Carmel Alakus

Monsieur Montreux was the most charming of elderly French gentlemen. His greeting of ‘Bonjour mademoiselle’ with a twinkle in his faded blue eyes was just the start. He would have kissed my extended hand as he shook it had the setting not been a hospital where he was a patient and I was a young social worker.

The inner city hospital where I worked provided a state wide service. It was not linked to one municipality or region. For this reason our senior social worker expected us to be available in the hospital. This meant home visits were not routine. However, the time between Christmas and New Year was sometimes quieter. Most outpatient clinics were closed. Consequently some of the wards had fewer patients, while staff took leave.

As luck would have it, that was when the doctors referred Monsieur Montreux. Many years have passed since then so I no longer recall his diagnosis except that he had multiple health conditions. As a result the treatment team did not consider Monsieur Montreux well enough to return to the special residential service where he lived. He required more attention and to be referred to a nursing home.

There was no family. Instead Monsieur Montreux preferred to discuss Victor Hugo or other things French. I focused on his social network, which proved to be colourful and rich though not in material terms.

Father Kelly, the local parish priest was a key figure in Monsieur Montreux’s life and was keen to help. After Mass each Sunday he ran a group for old fellahs like Monsieur and his equally talkative mate, Joe. Many called in at the presbytery, as did I on one occasion. It operated like an open house. A young couple, who also lived on the premises, helped with the daily chores.

Monsieur Montreux had a sweet heart, Gladys, an Australian lady of his own vintage who lived nearby. Days after accepting the referral, I received a telephone call from Gladys’ niece. Her voice oozed cultivated sweetness. She explained she owned 2 nursing homes. The one in Monsieur’s locality was full but the other in a far flung suburb had a vacancy.

When he had recovered sufficiently I took Monsieur to visit his home. Father Kelly and Gladys were there. Joe tagged along, too. ‘I missed you Ma Cherie.’ Monsieur Montreux kissed her cheek.

Gladys leaned into his embrace, ‘I missed you, too, luv.’ She said in a monotone Australian accent.

Her niece’s nursing home was in full view from the front yard of the special residential service where Monsieur lived. Father Kelly gave me a knowing look when he commented on this. With a nod, I acknowledged his concern.

Father Kelly who looked a bit like the old fellahs he helped with a wrinkled face, faded cotton drill pants and well-worn sandals, impressed as a kind hearted man who lived his faith. However, his benevolence didn’t extend to the plant world. Now Monsieur Montreux’s pride and joy was his collection of liliums in various pots in the front yard. In many colours and tall at that time of year, they showed signs of neglect from Monsieur Montreux’s absence. He asked Fr Kelly to water them. With a pronounced sigh Fr Kelly searched for a tap.  The liliums swayed violently this way and that from the industrial rate blast of the garden hose.

But what were we going to do about Monsieur’s accommodation? His time for discharge was rapidly approaching.

On my return to the hospital, I passed a beautiful convent set in spacious grounds. It was also a nursing home. I couldn’t believe my eyes when the sign indicated it was run by an order of French nuns. After telephoning, I visited. It was no frills accommodation but clean, spacious, airy and above all welcoming. I discussed my findings with all parties, especially Monsieur and administered the relevant paperwork.

The nuns made a huge fuss when we took Monsieur to the home. I overheard Sr Patrice and Sr Marie Clare whispering. ‘Look at Josephine showing off her school girl French’ as another nun charmed and was enchanted in turn by Monsieur. ‘Has she really read that much Victor Hugo?’

The nursing home was modest, dormitory accommodation –the norm in those days. Monsieur Montreux stretched out on his bed with a magazine as if he always lived there. As I was leaving I commented on the beautiful gardens and grounds. ’You know Monsieur Montreux has pots and pots of liliums that need a home, too.’

Note: Names changed to protect confidentiality.

Copyright Carmel Alakus February 2025. All rights reserved; this intellectual property belongs solely to Carmel Alakus.

Carmel Alakus

In my writing there’s a tension between the country girl I once was and the tertiary educated, city dweller I am now. My piece Mum caught in a spindle 1953 describes a farm accident when dangerous farm machinery wasn’t routinely covered. People were expected to be on their mettle. Today, in some quarters, safety is still ignored.

I remember wanting to write ever since I was a child.  Now retirement allows more time to do just that. In addition, U3A’s Community of Writers provides a supportive forum and has inspired me to write pieces that may one day form a memoir. 

My career as a social worker honed a commitment to social justice, seeded during my childhood. Over the years I wrote regular articles in a social work newsletter, occasional articles in social work journals and co-authored chapters in social work textbooks.

Monsieur Montreux with names changed, reflects an experience I had as a young social worker. Practice has changed since then, not always for the better.