Call me old-fashioned if you like, but I always knew you liked me watching you. There would be times when I’d be standing outside your house, and I’d catch sight of your shadow behind the net curtains you put up, and I’d know you were moving just for me. I hated those curtains at first, thought you were shutting me out, but then I realised that, if I looked very hard, I could see you better. It would be just as it was in my best photographs. My customers never actually saw the breasts, the triangle between the legs, but they knew what was there and they knew that if they took one step further, if they crossed the line, all of the woman could be theirs. It was important to leave it as their decision. That’s what it felt you were doing to me. I could have crossed the line, walked up your path and rang your doorbell, but somehow there was always tomorrow. And then I’d be there again the next day, watching, and I’d see a bit more. And so it went on. I could shut out the others, see, from where I was standing in the street. I could make out your silhouette, but not George’s, or Nell’s, or even Angie’s. So I saw what I liked.
But here, it’s as if I’m pulling back the curtains. I have been colouring in the outlines for George and Nell, and now I’m about to step through the window and take Angie. There’s still work to be done, but nothing can stop me now. Even so, I can’t help but wonder what I’ll be losing.
You see, I got back the photographs of Florence Oliver today, and they showed me again some of the magic of keeping to the other side of the net curtain. I could tell when I went to pick them up that they’d been looking at them. The boy serving me had the spotty neck of someone who still hasn’t grown up properly. ‘Ah,’ he said a bit too loudly when I gave my name. ‘Mr Morris, eh?’ And a girl peered out from the doorway at the back. It must have been a prearranged signal, I suppose. They wanted to have a laugh. Well let them, I thought. They’re young. They probably wondered whether to call the police when they first saw the photographs. Was there a rule with old folk and nudity, they might have thought, in the same way there was with kids? Was it decent? Proper? Surely there were laws against it.
I waited until I was back in my room before I opened the packet. Just as I suspected, the photographs had been flicked through. Probably a few times. You could tell by the way they’d lost their stickiness. I thought Florence might like that, because what was the point in having your photograph taken if no one was going to see it. Besides, I doubted they would recognize her next time she shuffled up to the counter even in that new bright red coat of hers. The photographs weren’t of the same woman who asked for haemorrhoid cream. I’d done it again. I still had it in me to create the dream.
I forgot for a moment that the photographs were to trick, and I wanted to yell with happiness. You should see the look she gave in the one with her bare back. I forgot all about the sagging skin, the veins, the blemishes that seem to bloom on old skin. Instead, I saw the kindness on offer, Mo. And a little bit of a challenge. That’s what I love most about women. The way everything gets so mixed up in you.
I won’t show them to her just yet. She’s after more already, but what she wants is that time in front of the camera. She wants to be looked at, see.
And it seems I’m the only one left to do the looking for her.
M.
151. letter from florence oliver to lizzie corn
Dear Lizzie,
This fretting will be no good for you. Calm yourself down.
Remember the time James Barton’s wife tried to take over the Young Wives of NCOs Club? How we let her think she was part of us first, and it was only when she relaxed her guard that we showed her that we knew exactly what we were doing. The final straw was when we put her in charge of the rummage sale, and she had her shoulder wrenched opening the doors because none of us told her she had to organize the crowd outside in an orderly line.
By the time she came back from the emergency room, she was prepared to admit that her ideas weren’t better, just different, and she started the Arts and Film Club, which never proved popular enough to be dangerous. It was the same time as we began our letter-writing campaign to the soldiers who didn’t have anyone to write to. Admittedly that didn’t last long, not with them writing back to ask if we’d send them nude photographs and Graham finding out. But it proved we could come up with new ideas too. But I’m deviating here, although remind me to come back to the photographs. So Cornelia Barton kept friendly with us after but she also knew we had won. You see why I’m telling you this. It’s because of Cora. You need to show her that you’re not frightened of her. That the time she’s spending with Brian and Amy isn’t better than anything you might do, even if it involves slightly less money.
I’m glad the shopping went well. I didn’t even know they did bras for children as young as Amy, but if it made her happy then that’s what is important. And yes, I can imagine how excited they were when you took them to the café and said they could have anything to eat they wanted. Funny for Brian to choose an oatmeal cookie, but I bet Amy loved her bun and I imagine you did have a giggle together about them looking like boob cakes with those cherries on top!
And to think three months ago we had little to get excited about, Lizzie. What with all the things that have happened to us recently, it’s a wonder we’re still standing. What did that Chinese man say, may you live in interesting times. He’s supposed to have meant it as a curse but all I can say is that he didn’t live in boring old Pilgrim House before Martin came.
Even George has a spring in his step these days, and the other day he went to his room and got Keith the big dictionary. He’d been hiding it because it is only supposed to be used by residents. Helen and Catherine have taken to going to a book club at the library every month as well as their regular Friday jaunts, and are talking about joining a garden visiting club over the summer. You and I will have to get on with planning our holiday or we will be quite left behind.
Even Annabel has taken to waiting on the steps for the milkman, and begging him to teach her new songs. Admittedly, she will scare us half to death by suddenly bellowing in our ears about virgins and sailors when we’re not expecting it, but the new washer-dryer her son has just donated to Pilgrim House is, according to Steve, a dream, so I think we’ll have to put up with Annabel’s singing for a little while longer. Willingly too, I say, when you consider the alternative.
And now there was something else I meant to tell you, but I have forgotten. You take care, pet. Remember Cornelia Barton and how all it took for her to be defeated was a herd of overeager rummage buyers. Many women have no staying power, and you have it in you to beat Cora.
Yours aye,
Flo
152. email from nell baker to angie griffiths
The meeting between Robyn and James went OK. If anything, it seems it was a bit of an anticlimax. I’m not sure what Robyn was expecting but it doesn’t sound as if James has changed. Apparently they watched Brief Encounter. Robyn asked how on earth I didn’t realise he was gay.
‘Do you mind?’ I asked her.
‘No,’ she said. ‘We talked about the environment. He gave me some books.’ End of conversation.
I have to say though that she’s a bit better, although she still just sits in her room and reads those books of hers. I am beginning to think that maybe Dad has been right all along and that poetry does no good to anyone. Maybe we should all make cakes instead. Some of Mum’s cakes were like poems. That lemon sponge that used to melt and just leave the tang of citrus in your mouth. Or the one she did once with rose petals. There was just a slight crunch to the texture when you bit into it. I think that was my favourite, although it made me feel so sad for some reason. Angie, do you think if I’d cooked for Robyn, she would have been OK? Mark says we all go through stages, but I haven’t told him about her stealing. Martin’s invited Robyn to Pilgrim House to have tea with him, Dad, and Mrs. Oliver. Maybe that will help. She wasn’t going to tell me about it, but luckily he’d copied his letter to me too. Just to make sure everything was aboveboard, he
said. It’s almost as if he blames himself. I’ve told her she’s to go. And smile. And say yes to whatever anyone asks her to do. Poor kid. I’d almost feel sorry for her if this wasn’t all her fault.
153. letter from martin morris to mo griffiths
Dear Mo,
We are going dancing.
Robyn, Mrs. Oliver, George, Nell, Steve, and me.
I am not sure how it quite came about. Things seem to be running away from me these days, just as they used to with Mahad sometimes. I’ve waited such a long time to get in the photograph, Mo, but now I’m there, it’s as if I’ve walked in the negative by mistake. Nothing is as substantial as it seems.
Anyway, we are to go dancing. George is keen. Mrs. Oliver thinks it is an adventure. Annabel thought it sounded lovely but she’s still under house arrest. Brenda doesn’t call it that, of course. She says that everyone is just looking after Annabel a bit more. And it would be a shame, it seems, if she doesn’t make use of the comfy new sofa and DVD player, which is her son’s latest gift to Pilgrim House. Bribery and corruption, Helen tut-tuts, but she and Catherine are still there every night, glued to the telly and arguing over the remote control like an old married couple. So the dancing. Susan was talking at breakfast about how her daughter had taken up salsa. I thought it was some kind of tomato sauce that made everyone laugh, and then when they explained about the high kicks, I said it sounded just right. All the lovely ladies in Pilgrim House could go with me and show me their knickers.
It was only a joke. To be honest, I’ve taken to talking like this recently because it’s easier just to make everyone laugh than to try to remember what people have said. Well, everyone except Brenda laughed, she came rushing over and said that was enough talk about knickers at the breakfast table and, of course, we weren’t to go dancing of any kind.
‘Why not?’ George asked. You know what he’s like. As soon as someone says he can’t do anything, or instigates a rule he’s not personally been responsible for making up, he gets the bit between his teeth.
And it seems there are no actual rules as to why we can’t go. Steve said if we really were keen then he’d come with us to make sure we don’t get into ‘mischief’, Mrs. Oliver wants Nell to come so she can play Cupid. And I want Robyn. It’s not because she’s any use to me anymore. I like the way she’s not been broken by what happened.
‘You hate me,’ I said to her the other day, and she looked at me levelly. She comes once a week now to see her granddad so I always make sure I’m somewhere in the hallway and she has to walk past me.
‘I don’t even think about you,’ she said. But I could tell it was a lie. She hates me, just as you did towards the end when I wouldn’t let you have that one photograph I took of you back. But here’s the thing, if you hate, you can still love. If you fear, you can still love. It’s when you really don’t care that there’s no hope. And you never stopped being frightened of me, did you? I bet you were thinking about me right until the end. ‘A blessed relief’, George called your death the other day. ‘She was so ill. I miss her, of course,’ he said.
‘Of course you do, George,’ Mrs. Oliver said, patting his hand. They’ve got awfully pally, those two. They’re forever looking up stocks and reading the business pages together. I leave them to it. As far as winning Mrs. Oliver back goes, I’ve got my own treasure in that envelope under my bed. She’s played right into my hands. I just need to wait for the right time to show it to George. Then we’ll see if he’s as sympathetic as she might hope. The dancing could be just the ticket time-wise.
‘I miss her, of course.’ As if you were a dog.
He doesn’t know what it’s like to ache from missing someone. Not like I do. Didn’t I always say we should have gone dancing? I took out your photograph, the fists one, the other night, and I held it out and twirled you around the room with me. Steve showed me a few salsa steps after everyone had left the dining room. I think he felt sorry they’d all laughed at me about thinking it was ketchup.
‘Could you teach me more?’ I asked him. He was about to say no, so I said quickly, ‘I’ll pay you.’
So we’re to have some private tuition, him and me. It’s costing me a fortune, but it’ll be worth it when I show everyone up on the dance floor. I’ll twirl the ladies around so you can see their knickers, and I’ll wish they were you. Just you and me in the studio. Having the time of our lives.
M
154. letter from florence to lizzie
Dear Lizzie,
It was the Seduction Committee I forgot to tell you about in my last letter. I will be forgetting my head next. And it was all my idea too. Or so Martin says. We had a little mutiny over the Residents Committee, I don’t mind telling you. George is a lovely man but I think he might have been allowed to get away with a wee bit much in his marriage. He started making up more and more committee rules until Martin and I said we weren’t going to do it anymore. But then Martin thought why not use the committee to match-make between young Nell and Steve Jenkins. George wouldn’t have to know, and then Robyn could join us, and she didn’t have to know either.
So we gave it a go when Robyn came to tea. It was a bit difficult because Robyn kept being rude to Martin even though he’s been so good to her, so when we talked about the dancing classes, and Martin said it would be nice if Robyn came too, she made this scoffing noise.
‘Hey, manners,’ I wanted to say, but George got in there first. ‘You’ll say yes, and like it,’ he said. He looked as surprised as all of us by his words because none of us had been totally sure about going dancing before. But Robyn said she’d come if her mum came too, and Martin and I looked at each other. Things couldn’t have worked out better. We hadn’t had to do anything, and because George couldn’t back out now, Nell would be spending the evening with Steve under our watchful eyes.
Have I told you about the dancing? Things are moving so fast here. It was Susan’s idea. Apparently they have classes at the local leisure centre and her Mary goes. We were just talking about it at breakfast as a joke, but Brenda believed it, and no one bothered to tell her we weren’t serious. And now it seemed serious was exactly what we were.
‘You’re a genius,’ Martin whispered to me, when the meeting finished. I wanted to ask him if he’d got my note about the photographs, but George was waiting at the doorway for me to go over the minutes with him. He obviously still thought we’d been having the Residents Committee, which was why he was a bit worried about Robyn being there. He’s a stickler for detail so we were surprised when he agreed to invite Steve to join. But of course Martin asked him about that. After the Robyn incident, George does most things Martin asks him now.
You were always such a neat dancer. I remember watching you and Graham together once at the Palace. I was sitting on the side, wishing I could be as graceful as you and that I didn’t always make Graham angry the way I tried to lead. I’m going to lead in this salsa class though. I’m going to have myself a fine old time, shaking my booty. Just anyone dare to get angry with me anymore.
You’ll have to ask young Amy if she can teach you some of the latest dance steps. Susan’s great-niece came the other day and she was showing us this dirty dancing they’re so fond of nowadays. We did laugh at the way she wriggled her hips and Amy’s such a pretty little thing so I’d bet she’d look even sweeter than Susan’s girl did. Even Catherine Francis said it was unusual, which makes me think that maybe Laurie would like it too.
And speaking of hips, my rheumatism’s a little worse today. We’ll have rain before night falls, you mark my words.
Yours aye,
Flo
155. letter from george griffiths to brenda lewis
Dear Brenda,
We have been considering the future of the Pilgrim House Residents Committee, and have agreed that it will be acceptable for Steve Jenkins to join us.
However, we would like to have one more meeting to go through some administrative issues first.
Yours sincerely,
&
nbsp; George Griffiths
156. email from nell baker to angie griffiths (with letter 141 attached and scanned)
Hey Angie,
What is this thing you have against Martin? You can’t just tell us to stay away from him and not give any explanation. I still don’t think you understand what a dear he is. Wait until you come over and then see if you still feel the same. Or tell me what it is you’re worried about. Anyway, here’s his letter scanned in as you asked. Although I can have no idea why you need to see his handwriting.
It would be difficult anyway to cut off ties right now. We’re all going to go dancing together. Even Robyn and Dad. I know, I know. Mark says he’s going to pop along just to have a laugh at us.
Robyn was just saying yesterday morning she couldn’t see anything in life worth living, and then she comes back from her tea with Martin and Dad to say that she and I are going dancing with them. Now there’s a sentence I never thought I’d hear.
Nell
157. note from claude bichourie to angela Griffiths
My dear Angela,
No, I cannot get your tickets changed to go immediately. Besides, I will be in Paris for another week and need you with me.
Call me old-fashioned, but I do not think it appropriate for a mother-to-be to rush around without proper planning. Ah, and you thought I did not know. But then of course you forget I am the expert on your body. After all, Angela, I have known it since you were a teenager.
Getting The Picture Page 16
