But, of course, books were more important altogether and trying to weed them out was like uprooting the most exquisite blooms from a well-loved, long-tended flowerbed, leaving it bare and barren. Already, each gaping hole in the shelves rebuked her for having eradicated some vital part of her life-story. Before she’d started the cull, the trajectory had been unbroken, charting her evolution from nursery rhymes and fairy-tales, to Arthur Ransomes and Enid Blytons, then on to college text-books and bound sets of Dickens and Hardy, followed by the Stendhal, Flaubert and Baudelaire she’d amassed when living in Paris, then her Daphne de Maurier phase, after she bought a place in Cornwall, and on and on, in the same haphazard way, through all the subsequent decades. And the men in her life – lovers and both husbands – had contributed their own clutch of books; Roberto’s Aeschylus, James’s T.S. Eliot, Mark’s Freud and Jung, Adam’s Lawrence Durrell. But wherever she lived or with whom, the books had always gone with her and, once she was lucky enough to own a large, capacious house, she had assumed she would end her days with them.
Or she had until last month, when the prospect of Beaufort Lodge first reared its unwelcome head. Each of its tiny rooms boasted one patently inadequate bookshelf, which meant all her dictionaries would have to be relinquished, for a start. Just the two volumes of the so-called Oxford Shorter would take up half that shelf on their own. She was just debating whether she could keep them in the wardrobe, when the phone shrilled through her thoughts.
‘Yes, hello? Sylvia Lipton speaking.’
‘How are you, Mrs Lipton? It’s Heather Murphy here, from Beaufort Lodge. I’m ringing about your provisional reservation. I’m sure you’ll understand we can’t hold your room indefinitely, so I was wondering if you’d made a final decision. Of course, if you’d like to visit again, you’re more than welcome – any time at all. And if you have any further queries, I or the general manager will be more than happy to help. I also want to remind you about our annual Christmas bazaar, which we’re holding at the Lodge this coming Saturday. It’ll be a perfect chance for you to get to know the other staff and say hello again to those residents you met when you spent that lovely day with us. So we do hope you can join us.’
This coming Saturday she had booked to attend a lecture at the British Library on ‘Boccaccio and His World’ – definitely preferable to tombolas, bric-à-brac stalls and overpriced mince pies, not to mention the fake festivity bound to wreath the occasion like faded, tarnished tinsel. The trouble with geriatric homes was their ludicrous pretence that old age should be celebrated, rather than deplored. Every brochure she had studied so far went overboard on smiles: radiantly smiling staff conducting sing-alongs, or cutting ninety-ninth birthday cakes; ecstatically smiling inmates sipping sherry with Matron, or creating works of genius in the Crafts Room. Yet, on her actual visits, genius, sherry and smiles had all been noticeable by their absence. And, indeed, who but a fool would keep grinning fatuously when faced with the realities of pain, loss, grief, dependence and disability?
Heather was now elaborating on the enormous relief some residents felt when released from the ‘burden’ of owning their own house, with all the attendant chores and responsibilities. Far worse, Sylvia thought, to own nothing but a toothbrush and a nightie, and have no source of stimulation beyond carpet-bowls and Scrabble. ‘Look,’ she said, cutting through the treacly tide of words, ‘could you give me just a couple more days to make up my mind?’
‘No problem at all, Mrs Lipton. But remember, all of us here at Beaufort Lodge are hoping to give you a really warm welcome in the not too distant future.’
The warm welcome she didn’t doubt, but could it compensate for losing her individuality and becoming just a revenue-stream, a set of ailments, a room-number? Left to herself, the answer would be an emphatic ‘no’, but with Colin to consider – her only child, born late, after two miscarriages, and thus infinitely precious – things were more complicated. Although she had tried her best not to lament, or resent, his move to Australia, in October – a move vital for his career-prospects – it meant he was increasingly concerned about her health and strength now that he no longer lived close by. And, on his recent trip back home with Kate and the girls, he had sat her down in the drawing-room and explained his apprehension about her trying to cope on her own, with him 10,000 miles away – no more popping in to lend a hand, or keep a watchful eye on her – then he’d taken her on an inspection tour of several local care homes.
So, by the end of the visit, with Kate apparently sharing his anxieties, she had felt honour-bound to put the house on the market and start the dismal process of downsizing. Yet, every time she saw the traitorous ‘For Sale’ board, flaunting in the front garden, or attempted to clear out another cluttered cupboard, her resolve would waver and she would find herself prevaricating again. Which was actually quite pointless in light of the fact that Colin had already booked his next flight over – a mere six weeks away now – to assist her with the move, and to authorize the estate agent to take over the whole business of the house sale. So, in loyalty to her son and daughter-in-law, she ought to be tackling some of the outstanding tasks, rather than drifting around indulging in futile memories.
Determinedly, she went upstairs, to make a start on weeding out her large collection of letters. She kept the cache hidden in the linen-chest beneath a stack of Egyptian-cotton sheets, which Beaufort Lodge would never countenance, Egyptian cotton being difficult to launder, unlike their flimsy nylon. She was glad Colin wasn’t present to witness her wheezy struggle as she hauled out the heavy box, managing, eventually, to deposit it on the bed.
Long ago, she had sorted the contents into separate bundles, tying each with a different coloured ribbon. On top were the holiday postcards; a veritable kaleidoscope from friends, now mostly dead, or mouldering in homes like Beaufort Lodge. Having read a random two dozen – describing grape-harvests in Burgundy, or sunsets in Miami, or fog and floods in Venice – she decided to ditch the lot, as proof of her new resolve. Next, she unfastened the sheaf of Colin’s letters, each one of them preserved, from prep school through to public school, then his gap-year in Peru, followed by four years at Cambridge, his spell at Stanford, his various foreign postings and, in addition, a host of letters from his exotic foreign holidays. He had always been a dutiful son; kept in touch, given her no cause for worry as to his health or whereabouts, and the only reason the letters ceased was because of his move to her own small Surrey town, once his daughters were born, partly so she could be a hands-on grandma.
It had been a wrench to lose that vital role, all the more so because Becky and Robin seemed to have changed disturbingly since they’d been living in Melbourne, and even spoke with a pronounced Australian twang. She also felt increasingly cut off from them now that she no longer knew the details of their house and school and friends. Instead of being a crucial, day-to-day presence in their lives, she was now reduced to a voice on the phone; a return-address stamped on her airmail envelopes.
She dragged her attention back to the tide of correspondence. Postcards she could consign to the waste-bin, but not the written record of her beloved son’s life and career. She had actually offered him the treasure trove to keep as his personal archive, but tidy, efficient Kate had intervened, saying she didn’t believe in hoarding reams of sentimental stuff and preferred to keep her house uncluttered.
Still indecisive, she slumped down on the bed, struck by the sheer variety of envelopes and paper: pages torn from school exercise-books, cream-laid vellum, flimsy blue airmail sheets, headed company notepaper, luxurious hotel stationery, even scribbles on the backs of foreign menus. And the stamps would gladden any philatelist’s heart – stamps adorned with birds, flowers, castles, bridges, crowned heads, multi-coloured flags. Couldn’t someone, somewhere, give those stamps a home? Her love-letters posed still more of a problem, since they were far too confidential to be read by anyone – even the refuse collectors – and might well shock her steady, sober son.
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bsp; But, as she untied the scarlet ribbon, the writing on the envelopes set off a tide of memories: Christopher’s frantic scrawl as tempestuous as his life; Mark’s elaborate script, with its fancy, flowery flourishes, contrasting with his controlled, pedantic temperament; Adam’s neat, crabbed, constipated hand affording no hint of his wildly generous love-making. But, as always, it was Roberto who drew her back, enthralled her, so the first letter she opened had to be one of his – the now yellowed paper tattered at the edges.
Since our first night together, I am in thrall to you for ever, beautiful, mysterious, enchanting Sylvia.…
His prose had always been passionately purple. Others might deride it, but his ardent words never failed to ignite her and, even now, she could feel the familiar stirring in her body, the tumult in her mind.
Impulsively, she rammed her fist against the box-lid, wincing at the pain in her hand, but suddenly furious with Beaufort Lodge for all the things it banned. Pets were unhygienic, electric blankets dangerous, personal items of furniture too bulky for the rooms – all that she could accept, but why should they outlaw passion, sex, romance? ‘We aim to meet all your needs,’ the brochure stated, piously, ‘health, dietary, spiritual and social.’ But what about the pressing need for touch – the contact of bare skin against bare skin – and for union, communion, devotion, adulation, strings of singing adjectives? Could she really be the only octogenarian who still desired such things, still craved to be ravished and enraptured, refused to settle tamely for crossword puzzles, Chinese chequers, crochet?
Yes, apparently – at least judging by the tedious Tuesday she had spent at Beaufort Lodge, lunching with companions who talked of nothing but their ailments and the recent heinous fee-increase, then decamping to the lounge with them, to watch hours of daytime television, and hearing not one intelligent comment about politics, poetry or art. A few lugubrious residents had discussed their grim childhoods in the War, and the pains and perils of bringing up their own children, but had touched on nothing arresting or inspiring. Of course, she would hardly expect them to confide in her, a stranger, about ungovernable passions or intimate relationships, but, by the end of that dreary day, she knew she didn’t belong there and couldn’t imagine tamely settling for so vegetative a life, merely sitting, sleeping, staring.
When the phone rang again – the smart-phone Colin had given her, a definite advance on her no-bells-and-whistles landline – she grabbed it eagerly, remembering he’d arranged to ring at 10.30, her time. It never failed to upset her that Melbourne was eleven hours ahead, which seemed to underline the fact that, while he and Kate and the girls belonged in a rosy future, she’d been left mouldering in the past; their two universes now cut adrift, divorced.
‘How are you, Mum?’
‘I’m fine, darling.’
‘And how’s the clearing out going?’
‘Not too badly.’
‘I hope that nice Mrs Brindle is giving you a hand?’
Sylvia declined to answer. ‘That nice Mrs Brindle’ – the overbearing bossy-boots who lived two doors down – seemed determined to cart off the entire contents of the house to the Oxfam shop, or the municipal rubbish-dump, on the pretext of neighbourly good will. Wasn’t her harvest poor enough already, for God’s sake: two husbands and two babies dead, half-a-dozen lovers reduced to dust, and her all-important life’s work ending in failure? But, since she had never burdened Colin with any hint of loss or regret, she changed the subject to the innocuous one of the weather.
‘Oh, it’s been really glorious here, Mum. We’ve been out in the garden all day, soaking up the sunshine. And, even though it’s dark now, it’s still wonderfully warm.’
She glanced through the window at the sleety rain and murky grey sky – another reminder of the gulf now stretching between them: her son relishing a balmy summer, while she shivered in the cold.
‘Sorry, Mum, I missed that last bit. Becky’s yelling at me! OK, Becky, I heard you first time. Yes, you can have a word with Grandma. Mum, I’m just passing the phone to Becky, all right? Back in a tick.’
‘How are you, Grandma?’ the child asked, politely.
Kate had always taught the girls manners: to say please and thank you and not speak with their mouths full, to acknowledge all birthday and Christmas presents, and to enquire with some show of concern about their grandmother’s health.
‘I’m fit as a fiddle, sweetheart.’ Her increasingly troublesome bronchitis was of no interest to a twelve-year-old, and even Colin hadn’t the slightest inkling of her recently diagnosed heart-murmur.
‘Hey, Grandma,’ Becky continued, once the dutiful enquiry was discharged, ‘you know that cuckoo-clock – the one on the dining-room mantelpiece – can I have it when you go?’
The phrase jolted, as if Becky had snapped a rubber-band against her face. What did she mean by ‘When you go’: when she moved to Beaufort Lodge, or when she departed this life? Could Becky secretly be hoping for her imminent demise, so that she could lay immediate claim to the clock? In fact, both girls had put in bids for several of her possessions – the dressing-table set inlaid with mother-of-pearl, the pink leather vanity-case, the jewellery-box and many of its contents. She’d been inclined to give them everything they wanted while they were actually staying with her, so that they could take the objects back with them on the plane. But Colin had pointed out that they’d already exceeded their baggage allowance, and told them, firmly, ‘No, girls, wait till Grandma goes.’
At the time, the words hadn’t struck her with any sinister import, but now their ramifications hit home with troubling force. The catch-phrase, You Can’t Take it With You When You Go, seemed to be echoing in her head, with its unavoidable reference to death: why fret too much about material possessions, when one would be inevitably parted from them? And, yes, when it came to clocks or jewellery or dressing-table sets, she could, indeed, jettison such things, but not her life, for God’s sake! She wasn’t ready to go anywhere, either to meet her Maker, in whom she’d never actually believed, or to move to Beaufort Lodge. Why should she have to fit the mould expected of the elderly: passive and resigned, soulless and incurious, all her emotions extinguished or tamped down? Colin, Kate and the girls all had unconfined and vibrant lives. On their recent visit they’d enthused about the fabulous climate, the variety of sports, their luxurious house just a stone’s throw from the sea, and Colin seemed delighted by the challenge and opportunities offered by his new job. So couldn’t she, too, have a life – an independent, idiosyncratic life, in which she made her own decisions, with no one interfering or dictating her daily timetable? And, if that was unfair to Colin, or even unforgivably selfish, then she’d just have to bear the burden of the guilt. Guilt had always been the price she’d paid for living unconventionally, going her own way.
Suddenly, she realized that Becky was still waiting for an answer. ‘Yes, of course you can have the clock, darling. I’ll give it to Daddy when he comes over again in January, along with anything else you or Robin want.’
She wouldn’t ask him to cancel his flight – that would only cause serious ructions, impossible to resolve long-distance – nor would she entrust so important a decision to a letter or an email. No, she must wait till he was with her in person, then she would sit him down in the drawing-room, as he had done with her, and explain how strongly she felt about being written off, or carted off, or exiled, or uprooted, or dispatched in either of its senses.
When he reclaimed the phone from Becky, she was no longer simply faking her good cheer, but experiencing a sense of genuine liberation, which he noticed instantly.
‘Mum, it’s good to hear you sounding so upbeat.’
‘Yes, things are going well,’ she said, with suppressed but palpable glee.
Having chatted for a little longer, he finally rang off, and she did a tiny, triumphant hop-skip around the room, as if physically rejuvenated. Then, sitting on the bed, she began reading Roberto’s letters – all passionate twenty-three of them.<
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Heavenly creature, I want to lie against your gorgeous body for ever, worship every inch of your skin, drink great draughts of you. You are becoming a drug of addiction. Without you, I am lost… .
As the extravagant phrases pirouetted in her head, she could actually feel herself becoming young and beautiful again; desired, adored and cherished. So long as she kept these letters, she could remain a ‘heavenly creature’, stay girlish and untarnished, live in eternal springtime, instead of limping and shambling into winter.
I feel every different colour in the love spectrum, from thrusting purple to the most tender probing pink. Glorious Sylvia, no other woman could exert so great a hold on me. From this day on, I vow to be your champion and slay any dragon that ever dares to threaten you… .
The only dragon that threatened was officious Heather Murphy and, suddenly – indeed, daringly – she seized the phone again and dialled Beaufort Lodge, with a not-quite-steady hand.
‘Miss Murphy? It’s Sylvia Lipton speaking. I’m ringing to let you know that I have now made up my mind – yes, just in the last half-hour. I’ve decided not to join you, after all, so would you please cancel my reservation? ... Well, actually, it’s difficult to explain. Let’s simply say a new, exciting alternative has unexpectedly presented itself….’
Miss Murphy, ever-persistent, was making one final bid to elaborate the advantages of residential care, but Sylvia was already spiralling up on the thermal of the future, its new challenges and vistas, soaring as high and free as a falcon towards a whole new lease of life.
Bad Mothers Brilliant Lovers Page 7
