Twenty kilometres and another world away from the final minutes of the life of Andrea Steedman, Julian Knowles was driving his taxi down the narrow winding roadway of Contented Acres Retirement Village in Doncaster. He travelled at a snail's pace, carefully negotiating his way past the elderly residents who wandered up and down the roadway, either blissfully unaware of, or ignoring the concrete footpath specifically constructed for their safety and comfort. He was conscious too, of the possibility that at any time, a resident might well suddenly reverse direction and step out into the middle of the road. Such events were to be expected, or at the very least anticipated, at Contented Acres. Of greater concern was the possibility that one or other resident who still had a licence to drive, might suddenly reverse out of a carport straight onto the road with not the slightest warning given as to their intention. Many of the residents still had cars, as if to signal to the world that they may have succumbed to the serenity of life inside the village, but that didn't mean the rest of the world was safe from their ever-erratic driving habits. While some struggled to see over the top of the steering wheel, others drove with such trepidation, and anxiety, their right foot became a mechanical lever, moving up and down, up and down, jerking the car forward a few metres, then coming to a halt, jerking forward again, coming to a halt again. Danger was lurking everywhere.
Julian cruised past the community centre where early lunch was being served. Through the large bay windows he caught sight of a handful of tables where those residents who could no longer prepare their own meals in their private units, sat patiently waiting for their three course daily offering. He passed the lily pond, home to a dozen or so ducks who constantly wandered the grounds of the village. The ducks had recently become a major political issue. They had a most unfortunate tendency as they wandered about, to leave their droppings in the middle of the driveway of the units, and residents were forever walking over the green droppings as they moved to and from the unit, carrying the residue inside and onto their beige coloured carpets. Village meetings to discuss the 'duck problem' had been held and chaired by the village manager Jim Coutts, a fifty-three-year-old retired Army Major. Jim had seen service in Vietnam and Malaya. He had commanded a company of battle hardened, highly trained soldiers under fire. He was used to instant acceptance of orders. He neither expected nor tolerated dissent. Now, in his role of village manager, he was commanding another army where dissent was rampant, particularly when it came to the issue of duck droppings.
Julian waved to Jim as he passed underneath the timber footbridge. He had been coming here for so long now, he was almost a part of the village. Along the footbridge, the motorised scooter brigade rattled along, terrorising pedestrians, yet another hot political potato for Jim Coutts to deal with. As Julian pulled up outside unit 170, Myra Applewood was wheeling her way out of her unit, with her walking frame, loaded up with her sketching board, her box of pastels and charcoal, ready to travel into the city for her weekly art class. At ninety-six years of age, Myra was as active as the day she retired thirty-six years ago, from her position as professor of Chemistry at St. Michael's University College.
"Hello Myra, sorry I'm late," Julian said. "The traffic at the railway crossing was banked up again. The sooner they put an overpass there, the better," he added. "Oh that's all right," Myra replied. We still have plenty of time." Myra was a regular taxi user. Unable to drive since accidentally running into the garden plot outside the community centre three years ago, she relented and handed in her license to the local police station. It was then that Julian first met her. Unable to cope with the boredom of village life, Myra had set about re-educating herself in the arts. Pastels were her favourite, although she could swing over to oil painting or water colouring at will. She attended classes at the State Artists Centre on the outskirts of the city twice a week. She was an active member and co-founder of the local campus of the University of the Third Age, often lecturing on her vast travels around the world over the past fifty years. Her strong suit was the Middle-East and Central-Asia. Julian answered a radio call to pick her up one day, two years earlier, and the two of them clicked somehow, and he became her permanent driver ever since.
He was fascinated with her knowledge, her lucidity and her ability to teach through simple discussion. She would read the newspaper thoroughly each morning before Julian arrived and have several items marked for discussion with him. Through these discussions Julian supplemented his limited education, and saw world events through her eyes, her knowledge, and her experiences. She had become his de-facto tutor.
Julian helped settle Myra into the car, and began the gentle cruise back up the hill to the main road. "How are we feeling today," Julian asked. "Oh I'm all right; well maybe not. I'm not sure if I should be going today. Don't quite feel up to it, but I can't stand the thought of staying in this place all day," Myra replied as she ruffled through her basket to pull out the morning paper. "Any more news about the summons?" Julian asked, referring to the computer generated demand notice from Doncaster Power and Gas. "Oh goodness me, don't get me started," she answered. "Those stupid fools! Don't they realize I simply forgot! You'd think they would realize that an address in a retirement village would be enough to prompt a phone call or something," she answered. "It's a computer world Myra," Julian said. "The computer doesn't know who you are or even care. It just spits out bills and records payments. If you don't pay, it automatically gets angry and starts sending out reminder letters. If you don't answer them, it just moves on to the next process."
Julian arrived at the freeway entrance as Myra scanned the paper. "I suppose they'll have another nude for us today," Myra sighed, her thoughts projecting forward to the day's art lesson. "Male or female?" Julian asked. "Oh female of course! A male nude would be too much to take," she answered. Myra didn't like nudes. It was not her style although she regularly drew them, and would often comment on how beautiful the young girl was, and what lovely hair she had. If Julian knew that Myra was going to paint a nude, he would make a mental note of it, and remind himself to take a peek at the results on the return journey. Travelling along the freeway into the city was quick. Most of the morning peak traffic had gone and vehicles moved briskly. "When you pick me up later, could we stop off at the supermarket? I need some fruit and vegetables?" Myra asked. "Sure, no problem," Julian replied.