by Helen Harris
‘I’m sure she did nothing of the sort, Mrs Queripel,’ declared Miss Midgley. ‘Let’s be reasonable. Whoever would have left a window open, deliberately – if that’s what you’re saying – in this sort of weather?’
Alicia glared at her. You stupid fat cow, she thought. I could teach you a thing or two! One read about it all the time in the papers: ruthless crooks exploiting the helpless innocent elderly in their homes, tricking them into signing away their life savings, changing their wills.
‘Let’s hear no more about it,’ Miss Midgley went on. ‘I came to wish you a very merry Christmas and not to listen to such a load of nonsense.’
Alicia said nothing. There and then, she resolved to say nothing for the rest of Miss Midgley’s visit and reduce her to humble apology by her remorseless silence. But the pent-up force of all the words she was swallowing set her coughing and her coughing brought Miss Midgley to see sense.
‘My, you have got a bit of a cough, haven’t you?’ she conceded uneasily. ‘Has your GP been round?’
Alicia wheezed and shook her head.
Miss Midgley made another note. ‘The trouble is, we all have so much on our plates at Christmas. Still, it’s that dear Dr Chowdhury, isn’t it? I’ll see what I can do.’ She held her biro poised. ‘Is there anything else, while I’m about it?’
Having worked at her coughing a little, for maximum effect, Alicia now found she couldn’t stop. In the middle of a particularly throttling bout, it occurred to her that if you couldn’t get your breath for long enough, you died. She shook her head.
‘Nothing?’ Miss Midgley said. ‘Are you sure? Speak now or, as they say, forever hold your peace, because Lord knows when I shall next be able to fit you in.’
Whatever was throttling Alicia suddenly broke free and shot out into her handkerchief. Clutching it to her lips and hoping that Miss Midgley had not noticed something so disgusting, she shook her head again fiercely.
‘OK,’ Miss Midgley said jauntily. ‘Then I must be on my way, I’m afraid.’ She stood up. ‘Anything planned for Christmas? Shall I put you down on my list?’
‘List?’ said Alicia.
‘Christmas lunch at Jarvis House, remember? I think you’ve joined them before, haven’t you?’
Alicia remembered a dismal year when, at her wits’ end, she had allowed herself to be driven in a minibus to an institution full of dribbling old dodderers without teeth or brains, and had sat all day, fuming with indignation, as a succession of amateur performers without skill or talent had galumphed their way through a series of dreadful ‘entertainments’.
‘No, thank you, very much,’ she said firmly. ‘I’ve got my Christmas all fixed up.’
‘I know mixing isn’t always easy,’ said Miss Midgley, ‘but it would take you out of yourself. And there’s no charge, of course.’
‘I’ve got my Christmas all fixed up,’ cried Alicia. ‘A quiet day on the Saturday, in memory of my dear departed, and a visitor on the Sunday.’ She didn’t let on of course who her visitor was. She didn’t like to be reminded that Alison had been supplied to her by Miss Midgley’s officialdom too. She hoped that Miss Midgley would have forgotten the moves she had made to arange for a visitor. Luckily, she seemed to have done. She eyed Alicia suspiciously. ‘Well, we wouldn’t want to force you, Mrs Queripel.’
‘I’m glad to hear it,’ Alicia answered tartly. ‘Don’t let me keep you.’
Poor Miss Midgley started as if she had been stung. She gathered her big bag and her papers and she dithered near the doorway. ‘Don’t hesitate to contact us if you’ve got any problems, or if you change your mind. You’ve got my extension, haven’t you? The Department’s working until mid-afternoon on Friday.’
Alicia gave a chilly nod.
Miss Midgley regained her composure sufficiently to tick off the points on her notepad before putting it away. ‘I’ll chase up Mrs Cunningham. Probably just off sick. I’ll give Dr Chowdhury’s surgery a call. And I wish you once again a merry merry Christmas!’
Alicia stole a march on Christmas morning by taking an extra sleeping-pill so that by the time she woke up, the morning was already half-gone. She went gingerly downstairs with an ashtray and a picture, and examined the street from the front window for signs of Christmas Day. It was as empty and sad-looking as could be. She leaned right forward into the bay of the bay window and saw that at the corner of the street even Mr Patel, who had no right to, had locked up his shop behind grey vandal-proof shutters. Every lonely year, it was the same; Alicia expected some visible difference to show that it was Christmas Day, but it was just the same as every other day, only if anything, more so. She went into the scullery and turned the old calendar to December. She put her finger-nail heavily on the twenty-fifth, really to rub it in. She even wondered at one point, dimly, if she had not got the days muddled up. But on the radio they were having Christmas Day. She had some tea and some cornflakes. A cornflake worked its way into her dentures and niggled her until she popped them out. She thought back over forty-one years of married Christmases with Leonard: in Manchester, in Scarborough, in Newcastle, in the boarding-house, back in London in all their various different lodging places, and the final one or two here in this very house. Leonard always gave her a pot plant in bloom at Christmas. He managed to find one wherever they were: exotic hothouse specimens, tropical lovelies which took ill and died in her draughty dressing-room.
When the proper television came on, she went into the front room and watched it. They were all having Christmas Day too. She looked down her nose at a revival of an old musical and a family variety show. She must have dropped off eventually because after a while she noticed that the compère had aged terribly and lost the best part of his hair. She stirred herself and went over to the window again. Some people had already turned on their lights. So there were people in the other houses, they hadn’t all gone away for Christmas. Why didn’t they make any noise then, give any sign of life? Why did they stay crouched inside behind their curtains as though today were a day of mourning?
It was half-past four. She seemed to have dozed through lunchtime, so she set about preparing herself an early tea. While she was eating it in front of the television, the announcer said, ‘Before the carol concert, you can see a fascinating film about some folks for whom Christmas is a day like any other – our furry friends, the foxes. We’ve got a lovely little wildlife documentary for you, made by Chris and Karen Barrett. It’s called Foxy’ and that reminded her of Alison. Why of course, Alison was coming tomorrow and she had intended to spend today looking forward to her visit, but she had forgotten all about it. She bolted the rest of her tea, which naturally gave her heartburn, and sat back to collect her thoughts. She was shocked that she should have forgotten something so important. She did hope it didn’t mean she was losing touch.
By her bedtime, she had everything worked out. She would wear her blue, with the tear-drop earrings, and she would put out the mince-pies on the devoted admirer’s silver-gilt cake-stand. The fox was already wrapped and waiting and she stilled her last qualms by reminding herself that she had nothing else which she could give to Alison, since she had sucked all the sweets herself when she had her cold.
Boxing Day, not Christmas Day, turned out to be the longest day of the year. Alicia had been looking forward to Alison’s visit for so long that by the time she arrived she had already decided that, like Pearl, Alison was not going to show up and all her lovely preparations – the present, the dress, the pies – would go to waste. The sight of Alison bowling down the street on her bicycle made her heart leap up and she greeted her far more warmly than she had meant to. Alison’s gift was much smaller than hers in size, but in a way she was pleased because it would show the fox up to even better advantage. She tactfully accepted Alison’s suggestion that she open her present first and she put on quite a creditable performance of pleasure, she thought, when she unwrapped the funny little brooch inside. Alison’s reaction to the fur was every bit as thunderstru
ck as Alicia had hoped; in fact, for a minute she was worried that Alison was going to refuse it. Quickly, she bullied her and there was no mistaking Alison’s delight when she stood up and put it on. She even came across and kissed Alicia thank you, which was more than Alicia had bargained for.
They ate their tea, both wearing their presents. Alison helped Alicia pin the brooch to the bosom of her blue dress and Alicia, after warning Alison to be very careful with tea and crumbs, told her to keep the fox on too so that she could take a look at it on Alison’s shoulders.
‘So what did your Robert give you for Christmas?’ she asked her.
Alison went bright red.
‘Something naughty, was it?’ persisted Alicia. ‘Undies?’
Alison giggled. ‘Oh, he’d never do that. It’s sexist.’
‘Sexist?’ repeated Alicia. ‘I don’t get you.’
‘You know, treating me as a sex object, not a person in my own right.’
Alicia frowned. ‘Sounds like a load of his nonsense to me. I always had a weakness for pretty undies, if the truth were told.’
‘He gave me a book,’ said Alison, ‘and a sort of necklace.’
‘A necklace,’ said Alicia. ‘That’s nice.’ She bent forward. ‘Do you have it on?’
Alison hesitated, then fished beneath the fur and her jersey. It was a flimsy, already almost tarnished little thing, the sort of necklace they had had in the theatre wardrobe for maidservants and ladies-in-waiting, which was not good enough for the noble roles. Alicia didn’t know what to say. She thought: The cheap-skate!
‘It’s from India,’ Alison explained. ‘It’s a special kind of silverwork apparently, which dancing girls wear.’
‘Oh, is it?’ Alicia said coldly.
She was pleased that Alison didn’t wolf a second mince-pie because that meant there were two left, one for each remaining day of the holiday. But she did think that she left a bit sooner than she ought to have done, considering all the trouble Alicia had taken. She said she had to get back for some Boxing Day do, but Alicia suspected she was fibbing; she looked distinctly ill-at-ease and shifty when Alicia pressed her for more details.
Alicia sat alone in the dark room when Alison had gone and she told a few home truths to the furniture. ‘You’ll live to rue the day, my dear,’ she said. ‘He’ll never turn up trumps. Believe me, my dear, I’ve seen his sort before. If you take my advice, you’ll pack your bags and strike out on your own. There’s plenty of other fish in the sea. Leave him now, dear, now while you’re young.’
*
This is Rob’s idea of a romantic gesture: on New Year’s Eve, we were invited to a party given by some friends of his called Chris and Consuela, but at the last minute Rob said mischievously that he didn’t want to go because he wanted to begin the New Year inside me. I was completely amazed, needless to say, because that was so out of character; putting intimate enjoyment before a good time with his friends. I was a bit worried, although of course the idea delighted me, because it might create even more of a gulf between me and his friends if he failed to turn up at a New Year’s Eve party and they thought that I was keeping him away. Chris and Consuela are not his closest friends, but I knew the whole gang would be there, whooping and hugging one another at midnight, and drinking toasts to getting rid of the Thatcher government, to sending the Cruise missiles back home, to one more year without a nuclear war. ‘Rob’s copped out,’ they would say sadly. ‘Smothered in domesticity by little Miss Muffet.’ But Rob had his way, because after all I was hardly going to refuse him, and we didn’t go to the party and he did begin the New Year inside me.
I do wish I wasn’t someone who feels obliged to think solemn thoughts on solemn occasions, because I can’t help wondering whether the rest of the coming year will be anything like as much fun. All right, it was a promising beginning, but I don’t have promising feelings about the rest of it. I can’t help being struck by the difference between last January the first, when my happiness seemed to splash a benevolent shine on everything as I carted it around, and the day before yesterday when, waking beside Rob’s still-snoring shape, I felt so curiously heavy-hearted.
Last January the first, I had spent the night at Rob’s flat and as he was driving me home to mine in the early evening, he had unexpectedly said, ‘God, this is a boring drive. Have you ever thought about moving in with me some time? It would save us both this stupid trek.’
When I could reply, I said, ‘Are you sure? I mean, I think I’d love to, but are you sure you’re really willing to have me?’
Rob is one of the few people I know who can give an angry laugh. He gave an angry laugh then and he said, ‘Shit, Alison, I’m not inviting you to an afternoon tea-party. There’s no need to go in for all this, “Oh how kind, thank you for having me” routine. I’ve thought it over and I’ve made up my mind. It makes sense, that’s all. It’s up to you.’
‘May I think about it?’ I asked. ‘It is a bit of a big decision.’
But that was a lie. I had made up my mind already and when Rob dropped me at my flat, where I had a room in a household of ill-assorted girls, I started to take my pictures down off the walls.
The first problem of the New Year arose straight away on January the first. It is a tricky problem and I do not know how I shall tackle it. Rob has decided to give up his sitar lessons. He told me this with a clear sense of achievement, over our New Year breakfast, and it was obvious that, like me, he had been thinking things over solemnly at the turn of the year.
‘It’s not getting me anywhere,’ he said. ‘It’s retrospective and nostalgic and pointless. I’ve decided it’s time I hung up my old sitar and called it a day.’
‘But I thought you enjoyed it,’ I said weakly.
Rob said, ‘I used to. I felt it provided a useful counterbalance to everything else in my life. But it’s seemed incredibly irrelevant of late and, well, my heart just isn’t in it.’ He grinned. ‘Are you glad?’
I said, with an effort which Rob of course misinterpreted, ‘I never put pressure on you to stop.’
‘That’s true,’ he said gallantly. ‘You didn’t. But you never liked it much either, did you – that whole mystical Eastern kick?’
‘Don’t try and pretend you’re stopping because of me,’ I protested, with a mixture of teasing and genuine irritation.
Rob looked hurt. ‘For heaven’s sake,’ he said, ‘I just thought you’d be pleased, that’s all.’
I felt doubly guilty and I caught his hand over the table. ‘I’m pleased if you’re pleased,’ I said valiantly.
Rob was not convinced. He forked up the last of his scrambled egg in a huff. ‘It’s not an issue,’ he said sullenly. ‘It just struck me that you might like it if we could do things together occasionally on a Sunday afternoon.’
January 1st was a Saturday. On the Sunday, Rob went for his last-but-one sitar lesson. Even though it was supposed to be a new leaf, he felt it was only fair to give Anand more than seven days’ notice. And I slipped away to Mrs Queripel’s, wondering if it would turn out to be one of my last visits too. Except that I realized when I got there that I was not going to be prepared to give them up. I might have imagined it briefly as the coward’s solution, because then I would never need to tell Rob what I had been up to all this time, but I knew as soon as we sat down together that I couldn’t bring myself to do it.
Mrs Queripel was wearing my brooch and I was wearing her fox. (The question of how to explain the fox to Rob had not arisen, because he hadn’t noticed that it was any different from my old one, which I had surreptitiously taken to Oxfam.)
The first thing Mrs Q asked me was, ‘Did he admire it?’
‘Oh yes,’ I exclaimed, before I had had a chance to think through the consequences of this lie. ‘He thought it was fantastic.’
She glittered. ‘And did you let on? Did you tell him who gave it to you?’
I hesitated for only a fraction of a second but, in that fraction, she pounced. ‘You didn’t? You
kept him on tenterhooks? Well, maybe you’ve got more sense than I gave you credit for, after all.’
I laughed. ‘Oh, he’s mad with jealousy,’ I joked. ‘He’s beside himself trying to work out who it could be.’
We giggled together like a pair of schoolgirls. Then Mrs Q said seriously, ‘I don’t mind if you don’t let on, dear. You needn’t tell him it’s from me.’
‘Oh, I will in my own good time,’ I assured her. ‘But I’ll make him suffer first.’
She clasped her wrinkled hands in glee. ‘Good girl,’ she crowed. ‘That’s my girl!’
She didn’t look that well actually, in spite of her high spirits. I tried to see if there had been any noticeable change in her since the Sunday when I had first seen her. She did seem to have shrunk a little and maybe her skin hung looser. But her dreadful make-up was as defiant as ever.
That Sunday, we touched on the subject of racism. At least, the conversation began about her West Indian home-help, who had apparently failed to turn up for two weeks in a row, and whom Mrs Queripel was accusing of racially typical fecklessness and unreliability. Indignantly, I took it upon myself to point out to her that she was being unfair. It was, to use a favourite expression of hers, water off a duck’s back. Her beastly ideas are so deeply ingrained that nothing I could say made the least bit of difference to her. So, somewhat disgustedly, I changed the subject slightly and I asked her if she had ever been abroad.
‘Yes, I have,’ she snapped. ‘And I didn’t think much of it!’
I couldn’t help being amused by this blanket condemnation and I asked her where she had been.
‘Paris,’ she snapped again. ‘And, let me tell you, it’s nothing like what it’s cracked up to be.’
To make conversation, I said, oh, but I remembered going there on a school trip as a teenager and I had loved it. In fact, Rob and I were thinking of going there together over Easter.
