David (my ex) used to work in local planning, so as he’s coming up next week I said I thought I could ask him for advice, but, then, most surprisingly, Sheila the Dealer piped up again. ‘My nephew,’ she said. ‘’E worked for Wandsworth Council in the parks department. ’E knows all abar ashes, oaks, leaves, branches, ask ’im. ’E’ll come round for nuffink. ’E owes me one.’ Here she gave an enormous dirty wink, and all our minds boggled at what exact favour Sheila could have done her nephew that he was so malleable.
Marion said she’d contact him, and even though I was meant to be chairing the meeting, Sheila rounded if off herself.
‘Any uvver business?’ she yelled. ‘Fought not. Well, I’ll be orf, then. If they fink they can build an ’otel ’ere wiv old Sheila to deal wiv they’ve got another fink comin’. Cheers for the cuppa, love.’ And off she went, fag on the go, drizzling ash all over the carpet. At that moment I felt a wave of affection and admiration for her. Like my Polish neighbour, she’s tough as old boots. A survivor.
Father Emmanuel hung about a bit and asked if I’d be coming to his church this Sunday and I said that unfortunately I was going away this weekend and every weekend until I died, as far as I could see, which meant Sundays were completely out. I have no desire to be told I’m going to Hell. And then he shuffled out, disappointed. He can screech at his congregation all he likes from his wretched pulpit, he’s never going to convince me I’m going anywhere after I’m dead – not heaven, hell, or anywhere in between.
18 April
Getting the washing out of the machine this morning I discovered I’d thrown my dry-cleaning pile in with it. A Vivienne Westwood jersey I’d bought for four pounds in a charity shop was completely ruined, and a blue linen dress has come out looking like an old dishrag.
Then I remembered I hadn’t paid back that 1p. Nipped out to the shop with it, but it was closed. Damn and blast.
Later
This evening I felt really sick and everything seemed to be whirling around. I couldn’t even see properly. When Penny rang I told her I was certain I was about to have a stroke. Or perhaps I’d had one and was actually making no sense at all.
She asked about my balance, and what I’d eaten, and said she’d come over right away and drive me to A and E. Despite being reluctant to go anywhere near a hospital (thanks, Rant) I staggered to the car, everything a grey blur, and when I got into the passenger seat, Penny got out the map to find how to get to the hospital but couldn’t read it, however far she held it out. So she handed it to me.
‘I’ll get my reading glasses,’ I said, fumbling in my bag. But I couldn’t find them. Only my ordinary ones.
‘Are you sure you’re not wearing them?’ said Penny, as she started up the engine. She was right. And the moment I took them off and put on my ordinary ones, all my symptoms promptly vanished. I felt such an idiot that I had to wait till we got to the first traffic light to pluck up courage to tell her.
‘I’m afraid it’s my glasses,’ I said, in rather a small voice. ‘I’ve been wearing my reading glasses all day. That’s why I feel sick. I’m not ill after all.’
‘Well, that’s a relief!’ said Penny, sounding extremely pissed off, as she looked behind to see when it was safe to make a U-turn. ‘For heaven’s sake! You had me worried sick!’
To make it up to her, I asked her in for a drink. We cracked open a bottle of sparkling wine, and I rustled up a nice herb omelette. I was going to use ham, but Pouncer had got it first because I’d left it on the counter. And I said how jolly lucky I was to have Penny round the corner, and what would I do without her; she said no it was she who was lucky to have me round the corner, and what would she do without me, and we went to our respective beds tired but happy.
21 April
I got some smoked salmon for lunch with David and it was lovely to see him again. He lives in the country now, but we’ve still got lots to talk about because we were married for ten years and, being Jack’s dad, he always wants news of the family as he doesn’t see them quite as often as I do.
‘Jack won’t last out in New York, sweetie,’ he said. ‘Mark my words. He’s just not a New York type. You forget, I’ve lived there. Nine months.’
‘That was about a hundred years ago, David, if you don’t mind my saying. Times change. And even if Jack isn’t a New York man – you know, a thrusting executive – I do think Chrissie could turn out to be a New York woman.’ I ladled him out some onion soup to start with and having got drinks and napkins, sat down opposite him to tuck in.
‘No, she only pretends to be. In England she seems like a dynamic manager because everyone else is so hopeless. But she won’t be able to compete with all those high-powered Manhattan broads. It’s incredibly competitive. She’s too nice.’
‘I’m so worried that they’ll stay there and they’ll start to say “Gee whizz”,’ I said, and as I said it I felt tears coming to my eyes. It’s turned into a kind of Pavlovian reaction. Somebody only has to say ‘Gee whizz’ and I burst into tears.
‘Come on, don’t be silly. No one says “Gee whizz” any more anyway,’ said David, reaching over the table and giving my hand a reassuring squeeze. ‘That’s if they ever did. You notice they’re not selling the house. That means they’re going to come back. It’s inevitable they want to go, and it’s inevitable they’ll be back before you can say … well, “Gee whizz”,’ he said.
‘Oh, don’t start that again, please,’ I said, crossly, suddenly remembering why David and I had got divorced in the first place. ‘It’s not funny.’
What an old silly I am.
After lunch we went up the street to the scrubby patch of grass at the top of the road – sorry I mean ‘Common’ – and David said the trees were in perfect health as far as he could see, and had we thought of applying to the Open Spaces Society to see what they thought about it? He also referred me to all kinds of green charities.
‘The last thing you need round here is a hotel,’ he said. ‘There are enough itinerant residents anyway. I bet you within a couple of years anyway it’ll turn into a hostel and then you’ll be in trouble.’
A hostel! I hadn’t thought of that! Oh Gawd.
I’d taken a camera to take some pictures to work from – though I’ve already done a few sketches. I don’t fancy sitting up there at my easel day after day, surrounded by drug dealers commenting on the fact that I’m doing the grass the wrong colour. Also, even though it’s April, it’s still hideously cold, and you can’t paint in the rain.
24 April
Today I had an appointment with the second facelift man. To be honest, Mr Mantovani was such a creep, and anyway, who needs a facelift and wasn’t it just a ghastly extravagance, and who’d look at me anyway, whether I had a facelift or not? – that I was quite tempted just to ring up this new guy, a Mr Parson, and call it a day. But yesterday I read in the Rant that this kind of thinking is a Critical Voice, which should be Ignored. Sometimes I think what I’d really like is a major operation to remove the Critical Voice, rather than the wrinkles.
Anyway, James persuaded me not to give up and cancel, so I dragged myself along to see Mr Parson. And he was much nicer than the creepy Mantovani. All his furniture seemed a normal size, he didn’t have a pair of tongs to pick up my sagging flesh, and he said absolutely nothing about my breasts. And although he did, unfortunately, have a bow tie, it was a quite discreet pale beige.
‘Are you sure you can actually see out of your eyes properly?’ he asked. ‘Because your eyelids have dropped so much that it might be possible to get them done on the National Health. On the grounds of vision.’
He explained that it would be better if I had a facelift rather than just the eyes, ‘because if you have just the eyes done, then the rest of you tends to look really – well, different, in comparison,’ he said. Not only did he not say anything about breasts, but he didn’t say a word about tummies or knees, either – and I felt he wasn’t trying to sell me anything. He took a photograph of me (fo
r his ‘before and after’ folder) and I had no idea I looked so dreadful from the side. My chin blurs into my neck like one of Gene’s drawings. He says all that can be fixed. For £7,000. A thousand quid cheaper than Mr M.
So, much to my surprise, I found myself making a date for three months ahead and just hoping I have the nerve to go through with it.
What the hell am I letting myself in for?
25 April
Just back from Christie’s. Like all auction houses in smart districts of London, the place was awash with sleek, fat little men with slicked-down hair wearing very well-cut pin-stripe suits with fabulous colourful hankies sticking out of their breast pockets. The premises reeked of money and opulence. Even though I’d only come from nearby Shepherd’s Bush, I still felt like some country bumpkin up for the day. And I felt particularly drab as I joined a queue of elderly gentlemen clutching bundles of silver cutlery, and dear little old ladies with cherished antiques that they wanted valued.
All the staff were very kind to me – I wasn’t sure if they were kind to everyone they thought might have something good to sell, whether it was simply good manners, or whether they thought I was just another dear little old lady. Don’t really care, actually. Kindness is kindness. Grab it when you can, say I.
Luckily the girl who came down from the Modern British section took one look at my hoard and was very excited about it. She said they could put an asking price of £1,000 each for the Pitchforths and £3,000 for the Caulfield. This, by the way, was a lovely picture in bold colours, of a chair against a window – and I’m very fond of the little Pitchforths, but it’s time to shed things, not hang on to them. Another smoothie was sent down to look at the brooch and he said the reserve price should be £2,000.
So I put them all into the auction and hoped to raise enough money to pay for the facelift.
What am I doing? Help!
Oh, I said that last time.
26 April
The Daily Rant’s latest headline is ‘ASYLUM SEEKERS CLOG BENEFITS SYSTEM! Whites will be a minority by the end of the year!’
Don’t think that will go down a storm around here.
Acupuncture has made absolutely no difference to my joints. It still takes me an hour or so to get everything fully articulated.
The tree man came over at the same time as Penny and James, who was chatting to me about his plans for the portrait, while I sat only half-listening, thinking about the huge wodge of cash I’m about to squander on a Pointless Act of Vanity.
Well! Both Penny and I practically swooned when he arrived because he is, as Penny put it, a tree man to die for. He had a fantastically slim figure, great bone structure (very cool, as Penny would say), grey hair and lots of it, and his skin was all brown and tree-y. He also seemed completely on our side and was up-in-arms at the idea of anyone cutting down any bit of nature when it wasn’t necessary.
His name is Ned, and though he used to work for the council he’s now retired, but gives advice to residents’ groups for nothing except expenses, which is very nice of him. I can’t imagine how he came to be the nephew of ghastly old Sheila, but genes are funny things.
We accompanied him up to the Common and he took photographs of the trees and said they were Grade A, whatever that means, and he said the Robinia pseudoacacia and the Platanus acerifolia were habitat to a lot of birds, especially some who came over from Africa, and that the bark of one of them housed some kind of fungus that was very important to the environment … I didn’t understand a word, but Penny was taking notes.
‘He’s brilliant!’ she said afterwards. ‘He knows all the Latin names!’
‘He’s dishy!’ said James. ‘And he’s single. Do you think he’s gay?’
‘I thought you could tell at once by the winks they give you,’ said Penny.
‘No, that’s all old-fashioned,’ said James. ‘No one winks these days. But I know what you mean. He did mention the name of some pub he goes to, and I thought, you know, it might be an invitation.’
Invitation!’ I said, rather put out. ‘Why didn’t he invite us?’
‘He looks like a silver birch, doesn’t he?’ said Penny, dreamily.
‘Do you remember those children’s stories where the trees actually have hair for branches and their faces were their trunks …?’
‘Yes – but he looks better than that,’ interrupted Penny.
‘Which makes it all the more irritating he’s given James some kind of secret invitation.’
‘Drat!’ said Penny.
‘Well, we wouldn’t want to go out with a silver birch anyway, would we Penny?’ I said.
But, significantly, she didn’t reply.
27 April
Went down to see Archie again this weekend, though I was pretty nervous about what I might find. This time he seemed more eager to have me, so I’ve got to go. But to be frank I was particularly reluctant because it was also the last weekend to see the whole family before they left. But Jack and Chrissie were incredibly busy sorting things out, and as it would be easier without Gene, I took him down with me. Archie’s always great with Gene, and loves having him, and I hoped he wouldn’t be too peculiar.
On Saturday, everything went absolutely fine. We all went for a walk, and though the daffodils were over, there were carpets of bluebells in the little copses around the house. It really felt like spring. For the first time I felt like leaving my coat indoors. Though Archie insisted on wearing his loden coat. It’s starting to give me the creeps. There were cracks of blue in the grey sky, and everything was full of hope and promise. Hardy seemed to sense things were looking up and charged about like mad. Could have been, of course, that he hadn’t been for a proper walk for weeks.
In the evening, Archie and Gene played Snap. Mrs Evans had prepared a delicious supper and Archie had almost been his old self. The problem is that he can cope quite well as long as he doesn’t have to initiate anything. He can even make polite conversation. But anything unusual and he goes to pieces. Gene and I slept in twin beds in the room next door, and though I found it hard to sleep because I was anxious about Archie’s night wanderings, I managed to grab a few hours. The next day, after breakfast, when we were sitting in the library reading the Sunday papers, Gene suddenly bounced in and suggested we play the elephant game.
Archie had always been an enthusiastic player in the past, and was particularly good at making very loud trumpeting noises and even elephant pooing noises, which always had Gene in hysterics. But this time, at the mention of elephants, Archie got panicky.
‘Elephant?’ he said. ‘Where?’
‘There,’ said Gene, pointing to a large oak cupboard that substituted for the cupboard under the stairs at my house. ‘You know, where we always play.’
Archie suddenly became agitated. He rose from his chair and started wringing his hands.
‘Why is there an elephant in the cupboard?’ he shouted. ‘I don’t want elephants in the cupboard! How dare you put an elephant in the cupboard!’ He lunged towards Gene who was laughing, thinking this was all part of the game. But I could see it wasn’t. Luckily I reached Gene in time because I’m quite sure Archie would have hit him.
‘Darling, there isn’t an elephant,’ I said to Archie, shielding Gene behind my back. ‘It’s only a joke!’
But by this time Archie had gone to the door of the cupboard and pulled it open. ‘There’s no elephant here,’ he said. ‘It must have got away! Close the doors and windows. Don’t let it get back in! It’ll smash the place up!’ He went out to the hall, grabbed a walking stick and then went round the ground floor banging doors and crashing down windows.
Hardy, thinking the whole thing was a great game, started barking furiously and racing from room to room.
The worst thing was that Gene was still laughing himself silly. He had no idea what was going on.
‘Get behind the sofa!’ Archie shouted, as he returned to the room where we were. ‘What are we going to do, Philippa?’ We walked over to the b
ack of the sofa and then he joined us, pulling us down with surprising strength. I started to panic. I pulled out my mobile and dialled Sylvie. I couldn’t think of anything else to do.
‘What are you doing?’ Archie said to me, accusingly.
‘I’m ringing the RSPCA,’ I lied, ‘To ask them to come and take the elephant away.’ The phone started to ring and I prayed Sylvie would answer. Luckily she did.
Gene, oblivious to the situation, was still killing himself laughing.
‘RSPCA?’ I said into it, very loudly, hoping she wouldn’t ring off. ‘It’s Marie Sharp here and I’m with Archie Lloyd, and we’re very frightened there’s an elephant in the library and would you come quickly …’
‘Let me talk to them!’ shouted Archie, seizing the phone from me. ‘RSPCA? Come quickly. It’s about to attack us!’
Thank heavens Sylvie caught on to what was happening and she was down with her husband, Harry, in a flash, and Harry managed to persuade Archie the elephant had gone back to the zoo where it had escaped from – and I was nearly in tears of relief. Gene still had no idea what had happened and thought it was one of the best elephant games we’d ever had together. But I was really shocked, particularly by the way that Archie had been about to attack Gene.
We all had lunch at Sylvie’s, which was a relief, and Archie calmed down considerably, but then Harry asked if I’d seen Bitter Quinces, Poisoned Souls, and I said I’d left after the first half hour and he and Sylvie had pounced on this and said I should have stayed to the end because then ‘when the person whose fingers have been cut off learns to play the piano, it’s so moving, and there’s a shot of a torture cell in a Bulgarian prison which goes on for ten minutes and you’re just, well, you’re transported, really. You have to see it, it’s as if you’re really there.’
No! I Don’t Need Reading Glasses! Page 9
