Well, that was a shock. Even to me. I could see him trying not to laugh and I had some sympathy. A dancer, me? I was thinking of you, Mo, and how much I would have loved to dance with you. ‘Yes, a ballet dancer,’ I pushed on. ‘You know when they spring up so they’re frozen in midair for a moment, and then they land firmly back on two feet as if they’re discovering their strength all over again. It’s like a miracle. You wouldn’t believe the muscle power involved. Every bit of your body joining in for that one moment. I’d have liked to have learned how to use my body properly.’
The funny thing was that the more I went on, the more I really did want to have been a dancer. George was shaking his head, though.
‘Have you ever really looked at dancers?’ I asked. I was determined to make my point now. ‘Well, they even hold their heads, open their eyes, their mouths differently from the rest of us.’
He looked down at the ground and I could see he didn’t want me to see he was smiling. I decided to press home the advantage by taking umbrage.
‘It’s not funny,’ I said.
‘No, I’m sorry.’ But he got out his handkerchief and snorted into it so I could tell he wasn’t convinced.
‘So what did you want to be?’ I asked him.
He stared at me. Stopped laughing then. ‘An accountant,’ he said.
‘What, when you were four?’
He nodded. I couldn’t believe it. Imagine one of those little kids next door wanting to sort out figures rather than be a cowboy or the king or a chimney sweep. Did I ever tell you about the chimney sweep who used to come to my home? I used to follow him around placing my feet on the black footsteps he left behind. That was a bit like dancing, I suppose.
‘It was what my father did,’ George said. ‘He always wanted me to take over his firm.’
Well, my father was a steelworker but I never wanted to follow him to the works. Anything but. I wasn’t going to tell George that, though. He’d only have looked down his nose at me because I wasn’t from a professional family. He was, after all, the only professional in Pilgrim House, as he must have told us several hundred times.
‘Right,’ I said instead. I wanted to keep George on my side and I guessed the whole dancer thing wasn’t exactly working in my favour. ‘I suppose it must have been quite exciting sometimes.’
But then he surprised me. ‘Not really,’ he said. ‘A train driver. I wanted to be that once.’
I tried to look interested but not even his dreams were original. Remember you telling me you wanted to be the fairy at the top of the Christmas tree? And how you once spent all holiday crying because your father wouldn’t put you up there. I would have made a tree big enough for you to stand on if you’d have spent even one Christmas with me. You know that. I felt like breaking down your window one Christmas when I saw you’d put up one of those artificial trees. I knew that wouldn’t have been your choice.
Anyway, we’re going to do the walk again tomorrow and he’s going to explain exactly how double-column accounting works. The things I do for you, Mo.
M
79. email from nell baker to angie griffiths
I don’t care if Dad is upset. If Robyn doesn’t want to visit him, that’s his fault. He has to learn. And we do too, Angie. He can’t have it his own way the whole time.
And what do you mean he wanted to be a ballet dancer? You do talk rot. You can’t have been listening to him properly. Either that, or you need a new machine. It’s probably worn out from all the complaints he seems to be making to you.
80. letter from florence oliver to lizzie corn
Dear Lizzie,
Fancy you keeping those notes from our investment club. I’d forgotten how serious we took ourselves. Still, it was always about more than the money, wasn’t it? I used to love thinking about those meetings after the boys came back from Germany and we couldn’t meet up anymore. Of course, you had Laurie to keep you busy by then, but it was still special for all of us.
I wonder what’s happened to the other two members, Karen Enders and Miriam Jones. I lost touch with most of the wives because Graham thought it unnatural for women to spend time with other women. It was all right with you, of course, because of Frank.
The Beachwood Investment Committee. We were right posh, weren’t we?
Anyway, this will be very helpful. I have made a list of all the questions we asked ourselves at the beginning to go through with George. I’ve noticed that lists and bullet points are the sort of thing he likes, and I must admit I find there’s something comforting about the sense of order they give too. Don’t laugh, but I even went out and got myself a file of my own to keep notes of our meetings in.
So what else have you got squirrelled away there? I don’t suppose you have any of the photographs they took of us that time we won the bottle of champagne at the Palace Ballrooms, have you? We had to plead with the photographer not to send our picture into the local paper because someone might have told Graham and Frank. It’s just that Martin’s been talking about taking my picture again, and I thought if you still had those shots I might show them to him. That’s how I like to think of myself, almost pretty. There was some trick that photographer must have done with light, I reckon. And that was even before we broke into the bubbly.
Now, I have never heard of these war games Brian has taken up, but are they something like the tin soldiers we had in our day? In which case I’m sure there is nothing for you to fret about. Graham used to keep his in an old biscuit tin at the bottom of the wardrobe. He would get them out sometimes when he couldn’t sleep, set up wars on the kitchen table and then wake me up to play the enemy. On second thought, maybe you should worry a little. Although I have heard these old toys are very valuable nowadays. There was someone going on about it on the Antiques Roadshow just last week. I do like it when you can watch their faces to work out whether they are pleased with how much they’re offered. They never are, have you noticed that? Even when they suddenly get the chance of lots of money, you can see they are suddenly thinking, is that all? It’s as if getting a little bit of something opens up this huge hole instead of filling it.
It is a pity Troy won’t let you have a television in the house anymore. There’s another good show about models too. The camera keeps catching the girls when they look at each other. I want to be you, they’re saying, I want your hair, or your smile, or your body. I asked Sophi the other day if she’d like to be a model. ‘Oh no,’ she said. ‘I want a career.’ She’s going to be a psychologist. I found myself looking at her then, with a gust of hunger. I want to be you, I was thinking.
Of course, George doesn’t approve of the model program. Brenda says we’re to sort out what we watch between us and he’s always after changing the channel to something mind-improving, but we’re still better off than you. Could you not even get a small one for your room? I can see that family time is important, but Troy’s not even family, is he? And you must miss your Royal programs.
Still, I am glad we have agreed on Bournemouth for summer, and that Laurie thinks it suitable. It will be something to look forward to. If we’re spared, of course.
Yours aye,
Flo
81. note from claude bichourie to angela Griffiths
Angela,
Here is your air ticket to Monaco. I will meet you at the hotel, but cars have been arranged for you either side. Reserve your strength for me. I have missed you.
Until then,
Claude
82. answer phone message from antoine dupert to angela griffiths
I just thought the flowers might make you smile. I did not mean to offend but when I saw you had returned the envelope with the photographs in without even opening them, it was like a dagger to my heart. They are waiting for you here because I am sure you will want to see them one day. I know what happened in the studio that day and it was beyond knowing. The photographs are proof of that.
83. email from nell baker to angie griffiths
What do you mean
you can’t get over here for another month? Hell, Angie. But I suppose if you’re being sick everywhere then there’s nothing you can do. Are you sure you’re OK with a French doctor? Don’t take any medicine you can’t understand. I have heard they make you put pills up very unsavoury places. Can’t imagine doing that when I was pregnant. Anyway, I had tea at last with the mysterious Martin Morris, and he’s OK. He used to be a photographer but obviously something went wrong because he ended up running a newsagent shop instead. It felt a bit rude to ask him too much but he obviously knows all about art and books. Anyway, he’s offered to help coach Robyn, which could be just what she needs. I can’t believe my luck. He took some persuading because he didn’t want to upset Dad. I ask you. As if Dad would notice anything apart from not getting his dinner at exactly the right time. But to make Martin feel better, I said I’d send a taxi to pick him up and he could meet Robyn here at the house so Dad wouldn’t know. They’re going to meet weekly at first and we’ll see how it goes.
For some reason he makes me think of Mum, probably because they’re interested in the same books. He picked up her copy of The Mayor of Casterbridge. Asked if he could borrow it. I said yes, although it’s always the same with books. The minute someone wants to borrow one, you suddenly want to read it again. Mum loved that one too, didn’t she?
I made him some butterfly cakes. I had to scrape the top off where they were a little burned, but he seemed to appreciate them. I was thinking about how Mum used to scoop out a circle at the top and cut it into wings, but I couldn’t quite get it like that. Robyn said they were more like beetle cakes, and I told them both how I cried once because I thought the cakes were full of butterflies and Dad sent me to bed because I was spoiling tea time. I think it might have been you who told me about the butterflies now but it was probably just meant to be a joke. I was too scared of everything.
Anyway, Robyn and Martin laughed. He asked a lot about you. She’s the beautiful one, I said. I think I wanted Robyn to say, no she isn’t, Mum, you are, but she just nodded. It was Martin who said I was beautiful. Very quietly, when Robyn was out of the kitchen. He’s an old man, of course, so there’s no funny business there but it still made me feel happy.
Anyway, let me know when you can come and you’ll let Dad know about the baby, won’t you?
84. letter from martin morris to mo griffiths
Dear Mo,
Did you never think of teaching your daughter how to cook? When I think of the treats you once made for us on my little studio gas cooker, my mouth still waters. I’m not sure what it was that Nell made for me yesterday but it tasted like ashes. Robyn couldn’t eat it either. I caught her eye after I took a bite and she gestured to something just behind her. It was the wastebasket! So I passed the cake to Robyn without Nell seeing and that was fine.
Anyway, apart from the attempted poisoning, the visit went off so well that she’s only invited me around there once a week to spend some time with Robyn.
‘I’m not very good at arty things,’ Nell said. ‘It was always Robyn’s father’s specialty.’
‘Do you see him, Robyn?’ I asked. I wanted to include her in the conversation, too so it wouldn’t feel I’d been foisted on her by Nell.
She started fiddling with her hair. That’s something she does, Mo, when she’s not sure what to say. It’s how I’d take her photograph, looking slightly to the side and one hand half covering her face.
‘I’d like to,’ she said then. I could hear Nell’s surprised gasp behind me, but I didn’t turn around. ‘But later, when I’m older,’ Robyn said quickly then.
I wondered after, when I got home, whether she’d heard Nell’s gasp too. Probably wanted to protect her mother. I haven’t got to grips yet with what caused that marriage breakup, but I’ll find out from George. It’s all things to store away, Mo. Haven’t I always said that nothing is ever wasted!
M
85. answer phone message from george griffiths to angie Griffiths
Hello Angie,
This is your father. Thank you for your postcard of Rudolf Nureyev. I think you are a little mistaken because it wasn’t me that wanted to be a ballerina, and I am shocked you should think so. It was another man here and I told you only because it was a disturbing conversation.
This is something I feel it is important to clear up. Wishful thinking is all well and good, but far better to appreciate what life gives you. I have always been very proud to have been an accountant.
Other than this we are all fine. I stubbed my big toe on a textbook young Sophi had left out for Mrs. Oliver, but Nell took me to the doctor. How she manages to take so much time off work I have no idea, but of course her job is not as pressurized as yours.
I wrote to Brenda about the book and the importance all residents must take with their possessions. It could have been much worse.
Your father
86. note from martin morris to robyn baker
Dear Robyn,
Your poem about Susan Reed shows just how well you are learning to use your imagination. All writers go through the concern you described about using real people for inspiration, but it can be good to feel guilty because you need to break through the resistance and shock yourself. People rarely recognize themselves in writing and besides, you must trust me not to let your stories fall into the wrong hands. It may be that you want to try to write a group scene soon, perhaps using Pilgrim House as a setting. Just a thought.
It seems to me that this would be much better for your development than more nature poems. Plenty of time for those later.
Martin
87. letter from dr. croft to brenda lewis
Dear Ms. Lewis,
Thank you for your letter dated 27 April. I am pleased that my patient, Martin Morris, has settled in so well at Pilgrim House. Certainly, I would not have expected him to be called an ‘asset’ to the social life of any community, and I think you are being modest at not taking the credit for yourself. Let us hope that this will be the change his health so badly needs.
I can understand that you are perturbed that he will not allow anyone in to clean his room. It may be that for the moment, given what you say about his improved personal hygiene, that we would be better to humour him in this matter and trust that his good progress continues. It may just be that he needs time to acclimatize to the lack of privacy.
In the meantime, please keep me informed of any events you think I should know about. I was interested he had been inquiring about Mahad Jefferies but I am afraid he is correct in that the telephone number for Mr. Jefferies is now registering as unattainable and we have no forwarding address for him. Furthermore, the shop has been turned into an interior decorating consultancy, but I will leave it to your discretion whether you let Mr. Morris know this or not.
Yours sincerely,
Michael Croft
88. letter from florence oliver to lizzie corn
Dear Lizzie,
You are being very unfair on me. It’s too bad of you to call me selfish and self-centred and other such names.
I’m very sorry, I’m sure, if I’ve had things of my own to talk about recently, and that I forgot to ask about Laurie’s concerns about early menopause and Brian’s schoolwork, but if I’m being honest, sometimes all you do is whine about your family. How can I be expected to remember and care for every petty thing that happens to people who, if you remember, didn’t want me to stay with them because they’d rather have a room free in which to play table football?
I may be silly sometimes, Lizzie, but I am never stupid.
This time I am too hurt to grovel, but I am enclosing a postcard of Marie Antoinette. I know she is French, but she is still Royal. George’s daughter has lovely handwriting, doesn’t she? Very flowery.
Yours aye,
Florence
89. letter from martin morris to mo griffiths
Dear Mo,
There are these two girls who come here every Tuesday to do the ladies’ hair. They’re called Sand
ra and Gill and they set up shop in one of the bathrooms. You should see how serious they take it, like us when you used to come to the studio sometimes and I would set the table for tea beforehand so it would feel like we were living in a proper home.
Anyway, they let me sit on a chair outside in the corridor and watch. They call it Martin’s chair now, and they’re always joking that if I sit there long enough, they’ll do my hair. But then they always say I’m lovely, like their best granddad.
I like to be among the women, and I’m safe from George. He buzzes around me now, but he won’t come near ‘women’s morning’. Mrs. Oliver says it’s because he’s worried he’ll catch something. I felt sorry for her this morning, and not just because the lipstick she’s taken to wearing was smudged so she looked clownlike. She’s normally one of these cheery sorts, never letting herself get down but she seems to have lost her bounce. I wondered if George is being a bit harsh on her. He told me she was ‘not quite the thing’ yesterday. It made my stomach tighten when I thought of you. I hope you didn’t always have to be ‘quite’ and never too much, Mo, because God knows you could be too much sometimes. I loved it.
But here I am getting carried away and losing the point of what I was telling you. ‘I was wondering if you ever thought of growing your hair,’ I asked Mrs. Oliver. ‘It would look smashing pinned up.’ She tut-tutted in that way she always does, but I noticed her hand going up to her hair after like a small furtive mouse. She’s hardly a beauty, probably never has been, but I of all people should know that doesn’t mean anything. That’s why it’s important to tell women they’re beautiful. It’s such a little thing, and you get this glow off them that feels like a candle you’ve lit yourself. Especially when they’re not beautiful. The funny thing is that there are plenty of good-looking women you’d never look at twice because they don’t believe it themselves. And plenty more you did more than look at because they thought themselves gorgeous. Think about your friend, Trisha. She wasn’t exactly a conventional beauty, was she? And yet she had something.
Getting The Picture Page 9
