‘What’s the weather like?’ I said. Quite unbelievable that I was asking this little boy such a pedestrian question. But it’s the sort of question you ask on Skype.
‘It’s nice out, but here it’s freezing!’ he said. ‘You’ll have to knit me a jersey, Granny.’
Knit him a jersey? After those complicated socks I’d knitted him as a baby? As I’ve said, my knitting days had well and truly stopped. I could never take on a major project like a jersey. Particularly now he was so big. By the time I’d finished it he’d be a grown man. I’d never catch up.
‘We’ll see,’ I said, cautiously, reminding myself of my mother’s irritating way of saying ‘no’ to me, when I was small. A horrible phrase, ‘We’ll see.’
And then I was suddenly overtaken by an overwhelming urge to knit. Knitting him a jersey would be a wonderful way to feel close to him. And I could show it to him when we talked on Skype, and he could see how it was progressing.
Sadly, you can’t really make conversation with a five-year-old child in the same way as you can with an adult. Children aren’t very skilled at it. There was a lot of ‘And what have you done today?’ and getting not a lot back. Children haven’t been trained to ask questions of other people. Had he been here, in the house, we could have made faces at each other, or simply done something together like build a robot out of cardboard boxes, or read a book, or play the elephant game. Making conversation is something you do at cocktail parties, not something you do with your grandson. And then I fear that when we meet again, Gene won’t even recognise me.
Oh, come off it, Marie. Stop wallowing in self-pity, you wally! Of course he’ll recognise you.
(Well, not if the facelift’s successful.)
Oh shut up, you big banana!
8 May
Mr Parson’s secretary has just rung up to say they can move my appointment to next month. I suppose some other poor woman has finally become overcome with terror and hasn’t been able to go through with it and he’s got a sudden vacancy. I said I was worried that the auction to sell my money-raising pictures might not have taken place so I was a bit concerned about the bill, but they seemed quite cool about it all, saying that they were sure they could trust me. Rather sweet really. Who wouldn’t trust a retired art teacher, after all? We’re not renowned for our careers as swindlers.
But, suddenly terrified now the operation seemed so much closer, I rang James who shrieked, ‘Go for it, girl,’ which didn’t help much.
‘I think you’ll have to wait before you start your portrait,’ I said, relieved to put off the evil hour. ‘I don’t know how far you’ve got, but if you’ve started you’ll have to paint out all those wrinkles. Sorry about that.’
Penny was no help at all. She just said that I shouldn’t get it done, it was all vanity and I looked perfectly okay anyway. And she said it was putting her in an awful position because she’d have to deal with the Residents’ Association and the protests about the trees while I was recovering, and thanks a lot. And if I had any spare money, shouldn’t I be spending it on my Romanian orphans, anyway? I was always banging on about them, she said.
‘Why should you spend money on the orphans?’ said James, when he phoned later and I told him what she’d said. ‘Do something for yourself for once, my darling.’
But I’m not really of a ‘do something for myself’ generation. We weren’t brought up to pamper ourselves. We were brought up with the strict injunction to deny ourselves everything nice and give to the poor. My grandmother even used to look disapprovingly when I left a bit of bacon fat on my plate and say, ‘Think of all those starving children in India.’ I remember trying to think of them, and wishing there were some way I could post them my bits of fat, but quite honestly eating them myself wasn’t going to help them. So I just felt awful.
14 May
Today I had to go to Jack and Chrissie’s house and check that it is all spic and span for potential tenants. I promised I would, but it makes my heart ache to go down there and know there’s nobody home. Brixton, where they live, used to seem to be a vibrant jolly place, a happy, laughing mix of races and cultures. Now it seems sinister and dark, with hidden threats waiting to pounce from beneath every burnt-out car rusting in the gutter. As I opened the door I felt a pang when it dawned on me properly that Gene wouldn’t be at the top of the stairs, running down to greet me.
They’d left it pretty immaculate, I must say. I did find a piece of Lego under the sofa, which made my heart turn over, but otherwise Chrissie had done a spectacular job. I almost wish I could move into it myself, though it would hold too many memories.
Can it really be true they’ve left? I looked to see if they’d taken the last disc off the CD player and found they’d left in The House at Pooh Corner. I watered the plants and wondered whether to look in Gene’s room but just couldn’t bear to, so I came away and dropped the keys off at the estate agents and told them that, as far as I could see, everything was in perfect order and they could start showing people round whenever they liked.
16 May
The estate agents have just rung to tell me that three ‘prospects’ are visiting today. It seems so odd to think of other people living in that flat. I used to sit in that kitchen when Gene was tiny, feeding him bits of mush that Chrissie had prepared for him, pretending, when he didn’t want to eat, that the spoon was an aeroplane going into his mouth, making him laugh and then popping in some squished-up carrot when he wasn’t thinking about it.
That very spot would be in future where some ghastly young banker would be microwaving a ‘dinner for two’ for his leggy secretary, and then afterwards they’d go into Gene’s bedroom and bonk the night away, under a newly installed plasma TV screen.
Yuk!
18 May
The Rant tells me today: ‘COMPLETE COLLAPSE OF SOCIETY! Social workers predict “total disintegration” of family life. Only one person in five knows how to eat with a knife and fork, and only one in 20 can boil a kettle. Ninety per cent of teens “don’t know who their father is.”’
Golly. Can this really be true? Makes me want to slash my throat. No wonder the Bitter Quinces director is alive and well in my dreams. He’s got all this grim material to work with.
When I went out today to make some sketches of the trees this month – the April picture I’ve done is great, though I say it myself – I thought I’d try to sprinkle a bit of joy in people’s lives. Why not? So when I came across some wretched hoodie who was skulking along staring miserably at the ground – probably one of those hopeless, homeless people who have no idea who their father is – I smiled at him broadly and said, ‘Lovely day, isn’t it?’
Instead of getting out a knife, plunging it into my heart and seizing my handbag, he looked up, flashed a dazzlingly friendly smile and replied, ‘Lovely, isn’t it! And by the way, when’s that meeting going to be?’ Turned out he was one of the dealers Penny and I had spoken to about the hotel plans. I took his address – he certainly wasn’t homeless – and said I’d let him know if we had a big meeting and could I rely on him to tell his mates?
‘Sure! Cheers!’ he said, as we parted.
Amazing.
20 May
Rang Jack on Skype. I scanned his face and tone of voice for clues about when they might be thinking of returning, but there was absolutely nothing. As far as I could tell, Chrissie was loving her job and it was still going to be a year’s trial. Jack had met a web designer and he seemed to be getting some work, but still had time to look after Gene, and Gene, he said, was ‘settling down’ at school.
‘He’ll have a few problems, but he’ll get used to it,’ he said. ‘It’s difficult being a new boy in a new country.’
Gene wouldn’t be drawn on the matter, but I could see by his face when I asked about school that he felt uncomfortable there.
‘You should have seen Dad at his first day at school!’ I said, to cheer him up. ‘I picked him up after the first day and he said he didn’t like it at all and
was very pleased to get home. But when I said “Tomorrow it will be better” he burst into tears. “But I’ve been to school, Mum!” he said. “I don’t have to go again, do I?”’
At this Gene roared with laughter.
‘And I didn’t like school the first day, either,’ I said truthfully, not adding that I hated every day afterwards until the day I left. Probably best to keep that to myself.
‘But tomorrow we’re going to paint the American flag. It’s got stars on it. Did you know it had stars on it, Granny?’
‘No!’ I said, as if it was the first time I’d heard it. ‘How extraordinary!’
‘It’s for the States,’ he said, ambiguously.
‘Really?’ I said. Honestly, sometimes talking to a small boy is rather like making conversation with some dumb man at a dinner party. You have to do nothing but feign surprise and fascination at all his fatuous remarks. Not that Gene was remotely fatuous of course.
‘Now, darling,’ I said, changing the subject. ‘I thought I might knit you a jersey – you remember we were talking last time? – and I could do elephants on it to remind us of the elephant game!’
‘Yes, Granny!’ he said, smiling broadly. ‘Do you remember that time with Archie? That was so funny!’
‘Yes, wasn’t it,’ I said. I couldn’t say anything else. ‘And as I knit it I can try it on you on Skype and see if it fits.’
‘You’d like it here,’ said Gene suddenly.
‘I’m certainly going to try to come over,’ I said. ‘I’ve just got to sort out some dates with Dad.’
‘Great,’ he said, staring enthusiastically at the spot above my head. ‘Oh, I just farted. Did you hear my fart, Granny?’
‘No, I didn’t, darling,’ I said smiling.
‘Oh dear. I can’t do another one because I haven’t got any farts left at the moment,’ he said, rather apologetically, as if I might have been disappointed at missing the last one and living in hopes of another. ‘I’ll see if I can do one next time.’ He paused. ‘You can’t smell them on Skype can you?’
‘No, darling, you can’t,’ I said.
And for the first time in my life, I rather wished I could.
Funny, isn’t it, boys’ preoccupation with farts? There was a time when Gene did nothing, I remember, but pull down his trousers and moon at me, shouting: ‘Fatty bum bum!’ It didn’t upset me because Jack had done exactly the same at that age. Life seemed to consist only of burps and farts, and phrases like ‘I done a plop’ after a visit to the loo were deemed as inexplicably amusing. Sometimes Gene could hardly stand, he was so bowled over by his own smells and noises. I tried to go along with it, but just couldn’t find it at all funny. It’s not because I disapprove, it’s just because it leaves me cold. Perhaps it’s because I’m a woman. All men seem to find them far more amusing than we ladies do.
29 May
I nipped up to the John Lewis store in the West End, and went straight to the haberdashery department. It’s amazing they still have these things, all lovely old wool and needles and tapestry kits and a myriad different coloured cottons. Found a pattern for a jersey which actually had a border of elephants going all the way round the bottom. I couldn’t believe it! I snapped it up, bought my needles and wool and thought, oh well, if I can’t work it all out I’ll ask Marion, who’s very good at knitting, and she can show me the ropes.
It’s just so lovely to have something to do which connects me to the little chap.
Sylvie rang. The doctor’s given Archie some sedatives which stop him being so anxious, so that would explain why he hasn’t answered the phone recently, though I’ve kept trying. Apparently he’s doing little else except sleep.
Oh, I do hope he has good dreams and feels at peace. That’s all that matters. Dear Archie.
JUNE
5 June
Slaved away all morning to make the most delicious game stew for this evening, because Penny and James and Ned – the tree man – are coming round. I’d bought some potted shrimps to start with and had made a delicious pudding – when James rang me.
‘Just to say,’ he said, ‘that Ned’s a vegan.’
‘Oh, well that’s okay,’ I said, through clenched teeth. ‘He can have the baked potato and I can make him a cheese omelette and he can have extra helpings of potted shrimps and there’s a lovely fruit fool for pud …’
There was a silence. ‘Oh dear,’ said James. ‘I suppose I should have rung earlier. No, he’s not vegetarian. He’s vegan. He won’t eat fish, or any dairy products either. And, er, I’m trying to go along with it as well, actually. He said I should give it a go. I’ve lasted a week so far, though I did sneak in a steak one lunchtime, but I didn’t tell him. But we’re very happy with vegetables. I’m sure we’ll be able to cope. Whatever you cook it’s always absolutely delicious. We don’t want you to go to any trouble.’
‘Well, frankly, I don’t think there’s a single thing I’ve prepared that you can eat, James,’ I said, rather tartly. ‘Even the pudding’s full of cream. I suppose that’s out?’
‘I’m afraid so,’ said James. ‘Would it be easier if we brought something?’
The idea that the guests had to bring their own food just didn’t sit right with me. ‘No, don’t worry,’ I said, ‘It’ll be fine.’
The moment I put the phone down I shouted ‘BLOODY VEGANS’ at the wall, crammed the game stew into the freezer, shoved the potted shrimps back in the fridge (I could always have them for lunch for the next six days) and stared bleakly at the whipped cream and blackcurrant fool that I’d made in four individual little ramekins. I didn’t think they’d last for more than a couple of days and I couldn’t eat them all by myself.
I felt like Job who was, as I remember, plagued by locusts, boils, frogs and rats – or was that someone else? No, Job was plagued by Satan, who took away his children, his wealth and his health … well, frankly, I’m worse off than Job because although I still have my health, up to a point, I am now not only about to be plagued with the absence of my wonderful, quiet, charming Polish neighbour (she moved out last week) but with the arrival in my life of a wretched vegan. Or, rather, vegans.
Rushed off to the corner shop and managed to buy some tomatoes and basil for a salad starter, then I bought some nice bread, vegetables to roast, followed by oranges in caramelised sugar.
Just about to have a snooze to recover before they come round.
Later
Thought I’d try to reread Anna Karenina before I put my head down, but discovered, after four pages, that it was unreadable. So odd, that. When I read it the first time I thought it was brilliant. Second time, adored it. But this time, it’s just dust. Weird.
Later had a ghastly dream that I’d had my facelift, and afterwards when I looked in the mirror there was my mother looking out at me. She (or was it I?) had mad eyes, badly put-on lipstick, far too much blusher and bottle-blonde hair. Crikey. What a shock.
Afternoon snoozes. Not all they’re cracked up to be.
Midnight
Well, they came and now they’ve gone. By them, I don’t mean the dreams, unfortunately, I mean James and Ned.
There’s no question, old Ned is a dish. And he’s not that old. His complexion is surprisingly good for a vegan, he smells very strongly of soap (though I’m sure soap isn’t allowed for vegans so it must be something else) and he’s got a really nice natural smile.
‘I’m so pleased to meet you in a more personal setting,’ he said, starting to take off his shoes.
‘Don’t take off your shoes!’ I found myself screaming. ‘This is a shoes-on house!’
He looked a bit put out, and then I noticed he was wearing plastic sandals. No wonder he wanted to get them off. Well, tough, I say.
We all sat down with a drink. I gave up my usual spot on the sofa so Ned and James could sit next to each other, and Penny and I perched on the slightly uncomfortable uprights. Pouncer, deprived of his habitual seat, lay curled up on the floor in the middle, his ears flat b
ack, his tail swaying with simmering rage even as he slept, furious at being ousted from his spot.
Ned insisted on a glass of simple tap water, and refused the stuff that I keep in the fridge because he said that fridges give off too many carbon emissions or something – but luckily the conversation quickly turned to planning law and trees. He’s found out more about what’s going on with the Common – he has spies at the council apparently – and it seems they’re sending out letters asking for comments on the plans tomorrow, so we’ve all got to get busy objecting.
I was delighted to see his face darken at the mention of all the shenanigans, and he definitely wasn’t pleased about the prospect of the trees having to come down.
‘I’ll certainly write a letter on your behalf saying what I think,’ he said finally. ‘But now,’ he said, changing the subject, ‘I hear James is doing a portrait of you.’
My heart rather sank, but I tried to look as bright as I could. ‘Isn’t it wonderful!’ I said.
‘I’ve been trying to persuade him to do an installation that represents you, instead,’ he said.
‘Isn’t that a super idea!’ said James, moving up close to Ned and running his hand through his hair. ‘All objets trouvés. Don’t you think that would be fun, darling?’
Then James turned affectionately to Ned and planted a kiss on his cheek, before putting a hand on his knee and kneading it significantly as he worked his way up his thigh. Ned, to his credit, looked mildly uncomfortable and shifted away.
No! I Don’t Need Reading Glasses! Page 11
