‘Do you like it?’ asked Archie, attempting an unsuccessful twirl. ‘I thought it had a kind of Alpine chic.’
‘It certainly does,’ I replied, though what Alpine chic is I have no idea, except that it obviously must involve a lot of layers and thick material not only to keep you warm but also to cushion you when you fall on your bottom in the snow. And why would Archie want Alpine chic when he appears to be impervious to cold? Perhaps even he was starting to realise how freezing it was inside his house. Perhaps he was planning to wear the coat for cooking in.
Anyway, he wore this wretched coat all the time, even in the house, while he stayed with me. And just before he left for Devon, he said to me, ‘I love this coat! I thought I’d grow a beard to go with it!’ As he said this, he gave the strangest laugh I’ve ever heard. And then I knew that something was deeply wrong and a cold shiver went down my spine. I mean, I’ve heard Archie on the subject of beards. ‘The only gentlemen who ever looked good in a beard were George V and Edward VII,’ he said once. ‘A beard is the sign of a weak man or a scoundrel.’
So I’m very worried.
4 January
I’ve been looking at the Christmas tree in my sitting room, and roll on Twelfth Night, I say. It just looks a bit sad standing there, its job over, and with all the presents gone from beneath it. Also the room, which is quite small and cosy, needs good lighting, and the tree, despite its fairy lights, doesn’t give off quite enough. Maybe I’ll just take it down anyway. Can’t bear to tell anyone, but last year was the first time I bought a false tree. I just couldn’t face sweeping up the needles for months on end. And no one noticed! Of course it didn’t smell the same, but Christmas trees have stopped smelling like Christmas trees years ago. Or is it just my failing nose? False trees are brilliant. After you’ve used them, you just fold them up like an umbrella and bung them in the back of a cupboard till next year.
This morning I rang my dear old friend Penny, round the corner. While we were gossiping, I brought up the subject of Archie’s coat.
‘I’m really worried,’ I said. ‘Archie’s forgotten my name, planted a rosebush in its bag, bought a loden coat and now he says he wants to grow a beard. I think he’s getting Alzheimer’s.’
Penny was very scathing. ‘You always look on the black side,’ she said. ‘For heaven’s sake, we all forget names! And why shouldn’t the man buy a new coat? And as for a beard, he’s probably fed up with shaving! That’s the reason most men grow beards. Can’t be fagged to get out the old lather and strop.’
‘But he’s got an electric shaver!’ I protested.
‘Oh, don’t be so stupid, Marie,’ said Penny dismissively. ‘Archie’s one of the brightest oldies I know. Alzheimer’s! Tosh! Honestly, you’re so picky, and sensitive. You’re the one who’s getting Alzheimer’s. You know paranoia is one of the first symptoms. Anyway,’ she added, just to make everything worse, ‘you’ve never been able to bear people wearing things you don’t like. You’re such a control freak.’
Now, if there’s one thing that makes me hopping mad, it’s people telling me I’m a control freak. Particularly shambolic, utterly hopeless, untidy and so-called ‘spontaneous’ people like Penny. Just because her life’s a mess and mine is a meticulously filed set of folders in alphabetical order, she accuses me of being a control freak. Naturally I do not see myself as a control freak. I see myself as someone who has got their act together and remembers people’s birthdays and gets the trees in the garden lopped every five years, has all her skirts and dresses arranged in different sections in her wardrobe, has working smoke alarms in every room and who always at Christmas gives the dustmen, the newspaper boy and the milkman cards with ten-pound notes inside them. And who remembers their names, I might add. Unlike some, i.e. Penny, who is always surprised when the dustmen chuck all her rubbish over her front garden ‘by mistake’ because she’s forgotten to tip them again.
9 January
Now Twelfth Night’s well and truly over, the sitting room’s all back to normal again and not a Christmas tree, paper chain or card in sight. Took me about an hour to erase all evidence of Christmas from the place, and I nearly fell off the ladder as I was dismantling some holly lights, but what a relief it’s all over. Looking through my cards as I swept them from the mantelpiece, I found a very odd one from someone which read, ‘With loads of love from Angie, Jim, Bella, Perry and Squeaks. Don’t know if dad told you about our latest addition! He’s so cuddly! Do come down and meet him, soon! Ring us! Loads of love …’
???
Another signed herself ‘Anne’, but which particular Anne she was, I have no idea. And there were a couple of people who just put a squiggle at the bottom, whose names I couldn’t even decipher.
Now, Jack rang this morning and invited me to lunch this Sunday. Very sinister, this. Most normal mothers would be thrilled to hear from their sons, and usually I’d jump at the chance and be round there like a shot with presents for all the family, but there was something in his voice that made me feel extremely wary. I think that the older we get the more sensitive we are to the nuances in people’s voices, a sort of radar. I certainly have invisible antennae like snails’ horns, when it comes to voices. Even on the telephone, I can tell at once whether people are happy or cross, ill or well, envious, resentful or bored. Sometimes I wish I weren’t quite so sensitive. Because I often get it wrong and am convinced someone is absolutely furious with me and planning never to speak to me again and it turns out that they’ve merely mislaid their front-door keys.
Anyway, this invitation to lunch was particularly suspicious, not just because of Jack’s voice but because I usually only have supper with the family when I drop Gene back after he’s been to stay. Not lunch.
But I was made even more wary when he said there was something they wanted to tell me. I had the same feeling as when, at the school where I taught, the headmaster would say he wanted to ‘have a word’ with me. Wonder if it’s connected with Jack’s recent mysterious visit to New York? Or Chrissie’s? She said it was to do with her job.
To distract myself from this vague anxiety, I went into the kitchen and started cooking like mad – Penny had given me the recipe for a lemon drizzle cake and I thought I’d make it and take it round when I went to see the family. Oh, the longing, when you’re on your own, to be able to cook for people, to do things, to nurture! I suppose that’s why people love gardening so much when they get older. Instead of looking after the kids, they’re out talking to the wallflowers and asking them if they’d like some more water and whether they had a good night’s sleep, and saying: ‘No, I don’t think it’s wise that you lean that way, and what about using this stick for a while to ensure you grow straight? And did you say you were being bullied by a whole colony of ragged Robin? Don’t worry … I’ll deal with it … yank! All gone! Better now?’
Just as I was getting the cake out of the oven, there was the sound of a key in the door and it was Michelle, my French lodger, back from her Christmas break. A few years back, she fell in love with my Polish cleaner Maciej, and they returned to France to live together, but now he’s in Poland studying something and Michelle has returned here to brush up her English, which, frankly, could do with a bit of brushing up. Rather brilliantly, she suggested taking over Maciej’s job so she could get her old room at a reduced rent, which suits me fine. (My cleaning days are well and truly over. I think there’s a moment when you’ve hoovered your sitting-room floor for the hundred-thousandth time and you say, ‘That’s enough! Someone else’s turn!’)
She gave me a big kiss and a hug – she’s almost like a daughter to me, or at least a niece – and I helped her upstairs with her huge suitcases. Then I asked if she’d like to share some soup as a welcome-back gesture.
‘Oh, ze garden is looking so triste,’ she said, as she wandered to the window, and stared into the darkness.
‘It is,’ I said. So I’m going to order some plants for spring.
13 January
; I went over to Jack’s and Chrissie’s for lunch. We had it in the kitchen, and Chrissie cooked an enormous sea bass which was very nice, and I brought the cake and we were all having a jolly time and, when it was over, Gene, who’s now five, showed me a picture he’d done of the whole family – one of Chrissie looking completely gorgeous, like some beautiful fairy, another of Jack looking slightly mad but very big and butch, and one of me looking completely crackers, hair on end, huge pair of glasses falling off my nose, wild staring eyes and no neck.
He put his small hand on my arm as he showed me the pictures. ‘I’ve done bags under your eyes, Granny,’ he explained kindly, pointing to three lines he’d drawn under each eye, ‘because you’re very old.’
‘Thanks, darling!’ I said, giving him an affectionate kiss. ‘I can see when you grow up you’ll be sweeping the girls off their feet! But I haven’t got bags!’ I said, pointing to the lines.
‘They’re to show you’re a granny,’ said Gene. ‘I’ve seen it in comics.’
‘It’s not very flattering,’ said Chrissie, laughing. ‘Granny doesn’t have bags under her eyes!’
‘All right,’ said Gene, staring at me hard. Then he said crossly. ‘But now I’ve got to do another picture of you,’ he said, padding over the special drawer where he keeps his art things.
Over pudding – my delicious lemon drizzle cake and cream – I asked them how Chrissie’s trip had been to New York and this is when the conversation suddenly went a bit silent and Chrissie left the table to do some washing up, and if it had all been a film, some sinister music would have started playing, with low droning violins and a throbbing drumbeat.
Jack looked down at the table and then he pushed his chair back and said, ‘Well, that’s what we wanted to tell you about, Mum.’
Of course at that moment I knew exactly what was coming and my heart sank into my boots. He didn’t have to say another word. Everything suddenly fell into place as if I’d known all along but had just hidden it from myself. Chrissie had been offered a job in New York and they were going over.
‘How long for?’ I asked, as lightly as I could, trying to hide the catch in my voice.
‘Don’t jump to wild conclusions, Mum,’ said Jack, rather snappily. ‘We haven’t even told you what it is!’
‘Chrissie’s been offered a job in New York,’ I said.
‘How did you know?’ said Chrissie, turning from the sink.
‘Sometimes you just know these things,’ I said. Though actually I didn’t really know how I knew at all. I just knew I knew.
‘Well, anyway, yes, that’s true. But there’s nothing to worry about.’
‘Nothing to worry about?’ I said. ‘But I’ll never see you again!’
In my racing mind I’d already got them living in New York forever, then moving even further away to California, and Gene growing up with an American accent, wearing a permanent baseball cap either backwards or sideways on his crew-cut head and chewing gum, and us all being completely unable to recognise each other when we did finally meet. Every ten years if we were lucky.
‘Honestly, you’ve got us living there forever and never seeing you again before we’ve even thought about it properly!’
The immensity of what they were about to do suddenly hit me with huge force. I burst into floods of tears.
‘But you’ll all be saying “Gee whizz!” I heard myself wailing.
‘What, Mum?’ said Jack, pushing his chair forward and leaning over the table to hold my hand in his. ‘We’ll all be saying what?’
‘G-g-gee whi-whi-wh-whizz,’ I hiccupped, choking, between sobs. For some reason this seemed the saddest thing I could think of. ‘Gee whizz, darling,’ I added, in a more composed voice, in case he hadn’t understood.
Jack started laughing and so did Chrissie. ‘We’ll never say “Gee whizz”, said Jack, and at that point I realised how silly I must have sounded and started to laugh myself. Everyone was very sweet and pulled out their handkerchiefs and Gene came over and said he knew his alphabet now, and Jack said ‘What is gee for, then? Or “g?”’ he said, making the sound.
‘God,’ said Gene solemnly.
‘And “a”?’ said Jack.
‘Apple,’ said Gene.
‘And “w”?’ said Jack (and under his breath, to me, ‘Listen to this’).
‘“W” is for wabbit,’ said Gene.
‘Mum, don’t worry … we’re not going till May … and anyway, we’ll only be gone a year at most …’
‘But you might stay on,’ I said, miserably, trying to pull myself together. I felt that I’d known this was coming all along, and suddenly all my grief had just burst out at once. ‘You might stay there for ever and ever and I’ll never see you again …’ the tears started welling up again.
‘Well, I can’t lie – there is a remote chance we might stay on, but it all depends whether we like it or not. And I’m sure we won’t. Now you’ve introduced the appalling idea that we might all say “Gee whizz” it’s sounding more unattractive by the minute.’
At this point Gene, realising I was upset, came up and put his little hand on my arm.
‘Why is Granny crying?’ he asked his father.
‘She’s upset we’re going away,’ said Jack, ‘but it’ll be fine, Mum. We’ll be in touch all the time.’
‘Don’t worry, Granny,’ said Gene to me, repeating the words of his father. ‘We’ll be in touch all the time.’
‘I’m fine,’ I said, trying to pull myself together. ‘And you’ll have a lovely time, darling.’
‘It’s all assuming I can do the job!’ added Chrissie. ‘They may sack me after a couple of months!’
‘And I’m going to an American school!’ said Gene, tugging at my sleeve. ‘Look, Granny, look at the dinosaur I’ve just drawn! Look, can you see his teeth? And that’s you – you’re on his back, having a ride! And you haven’t got those lines under your eyes any more!’
‘Oh, lovely, darling,’ I said, trying to recover and, inside, to take all this in, and not burst into tears again and lie on the floor wailing and gnashing my teeth and begging them not to go. ‘Well, it’ll be a great opportunity!’ With a superhuman effort I tried to look on the bright side.
‘Oh, Mum, I know you’ll miss us and we’ll miss you, but you can come over and visit and we’ll be coming back, it’s not that far away. And there’s always Skype!’
Apparently Chrissie’s been offered a brilliant job, marketing her company’s beauty products. As a lifelong soap-and-water girl, if I can even call myself ‘girl’ any more, I simply don’t understand the obsession with the kind of ‘products’ that Chrissie markets, but she always looks gorgeous so perhaps they do some good. Personally I put a good skin down to genetics, but I keep my mouth shut when she’s around. So sweet – on my birthday she always gives me amazingly expensive creams, but to be honest I just pass them straight on to Michelle, who can’t believe her luck.
Anyway, I was trying desperately to convince myself it was a great opportunity for the family, and Jack can find work out there, too, and of course there was a bit of me that’s really thrilled for them and it’ll be exciting and good for Gene. And yet, on the other hand, I felt so frightful, and so immensely sad, I just couldn’t stay for very long afterwards.
‘At least it’s not Australia,’ I kept telling myself, as I drove home. I had to pull over repeatedly to wipe away the tears that were misting up my glasses. ‘New York is just a hop and skip away. You could almost go over for the day.’
Then, ‘And there’s always Skype.’
But what the hell is Skype, anyway? I mean I know it’s some sort of photo thing where you can see each other, but that’s all. I’ll have to ask James.
When I got home at five o’clock I broke one of my resolutions and poured myself an extremely large glass of white wine – I had to get a new bottle out of the elephant cupboard where all the drink is kept. I felt so bleak I had to sing a song loudly as I passed it. The elephant cupboard? It�
��s where Gene and I even now play ‘elephants’. Children always see their parents as parents – mum and dad. But I’m convinced that until they reach a certain age, grandchildren regard their grandparents not as grandparents but, rather, as very big children, people to play games with.
Anyway – the elephant game. It involves Gene going into the cupboard under the stairs, as I walk about in the sitting room and the corridors saying, in a loud voice, ‘I think there’s an elephant here! Oh look, there’s some elephant poo on the floor, how disgusting … there must be an elephant here … but a very pongy elephant …’ and there’d be a burst of giggling from the cupboard – ‘but I can’t hear an elephant, so perhaps it isn’t here …’
At this point Gene makes a trumpeting noise from the cupboard and I say ‘Good heavens, could that be an elephant!’ and I look everywhere, and I look behind the sofa and say ‘No elephants here!’ and then behind the chair and say ‘No elephants here!’ and Gene still trumpets from the cupboard and finally, exasperated, he whispers loudly, ‘Granny! Look in the cupboard!’ and I say, ‘Funny, I’ve never heard an elephant call me granny before, I’ll go and look …’ and open the door and he bursts out and we laugh and then he says, ‘Let’s do it again. You be the elephant this time …’ and I’m stuck in the cupboard making elephant noises.
Oh dear, oh dear. I’m crying again. All over my keyboard.
Later
No! I Don’t Need Reading Glasses! Page 2
