54. letter from martin morris to mo griffiths
Dear Mo,
Remember I told you about the twins next door? They were out again this afternoon. I was taking a walk around our garden when I heard scuffling on the other side of the wall. I stopped, and the noise stopped. Took a few more steps, and it started again. Stopped, and there was a giggle and then silence. So I coughed. Herhum, herhum, came back from their side.
I’d have loved to have hoisted myself up the wall and surprised them, but I didn’t want to do myself an injury so I said loudly, ‘I do wish there were some small boys around who might answer me a few questions in reply for a shilling or two.’ I had two faces looking down at me straightaway.
‘You don’t get shillings anymore,’ said one of them.
‘We did them in history,’ said the other.
‘And farthings.’
‘Stupid, they were bicycles. Not money.’
And with that, the one who had mentioned farthings pushed the other off the wall.
‘Can you remember life without electricity?’ the remaining one said to me. ‘We have to do a project on it for school. Borrring.’
I was still trying not to laugh when the second one popped up again. ‘You can’t ask him,’ he said. ‘It has to be all our own work.’
‘He could be an Original Source,’ the first one said. ‘Mr Winston said we could ask grandparents.’
They both looked at me a bit doubtfully.
‘We’ve got no grandparents,’ the first boy said. ‘They were all killed by a bomb. All four of them. It was most unfortunate.’
‘Liar. You know what Mum said about your lying.’ And both boys disappeared then. I could hear them fighting in the flower bed, and then a cry of ‘Bayzz, bayzz!’ from the house.
‘Shit, it’s Marta,’ the first boy popped back up to tell me.
‘We’ve got to go now otherwise she will beat us. She always does. But nice talking to you. Think about the electricity thing, won’t you?’
‘And our money,’ the second boy said.
‘What money?’ I could hear the first one asking as they went back inside.
‘He promised us some for talking to him.’
I was left shaking my head. I wished I could have spent longer with them. I would have said how we would walk around with our eyes shut to get used to the darkness without electric lights. I thought they might copy that in the garden and I could have some fun watching them.
Just then, a foreign voice came from the other side of the wall. ‘I am sorry if you were disturbed,’ it said. ‘They have been told to leave you alone.’
‘No, no,’ I said. It was strange talking to bricks. ‘They are fine boys.’
‘In my country, they would be taught manners,’ the voice said. ‘But Mummy and Daddy here say no tellings-off, so they are growing like wild men.’
I wanted to see what she looked like. I told her again it was all right, and then I went back up to my room. I pulled up a chair and watched for what seemed like hours. At first it was just the boys, playing at what looked like robots. And then, finally, she came out. Tiny, her blond hair scraped back under a baseball cap, and a tight, beaky face. ‘Get her,’ the first boy shouted, and the second rushed at her. She ran back inside the house screaming.
‘Marta beats us,’ I remembered, and I laughed all over again. She must have been about twenty, but she was almost smaller than them. I have been trying to work out which bedroom might be hers. If I stand at the very back of the garden, I can get a good view of their house. There are two small windows at the top, at the same level as mine. I think one of them might be hers. It’s comforting to think of her lying there on the other side of the wall to me. Two lost souls together,
M
55. letter from florence oliver to lizzie corn
Dear Lizzie,
I forgive you for not having me to stay now because you are a genius. Of course, men can never resist giving advice. Now why didn’t I think of that myself? And I have just the thing. George is always going on about his accountancy background so I will ask him about investments. I can ask him what to do with the money Graham left me. He doesn’t have to know that it is all secure. But how worrying for you that Troy has moved in full-time. And although I did laugh when I read about him wearing a sarong at the breakfast table and I won’t ask how you can be so sure he didn’t have anything on underneath, I can see you are anxious with Amy being so young and curious. I have heard them say such things before about Scotsmen, but Troy’s from Birmingham, isn’t he?
It’s all go here. We had someone come in to talk to us from the gas board about getting old yesterday. Brenda got her tentacles into him when he came to read the meter, and you can imagine how it’s impossible to say no to her. He sweated a lot so we all felt sorry for him. Anyway, he didn’t say anything, just kept taking things out of this box he’d brought with him and putting them on. First he had some big rubber gloves that he half filled with water and then slipped on his hands. Trouble was they were so tight they made this loud farting noise that we tried not to notice. He glared at us then and rammed two garden sticks down the armholes of his coat so the ends stuck out and when he turned around, he poked Annabel in the chest. After she’d calmed down, he smeared these plastic spectacles with cream and put them on and then he just stood there, staring at us. It was a bit frightening so we all looked back until eventually he said this is how the gas company taught their staff what it felt like to be us. Apparently he’d been sent on a weekend course on dealing with old people.
‘Very nice,’ said Brenda. ‘I think we find it immensely reassuring to know how our needs are being listened to.’ No one knew what to say until Annabel Armstrong chipped in to ask if he was going to tell us some jokes. ‘He’s a funny man,’ she kept saying. ‘Hit him hard so he rolls over.’ She must have thought he was a clown. Brenda started clapping then, although Keith said afterward that we should have all said we couldn’t clap because our hands were too full of water. If I were Keith and could get out, I don’t think I’d stay for our social talks but he does like to stay close to Beth.
Next month, we are getting a talk from George’s daughter. Not the one in Paris, that would be a treat, but the one who comes in here all the time. The tired one. Brenda says she is going to talk to us about trend forecasting. Even George isn’t exactly sure what that is although he said it was like a glorified secretary, but after he’d gone Helen said it was obviously to do with fortune-telling. I hope not. Remember we went to that one in a Gypsy caravan in Brighton who said Graham was looking out for me from the other side. It gave me the shivers for weeks, thinking of him watching me. But then I got to rather like it, leaving out the dishes, eating chocolate for breakfast, and even turning up my skirts at the waistband like a schoolgirl so you could see my knees. All the things I knew Graham would hate. You can’t get me now, I thought, but it was still a bit worrying. Just in case. And now you must excuse me. I have some homework to do if I am going to find the right questions for George.
Yours aye,
Flo
56. letter from george griffiths to brenda lewis
Dear Mrs. Lewis,
As I was waiting in the reception this morning, I couldn’t help but notice that the pile of envelopes waiting to be taken to the mailbox had first-class stamps on them. Given that we are all being asked to tighten our belts and we are living in a charitable institution, I wondered whether it might be a useful exercise to consider whether some letters were not so urgent and could therefore travel by second class. We seem to have got into a situation where rush-rush is the order of the day, and although it may seem like a trivial saving, as an ex-accountant, I know only too well the truth of the adage, ‘take care of the pennies and the pounds will take care of themselves.’
I hope you do not mind me bringing this to your attention. My offer to assist you in the office, or at least to undertake an audit of the administration of Pilgrim House, remains open anytime you would
wish to take me up on this.
Yours sincerely,
George Griffiths
57. letter from martin morris to mo griffiths
Dear Mo,
Well, I finally got around to reading the second draft of the poem Robyn wrote. It made even me blush. No wonder she was nervous. I did tell her that if she wanted to be a proper writer then she had to take risks, but maybe Lady Chatterley’s Lover wasn’t the best book to recommend to her for ideas. Or maybe it was. She’s seventeen, after all. For all her piercings and bravado, she has been babied by her mother.
I told her that maybe she wouldn’t want Nell to find the poem so I’d keep it safe for her. ‘Did you really like it,’ she asked.
‘I thought it wonderfully written,’ I lied. ‘You should go through the other residents and imagine lives for them like that.’
‘But is that OK? It feels a bit as if I’m taking something from them.’ There are times when she’s so puppylike you long to kick her. Anyway, I told her it was all about creating a persona.
‘It’s how all artists create,’ I told her. ‘We do the same in photography. You start with the basics, but it’s the artist who makes it interesting.’ And then of course she wanted to see some of my photographs.
‘Another time,’ I said. ‘I’m tired now.’ But she asked who she should write about next. I said Catherine Francis might be good and when she looked doubtful, I told her how Catherine’s great sadness was how she had always loved women but had to keep it a secret until now.
I had a moment of wondering whether I had gone too far when young Robyn put her hand over her mouth, but in these situations all you can do is to make the story bigger. ‘That’s why we’re all so pleased she has become so friendly with Helen Elliott,’ I continued. I could see which way Robyn’s mind was working.
‘Mum says Granddad’s not pleased,’ she said, clutching tighter at her mouth.
‘Exactly,’ I said. ‘He’s always had a soft spot for Catherine, hasn’t he?’
‘Granddad has?’
I looked at Robyn closer. Trouble with all that makeup is that you can’t always see whether she is worried or about to burst out laughing. ‘You have to explore the whole world if you want to be a writer,’ I said. ‘And that means being interested in everything to do with people, not just what you want to see. No use hiding in nature.’
And she left. She darts in and out of here as if she’s scared she’s going to be spotted. Worried about her grandfather, I should imagine, because I told her that he’d hinted she upset him.
She looked crestfallen, so I’d said that sometimes when you get old, you don’t see things properly and the kindest thing was to let people be. I told her I’d put in a good word for her and her granddaddy.
‘I don’t understand it myself,’ I said. ‘But perhaps we should just leave him alone for the minute.’
Or perhaps she was anxious about coming across Catherine and Helen in a clinch.
I put her poem in one of the new folders I’d borrowed from George’s room. But not before I looked at it again. I couldn’t meet Annabel Armstrong’s eyes at supper, I can tell you. Mrs. Oliver had to nudge me to pass the salt, and George gave me one of his looks. Luckily Steve had joined us, so he kept us all amused talking about something called ‘Ebay’. It seems he is buying pots, cleaning them, and selling them for double in the antiques shops around town.
‘But is that morally sound?’ George asked.
‘Who cares?’ Steve said, although it was only afterward when George had gone that he told us that all the money he makes goes towards a youth club he runs. You should have seen Florence’s face. It was pure love. I filed it away too, that look.
M
58. note from claude bichourie to angela griffiths
My little English Angela, it bores me when we argue. Our time together should be spent on love and joy. I have asked my bank to increase your allowance because, of course, you must have more clothes. But be careful how you ask me next time. There are ways these things could be prettier done.
59. note from steve jenkins to george griffiths
George,
Keith Crosbie, Martin Morris, and myself thought we might put together a darts team at the local Wednesday nights. Care to join us? We thought we’d call ourselves The Pilgrims, have T-shirts made and the like. Just a bit of fun.
Steve
60. note from george griffiths to steve jenkins (written on note 59)
DEAR George,
Keith Crosbie (WHO IS NOT A RESIDENT), Martin Morris and myself I thought we might put together a darts team at FOR the FALCON ARMS local ON Wednesday nights (TIME?). WOULD YOU LIKE Care to join us? We thought we’d call ourselves OUR TEAM The Pilgrims (DISRESPECTFUL?), have T-shirts made and the like (THE LIKE? BE SPECIFIC). IT IS Just a bit of fun (THE FUN ELEMENT IS ENTIRELY SUBJECTIVE).
WITH BEST WISHES/YOURS SINCERELY/OR EVEN FROM
Steve
Dear Steve,
Thank you for your invitation but I find myself busy on Wednesday evenings. I wish you well in your endeavour, though.
With best wishes,
George
61. email from nell baker to angie griffiths
YOU’RE WHAT?!!! My kid sister pregnant! I’m guessing you haven’t told Dad yet. He’s going to go ballistic. Still, congratulations. It’s not the married Monsieur Frog, is it? Does he know? You’ll have to speak to Dad when he’s here. Don’t you dare do it by one of your postcards and leave me to pick up the pieces. Hey, you realise this will mean you’ll be the bad girl now and he can stop going on about my divorce. Maybe he’ll even let Robyn off the hook. His latest escapade is to have upset one of the care workers. Brenda said ‘enough is enough’ and I had to have a word with him. I was nearly sick with nerves on the way there, but he was surprisingly cooperative. I’d forgotten about his sudden shifts. It’s as if he needs to get it out of his system and then he’s fine, although I still can’t help but think he’s got something up his sleeve. Oh, a baby, Angie. I can’t believe it. You of all people. Tell me more.
62. answer phone message from antoine dupert to angela griffiths
If you don’t want to talk to me, at least look at the photographs we created together. You can’t tell me they don’t show the connection between us. We made the earth move then, and after. We made every cliché true. If I don’t hear from you, I will get my staff to call you. No one as beautiful as you can make themselves as invisible as you seem to have done.
63. answer phone message from the surgery of dr. flaubert to angela griffiths
Madame Griffiths, this is Dr. Flaubert’s surgery again. Dr. Flaubert would like to remind you of the urgency of scheduling your second appointment as soon as possible. Please could you call. Thank you.
64. letter from george griffiths to brenda lewis
Dear Mrs. Lewis,
I have just been to my room to find my copy of Accountancy Age is missing, as well as several items of stationery. Given that I am the only resident in Pilgrim House with professional qualifications and the magazine can therefore be of no interest to others, I am forced to come to the conclusion that these thefts are of a personal nature, designed purely to annoy. I would be grateful if you could reconsider your position about locks on residents’ doors as I am sure my daughter could arrange this with no inconvenience to yourself.
On that other matter, and further to a conversation with my daughter, I have today apologised to Steve for his misunderstanding of my well-meaning attempt to correct his written English. I hope that will be the end to it. For Nell’s sake, I will endeavour to partake in the fruits of social contact with my fellow residents.
Yours sincerely,
George Griffiths
65. letter from martin morris to mo griffiths
Dear Mo,
Truth is I didn’t expect to find it so tiring being with other people. Maybe it’s because I’m out of practice but it seems you say one thing to them only to have them come back with another
and then you’ve got to think of something else altogether to say. It’s like a game of Ping-Pong.
At least when I was behind the camera I had something to fiddle with. Same with the shop. People would come in and I’d only have to make a comment about the weather, or the state of the world, and they’d be out the door again. If they tried to stay a bit longer, I could pretend something was wrong with the till and I needed to fix it. Mahad and I often spent hours together in silence. It comforted me, and I think him.
I see it with young Marta next door. The boys say she is bolshy. ‘Where did you get that word from?’ I asked them, and they said it’s what their mother calls her. It seems her nickname in the family is ‘Doom and Gloom’. I look at her sometimes, standing among the rosebushes at the bottom of the garden, and I know she’s not sulking, she’s just being. But of course, the boys find her and think she’s being bolshy. They threw a stone at her the other day. I told them later that if I caught them doing anything like that ever again, I’d arrange for Steve to whip them. I knew they worship Steve because one day when I was watching, I saw him take his top off so they could see his tattoos. They both nearly fell off the wall with excitement.
You were like Marta and me too, happy to enjoy your own company. I see it in your Nell too. I’ve been trying to make friends with her but she turns herself into a blank wall. Not like Robyn, who is all open doors in her enthusiasm. Strange, because she’s the one who looks like she’d be the least friendly. Funny how easy it is to get the wrong impression. Did I tell you what her latest thing is? She’s been on the Internet and found this site that tells her how to live without electricity and buying anything. She even came in the other day with all these plans and drawings she’d made for growing a house out of a tree. You pull the branches down and after about fifty years of watching it grow, you’ve got walls.
‘That’ll be ready for when you’re my age,’ I said, and she laughed. She said that she and her dad always used to talk about things like that.
Getting The Picture Page 7
