my darlings?” Persey was intent on being within earshot of the matron.

“Hold your horses,” the suspicious head of nursing approached us in the hallway.

“Are you relatives of this lady?”

“Well, yes?” I meekly replied.

“Then I don’t mind telling you that you ought to be ashamed of yourselves, letting your dear old grandma get lost on the high street.” She scorned us both. “You will need you to officially identify her. And pay the shopkeeper for a bag of stolen kiwifruit.”

“If you want to take her home, you need to fill out the paperwork and call social services to check her living arrangements. And if you choose to leave her here, you need to fill out more paperwork.”

Patsy took charge of the situation and charmed the nurse into allowing us to take a stroll into the garden to discuss the elderly woman’s needs in private. The matron hesitated but agreed on the condition that we report to the main desk before we depart.

“Oh, Mr Lionel!” her attention diverted over our shoulder to that gentleman who, earlier, offered us a healthy sip of his bodily fluids.

“Back to bed now”, she instructed the poor old soul like a trinity headmistress.

Once the matron was clear out of sight, we ushered Persey through the laundry door. As we headed for the fire escape, one of the employees nodded, and everything was clear.

“Thank you, Jeremy,” Persey waved to the man steaming sheets in a cast iron press.

“Send my best wishes to your mother, won’t you darling?”

“Will do, Madam High Priestess.” I heard him say as I looked back in puzzlement.

The three of us burst through the fire exit and across a pathway neatly lined with a box hedge. The getaway car was hardly inconspicuous with its lime green duco and white gangster-trimmed tyres. It was the type of vintage car that anyone would remember. We charged towards the back seat, noticing how Basil had considerately moved to the front seat. The door was firmly shut, and Vanessa tossed a tartan throw over the tiny woman as she crouched down foetal between us both.

“Was all this really necessary?” Patsy had to make the comment.

“Can I get up now?” a muffled voice came from under the cover.

“No!” we all replied in unison.