By Geoff Naumann

September manifested life’s lushest strawberries. Picked from beds of straw before the sun’s awakening in New Zealand’s southern sky, their dazzling red concealed nature’s sins. 

Here she comes. Carrying that big bowl. Per usual. And the tray of smaller ones. One just for herself. No doubt. Which communal garden fruits did she procure this month? She’s wearing that sparkly crimson shawl. Again. Always a second layer with that girl. Must feel the cold. What’s to hide? It’s a nice figure. Voluptuous, some would say. Discerning who said what proved difficult as voices ricocheted against the bay windows.

By spring, fruit fools constituted a recurring joke. However five months earlier, when April had arrived to the Lifestyle Village slash Nursing Home, residents labelled her first delectable fool a treat. During initial counselling sessions with April, the taste sensation appeased residents who complained they suffered at the ‘slash end’, as their gardens and windows appeared infrequently on the work schedule.

The manager, Mrs Call-me-Pam Sloane, instigated staff accommodation as incentive to attract superior employees. Attendants’ quarters were cosy, certainly too small to swing a cat. Pets were understandably not allowed. Mrs Sloane encouraged pastimes to occupy employees’ spare hours. They talked of knitting, jigsaws, tv series blitzing, reading, even poetry writing. Many employees discussed their private activities displaying completed pullovers, offering up cosy mystery novels for loan, handing on a highlighted television guide. Those attendants without hobbies played games: draughts, scrabble, poker, charades. April kept her cards close to her chest, expressed a dislike of board games, and a disdain for charades. Generating fools occupied April’s time.

Residents regarded listening April’s secondary forte, advancing her status as their favourite. April’s sprinkles of ‘ooh aah’ and ‘of course’ added flair to discussions. 

And, she always positioned a fool beside her. Along with a napkin and spoon to savour her whipped-up creamy diversion.Offering her addiction to others appeared an addiction for April  —  however residents did not judge a pusher of fruit fools a crummy trait.

Families, as the preferred topic, breathed life into conversations. April scrutinised residents’ fingers drawing family trees across rugs, across legs, as tales extended to great-great-grandchildren. Many residents showed genuine interest in April. Tell me about yours, they’d ask. April’s reply comprised variations of the refrain — Mine? Not so interesting. Scattered here there. My mother, we talk. Talk talk. Tick tick. Her time is running short. But back to you and your daughters; they must love you as I love my mother. I help where I can. 

And off she would amble to the next bed, in the next room, in the next week. In May’s room, attendants offered next level care. There is always sickness. If not in here. Out there. May spoke little so listening provided joy. She pressed April for news – My mother? April habitually clutched her shawl, believing it necessary to convey the combined effort of working here; there her mother. What to do? Work was essential. Send the little I can spare. Thank you. 

April always ended her resident chats with ‘Thank You’. An expected conclusion, in response  to the loving thoughts offered. 

June’s warmth was exemplary. Her room flowed with excitement when the monthly wine club carton of Red arrived. Inner warmth supplied. April’s phone dinged. That phone dings and pings, the residents registered. June looked. April looked. She looked every minute of every day of every month. That phone is like her third hand, the busier bodies decided. Who sends that many dings? questioning minds pondered. A plethora of pings, the poets pronounced. Always stated with care. Nothing malicious, oh my, never malicious regarding April. Think it’s her mother, not well, she confided in me, numerous residents divulged behind covered mouths. But she puts on a cheery persona. Well, she has her sip slurp fool and her ding ping phone occupying her. 

April returned to Heather’s room having stepped into the ensuite to take a call. 

“Who was that man?” Heather had perceived the baritone.

“Man?”

“On the phone, dear,” concerned April may soon migrate from attendant to resident.

“Oh. My brother.”

“Brother, dear?” The first Heather knew.

“Well, not family, as such. Like family. We call him brother.” 

“And he won?” 

A private detective’s observational skills would note surprise in April’s eyes realizing the auditory powers of Heather’s ears. 

“Won. Yes. His football team. Came first.” 

“And second? Second seemed of interest too,” Heather probed. 

April’s words darted with the skill her brother apparently possessed: “Yes, second place, a team they never beat, getting the win was a surprise, especially relegating that other team, in the stripes, to second place, their win was quite the show, put the others in their place.” 

September’s strawberry fool was prize-worthy, though tingled with a bitter aftertaste. The choir of female voices moved from the windows to the entry doors – April, hello. Oh, the fool looks wonderful. Strawberry. An especial flummery. And on our first-of-the-month springtime garden party. 

April placed the decorative serving bowl and matching dishes on the spring buffet. The gardening club had collected blooming bunches now displayed in vases which the Friday Pottery Club had created — the vases required the occasional coaster to level and plastic wrap to seal. Light classical notes played, creating a descant to swelling chat. 

Standing in the corner, the mouth of April achieved a terse configuration. Wary. Concerned. Knowing. Heather was talking to Iris, who had just wandered from Rose’s room with a tissue and a rage. From her chair Heather shot signals, static like electricity, across the communal room to a nurse, then a duty manager, and also that Rose lady who rarely deigned venturing from her room to grace their garden of gossip. Serious.

April assumed; no — realised. Took a call. On that phone, which, in retrospect, no one said they heard ring. 

“Mama. Sick. Oh no, I’ll come. Hope I can,” April dramatically proclaimed at the coffee attendant, the receptionist, and then the gardener watering life in the foyer. Finally stationary facing Mrs Sloane, with a shaking hand covering the phone, April continued: “My mother, can I? I really must….” Mrs Sloane offered confirmation with one soothing hand on April’s shoulder and another showing her the exit. 

April packed. Required only five minutes. Eyes down, she drove through the gates, tears oozed. 

One week. Silence. Two weeks. Silence. No calls. No emails. Silence. 

By the ides of September, chattering ladies assembled their thoughts. Ordained spokesperson Heather sat opposite Mrs Call-me-Pam Sloane’s desk, the fanciful revelation bridging the divide. 

Mrs Sloane called April’s emergency number, listed as her mother’s. Silence. The Christchurch Lifestyle Association had a record, but no further contact details. The Auckland Nursing Home knew an Avril but not an April. The Human Resource department had not contacted international nursing homes for references despite overseas experience comprising the bulk of April’s résumé. Seemed so far away and so long ago, and too many digits to enter. An April? No. No April in any month of our records.

The fruits of April’s mix of rapport and charm jelled. Ten dollars, two hundred, even a thousand. Every amount was blessed with customary responses: Keep it between us; I’ll pay you back; You’re so kind; The best; Thank you.

Mrs Sloane closed her door and braved the call to Head Office. The company director knew Pam as an august manager allowing her time to unfold the discovery. April borrowed nearly twenty thousand dollars, Pam cited. Perhaps even more. She envisioned some residents fearful to out themselves as ‘fools’. Her air quotes unseen in Auckland.

October first, Mrs Sloane conducted a search. Adhering to the employee handbook, she required two weeks unexplained absence (explained!) and documented correspondence (unanswered!) before informing April she had abandoned her employment and thereby staff accommodation. With intrigue peaked, residents hovered beside pergola columns, hidden by overblown purple wisteria tentacles, watching Mrs Sloane march into April’s. 

The room reeked of secrecy splattered across the desk, within the wardrobe, and inside drawers. Congealed-red crosses on Lotto numbers stabbed her; she drowned in voluminous Rugby Pools bets; she suffocated under the weight of horse racing stubs as lengths of Scratchie Tickets, still adjoined in their hundreds, strangled her. A murderously long moment elapsed as the horror resonated. Her eyes widened, her hand clasped firmer to her mouth, her body turned without instruction towards the light. 

Those thousands of dollars were stolen, twice.

By the following autumn, April had dissolved into myth. She had turned over a new leaf, some declared, graciously. April turned back into Avril or transformed further into Aurora or Avery, many residents believed. After years of dedicated privacy, Rose’s unprecedented harrumph silenced the group: “April fools only herself if she believes she can survive this affliction. Counselling is required.” 

Shrugging off Rose’s pronouncement, the out-of-pocket villagers continued debating theories into the twilight hours, and years.

*   *   *

Geoff retired early from careers in the theatre, hospitality management, and marketing since “there wasn’t time to read”. Now in phase two of retirement Geoff is attempting to gather his own words into stories. His first published story was in CafeLit UK, February 2024. Two short stories were published in a Palmerston North (New Zealand) literary anthology “Versions” in October 2024. Geoff is an Australian who migrated in the atypical direction and now resides in New Zealand.