by Ann MacLaren
I have said that my state of mind was rather fragile at the time, and I feel I ought to explain why this was so, because although it has no bearing on what happened that morning, it does perhaps explain my own immediate reaction to the incident. I had been jilted, you see. Silly, isn’t it, for a woman of sixty-five to be jilted. But it does happen. It was to be my third marriage; my first ended in divorce, the second with my husband’s death. Henry had come into my life during the early months of my widowhood and lifted me from my melancholy. We had planned to marry when a suitable period of mourning had been observed, a year we had decided, and had made all the arrangements, sent invitations, booked a honeymoon. Then two days before the wedding he sent me a letter saying that he had met someone else.
When I had spent my fury and dried my tears, I did what I have always done in times of stress. I ran away. I have run away to various locations over the years – New York, Madrid, Paris, Lisbon – and have never regretted it. It makes me feel adventurous, independent, and I always return strengthened and renewed. Never with my tail between my legs. I had visited Oslo many times with my late husband. Perhaps, at that time, I wanted to feel close to him once more.
I had just finished my second cup of coffee and was looking out of the window across the street at a group of tourists standing in front of the National Theatre, whose guide was explaining to them either the history or the architectural merits of the building, when suddenly a young girl came running out of the Metro, pushed her way through the crowd towards the statue of the actor, Per Aabel, at the side of the theatre, hauled herself up onto its plinth, and stood with her arms tightly clasped around its shiny head.
Intrigued by this unexpected sight I stood up and moved closer to the window to get a better view. My fellow diner, sensing that something untoward had happened outside, also left his table and came to stand beside me, close beside me as it happens, because there was very little space between the table and the window. I explained to him what I had seen, and as we stood watching the unfolding drama I enjoyed the feel of his jacket brushing against my bare arm, the smell of his cologne, his nearness.
We saw a young man approaching the statue and a shouted conversation ensued, he gesticulating wildly, she with angry movements of the head. I leant forward and opened the window in order to hear better, although I spoke no Norwegian. My companion also leant forward, pressing even closer, and began to translate what was happening.
“He is afraid she might fall and hurt herself. He says he does not know why she is behaving this way. She is angry because she saw him with another woman last night. It is nothing, he says, he can explain all that. There is no need for explanations. She has found out that he is a paid escort. He says it is good money, there is no sex involved. She says he should find a decent job, even if it pays less. He says he needs the money because he wants to marry her now and not wait until they have both finished university. Can she believe him? Why should she? Because I love you very much, he says.”
At this point I could see the change of expression on the girl’s face. She slid down the bronze Per Aabel’s back and leaned towards the man, who lifted her down from the statue and held her in a passionate embrace. The onlookers tactfully began to disperse as the young couple, oblivious, stood holding each other tightly, lips locked together, almost motionless.
As I came away from the window, happy but slightly embarrassed at what I had witnessed, I turned into the arms of the handsome white-haired man who looked straight into my eyes, pulled me gently towards him, and gave me a long lingering kiss, which I unhesitatingly returned. Then he stepped back, smiled, and walked quickly out of the dining room.
I never saw him again.
Alice Goes Shopping
It was only a very small collision. Just a bump really, but the sound of splintering glass made heads turn. With the handle of her trolley Alice had just caught the edge of one of the special Christmas displays at the corner of an aisle – champagne glasses, in boxes of six, free with two bottles of the supermarket’s own brand of Cava.
None of the boxes had fallen, although some had been knocked askew, but the half dozen samples exhibited on top of the pyramid so that shoppers could appreciate the quality of the generous offer, were now on the floor. Only one had smashed.
A young girl wearing flashing snowman earrings, who had been stocking the shelves opposite, called for a brush and shovel as some of the shoppers rushed to help.
“If they’d been crystal they’d all have shattered,” someone said. They all laughed, and another voice commented:
“Stupid place to put a display anyway.”
It was a minor blip at the start of a busy morning. No big deal. A diversion that would soon be forgotten. So they were all surprised to see Alice burst into tears.
“Oh, I’m so sorry… so sorry,” wept Alice.
One of the shoppers came over to comfort her.
“Now don’t upset yourself. It was an accident. These trolleys seem to have a will of their own sometimes.” She put her arm round Alice’s shoulder. The others who had stopped to stare or help now moved off, slightly embarrassed.
The young assistant, whose name badge said “Cheryl”, bent down to sweep up the glass, and smiling up at Alice asked her name.
“Alice,” she sobbed. “Alice Price. I’m so sorry. Really, I can’t believe I could have been so careless.” She wept into her handkerchief.
“Well, Alice, you shouldn’t upset yourself. There’s only one glass broken. You should see some of the stuff that gets smashed in here every day. Bottles of wine, jars of jam, eggs…”
The woman with her arm round Alice raised her eyebrows at Cheryl, to suggest that she might want to shut up. She had noticed that Alice wasn’t just holding tightly to her trolley, she was being supported by it. She looked as if she was on the point of collapse.
“Look, couldn’t she sit down somewhere? Maybe your staff room? She might like a nice cup of tea.”
“Don’t see why not,” said the girl brightly. Then remembering that she was merely a junior member of staff added quietly: “I’d better just ask the manager first.”
Alice wobbled slightly, and gave the woman, who introduced herself as Myra, a weak smile. The way Myra seemed to take charge made Alice wonder if she was a schoolteacher; she seemed to have an air of authority about her. Or perhaps she was a policewoman. She was certainly very tall.
“You’re very kind. I just don’t know what’s wrong with me lately, I’ve become so clumsy, always bumping into things. I never used to be like this. Not when Harry was alive. I looked after him so well. We were so happy together, didn’t need anyone else. Not even children. But now he’s gone I just don’t seem to be able to get things together. It’s a terrible curse old age. Especially when you’re on your own.” The tears started to flow again, silently this time.
Poor old soul’s probably depressed, thought Myra. But as she looked closely at Alice she wondered. She didn’t look very old, early seventies probably, though it was often hard to tell. She was smartly dressed, hair neatly done, and she’d put on a bit of lipstick and powder that morning.
Alice seemed to read her thoughts.
“I try so hard,” she wept. “But I live in a block of flats, and the neighbours are all couples or young families. Nobody wants to be bothered with an old woman. I know they all have their own lives to get on with. I understand that, it’s only natural. It’s just that I get so tearful nowadays. Really, I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
Myra knew exactly what was wrong and it could be summed up in one word. Loneliness. Her heart went out to Alice. She knew very well that her own mother might have been in the same situation when her father had died if Myra hadn’t persuaded her to go into sheltered housing. Now she had some very good friends around her and an active social life. Best of all, her new set-up meant she could choose when she wanted company and when she want
ed to be alone. What a pity Alice didn’t have a family to help her. Maybe she should have a social worker…
Alice saw Cheryl walking towards them and behind her a rather chubby man in a jacket and tie. The manager, probably. He looked kind and friendly. Alice dried her tears. She didn’t want them all to think she was one of those people who whined and complained all day. That was no way to behave. No, she had a lot to be thankful for. And now they were going to have a nice cup of tea and a chat. Myra would probably come along to keep her company, and maybe Cheryl would be allowed to stay too. She smiled at them all. Such pleasant people.
It was almost lunch time when Alice stepped out of the lift and rummaged in her handbag for her key.
Home to an empty house, she thought sadly as she opened the door. But it didn’t matter. She’d had a lovely morning and made some new friends. Cheryl was a delightful young girl, such a cheerful personality, full of fun. You would never be bored with Cheryl around. And Mr Wilson – who said she could call him Bob, but she felt that was inappropriate. He was the manager after all, even if it wasn’t one of the more well-known supermarkets. He had given her a small box of chocolates as she left the store. So kind.
Not as kind as the manager of Asda at the other end of town though. He had given her a huge bunch of flowers and a fruit cake, and a cup of tea and a bun in their café. And she’d made much more of a mess in his shop. She hadn’t expected the bags of sugar to burst as they fell because they weren’t piled very high. She didn’t like the thought of all that waste, so she was more careful after that. Tins were okay though, and so were non food items. Like those glasses today.
She thought again of Mr Wilson and young Cheryl. She’d have to remember to send them a Christmas card. And Myra, of course. The schoolteacher, as she had rightly guessed. A head teacher actually. How sweet of Myra to invite her for dinner on Christmas day. She would meet Myra’s husband, and her mother would be there too.
“It won’t be any trouble to set one more place at the table,” she had assured Alice.
How kind. She must take Myra a nice present. Perhaps that big tin of biscuits with the nice picture on it that they’d given her in Sainsbury’s last Sunday. When she had knocked over the pile of newspapers and magazines just inside the door.
So many presents, Alice thought happily as she placed the small box of chocolates under her Christmas tree beside the other parcels. She didn’t usually have such a large tree, but Mrs Evans had insisted. She was one of the managers in Marks & Spencer’s. She’d sent her two sons round to decorate it. Everyone was so kind to an old lady, Alice thought.
It was such fun making new friends.
Therapy
Iris had hoped to start her crossword as she sat in the waiting room, but Andrew arrived just behind her so she didn’t bother taking the newspaper out of her bag. She didn’t want to be rude; Andrew was always cheery, and he liked to chat. He liked reading, so they often discussed books.
“What’s it today then?” he asked as he sat down beside her.
“Sore knee. It’s been sore for six months. It’s a problem going up stairs and I’m taking a lot of Paracetamol, but it’s not helping much. I’m getting depressed.”
Andrew nodded.
“I’ve got a bad tummy bug. It’s lasted two weeks and I’ve been taking Imodium. I’m not long back from a holiday in North West China.”
“Oh, I love doing that one,” said Iris, laughing. “Their faces when you say you work on the deli counter at Tesco.”
“My favourite’s the bad back. I always exaggerate the number of painkillers I’m taking, and I tell them I smoke four joints a day for relief. They know that’s not in the script and you can see some of them trying not to laugh.”
“You’re incorrigible, Andrew. We’re supposed to be helping them to develop good communication skills, not trying to entertain them.”
“The rules don’t state that a Volunteer Patient must keep a straight face at all times, do they?”
Iris was called in to the doctor’s room before she could reply. The young student looked, as indeed he was, fresh out of school. He had the speech for his imaginary situation well rehearsed.
“I’m Paul Monaghan and I’m a medical student,” he said in a strong Irish accent, as he shook her hand. “The doctor has asked me to speak to you before you go in to see him, as part of my training, is that okay with you?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Can I just check your name? Jean Smith, isn’t it? And what’s your date of birth?”
Iris was surprised at his confidence; most of them were very nervous the first time, especially since they were being evaluated by fellow students who were always happy to point out mistakes and omissions. She wondered what Andrew would have made of this boy.
“The 5th of January 1970.”
She watched to see if he would express surprise, but he wasn’t listening properly. That date would have put her in her forties. A snort at the back of the room suggested one of his peer group had done the maths.
“And what have you come to see the doctor about today?” The young man leaned forward and made eye contact. That would be a tick for Good Body Language.
Iris stared into his warm brown eyes and confessed:
“I’m a bit depressed. Well, more than a bit. I’m really, really depressed.”
Over in the corner she saw the tutor look up sharply from his notes, then riffle through them, no doubt confused because this wasn’t the scenario he had in front of him. The student frowned, but continued regardless:
“And how long have you felt like this?”
“Since my husband died.” She hadn’t meant to say that. She had meant to revert to the original script, but somehow… it just came out.
“Oh dear,” young Monaghan carried on gamely. He leaned over and patted her hand. “You must miss him very much.”
She felt her throat constricting, her eyes threatening tears. She hadn’t expected this boy to be kind.
“Yes, I do. And… you see… he was cremated... I brought home his ashes…and...”
Iris wasn’t sure what she was trying to say. She could see the tutor becoming agitated. The student, nodding like a car ornament, seemed lost for words and was perhaps beginning to panic; then, remembering his notes, he interrupted a pause:
“Do you mind if I ask you a few questions about your lifestyle?” He didn’t wait for a reply. “Do you smoke?”
The abrupt change of tack brought Iris back into the moment.
“No.”
“Do you drink alcohol?”
Iris let the student know she was thinking hard about the question.
“Yes.”
“How many units of alcohol would you say you drink each day?”
“I don’t know anything about units. I have a couple of glasses of wine with my dinner every night. Red wine, I hear it’s good for you. And I have a G and T or two before I go to bed.”
Before the boy could reckon this up, she added:
“It helps me sleep at night. I have problems getting off. Because of my sore knee.”
She could feel the room relaxing. Paul Monaghan smiled and leaned towards her again, relieved to be back on course.
“And how long has the knee been bothering you?”
Five minutes later Iris was back in the waiting area with Andrew.
How’s the sore knee?” he asked.
“It’s in danger of turning me into an alcoholic,” she said. “How’s your diarrhoea?”
“Getting worse by the minute. I’ve developed severe stomach cramps. I think I’ll change the holiday destination to Kazakhstan, for variation.”
“Why do we do this, Andrew?”
“Lots of reasons. To help the next generation of doctors. To save the medical school having to pay for proper actors. To keep our memories active. To get a free lunch at the canteen.
No, strike that one out. The food here’s terrible.”
They both laughed.
“I read an interesting story last night,” said Iris. “It was about a woman whose husband had died and she was trying to fill her days. She did a lot of voluntary work.”
She could feel the barrier go up at the mention of death.
“Doesn’t sound like something I’d want to read. I don’t like fiction. I prefer real life.”
Iris continued as if she hadn’t heard him.
“I think the message the author was trying to get across was that people who volunteer don’t usually do it for altruistic reasons. They do it because they like having someone to talk to. It’s a kind of therapy.”
“Absolute tosh!”
“That’s what I thought at first, but then… well…you know… it’s good to talk.”
Andrew guffawed.
“You sound like that old BT advert.”
Iris laughed too.
They sat in companionable silence for a while, until Andrew said:
“I do it to get out of the house.”
“Yes,” said Iris. “There’s that too.”
Andrew leaned over and asked, quietly:
“Have you decided what to do with the ashes yet?”
Iris shook her head.
She had told Andrew a few weeks ago about the problem of her husband’s ashes. She couldn’t decide whether Bill would like to be scattered on the golf course, where he’d spent half of his spare time, or down at the river, where he’d spent the other half, fishing. Or somewhere else entirely. Meanwhile he’d been in a casket on a shelf in the kitchen for almost a year, waiting. Maybe he was quite happy there.
