A warm visit
On a lateMarch morning Simon Victor Ivanson paused before the glass doors of the Bright Garden care home. A thin silver frost still clung to the chestnut branches that lined the drive, and a cleaner in a bright orange jumpsuit pushed a bucket of melted snow across the cobbled path. Simon slipped on his security glove, checked that his privateguard badge was snug in his chest pocket, and gave the warm door a firm push.
Forty years earlier hed been a fresh cadet on the parade ground; now, at fiftyfive, he was stepping into a plush retirement residence as the newest security officer. His army pension kept the lights on, but a mortgage on his sons house and his wifes medication bills ate away at the spare cash. The refresher course, the medical exam, the cleanrecord certificate all behind him. Today marked his first shift.
The receptionist, Giles, a lanky young man in an impeccably pressed blazer, escorted Simon down a hallway lined with reproductions of Constables pastoral scenes and bathed in soft yellow light from recessed fixtures. Your post is beside the doctors office, Giles explained. Youll log entries, make sure strangers dont bother the residents.
Simon settled at a compact desk surrounded by CCTV monitors. On the screen the spacious lobby looked like an aquarium: leather sofas, a coffee vending machine, and at the entrance a plastic figure of a smiling granny. He swiped a laminated badge and scrolled through a map: three residential wings, physiotherapy, a swimming pool. The luxury was undeniable, but the hum of human life was faint.
At noon, while accompanying nurse Lydia Petrovna on her rounds, Simon met the residents. Retired Colonel Arkady Mikhailov, another exservice man, was a full seven years his senior. Former department head Margaret Sergeyevna clutched an ereader. Both offered courteous nods, their eyes still wary, as if waiting for an order that might turn everything upside down.
After lunch, the dining room smelled of fresh dill and the steam from sterilisers. Wealthy pensioners delicately sliced diet salmon, their cuts as precise as a surgeons. Behind a glass partition, a handful of grandchildren in pricey parkas waved, closed their smartphones, and hurried out.
On his second day, Simon stepped into the inner courtyard. Weak sunlight glinted off the damp tiles, and Margaret Sergeyevna, wrapped in a long scarf, stared down the path. Im waiting for my granddaughter. The university is nearby, but getting there feels like a trip to the Moon, she quipped. By evening the nightwatch officer noted that nobody had visited Mrs. Litvinova.
The scene reminded Simon of the country hospital where his mother had once lain. No marble floors, no imported gym equipment, yet the same hollow echo of loneliness. It seemed wealth couldnt buy companionship.
From the thirdwing camera he watched Arkady Mikhailov sitting for a long spell by a window with his tablet switched off. The day before his son had dropped off a tin of dried fruit, signed some paperwork and was gone fifteen minutes later. Now the colonel stared at the grey sky, as if calculating an artillery trajectory with no target.
In the staff smokers lounge, attendant Andy the caretaker whispered, Residents can ring us anytime, but most phones have long been silent relatives have changed numbers. Simon nodded, adding another brushstroke to the portrait of quiet disconnection.
That evening he placed a packet of tea, sent by his son, on the lounge table. The box, labelled For Everyone, sat beside a water jug, yet no one fetched a cup. A familiar sense of duty fluttered in his chest: the urge to intervene, tempered by the modest authority of a security guard.
During his night patrol on the third floor, Simon heard a muffled sob. In the lounge, under the flicker of a soapopera, Tamara Davydovna, her hand adorned with a large emerald ring, dabbed at her eyes with a tissue. Should I call my daughter? he asked. No, shes on holiday at the seaside, she replied, turning back to the screen.
By dawn a plan had taken shape. Hed organised family evenings with a makeshift kitchen back at his old barracks. Why not try the same here? At eight oclock sharp he reported to Giles, We should hold a Family Day songs, tea, a photo booth. Giles didnt object and forwarded the idea to the director.
Director Laura Vladimirovna listened, tapping her pen against the glass tabletop. Simon stood, stiff as a guard rail. Budget? she asked. Ill haggle with suppliers, the local school band will play for free, and Ill handle the entry list. He spoke with resolve, though his stomach was doing somersaults.
Permission granted, he printed invitations within the hour. Leaflets reading Sunday, 31 March Family Day appeared on the reception desk. He then rattled through the contact list: answering machines, faxes, dead air. The first lively voice belonged to Margaret Sergeyevnas granddaughter. If you really sort this out, well be there, she promised. Mission accepted.
Sunday arrived. Early sunlight slipped through sheer curtains, scattering across the gleaming tiles. Potted hyacinths lined the corners, their spring scent mingling with the aroma of fresh scones from the kitchen.
Simon surveyed the hall. Chairs formed a semicircle, a small stage held a portable speaker for background music, and steaming teapots sat beside trays of pastries donated by the local bakery. He drew a deep breath: now everything hinged on the guests.
Family members began to trickle in by midday. First to arrive was Margaret Sergeyevnas granddaughter, Emma, with her younger brother. They lugged a stack of old photographs and a massive chocolate cake. Margarets smile widened as if shed just stepped onto a lecture podium again.
Next came Arkady Mikhailovs son, Colonel James Mikhailov. The colonel straightened his jacket, assuming a marching posture. They embraced, and the conversation unfolded effortlessly, shedding the usual stiffness.
With each new family, the atmosphere melted like March ice under a gentle sun. Grandmothers debated jam recipes, grandfathers bragged about wartime snapshots, and those who had come alone were ushered to the communal table, offered tea and cakes, while Simon subtly nudged strangers closer together.
By evening, as the sun painted long shadows across the garden, Simon scanned the room. Not everyone had turned up, but enough had, and the quiet hum of voices had blossomed into a warm buzz of exchanged numbers and promises to visit in May.
Laughter still echoed between the tables when he spotted Tamara Davydovna. Beside her sat her younger sister, whod arrived on the early flight. The two held hands, leafing through an old photo album, the emerald on Tamaras ring no longer trembling.
The shift was winding down. Simon helped the nurses clear dishes, wheeled a chair to the lift, and logged guest names in the ledger. Inside, a simple, sturdy confidence grew: a happy life doesnt require much. Just a pinch of perseverance and a dash of respect.
At the entrance he lingered a moment. In the modest garden, pink buds pushed through the gravel, stubbornly finding their way to the light. He smiled, feeling for the first time that his new post was exactly where he was needed.
