Gladys Reunited

by Sandi Toksvig

  Now people are riding across on the ferry to visit the site. It is part of what the Americans call ‘closure’. Sue won’t let her dogs go on the journey.

  ‘One dog with one hundred and fifty people who are at best going to behave erratically, in a confined situation where I can’t remove the dog from the situation if I need to? I don’t think so.’

  As we left the fine eating establishment we passed through the general store which was awash with many down-home retail opportunities. I was spoilt for choice but settled for a three-foot-tall turkey dressed as a pilgrim in autumnal colours. I strapped him in the back seat of the car, where he could look out, and decided to name him Franklin. I think that would have pleased Ben.

  Milford and Frenchtown, New Jersey

  Three lasses of Mifford, of courage no doubt,

  A-milking one day the three sallied out,

  The cows were collected and all standing still,

  Not far from the house, as you go to the mill.

  Their three passions higher and higher did grow,

  When Kate gave to Hannah a terrible blow,

  Sukey flew off, and with tongue did berate

  With heaviest curses both Hannah and Kate.

  The baffle soon ended, for Hannah was small,

  And Kate, a stout hussy, could out-box them all.

  Local poem by unknown author

  I like the idea of being a stout hussy. Indeed, I like the idea of being a stout hussy living around here. I had an image of New Jersey as a state full of factories and much chemical manufacture. Well, that is indeed going on somewhere but not where Sue has settled. The next morning she took us out from our motel to her dog country club.

  ‘Paul is not very good with dogs,’ I explained, as she drove me in her car and Paul followed behind in our car, Betty. They always seem to choose him to jump up at.’

  Sue didn’t really say anything. I think the notion that any dog would jump without her permission was entirely alien. We drove past classic red barns, sweeping fields and neat wooden homesteads. It was the America of the farm movie. The place where a young lad in torn dungarees grows up wishing to be a big league baseball player and eventually triumphs, only to realise that there is ‘no place like home’. There is no place quite like Sue’s home. It’s in a lovely six-acre spot of woods with a small tributary of the Delaware river running at the foot of a hill behind her house.

  This neat, not very large two-storey house was surrounded by chain-link fence holding back many dogs of many types. Some were guests and some were Sue’s. She did point out which was which but the excitable things kept moving and I never quite got the hang of it. Here, Sue has turned an interest into a livelihood. People as mad about their dogs as I am about my children pay her large amounts of money to care for their pups while they are away. The dogs arrive with special diets, special toys and permission to sleep on the furniture. The inside of the house was well lived in. It would never win any House & Garden prizes and had the faint aroma of a well-satisfied clientele. They should be. It was costing them more than the Alexandria Inn in Philadelphia. This does not mean that Sue and her husband are rich. This means that keeping a property for dogs is an expensive business. They chose New Jersey because it is cheaper than New York.

  ‘We researched the area and knew there would be a demand,’ said Sue. I couldn’t even begin to imagine how you would start such research. Who would you ask? What kind of questions would have been appropriate? Apparently it’s a simple matter of demographics which goes to show why I have never had a business of any kind.

  The local area is in Hunterdon County. It was once known as Lenapehoking and was home to the Lenni Lenape tribe. I quite like their name as I think it sounds like a second-rate Jewish comedian. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, let’s give it up for Lenni Lenape!’

  Thanks very much, folks. I’ve been Lenni Lenape. I’m here till Thursday. Try the veal.’

  Apparently it means ‘genuine or original people’ which is simple and clear about who you are. Makes you wonder if the Palestinians would have done better if their name meant ‘Bog off, we’ve always lived here’.

  Ty, Sue’s husband, is lovely. He is a sound engineer at a large church in Manhattan. A job I have never investigated in detail but I do find hard to imagine. He is a small round man and he is also black. I think it is fair to say that neither Sue nor her sister Anne did what their mother expected. One married a black man and the other came out as gay. It may be, in terms of familial disappointment, that Sue has done well to avoid children and devote her life to dumb animals. Sue and Ty have not had an easy time in this mixed marriage. They have no doubt that being an interracial couple lost them the house they first wanted to buy and that people have, over the years, treated them differently. It has been a strain.

  Sue was good about Paul and put the dogs away before we entered. You could hear them upstairs. I like dogs but it sounded as though there was quite an entourage and even I was relieved. We sat down to watch some videos of dog shows. It was like being at Rita and Ron’s house watching the children on tape except this time there were fewer selections from Annie. After a while Sue decided we had to meet one of the dogs; I forget the name. This dog would be fine. It bounded in and was fine and then jumped on Paul. And the next and the next …

  Frenchtown and Milford were well worth the visit. Pretty, sleepy places, but can’t say you’d go there to see any historic sights. It was once a centre for the wagon-spoke industry and celebrated for growing peaches. But the peach crop was unreliable and the wagon-spoke industry died away because … okay, it’s not my area but I imagine people stopped using wagons. The most famous thing in Frenchtown so far has been the chicken farm. Kerr Chickeries was founded in 1907 by Richard W. Kerr who (you will remember) developed chick gender identification and artificial insemination techniques, later used by the entire industry. Funny how people’s lives take different paths. The chicken business was big around here. In 1923 alone, more than three million chicks were sent by mail from the Frenchtown post office. I don’t know if each one needed a stamp.

  Never mind the chickens, let me take you to Lebanon, New Jersey. More specifically, let me take you to a dog-training facility in the basement of a shopping mall in Lebanon, New Jersey. Okay, it’s not what you might expect. I have to confess there have been many moments in my life when I can’t think how I’ve ended up in a particular location. I remember painting a remote lighthouse with John McCarthy once and realising that not only was it a strange thing to do but, following a stint in children’s television, it was the second time I had done it. The Lebanon Plaza shopping mall, where I found myself that evening, was a place not awash with choice. Basically, you could either get your nails done or have Sue teach your dog to eat biscuits out of your mouth. The indoor training facility for the kennels was new. Indeed they had only recently had their Howl-a-ween party there for the clients. It was all very nicely done with dog paraphernalia everywhere. Framed photos of dogs winning awards, dogs jumping through hoops and several dressed as action heroes decorated the walls. There was even a stencilled paw print on the light switch. Here many types of dog turn up to learn to be obedient. Many types of dog but only one type of owner. The keen owners were all the same breed — middle-aged women mostly without wedding rings. They wore sweatshirts with pictures of dogs on them and were learning competition obedience and dog elocution.

  ‘Would you please remember, people, that “sit” is a one-word command.’

  I certainly would. The first time Sue had barked the word at a recalcitrant dog, everyone in the room had ducked down on a bench. Sue was in her element, for I realised that in that basement in Lebanon she had found her dream job — having people listen to her as she told them what to do. Sue had been ill but she still taught with energy and humour. She was kind but concealed it beneath her trademark gruff exterior. During our short time together I had tried to talk to her about the difficulties in my life.

  ‘You can do anything you
set your mind to,’ she declared. ‘If you don’t have something, it is because you don’t want it enough.’ And that was an end to it. I wondered if it was a tack that would be effective when I tried to persuade the BBC to make my programmes.

  I watched her work. She gave very clear explanations and managed to get a variety of dogs to do quite complicated things on hand signals. I tried to imagine my shih-tzu at home doing anything even remotely obedient and could just see him rolling over on his back, paws in the air, crying with laughter at the thought. I have always had dogs but I wasn’t sure the training was for me. The women kept puffing dog biscuits in their mouths and then removing small pieces to reward their animals. I asked one of the women why she couldn’t just keep the biscuit in her hand.

  ‘You want them to look at your face,’ she said and spat out a small quantity of mashed meal for her pooch.

  It was a strange moment sitting in a New Jersey cellar watching schnauzers skim over miniature horse jumps. I couldn’t for the life of me think why I was doing this but I was glad Sue was happy. It was a contentment which I hoped would run in the family. My next port of call was to be her older sister, Anne.

  CHAPTER 9

  Anne — Gladys Six

  Men travel faster now, but I do not know if they go to better things.

  Willa Cather, American novelist

  A woman who bought a coffee in a paper cup from a Drive-Thru McDonald’s has sued the company for injuries and won. It seems she put the hot coffee between her legs when she drove off. The coffee spilled and burnt her thighs. She sued them, as far as I can gather, for selling hot coffee. Someone once burnt me badly on a British Rail train when they dropped four cups of coffee on my left leg. I didn’t even get to my destination on time.

  Paul and I were back at Rita and Ron’s house in New Rochelle and things were, to say the least, a little tense. Mostly this was my fault. I don’t ‘do’ good organising. Indeed, I don’t really do organising at all. This is born out of an intense dislike of the telephone and a general desire not to be responsible for plans. When Alice, my partner, and I holiday, my only contribution in choosing our destination is limited grunting and the signing of cheques. In emailing Rita about who I had to see next I had been more than happy, at her suggestion, to pass the necessary arrangements on to her. The upshot of this was that she had laid many plans for mice and men and that, for the next portion of the journey, she was now not only in charge but coming along. I think travelling with someone is a true test of how well you get on.

  Paul and I ditched Betty, the redoubtable car, and met Ron at Grand Central Station. This time I was struck by how much more Russian than American the place seems — that vast marble hall with giant Fabergé eggs for chandeliers. But since 9/11 it has been dominated by a huge American flag hung from the ceiling like a giant’s bedspread hung out to dry. We had an hour to kill and tried to get rid of our luggage but the man at information told us, ‘We don’t offer that any more.’

  Everyone was scared. We sat and had a coffee. With the addition of Franklin, my three-foot turkey, and various factory outlet purchases, Paul and I were now laden with luggage. We were not so much in need of coffee as of a Sherpa with a smile. Ron met us at the information booth. He carried a small shoulder bag with his things in it. He smiled, he hugged us and then headed off, luggage free, as we struggled behind him. I was reminded of the chair at Sunday school and the difference in approach to manners. The commuter train to New Rochelle left from one of the hundreds of platforms. Unlike any public transport in the UK you could still get a seat on the 5.20. It was a train I had sometimes taken with my dad.

  ‘Where’s the bar car?’ I asked Ron.

  Many was the time I had watched my dad ordering a scotch for him and a coke for me as we trundled out to the burbs. Now it seems you can’t get a drink on the New Haven line unless you’re going to Connecticut. Maybe they figure if you are going that far you deserve a drink. I wished we were.

  From Rita and Ron’s house, every now and then, you can hear the great whoo! of an old train whistle. It is the romantic American sound of journeying. We were due to head north to Boston and New England to scoop up three more Gladyses. Rita was now on board as a fellow traveller but the theory proved more comfortable than the fact. Travelling, I had decided, was a tense business for Americans and it became clear why only about 5 per cent of them own a passport. I don’t think most people go anywhere, besides which 9/11 hung heavy in the air. Fundamentally no one felt safe outside their own yard.

  The morning started with a serious discussion about how to treat your mail. As well as fear, chemical warfare now floated on the horizon. Ron picked up the post from the outside box and brought it in saying he knew a woman who, fearful of anthrax attack, now sprayed bleach on all her mail. He tutted at this and I thought he was going to say how ridiculous she was. Apparently she was ridiculous but only because that ‘doesn’t actually get rid of the anthrax’. You have to …

  ‘Put the mail in the microwave,’ said Rita.

  ‘I hadn’t heard that,’ replied Ron. ‘I don’t think that’s right. I think you have to iron it. Steam and iron it.’

  ‘I don’t iron anything,’ said Rita, who is a funny woman. ‘I am not going to start with the mail.’

  She noticed some sweets on the bench in the kitchen and wanted to know where they had come from. Ron shrugged. He was still eyeing the post with its free opportunities to win a million dollars. Could the Taliban be so low as to have infected Reader’s Digest?

  ‘Don’t eat the candy until we have traced its source,’ she said firmly to the room in general, but to me in particular. I was, after all, the woman who drank water from a bottle without checking the seal.

  There is a woman in my exercise class,’ Rita continued, ‘who was going to let her kids go trick or treating at Hallowe’en and then throw away the candy.’ Rita paused for a moment. ‘At least, I think that’s what she was going to do. I couldn’t hear exactly what she was saying. We do the exercises in a loop and she kept getting ahead of me. Anyway I think everyone agrees that anyone could buy tainted candy.’

  Tootsie Rolls and junk mail — the Taliban had America pegged.

  Ron was also grieving for the Arizona pitcher who the night before had ‘given’ the game away to the Yankees in the twelfth inning. Apparently the pitcher threw a ball and the other team hit a home run. Ron was delighted for the Yankees but sorry for the young man. He tapped the newspaper picture of the distressed pitcher.

  ‘He’s only twenty-two,’ sighed Ron.

  ‘You shouldn’t have that pressure when you are twenty-two,’ said Rita.

  ‘How much does he earn?’ Paul asked.

  ‘Not that much. About $400,000,’ said Ron and went to remove the sweets from the bench.

  Seemed like a lot to me for throwing a ball. I could cope with the pressure. Now the series stood at 3—2 to the Yankees and they were all off to finish up in Arizona. The championship was played as the best out of seven games, which I felt gave my British companion Paul plenty of time to get the hang of it. There was a general consensus in the press coverage that New York deserved to win in order to make up for 9/11. I watched a television talk show where two old men in suits were discussing the matter.

  ‘I must be a liberal,’ said one man, ‘because I wanted to comfort the pitcher who gave the game away.’

  The other man snorted with derision. ‘Yeah, well, I’m a conservative because that young man is just a “loser”. This ain’t ballet, you know.’

  And I realised I didn’t know. I had no idea what that meant.

  Down in the basement Rita and Ron’s son Paul was practising the trumpet. It was an astonishing sound.

  ‘That’s … quite a tune,’ I managed politely.

  Ron stopped to listen. ‘He’s playing “God Bless America”.’ I was impressed that he could tell. ‘You see that, Sandi …‘ Ron pointed significantly to the floorboards where the sound was coming from,’… that would nev
er have happened if it weren’t for September eleven.’

  ‘In that case,’ I said quietly, ‘we must redouble our efforts to find Osama bin Laden.’

  We had originally delayed the start of our journey because Rita had an exercise class she felt committed to. Then she didn’t go to the class because she had a bad headache but we didn’t leave any earlier anyway. It seemed to be stress. Part of it was Julie, the youngest child. Julie did not want her mother to go and Rita was worried about her.

  ‘I think it’s puberty,’ she explained.

  ‘She’s not quite ten,’ I said.

  ‘It could be puberty.’

  We finally left Julie to the pains of maturity and departed in Ron’s car at about 11 a.m. It wasn’t an easy departure because Ron had many maps to give us. He kept bringing them out of the garage where he seemed to have opened a small map concession shop. Mostly he showed them to Paul. Maps were, like baseball, complex male things. By the time we left we had about six of them all charting the way from New Rochelle to Boston. Rita sat in the back of the car. She was happy to come but never drove anywhere unless it was local. It was a very smart car with a leather interior, which Rita said Ron had bought to stave off a mid-life crisis. I was beginning to think I might have one of my own. I was just backing out of the drive when Ron ran after us.